BEYOND THE MARSHES by RALPH CONNOR Author of "Black Rock" and "The Sky Pilot" The Westminster Company LimitedPublishersToronto Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year onethousand eight hundred and ninety-eight, by The Westminster Company, Limited, at the Department of Agriculture. Have you ever caught the scent of the clover as you were whirled awayby the train beyond the city on a summer's day and sped through therich pasture lands? And do you remember how you stepped forth at thefirst halting-place to secure a sprig of the sweet, homely flower thathad spoken to you so eloquently in its own language, and how youpressed it in your book? Does not its perfume remain with you tillthis day? And every now and then a fragrance is wafted to our innersenses as we read some simple story which is to us as a breath of theclover, bringing us a message of sweetness and beauty, and goingstraight to our hearts with the power that belongs to the secrets whichlie hidden at our lifers core. And this sweet prairie idyll is surely one of those fragrant messageswhich lays its hold on us as we pause for a moment in the midst of ourfevered lives and anxious thoughts, and step across the threshold ofthat chamber where we must needs put our shoes from off our feet, forthe place whereon we stand is holy ground. And as we press on again tolife's duties, may we bear with us something of the precious perfumediffused by plants which are divine in their origin and which must bedivine in their influence. ISHBEL ABERDEEN [Transcriber's note: "ISHBEL" is correct. It is not "ISABEL", misspelled. ] BEYOND THE MARSHES The missionary of the Bonjour field found me standing bag in hand uponthe railway platform watching my train steam away to the east. He isglad to see me. I am of his own kind, and there are so few of his kindabout that his welcome is strong and warm. He is brown and spare andtough-looking. For six months he has driven along the pitching trailsand corduroy roads, drenched by rains, scorched by suns, and pursued bythe flies. As to the flies there is something to be said. They addmuch to the missionary's burden, and furnish unequaled opportunity forthe exercise of the Christian graces of patience and self-control. Inearly spring they appear, and throughout the whole summer they continuein varying forms, but in unvarying persistence and ferocity. There aremarsh flies, the bulldogs, "which take the piece right out, " the graywings, the blue devils (local name), which doubtless take severalpieces right out, the mosquitoes, unsleeping, unmerciful, unspeakable, the sand flies, which go right in and disappear, and the black flies. "When do _they_ go away?" I asked a native. "Oh, them black fellows go away on snow-shoes. " These each and all have taken a nip and a suck from the missionary ashe pushed on by night and by day through their savage territory. Iglance at him, and sure enough they seem to have got all the juice outof him, but they have left the sinew and the bone. His nerve, too, isall there, and his heart is sound and "under his ribs, " which one ofhis admiring flock considers the right spot. It is Saturday afternoon, and we are to drive to the farthest of histhree stations to be ready for the Communion Service there, athalf-past ten to-morrow morning. "Where does it lie?" I ask. "Oh, away beyond the Marshes, " was the answer. Every one evidentlyknows where the Great Marshes are. But first we must drink a delicious cup of tea from a brave youngScotchwoman, who has learned the trick of making a home for her husbandand babies amid the limitations of Canadian wilds, little like theEdinburgh home where she herself was a baby, and which she left not sovery long ago. Then we must take a look at the new manse of which the missionary feelshe has the right to be modestly proud, for it is mostly the work of hisown hand. He, like his great Master, is a carpenter, and day and nightin the pauses of his preaching and visiting and studying, he haswrought at it, getting such help as he can, till there it stands, amongthe trees, the little cottage manse, announcing to all that the missionhas come to stay. The _front room_, with writing-desk, book-shelf, table, all of the missionary's making, does for reception and diningroom, study, and parlor. Behind it is the kitchen, with ingeniouscupboards; and opening off from this the bedroom, five by seven, withbedstead and washstand, both home-made, and both nailed fast to thewall. Altogether a snug little, tight little house, going a long wayto content one with being a bachelor. And now we hitch up Golddust, and are off through the glorious yellowlight and purple haze of this September afternoon. Golddust is themissionary's horse, and evidently the missionary's weakness. His name, and as his owner thinks his speed, his spirit, and othercharacteristics, he inherits from his sire, Old Golddust of Westernracing fame. Old Golddust, if he has transmitted his characteristics, must