Shortly after my recovery, Jacob - the faithful, good Jacob - was
obliged to leave us, for we could no longer afford to pay wages.
What was owing to him had to be settled by sacrificing our best cow,
and a great many valuable articles of clothing from my husband's
wardrobe. Nothing is more distressing than being obliged to part
with articles of dress which you know that you cannot replace.
Almost all my clothes had been appropriated to the payment of wages,
or to obtain garments for the children, excepting my wedding dress,
and the beautiful baby-linen which had been made by the hands of
dear and affectionate friends for my first-born. These were now
exchanged for coarse, warm flannels, to shield her from the cold.
Moodie and Jacob had chopped eight acres during the winter, but
these had to be burnt off and logged-up before we could put in a
crop of wheat for the ensuing fall. Had we been able to retain
this industrious, kindly English lad, this would have been soon
accomplished; but his wages, at the rate of thirty pounds per annum,
were now utterly beyond our means.
Jacob had formed an attachment to my pretty maid, Mary Pine, and
before going to the Southern States, to join an uncle who resided
in Louisville, an opulent tradesman, who had promised to teach him
his business, Jacob thought it as well to declare himself. The
declaration took place on a log of wood near the back-door, and from
my chamber window I could both hear and see the parties, without
being myself observed. Mary was seated very demurely at one end of
the log, twisting the strings of her checked apron, and the loving
Jacob was busily whittling the other extremity of their rustic seat.
There was a long silence. Mary stole a look at Jacob, and he heaved
a tremendous sigh, something between a yawn and a groan. "Meary,"
he said, "I must go."
"I knew that afore," returned the girl.
"I had zummat to zay to you, Meary. Do you think you will miss oie?"
(looking very affectionately, and twitching nearer.)
"What put that into your head, Jacob?" This was said very demurely.
"Oie thowt, may be, Meary, that your feelings might be zummat loike
my own. I feel zore about the heart, Meary, and it's all com' of
parting with you. Don't you feel queerish, too?"
"Can't say that I do, Jacob. I shall soon see you again."
(pulling violently at her apron-string.)
"Meary, oi'm afear'd you don't feel like oie."
"P'r'aps not - women can't feel like men. I'm sorry that you are
going, Jacob, for you have been very kind and obliging, and I wish
you well."
"Meary," cried Jacob, growing desperate at her coyness, and getting
quite close up to her, "will you marry oie? Say yeez or noa?"
This was coming close to the point. Mary drew farther from him, and
turned her head away.
"Meary," said Jacob, seizing upon the hand that held the
apron-string. "Do you think you can better yoursel'? If not - why,
oie'm your man. Now, do just turn about your head and answer oie."
The girl turned round, and gave him a quick, shy glance, then burst
out into a simpering laugh.
"Meary, will you take oie?" (jogging her elbow.)
"I will," cried the girl, jumping up from the log, and running into
the house.
"Well, that bargain's made," said the lover, rubbing his hands;
"and now oie'll go and bid measter and missus good-buoy."
The poor fellow's eyes were full of tears, for the children, who
loved him very much, clung, crying, about his knees. "God bless
yees all," sobbed the kind-hearted creature. "Doan't forget Jacob,
for he'll neaver forget you. Good-buoy!"
Then turning to Mary, he threw his arms round her neck, and bestowed
upon her fair cheek the most audible kiss I ever heard.
"And doan't you forget me, Meary. In two years oie will be back to
marry you; and may be oie may come back a rich man."
Mary, who was an exceedingly pretty girl, shed some tears at the
parting; but in a few days she was as gay as ever, and listening
with great attention to the praises bestowed upon her beauty by an
old bachelor, who was her senior by five-and-twenty years. But then
he had a good farm, a saddle mare, and plenty of stock, and was
reputed to have saved money. The saddle mare seemed to have great
weight in old Ralph T - -h's wooing, and I used laughingly to remind
Mary of her absent lover, and beg her not to marry Ralph T - -h's
mare.
THE CANADIAN HUNTER'S SONG
The northern lights are flashing,
On the rapids' restless flow;
And o'er the wild waves dashing,
Swift darts the light canoe.
The merry hunters come.
"What cheer? - what cheer?" -
"We've slain the deer!"
"Hurrah! - You're welcome home!"
The blithesome horn is sounding,
And the woodman's loud halloo;
And joyous steps are bounding
To meet the birch canoe.
"Hurrah! - The hunters come."
And the woods ring out
To their merry shout
As they drag the dun deer home!
The hearth is brightly burning,
The rustic board is spread;
To greet the sire returning
The children leave their bed.
With laugh and shout they come -
That merry band -
To grasp his hand,
And bid him welcome home!
CHAPTER XXI
THE LITTLE STUMPY MAN
There was a little man -
I'll sketch him if I can,
For he clung to mine and me
Like the old man of the sea;
And in spite of taunt and scoff
We could not pitch him off,
For the cross-grained, waspish elf
Cared for no one but himself.
