summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/old/secrd10h.htm
blob: 14d210796b2c778dd402ee4bd7435f709578710a (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885

<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN">
<html>
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content=
"text/html; charset=us-ascii">
<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Laura Secord, The Heroine of
1812: A Drama. And Other Poems, by Sarah Anne Curzon.</title>
<style type="text/css">
    <!--
    * {     font-family: serif;}
    P {     text-indent: 1em;
                margin-top: .75em;
                margin-bottom: .75em; }
    P.stage  { text-align: right;
                margin: .05em; }
    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 {     text-align: center; }
    H4.scene {  text-align: left;
                text-indent: -4em;
                margin-left: 4em; }
    HR { width: 33%; }
    // -->
</style>
</head>

<body>


<pre>

Project Gutenberg's Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812., by Sarah Anne Curzon

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812.
       A Drama. And Other Poems.

Author: Sarah Anne Curzon

Release Date: January, 2005 [EBook #7228]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on March 28, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAURA SECORD, THE HEROINE OF 1812. ***




Produced by David Garcia, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.






</pre>

<h1>LAURA SECORD, THE HEROINE OF 1812:</h1>
<center>
<p style="font-size: 18;"><i>A DRAMA</i>.</p>
<p style="font-size: 14;">AND OTHER POEMS.</p>
<p style="font-size: 16;">BY SARAH ANNE CURZON</p></center>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<hr>
<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-right: 5em;">"And among them all
move the majestic, white-robed bards, striking their golden harps,
and telling the tales of the days of old, and handing down the
names of the heroes for ever."&mdash;JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY</p>
<p style="margin-left: 5em; margin-right: 5em;">"The soul of the
book is whatever beautiful and true and noble we can find in
it."&mdash;KINGSLEY'S "HYPATIA."</p>
<hr>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<center>
<p style="font-size: 14;">TO ALL TRUE CANADIANS,<br>
 OF WHATEVER DERIVATION,<br>
 THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED<br>
 BY<br>
 THE AUTHOR.</p></center>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h2>PREFACE.</h2>
<hr>
<p>The drama of "Laura Secord" was written to rescue from oblivion
the name of a brave woman, and set it in its proper place among the
heroes of Canadian history. During the first few years of her
residence in Canada the author was often astonished to hear it
remarked, no less among educated than uneducated Canadians, that
"Canada has no history;" and yet on every hand stories were current
of the achievements of the pioneers, and the hardships endured and
overcome by the United Empire Loyalists. Remembering that, as soon
as she had conquered the merest rudiments of reading and grammar at
school, she was set to learn English History, and so become
acquainted with the past of her country, it seemed to the writer
that there was something lacking in a course of teaching that could
leave Canadians to think that their country had no historical past.
Determined to seek out for herself the facts of the case, it was
with feelings of the deepest interest that she read such of the
contributions to the newspaper press as came in her way during the
debate with regard to the pensions asked of Government for the
surviving veterans of 1812 in 1873-4. Among these was incidentally
given the story of Mrs. Secord's heroic deed in warning Fitzgibbon.
Yet it could not pass without observation that, while the heroism
of the men of that date was dwelt upon with warm appreciation and
much urgency as to their deserts, Mrs. Secord, as being a woman,
shared in nothing more tangible than an approving record. The
story, to a woman's mind, was full of pathos, and, though barren of
great incidents, was not without a due richness of colouring if
looked at by appreciative eyes. Nor were the results of Laura
Secord's brave deed insignificant. Had the Americans carried Beaver
Dams at that juncture, the whole peninsula was before
them&mdash;all its supplies, all its means of communication with
other parts of the Province. And Canada&mdash;Upper Canada, at
least&mdash;would have been in the hands of the invaders until, by
a struggle too severe to be contemplated calmly, they had been
driven forth. To save from the sword is surely as great a deed as
to save with the sword; and this Laura Secord did, at an expense of
nerve and muscle fully equal to any that are recorded of the
warrior. To set her on such a pedestal of equality; to inspire
other hearts with loyal bravery such as hers; to write her name on
the roll of Canadian heroes, inspired the poem that bears her name.
But the tribute to her memory would not be complete were it to omit
an appeal to Canadians, especially to the inhabitants of this
Province, who, in their prosperity owe to her so much, to do their
part, and write her name in enduring marble upon the spot where she
lies buried.</p>
<p>Nor does it seem asking more than a graceful act from the
Government of the Dominion&mdash;a Dominion which, but for her,
might never have been&mdash;to do its share in acknowledgment. One
of her daughters still lives, and if she attain to her mother's age
has yet nearly a decade before her.</p>
<p>The drama of "Laura Secord" was written in 1876, and the ballad
a year later, but, owing to the inertness of Canadian interest in
Canadian literature at that date, could not be published. It is
hoped that a better time has at length dawned.</p>
S. A. CURZON. <br>
 TORONTO, 1887. <br>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<p><a href="#secord">LAURA SECORD, THE HEROINE OF THE WAR OF
1812</a></p>
<p><a href="#ballad">A BALLAD OF 1812</a></p>
<p><a href="#jubilee">THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE</a></p>
<p><a href="#hero">THE HERO OF ST. HELEN'S ISLAND</a></p>
<p><a href="#veterans">OUR VETERANS OF 1812. (A PLEA)</a></p>
<p><a href="#loyal">LOYAL</a></p>
<p><a href="#heights">ON QUEENSTON HEIGHTS</a></p>
<p><a href="#mayor">NEW ORLEANS, MONROE, MAYOR</a></p>
<p><a href="#emigrant">THE SONG OF THE EMIGRANT</a></p>
<p><a href="#summer">TO THE INDIAN SUMMER</a></p>
<p><a href="#june">IN JUNE</a></p>
<p><a href="#livingstone">LIVINGSTONE, IN MEMORIAM</a></p>
<p><a href="#queen">THE QUEEN AND THE CRIMEAN SOLDIERS</a></p>
<p><a href="#child">TO A CHILD</a></p>
<p><a href="#home">HOME</a></p>
<p><a href="#lost">LOST WITH HIS BOAT</a></p>
<p><a href="#life">LIFE IN DEATH</a></p>
<p><a href="#rain">INVOCATION TO RAIN</a></p>
<p><a href="#remonstrance">REMONSTRANCE WITH "REMONSTRANCE"</a></p>
<p><a href="#absent">THE ABSENT ONES</a></p>
<p><a href="#away">AWAY</a></p>
<p><a href="#joe">POOR JOE</a></p>
<p><a href="#fragments">FRAGMENTS</a></p>
<p><a href="#graduate">THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE. (A COMEDY)</a></p>
<hr>
<h3><a href="#fables"><i>FABLES: ORIGINAL AND FROM THE
FRENCH</i>.</a></h3>
<p><a href="#fables1">THE CHOICE</a></p>
<p><a href="#fables2">INSINCERITY</a></p>
<p><a href="#fables3">THE TWO TREES</a> <i>Le May</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#fables4">FABLE AND TRUTH</a> <i>Florian</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#fables5">THE CALIPH</a> <i>Florian</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#fables6">THE BLIND MAN AND THE PARALYTIC</a>
<i>Florian</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#fables7">DEATH</a> <i>Florian</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#fables8">THE HOUSE OF CARDS</a> <i>Florian</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#fables9">THE BULLFINCH AND THE RAVEN</a>
<i>Florian</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#fables10">THE WASP AND THE BEE</a> <i>Florian</i>.</p>
<hr>
<h3><a href="#translations"><i>TRANSLATIONS</i>.</a></h3>
<p><a href="#trans1">IN MEMORY OF THE HEROES OF 1760</a> <i>Le
May</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#trans2">THE SONG OF THE CANADIAN VOLTIGEURS</a> <i>Le
May</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#trans3">THE LEGEND OF THE EARTH</a> <i>Jean
Rameau</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#trans4">THE EMIGRANT MOUNTAINEER</a>
<i>Chateaubriand</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#trans5">FROM "LIGHTS AND SHADES"</a> <i>Hugo</i>.</p>
<p><a href="#trans6">VILLANELLE TO ROSETTE</a>
<i>Desportes</i>.</p>
<hr>
<h3><a href="#notes">NOTES</a></h3>
<h3><a href="#appendices">APPENDICES</a></h3>
<a name="pagei"><!-- Begin Page I --></a>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h2>MEMOIR OF MRS. SECORD</h2>
<hr>
<p>It is at all times an amiable and honourable sentiment that
leads us to enquire into the antecedents of those who, by the
greatness of their virtues have added value to the records of human
history. Whether such inquiry increases our estimation of such
value or not, it must always be instructive, and therefore
inspiring. Under this impression I have sought on every hand to
learn all that could be gathered of the history of one of Canada's
purest patriots. As Dr. Ryerson aptly says in his <i>U. E.
Loyalists and their Times</i>, "the period of the U. E. Loyalists
was one of doing, not recording," therefore little beyond tradition
has conserved anything of all that we would now like to know of the
heroism, the bravery, the endurance, the trials of that bold army
of men and women, who, having laid strong hands on the primeval
forest, dug wide and deep the foundations of a nation whose
greatness is yet to come. In such a light the simple records that
follow will be attractive.</p>
<p>Laura Secord came of loyal blood. She was the daughter of Mr.
Thomas Ingersoll, the founder of the town of Ingersoll, and his
wife Sarah, the sister of General John Whiting, of Great
Barrington, Berkshire County, Mass. At the close of the War of
1776, Mr. Ingersoll came to Canada on the invitation of Governor
Simcoe, an old friend of the family, and founded a settlement on
the banks of the Thames in Oxford County. On the change of
government, Mr. Ingersoll and his struggling settlement of eighty
or ninety families found their prospects blighted and their future
imperilled; Mr. Ingersoll therefore saw it necessary to remove to
Little York, and shortly afterward settled in the township of
Etobicoke. There he resided until some time after the War of
1812-14, when he returned with his family to Oxford County. Here he
died, but left behind him worthy successors of his honourable name
in his two sons, Charles and James.</p>
<p>Charles Ingersoll, with that active loyalty and heroic energy
which alike characterized his patriotic sister, Mrs. Secord, held
prominent positions in the gift of the Government and of the
people, and was also a highly respected merchant and trader.</p>
<p>James Ingersoll, though of a more retiring disposition than his
brother, was a prominent figure in Western Canada for many years.
He was a magistrate of high repute, and occupied a foremost
position in the militia, in which he held the rank of
Lieutenant-Colonel at the time of his death. This event took place
on the 9th August, 1886, at which date he had been Registrar for
the County of Oxford fifty-two years.</p>
<p>That Mrs. Secord should be brave, ready, prompt in action, and
fervent <a name="pageii"><!-- Begin Page II --></a> in patriotism
is not surprising, seeing that all the events of her childhood and
youth were blended with those of the settlement of Upper Canada by
the U. E. Loyalists, in whose ranks her family held so honourable a
position, and whose character and sentiments were at all times to
be depended upon.</p>
<p>The family of Secord, of which she became so distinguished a
member, was also a notable one. Family documents exist which show
that in the reign of Louis the Tenth of France a certain Marquis
D'Secor was a Marshal of His Majesty's Household. A son of this
Marquis embraced the Protestant religion, as did younger branches
of the family. During the persecution of the Huguenots many of them
suffered at the stake, and the family estates, situated at La
Rochelle, were confiscated. The survivors escaped the massacre of
St. Bartholomew by flight to England along with many other noble
families, among whom were the Comte de Puys, the Baudeaux, and a
Holland family, the Van Cortlandts.</p>
<p>Eventually five brothers emigrated to America where they settled
in New Jersey, purchasing large tracts of land, founding New
Rochelle and engaging in lumbering. On the breaking out of the
Revolutionary War the family divided, the Loyalists changing their
patronym to Secord by placing the prefix "d" at the end of their
name. These brothers after, as King's men, losing, in common with
all the Loyalists, their property and estates, emigrated to New
Brunswick, again engaging in lumbering and milling operations, and;
there certain of their descendants are to be found today. Some of
these, and their sons, again removed to Canada West, where one of
them, commonly called "Deaf John Secord," who married Miss Wartman,
of Kingston, was known all along the coast from St. John to Quebec
for his hospitalities. Among those who settled in the Niagara
district were Stephen Secord, the miller of St. David's, Major
David Secord, after whom the village was named, and James Secord,
the husband of the heroine of 1812. Stephen Secord died before the
War of 1812, leaving a widow and a family of seven sons. Of Major
David Secord, the only record I have been able to procure is to be
found in <i>A History of the Late War between Great Britain and the
United States of America, by David Thompson, late of the Royal
Scots</i>, as quoted for me by the kind courtesy of Miss Louisa
Murray, of Stamford. It is as follows: "The Second Lincoln Militia,
under Major David Secord, distinguished themselves in this action
[the Battle of Chippewa] by feats of genuine bravery and heroism,
stimulated by the example of their gallant leader, which are seldom
surpassed even by the most experienced veterans. Their loss was
proportionate with that of the regular army."</p>
<p>At the outbreak of the War of 1812, Mr. James Secord was living
at Queenston, where he had a lumber mill and stores. He held the
rank of Captain in the Lincoln Militia until close on the American
invasion, but resigned in dudgeon at some action of his superior
officer, and thus it is that in the relation of Mrs. Secord's
heroic deed he is not designated by any rank. At the first call to
arms, however, Mr. Secord at once offered his services, <a name=
"pageiii"><!-- Begin Page III --></a> which were gladly accepted,
and he was present at the Battle of Queenston Heights. Here he was
severely wounded in the leg and shoulder, and lay on the field as
one dead, until rescued by his brave wife. He never fully recovered
from his wounds, and received an acknowledgment of his voluntary
services to the Government in the appointment to the post of
Collector of Customs at the Port of Chippewa, which he held until
his death in 1841.</p>
<p>The married life of Mr. and Mrs. Secord was a most happy one.
Their third daughter, Mrs. Harriet Smith, who still survives, a
cheerful and vivacious lady of eighty-six, says that her father and
mother were most devoted to each other, and lived in the closest
mutual affection.</p>
<p>At the date of the Battle of Queenston Heights, the family
consisted of four daughters and one son: Mary&mdash;with whom the
great Tecumseh is said to have been in love&mdash;who was married
to Dr. Trumbull, Staff-surgeon to the 37th Regiment, and died in
Jamaica; Charlotte, "the belle of Canada," who, died during a visit
to Ireland; Harriet&mdash;Mrs. Smith&mdash;who still survives and
lives in great retirement with her eldest daughter at Guelph; and
Appolonia, who died at the early age of eighteen. Charles, the only
son, lived at Newark, and his surviving children are Mr. James B.
Secord, of Niagara, and Alicia, Mrs. Isaac Cockburn, of
Gravenhurst.</p>
<p>Two daughters were born to Mr. and Mrs. Secord subsequent to the
war. Hannah, who was married to Mr. Carthew, of Guelph. and died in
1884, leaving several sons, and Laura, who was married to Dr.
Clarke, of Palmerston, and died young, leaving one daughter,
Laura.</p>
<p>Mrs. Smith relates that she very well remembers her mother
setting off for St. David's, ostensibly to see her brother Charles,
who lay sick at the mill, and her father's ill-concealed agitation
during that trying day. What must the night have been to him? She
also relates that during the short occupation of Queenston by the
invaders, their soldiery were very tyrannical, entering the houses
and stores to look for money and help themselves to plunder, and
even destroying the bedding, by ripping it up with their swords and
bayonets, in the search. Mrs. Secord who had a store of Spanish
doubloons, heirlooms, saved them by throwing them into a cauldron
of water which hung on a crane over a blazing fire. In this she
unconsciously emulated the ready wit of one of her husband's
Huguenot progenitors, a lady, who during the persecution that
followed the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, at a period of
domiciliary search for incriminating proofs of unorthodoxy, is said
to have thrown a copy of the Bible&mdash;a doubly precious treasure
in those days&mdash;into a churn of milk from whence it was
afterwards rescued little the worse, thanks to heavy binding and
strong clasps.</p>
<p>Envy having sent a shaft at even so warm and patriotic a breast
as that of Mrs. Secord, Col. Fitzgibbon sent her a certificate,
dated only a short time before his death, vouching to the facts of
the heroic deed. It was evidently one of the cruel necessities of
this hard life. The certificate runs as follows:</p>
<a name="pageiv"><!-- Begin Page IV --></a>
<center>
<p>FITZGIBBON'S CERTIFICATE.</p></center>
<p class="letter">"I do hereby certify that Mrs. Secord, the wife
of James Secord, of Chippewa, Esq., did, in the month of June,
1813, walk from her house in the village of St. David's to Decamp's
house in Thorold, by a circuitous route of about twenty miles,
partly through the woods, to acquaint me that the enemy intended to
attempt by surprise to capture a detachment of the 49th Regiment,
then under my command; she having obtained such knowledge from good
authority, as the event proved. Mrs. Secord was a person of slight
and delicate frame; and made the effort in weather excessively
warm, and I dreaded at the time that she must suffer in health in
consequence of fatigue and anxiety, she having been exposed to
danger from the enemy, through whose line of communication she had
to pass. The attempt was made on my detachment by the enemy, and
his detachment, consisting of upwards of 500 men, with a
field-piece and fifty dragoons, was captured in consequence. I
write this certificate in a moment of much hurry and from memory,
and it is, therefore, thus brief.<br>
<br>
 "(Signed) JAMES FITZGIBBON,<br>
 "<i>Formerly Lieutenant in the 49th Regiment</i>."</p>
<p>It is well to consider this great achievement of Mrs. Secord
carefully, that we may be the better able to realize the greatness
of the feat. To assist in so doing, it will not be amiss to quote
the following, from Coffin's <i>Chronicles of the War</i>, bearing
on the prudential reasons of Proctor's retreat at Moravian Town.
"But whether for advance or for retreat, the by-paths of the forest
intermediate were such as the macadamized and locomotive
imagination of the present day cannot encompass. A backwoodsman,
laden with his axe, wading here, ploutering there, stumbling over
rotted trees, protruding stumps, a bit of half-submerged corduroy
road for one short space, then an adhesive clay bank, then a mile
or two or more of black muck swamp, may,
possibly,&mdash;clay-clogged and footsore, and with much pain in
the small of his back,&mdash;find himself at sundown at the foot of
a hemlock or cedar, with a fire at his feet, having done manfully
about ten miles for his day's work." This was written of a time of
year when the fall rains predict an approaching winter. Mrs.
Secord's exploit was made on the 23rd of June, a time when the
early summer rains that set the fruit and consecrate an abundant
harvest with their blessing, nevertheless make clay banks slippery,
and streams swift, and of these latter the whole Niagara district
was full. Many have now been diverted and some dried up. I am happy
to be able to give my readers the heroine's own simple account of
her journey, as furnished me by the courtesy of Mr. Benson J.
Lossing, author of the "Pictorial Field Book of the War of 1812,"
to whom the aged lady in 1862 recounted it in a letter (given in a
note in Mr. Lossing's book), the historian, on his visit to
Chippewa in 1860, having failed to see her. She was then
eighty-five years of age.</p>
<a name="pagev"><!-- Begin Page V --></a>
<p>"DEAR SIR,&mdash;I will tell you the story in a few words.</p>
<p>"After going to St. David's and the recovery of Mr. Secord, we
returned again to Queenston, where my courage again was much tried.
It was there I gained the secret plan laid to capture Captain
Fitzgibbon and his party. I was determined, if possible, to save
them. I had much difficulty in getting through the American guards.
They were ten miles out in the country. [Footnote: The American
sentries were out ten miles into the country; that is, at any point
commanding a possible line of communication within a radius of ten
miles from Fort George, Mrs. Secord might come upon an American
sentry. The deep woods, therefore, were her only security. These
she must thread to the best of her ability, with what knowledge she
might possess of the woodman's craft, for even a blazed path was
not safe. And by this means she must get out of American cover and
into British lines. To do this she must take a most circuitous
route, as she tells us, all round "by Twelve-mile Creek," whose
port is St. Catharines, climbing the ridge that is now cut through
by the Welland Canal, and thus doubling upon what would have been
the straight route, and coming on Fitzgibbon from the back, from
the way of his supports, for Major de Haren lay at Twelve-mile
Creek, but not within several miles of where the heroine crossed
it. And it was dark, and within a few hours of the intended
surprise when she reached it. To go to De Haren, even though it
might have been nearer at that point&mdash;it may not have been so,
however&mdash;was a greater risk to Fitzgibbon, whose safety she
was labouring to secure, than to send him aid which might only
reach him after the event. Forgetting her exhaustion she proceeds,
fulfils her errand, and saves her country. <i>And shall that
country let her memory die</i>?] When I came to a field belonging
to a Mr. De Cou, in the neighbourhood of the Beaver Dams, I then
had walked nineteen miles. By that time daylight had left me. I yet
had a swift stream of water (Twelve-mile Creek) to cross over on an
old fallen tree, and to climb a high hill, which fatigued me very
much.</p>
<p>"Before I arrived at the encampment of the Indians, as I
approached they all arose with one of their war yells, which,
indeed, awed me. You may imagine what my feelings were to behold so
many savages. With forced courage I went to one of the chiefs, told
him I had great news for his commander, and that he must take me to
him or they would all be lost. He did not understand me, but said,
'Woman! What does woman want here?' The scene by moonlight to some
might have been grand, but to a weak woman certainly terrifying.
With difficulty I got one of the chiefs to go with me to their
commander. With the intelligence I gave him he formed his plans and
saved his country. I have ever found the brave and noble Colonel
Fitzgibbon a friend to me. May he prosper in the world to come as
he has done in this.</p>
LAURA SECORD. <br>
 "CHIPPEWA, U.C., Feb. 18, 1861." <br>

