CANADA AGAIN AND SURPRISING NEWS

It is most refreshing to those who have been long cooped up in a city to fly on the wings of steam to the country and take refuge among the scents of flowers and fields and trees.  We have said this, or something like it, before, and remorselessly repeat it ­for it is a grand truism.

Let us then indulge ourselves a little with a glance at the farm of Brankly in Canada.

Lake Ontario, with its expanse of boundless blue, rolls like an ocean in the far distance.  We can see it from the hill-top where the sweet-smelling red-pines grow.  At the bottom of the hill lies Brankly itself, with its orchards and homestead and fields of golden grain, and its little river, with the little saw-mill going as pertinaciously as if it, like the river, had resolved to go on for ever.  Cattle are there, sheep are there, horses and wagons are there, wealth and prosperity are there, above all happiness is there, because there also dwells the love of God.

It is a good many years, reader, since you and I were last here.  Then, the farm buildings and fences were brand-new.  Now, although of course not old, they bear decided traces of exposure to the weather.  But these marks only give compactness of look and unity of tone to everything, improving the appearance of the place vastly.

The fences, which at first looked blank and staring, as if wondering how they had got there, are now more in harmony with the fields they enclose.  The plants which at first struggled as if unwillingly on the dwelling-house, now cling to it and climb about it with the affectionate embrace of old friends.  Everything is improved ­Well, no, not everything.  Mr Merryboy’s legs have not improved.  They will not move as actively as they were wont to do.  They will not go so far, and they demand the assistance of a stick.  But Mr Merryboy’s spirit has improved ­though it was pretty good before, and his tendency to universal philanthropy has increased to such an extent that the people of the district have got into a way of sending their bad men and boys to work on his farm in order that they may become good!

Mrs Merryboy, however, has improved in every way, and is more blooming than ever, as well as a trifle stouter, but Mrs Merryboy senior, although advanced spiritually, has degenerated a little physically.  The few teeth that kept her nose and chin apart having disappeared, her mouth has also vanished, though there is a decided mark which tells where it was ­especially when she speaks or smiles.  The hair on her forehead has become as pure white as the winter snows of Canada.  Wrinkles on her visage have become the rule, not the exception, but as they all run into comical twists, and play in the forms of humour, they may, perhaps, be regarded as a physical improvement.  She is stone deaf now, but this also may be put to the credit side of her account, for it has rendered needless those awkward efforts to speak loud and painful attempts to hear which used to trouble the family in days gone by.  It is quite clear, however, when you look into granny’s coal-black eyes, that if she were to live to the age of Methuselah she will never be blind, nor ill-natured, nor less pleased with herself, her surroundings, and the whole order of things created!

But who are these that sit so gravely and busily engaged with breakfast as though they had not the prospect of another meal that year?  Two young men and a young girl.  One young man is broad and powerful though short, with an incipient moustache and a fluff of whisker.  The other is rather tall, slim, and gentlemanly, and still beardless.  The girl is little, neat, well-made, at the budding period of life, brown-haired, brown-eyed, round, soft ­just such a creature as one feels disposed to pat on the head and say, “My little pet!”

Why, these are two “waifs” and a “stray!” Don’t you know them?  Look again.  Is not the stout fellow our friend Bobby Frog, the slim one Tim Lumpy, and the girl Martha Mild?  But who, in all London, would believe that these were children who had bean picked out of the gutter?  Nobody ­except those good Samaritans who had helped to pick them up, and who could show you the photographs of what they once were and what they now are.

Mr Merryboy, although changed a little as regards legs, was not in the least deteriorated as to lungs.  As Granny, Mrs Merryboy, and the young people sat at breakfast he was heard at an immense distance off, gradually making his way towards the house.

“Something seems to be wrong with father this morning, I think,” said Mrs Merryboy, junior, listening.

Granny, observing the action, pretended to listen, and smiled.

“He’s either unusually jolly or unusually savage ­a little more tea, mother,” said Tim Lumpy, pushing in his cup.

