Chapter 22.
All through the previous winter my mind had run upon what little Joe Bradley had told me of the ignorance of the children around us. Again and again I considered the question of a Sunday School but it seemed impossible. Once I spoke of it to Graham; he agreed that it would be a good thing, but added it would be an impossibility, as I could never ride fifteen miles alone and back the same day. Someday, he said, there may be a nearer road; the place is only five miles in a direct line, but the forest is so thick and swamp quite impossible. I said no more but daily I prayed that a road might be opened.
Prayer was my great resource in those days. I had “no man like minded” to speak with, and I was greatly exercised over the people around me, living in utter carelessness and ungodliness. My opportunities for speaking to them were few, but sometimes I had a chance to give a tract and it was never refused. Those lines from the hymn “The sands of time are sinking” were often in my mind: “Oh if one soul from Anwoth meet me at God’s right hand, My heaven will be seven heavens, In Immanuel’s land”. And there were some whose hearts were touched, I believe. My little girl was, I believe, truly brought to Christ before she left me. “I am so glad I came to you,” she said. “If I had not, I should never have known I was a sinner and that Christ died for me.” At first she had positively denied that she was a sinner; her brothers or sisters had often done any bad thing I suggested, but she never had, so it was a real joy to me to hear her simple confession.
There was also a Mrs. Burch, lately arrived as a bride, some seven miles from us. I met her two or three times and was able to lend her books, which she gladly received and seemed greatly interested in the Gospel message. But it was the young men especially for whom I prayed and longed.
We got up early that summer. Graham’s ambition was to have finished his breakfast and be out plowing before 6 a.m. So the little alarm clock, Sophie’s present, was set at 4:30 every morning. Later I found that did not give me time for prayer and I set it at 4 a.m. It waked no one but myself, so I had a quiet and happy time before beginning my day of work. One day, during the winter, I remember having a long, long serious talk with Bredin, and I believe he was really exercised, but I never knew whether he decided to receive the salvation offered him. But there was one of the lads who received the message gladly. That was Frank Wood’s young brother, Alfred. I think he had been thinking of these things for a long time, but had never heard a clear Gospel. He was always glad to speak of the Bible and the things of God, and he too often talked to Bredin.
But to go back to my Sunday School, one day I heard the lads saying that one of the men near Mr. Bradley’s house was burning lime. “We all need lime,” they said, “and the first thing to do in the spring must be to make a road to the house.” I was in my own little room where of course I could hear everything, and how I rejoiced and thanked God, who had answered my prayer.
After some weeks the work was done, and one Sunday about the middle of June I was free to set out. Graham always slept till dinner time on Sunday and then had a warm hath and clean clothes. I prepared all this for him, left a huge raisin loaf for him to browse upon and set off about eleven o’clock. I did not know the way, but Alfred Wood said he would take me there, and Graham was glad to lend us the ponies. It was a pretty road, down the slope from the house to the little river, which we crossed by the bridge Graham had built for the large sum of $50, across the broad acres of scrub land Graham was plowing, then a mile perhaps through a thick wood. The swamp which followed was the worst bit, so full of mosquitoes it was, but after that came a long stretch of rolling prairie where the ponies made good time. We only passed one house, that of Brooks, the Frenchman. His real name was De Rousseau, but as no one could say it right he translated it. I did not stop there that first day, but many times afterwards.
We reached the Bradley’s about dinner time, which they insisted on our sharing with them. They were a rough and ready couple, kindly and good natured, and not very practical. I fear. I suggested the Sunday School, and Mrs. Bradley gave a ready assent. She only wished it was a day school too, so after dinner the children went to tell the Fosters in the house opposite, and we prepared the room—not a difficult matter. It was a good sized room, perhaps 15 x18 feet. At one end stood two large double beds, a third occupied one corner of the other end, a capacious table was in the middle of the room, a stove, a sewing machine and “mother’s rocker” completed the furniture, with the exception of two benches and one or two stools. We placed the rocking chair between the beds, and the benches, one in front and one beside me. My class soon assembled; nine children, all bare headed and barefooted, their fair curly hair tangled and rough, but they were washed. I thought of the ashes with which they were washed.
I have taught many children in many places, poor and rich, good and bad, big and little, but I never had a more attentive and interested class than on that first Sunday. They were all utterly ignorant, not one of them had ever heard of Jesus or knew who made them. I took for my lesson our Lord’s birth, and the children listened, oh so eagerly; it was so new and so beautiful. We who have heard these stories from our earliest years can hardly imagine what it means to hear it for the first time. When the lesson was over and I had promised to come again, Alfred got the ponies and we rode quietly home.
