Roughing It In The Bush Read online

  Tom, too, had a large packet of letters, which he read with great glee. After re-perusing them, he declared his intention of setting off on his return home the next day. We tried to persuade him to stay until the following spring, and make a fair trial of the country. Arguments were thrown away upon him; the next morning our eccentric friend was ready to start.

  “Good-bye!” quoth he, shaking me by the hand as if he meant to sever it from the wrist. “When next we meet it will be in New South Wales, and I hope by that time you will know how to make better bread.” And thus ended Tom Wilson’s emigration to Canada. He brought out three hundred pounds, British currency; he remained in the country just four months, and returned to England with barely enough to pay his passage home.

  The Backwoodsman.

  Son of the isles! rave not to me

  Of the old world’s pride and luxury;

  Why did you cross the western deep,

  Thus like a love-lorn maid to weep

  O’er comforts gone and pleasures fled,

  ’Mid forests wild to earn your bread?

  Did you expect that Art would vie

  With Nature here, to please the eye;

  That stately tower, and fancy cot,

  Would grace each rude concession lot;

  That, independent of your hearth,

  Men would admit your claims to birth?

  No tyrant’s fetter binds the soul,

  The mind of man’s above control;

  Necessity, that makes the slave,

  Has taught the free a course more brave.

  With bold, determined heart to dare

  The ills that all are born to share.

  Believe me, youth, the truly great

  Stoop not to mourn o’er fallen state;

  They make their wants and wishes less,

  And rise superior to distress;

  The glebe they break—the sheaf they bind—

  But elevates a noble mind.

  Contented in my rugged cot,

  Your lordly towers I envy not;

  Though rude our clime and coarse our cheer,

  True independence greets you here;

  Amid these forests, dark and wild,

  Dwells honest labour’s hardy child.

  His happy lot I gladly share,

  And breathe a purer, freer air;

  No more by wealthy upstarts spurn’d,

  The bread is sweet by labour earn’d;

  Indulgent heaven has bless’d the soil,

  And plenty crowns the woodman’s toil.

  Beneath his axe, the forest yields

  Its thorny maze to fertile fields;

  This goodly breadth of well-till’d land,

  Well purchased by his own right hand,

  With conscience clear, he can bequeath

  His children, when he sleeps in death.

  SEVEN

  UNCLE JOE AND HIS FAMILY

  “Ay, your rogue is a laughing rogue, and not a whit the less dangerous for the smile on

  his lip, which comes not from an honest heart, which reflects the light of the soul through

  the eye. All is hollow and dark within; and the contortion of the lip, like the phosphoric

  glow upon decayed timber, only serves to point out the rottenness within.”

  Uncle Joe! I see him now before me, with his jolly red face, twinkling black eyes, and rubicund nose. No thin, weasel-faced Yankee was he, looking as if he lived upon ’cute ideas and speculations all his life; yet Yankee he was by birth, ay, and in mind, too; for a more knowing fellow at a bargain never crossed the lakes to abuse British institutions and locate himself comfortably among the despised Britishers. But, then, he had such a good-natured, fat face, such a mischievous, mirth-loving smile, and such a merry, roguish expression in those small, jet-black, glittering eyes, that you suffered yourself to be taken in by him, without offering the least resistance to his impositions.

  Uncle Joe’s father had been a New England loyalist, and his doubtful attachment to the British government had been repaid by a grant of land in the township of H——. He was the first settler in that township, and chose his location in a remote spot, for the sake of a beautiful natural spring, which bubbled up in a small stone basin in the green bank at the back of the house.

  “Father might have had the pick of the township,” quoth Uncle Joe; “but the old coon preferred that sup of good water to the site of a town. Well, I guess it’s seldom I trouble the spring; and whenever I step that way to water the horses, I think what a tarnation fool the old one was, to throw away such a chance of making his fortune, for such cold lap.”

  “Your father was a temperance man?”