have been a horse of singular modesty, for his son continuesresolutely unwilling throughout this drive to make any display of hisnobler qualities. By an extraordinary piece of good fortune, due to anevil but unfair report of Golddust in his young days, "they didn't knowhow to handle him. " the missionary had bought him for twenty-fivedollars! One result of the deal has been an unlimited confidence onthe part of the missionary in his own horse-dealing instinct. It isquite true that Golddust has not always shown his present mild andtrustful disposition. Indeed, the missionary goes on to tell how, being loaned for a day to a brother missionary up west, the horse hadreturned in the evening much excited, but not much the worse, with apair of shafts dangling at his heels. The missionary brother did notappear till the day following, and then in a shocking bad temper. "Hewas a Methodist brother, and didn't understand horses"; and the happy, far-away look in the face of his present owner led me to doubt whetherthat day's exploit had lowered Golddust in his estimation. Meantime we are drinking deep of the delights of this mellow afternoon. On either side of our trail lie yellow harvest fields, narrow, likethose of eastern Canada, and set in frames of green poplar bluffs thatrustle and shimmer under the softly going wind. Then on through_scrub_ we go, bumping over roots and pitching through holes, till wesuddenly push out from the scrub, and before us lie the Marshes. Therethey sweep for miles away, with their different grasses waving andwhispering under the steady blowing breeze, first the red-top, then asthe soil grows wet the blue-joint and the swamp grass, and out of thestanding water the dark green reeds, and farthest in the tall, wildcane bowing its stately, tasseled head. These red-top and blue-jointreaches are the hay-lands of the settlers about. Skirting the edge of the Marshes, we push again through stragglingscrub, then past more marshes, and into woods where we follow a windingtrail till it leads us into a little clearing. In the center of theclearing stands a cluster of log buildings--stables of different kinds, milk-house, the old shanty, and at a little distance the new house, alllooking snug and trim. Through the bars we drive into the yard filledwith cattle, for the milking time is on. A shy lad of ten, with sun-burned, freckled face and good blue eyes, comes forward and is greeted as "Donald" by the missionary. "Hello, Donald, how are you?" I ask, opening the conversation. Donaldlooks at me and is inaudible, meanwhile unhitching Golddust withmarvelous rapidity. "How many cattle have you, Donald?" I venture again. Donald evidently considered this a reasonable question, for he answersin delicious Scotch: "Abou-e-t the-r-r-h-ty. " What a pity we can find no spelling to reproduce that combination ofguttural and aspirate and the inimitable inflection of voice. It is sodelightful that I ask him again, and again the answer comes with evenmore emphasis upon guttural and aspirate, and an added curve to theinflection: "Abou-e-t the-r-r-h-ty. " My heart goes out to him, and watching his neat, quick work withGolddust, I begin to understand the look of thrift about the yard. Itis the mark of the "weel daein" Scot. We go up to the door of the new log house. Before the door are twobroad, flat stones washed clean. "Scotch again, " I say to myself. HadI not seen them in many a Scotch village in front of the little stonecottages, thatched and decked with the climbing rose! The door is opened by Mrs. McPhail. That is not her name, of course. I am not going to outrage the shy modesty of that little woman byputting her name in bold print for all the world to see. A dear littlewoman she is, bowed somewhat with the burden of her life, but thoughher sweet face is worn and thin, it is very bright, and now it is aglowwith welcome to her friend the missionary. She welcomes me, too, butwith a gentle reserve. She is ready enough to give of her heart'swealth, but only to those she has learned to trust. And my friend hasgained a full reward for his six months' work in that he has won thiswoman's willing trust. When the flush called up by the greeting dies, I see how pale she is, and I wonder how the winds and frosts and fiercesuns have left so little trace upon the face of a Manitoba farmer'swife. I understand this later, but not now. When she was a girl, her hair was thick and fair, but now it is whiteand thin, and is drawn smoothly back and fastened in a decent littleknot behind. Her eyes, once bright and blue, are blue still, butfaded, for tears, salt and hot, have washed out the color. She wears aflannel dress, simple and neat; and the collar at the neck and thelace-edged kerchief at the breast and the tidy daintiness of all abouther make her a picture of one who had been in her youth "a weelbrocht-up lass. " Her house is her mirror. The newly plastered, log-built walls aresnow-white, the pine floor snow-white, and