<p>Mr. Lossing further adds in his letter to me:</p>
<p>"When, in the summer of 1860, the Prince of Wales visited
Queenston the veteran soldiers of the Canada side of the Niagara
frontier signed an address to his Royal Highness; Mrs. Secord
claimed the privilege of signing it. 'Wherefore?' was asked. She
told her story, and it was allowed that she <a name="pagevi">
<!-- Begin Page VI --></a> eminently deserved a place among the
signers. Her story was repeated to the Prince. He was greatly
interested, and learning that the heroine had not much of this
world's goods, sent her $500 soon after his return home, in
attestation of his appreciation of her patriotism."</p>
<p>Her sole surviving daughter at this date, says the gift was
carried to her mother by ten gentlemen who had formed part of the
Prince's suite.</p>
<p>A correspondent at Drummondville, to whom I am indebted for
several Valuable particulars, says: "Mrs. Laura Second is
remembered here as a fine, tall, strong woman. Strong, too, in
mind, purpose, determination, and yet womanly and maternal withal.
She is spoken of as <i>indeed a brave woman</i>, of strong
patriotism and courage.</p>
<p>"The difficulties and dangers then, were those of anew,
uncleared, pathless country increased by lurking foes, and by
wandering, untaught Indians.</p>
<p>"In connection with her chief act of heroism the following
anecdote has been told me:&mdash;Three American soldiers called at
her log house at Queenston to ask for water. One of them said, 'You
have a nice place here, missis, when we come for good to this
country we'll divide the land, and I'll take this here for my
share.' Mrs. Secord was so nettled by the thoughts expressed that
although the men were civil and respectful, she replied sharply,
'You scoundrel you, all you'll ever get here will be six feet of
earth!'</p>
<p>"When they were gone her heart reproached her for her heat,
because the men had not molested her nor her property." (Yet her
indignation was righteous, since they were invaders in the worst
sense of the term, having no lawful cause for their invasion.) "Two
days after two of the men returned. They said to Mrs. Secord, 'You
were right about the six feet of earth, missis! The third man had
been killed."</p>
<p>In speaking of the heroine, Mr. James B. Secord, of Niagara,
says in a letter to me, "My grandmother was of a modest
disposition, and did not care to have her exploit mentioned, as she
did not think she had done any thing extraordinary. She was the
very last one to mention the affair, and unless asked would never
say any thing about it."</p>
<p>This noble-minded and heroic woman died in 1868, aged
ninety-three years. She lies in Drummondville Churchyard, by the
side of the husband she loved so well. Nothing but a simple
headstone, half defaced, marks the place where the sacred ashes
lie. But surely we who enjoy the happiness she so largely secured
for us, we who have known how to honour Brock and Brant, will also
know how to, honour Tecumseh and LAURA SECORD; the heroine as well
as the heroes of our Province&mdash;of our common
Dominion&mdash;and will no longer delay to do it, lest Time should
snatch the happy opportunity from us.</p>
S. A. C. <br>
 TORONTO, 4th August, 1887.
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="pagevii"><!-- Begin Page VII --></a>
<p>NOTE.&mdash;The headstone of Laura Secord is three feet high,
and eighteen inches wide, and has the following:</p>
<center>HERE RESTS<br>
 LAURA,<br>
 BELOVED WIFE OF JAMES SECORD,<br>
 Died, Oct. 17, 1868.<br>
 <i>Aged 93 years</i>.</center>
<p>The headstone of her husband has the following:</p>
<center>IN MEMORY OF<br>
 JAMES SECORD, SENR.,<br>
 COLLECTOR OF CUSTOMS,<br>
 Who departed this life on the 22nd day of Feb., 1841,<br>
 <i>In the 68th year of his age</i>.<br>
<br>
 Universally and deservedly lamented as a sincere Friend,<br>
 a kind and indulgent Parent, and an affectionate Husband.</center>
<a name="page009"><!-- Begin Page 9 --></a>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h2><a name="secord">LAURA SECORD:</a></h2>
<p style="text-align: center">THE HEROINE OF THE WAR OF 1812.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="page010"><!-- Begin Page 10 --></a>
<h3>DRAMATIS PERSONAE.</h3>
<hr>
<br>

<p style="text-indent: 0em;"><i>British</i>:</p>
<p>LAURA SECORD, <i>the Heroine, wife of</i> James Secord.</p>
<p>ELIZABETH SECORD, <i>widow of</i> Stephen Secord, <i>the Miller
at St. David's</i>.</p>
<p>MARY, <i>a girl of thirteen, daughter of</i> James and Laura
Secord.</p>
<p>CHARLOTTE, <i>her sister</i>.</p>
<p>HARRIET, <i>her sister</i>.</p>
<p>BABETTE, <i>the maid at the</i> Mill.</p>
<p>A WOMAN, <i>the keeper of a roadside tavern at</i> Beaver
Dams.</p>
<p>JAMES SECORD, <i>a wounded militia officer, home on sick leave,
husband of</i> Laura Secord.</p>
<p>LIEUTENANT FITZGIBBON, <i>a British officer holding the post
at</i> Beaver Dams.</p>
<p>MAJOR DE HAREN, <i>a British officer lying at</i> St. Catharines
<i>with his command</i>.</p>
<p>COLONEL THOMAS CLARKE, <i>A Canadian militia officer</i>.</p>
<p>SERGEANT GEORGE MOSIER, <i>an old Pensioner, and</i> U. E.
Loyalist <i>of 1776</i>.</p>
<p>MISHE-MO-QUA (The Great Bear), <i>a Mohawk Chief</i>.</p>
<p>JOHN PENN, <i>a farmer (Harvey's Quaker)</i>.</p>
<p>GEORGE JARVIS, <i>a Cadet of the 49th Regiment</i>.</p>
<p><i>A</i> Sergeant <i>of the 8th Regiment</i>.</p>
<p><i>A</i> Sergeant <i>of the 49th Regiment</i>.</p>
<p>JAMES CUMMINGS, <i>a Corporal of Militia</i>.</p>
<p>ROARING BILL, <i>a Private in the 49th Regiment</i>.</p>
<p>JACK, <i>a Private in the 49th Regiment</i>.</p>
<p><i>Other</i> Soldiers <i>of the 49th, 8th, or King's Own, and
104th Regiments</i>.</p>
<p>Militiamen, <i>Canadians</i>.</p>
<p>Indians, <i>British Allies, chiefly Mohawks</i>.</p>
<p>TOM, <i>a child of six, son of the</i> Widow Secord.</p>
<p>ARCHY, <i>a little Boy at</i> St. David's Mill.</p>
<p>CHARLES, <i>a boy of four, son of</i> James <i>and</i> Laura
Secord.</p>
<p><i>Other</i> Boys <i>of various ages from eight to
sixteen</i>.</p>
<br>

<p style="text-indent: 0em;"><i>American</i>:</p>
<p>COLONEL BOERSTLER, <i>an American officer</i>.</p>
<p>CAPTAIN MCDOWELL, <i>an American officer</i>.</p>
<p>PETE <i>and</i> FLOS, <i>slaves</i>.</p>
<p><i>A large body of American soldiers, infantry, dragoons and
artillerymen</i>.</p>
<a name="page011"><!-- Begin Page 11 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h2>LAURA SECORD:<br>
 THE HEROINE OF THE WAR OF 1812.</h2>
<hr>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>ACT I.</h3>
<h4>SCENE 1.&mdash;<i>Queenston. A farmhouse</i>.</h4>
<p>John Penn, a Quaker, <i>is seated on a chair tilted against the
wall</i>. Mr. Secord, <i>his arm in a sling, reclines on a couch,
against the end of which a crutch is is placed</i>. Mrs. Secord,
<i>occupies a rocking-chair near the lounge</i>. Charlie, <i>a
little fellow of four, is seated on her lap holding a ball of yarn
from which she is knitting</i>. Charlotte, <i>a girl of twelve, is
seated on a stool set a little in rear of the couch; she has a
lesson-book in her hand</i>. Harriet, <i>a girl of ten, occupies a
stool near her sister, and has a slate on her lap. All are
listening intently to the</i> Quaker, <i>who is speaking</i>.</p>
<p><i>Quaker</i>. The midnight sky, set thick with shining
points,<br>
 Hung watchingly, while from a band of gloom<br>
 That belted in the gloomier woods, stole forth<br>
 Foreshortened forms of grosser shade, all barred<br>
 With lines of denser blackness, dexter-borne.<br>
 Rank after rank, they came, out of the dark,<br>
 So silently no pebble crunched beneath<br>
 Their feet more sharp than did a woodchuck stir.<br>
 And so came on the foe all stealthily,<br>
 And found their guns a-limber, fires ablaze,<br>
 And men in calm repose.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; With
bay'nets fixed<br>
 The section in advance fell on the camp,<br>
 And killed the first two sentries, whose sharp cries<br>
 Alarmed a third, who fired, and firing, fled.<br>
 This roused the guard, but "Forward!" was the word,<br>
 And on we rushed, slaying full many a man<br>
 Who woke not in this world.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The
'larum given,<br>
 <a name="page012"><!-- Begin Page 12 --></a> A-sudden rose such
hubbub and confusion<br>
 As is made by belching earthquake. Waked from sleep,<br>
 Men stumbled over men, and angry cries<br>
 Resounded. Surprised, yet blenching not,<br>
 Muskets were seized and shots at random fired<br>
 E'en as they fled. Yet rallied they when ours,<br>
 At word from Harvey, fell into line,<br>
 And stood, right 'mid the fires, to flint their locks&mdash;<br>
 An awful moment!&mdash;<br>
 As amid raging storms the warring heaven<br>
 Falls sudden silent, and concentrates force<br>
 To launch some scathing bolt upon the earth,<br>
 So hung the foe, hid in portentous gloom,<br>
 While in the lurid light ours halted. Quick,<br>
 Red volcanic fire burst from their lines<br>
 And mowed us where we stood!<br>
 Full many a trembling hand that set a flint<br>
 Fell lifeless ere it clicked: <i>yet silent all</i>&mdash;<br>
 Save groans of wounded&mdash;till our rods struck home;<br>
 Then, flashing fire for fire, forward we rushed<br>
 And scattered them like chaff before the wind.<br>
 The King's Own turned their left; the Forty-ninth,<br>
 At point of bay'net, pushed the charge, and took<br>
 Their guns, they fighting valiantly, but wild,<br>
 Having no rallying point, their leaders both<br>
 Lying the while all snug at Jemmy Gap's.<br>
 And so the men gave in at last, and fled,<br>
 And Stony Creek was ours.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. Brave Harvey! Gallantly planned and
carried.<br>
 The stroke is good, the consequences better.<br>
 Cooped as he is in George, the foe will lack<br>
 His forage, and perforce must&mdash;eat his stores;<br>
 For Yeo holds the lake, and on the land<br>
 His range is scarce beyond his guns. And more,<br>
 He is the less by these of men to move<br>
 On salient points, and long as we hold firm<br>
 <a name="page013"><!-- Begin Page 13 --></a> At Erie, Burlington,
and Stony Creek,<br>
 He's like the wretched bird, he "can't get out."</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. You speak, friend Penn, as if you saw the
fight,<br>
 Not like a simple bearer of the news.</p>
<p><i>Quaker</i>. Why, so I did.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. You did! Pray tell us how it was;<br>
 For ever have I heard that Quakers shunned<br>
 The sight of blood.</p>
<p><i>Quaker</i>. None more than I.<br>
 Yet innate forces sometimes tell o'er use<br>
 Against our will. But this was how it happed:<br>
 Thou seest, Mistress Secord, I'd a load<br>
 Of sound potatoes, that I thought to take<br>
 To Vincent's camp, but on the way I met<br>
 A British officer, who challenged me; saith he,<br>
 "Friend, whither bound?" "Up to the Heights," say I,<br>
 "To sell my wares." "Better," saith he,<br>
 "Go to the Yankee camp; they'll pay a price<br>
 Just double ours, for we are short of cash."<br>
 "I'll risk the pay," say I, "for British troops;<br>
 Nay, if we're poor, I can afford the load,<br>
 And p'rhaps another, for my country's good."<br>
 "And say'st thou so, my Quaker! Yet," saith he,<br>
 "I hear you Quakers will not strike a blow<br>
 To guard your country's rights, nor yet your own."<br>
 "No, but we'll hold the stakes," cried I. He laughed.<br>
 "Can't you do more, my friend?" quoth he, "I need<br>
 A closer knowledge of the Yankee camp:<br>
 How strong it is, and how it lies. A brush<br>
 Is imminent, and one must win, you know<br>
 Shall they?"<br>
 His manner was so earnest that, before<br>
 I knew, I cried, "Not if I know it, man!"<br>
 With a bright smile he answered me, "There spoke<br>
 A Briton." Then he directed me<br>
 How I might sell my load, what I should mark,<br>
 <a name="page014"><!-- Begin Page 14 --></a> And when report to
him my observations.<br>
 So, after dusk, I met him once again,<br>
 And told him all I knew. It pleased him much.<br>
 Warmly he shook my hand. "I am," saith he,<br>
 "Lieutenant-Colonel Harvey. Should it hap<br>
 That I can ever serve you, let me know."</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. And then you stayed to see the end of
it?</p>
<p><i>Quaker</i>. Mistress, I did. Somewhat against my creed,<br>
 I freely own; for what should I, a Quaker,<br>
 E'er have to do with soldiers, men of blood!<br>
 I mean no slight to you, James.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i> (<i>laughing</i>). No, no! go on.</p>
<p><i>Quaker</i>. Well, when I thought how tired poor Dobbin
was,<br>
 How late the hour, and that 'twould be a week<br>
 Before I'd hear how Harvey sped that night,<br>
 I thought I'd stay and see the matter out;<br>
 The more, because I kind o' felt as if<br>
 Whatever happed I'd had a hand in it.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. And pray where did you hide? for hide you
must,<br>
 So near the Yankee lines.</p>
<p><i>Quaker</i>. It wasn't hard to do; I knew the ground,<br>
 Being a hired boy on that very farm,<br>
 Now Jemmy Gap's. There was an elm, where once<br>
 I used to sit and watch for chipmunks, that I clomb,<br>
 And from its shade could see the Yankee camp,<br>
 Its straggling line, its fires, its careless watch;<br>
 And from the first I knew the fight was ours,<br>
 If Harvey struck that night.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. Ha! ha! friend John, thine is a soldier's
brain<br>
 Beneath that Quaker hat.</p>
<p><i>Quaker</i> (<i>in some embarrassment, rising</i>).<br>
 No, no, I am a man of peace, and hate<br>
 The very name of war. I must be gone.</p>
<p>(<i>To Mrs. Secord</i>.) My woman longs to see thee,
Mistress.<br>
 Good-bye to all.</p>
<p><i>The Little Girls</i> (<i>rising</i>). Good-bye, sir.</p>
<a name="page015"><!-- Begin Page 15 --></a>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Good-bye, John,<br>
 'Twould please me much to see my friend again,<br>
 But war blots out the sweet amenities<br>
 Of life. Give her my love.</p>
<p><i>Quaker</i>. I will.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i> (<i>rising and taking his crutch</i>). I'll
walk a piece with you, friend Penn,<br>
 And see you past the lines.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>His little daughter</i>, HARRIET, <i>hands him
his hat</i>.</p>
<p><i>Quaker</i>. That's right, 'twill do thee good:<br>
 Thy wounds have left thee like an ailing girl,<br>
 So poor and pale.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exeunt</i> Quaker <i>and</i> MR. SECORD.</p>
<p><i>Charlotte</i>. Oh, dear, I wish I were a man, to fight<br>
 In such brave times as these!</p>
<center><i>Enter</i> MARY, <i>a girl of fourteen</i>.</center>
<p><i>Mary</i>. Were wishing aught<br>
 Soon should another sword strike for the King,<br>
 And those dear rights now rudely overlooked.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. My child?</p>
<p><i>Mary</i>. Oh naught, mamma, save the old tale: no nook<br>
 That's not invaded, even one's books<br>
 Borrowed without one's leave. I hate it all!</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. We must be patient, dear, it cannot
last.</p>
<p><i>Harriet</i>. Oh, if we girls were boys, or Charles a man!</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Poor baby Charles! See, he's asleep; and
now,<br>
 Dear girls, seeing we cannot fight, we'll pray<br>
 That peace may come again, for strife and blood,<br>
 Though wisely spent, are taxes hard to pay.<br>
 But come, 'tis late! See Charlie's dropt asleep;<br>
 Sing first your evening hymn, and then to bed.<br>
 I'll lay the darling down.</p>
<center><i>Exit</i> MRS. SECORD, <i>with the child in her
arms</i>.</center>
<p><i>Charlotte</i>. You start it, Mary.</p>
<a name="page016"><!-- Begin Page 16 --></a>
<p><i>Children sing</i>&mdash;</p>
<center>HYMN.</center>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Softly as falls the evening shade,<br>
 On our bowed heads Thy hands be laid;<br>
 Surely as fades the parting light,<br>
 Our sleep be safe and sweet to-night<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Calmly, securely, may we rest,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; As on a tender father's breast.<br>
<br>
 Let War's black pinions soar away,<br>
 And dove-like Peace resume her sway,<br>
 Our King, our country, be Thy care,<br>
 Nor ever fail of childhood's prayer.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Calmly, securely, may we rest<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; As on a tender father's breast.<br></td></tr></table>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exeunt</i>.</p>
<hr>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h4>SCENE 2.&mdash;<i>The same place and the same hour</i>.</h4>
<center><i>Enter</i> MRS. SECORD.</center>
<br>
 After a weary day the evening falls<br>
 With gentle benison of peace and rest.<br>
 The deep'ning dusk draws, like a curtain, round,<br>
 And gives the soul a twilight of its own;<br>
 A soft, sweet time, full of refreshing dews,<br>
 And subtle essences of memory<br>
 And reflection. O gentle peace, when&mdash;<br>
 <br>