  “Temperance!—He had been fond enough of the whiskey bottle in his day. He drank up a good farm in the United States, and then he thought he could not do better than turn loyal, and get one here for nothing. He did not care a cent, not he, for the King of England. He thought himself as good, any how. But he found that he would have to work hard here to scratch along, and he was mightily plagued with the rheumatics, and some old woman told him that good spring water was the best cure for that; so he chose this poor, light, stony land on account of the spring, and took to hard work and drinking cold water in his old age.”

  “How did the change agree with him?”

  “I guess better than could have been expected. He planted that fine orchard, and cleared his hundred acres, and we got along slick enough as long as the old fellow lived.”

  “And what happened after his death, that obliged you to part with your land?”

  “Bad times—bad crops,” said Uncle Joe, lifting his shoulders. “I had not my father’s way of scraping money together. I made some deuced clever speculations, but they all failed. I married young, and got a large family; and the women critters ran up heavy bills at the stores, and the crops did not yield enough to pay them; and from bad we got to worse, and Mr. C—— put in an execution, and seized upon the whole concern. He sold it to your man for double what it cost him; and you got all that my father toiled for during the last twenty years of his life for less than half the cash he laid out upon clearing it.”

  “And had the whiskey nothing to do with this change?” said I, looking him in the face suspiciously.

  “Not a bit! When a man gets into difficulties, it is the only thing to keep him from sinking outright. When your husband has had as many troubles as I have had, he will know how to value the whiskey bottle.”

  This conversation was interrupted by a queer-looking urchin of five years old, dressed in a long-tailed coat and trousers, popping his black shock head in at the door, and calling out,

  “Uncle Joe!—You’re wanted to hum.”

  “Is that your nephew?”

  “No! I guess ’tis my woman’s eldest son,” said Uncle Joe, rising, “but they call me Uncle Joe. ’Tis a spry chap that—as cunning as a fox. I tell you what it is—he will make a smart man. Go home, Ammon, and tell your ma that I am coming.”

  “I won’t,” said the boy; “you may go hum and tell her yourself. She has wanted wood cut this hour, and you’ll catch it!”

  Away ran the dutiful son, but not before he had applied his forefinger significantly to the side of his nose, and, with a knowing wink, pointed in the direction of home.

  Uncle Joe obeyed the signal, drily remarking that he could not leave the barn door without the old hen clucking him back.

  At this period we were still living in Old Satan’s log house, and anxiously looking out for the first snow to put us in possession of the good substantial log dwelling occupied by Uncle Joe and his family, which consisted of a brown brood of seven girls, and the highly-prized boy who rejoiced in the extraordinary name of Ammon.

  Strange names are to be found in this free country. What think you, gentle reader, of Solomon Sly, Reynard Fox, and Hiram Dolittle; all veritable names, and belonging to substantial yeomen? After Ammon and Ichabod, I should not be at all surprised to meet with Judas Iscariot, Pilate,
and Herod. And then the female appellations!—But the subject is a delicate one, and I will forbear to touch upon it. I have enjoyed many a hearty laugh over the strange affectations which people designate here very handsome names. I prefer the old homely Jewish names, such as that which it pleased my godfather and godmothers to bestow upon me, to one of those high-sounding christianities, the Minervas, Cinderellas, and Almerias of Canada. The love of singular names is here carried to a marvellous extent. It was only yesterday that, in passing through one busy village, I stopped in astonishment before a tombstone headed thus:—“Sacred to the memory of Silence Sharman, the beloved wife of Asa Sharman.” Was the woman deaf and dumb, or did her friends hope by bestowing upon her such an impossible name to still the voice of Nature, and check, by an admonitory appellative, the active spirit that lives in the tongue of woman? Truly, Asa Sharman, if thy wife was silent by name as well as by nature, thou wert a fortunate man!