when the cloth is spread fortea, it, too, is snow-white. Upon the wall hangs a row of graduatedpewter platter covers. How pathetically incongruous are they on thewalls of this Canadian log house! But they shine. The table and thechairs shine. The spoons and knives and glasses and dishes shine, glitter. The whole kitchen is spotless, from the white window blindsto the white floor, and there is a glitter on every side, from thepathetic pewter covers on the wall to the old silver teaspoons upon thetable. Mr. McPhail comes in, a small man with a quiet, husky voice and aself-respecting manner. His eye is clear and dark blue, and has a lookof intellect in it. When he speaks he has a way of looking straightinto you with a steady, thoughtful gaze. A man would find it equallydifficult to doubt or to deceive him. The pioneer life has bowed hisbody and subdued his spirit, but the whole mass of his trials and thefull weight of his burdens have not broken his heart's courage, norsoured its sweetness, nor dimmed his hope in God. We are invited to tea with an air of apologetic cordiality. The foodis fit for princes--home-made bread white and flaky, butter yellow andsweet, eggs just from the nest, and cream. There is cream enough foryour tea, for fruit, and to drink! Cake there is, too, and otherdainties; but not for me. No cake nor dainty can tempt me from thisbread and butter. Queen Victoria has not better this night. I muchdoubt if she has as good! God bless her! At the head and foot of the table sit the father and mother, andAlexander, Jean, and Donald, with the missionary and myself, make upthe company. The children take their tea in silence but for awhispered request now and then, or a reply to some low-toned directionfrom the mother. They listen interested in their elders' talk, andhugely amused at the jokes. There is no pert interjection of smartsayings, so awful in ill-trained children of ill-bred parents. Theyhave learned that ancient and almost forgotten doctrine that childrenshould be seen. I tell my best stories and make my pet jokes just tosee them laugh. They laugh, as they do everything else, with a gentlereserve; and occasionally Jean, a girl of fifteen, shy like the rest, pulls herself up with a blush lest she has been unduly moved tolaughter. The mother presides over all with a quiet efficiency, takingkeen, intelligent interest in the conversation, now and then putting arevealing question, all the while keeping a watchful eye upon thevisitors' plates lest they should come near being empty. The talk goes back to the old times. But these people talk withdifficulty when their theme is themselves. But my interest andquestions draw their story from them. Fifteen years ago the father and mother left the cozy Glasgow home andthe busy life of that busy city, and came over sea and land with theirlittle girl and baby boy to Winnipeg. There they lived for two years, till with the land-yearning in their hearts they came out from the townto this far-back spot away beyond the Marshes. Here they cut out ofthe forest their home, and here they have lived amid the quiet, coolwoods ever since, remote from the bustle and heat of the great world. "Why to this place instead of to any other?" I ask. "There was the hay from the Marshes to be sold, and the wood, too, "answered the little man. "But, " he went on, "I could not make much outof the wood, and I was too old to learn, so I gave it up, and went intoWinnipeg to work at my trade. And, indeed, " he added cheerfully, "Imade very good wages of it. " I look at him and think of the day when he gave up the fight with thewood, and came in beaten to tell his wife how he must go to the city. I know she smiled at him, her heart going down the while, and cheeredhim, though she was like to despair at the thought of the lonelywinter. Ah, the pathos of it! Did God help them that day? Ay, andfor many a day after. And may He forgive all people whose livesoverflow with plenty of everything, and who fret their souls for pettyills. Through the winter the snow piled up round the shanty where lived thelittle fair-haired woman and her little girl of nine years and twobabies now, thinking, talking, dreaming, weeping, waiting for thespring and the home-coming of the father. One of the horses died, andthe other was sold. Their places were taken by oxen. "And the oxenare really very good; I like to work with the oxen, " says the littleman, with heroic Scotch philosophy and invincible content. He cannothave the best; he will make the best of what he can have. Again, mayGod forgive us who fling down tools because they are not the best, andrefuse to work, and fret instead. Those days are all gone, but they are not yet passed out of the life ofthis family. They have left their stamp on heart and character ofthese steadfast, gentle people, for they are a part of all that theyhave met. After tea I am told that I have not yet seen Katie, and the manner oftelling makes me feel that there