<center><i>Enter</i> PETE, <i>putting his head in at the
door</i>.</center>
<p><i>Pete</i>. O, mistis! Heh, mistis!</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. What now, Pete?</p>
<p><i>Pete</i>. Oh, mistis, dat yar sergeant ossifer&mdash;<br>
 Dat sassy un what call me "Woolly-bear."<br>
 An' kick my shin, he holler 'crass to me:&mdash;<br>
 "You, Pete, jes' you go in, an' tell Ma'am Secord<br>
 I'se comin' in ter supper wiv some frens."<br>
 He did jes' so&mdash;a sassy scamp.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. To-night? At this hour?</p>
<p><i>Pete</i>. Yes, mistis; jes', jes' now. I done tell Flos<br>
 <a name="page017"><!-- Begin Page 17 --></a> Ter put her bes' leg
fus', fer I mus' go<br>
 An' ten' dat poo', sick hoss.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Nay, you'll do nothing of the kind! You'll
stay<br>
 And wait upon these men. I'll not have Flos<br>
 Left single-handed by your cowardice.</p>
<p><i>Pete</i>. I aint a coward-ef I hed a club;<br>
 Dat poo', sick hoss&mdash;</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Nonsense! Go call me Flos, and see you play
no tricks to-night.</p>
<p><i>Pete</i>. No, mistis, no; no tricks. [<i>Aside</i>. Ef I'd a
club!]</p>
<p><i>He calls from the door</i>: Flos! Flos! Ma'am Secord wants
ye.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i> (<i>spreading a cloth upon the table)</i>.
God help us if these men much longer live<br>
 Upon our failing stores.</p>
<center><i>Enter</i> FLOS.</center>
<p>What have you got to feed these fellows, Flos?</p>
<p><i>Flos</i>. De mistis knows it aint much, pas' noo bread,<br>
 An' two&mdash;three pies. I've sot some bacon sisslin',<br>
 An' put some taties on when Pete done tole me.</p>
<p><i>Pete</i>. Give 'em de cider, mistis, an' some beer,<br>
 And let 'em drink 'em drunk till mas'r come<br>
 An' tell me kick 'em out.</p>
<p><i>Flos</i>. You!&mdash;jes' hol' yer sassy tongue.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Footsteps are heard without</i>.</p>
<p><i>Pete</i>. Dat's um. Dey's comin'. Dat poo', sick
hoss&mdash;</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>He makes for the door</i>.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. You, Pete, come back and lay this cloth,<br>
 And wait at table properly with Flos.</p>
<center><i>Enter a</i> Sergeant, <i>a</i> Corporal <i>and four</i>
Privates.</center>
<p><i>Sergeant</i> (<i>striking Pete on the head with his
cane</i>). That's for your ugly phiz and impudence.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> PETE, <i>howling</i>.</p>
<p>(<i>To Mrs. Secord</i>.) Your slaves are saucy, Mistress
Secord.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Well, sir!</p>
<p><i>Sergeant</i>. None of my business, eh? Well, 'tis
sometimes,<br>
 You see. You got my message: what's to eat?</p>
<a name="page018"><!-- Begin Page 18 --></a>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. My children's food, sir. This nor post-house
is,<br>
 Nor inn, to take your orders.</p>
<p class="stage">[FLOS <i>and</i> PETE <i>enter, carrying
dishes</i>.</p>
<p><i>Sergeant</i>. O, bless you, we don't order; we command.<br>
 Here, men, sit down.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>He seats himself at the head of the table, and
the others take their places, some of them greeting</i> MRS. SECORD
<i>with a salute of respect</i>.</p>
Boy, fill those jugs. You girl,<br>
 Set that dish down by me, and haste with more.<br>
 Bacon's poor stuff when lamb and mint's in season.<br>
 Why don't you kill that lamb, Ma'am Secord?<br>

<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. 'Tis a child's pet.</p>
<p><i>Sergeant</i>. O, pets be hanged!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> MRS. SECORD.</p>
<p><i>Corporal</i>. Poor thing! I'm sure none of us want the
lamb.</p>
<p><i>A Private</i>. We'll have it, though, and more, if
Boerstler&mdash;</p>
<p><i>Corporal</i>. Hold your tongue, you&mdash;</p>
<p><i>Second Private</i> (<i>drinking</i>). Here's good luck, my
boys, to that surprise&mdash;</p>
<p><i>Corporal (aside)</i>. Fool!</p>
<p><i>Sergeant (drinking)</i>. Here's to to-morrow and a cloudy
night.<br>
 Fill all your glasses, boys.</p>
<hr>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h4>SCENE 3.&mdash;<i>Mrs. Secord's bedroom. She is walking up and
down in much agitation</i>.</h4>
<center><i>Enter</i> MR. SECORD.</center>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i> (<i>springing to meet him</i>). Oh, James,
where have you been?</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. I did but ramble through the pasture,
dear,<br>
 And round the orchard. 'Twas so sweet and still.<br>
 Save for the echo of the sentry's tread<br>
 O'er the hard road, it might have been old times.<br>
 But&mdash;but&mdash;you're agitated, dear; what's wrong?<br>
 I see our unasked visitors were here.<br>
 Was that&mdash;?</p>
<a name="page019"><!-- Begin Page 19 --></a>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Not that; yet that. Oh, James, I scarce can
bear<br>
 The stormy swell that surges o'er my heart,<br>
 Awaked by what they have revealed this night.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. Dear wife, what is't?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Oh, sit you down and rest, for you will
need<br>
 All strength you may command to hear me tell.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Mr. Secord sits down, his wife by him</i>.</p>
That saucy fellow, Winter, and a guard<br>
 Came and demanded supper; and, of course,<br>
 They had to get it. Pete and Flos I left<br>
 To wait on them, but soon they sent them off,<br>
 Their jugs supplied,&mdash;and fell a-talking, loud,<br>
 As in defiance, of some private plan<br>
 To make the British wince. Word followed word,<br>
 Till I, who could not help but hear their gibes,<br>
 Suspected mischief, and, listening, learned the whole.<br>
 To-morrow night a large detachment leaves<br>
 Fort George for Beaver Dam. Five hundred men,<br>
 With some dragoons, artillery, and a train<br>
 Of baggage-waggons, under Boerstler, go<br>
 To fall upon Fitzgibbon by surprise,<br>
 Capture the stores, and pay for Stony Creek.<br>

<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. My God! and here am I, a paroled cripple!<br>
 Oh, Canada, my chosen country! Now&mdash;<br>
 Is't now, in this thy dearest strait, I fail?<br>
 I, who for thee would pour my blood with joy&mdash;<br>
 Would give my life for thy prosperity&mdash;<br>
 Most I stand by, and see thy foes prevail<br>
 Without one thrust?</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>In his agitation he rises</i>.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Oh, calm thee, dear; thy strength is all to
me.<br>
 Fitzgibbon shall be warned, or aid be sent.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. But how, wife? how? Let this attempt
succeed,<br>
 As well it may, and vain last year's success;<br>
 In vain fell Brock: in vain was Queenston fought:<br>
 In vain we pour out blood and gold in streams:<br>
 <a name="page020"><!-- Begin Page 20 --></a> For Dearborn then may
push his heavy force<br>
 Along the lakes, with long odds in his favour.<br>
 And I, unhappy wretch, in such a strait<br>
 Am here, unfit for service. Thirty men<br>
 Are all Fitzgibbon has to guard the stores<br>
 And keep a road 'twixt Bisshopp and De Haren.<br>
 Those stores, that road, would give the Yankee all.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Why, be content now, dear. Had we not
heard,<br>
 This plot might have passed on to its dire end,<br>
 Like the pale owl that noiseless cleaves the dark,<br>
 And, on its dreaming prey, swoops with fell claw.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. What better is it?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. This; that myself will go to Beaver Dam,<br>
 And warn Fitzgibbon: there is yet a day.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. Thou! thou take a task at which a man might
shrink?<br>
 No, no, dear wife! Not so.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Ay, prithee, let me go;<br>
 'Tis not so far. And I can pass unharmed<br>
 Where you would be made prisoner, or worse.<br>
 They'll not hurt me&mdash;my sex is my protection.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. Oh, not in times like these. Let them
suspect<br>
 A shadow wrong, and neither sex, nor tears,<br>
 Nor tenderness would save thy fate.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Fear not for me. I'll be for once so
wise<br>
 The sentries shall e'en put me on my way.<br>
 Once past the lines, the dove is not more swift<br>
 Nor sure to find her distant home than I<br>
 To reach Fitzgibbon. Say I may go.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i> (<i>putting his arm 'round her tenderly</i>).
How can I let thee go? Thy tender feet<br>
 Would bleed ere half the way was done. Thy strength<br>
 Would fail 'twixt the rough road and summer heat,<br>
 And in some, gloomy depth, faint and alone,<br>
 Thou would'st lie down to die. Or, chased and hurt<br>
 By wolf or catamount, thy task undone,<br>
 <a name="page021"><!-- Begin Page 21 --></a> Thy precious life
would then be thrown away.<br>
 I cannot let thee go.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Not thrown away! Nay, say not that, dear
James.<br>
 No life is thrown away that's spent in doing duty.<br>
 But why raise up these phantoms of dismay?<br>
 I did not so when, at our country's call,<br>
 You leapt to answer. Said I one word<br>
 To keep you back? and yet my risk was greater<br>
 Then than now&mdash;a woman left with children<br>
 On a frontier farm, where yelling savages,<br>
 Urged on, or led, by renegades, might burn,<br>
 And kill, and outrage with impunity<br>
 Under the name of war. Yet I blenched not,<br>
 But helped you clean your musket, clasped your belt,<br>
 And sent you forth, with many a cheery word.<br>
 Did I not so?</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. Thou didst indeed, dear wife, thou didst.<br>
 But yet,&mdash;<br>
 I cannot let thee go, my darling.<br>
 Did I not promise in our marriage vow,<br>
 And to thy mother, to guard thee as myself.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. And so you will if now you let me go.<br>
 For you would go yourself, without a word<br>
 Of parley, were you able; leaving me<br>
 The while in His good hands; not doubting once<br>
 But I was willing. Leave me there now, James,<br>
 And let me go; it is our country calls.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. Ah, dearest wife, thou dost not realize<br>
 All my deep promise, "guard thee as myself?"<br>
 I meant to guard thee doubly, trebly more.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. There you were wrong. The law says
"<i>as</i> thyself<br>
 Thou shalt regard thy neighbour."</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. My neighbour! Then is that all that thou
art<br>
 To me, thy husband? Shame! thou lovest me not.<br>
 My neighbour!</p>
<a name="page022"><!-- Begin Page 22 --></a>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Why now, fond ingrate! What saith <i>the
Book?</i><br>
 "THE GOOD, with all thy soul and mind and strength;<br>
 Thy neighbour as thyself." Thou must <i>not</i> love<br>
 Thyself, nor me, as thou <i>must</i> love the Good.<br>
 Therefore, I am thy neighbour; loved as thyself:<br>
 And as thyself wouldst go to warn Fitzgibbon<br>
 If thou wert able, so I, being able,<br>
 Thou must let me go&mdash;thy other self.<br>
 Pray let me go!</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i> (<i>after a pause</i>). Thou shalt, dear wife,
thou shalt. I'll say no more.<br>
 Thy courage meets the occasion. Hope shall be<br>
 My standard-bearer, and put to shame<br>
 The cohorts black anxiety calls up.<br>
 But how shall I explain to prying folks<br>
 Thine absence?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Say I am gone to see my brother,<br>
 'Tis known he's sick; and if I venture now<br>
 'Twill serve to make the plot seem still secure.<br>
 I must start early.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. Yet not too soon, lest ill surmise<br>
 Aroused by guilty conscience doubt thy aim.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. That's true.<br>
 Yet at this time of year do travellers start<br>
 Almost at dawn to avoid the midday heats.<br>
 Tell not the children whither I am bound;<br>
 Poor darlings! Soon enough anxiety<br>
 Will fall upon them; 'tis the heritage<br>
 Of all; high, low, rich, poor; he chiefly blest<br>
 Who travels farthest ere he meets the foe.<br>
 There's much to do to leave the household straight,<br>
 I'll not retire to-night.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. Oh, yes, dear wife, thou shalt not spend thy
strength<br>
 On household duties, for thou'lt need it all<br>
 Ere thy long task be done. O, but I fear&mdash;</p>
<a name="page023"><!-- Begin Page 23 --></a>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i> (<i>quickly</i>). Fear nothing!<br>
 Trust heaven and do your best, is wiser.<br>
 Should I meet harm,'twill be in doing duty:<br>
 Fail I shall not!</p>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. Retire, dear wife, and rest; I'll watch the
hours<br>
 Beside thee.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. No need to watch me, James, I shall
awake.</p>
<br>
 [<i>Aside</i>. And yet perhaps 'tis best.<br>
 If he wake now he'll sleep to-morrow<br>
 Perforce of nature; and banish thus<br>
 Some hours of sad anxiety.]<br>

<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. I'd better watch.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Well then, to please you! But call me on the
turn<br>
 Of night, lest I should lose an hour or two<br>
 Of cooler travel.</p>
<hr>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h4>SCENE 4&mdash;<i>Daybreak on the</i> 23<i>rd June</i>,
1813.</h4>
<center><i>The porch of</i> Mr. Secord's <i>farmhouse. A garden
path, with a gate that opens on to the high road from Newark to
Twelve-Mile Creek</i>.<br>

<p><i>Enter</i> JAMES SECORD <i>and his wife</i>.</p></center>
<p><i>Mr. Secord</i>. Heaven speed thee, then, dear wife. I'll try
to bear<br>
 The dreadful pangs of helplessness and dread<br>
 With calm demeanour, if a bursting heart.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Then will you taste a woman's common lot<br>
 In times of strait, while I essay man's r&ocirc;le<br>
 Of fierce activity. We will compare<br>
 When I return. Now, fare-thee-well, my husband.</p>
<p>(<i>Fearful of being observed, they part without an embrace</i>.
Mrs. Secord <i>walks down the garden slowly, and gathers a few
clove pinks; a the gate she stops as though the latch were
troublesome, raises the flowers to her lips, and makes a slight
salute to her husband, who yet stands within the porch watching
<a name="page024"><!-- Begin Page 24 --></a> her. She then rapidly
pursues her way, but soon encounters an American sentry, whom she
essays to pass with a nod and a smile: the man prevents her by
bringing his musket to the charge, and challenging</i>.)</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Why do you stop me?</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. Where is your pass?<br>
 You know that none may take the road without one.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. But surely I may go to milk my cow,<br>
 Yonder she is.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>A cow is seen in the clearing</i>.</p>
She's wandered in the night.<br>
 I'll drive her back again, poor thing.<br>
 She likes new pasture best, as well she may.<br>

<p><i>Sentry</i>. Keep you your kine at home, you've land
enough.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Why, that's our land, and those our barns
and sheds.</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. Well, pass!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>He suddenly observes the flowers</i>.</p>
<p>But where's your milking pail?<br>
 I guess the bunch of flowers is for the cow.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i> (<i>gently</i>). You are too rough! The pinks
weep dewy tears<br>
 Upon my hand to chide you. There, take them;</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She offers him the flowers</i>.</p>
<p>And let their fragrance teach you courtesy,<br>
 At least to women. You can watch me.</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. Madam, suspicion blunts politeness. Pass.<br>
 I'll take your flowers, and thank you, too;<br>
 'Tis long since that I saw their fellows in<br>
 The old folks' garden.</p>
<p>(Mrs. Secord <i>crosses the road, takes a rail out of the fence,
which she replaces after having passed into the clearing, and
proceeds to the barn, whence she brings an old pail, luckily left
there, and approaches the cow</i>.)</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i> (<i>aside</i>). Could I but get her out of
sight, I'd drive<br>
 The creature round the other way, and go<br>
 My own. Pray Heaven the sentry watch me not<br>
 Too closely; his manner roused my fears.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She waves her hand at the cow, which moves
on</i>.</p>
Co' boss! co' boss. Sh! Haste thee, poor cow;<br>
 <a name="page025"><!-- Begin Page 25 --></a> Fly from me! though
never didst thou yet:<br>
 Nor should'st do now, but for the stake I play.<br>

<p class="stage">[<i>Both disappear in the bush</i>.</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i> (<i>apostrophising the disappearing "enemy"</i>).
Well, mistress, were you gentle as your face,<br>
 The creature wouldn't run you such a race.<br>
 It serves you right! The cows my Anna milks,<br>
 Come at her call, like chickens. O, sweet voice,<br>
 When shall I hear you next? Even as I pace<br>
 With measured step this hot and dusty road,<br>
 The soft June breezes take your tones, and call,<br>
 "Come, Henry, come." Would that I could!<br>
 Would I had never joined!<br>
 But my hot blood o'ermastered my cool sense,<br>
 Nor let me see that always is not bought<br>
 Honour by arms, but often dire disgrace.<br>
 For so it is, as now I clearly see,<br>
 We let the animal within remain<br>
 Unbroke, till neither gyve nor gear will serve<br>
 To steady him, only a knock-down blow.<br>
 Had I, and others, too, within the ranks,<br>
 Haltered our coltish blood, we should have found<br>
 That hate to England, not our country's name<br>
 And weal, impelled mad Madison upon this war;<br>
 And shut the mouths of thousand higher men<br>
 Than he.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It is
a lesson may I learn<br>
 So as to ne'er forget, that in the heat of words<br>
 Sparks oft are struck that should be straightway quenched<br>
 In cool reflection; not enlarged and fed<br>
 With passionate tinder, till a flame is blown<br>
 That reaches past our bonds, and leaves behind<br>
 Black, sullen stumps where once the green trees grew.<br>
 If honour's what we want, there's room enough<br>
 For that, and wild adventure, too, in the West,<br>
 At half the cost of war, in opening up<br>
 A road shall reach the great Pacific.<br>
 (<i>A step</i>). Ha! Who goes there?</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i>.</p>
<hr>
<a name="page026"><!-- Begin Page 26 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h4>SCENE 5.&mdash;<i>The Road at the foot of Queenston
Heights</i>.</h4>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i> (<i>looking in the direction of her
home</i>). Gone! Gone! Quite out of sight! Farewell, my home,<br>
 Casket that holds my jewels! If no more<br>
 My happy eyes rest on thy lowly roof,<br>
 If never more my ears drink in the sounds<br>
 Of sweeter music, in your loving tones,<br>
 My darlings, than e'er was drawn from harp<br>
 The best attuned, by wandering Aeolus,<br>
 Then let my memory, like some fond relic laid<br>
 In musk and lavender, softly exhale<br>
 A thousand tender thoughts to soothe and bless;<br>
 And let my love hide in your heart of hearts,<br>
 And with ethereal touch control your lives,<br>
 Till in that better home we meet again.</p>
<p>(<i>She covers her face with her hands, and weeps unrestrainedly
for a few seconds, then recovers herself, and raises her hands in
prayer</i>.)</p>
Guard them and me, O Heaven.<br>