  But to return to Uncle Joe. He made many fair promises of leaving the residence we had bought, the moment he had sold his crops and could remove his family. We could see no interest which could be served by his deceiving us, and therefore we believed him, striving to make ourselves as comfortable as we could in the meantime in our present wretched abode. But matters are never so bad but that they may be worse. One day when we were at dinner, a waggon drove up to the door, and Mr. —— alighted, accompanied by a fine-looking, middle-aged man, who proved to be Captain S——, who had just arrived from Demerara with his wife and family. Mr. ——, who had purchased the farm of Old Satan, had brought Captain S—— over to inspect the land, as he wished to buy a farm, and settle in that neighbourhood. With some difficulty I contrived to accommodate the visitors with seats, and provide them with a tolerable dinner. Fortunately, Moodie had brought in a brace of fine fat partridges that morning; these the servant transferred to a pot of boiling water, in which she immersed them for the space of a minute—a novel but very expeditious way of removing the feathers, which then come off at the least touch. In less than ten minutes they were stuffed, trussed, and in the bake-kettle; and before the gentlemen returned from walking over the farm, the dinner was on the table.

  To our utter consternation, Captain S—— agreed to purchase, and asked if we could give him possession in a week!

  “Good heavens!” cried I, glancing reproachfully at Mr. ——, who was discussing his partridge with stoical indifference. “What will become of us? Where are we to go?”

  “Oh, make yourself easy; I will force that old witch, Joe’s mother, to clear out.”

  “But ’tis impossible to stow ourselves into that pig-sty.”

  “It will only be for a week or two, at farthest. This is October; Joe will be sure to be off by the first of sleighing.”

  “But if she refuses to give up the place?”

  “Oh, leave her to me. I’ll talk her over,” said the knowing land speculator. “Let it come to the worst,” he said, turning to my husband, “she will go out for the sake of a few dollars. By-the-by, she refused to bar the dower when I bought the place; we must cajole her out of that. It is a fine afternoon; suppose we walk over the hill, and try our luck with the old nigger?”

  I felt so anxious about the result of the negotiation, that, throwing my cloak over my shoulders, and tying on my bonnet without the assistance of a glass, I took my husband’s arm, and we walked forth.

  It was a bright, clear afternoon, the first week in October, and the fading woods, not yet denuded of their gorgeous foliage, glowed in a mellow, golden light. A soft purple haze rested on the bold outline of the Haldemand hills, and in the rugged beauty of the wild landscape I soon forgot the purport of our visit to the old woman’s log hut.

  On reaching the ridge of the hill, the lovely valley in which our future home lay smiled peacefully upon us from amidst its fruitful orchards, still loaded with their rich, ripe fruit.

  “What a pretty place it is!” thought I, for the first time feeling something like a local interest in the spot springing up in my heart. “How I wish those odious people would give us possession of the home which for some time has been our own!”

  The log hut that we were approaching, and in which the old woman, H——, resided by herself—having quarrelled years ago with her son’s wife—was of the smallest dimensions, only containing one room, which served the old dame for kitchen, and bedroom, and all. The open door, and a few glazed panes, supplied it with light and air; while a huge hearth, on which crackled two enormous logs—which are technically termed a front and a back stick—took up nearly half the domicile; and the old woman’s bed, which was covered with an unexceptionably clean patched quilt, nearly the other half, leaving just room for a small home-made deal table, of the rudest workmanship, two basswood-bottomed chairs, stained red, one of which was a rocking-chair, appropriated solely to the old woman’s use, and a spinning-wheel. Amidst this muddle of things—for small as was the quantum of furniture, it was all crowded into such a tiny space that you had to squeeze your way through it in the best manner you could—we found the old woman, with a red cotton handkerchief tied over her grey locks, hood-fashion, shelling white bush-beans into a wooden bowl. Without rising from her seat, she pointed to the only remaining chair: “I guess, miss, you can sit there; and if the others can’t stand, they can make a seat of my bed.”