Tim, being father-and-motherless, called Mr Merryboy father and the wife mother.  So did Martha, but Bobby Frog, remembering those whom he had left at home, loyally declined, though he did not object to call the elder Mrs Merryboy granny.

“Something for good or evil must have happened,” said Bobby, laying down his knife and fork as the growling sound drew nearer.

At last the door flew open and the storm burst in.  And we may remark that Mr Merryboy’s stormy nature was, if possible, a little more obtrusive than it used to be, for whereas in former days his toes and heels did most of the rattling-thunder business, the stick now came into play as a prominent creator of din ­not only when flourished by hand, but often on its own account and unexpectedly, when propped clumsily in awkward places.

“Hallo! good people all, how are ’ee? morning ­morning.  Boys, d’ee know that the saw-mill’s come to grief?”

“No, are you in earnest, father?” cried Tim, jumping up.

“In earnest!  Of course I am.  Pretty engineers you are.  Sawed its own bed in two, or burst itself.  Don’t know which, and what’s more I don’t care.  Come, Martha, my bantam chicken, let’s have a cup of tea.  Bother that stick, it can’t keep its legs much better than myself.  How are you, mother?  Glorious weather, isn’t it?”

Mr Merryboy ignored deafness.  He continued to speak to his mother just as though she heard him.

And she continued to nod and smile, and make-believe to hear with more demonstration of face and cap than ever.  After all, her total loss of hearing made little difference, her sentiments being what Bobby Frog in his early days would have described in the words, “Wot’s the hodds so long as you’re ’appy?”

But Bobby had now ceased to drop or misapply his aitches ­though he still had some trouble with his R’s.

As he was chief engineer of the saw-mill, having turned out quite a mechanical genius, he ran down to the scene of disaster with much concern on hearing the old gentleman’s report.

And, truly, when he and Tim reached the picturesque spot where, at the water’s edge among fine trees and shrubs, the mill stood clearly reflected in its own dam, they found that the mischief done was considerable.  The machinery, by which the frame with its log to be sawn was moved along quarter-inch by quarter-inch at each stroke, was indeed all right, but it had not been made self-regulating.  The result was that, on one of the attendant workmen omitting to do his duty, the saw not only ripped off a beautiful plank from a log, but continued to cross-cut the end of the heavy framework, and then proceeded to cut the iron which held the log in its place.  The result, of course, was that the iron refused to be cut, and savagely revenged itself by scraping off, flattening down, turning up, and otherwise damaging, the teeth of the saw!

“H’m! that comes of haste,” muttered Bob, as he surveyed the wreck.  “If I had taken time to make the whole affair complete before setting the mill to work, this would not have happened.”

“Never mind, Bob, we must learn by experience, you know,” said Tim, examining the damage done with a critical eye.  “Luckily, we have a spare saw in the store.”

“Run and fetch it,” said Bob to the man in charge of the mill, whose carelessness had caused the damage, and who stared silently at his work with a look of horrified resignation.

When he was gone Bob and Tim threw off their coats, rolled up their sleeves to the shoulder, and set to work with a degree of promptitude and skill which proved them to be both earnest and capable workmen.

The first thing to be done was to detach the damaged saw from its frame.

“There,” said Bob, as he flung it down, “you won’t use your teeth again on the wrong subject for some time to come.  Have we dry timber heavy enough to mend the frame, Tim?”

“Plenty ­more than we want.”

“Well, you go to work on it while I fix up the new saw.”

To work the two went accordingly ­adjusting, screwing, squaring, sawing, planing, mortising, until the dinner-bell called them to the house.

“So soon!” exclaimed Bob; “dinner is a great bother when a man is very busy.”

“D’ye think so, Bob?  Well, now, I look on it as a great comfort ­ specially when you’re hungry.”

“Ah! but that’s because you are greedy, Tim.  You always were too fond o’ your grub.”