<p class="stage">[<i>She resumes her journey, but still gazes In
the direction of the Heights</i>.</p>
<p>And Brock! McDonnell! Dennis!<br>
 All ye hero band, who fell on yonder Heights!<br>
 If I should fall, give me a place among ye,<br>
 And a name will be my children's pride,<br>
 For all&mdash;my all&mdash;I risk, as ye, to save<br>
 My country.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i>.</p>
<a name="page027"><!-- Begin Page 27 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>ACT II.</h3>
<h4>SCENE 1.&mdash;<i>The great kitchen at St. David's Mill.
Breakfast-time</i>.</h4>
<center><i>At the board are seated the</i> Widow Stephen Secord,
Sergeant George Mosier, <i>and little</i> Tom. Babette <i>is
waiting at table</i>.</center>
<p><i>Widow</i>. 'Tis pitiful to see one's land go waste<br>
 For want of labour, and the summer days,<br>
 So rich in blessing, spend their fruitful force<br>
 On barren furrows. And then to think<br>
 That over both the Provinces it is the same,&mdash;<br>
 No men to till the land, because the war<br>
 Needs every one. God knows how we shall feed<br>
 Next year: small crop, small grist,&mdash;a double loss<br>
 To me. The times are anxious.<br>
 (<i>To Sergeant Mosier</i>.) Have you news?</p>
<p><i>Sergeant</i>. Not much, ma'am, all is pretty quiet still<br>
 Since Harvey struck them dumb at Stony Creek.<br>
 Along the Lake bold Yeo holds them fast,<br>
 And, Eric-way, Bisshopp and Evans back him.<br>
 Thus stand we now; but Proctor's all too slow.<br>
 O had we Brock again, bold, wise, and prompt,<br>
 That foreign rag that floats o'er Newark's spires<br>
 Would soon go down, and England's ensign up.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Ah, was he not a man! and yet so sweet,<br>
 So courteous, and so gentle.</p>
<p><i>Babette</i>. <i>Ah, oui, madame</i>.<br>
 So kind! not one rough word he ever had,<br>
 The <i>G&eacute;n&eacute;ral</i>, but bow so low, "<i>Merci,
Babette</i>,"<br>
 For glass of milk, <i>et petit chose comme &ccedil;a</i>.<br>
 Ah, long ago it must be he was French:<br>
 Some <i>grand seigneur, sans doute</i>, in Guernsey then.<br>
 Ah the brave man, madame, <i>c&eacute; hero la!</i></p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Yes, brave indeed, Babette, but English,
English.<br>
 Oh, bravery, good girl, is born of noble hearts,<br>
 And calls the world its country, and its sex<br>
 Humanity.</p>
<a name="page028"><!-- Begin Page 28 --></a>
<p><i>Babette</i>. Madame?</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. You do not understand me, not; but you<br>
 Were very brave and noble-hearted when<br>
 You faced the wolf that scented the young lambs.</p>
<p><i>Babette</i>. <i>Brave! moi!</i> Madame is kind to say it
so.<br>
 But bravery of women&mdash;what is that<br>
 To bravery of man?</p>
<p><i>Tom</i>. An' that's just what I said to Hatty, mother,<br>
 When she declared that Aunty Laura was<br>
 As brave as soldiers, 'cause she went an' fetched<br>
 Poor Uncle James from off the battlefield.<br>
 After the fight was over. That wasn't much!</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. You're but an ignorant little boy, my son,<br>
 But might be wiser were you not so pert.</p>
<p><i>Sergeant</i>. I heard not that before, ma'am.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Did you not?<br>
 'Tis very true. Upon that dreadful day,<br>
 After Brock fell, and in the second fight,<br>
 When with the Lincoln men and Forty-first<br>
 Sheaffe led the attack, poor Captain Secord dropped,<br>
 Shot, leg and shoulder, and bleeding there he lay,<br>
 With numbers more, when evening fell; for means<br>
 Were small to deal with wounded men, and all,<br>
 Soldiers and citizens, were spent and worn<br>
 With cruel trials. So when she learned he lay<br>
 Among the wounded, his young wife took up<br>
 A lantern in her hand, and searched the field&mdash;<br>
 Whence sobs and groans and cries rose up to heaven<br>
 And paled the tearful stars&mdash;until she found<br>
 The man she loved, not sure that life remained.<br>
 Then binding him as best she might, she bore,<br>
 With some kind aid, the fainting body home,&mdash;<br>
 If home it could be called where rabid hate<br>
 Had spent its lawless rage in deeds of spite;<br>
 Where walls and roof were torn with many balls,<br>
 And shelter scarce was found.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That
very night,<br>
 <a name="page029"><!-- Begin Page 29 --></a> Distrustful lest the
foe, repulsed and wild,<br>
 Should launch again his heavier forces o'er<br>
 The flood, she moved her terror-stricken girls&mdash;<br>
 Four tender creatures&mdash;and her infant boy,<br>
 Her wounded husband and her two young slaves,<br>
 'Neath cover of thick darkness to the farm,<br>
 A mile beyond: a feat even for a man.<br>
 And then she set her woman's wit and love<br>
 To the long task of nursing back to health<br>
 Her husband, much exhaust through loss of blood,<br>
 and all the angry heat of gunshot wounds.<br>
 But James will never be himself again<br>
 Despite her care.</p>
<p><i>Sergeant</i>. 'Twas well and bravely done.<br>
 Yet oft I think the women of these days<br>
 Degenerate to those I knew in youth.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. You're hasty, Sergeant, already hath this war<br>
 Shown many a young and delicate woman<br>
 A very hero for&mdash;her hero's sake;<br>
 Nay, more, for others'. She, our neighbour there<br>
 At Queenston, who when our troops stood still,<br>
 Weary and breathless, took her young babe,<br>
 Her husband under arms among the rest,<br>
 And cooked and carried for them on the field:<br>
 Was she not one in whom the heroic blood<br>
 Ran thick and strong as e'er in times gone by?<br>
 O Canada, thy soil is broadcast strown<br>
 With noble deeds: a plague on him, I say,<br>
 Who follows with worse seed!</p>
<p>(<i>She rises and prepares for making pies</i>. Babette
<i>clears off the table, and</i> Sergeant George <i>smokes his
pipe, sitting close to the open chimney, now filled with fresh
branches of spruce and cedar</i>.)</p>
<p><i>Sergeant</i>. Well, mistress, p'rhaps you're right; old folks
aye think<br>
 Old times the best; but now your words recall<br>
 The name of one, the bravest of her sex,<br>
 <a name="page030"><!-- Begin Page 30 --></a> So far as e'er I saw,
save, p'rhaps, the Baroness.<br>
 Tender of frame, most gentle, softly raised,<br>
 And young, the Lady Harriet Acland shared,<br>
 With other dames whose husbands held commands,<br>
 The rough campaign of 'Seventy-six.<br>
 But her lot fell so heavy, and withal<br>
 She showed such spirit, cheerfulness, and love,<br>
 Her name became a watchword in the ranks.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. And what about her, Sergeant?</p>
<p><i>Sergeant</i>. Well, mistress, as you ask I'll tell the
tale:<br>
 She was the wife of Major John Dyke-Acland,<br>
 An officer of Grenadiers, then joined<br>
 To Highland Frazer's arm of Burgoyne's troops.<br>
 At Chambl&eacute;e he was wounded. Leaving the Fort,<br>
 His wife crossed lake and land, by means so rough<br>
 As tried the strength of men, to nurse him.<br>
 Recovered; next he fought Ticonderoga,<br>
 And there was badly wounded. Lake Champlain<br>
 She traversed to his aid in just a batteau.<br>
 No sooner was he better, than again<br>
 He joined his men, always the first to move,<br>
 And so alert their situation was,<br>
 That all slept in their clothes. In such a time<br>
 The Major's tent took fire, and he, that night,<br>
 But for a sergeant's care, who dragged him out,<br>
 Had lost his life. Twice saved he was;<br>
 For thinking that his wife still lay within,<br>
 Burning to death, he broke away,<br>
 And plunged into the fiery mass. But she,<br>
 Scarce half awake, had crept from out the tent,<br>
 And gained her feet in time to see him rush<br>
 In search of her&mdash;a shuddering sight to one<br>
 Loving and loved so well. But luckily,<br>
 Both then were saved. She also shared the march<br>
 That followed up the foe, action impending<br>
 At every step; and when the fight began,<br>
 Though sheltered somewhat, heard all the din,<br>
 <a name="page031"><!-- Begin Page 31 --></a> The roar of guns, and
bursting shells, and saw<br>
 The hellish fire belch forth, knowing the while<br>
 Her husband foremost in the dreadful fray.<br>
 Nay, more; her hut was all the shelter given<br>
 To dress the wounded first; so her kind eyes<br>
 Were forced to witness sights of ghastly sort,<br>
 Such as turn surgeons faint; nor she alone,<br>
 Three other ladies shared her anxious care:<br>
 But she was spared the grief they knew too soon,<br>
 Her husband being safe.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But
when Burgoyne<br>
 At Saratoga lost the bloody day,<br>
 The Major came not back&mdash;a prisoner he,<br>
 And desperate wounded. After anxiety<br>
 So stringent and prolonged, it seemed too much<br>
 To hope the lady could support such sting<br>
 And depth of woe, yet drooped she not; but rose<br>
 And prayed of Burgoyne, should his plans allow,<br>
 To let her pass into the hostile camp,<br>
 There to beseech for leave to tend her husband.<br>
 Full pitifully Burgoyne granted her<br>
 The boon she asked, though loath to let her go;<br>
 For she had passed hours in the drenching rain,<br>
 Sleepless and hungry; nor had he e'en a cup<br>
 Of grateful wine to offer. He knew<br>
 Her danger, too, as she did,&mdash;that she might fall<br>
 In cruel hands; or, in the dead of night<br>
 Approaching to the lines, be fired on.<br>
 Yet yielding to her prayer, he let her go,<br>
 Giving her all he could, letters to Gates,<br>
 And for her use an open boat.<br>
 Thus she set forth, with Chaplain Brudenell<br>
 For escort, her maid, and the poor Major's man&mdash;<br>
 Thus was she rowed adown the darkling stream.<br>
 Night fell before they reached the enemy's posts,<br>
 And all in vain they raised the flag of truce,<br>
 The sentry would not even let them land,<br>
 <a name="page032"><!-- Begin Page 32 --></a> But kept them there,
all in the dark and cold,<br>
 Threatening to fire upon them if they stirred<br>
 Before the break of day. Poor lady! Sad<br>
 Were her forebodings through those darksome hours,<br>
 And wearily her soft maternal frame<br>
 Bore such great strain. But as the dark<br>
 Grows thickest ere the light appears, so she<br>
 Found better treatment when the morning broke.<br>
 With manly courtesy, proud Gates allowed<br>
 Her wifely claim, and gave her all she asked.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Could he do less! Yes, Sergeant, I'll allow<br>
 Old times show tender women bold and brave<br>
 For those they love, and 'twill be ever so.<br>
 And yet I hold that woman braver still<br>
 Who sacrifices all she loves to serve<br>
 The public weal.</p>
<p><i>Sergeant</i>. And was there ever one?</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Oh, yes&mdash;</p>
<center><i>Enter</i> MRS. SECORD.</center>
<br>
 Why, Laura! Now you're just too late<br>
 To have your breakfast with us. But sit down.<br>
 (<i>She calls</i>.) Babette! Babette!<br>

<center><i>Enter</i> BABETTE.</center>
<br>
 Haste, girl, and make fresh tea,<br>
 Boil a new egg, and fry a bit of ham,<br>
 And bring a batch-cake from the oven; they're done<br>
 By this.<br>

<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> BABETTE.</p>
<br>
 (<i>To Mrs. Secord</i>.) Take off your things, my dear;<br>
 You've come to stay a day or two with Charles,<br>
 Of course. He'll be awake just now. He's weak,<br>
 But better. How got you leave to come?<br>

<p class="stage">[SERGEANT GEORGE <i>is leaving the
kitchen</i>.</p>
<br>
 Stay, Sergeant, you should know James Secord's wife,<br>
 Poor Charles's sister.<br>
 <a name="page033"><!-- Begin Page 33 --></a> <br>
 (<i>To Mrs. Secord</i>.) Laura, this is a friend<br>
 You've heard us speak of, Sergeant George Mosier,<br>
 My father's crony, and poor Stephen's, too.<br>

<p><i>Mrs. Secord (curtesying)</i>. I'm glad to meet you, sir.</p>
<p><i>Sergeant (bowing low)</i>. Your servant, madam,<br>
 I hope your gallant husband is recovered.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I thank you, sir, his wound, but not his
strength,<br>
 And still his arm is crippled.</p>
<p><i>Sergeant</i>. A badge of honour, madam, like to mine,</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>He points to his empty sleeve</i>.</p>
<center><i>Enter</i> BABETTE <i>with tray</i>.</center>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> SERGEANT GEORGE.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. That's right, girl, set it here. (<i>To Mrs.
Secord</i>.) Come eat a bit.<br>
 That ham is very nice, 'tis Gloucester fed,<br>
 And cured-malt-coombs, you know, so very sweet.<br>
 (<i>To Babette</i>.) Mind thou the oven, lass, I've pies to
bake,<br>
 And then a brisket.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> BABETTE.</p>
<br>
 (<i>To Mrs. Secord</i>.) I thought you fast<br>
 Within the lines: how got you leave to come?<br>

<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I got no leave; three several sentries
I,<br>
 With words of guile, have passed, and still I fear<br>
 My ultimate success. 'Tis not to see<br>
 Poor Charles I came, but to go further on<br>
 To Beaver Dam, and warn Fitzgibbon there<br>
 Of a foul plot to take him by surprise<br>
 This very night. We found it out last eve,<br>
 But in his state poor James was helpless,<br>
 So I go instead.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. You go to Beaver Dam! Nineteen long miles<br>
 On hot and dusty roads, and all alone!<br>
 You can't, some other must.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I must, no other can. The time is short,<br>
 And through the virgin woods my way doth lie,<br>
 For should those sentries meet, or all report<br>
 <a name="page034"><!-- Begin Page 34 --></a> I passed their
bounds, suspicion would be waked,<br>
 And then what hue and cry!</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. The woods! and are you crazed? You cannot go!<br>
 The woods are full of creatures wild and fierce,<br>
 And wolves prowl round about. No path is blazed,<br>
 No underbrush is cleared, no clue exists<br>
 Of any kind to guide your feet. A man<br>
 Could scarce get through, how then shall you?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I have a Guide in Heaven. This task is
come<br>
 To me without my seeking. If no word<br>
 Reaches Fitzgibbon ere that murderous horde<br>
 Be on him, how shall he save himself?<br>
 And if defeat he meets, then farewell all<br>
 Our homes and hopes, our liberties and lives.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Oh, dear! oh, dear! and must you risk your
life,<br>
 Your precious life? Think of it, Laura, yet:<br>
 Soldiers expect to fight; and keep strict watch<br>
 Against surprise. Think of your little girls,<br>
 Should they be left without a mother's care;<br>
 Your duty is to them, and surely not<br>
 In tasks like this. You go to risk your life.<br>
 As if you had a right, and thereby leave<br>
 Those who to you owe theirs, unpitied,<br>
 Desolate. You've suffered now enough<br>
 With all you've lost, and James a cripple, too,<br>
 What will the children do should they lose you<br>
 Just when their youthful charms require your care?<br>
 They'll blame you, Laura, when they're old enough<br>
 To judge what's right.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I do not fear it.<br>
 Children can see the right at one quick glance,<br>
 For, unobscured by self or prejudice,<br>
 They mark the aim, and not the sacrifice<br>
 Entailed.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Did James consent to have you go?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Not till he found there was no other
way;<br>
 He fretted much to think he could not go.</p>
<a name="page035"><!-- Begin Page 35 --></a>
<p><i>Widow</i>. I'm sure he did. A man may undergo<br>
 A forced fatigue, and take no lasting hurt,<br>
 But not a woman. And you so frail&mdash;<br>
 It is your life you risk. I sent my lads,<br>
 Expecting them to run the chance of war,<br>
 And these you go to warn do but the same.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. You see it wrong; chances of war to
those<br>
 Would murder be to these, and on my soul,<br>
 Because I knew their risk, and warned them not.<br>
 You'll think I'm right when tramp of armed men,<br>
 And rumble of the guns disturb you in your sleep.<br>
 Then, in the calmer judgment night-time brings,<br>
 You'd be the first to blame the selfish care<br>
 That left a little band of thirty men<br>
 A prey to near six hundred.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Just the old story! Six hundred&mdash;it's
disgraceful!<br>
 Why, Were they tailors&mdash;nine to make a man&mdash;<br>
 'Tis more than two to one. Oh, you must go.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I knew you'd say so when you came to
think:<br>
 It was your love to me that masked your judgment.<br>
 I'll go and see poor Charles, but shall not say<br>
 My real errand, 'twould excite him so.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> MRS. SECORD.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Poor Laura! Would to God I knew some way<br>
 To lighten her of such a task as this.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Enter</i> SERGEANT GEORGE.</p>
<p><i>Sergeant</i>. Is it too early for the invalid?<br>
 The lads are here, and full of ardour.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Oh, no, his sister's with him.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> SERGEANT.<br>
 [<i>A bugle is heard sounding the assembly</i>.</p>
<br>

<center><i>Enter</i> MRS. SECORD <i>in alarm</i>.</center>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. What's that! What's that!</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. I should have warned you, dear,<br>
 But don't be scared, its Sergeant George's boys.<br>
 He's gathered quite a company of lads<br>
 <a name="page036"><!-- Begin Page 36 --></a> From round about,
with every match-lock, gun,<br>
 Or fowling-piece the lads could find, and drills<br>
 Them regularly every second morn.<br>
 He calls 'em "Young St. David's Yeoman Guard,"<br>
 Their horses, "shankses naigie." Look you here!</p>
<p>(<i>Both ladies look through the open window from which is
visible the driving shed: here are assembled some twenty lads of
all ages and heights, between six and sixteen. They carry all sorts
of old firelocks and are "falling in." They are properly sized, and
form a "squad with intervals." In the rear stands a mash-tub with a
sheepskin stretched over it for a drum, and near it is the
drummer-boy, a child of six; a bugle, a cornet and a bassoon are
laid in a corner, and two or three boys stand near</i>.)</p>
<p><i>Sergeant George</i>. Now, Archy, give the cadence in slow
time. (<i>To the squad</i>.) Slow&mdash;march. (<i>They march some
thirty paces</i>.) Squad&mdash;halt. (<i>They halt, many of them
out of line</i>.) Keep your dressing. Steps like those would leave
some of you half behind on a long march. Right about
face&mdash;two&mdash;three. That's better. Slow&mdash;march.
(<i>They march</i>.) Squad&mdash;halt. (<i>They all bring up into
line</i>.) That's better. No hangers back with foe in front. Left
about face&mdash;two&mdash;three. Keep up your heads. By the
right&mdash;dress. Stand easy. Fall in, the band. We'll try the
music.</p>
<p>(<i>The band falls in, three little fellows have fifes, two
elder ones flutes, one a flageolet; the owners of the cornet, bugle
and bassoon take up their instruments, and a short, stout fellow
has a trombone</i>.)</p>
<p><i>Sergeant George (to the band)</i>. Now show your loyalty,
"The King! God bless him."</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>They play, the squad saluting</i>.</p>
<p><i>Sergeant George</i> (<i>to band</i>.) That's very well, but
mind your time. (<i>To the squad</i>.) Now you shall march to
music. (<i>To the band</i>.) Boys, play&mdash;"The Duke of York's
March." (<i>To the squad</i>.) Squad&mdash;attention. Quick march.
(<i>They march</i>.) Squad&mdash;halt.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>At a signal, the band ceases playing</i>.</p>
Yes, that's the way to meet your country's foes.<br>
 <a name="page037"><!-- Begin Page 37 --></a> If you were Yankee
lads you'd have to march to this<br>
 (<i>he takes a flageolet)</i>. Quick&mdash;march.<br>

<p>(<i>Plays Yankee Doodle with equal cleverness and spite,
travestying both phrase and expression in a most ludicrous manner
until the boys find it impossible to march for laughter; the
Sergeant is evidently delighted with the result</i>.)</p>
Ho! Ho! That's how you march to "Yankee Doodle."<br>
 'Tis a fine tune! A grand, inspiring tune,<br>
 Like "Polly put the Kettle on," or<br>
 "Dumble-dum-deary." Can soldiers march to that?<br>
 Can they have spirit, honour, or do great deeds<br>
 With such a tune as that to fill their ears?<br>