  The gentlemen assured her that they were not tired, and could dispense with seats. Mr. — — then went up to the old woman, and proffering his hand, asked after her health in his blandest manner.

  “I’m none the better for seeing you, or the like of you,” was the ungracious reply. “You have cheated my poor boy out of his good farm; and I hope it may prove a bad bargain to you and yours.”

  “Mrs. H——,” returned the land speculator, nothing ruffled by her unceremonious greeting, “I could not help your son giving way to drink, and getting into my debt. If people will be so imprudent, they cannot be so stupid as to imagine that others can suffer for their folly.”

  “Suffer!” repeated the old woman, flashing her small, keen black eyes upon him with a glance of withering scorn. “You suffer! I wonder what the widows and orphans you have cheated would say to that? My son was a poor, weak, silly fool, to be sucked in by the like of you. For a debt of eight hundred dollars—the goods never cost you four hundred—you take from us our good farm; and these, I s’pose,” pointing to my husband and me, “are the folk you sold it to. Pray, miss,” turning quickly to me, “what might your man give for the place?”

  “Three hundred pounds in cash.”

  “Poor sufferer!” again sneered the hag. “Four hundred dollars is a very small profit in as many weeks. Well, I guess, you beat the Yankees hollow. And pray, what brought you here to-day, scenting about you like a carrion-crow? We have no more land for you to seize from us.”

  Moodie now stepped forward, and briefly explained our situation, offering the old woman anything in reason to give up the cottage and reside with her son until he removed from the premises; which, he added, must be in a very short time.

  The old dame regarded him with a sarcastic smile. “I guess Joe will take his own time. The house is not built which is to receive him; and he is not a man to turn his back upon a warm hearth to camp in the wilderness. You were green when you bought a farm of that man, without getting along with it the right of possession.”

  “But, Mrs. H——, your son promised to go out the first of sleighing.”

  “Wheugh!” said the old woman. “Would you have a man give away his hat and leave his own head bare? It’s neither the first snow nor the last frost that will turn Joe out of his comfortable home. I tell you all that he will stay here, if it is only to plague you.”

  Threats and remonstrances were alike useless, the old woman remained inexorable; and we were just turning to leave the house, when the cunning old fox exclaimed, “And now, what will you give me to leave my place?”

  “Twelve dollars, if you give us possession next Monday,” said
my husband.

  “Twelve dollars! I guess you won’t get me out for that.”

  “The rent would not be worth more than a dollar a month,” said Mr. ——, pointing with his cane to the dilapidated walls. “Mr. Moodie has offered you a year’s rent for the place.”

  “It may not be worth a cent,” returned the woman; “for it will give everybody the rheumatism that stays a week in it—but it is worth that to me, and more nor double that just now to him. But I will not be hard with him,” continued she, rocking herself to and fro. “Say twenty dollars, and I will turn out on Monday.”

  “I dare say you will,” said Mr. ——, “and who do you think would be fool enough to give you such an exorbitant sum for a ruined old shed like this?”

  “Mind your own business, and make your own bargains,” returned the old woman, tartly. “The devil himself could not deal with you, for I guess he would have the worst of it. What do you say, sir?” and she fixed her keen eyes upon my husband, as if she would read his thoughts. “Will you agree to my price?”

  “It is a very high one, Mrs. H——; but as I cannot help myself, and you take advantage of that, I suppose I must give it.”

  “’Tis a bargain,” cried the old crone, holding out her hard, bony hand. “Come, cash down!”

  “Not until you give me possession on Monday next; or you might serve me as your son has done.”

  “Ha!” said the old woman, laughing and rubbing her hands together; “you begin to see daylight, do you? In a few months, with the help of him,” pointing to Mr. ——, “you will be able to go alone; but have a care of your teacher, for it’s no good that you will learn from him. But will you really stand to your word, mister?” she added, in a coaxing tone, “if I go out on Monday?”