is something in store for me. And sothere is. I am taken across a narrow hall and into another room, spotless as the kitchen, the same white walls, white floor, and daintycurtains. This is Katie's room, and there upon a bed lies Katieherself. I have come into the heart of the home. Katie is the eldest of the family. She is the little girl of nine thatstayed through the long winter with the mother, and helped her with thebabies inside and the beasts outside, and was the cheer and comfort ofthe house, while the father was away in Winnipeg, brave little girlthat she was. She is now twenty-four, and for the last nine years shehas suffered from a mysterious and painful illness, and now foreighteen months she has lain upon her bed and she cannot rise. We allhave in us the beast feeling that shrinks from the weak and wounded;but when I look at Katie there is no shrinking in me. Her face has nota sign of fretful weakness. It seems as if it had caught the glitterof the home, of the pewter covers, and the old silver teaspoons. It isbright. That is its characteristic. The broad brow is smooth, and themouth, though showing the lines of suffering--what control these linessuggest!--is firm and content. The dark eyes look out from under theirstraight black brows with a friendly searching. "Come near, " they say;"are you to be trusted?" and you know you are being found out. Butthey are kindly eyes and full of peace, with none of that look in themthat shows when the heart is anxious or sore. The face, the mouth, theeyes, tell the same tale of a soul that has left its storms behind andhas made the haven, though not without sign of the rough weatherwithout. There is no sick-room feeling here. The coverlet, the sheets, thenight-dress, with frills at the breast and wrists--everything aboutKatie is sweet and fresh. Every morning of her life she is sponged anddressed and "freshed up a bit" by her mother's loving hands. It takesan hour to do it, and there are many household cares; but what an hourthat is! What talk, what gentle, tearful jokes, what tender touches!The hour is one of sacrament to them both, for He is always there inwhose presence they are reverent and glad. We "take the books, " and I am asked to be priest. One needs his holygarments in a sanctuary like this. After the evening worship is over Italk with Katie. "Don't you feel the time long? Don't you grow weary sometimes?" "No! Oh, no!" with slight surprise. "I am content. " "But surely you get lonely--blue now and then?" "Lonely?" with the brightest of smiles. "Oh, no! They are all here. " Heaven forgive me! I had thought she perhaps might have wanted some ofthe world's cheerful distraction. "But was it always so? Didn't you fret at the first?" I persisted. "No, not at _the first_. " "That means that bad times came afterwards?" "Yes, " she answers slowly, and a faint red comes up in her cheek as iffrom shame. "After the first six months I found it pretty hard. " I wait, not sure what thoughts I have brought to her, and then she goeson: "It was hard to see my mother tired with the work, and Jean could notget to school"; and she could go no further. "But that all passed away?" I asked, after a pause. "Oh, yes!" and her smile says much. It was the memory of her triumphthat brought her smile, and it illumined her face. My words came slowly. I could not comfort where comfort was notneeded. I could not pity, facing a smile like that; and it seemed hardto rejoice over one whose days were often full of pain. But it came tome to say: "He has done much for you; and you are doing much for Him. " "Yes: He has done much for me. " But she would go no further. Herservice seemed small to her, but to me it seemed great and high. We, in our full blood and unbroken life, have our work, our common work, but this high work is not for us--we are not good enough. This Hekeeps for those His love makes pure by pain. This would almost makeone content to suffer. Next morning we all went to the little log school, where the Communionservice was to be held--all but the father and Katie. "You have done me much good, " I could not but say before I left; "andyou are a blessing in your home. " The color rose in her pale cheek, but she only said: "I am glad you were sent to us. " Then I came away, humbly and softly, feeling as if I had been in a holyplace, where I was not worthy to stand. And a holy place it will everbe to me--the white room, the spotless white room, lit by the glory ofthat bright, sweet, patient face. At the Table that day the mother'sface had the same glory--the glory of those that overcome, thereflection of the glory to follow. Happy, blessed home! The snows maypile up into the bluff and the blizzards sweep over the whistling reedsof the Marshes, but nothing can chill the love or dim the hopes thatwarm and brighten the hearts in the little log house Beyond theMarshes, for they have their source from that high place where lovenever faileth and hopes never disappoint.