<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. The Sergeant's bitter on the foe, I
think.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. He is, but can you wonder? Hounded out<br>
 When living peaceably upon his farm.<br>
 Shot at, and threatened till he takes a side,<br>
 And then obliged to fly to save his life,<br>
 Losing all else, his land, his happy home,<br>
 His loving wife, who sank beneath the change,<br>
 Because he chose the rather to endure<br>
 A short injustice, than belie his blood<br>
 By joining England's foes. He went with Moody.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Poor fellow! Those were heavy times, like
these.</p>
<p><i>Sergeant George</i>. Now boys, the grand new tune, "Britannia
Rules the Waves," play <i>con spirito</i>, that means heart! mind!
soul! as if you meant it.</p>
<p>(<i>He beats time, and adds a note of the drum at proper points,
singing the chorus with much vigour and emphasis. Mrs. Secord
betrays much emotion, and when the tune is begun for the third
verse, she hastily closes the window</i>.)</p>
<p><br>
 Shut, shut it out, I cannot bear it, Ellen,<br>
 It shakes my heart's foundations! Let me go.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Nay, but you're soon upset. If you must go,<br>
 Your bonnet's on my bed. I'll get a bite<br>
 Of something for you on the road.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She busies herself in filling a little basket
with refreshment, and offers</i> MRS. SECORD <i>cake and
wine</i>.</p>
<br>
 Here, eat a bit, and drink a sup of wine,<br>
 It's only currant; the General's got a keg<br>
 <a name="page038"><!-- Begin Page 38 --></a> I sent, when stores
were asked; James Coffin's good;<br>
 He always sends poor Ned, or Jack, or Dick,&mdash;<br>
 When commissariat's low; a mother's heart,<br>
 A widowed mother, too, he knows, sore longs<br>
 To see her lads, e'en if she willing sends<br>
 Them all to serve the King. I don't forget him<br>
 Morning and night, and many a time between.<br>
 No wine? Too soon? Well, take this drop along.<br>
 There's many a mile where no fresh water is,<br>
 And you'll be faint&mdash;<br>

<p class="stage">[<i>She bursts into tears</i>.</p>
<br>
 Good lan', I cannot bear to see you go.<br>

<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Nay, sister, nay, be calm!<br>
 Send me away light-hearted,</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Kisses her</i>.</p>
<br>
 I trust in God,<br>
 As you for your dear lads. Shew me the way<br>
 To gain the woods unseen by friend or foe,<br>
 The while these embryo soldiers are engaged.<br>

<p><i>Widow</i>. I'll go with you a mile or two.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. No, no.<br>
 It might arouse suspicion.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She opens the door, and the</i> WIDOW SECORD
<i>joins her</i>.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. Times indeed<br>
 When every little act has some to watch!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Points to a tree</i>.</p>
<br>
 You see yon oak just by the little birch&mdash;<br>

<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I do.</p>
<p><i>Widow</i>. There is a little path leads down<br>
 To a small creek, cross that, and keep the sun<br>
 Behind you half a mile, and then you strike<br>
 The bush, uncleared and wild. Good God, to think&mdash;</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Think not, but pray, and if a chance
occurs<br>
 Send aid to poor Fitzgibbon. Little help<br>
 Just in the nick of time oft turns the scale<br>
 Of fortune. God bless you, dear! Good bye.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>They embrace with tears. Exit</i> MRS.
SECORD.</p>
<hr>
<a name="page039"><!-- Begin Page 39 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h4>SCENE 2.&mdash;<i>A beautiful glade</i>.</h4>
<center><i>Enter</i> MRS. SECORD.&mdash;<i>After scanning the spot
searchingly, she seats herself on a fallen trunk</i>.</center>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. This spot is surely safe; here I will
rest,<br>
 For unaccustomed service tires my limbs,<br>
 And I have travelled many a weary rood<br>
 More than a crow-line measures; ups and downs<br>
 Absorb so many steps that nothing add<br>
 To distance. Faint am I, too, and thirsty.<br>
 Hist! hist! ye playful breezes that do make<br>
 Melodious symphonies and rippling runs<br>
 Among the pines and aspens, hear I not<br>
 A little tinkling rill, that somewhere hides<br>
 Its sweet beneficence 'mid ferns and moss?</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She rises and looks about</i>.</p>
Ay, here it is: a tiny brilliancy<br>
 That glances at the light, as careful, still,<br>
 To keep the pure translucency that first<br>
 It caught from Heaven. Give me, oh give, sweet rill,<br>
 A few cool drops to slake my parching throat.<br>
 Fair emblem truly thou of those meek hearts<br>
 That thread the humblest haunts of suffering earth<br>
 With Christ-like charities, and keep their souls<br>
 Pure and untaint, by Heavenly communings.<br>

<p class="stage">[<i>She reseats herself, and contemplates the
scene</i>.</p>
<br>
 O this is beautiful! Here I could lie&mdash;<br>
 Were earth a myth and all her trials nought&mdash;<br>
 And dream soft nothings all a summer's day.<br>
 In this fair glade were surely celebrate<br>
 The nuptials of the year: and for her gift,<br>
 Fair Flora, lightly loitering on the wing<br>
 Of Zephyrus, tossed all her corbel out,<br>
 Filling the air with bloom.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; From
yonder copse,<br>
 With kindling eye and hasty step, emerged<br>
 <a name="page040"><!-- Begin Page 40 --></a> The gladsome Spring,
with leafy honours crowned,<br>
 His following a troop of skipping lambs:<br>
 And o'er yon hill, blushing for joy, approached<br>
 His happy bride, on billowy odours borne,<br>
 And every painted wing in tendance bent.<br>
 Procession beautiful! Yet she how fair!&mdash;<br>
 The lovely Summer, in her robes of blue,<br>
 Bedecked with every flower that Flora gave,&mdash;<br>
 Sweet eglantine and meek anemone,<br>
 Bright, nodding columbine and wood-star white,<br>
 Blue violets, like her eyes, and pendant gems<br>
 Of dielytra, topaz-tipped and gold,<br>
 Fragrant arbutus, and hepatica,<br>
 With thousands more. Her wreath, a coronet<br>
 Of opening rose-buds twined with lady-fern;<br>
 And over all, her bridal-veil of white,&mdash;<br>
 Some soft diaph'nous cloudlet, that mistook<br>
 Her robes of blue for heaven.&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And I
could dream<br>
 That, from his lofty throne beholding,<br>
 Great Sol, on wings of glowing eve, came down<br>
 In gracious haste, to bless the nuptials.<br>
 (<i>She pauses</i>.) And shall this land,<br>
 That breathes of poesy from every sod,<br>
 Indignant throb beneath the heavy foot<br>
 Of jeering renegade? at best a son<br>
 His mother blushes for&mdash;shall he, bold rebel<br>
 Entwine its glories in defiant wreath<br>
 Above his boastful brow, and flaunt it in<br>
 Her face, rejoicing in her woe? No! No!<br>
 This priceless gem shall ever deck her crown,<br>
 And grace its setting with a ray more pure<br>
 For that, nor flood, nor fire, can flaw its heart.<br>
 Yes, Canada, thy sons, at least, maintain<br>
 The ancient honour of their British blood,<br>
 In that their loyalty contracts no stain<br>
 From proffered gifts or gold.<br>
 <a name="page041"><!-- Begin Page 41 --></a> But I must on. I may
not loiter, while<br>
 So much depends on me.<br>

<p>(<i>She rises to proceed, and at the first step a rattlesnake
rears up at her, hissing and springing its rattles. She recoils in
fear, but remembering the cowardly nature of the creatures, throws
sticks at it, and it glides swiftly away</i>.)</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Vile
reptile!<br>
 Base as vile, and cowardly as base;<br>
 A straight descendant thou of him, methinks,<br>
 Man's ancient foe, or else his paraphrase.<br>
 Is there no Eden that thou enviest not?<br>
 No purity thou would'st not smirch with gall?<br>
 No rest thou would'st not break with agony?<br>
 Aye, Eve, our mother-tongue avenges thee,<br>
 For there is nothing mean, or base, or vile,<br>
 That is not comprehended in the name<br>
 Of SNAKE!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> MRS. SECORD.</p>
<hr>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h4>SCENE 3&mdash;<i>A thick wood through which runs a forest path,
leading to a high beech ridge</i>.</h4>
<center><i>Enter</i> MRS. SECORD, <i>walking as quickly as the
underbrush will allow</i>.</center>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. How quiet are the woods!<br>
 The choir of birds that daily ushers in<br>
 The rosy dawn with bursts of melody,<br>
 And swells the joyful train that waits upon<br>
 The footsteps of the sun, is silent now,<br>
 Dismissed to greenwood bowers. Save happy cheep<br>
 Of callow nestling, that closer snugs beneath<br>
 The soft and sheltering wing of doting love,&mdash;Like<br>
 croon of sleeping babe on mother's breast&mdash;No<br>
 sound is heard, but, peaceful, all enjoy<br>
 Their sweet siesta on the waving bough,<br>
 Fearless of ruthless wind, or gliding snake.<br>
 So peaceful lies Fitzgibbon at his post,<br>
 <a name="page042"><!-- Begin Page 42 --></a> Nor dreams of harm.
Meanwhile the foe<br>
 Glides from his hole, and threads the darkling route,<br>
 In hope to coil and crush him.<br>
 Ah, little recks he that a woman holds<br>
 The power to draw his fangs!<br>
 And yet some harm must come, some blood must flow,<br>
 In spite of all my poor endeavour.<br>
 O War, how much I hate thy wizard arts,<br>
 That, with the clash and din of brass and steel,<br>
 O'erpowers the voice of pleading reason;<br>
 And with thy lurid light, in monstrous rays<br>
 Enfolds the symmetry of human love,<br>
 Making a brother seem a phantom or a ghoul!<br>
 Before thy deadly scowl kind peace retires,<br>
 And seeks the upper skies.<br>
 O, cruel are the hearts that cry "War!" "War!"<br>
 As if War were an angel, not a fiend;<br>
 His gilded chariot, a triumphal car,<br>
 And not a Juggernauth whose wheels drop gore;<br>
 His offerings, flowers and fruit, and chaplets gay,<br>
 And not shrieks, tears, and groans of babes and women.<br>
 And yet hath War, like Juggernauth, a hold,<br>
 A fascination, for humanity,<br>
 That makes his vot'ries martyrs for his sake.<br>
 Even I, poor weakling, march in keeping-time<br>
 To that grand music that I heard to-day,<br>
 Though children played it, and I darkly feel<br>
 Its burden is resistance physical.<br>
 'Tis strange that simple tones should move one so!<br>
 What is it, what, this sound, this air, this breath<br>
 The wind can blow away,<br>
 Nor most intricate fetters can enchain?<br>
 What component of being doth it touch<br>
 That it can raise the soul to ecstasy,<br>
 Or plunge it in the lowest depth of horror?<br>
 Freeze the stopt blood, or send it flowing on<br>
 In pleasant waves?<br>
 <a name="page043"><!-- Begin Page 43 --></a> Can draw soft tears,
or concentrate them hard<br>
 To form a base whereon the martyr stands<br>
 To take his leap to Heaven?<br>
 What is this sound that, in Niagara's roar<br>
 Brings us to Sinai;<br>
 Or in the infant's prayer to Him, "Our Father?"<br>
 That by a small inflection wakes the world,<br>
 And sends its squadroned armies on<br>
 To victory or death;<br>
 Or bids it, peaceful, rest, and grow, and build?<br>
 That reassures the frighted babe; or starts<br>
 The calm philosopher, without a word?<br>
 That, in the song of little bird speaks glee;<br>
 Or in a groan strikes mortal agony?<br>
 That, in the wind, brings us to shipwreck, death.<br>
 And dark despair;<br>
 Or paints us blessed islands far from care or pain?<br>
 Then what is sound?<br>
 The chord it vibrates with its magic touch<br>
 Is not a sense to man peculiar,<br>
 An independent string formed by that breath<br>
 That, breathed into the image corporate,<br>
 Made man a living soul.<br>
 No, for all animate nature owns<br>
 Its sovereign power. Brutes, birds, fish, reptiles, all<br>
 That breathe, are awed or won by means of sound.<br>
 Therefore, it must be of the corporate, corporeal<br>
 And, if so, <i>why then the body lives again</i>,<br>
 Despite what sceptics say; for sound it is<br>
 Will summon us before that final bar<br>
 To give account of deeds done in the flesh.<br>
 The spirit cannot thus be summoned,<br>
 Since entity it hath not sound can strike.<br>
 Let sceptics rave! I see no difficulty<br>
 That He, who from primordial atoms formed<br>
 A human frame, can from the dust awake it<br>
 Once again, marshal the scattered molecules<br>
 <a name="page044"><!-- Begin Page 44 --></a> And make immortal, as
was Adam.<br>
 This body lives! Or else no deep delight<br>
 Of quiring angels harping golden strings;<br>
 No voice of Him who calls His children home;<br>
 No glorious joining in the immortal song<br>
 Could touch our being<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But
how refined our state!<br>
 How changed! Never to tire or grow distraught,<br>
 Or wish for rest, or sleep, or quietude,<br>
 But find in absence of these earthly needs<br>
 A truer Heaven.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O
might I rest even now!<br>
 These feet grow painful, and the shadows tell<br>
 Of night and dark approaching, my goal<br>
 An anxious distance off.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She gazes round</i>.</p>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I'll
rest awhile,<br>
 For yonder height will tax my waning strength,<br>
 And many a brier all beautiful with bloom<br>
 Hides many a thorn that will dispute my path<br>
 Beneath those ancient beeches.<br>

<p>(<i>She seats herself, and having removed her bonnet, partakes
of the refreshment brought from the mill. As she eats, a grieved
look comes upon her face, and she wipes away a tear</i>.)</p>
The sun leans towards the west: O darlings mine,<br>
 E'en now, perchance, ye sit in order round<br>
 The evening board, your father at the head,<br>
 And Polly in my place making his tea,<br>
 While he pretends to eat, and cheats himself.<br>
 And thou, O husband, dearest, might I lay<br>
 My, weary head as oft upon thy breast!&mdash;<br>
 But no (<i>she rises</i>), I dare not think&mdash;there is
above<br>
 A Love will guard me, and, O blessed thought,<br>
 Thee, too, and they our darlings.<br>

<p class="stage">[<i>She proceeds towards the beech ridge, but is
stayed at the foot by a rapid-running stream</i>.</p>
Nor bridge, nor stone, nor log, how shall I cross?<br>
 Yon o'erturned hemlock, whose wide-spreading root<br>
 <a name="page045"><!-- Begin Page 45 --></a> Stands like a wattled
pier from which the bridge<br>
 Springs all abrupt and strait, and hangs withal<br>
 So high that hardihood itself looks blank&mdash;<br>
 I scarce may tempt, worn as I am, and spent.<br>
 And on the other bank, the great green head<br>
 Presents a wilderness of tangled boughs<br>
 By which would be a task, indeed, to reach<br>
 The ground. Yet must I try. Poor hands, poor feet,<br>
 This is rough work for you, and one small slip<br>
 Would drop me in the stream, perchance to drown.<br>
 Not drown! oh, no, my goal was set by Heaven.<br>
 Come, rally all ye forces of the will,<br>
 And aid me now! Yon height that looms above<br>
 Is yet to gain before the sun gets low.<br>

<p>(<i>She climbs the hemlock root and reaches the trunk, across
which she crawls on her hands and knees, and at last finds herself
some yards up the beech ridge. After arranging her torn and
dishevelled clothing she proceeds up the ridge, at the top of which
she encounters a British sentry, who challenges</i>.)</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. Who goes there?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. A friend.</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. What friend?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. To Canada and Britain.</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. Your name and errand.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. My name is Secord&mdash;Captain Secord's
wife,<br>
 Who fought at Queenston;&mdash;and my errand is<br>
 To Beaver Dam to see Fitzgibbon,<br>
 And warn him of a sortie from Fort George<br>
 To move to-night. Five hundred men, with guns,<br>
 And baggage-waggons for the spoil, are sent.<br>
 For, with such force, the enemy is sure<br>
 Our stores are theirs; and Stoney Creek avenged.</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. Madam, how know you this?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I overheard<br>
 Some Yankee soldiers, passing in and out<br>
 With all a victor's license of our hearths,<br>
 Talk of it yesternight, and in such wise<br>
 No room for doubt remained. My husband wished<br>
 <a name="page046"><!-- Begin Page 46 --></a> To bear the news
himself, but is disabled yet<br>
 By those two wounds he got at Queenston Heights,<br>
 And so the heavy task remained with me,<br>
 Much to his grief.</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. A heavy task indeed.<br>
 How got you past their lines?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. By many wiles;<br>
 Those various arts that times like these entail.</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. And then how got you here?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I left my home<br>
 At daybreak, and have walked through the deep woods<br>
 The whole way since I left St. David's Mill.</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. 'Tis past belief, did not your looks accord.<br>
 And still you have a weary way to go,<br>
 And through more woods. Could I but go with you,<br>
 How gladly would I! Such deed as yours<br>
 Deserves more thanks than I can give. Pass, friend,<br>
 All's well.</p>
<p class="stage">[MRS. SECORD <i>passes the Sentry, who turns and
walks with her</i>.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. There's naught to fear, I hope, but natural
foes,<br>
 Lynxes or rattlesnakes, upon my way.</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. There are some Mohawks ambushed in the wood,<br>
 But where I cannot quite point out; they choose<br>
 Their ground themselves, but they are friends, though
rough,&mdash;<br>
 Some of Kerr's band, Brant's son-in-law. You'll need<br>
 To tell the chief your errand should you cross him.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Thanks: for I rather fear our red
allies.<br>
 Is there a piquet?</p>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. No, not near me; our men are all too
few&mdash;<br>
 A link goes to and fro 'twixt me and quarters,<br>
 And is but just now left (<i>he turns sharp about)</i>.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; My
limit this&mdash;<br>
 Yonder your road (<i>he points to the woods)</i>.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; God be
wi' you. Good-bye.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Good-bye, my friend.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> MRS. SECORD.</p>
<a name="page047"><!-- Begin Page 47 --></a>
<p><i>Sentry</i>. A bold, courageous deed!<br>
 A very woman, too, tender and timid.<br>
 That country's safe whose women serve her cause<br>
 With love like this. And blessed, too, it is,<br>
 In having such for wives and mothers.</p>
<hr>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h4 class="scene">SCENE 4.&mdash;<i>The forest, with the sun nearly
below the horizon, its rays illuminate the tops of the trees, while
all below is dark and gloomy. Bats are on the wing, the night-hawk
careers above the trees, fire-flies flit about, and the death-bird
calls</i>.</h4>
<center><i>Enter</i> MRS. SECORD, <i>showing signs of great
fatigue</i>.</center>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Gloomy, indeed, and weird, and oh, so
lone!<br>
 In such a spot and hour the mind takes on<br>
 Moody imaginings, the body shrinks as'twere,<br>
 And all the being sinks into a sea<br>
 Of deariness and doubt and death.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>The call of the death-bird is heard</i>.</p>
Thou little owl, that with despairing note<br>
 Dost haunt these shades, art thou a spirit lost,<br>
 Whose punishment it is to fright poor souls<br>
 With fear of death?&mdash;if death is to be feared,<br>
 And not a blank hereafter. The poor brave<br>
 Who answers thee and hears no call respond,<br>
 Trembles and pales, and wastes away and dies<br>
 Within the year, thee making his fell arbiter.<br>
 Poor Indian! Much I fear the very dread<br>
 Engendered by the small neglectful bird,<br>
 Brings on the fate thou look'st for.<br>
 So fearless, yet so fearful, do we all,<br>
 Savage and civil, ever prove ourselves;<br>
 So strong, so weak, hurt by a transient sound,<br>
 Yet bravely stalking up to meet the death<br>
 We see.<br>

