Roughing It In The Bush, By Susanna Moodie











































































































































 - 

What do you want with soap, John?

To wash my shirt, ma'am. Shure an' I'm a baste to be seen - Page 48
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"What Do You Want With Soap, John?"

"To wash my shirt, ma'am.

Shure an' I'm a baste to be seen, as black as the pots. Sorra a shirt have I but the one, an' it has stuck on my back so long that I can thole it no longer."

I looked at the wrists and collar of the condemned garment, which was all of it that John allowed to be visible. They were much in need of soap and water.

"Well, John, I will leave you the soap, but can you wash?"

"Och, shure, an' I can thry. If I soap it enough, and rub long enough, the shirt must come clane at last."

I thought the matter rather doubtful; but when I went to bed I left what he required, and soon saw through the chinks in the boards a roaring fire, and heard John whistling over the tub. He whistled and rubbed, and washed and scrubbed, but as there seemed no end to the job, and he was a long washing this one garment as Bell would have been performing the same operation on fifty, I laughed to myself, and thought of my own abortive attempts in that way, and went fast asleep. In the morning John came to his breakfast, with his jacket buttoned up to his throat.

"Could you not dry your shirt by the fire, John? You will get cold wanting it."

"Aha, by dad! it's dhry enough now. The divil has made tinder of it long afore this."

"Why, what has happened to it? I heard you washing all night."

"Washing! Faith, an' I did scrub it till my hands were all ruined intirely, and thin I took the brush to it; but sorra a bit of the dirth could I get out of it. The more I rubbed the blacker it got, until I had used up all the soap, and the perspiration was pouring off me like rain. 'You dirthy owld bit of a blackguard of a rag,' says I, in an exthremity of rage, 'You're not fit for the back of a dacent lad an' a jintleman. The divil may take ye to cover one of his imps;' an' wid that I sthirred up the fire, and sent it plump into the middle of the blaze."

"And what will you do for a shirt?"

"Faith, do as many a betther man has done afore me, go widout."

I looked up two old shirts of my husband's, which John received with an ecstacy of delight. He retired instantly to the stable, but soon returned, with as much of the linen breast of the garment displayed as his waistcoat would allow. No peacock was ever prouder of his tail than the wild Irish lad was of the old shirt.

John had been treated very much like a spoiled child, and, like most spoiled children, he was rather fond of having his own way. Moodie had set him to do something which was rather contrary to his own inclinations; he did not object to the task in words, for he was rarely saucy to his employers, but he left the following stave upon the table, written in pencil upon a scrap of paper torn from the back of an old letter: -

"A man alive, an ox may drive Unto a springing well; To make him drink, as he may think, No man can him compel.

"JOHN MONAGHAN."

THE EMIGRANT'S BRIDE

A Canadian ballad

The waves that girt my native isle, The parting sunbeams tinged with red; And far to seaward, many a mile, A line of dazzling glory shed. But, ah, upon that glowing track, No glance my aching eyeballs threw; As I my little bark steer'd back To bid my love a last adieu.

Upon the shores of that lone bay, With folded arms the maiden stood; And watch'd the white sails wing their way Across the gently heaving flood. The summer breeze her raven hair Swept lightly from her snowy brow; And there she stood, as pale and fair As the white foam that kiss'd my prow.

My throbbing heart with grief swell'd high, A heavy tale was mine to tell; For once I shunn'd the beauteous eye, Whose glance on mine so fondly fell. My hopeless message soon was sped, My father's voice my suit denied; And I had promised not to wed, Against his wish, my island bride.

She did not weep, though her pale face The trace of recent sorrow wore; But, with a melancholy grace, She waved my shallop from the shore. She did not weep; but oh! that smile Was sadder than the briny tear That trembled on my cheek the while I bade adieu to one so dear.

She did not speak - no accents fell From lips that breathed the balm of May; In broken words I strove to tell All that my broken heart would say. She did not speak - but to my eyes She raised the deep light of her own. As breaks the sun through cloudy skies, My spirit caught a brighter tone.

"Dear girl!" I cried, "we ne'er can part, My angry father's wrath I'll brave; He shall not tear thee from my heart. Fly, fly with me across the wave!" My hand convulsively she press'd, Her tears were mingling fast with mine; And, sinking trembling on my breast, She murmur'd out, "For ever thine!"

CHAPTER IX

PHOEBE R - -, AND OUR SECOND MOVING

"She died in early womanhood, Sweet scion of a stem so rude; A child of Nature, free from art, With candid brow and open heart; The flowers she loved now gently wave Above her low and nameless grave."

It was during the month of March that Uncle Joe's eldest daughter, Phoebe, a very handsome girl, and the best of the family, fell sick. I went over to see her. The poor girl was very depressed, and stood but a slight chance for her life, being under medical treatment of three or four old women, who all recommended different treatment and administered different nostrums.

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