After that I never missed a Sunday until the weather got too cold for me to venture so far. On two or three occasions the ponies were too tired after their week’s work to be ridden, and Alfred took me in his ox wagon, and on one occasion I walked, but it was a long weary walk. The mosquitoes were often very bad. One day my pony lay down and rolled on some ploughed land. I often went alone, and then I used to stop at the Frenchman’s house. It was an attractive and yet pathetic place. There were four little girls there too, but not tough and rosy like the Bradley children. They were slight, delicate looking little things. There was a boy too, about eight. The father had cut his hand badly in a saw mill and was not able to work, and the brave little mother had dug and put in a large garden. “We keep hens,” she said, “and the children look for the eggs and suck them; they need the food; I have so little to give them.” But on several occasions she had a saucer of wild strawberries waiting for me. Three of these little ones used to come, and two bigger girls from another family. They could speak no English, but I taught them French verses. The little boy had really no clothes, but with much labor I made him a suit out of an old one Eddie had left behind.
Besides the French children I had four half breeds who came from another direction. One was a regular little Indian, one had fair skin and sandy hair and the other two were a mixture. My class grew from the original nine to over thirty, and they were very “human”. The boys were full of mischief. One brought a kitten under his coat and let it out in the middle of the class. Another day they contrived to arrange the board which went from one bed to the other in such a manner that it slipped and all the girls went over backwards. Then at any little excitement what a scramble there was! “The pig is in the garden,” for instance, and everyone was out of the window. Of course there was difficulty in seating them. My two benches and the board filled up. I had one or two tiny ones on my knee and the rest squatting around on the bed. But they came and they learned many things.
After a while I had first books sent up, and many of them struggled with the lessons through the week alone and I helped on Sunday. I think my greatest difficulty was not the children but the mothers. Three or four would collect, each with her baby, and they would laugh and chatter at the other end of the room in a most distracting manner.
I was a busy woman those days. My little girl had no second suit of clothes, and I made underclothes and nightgowns for her. Then little Henri’s suit took me a long time. I had no patterns and I was never clever at sewing. I was more at home with the knitting and always had a pair of mitts on hand. I kept it in a little wall pocket by my place at the table, and found many spare minutes while waiting for meals, or for the boys to finish. I made nineteen pairs of mitts that summer and fall for my class, and when the first snow came and I saw little bare feet running in it, I knitted two pairs of stockings.
It was a very happy summer. The long lonely days of the previous year no longer oppressed me. We had neighbors not far off. The Woods brothers had built a shack on Frank’s land, between us and the Wright’s, and Mr. Harvey, who had returned in the early spring, had a house across the river, in full view. He had not come up alone, but in addition to two dogs, a fine black and white collie and a tiny Skye terrier, he had a young friend with him, Mr. Richardson. He had broken down, at college I believe, and was a gentle, studious, unpractical fellow. He frequently beguiled the long days by visiting me, and would try to help with odd things, but the life was quite new to him and not altogether congenial. I once said to him, “A dog has torn off the end of the cow’s tail,” and he asked mildly, “Which end?”
Every week I spent Wednesday afternoon at the Wright’s waiting for mail. It arrived at any time between dinner and supper, so my wait was often a long one, but always pleasant. Then Louie came to me one afternoon in the week and we had a little Bible reading. We had begun this the previous winter, and went “berrying” together now and then. I remember dear Mrs. Wright coming with us once, with a very large pig following her. When we got to the berry patch it was so tired Mrs. Wright said, “I must sit down and let the poor pig rest,” so that was the end of her picking.
All our beasts used to follow us. Punch never left me. One day we were going together to dinner at Mrs. Wright’s. When we got as far as the barn yard a terrible object appeared, such as Punch in the wildest dreams had never imagined. It raised a crested head, at the end of a long neck, looked fiercely at my poor cat, and said, “Gobble, gobble, gobble”. He turned and fled. I heard nothing of him for several days, when word came that he was taking refuge in a house a long way off, so we had to go and bring him back.
We rose early, as I have said, and breakfasted before six. At twelve was dinner and when all was cleared up I rested a little while, and then prepared a lunch to take to Graham, wherever he might be. He and Alfred put up a great deal of hay that year, and it was a pleasant half mile walk to the hay field, where the grass grew in places higher than my head. I often waited for hours for supper and the boys would always go on as long as possible; daylight goes on until ten o’clock at least in that northern clime, and then comes a long twilight which often seems to last till the first sign of dawn appears.
In addition to the farm. Graham worked early and late at his beautiful garden. Such vegetables I have never eaten; wonderful rows of onions, sweet young carrots, beets, radishes, a large patch of tomatoes, beans, etc. We almost lived on vegetables, and it was no small work, gathering and preparing them. Even the three puppies throve on carrots and white sauce, and grew big and strong.