<p class="stage">[<i>A prolonged howl is heard in the
distance</i>.</p>
<a name="page048"><!-- Begin Page 48 --></a>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">The wolves! the dreadful wolves!
they've scented me.<br>
 O whither shall I fly? no shelter near;<br>
 No help. Alone! O God, alone!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She looks wildly round for a place to fly to.
Another howl is heard</i>.</p>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">O Father! not this death, if I must
die,<br>
 My task undone, 'tis too, too horrible!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Another howl as of many wolves, but at a
distance; she bends to listen, her hand upon her heart</i>.</p>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">Be still, wild heart, nor fill my
list'ning ears<br>
 With thy deep throbs.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>The howl of the wolves is again heard, but
faintly</i>.</p>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">Thank God, not me they seek!<br>
 Some other scent allures the ghoulish horde.<br>
 On, on, poor trembler! life for life it is,<br>
 If I may warn Fitzgibbon.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She steps inadvertently into a little pool,
hastily stoops and drinks gladly</i>.</p>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">Oh blessed water! To my parched
tongue<br>
 More precious than were each bright drop a gem<br>
 From far Golconda's mine; how at thy touch<br>
 The parting life comes back, and hope returns<br>
 To cheer my drooping heart!</p>
<p>(<i>She trips and falls, and instantly the Indian war-whoop
resounds close at hand, and numbers of braves seem to spring from
the ground, one of whom approaches her as she rises with his
tomahawk raised</i>.)</p>
<p><i>Indian</i>. Woman! what woman want?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord (leaping forward and seizing his arm)</i>. O
chief, no spy am I, but friend to you<br>
 And all who love King George and wear his badge.<br>
 All through this day I've walked the lonely woods<br>
 To do you service. I have news, great news,<br>
 To tell the officer at Beaver Dam.<br>
 This very night the Long Knives leave Fort George<br>
 To take him by surprise, in numbers more<br>
 <a name="page049"><!-- Begin Page 49 --></a> Than crows on
ripening corn. O help me on!<br>
 I'm Laura Secord, Captain Secord's wife,<br>
 Of Queenstown; and Tecumseh, your great chief,<br>
 And Tekoriogea are our friends.</p>
<p><i>Chief</i>. White woman true and brave, I send with you<br>
 Mishe-mo-qua, he know the way and sign,<br>
 And bring you safe to mighty chief Fitzgibbon.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. O thanks, kind chief, and never shall your
braves<br>
 Want aught that I can give them.</p>
<p><i>Chief (to another)</i>. Young chief, Mish-e-mo-qua, with
woman go,<br>
 And give her into care of big white chief.<br>
 She carry news. Dam Long-Knife come in dark<br>
 To eat him up.</p>
<p><i>Mishe-mo-qua</i>. Ugh! rascal! dam!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exeunt</i> MISHE-MO-QUA <i>and</i> MRS.
SECORD.</p>
<hr>
<a name="page050"><!-- Begin Page 50 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>ACT III</h3>
<h4 class="scene">SCENE 1.&mdash;<i>Decau's house, a stone edifice
of some pretensions. The parlour, with folding doors which now
stand a little apart. A sentry is visible, on the other side of
them. The parlour windows are barricaded within, but are set open,
and a branch of a climbing rose with flowers upon it, swings in.
The sun is setting, and gilds the arms that are piled in one corner
of the room. A sword in its scabbard lies across the table, near
which, in an arm-chair, reclines</i> Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, <i>a
tall man of fine presence; in his right hand, which rests
negligently on the back of the chair, he holds a newspaper of four
pages, "The Times," from which he has been reading. Several elderly
weather-beaten non-commissioned officers and privates, belonging to
the 49th, 104th, and 8th regiments, together with a few militiamen
and two cadets share the society of their superior officer, and all
are very much at their ease both in appointments and manner, belts
and stocks are unloosed, and some of the men are smoking</i>.</h4>
<p><i>Lieut. Fitzgibbon</i>. 'Tis true, it seems, and yet most
horrible;<br>
 More than five hundred thousand fighting men<br>
 Crossed with him o'er the front, and not a tenth<br>
 Remains. Rather than let him find a place<br>
 For winter quarters, two hundred thousand<br>
 Happy families had to forsake their homes<br>
 In dead of winter, and of the ancient seat<br>
 Of Russian splendour, Rotopschin made a pyre,<br>
 A blazing pyre of all its precious things:<br>
 Moscow is burned.</p>
<p><i>First Sergeant</i>. So Boney could but toast his freezing
toes<br>
 And march back home again: Fine glory that!</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Sad waste of precious lives for one man's
will.<br>
 But this mishap will seal his fate. The Czar<br>
 Will see his interest is a strong alliance,<br>
 And all the Powers will prove too great a match,<br>
 Even for Buonaparte.</p>
<p><i>Second Sergeant</i>. Where is he now, Lieutenant?</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. In Paris, plotting again, I see; or was<br>
 Nine weeks ago.</p>
<p><i>First Private</i>. Yon news coom quick.<br>
 <a name="page051"><!-- Begin Page 51 --></a> Now when I were a
bairn, that's forty year sin',<br>
 We heard i' York 'at Merriky refused<br>
 To pay the taxes, just three munth's arter;<br>
 An' that wur bonnie toime, fur then t'coa&auml;ch<br>
 Tuk but foive da&auml;ies ti mak' t' hull waai' doon,<br>
 Two hunner moile, fra Lunnon.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon (still scanning the newspaper)</i>.<br>
 Well, Jimmy, here's a man, one Bell,<br>
 Of Greenock, can send a boat by steam<br>
 Against the wind and tide, and talks with hope<br>
 Of making speed equal to both.<br>
 He's tried it on the Clyde, so we may look<br>
 For news from England in a month, ere long.</p>
<p><i>First Private</i>. Na, na, sir; noo doant 'e pooak fun at
me!<br>
 Iver he doos ma' I go hang. Why neist<br>
 They scatterbrain 'ull mayhap send a shep<br>
 Jest whear tha' loike wi'oot a win' at all.<br>
 Or promise till 't. 'Twere pity Nelson, noo,<br>
 He'd noan o' sech at Copenh&aacute;agen<br>
 Mebbe tha' cu'd ha' gott tha' grunded sheps<br>
 Afloat, an gett moor men to fe'ht them D&aacute;ans.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. The fewer men the greater glory, Jim.<br>
 Why, man, he got his title by that fight.</p>
<p><i>Second Sergeant</i>. And well deserved it! A finer man<br>
 Never trod deck, sailor or officer;<br>
 His voice gave courage, as his eye flashed fire.<br>
 We would have died for him, and he for us;<br>
 And when the fight was done he got our rights,<br>
 Or tried at it. More than old Parker did.</p>
<p><i>First Sergeant</i>. Parker was rich, and so forgot the
poor,<br>
 But Nelson forgot none.</p>
<p><i>Second Private</i>. He was cliver, too. Dash't! how I
laughed,<br>
 All i' my sleeve o' course. The fight was hot,<br>
 And getting hotter, for, gad, them Danes can fight!<br>
 And quite a quarter o' the ships was stuck,<br>
 The Admiral's among 'em. So Nelson held<br>
 The squadron at command. Up comes the word,<br>
 <a name="page052"><!-- Begin Page 52 --></a> "The signal
Thirty-nine is out, sir." Nelson turns,<br>
 His stump a-goin' as his arm was used<br>
 Afore he lost it, meets the officer, as says,<br>
 "Sir, Thirty-nine is out, shall I repeat it?"<br>
 "No, sir; acknowledge it." Then on he goes.<br>
 Presently he calls out, "What's flying now?"<br>
 "The same, sir." So he takes his glass<br>
 And puts it to his eye, his blind eye, mind you,<br>
 An' says he, "No signal can I see. No,<br>
 Ne'er a one." Winking to Ferguson, says he,<br>
 "I've but one eye, and may be blind sometimes.<br>
 What! strike off now and lose the day? Not so:<br>
 My signal keep for 'Closer battle,' flying.<br>
 That's how I'll answer. Confound the signal!<br>
 Nail mine to the mast." He won.</p>
<p><i>First Militiaman</i>. Just touch and go for hanging,
that.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Success ne'er saw a scaffold, Jeremy.</p>
<p><i>A Cadet</i>. Fine-looking fellow Nelson-was, I guess?</p>
<p><i>First Sergeant</i>. To look at? No, a little, thin, pale
man<br>
 With a long queue, one arm, and but one eye,<br>
 But that a blazer!</p>
<p><i>Second Militiaman</i>. These little uns has lots o'
spunk:<br>
 Boney's a little un, I've heerd.</p>
<p><i>First Private</i>. Just so: and Wellington ain't big.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon (rising and drawing himself to his full
height)</i>.<br>
 Come, boys, you're getting personal. See me!<br>
 If none but little men may win renown,<br>
 I hope I'm two in one, for your sakes.<br>
 And you forget the lion-hearted Brock.</p>
<p><i>All</i> (<i>interrupting him</i>). No! no! no!</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. A man of height exceeding any here,<br>
 And yet whose alt of metred inches<br>
 Nobly enlarged to full, fair, Saxon mould,<br>
 And vested in the blazonments of rule,<br>
 Shewed not so kingly to the obeisant sight<br>
 As was his soul. Who than ye better knew<br>
 His bravery; his lofty heroism;<br>
 <a name="page053"><!-- Begin Page 53 --></a> His purity, and great
unselfish heart?<br>
 Nature in him betrayed no niggard touch<br>
 Of corporate or ethereal. Yet I yield<br>
 That men of lesser mould in outward form<br>
 Have been as great in deeds of rich renown.<br>
 But then, I take it, greatness lies not in<br>
 The flesh, but in the spirit. He is great<br>
 Who from the quick occasion of the time<br>
 Strikes out a name. And he is also great<br>
 Who, in a life-long struggle, throws the foe,<br>
 And binds on hoary locks the laurel crown.<br>
 Each is a high exemplar.<br>
 One with concentrate vigour strikes a blow<br>
 That rings around the world; the other draws<br>
 The world round him&mdash;his mighty throes<br>
 And well-contested standpoints win its praise<br>
 And force its verdict, though bleak indifference&mdash;<br>
 A laggard umpire&mdash;long neglect his post,<br>
 And often leaves the wrestler's best unnoted,<br>
 Coming but just in time to mark his thews<br>
 And training, and so decides: while the loud shock<br>
 Of unexpected prowess starts him aghast,<br>
 And from his careless hand snatches the proud award.<br>
 But mark me, men, he who is ever great<br>
 Has greatness made his aim&mdash;<br>
 The sudden blow or long-protracted strife<br>
 Yields not its secret to the untrained hand.<br>
 True, one may cast his statue at a heat,<br>
 But yet the mould was there;<br>
 And he who chips the marble, bit by bit,<br>
 Into a noble form, sees all the while<br>
 His image in the block.<br>
 There are who make a phantom of their aim&mdash;<br>
 See it now here, now there, in this, in that,<br>
 But never in the line of simple duty;<br>
 Such will accomplish nothing but their shame:<br>
 For greatness never leaves that thin, straight mark;<br>
 <a name="page054"><!-- Begin Page 54 --></a> And, just as the
pursuit diverges from it,<br>
 Greatness evanishes, and notoriety<br>
 Misleads the suitor. I'd have you think of this.</p>
<p><i>All</i>. Aye, aye, sir.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Order the lights, for darkness falls
apace,<br>
 And I must write.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> First Private.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon (cutting the newspaper and handing the halves to
the sergeants)</i>. There, read to the rest, and let me have them
back when done with.</p>
<center><i>Enter a</i> Soldier <i>with lights</i>.</center>
<br>

<p class="stage">[<i>A voice is heard in the next room, beginning
to sing</i>.</p>
Who's that?<br>

<p><i>First Private</i>. It's Roaring Bill, sir; shall I stop
him?</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. No; let him sing.<br>
 It cheers our loneliness, and does us good.</p>
<p><i>First Sergeant</i>. Another of his own, I guess; homespun<br>
 And rough, like country cloth.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Hush! what is that he says?</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>A</i> Cadet <i>gently pushes one of the
folding doors a little wider open</i>.</p>
<p><i>Roaring Bill</i>. 'Tis but a doleful ditty, boys,<br>
 With ne'er a chorus; yet I'll be bound<br>
 You'll hardly quarrel with it.</p>
<p><i>A Comrade</i>. Let's have it, Bill; we ain't red Injuns,<br>
 As likes palaver.</p>
<p><i>Roaring Bill</i>&mdash;</p>
<center>SONG.</center>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>October blasts had strown the wreaths that erstwhile hung so
gay,<br>
 Above the brows of Queenston Heights where we impatient lay;<br>
 Niagara fretted at our feet, as chafing at his post,<br>
 And impotence to turn the fleets that bore the aggressive
host.<br>
<br>
 And gray the dawn and cold the morn of Rensselaer's attack,<br>
 But warm and true the hearts, though few, that leapt to beat him
back.<br>
 "On, Forth-ninth! On, volunteers! Give tongue, ye batteries
twain!"<br>
 Bold Dennis spake: the guns boomed forth, and down he rushed
amain.<br>
 <a name="page055"><!-- Begin Page 55 --></a><br>
 They sink! They fly! They drop down stream.&mdash;Ah, too delusive
sight!<br>
 A long-abandoned path they find, and gain the wooded height.<br>
 The batteries now must guard the shore&mdash;above, our struggle
lies;<br>
 But down they pour, like surging flood, that skill and strength
defies.<br>
<br>
 Down, down, they press us, inch by inch, beyond the village
bound,<br>
 And there, o'erwhelmed, but not o'ercome, we keep our sullen
ground.<br>
 Short time we stand. A ringing cheer proclaims our hero nigh;<br>
 Our darling leader, noble Brock&mdash;hark to his gallant cry!<br>
<br>
 "Follow me, boys!" the hero cries. We double to the
wall&mdash;<br>
 Waving his gleaming sword on high, he climbs, and follow all;<br>
 Impetuous up the mountain side he strides in warlike glee,<br>
 All heedless of the leaden hail that whistles from each tree:<br>
<br>
 For on and up proud Victory lures&mdash;we touch her laurel
crown&mdash;<br>
 When by malign, deliberate aim the hero's stricken down.<br>
 He falls! We fire, but ah, too late&mdash;the murderous work is
done.<br>
 No more that voice shall cheer us on, with "Vict'ry!" in its
tone.<br>
<br>
 He falls: nor word nor look may cheer young Jarvis' anxious
quest;<br>
 Among his stricken men he sinks, his hand but seeks his
breast.<br>
 O, Death, could none but him suffice thy cold, insatiate eye?<br>
 Nor knewed'st thou how many there for him would gladly die!<br>
<br>
 Nor lonely speeds the parting soul, nor lonely stands the
bier&mdash;<br>
 Two forms the bastion-tomb enfolds, two claim the soldier's
tear.<br>
 "Avenge the General!" was the cry. "AVENGE!" McDonell cries,<br>
 And, leading madly up the Height, McDonell falls and
dies.<br></td></tr></table>
<br>

<p class="stage">[<i>Several of the men pass their hands over their
eyes;</i> MR. JARVIS <i>goes to the open window, as if to observe
something without</i>.</p>
<p><i>An 8th man</i>. A mournful ditty to a mournful tune,<br>
 Yet not unworthy of the heroic theme,<br>
 Nor of a soldier's heart.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Jarvis (in a low voice)</i>. Indeed, you're right.<br>
 I thank the singer for his memories,<br>
 Though sad to me, who caught Brock's latest breath.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. I did not think there had been such a
stroke<br>
 Of genius in the lad. (<i>Another voice</i>.) But who's this,
now?</p>
<p><i>Second Cadet</i>. It's young Jack Kelley, sir; he has a
voice,<br>
 And emulates old Bill.</p>
<p><i>Jack Kelley</i> (<i>with the airs of an amateur</i>.) Ugh!
ugh! I'm hoarse.<br>
 <a name="page056"><!-- Begin Page 56 --></a> Now mind the
coal-box, byes, and sing it up.<br>
 "The Jolly Midshipman's" the tune.</p>
<center>SONG.</center>
<br>

<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>
<center>I.</center>
<br>
 It was a bold Canadian boy<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That loved a winsome girl;<br>
 And he was bold as ancient knight,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; She, fair as day's own pearl.<br>
 And to the greenwood they must go,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To build a home and name,<br>
 So he clasped hands with Industry,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; For fortune, wealth and fame.<br></td></tr></table>
<br>

<center>CHORUS<br>
 (<i>In which all join, the leader beating time upon his knees with
his fists</i>.)</center>
<br>

<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>&nbsp;&nbsp; For fortune, wealth and fame,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; For fortune, wealth and fame;<br>
 So he clasped hands with Industry,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; For fortune, wealth and fame.<br>
<br>

<center>II.</center>
<br>
 And when the jocund Spring came in,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; He crowned the wedded pair.<br>
 And sent them forth with hearts elate<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Their wildwood home to share.<br>
 For he had built a snug log-house,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Beneath a maple tree;<br>
 And his axe had cleared a wide domain,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; While store of goods spun she.<br>
<br>

<center>CHORUS.</center>
<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; While store of goods spun she,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; While store of goods spun she,<br>
 And his axe had cleared a wide domain,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; While store of goods spun she.<br>
<br>

<center>III.</center>
<br>
 The husband whistles at his plough,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The wife sings at her wheel,<br>
 The children wind the shrilly horn<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That tells the ready meal.<br>
 And should you roam the wide world o'er,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; No happier home you'll see,<br>
 Than this abode of loving toil<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Beneath the maple tree.<br>
 <a name="page057"><!-- Begin Page 57 --></a><br>

<center>CHORUS.</center>
<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Beneath the maple tree,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Beneath the maple tree,<br>
 Than this abode of loving toil<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Beneath the maple tree.<br></td></tr></table>
<p><i>A 49th man</i>. Hurrah, Jack! that's a good tune,<br>
 Let's have the chorus again.</p>
<p><i>All</i>&mdash;</p>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>&nbsp;&nbsp; Beneath the maple tree,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Beneath the maple tree,<br>
 Than this abode of lov&mdash;<br></td></tr></table>
<p class="stage">[<i>The</i> Sentry <i>challenges, and a</i>
Corporal <i>enters and salutes</i> FITZGIBBON.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Well, Corporal.</p>
<p><i>Corporal</i>. Sir, here is Mishe-mo-qua and a woman.<br>
 They say they've news, and wish to speak with you.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Then, Corporal, show them in.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> Corporal.</p>
<br>