“Come, Bob, no slang.  You know that mother doesn’t like it.  By the way, talkin’ of mothers, is it on Wednesday or Thursday that you expect your mother?”

“Thursday, my boy,” replied Bob, with a bright look.  “Ha! that will be a day for me!”

“So it will, Bob, I’m glad for your sake,” returned Tim with a sigh, which was a very unusual expression of feeling for him.  His friend at once understood its significance.

“Tim, my boy, I’m sorry for you.  I wish I could split my mother in two and give you half of her.”

“Yes,” said Tim, somewhat absently, “it is sad to have not one soul in the world related to you.”

“But there are many who care for you as much as if they were relations,” said Bob, taking his friend’s arm as they approached the house.

“Come along, come along, youngsters,” shouted Mr Merryboy from the window, “the dinner’s gettin’ cold, and granny’s gettin’ in a passion.  Look sharp.  If you knew what news I have for you you’d look sharper.”

“What news, sir?” asked Bob, as they sat down to a table which did not exactly “groan” with viands ­it was too strong for that ­but which was heavily weighted therewith.

“I won’t tell you till after dinner ­just to punish you for being late; besides, it might spoil your appetite.”

“But suspense is apt to spoil appetite, father, isn’t it?” said Tim, who, well accustomed to the old farmer’s eccentricities, did not believe much in the news he professed to have in keeping.

“Well, then, you must just lose your appetites, for I won’t tell you,” said Mr Merryboy firmly.  “It will do you good ­eh! mother, won’t a touch of starvation improve them, bring back the memory of old times ­ eh?”

The old lady, observing that her son was addressing her, shot forth such a beam of intelligence and goodwill that it was as though a gleam of sunshine had burst into the room.

“I knew you’d agree with me ­ha! ha! you always do, mother,” cried the farmer, flinging his handkerchief at a small kitten which was sporting on the floor and went into fits of delight at the attention.

After dinner the young men were about to return to their saw-mill when Mr Merryboy called them back.

“What would you say, boys, to hear that Sir Richard Brandon, with a troop of emigrants, is going to settle somewhere in Canada?”

“I would think he’d gone mad, sir, or changed his nature,” responded Bob.

“Well, as to whether he’s gone mad or not I can’t tell ­he may have changed his nature, who knows?  That’s not beyond the bounds of possibility.  Anyway, he is coming.  I’ve got a letter from a friend of mine in London who says he read it in the papers.  But perhaps you may learn more about it in that.”

He tossed a letter to Bob, who eagerly seized it.

“From sister Hetty,” he cried, and tore it open.

The complete unity and unanimity of this family was well illustrated by the fact, that Bob began to read the letter aloud without asking leave and without apology.

“Dearest Bob,” it ran, “you will get this letter only a mail before our arrival.  I had not meant to write again, but cannot resist doing so, to give you the earliest news about it.  Sir Richard has changed his mind!  You know, in my last, I told you he had helped to assist several poor families from this quarter ­as well as mother and me, and Matty.  He is a real friend to the poor, for he doesn’t merely fling coppers and old clothes at them, but takes trouble to find out about them, and helps them in the way that seems best for each.  It’s all owing to that sweet Miss Di, who comes so much about here that she’s almost as well-known as Giles Scott the policeman, or our missionary.  By the way, Giles has been made an Inspector lately, and has got no end of medals and a silver watch, and other testimonials, for bravery in saving people from fires, and canals, and cart wheels, and ­he’s a wonderful man is Giles, and they say his son is to be taken into the force as soon as he’s old enough.  He’s big enough and sensible enough already, and looks twice his age.  After all, if he can knock people down, and take people up, and keep order, what does it matter how young he is?

“But I’m wandering, I always do wander, Bob, when I write to you!  Well, as I was saying, Sir Richard has changed his mind and has resolved to emigrate himself, with Miss Di and a whole lot of friends and work-people.  He wants, as he says, to establish a colony of like-minded people, and so you may be sure that all who have fixed to go with him are followers of the Lord Jesus ­and not ashamed to say so.  As I had already taken our passages in the Amazon steamer ­”

“The Amazon!” interrupted Mr Merryboy, with a shout, “why, that steamer has arrived already!”

“So it has,” said Bob, becoming excited; “their letter must have been delayed, and they must have come by the same steamer that brought it; why, they’ll be here immediately!”

“Perhaps to-night!” exclaimed Mrs Merryboy.

“Oh! how nice!” murmured Martha, her great brown eyes glittering with joy at the near prospect of seeing that Hetty about whom she had heard so much.

“Impossible!” said Tim Lumpy, coming down on them all with his wet-blanket of common-sense.  “They would never come on without dropping us a line from Quebec, or Montreal, to announce their arrival.”

“That’s true, Tim,” said Mr Merryboy, “but you’ve not finished the letter, Bob ­go on.  Mother, mother, what a variety of faces you are making!”

This also was true, for old Mrs Merryboy, seeing that something unusual was occurring, had all this time been watching the various speakers with her coal-black eyes, changing aspect with their varied expressions, and wrinkling her visage up into such inexpressible contortions of sympathetic good-will, that she really could not have been more sociable if she had been in full possession and use of her five senses.

“As I had already,” continued Bob, reading, “taken our passages in the Amazon steamer, Sir Richard thought it best that we should come on before, along with his agent, who goes to see after the land, so that we might have a good long stay with you, and dear Mr and Mrs Merryboy, who have been so kind to you, before going on to Brandon ­which, I believe, is the name of the place in the backwoods where Sir Richard means us all to go to.  I don’t know exactly where it is ­and I don’t know anybody who does, but that’s no matter.  Enough for mother, and Matty, and me to know that it’s within a few hundred miles of you, which is very different from three thousand miles of an ocean!

“You’ll also be glad to hear that Mr Twitter with all his family is to join this band.  It quite puts me in mind of the story of the Pilgrim Fathers, that I once heard in dear Mr Holland’s meeting hall, long ago.  I wish he could come too, and all his people with him, and all the ladies from the Beehive.  Wouldn’t that be charming!  But, then, ­who would be left to look after London?  No, it is better that they should remain at home.

“Poor Mr Twitter never quite got the better of his fire, you see, so he sold his share in his business, and is getting ready to come.  His boys and girls will be a great help to him in Canada, instead of a burden as they have been in London ­the younger ones I mean, of course, for Molly, and Sammy, and Willie have been helping their parents for a long time past.  I don’t think Mrs Twitter quite likes it, and I’m sure she’s almost breaking her heart at the thought of leaving George Yard.  It is said that their friends Mrs Loper, Mrs Larrabel, Stickler, and Crackaby, want to join, but I rather think Sir Richard isn’t very keen to have them.  Mr Stephen Welland is also coming.  One of Sir Richard’s friends, Mr Brisbane I think, got him a good situation in the Mint ­ that’s where all the money is coined, you know ­but, on hearing of this expedition to Canada, he made up his mind to go there instead; so he gave up the Mint ­very unwillingly, however, I believe, for he wanted very much to go into the Mint.  Now, no more at present from your loving and much hurried sister, (for I’m in the middle of packing), Hetty.”

Now, while Bob Frog was in the act of putting Hetty’s letter in his pocket, a little boy was seen on horseback, galloping up to the door.

He brought a telegram addressed to “Mr Robert Frog.”  It was from Montreal, and ran thus:  “We have arrived, and leave this on Tuesday forenoon.”

“Why, they’re almost here now,” cried Bob.

“Harness up, my boy, and off you go ­not a moment to lose!” cried Mr Merryboy, as Bob dashed out of the room.  “Take the bays, Bob,” he added in a stentorian voice, thrusting his head out of the window, “and the biggest wagon.  Don’t forget the rugs!”

Ten minutes later, and Bob Frog, with Tim Lumpy beside him, was driving the spanking pair of bays to the railway station.