<center><i>Enter</i> MRS. SECORD <i>and the</i> Indian Chief,
<i>who salutes</i> LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.</center>
<p><i>Several Militiamen</i> (<i>in surprise, aside to each
other</i>.) 'Tis Mrs. Secord, Captain Secord's wife;<br>
 What can her errand be? So tired, too,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And in
rags.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i> (<i>courtesying)</i>. You are the Captain,
sir?</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. At your service.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I bring you news of great importance,
sir.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. I am indebted, madam, for what I see<br>
 Has been no common task. Be seated, pray.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>A Cadet places a chair</i>.</p>
<br>
 Chief, will you also rest?
<p class="stage">[<i>He indicates a couch</i>.</p>
<p><i>Mishe-mo-qua</i>. No. Woman, she<br>
 Come far, to tell white chief great words.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. I thank her much.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I came to say that General Dearborn
tires.<br>
 Of his inaction, and the narrow space<br>
 Around his works, he therefore purposes<br>
 <a name="page058"><!-- Begin Page 58 --></a> To fall upon your
outpost here, to-night,<br>
 With an o'erwhelming force, and take your stores:</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Madam!</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Five hundred men, with some dragoons and
guns,<br>
 Start e'en to-night, soon as the moon goes down;<br>
 Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler in command.<br>
 A train of waggons, too, is sent for spoil.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. And may I ask on what authority<br>
 To trust such startling news? I know you not.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. My name is Secord, I'm Captain Secord's
wife,<br>
 Who fought at Queenston Heights, and there received<br>
 The wounds that leave him now a helpless cripple.<br>
 Some here may know him.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. I remember now.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. We live within the Yankee lines, and
hence<br>
 By victor's right our home is free to them.<br>
 Last night a sergeant and his new-changed guard<br>
 Came in and asked for supper; a boy and girl<br>
 I left to wait on them, seeing the table set<br>
 With all supplies myself, and then retired.<br>
 But such their confidence; their talk so loud<br>
 And free, I could not help but hear some words<br>
 That raised suspicion; then I listened close<br>
 And heard, 'mid gibe and jest, the enterprise<br>
 That was to flout us; make the Loyalist<br>
 A cringing slave to sneering rebels; make<br>
 The British lion gnash his teeth with rage;&mdash;<br>
 The Yankee, hand-on-hip, guffawing loud<br>
 The while. At once, my British blood was up,<br>
 Nor had I borne their hated presence more,<br>
 But for the deeper cause. My husband judged<br>
 As I did, but his helpless frame forbade<br>
 His active interference, so I came,<br>
 For well we knew your risk, warning denied.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Alone? You surely did not come alone?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Sir, I have walked the whole way through the
woods,<br>
 <a name="page059"><!-- Begin Page 59 --></a> For fear of spies,
braving all other foes.<br>
 Nor, since at early morn I left St. David's Mill,<br>
 Until I met your sentry on the ridge,&mdash;<br>
 Who begged me tell you so, and said "all's well,"&mdash;<br>
 Spoke I, or saw, a soul. Since then, the chief,<br>
 Whose senior sent him with me for a guide,<br>
 Has been my kind protector to your post.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon (to the chief</i>). I thank you, Mishe-mo-qua, and
your chief.</p>
<p>(<i>To Mrs. Secord, bowing</i>.) But you, oh; madam, how shall I
thank you?<br>
 You have, indeed, performed a woman's part,<br>
 A gentle deed; yet at expense of more<br>
 Than woman's fitting means. I am not schooled<br>
 In courtly phrases, yet may I undertake<br>
 To thank you heartily, not on our part<br>
 Alone, but in our good King George's name,<br>
 For act so kind achieved. Knew he your care<br>
 For his brave men&mdash;I speak for those around&mdash;<br>
 Of whom some fought for him at Copenhagen,<br>
 He would convey his thanks, and the Queen's, too&mdash;<br>
 Who loves all nobleness&mdash;in better terms<br>
 Than I, his humble servant. Affliction<br>
 Leaves him in our hands to do him justice;<br>
 And justice 'tis, alike to him and you,<br>
 To thank you in his name, and in the Regent's.</p>
<p><i>The Soldiers</i>. Hurray! hurray! hurray!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>They toss up their caps</i>.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Sir, you make quite too much of my poor
service,<br>
 I have but done my duty; and I beg<br>
 Let me not interrupt your movements now:<br>
 I would not be an obstacle across<br>
 The path I made.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. You add an obligation, madam.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>At a signal the men from the next room file
in</i>.</p>
<a name="page060"><!-- Begin Page 60 --></a>
<p>(<i>To the men</i>.) We've hot work coming, boys. Our good
friend here<br>
 Has walked from Queenston, through the woods, this day,<br>
 To warn me that a sortie from Fort George<br>
 Is sent to take this post, and starts e'en now.<br>
 You, Cummings, mount&mdash;you know the way&mdash;and ride<br>
 With all your might, to tell De Haren this;<br>
 He lies at Twelve-Mile Creek with larger force<br>
 Than mine, and will move up to my support:<br>
 He'll see my handful cannot keep at bay<br>
 Five hundred men, or fight in open field.<br>
 But what strength can't accomplish cunning must&mdash;<br>
 I'll have to circumvent them.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> CUMMINGS.</p>
<p>(<i>To Mishe-mo-qua</i>.) And you, chief,<br>
 What will you do? You've stood by me so long,<br>
 So faithfully, I count upon you now.</p>
<p><i>Mishe-mo-qua</i>. White chief say true: we good King George's
men.<br>
 My warriors yell! hide! shoot! hot bullet fly<br>
 Like dart of Annee-meekee.<br>
 We keep dam Long-Knife back. I go just now.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon (handing the chief a twist of tobacco, which he
puts into his girdle with a grunt of satisfaction)</i>. A Mohawk is
my friend, and you are one.</p>
<p class="stage">[FITZGIBBON <i>shakes hands with the</i> Chief,
<i>who retires well pleased</i>.</p>
<p>(<i>To Mrs. Secord</i>.) Madam, how may I serve you to
secure<br>
 Your safety? Refreshment comes; but here<br>
 Is no protection in our present strait.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I thank you, sir, but will not tax you
more<br>
 Than some refreshment. I have friends beyond<br>
 A mile or two, with whom I'll stay to-night.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. I'll spare an escort; Mr. Jarvis here
will&mdash;</p>
<p class="stage">[MRS. SECORD <i>faints</i>.</p>
<br>
 Poor soul! poor soul! she is exhaust indeed.
<p>(<i>The men run out and bring water</i>, Fitzgibbon <i>gets
brandy from a buffet, and</i> Mr. Jarvis <i>unloosens her bonnet
and collar. They bathe her hands with <a name="page061">
<!-- Begin Page 61 --></a> the spirit and sprinkle her face with
the water, and at last</i> MRS. SECORD <i>sighs heavily</i>.)</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. She's coming to. Back, men; give her more
air.</p>
<p>(MR. JARVIS <i>and another</i> Cadet <i>support</i> MRS. SECORD,
<i>while</i> LIEUT. FITZGIBBON <i>offers her coffee, into which he
has poured a little brandy, feeding her with the spoon</i>.)</p>
<p><i>An 8th man (aside</i>). She'll never walk to reach her
friends to-night.</p>
<p><i>A 49th man (to a comrade</i>). Jack, thou an' me can do't.
'Tyent the fust time<br>
 We've swung a faintin' comrade 'twixt us two;<br>
 An' her's just like a babby. Fatch a pole<br>
 An' blanket, an' we'll carry her.</p>
<p><i>A Sergeant</i>. You'll then be in the rear, for we're to
move.</p>
<p><i>Second 49th man</i>. We'll catch ye oop a foight'n'; its
summat wuth<br>
 To await o' sech as she.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon (to Mrs. Secord</i>). Are you better now?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord (trying to stand</i>). I think I am. Oh, sir, I'm
losing you<br>
 The time I tried to save! Pray leave me&mdash;<br>
 I shall be better soon, and I can find my way.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Nay, be not anxious; we are quite
prepared.<br>
 Sheathed though our claws may be, they're always sharp.<br>
 Pray drink again, nor fear the potent touch<br>
 That snatches back the life when the spent heart,<br>
 Oppressed by cruel tasks, as yours, can scarcely beat.</p>
<p class="stage">[MRS. SECORD <i>drinks the coffee, and again
rises, but can scarcely stand</i>.</p>
<p><i>49th man (saluting</i>). Sir, me an' Bill has here a hammock
ready,<br>
 An' volunteers to see the lady safe.<br>
 Among her friends.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. But I can walk.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Madam, you cannot. Let these carry you;<br>
 <a name="page062"><!-- Begin Page 62 --></a> An honour I do grudge
them. I shall move<br>
 With better heart knowing you cared for.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. I'll go at once&mdash;</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Men, bring your hammock hither.</p>
<p>(<i>The hammock is brought, and</i> MRS. SECORD <i>is assisted
into it by</i> LIEUT. FITZGIBBON, <i>who wraps a blanket round her.
The men fall into line, and salute as she passes. At the door she
offers her hand to</i> FITZGIBBON.)</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. Farewell, sir. My best thanks for all your
goodness,<br>
 Your hospitality, and this, your escort;<br>
 You do me too much honour.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Should we not<br>
 Show our respect for one has done so much<br>
 For us? We are your debtors, madam.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>He points to the sky, set thick with brilliant
stars, the moon having already set</i>.</p>
<br>
 See how the eyes of heaven look down on you,<br>
 And smile, in gentle approbation<br>
 Of a most gentle deed. I pray they light<br>
 You safely to your friends.<br>

<p><i>Mrs. Secord</i>. And you to victory, sir. Farewell.</p>
<p class="stage">[FITZGIBBON <i>bows</i>.<br>
<br>
 [<i>Exeunt</i> MRS. SECORD <i>and her escort</i>.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon (to the men who have crowded round the door, and
are awaiting orders</i>). Men, never forget this woman's noble
deed.<br>
 Armed, and in company, inspirited<br>
 By crash of martial music, soldiers march<br>
 To duty; but she, alone, defenceless,<br>
 With no support but kind humanity<br>
 And burning patriotism, ran all our risks<br>
 Of hurt, and bloody death, to serve us men,<br>
 Strangers to her save by quick war-time ties.<br>
 Therefore, in grateful memory and kind return,<br>
 Ever treat women well.</p>
<p><i>Men</i>. Aye, aye, sir.</p>
<a name="page063"><!-- Begin Page 63 --></a>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Now, then, for action. I need not say,<br>
 Men, do your duty. The hearts that sprung<br>
 To follow Nelson; Brock; have never failed.<br>
 I'm proud, my men, to be your leader now.</p>
<hr>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h4>SCENE 2.&mdash;<i>Morning twilight. A little wayside tavern at
a cross-road</i>.</h4>
<center><i>Enter</i> FITZGIBBON, <i>reconnoitring</i>.</center>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. They must be pretty near by this time,<br>
 If they are come at all.</p>
<p>(<i>Two American soldiers of the advanced guard rush out of the
tavern and present their rifles</i>. FITZGIBBON <i>springs on them,
and, seizing each man's weapon, crosses them in front of
himself</i>.)</p>
Not yet, my friends.<br>

<p class="stage">[<i>They struggle, and one of the Americans
draws</i> FITZGIBBON'S <i>sword and is about to plunge it in his
shoulder</i>.</p>
<center><i>Enter a woman, the</i> tavern-keeper.</center>
<p><i>Woman</i>. Ye Yankee rogue! ye coward!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She snatches the sword, and runs into the
tavern with it</i>.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Take that! and that!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>He trips up one man, and knocks the other
down, putting his foot on the man's breast</i>.</p>
<br>
 Now, give me up your arms.<br>

<p class="stage">[<i>They give up their arms</i>.</p>
<center><i>Enter</i> FITZGIBBON'S <i>command</i>.</center>
<br>
 Here, Sergeant, march them in and set a guard.
<p class="stage">[<i>They are marched into the tavern. Shots are
heard</i>.</p>
<p><i>Fitsgibbon</i>. They're come! Quick&mdash;march, my lads.</p>
<hr>
<a name="page064"><!-- Begin Page 64 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h4>SCENE 3.&mdash;<i>The beech ridge. Frequent firing. The Indian
war-whoop. Bugles sounding the advance</i>.</h4>
<center><i>Enter</i> LIEUT. FITZGIBBON <i>and</i> COL. THOMAS
CLARKE.</center>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. The Mohawks have done well; and I am glad<br>
 To have your help, sir, too. What is your strength?</p>
<p><i>Clarke</i>. But twenty, sir, all told.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. And I but thirty. Too few to fight such
force<br>
 In open field. But Boerstler's lost his head:<br>
 Deluded by our calls, your fierce attack,<br>
 And Indian fighting&mdash;which to them has ghosts<br>
 Of their own raising&mdash;scalps, treachery, what not.<br>
 There is our chance: I mean to summon him<br>
 To a surrender.</p>
<p><i>Clarke (in great surprise)</i>. Sir!</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. 'Tis a bold stroke, I grant, and if it
fail<br>
 Why then I'll fight it out. Keep up the scare<br>
 Some moments longer, and we'll see.</p>
<p><i>Clarke</i>. Good luck betide so brave a word;<br>
 I'll do my best.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> COL. CLARKE.</p>
<center><i>Enter the American force in some confusion</i>.</center>
<p>(FITZGIBBON <i>sends forward a flag of truce; the bugles sound
"Cease firing;" an officer advances from the American lines and</i>
FITZGIBBON <i>goes forward to meet him</i>.)</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Sir, with my compliments to your
commander,<br>
 I am the leader of this large detachment,<br>
 Backed closely up by reinforcements<br>
 Larger still. Indians, our good allies,<br>
 Swarm in the woods around; and in your rear<br>
 A strong militia force awaits my orders:<br>
 Therefore, sir, to save a useless loss<br>
 Of brave men's lives, I offer you fair terms<br>
 Of full surrender.</p>
<p><i>American officer</i>. I will report, sir,<br>
 To Colonel Boerstler.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i>.</p>
<a name="page065"><!-- Begin Page 65 --></a>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i> (<i>aside)</i>. And I will pray.<br>
 For after all in God's hand lies the day:<br>
 I've done the best I know.</p>
<center><i>Enter the American officer and an orderly</i>.</center>
<p><i>American officer</i>. Sir, with respect, our colonel bids me
say<br>
 That, seeing fate and fortune both unite<br>
 To mar success, he'll rather save his men<br>
 By fair surrender, than waste their lives<br>
 In useless struggle. He commissions me<br>
 To act in drawing up the terms.<br>
 I am McDowell, captain of a troop.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon (bowing)</i>. Your humble servant, sir. We'll try
to please<br>
 Your colonel; rejoicing we have met a foe<br>
 Who knows the bravery of discretion.</p>
<center><i>Enter</i> COL. CLARKE, CAPT. KERR, <i>of the Indian
contingent, and</i> MISHE-MO-QUA.</center>
<p>(<i>The British officers consult, and then invite</i> CAPT.
MCDOWELL<i>to join them. A drum is brought, Major De Haren produces
writing materials; and terms of capitulation are drawn up, which
are read to</i> CAPT. MCDOWELL.)</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Our terms we make as light as possible:<br>
 I hope you'll find them so, sir.</p>
<p><i>Capt. McDowell</i> (<i>after reading</i>). Terms generous and
honourable sir;<br>
 I thank you. A noble foe is always half a friend.<br>
 I'll carry them to Colonel Boerstler,<br>
 With your consent.</p>
<p class="stage">[FITZGIBBON <i>bows</i>.<br>
 [<i>Exit</i> CAPT. MCDOWELL.</p>
<br>

<center><i>Enter</i> MAJOR DE HAREN, <i>who hastens to greet</i>
LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.</center>
<p><i>Major De Haren</i>. Why, what is this, Fitzgibbon, that I
hear?<br>
 That with your little handful you have caught<br>
 Five hundred enemy? A very elephant!</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. A strait like mine required some
strategy.</p>
<p><i>De Haren</i>. My dear, brave fellow, you have surely won<br>
 The golden epaulettes! How glad I am<br>
 <a name="page066"><!-- Begin Page 66 --></a> I was not here
before. Such tact! such skill!<br>
 You are a soldier born. But who comes hither?</p>
<center><i>Enter</i> COL. BOERSTLER, CAPT. MCDOWELL <i>and other
American officers</i>.</center>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. These are the officers to sign our terms.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>The officers on both sides salute</i>.</p>
<p><i>Boerstler</i> (<i>to Fitzgibbon</i>). I thank you, sir, for
honourable terms,<br>
 For vain it was to cope with force like yours.<br>
 But ne'er I thought to put my hand to such<br>
 A document.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>He takes up the pen</i>.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Fortune of war, sir, that we all may
meet.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Each officer signs the document in his
order</i>; MISHE-MO-QUA <i>draws his totem&mdash;a bear&mdash;as
his signature</i>.</p>
<p><i>De Haren</i> (<i>to Col. Boerstler</i>). Will you proceed on
the third article?</p>
<p><i>Boerstler</i> (<i>to Capt. McDowell</i>). Give you the
order.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> CAPT. MCDOWELL.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i> (<i>to his men, who are drawn up across the
road&mdash; De Haren's command forming their right and left
wings</i>). Forward&mdash;ten paces.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Enter by companies the American force, who lay
down their arms in front of the British officers and defile to the
rear</i>.</p>
<p><i>De Haren</i> (<i>to Fitzgibbon</i>). A glorious day for you,
Fitzgibbon;<br>
 For this fair Canada, and British arms.</p>
<p><i>Fitzgibbon</i>. Yes, thanks to a brave woman's glorious
deed.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exeunt</i>.</p>
<hr>
<a name="page067"><!-- Begin Page 67 --></a> <a name="page068">
<!-- Begin Page 68 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h2>POEMS</h2>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <a name="page069"><!-- Begin Page 69 --></a>
<h3><a name="ballad">A BALLAD OF 1812.</a></h3>
<hr>
<br>

<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Now hush the martial trumpet's blare,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And tune the softer lyre;<br>
 Nor shrink lest gentler tones should lack<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The high, heroic fire:<br>
<br>
 For many a valiant deed is done,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And great achievement wrought,<br>
 Whose inspiration knows no source<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Save pure and holy thought.<br>
<br>
 Nor think some lofty pedestal,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Proud-lifted towards the skies,<br>
 The only plane where Worth can wrest<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; From Fame her highest prize:<br>
<br>
 For many a nameless nook and lone,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And many a tongueless hour,<br>
 Sees deeds performed whose glories shame<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The pride of pomp and power.<br>
<br>
 Nor dream that to a noble deed<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; It needs a noble name;<br>
 Or that to mighty act achieved<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Must link a stalwart frame:<br>
<br>
 For strung by Duty's steady hand,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And thrilled by Love's warm touch,<br>
 Slight forms and simple names may serve<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; At need, to avail for much.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page070"><!-- Begin Page 70 --></a> Then lay the blaring
trumpet by,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And tune the softer lyre<br>
 To songs of Woman's chivalry,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of Woman's patriot fire.<br>
<br>
<br>

<center>I.</center>
<br>
 O heard ye not of Queenston Heights,&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of Brock who fighting fell,&mdash;<br>
 And of the Forty-ninth and York,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Who 'venged their hero well?&mdash;<br>
<br>
 And of the gallant stand they made&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; What prowess kept at bay<br>
 The swelling foe, till Sheaffe appeared,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And won the glorious day!<br>
<br>
 Yet heard ye how&mdash;ban of success&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Irresolution ruled,<br>
 Till all our green peninsula<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And border-land, were schooled<br>
<br>
 To bear, nathless all frowningly,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The yoke of alien power,<br>
 And wait in patience, as they might,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The dawn of happier hour.<br>
<br>
 Till Forty-mile, and Stony Creek,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Revived our waning hopes,<br>
 And round Fort-George a limit held<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The Yankees as with ropes.<br>
<br>
 Yet, as do cordons oft enclose<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The unwilling with the fain,<br>
 Our people, by forced parole held,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Could naught but own the rein.<br>
<br>
 Then heard ye how a little post.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Some twenty miles away,<br>
 A check upon proud Dearborn's hopes,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Was fixed upon for prey?<br>
<br>
 <a name="page071"><!-- Begin Page 71 --></a> And how lest
Britain's bull-dog pluck,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Roused by their isolation,<br>
 Should make these few, brave, lonely men,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Fight as in desperation,<br>
<br>
 And prove a match for thrice their odds,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; They made them three times three,<br>
 And thrice of that, with guns to boot,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To insure a victory?<br>
<br>
 Then they would take the Night along<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash;No mean ally with odds,<br>
 As Stony Creek can testify:<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; But then she marched with gods!&mdash;<br>
<br>
 Yet blame ye not the silent Night<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That she was forced to go,<br>
 For oft have captives been compelled<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To serve the hated foe:<br>
<br>
 And oft with grave and quiet mien,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And Samson-like intent,<br>
 Have brought about such ends, as by<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Their lords were never meant.<br>
<br>
 Then blame ye not the dark-eyed Night,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of grave and silent mien;<br>
 Her whisper 'twas that foiled the foe,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And fired our patriot queen.<br>
<br>
<br>

<center>II.</center>
<br>
 "And why, my husband, why so pale?"<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; 'Twas Laura Secord spoke;<br>
 And when she heard his plaintive tale,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Then all the patriot woke.<br>
<br>
 "Thou knowest how Fitzgibbon holds<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The post at Beaver Dams,<br>
 And Dearborn frets, and fumes, and chafes,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And calls us British shams:<br>
<br>
 <a name="page072"><!-- Begin Page 72 --></a> "Because we will not,
willing, give,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To feed an alien foe,<br>
 The substance, all too poor and sparse,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Our stinted fields may grow.<br>
<br>
 "So when the Night puts on her robes<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of sad and sable hue,<br>
 A host he sends, of shameful strength,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To oust that noble few.<br>
<br>
 "And who shall warn Fitzgibbon? Who?<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; My weakness is my bale;<br>
 At such an hour of pressing need,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; O that my aid should fail!<br>
<br>
 "And yet, my country, if my blood,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Drawn from me drop by drop,<br>
 Could save thee in this awful strait,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; 'Twere thine,'twere thine, to stop<br>
<br>
 "This massacre, this horrid crime,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To baulk this wicked plot!<br>
 My parole given!&mdash;by Heaven I could&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; I Would&mdash;regard it not.<br>
<br>
 "But here am I, a cripple weak;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Great Heaven! and must they fall<br>
 Because I, wretched I alone,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Know what will sure befall!"<br>
<br>
 "Calm thee, my husband, calm thee now.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Heaven ne'er points out a deed,<br>
 But to the creature by whose means<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Its action is decreed:<br>
<br>
 "Thou, had'st thou not been sick and lame,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Would'st ne'er have learned this plot,<br>
 And had'st thou strength thou could'st not pass<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The lines, and not be shot.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page073"><!-- Begin Page 73 --></a> "Wherefore,'tis
plain, 'tis not to thee<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The careful task is given;<br>
 'Tis rather me; and I will go,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Safe in the care of Heaven."<br>
<br>
 "Thou go, dear wife! a woman soft,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And not too brave to shake<br>
 At sight of wolf or catamount,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Or many-rattled snake:<br>
<br>
 "Thou go!" "Nay, smile not, I will go;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Fitzgibbon shall not fall<br>
 Unwarned at least; and Heaven will guard<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Its messenger-in-thrall."<br>
<br>
<br>

<center>III.</center>
<br>
 Scarce had Aurora backward drawn<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The curtains of the night,<br>
 Scarce had her choristers awaked<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The echoes with delight;<br>
<br>
 When Laura Secord left her home,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; With holy message fraught,<br>
 And lone Fitzgibbon's distant post<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; With hasty footsteps sought.<br>
<br>
 She chides the harsh-tongued sentinel<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Whose musket stops her way,<br>
 And hies her from his curious sight<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; In such sort as she may.<br>
<br>
 A second bars her forward path,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Nor will he be content;<br>
 And all her woman's wit she needs<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Before his doubts are spent.<br>
<br>
 Beyond, a third the challenge gives;&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; She almost gasps for breath&mdash;<br>
 "Oh, at the Mill my brother lies<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Just at the point of death."<br>
<br>
 <a name="page074"><!-- Begin Page 74 --></a> But he nor cares for
death nor life:<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Yet when she kneels and weeps,<br>
 He yields: for&mdash;in his rugged heart<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A tender memory sleeps.<br>
<br>
 With beating heart and trembling limb,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Swift hastes she; yet in ruth<br>
 That even for her country's sake,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; She needs must veil the truth.<br>
<br>
 And when a rise of ground permits<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A last, fond, lingering look,<br>
 She, tearful, views her home once more&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A lowly, leafy nook.<br>
<br>
 For there her sleeping children lie<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Unconscious of her woe;<br>
 Her choking sobs may not be stayed,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; For oh, she loves them so!<br>
<br>
 And there she leaves her maiden choice,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Her husband, lover, friend.<br>
 Oh, were she woman could she less<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To homely sorrows lend!<br>
<br>
 On altar of the public weal<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Must private griefs expire,&mdash;<br>
 Her tender grief exhaled to Heaven<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; On wings of patriot fire.<br>
<br>
 The dew still glistened on the grass,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The morning breezes swung<br>
 The honeysuckle and the rose,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Above, whose sweetness hung.<br>
<br>
 The fritil' butterfly, the bee,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Whose early labours cheer,<br>
 And point the happy industry<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That marks the opening year.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page075"><!-- Begin Page 75 --></a> The cheerful robin's
sturdy note,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The gay canary's trill,<br>
 Blent with the low of new-milked kine<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That sauntered by the rill:<br>
<br>
 When Laura Secord stood beside<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The doomed St. David's door,<br>
 Whose portals never closed upon<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The weary or the poor.<br>
<br>
 "O sister," cries the widowed dame,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; "What trouble brings you here?<br>
 Doth Jamie ail? Hath aught arisen<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To mar your fettered cheer?"<br>
<br>
 "Nor aileth any at the farm,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Nor is our cheer less free,<br>
 But I must haste to Beaver Dam,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Fitzgibbon there to see.<br>
<br>
 "For many a foe this coming night,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To take him by surprise,<br>
 Is detailed, and he must be warned<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Before the moon doth rise."<br>
<br>
 O pallid grew the gentle dame,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And tremulous her tone,<br>
 As Laura Secord, at the board,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Made all her errand known.<br>
<br>
 And oft her pallor turned to red,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; By indignation fired;<br>
 And oft her red to pallor turned,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; For Laura's sake retired.<br>
<br>
 And many a cogent argument<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; She used, of duteous wives;<br>
 And many more that mothers thus<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Should never risk their lives.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page076"><!-- Begin Page 76 --></a> And of the dangers of
the way<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; She told a trembling tale;<br>
 But to divert a settled mind<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Nor words nor woes avail.<br>
<br>
 And many a tear she let down fall,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And some dropt Laura too,&mdash;<br>
 But "'Tis my country!" yet she cried,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; "My country may not rue."<br>
<br>
 A tender leave she gently takes<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of him all wounded laid<br>
 Upon his weary couch of pain,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; But hides her errand sad.<br>
<br>
 And then, while yet the day was young,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The sun scarce quarter high,<br>
 She plunges 'mid the sheltering bush,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; In fear of hue and cry,&mdash;<br>
<br>
 Of hue and cry of cruel foes<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Who yet might learn her route,<br>
 And mad with rage of baffled aim,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Should spring in hot pursuit.<br>
<br>
 On, on she speeds through bush and brake,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; O'er log and stone and briar;<br>
 On, on, for many a lengthening mile<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Might stouter footsteps tire.<br>
<br>
 The hot sun mounts the upper skies,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Faint grows the fervid air,<br>
 And wearied nature asks for rest<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Mid scenes so soft and fair.<br>
<br>
 The sward all decked with rainbow hues,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The whispering of the trees,<br>
 Nor perfumed airs of flowery June,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Can win her to her ease.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page077"><!-- Begin Page 77 --></a> Ah, serpent in our
Paradise!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; In choicest cup our gall!<br>
 'Twas thou, distraught Anxiety,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Wrapped Beauty's self in pall;<br>
<br>
 And for that lonely traveller<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Empoisoned those sweet springs,<br>
 To souls that languish, founts of life<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Bestirred by angel wings.<br>
<br>
 Thou gavest each breeze an infant's cry,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A wailing, woesome tone;<br>
 And in each call of wildwood bird<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Spoke still of freedom gone.<br>
<br>
 Nay now, why starts she in her path,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; By yonder tangled brake?<br>
 'Tis at the dreaded menace sprung<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; By angry rattlesnake.<br>
<br>
 But know that fear is not the brand<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That marks the coward slave;<br>
 'Tis conquered fear, and duty done,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That tells the truly brave.<br>
<br>
 With stick, and stone, and weapon mean<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; She drives the wretch away,<br>
 And then, with fluttering heart, pursues<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Her solitary way.<br>
<br>
 And oft she trips, and oft she falls,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And oft her gown is torn,<br>
 And oft her tender skin is pierced<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; By many a clutching thorn.<br>
<br>
 And weariness her courage tries;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And dread of devious way;<br>
 And oft she hears the wild-cat shriek<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A requiem o'er its prey.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page078"><!-- Begin Page 78 --></a> And when the
oppressive summer air<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Hangs heavy in the woods,&mdash;<br>
 Though many a bank of flowerets fair<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Invites to restful moods;<br>
<br>
 And though the ruby humming-bird<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Drones with the humming bee;<br>
 And every gnat and butterfly<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Soars slow and fitfully;<br>
<br>
 No rest that anxious messenger<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of baleful tidings takes,<br>
 But all the waning afternoon<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Her morning speed she makes.<br>
<br>
 Over the hills, and 'mongst the brier,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And through the oozy swamp,<br>
 Her weary steps must never tire<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Ere burns the firefly's lamp.<br>
<br>
 Oh, wherefore drops she on her knees,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And spreads imploring hands?<br>
 Why blanches that courageous brow?<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Alas! the wolves' dread bands!<br>
<br>
 "Nay, not this death, dear Father! Not<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A mangled prey to these!"<br>
 She faintly cries to Heaven, from out<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The darkening waste of trees.<br>
<br>
 Fear not, O patriot, courage take,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Thy Father holds thy hand,<br>
 Nor lets the powers of ill prevail<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Where He doth take command.<br>
<br>
 Away the prowling ghouls are fled,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Some fitter prey to seek;<br>
 The trembling woman sighs the thanks<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Her white lips cannot speak.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page079"><!-- Begin Page 79 --></a><br>

<center>IV.</center>
<br>
 Now wherefore halts that sentry bold,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And lays his piece in rest,<br>
 As from the shadowy depths below<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; One gains the beechen crest?<br>
<br>
 'Tis but a woman, pale and faint,&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; As woman oft may prove,<br>
 Whose eagle spirit soars beyond<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The home-flight of the dove.<br>
<br>
 How changes now the sentry's mien,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; How soft his tones and low,<br>
 As Laura Secord tells her tale<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of an impendent foe!<br>
<br>
 "God bless thee, now, thou woman bold,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And give thee great reward."<br>
 The soldier says, with eyes suffused,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And keeps a jealous guard,<br>
<br>
 As onward, onward still she goes,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; With steady step and true,<br>
 Towards her goal, yet far away,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Hid in the horizon blue.<br>
<br>
 Behind her grows the golden moon,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Before her fall the shades,<br>
 And somewhere near her hides the bird<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Whose death-call haunts the glades.<br>
<br>
 The early dew blooms all the sod,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The fences undulate<br>
 In the weird light, like living lines<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That swell with boding hate.<br>
<br>
 For she has left the tangled woods,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And keeps the open plain<br>
 Where once a fruitful farm-land bloomed,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And yet shall bloom again.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page080"><!-- Begin Page 80 --></a> And now, as nears the
dreaded hour.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Her goal the nearer grows,<br>
 And hope, the stimulus of life,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Her weary bosom glows.<br>
<br>
 Toward's lone Decamp's&mdash;whose ancient home<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Affords Fitzgibbon's band<br>
 Such shelter as the soldier asks<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Whose life hangs on his brand&mdash;<br>
<br>
 A steady mile or so, and then&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Ah, what is't rends the air<br>
 With horrent, blood-encurdling tones.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The tocsin of despair!<br>
<br>
 It is the war-whoop of the braves,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of Kerr's famed Mohawk crew,<br>
 Who near Fitzgibbon ambushed lie<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To serve that lonely few.<br>
<br>
 Startled, yet fearless, on she speeds.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; "Your chief denote," she cries;<br>
 And, proudly towering o'er the crowd,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The chief does swift arise.<br>
<br>
 Fierce rage is in his savage eye,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; His tomahawk in air;<br>
 "Woman! what woman want?" he cries,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; "Her death does woman dare!"<br>
<br>
 But quickly springs she to his side,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And firmly holds his arm,<br>
 "Oh, chief, indeed no, spy am I,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; But friend to spare you harm."<br>
<br>
 And soon she makes her errand known,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And soon, all side by side,<br>
 The red man and his sister brave<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; In silence quickly glide.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page081"><!-- Begin Page 81 --></a> And as the moon
surmounts the trees,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; They gain the sentried door,<br>
 And faintly to Fitzgibbon she<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Unfolds her tale once more.<br>
<br>
 Then, all her errand done, she seeks<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A lowly dwelling near,<br>
 And sinks, a worn-out trembling thing,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Too faint to shed a tear.<br>
<br>
<br>

<center>V.</center>
<br>
 Now let the Lord of Hosts be praised!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Cheer brave Fitzgibbon's band,<br>
 Whose bold discretion won the day,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And saved our threatened land!<br>
<br>
 And cheer that weary traveller,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; On lowly couch that lies,<br>
 And scarce can break the heavy spell.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That holds her waking eyes.<br>
<br>
 No chaplet wreathes her aching brows.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; No paeans rend the air;<br>
 But in her breast a jewel glows<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The tried and true may wear.<br>
<br>
 And Time shall twine her wreath of bays<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Immortal as her fame,<br>
 And many a generation joy,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; In Laura Secord's name.<br>
<br>
 "Fitzgibbon and the Forty-ninth!"<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Whene'er ye drink that toast<br>
 To brave deeds done a grateful land,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Praise Laura Secord most.<br>
<br>
 As one who from the charged mine<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Coils back the lighted fuse,<br>
 'T was hers, at many a fearful risk,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To carry fateful news;<br>
<br>
 <a name="page082"><!-- Begin Page 82 --></a> And save the
dreadnought band; and give<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To Beaver Dam a name,<br>
 The pride of true Canadian hearts,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of others, but the shame.<br>
<br>
<br>

<center>VI.</center>
<br>
 Now wherefore trembles still the string<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; By lyric fingers crossed,<br>
 To Laura Secord's praise and fame,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; When forty years are lost?<br>
<br>
 Nay, five and forty, one by one,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Have borne her from the day<br>
 When, fired by patriotic zeal,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; She trod her lonely way:<br>
<br>
 Her hair is white, her step is slow,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Why kindles then her eye,<br>
 And rings her voice with music sweet<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of many a year gone by?<br>
<br>
 O know ye not proud Canada,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; With joyful heart, enfolds<br>
 In fond embrace, the royal boy<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Whose line her fealty holds?<br>
<br>
 For him she spreads her choicest cheer,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And tells her happiest tale,<br>
 And leads him to her loveliest haunts,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That naught to please may fail.<br>
<br>
 And great art thou, O Chippewa,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Though small in neighbours' eyes,<br>
 When out Niagara's haze thou seest<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A cavalcade arise;<br>
<br>
 And, in its midst, the royal boy,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Who, smiling, comes to see<br>
 An ancient dame whose ancient fame<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Shines in our history.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page083"><!-- Begin Page 83 --></a> He takes the thin and
faded hand,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; He seats him at her side,<br>
 Of all that gay and noble band,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That moment well the pride:<br>
<br>
 To him the aged Secord tells,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; With many a fervid glow,<br>
 How, by her means, Fitzgibbon struck<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; His great historic blow.<br>
<br>
 Nor deem it ye, as many do,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A weak and idle thing<br>
 That, at that moment Laura loved<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The praises of a king;<br>
<br>
 And dwelt on his approving smile,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And kissed his royal hand,<br>
 Who represented, and should wield,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The sceptre of our land;<br>
<br>
 For where should greatness fire her torch,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; If not at greatness' shrine?<br>
 And whence should approbation come<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Did not the gods incline?<br>
<br>
<br>

<center>VII.</center>
<br>
 And when, from o'er the parting seas,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A royal letter came,<br>
 And brought a gift to recognize<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Brave Laura Secord's fame.<br>
<br>
 What wonder that her kindling eye<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Should fade, suffused in tears?<br>
 What wonder that her heart should glow,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Oblivious of the years?<br>
<br>
 And honour ye the kindly grace<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of him who still hath been<br>
 In all things kindly, and the praise<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of our beloved Queen.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page084"><!-- Begin Page 84 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="jubilee">THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE,<br>
 JUNE 21ST, 1887.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>&nbsp;&nbsp; A Jubilee! A Jubilee!<br>
 Waft the glad shout across the laughing sea!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A Jubilee! A Jubilee! O bells<br>
 Ring out our gladness on your merry peals!<br>
<br>
 O thou, the root and flower of this our joy,<br>
 Well may thy praise our grateful hearts employ!<br>
 Fair as the moon and glorious as the sun,<br>
 Thy fame to many a future age shall run.<br>
<br>
 "I WILL BE GOOD." 'Twas thus thy judgment spake,<br>
 When, greatness would allure for greatness' sake.<br>
 Thou <i>hast</i> been good: herein thy strength hath lain;<br>
 And not thine only, it hath been our gain:<br>
 Nor ours alone, for every people's voice,<br>
 Because thou hast been good, doth now rejoice.<br>
 Beneath the shelter of that fruitful vine&mdash;<br>
 Thy goodness&mdash;hath pure Virtue reared her shrine.<br>
 Freedom hath lift her flag, and flung it free,<br>
 Rejoicing in a god-like liberty.<br>
 Truth hath her gracious lineaments revealed<br>
 To humble souls, beneath Victoria's shield.<br>
 Mercy, whose message bore thy first command,<br>
 Hath carried festival to every land.<br>
 Justice hath worn his robes unsmirched of gold;<br>
 Nor longer strikes in vengeance, as of old.<br>
 Kind Pity, wheresoe'er the tried might be,<br>
 Widow, and babe, hath borne a balm from thee.<br>
 Valour hath drawn his sword with surer aim:<br>
 And Peace hath signed her treaties in thy name.<br>
 <a name="page085"><!-- Begin Page 85 --></a> Honour hath worn his
plumes with nobler grace:<br>
 And Piety pursued her readier race.<br>
 Learning hath pressed where ne'er she walked before:<br>
 And Science touched on realms undreamt of yore.<br>
 Commerce hath spread wide wings o'er land and sea,<br>
 And spoken nations glorious yet to be.<br>
 Before the light of Temperance' purer grace.<br>
 Excess hath veiled his spoiled and purpled face.<br>
 And never since the peopled world began<br>
 Saw it so strong the brotherhood of man.<br>
 Great glory thus hath gathered round thy name,&mdash;<br>
 VICTORIA. QUEEN. Goodness hath been thy fame,<br>
 And greatness shall be, for the twain are one:<br>
 As thy clear eye discerned ere rule begun.<br>
 O Queen, receive anew our homage free:<br>
 Our love and praise on this thy Jubilee.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page086"><!-- Begin Page 86 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="hero">THE HERO OF ST. HELEN'S ISLAND.<br>
 CANADA'S TRIBUTE TO THE TWENTY-FOURTH (2ND WARWICKSHIRE)
REGIMENT.</a></h3>
<hr>
<br>

<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O the roaring and the thunder!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O the terror and the wonder!<br>
 O the surging and the seething of the flood!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O the tumbling and the rushing&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O the grinding and the
crushing&mdash;<br>
 O the plunging and the rearing of the ice!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When the great St. Lawrence River,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; With a mighty swell and shiver,<br>
 Bursts amain the wintry bonds that hold him fast.<br>
<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Twas on an April morning&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the air was full of warning<br>
 Of the havoc and the crash that was to be.&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A deed was done, whose glory<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Flames from out the simple story,<br>
 Like the living gleam of diamond in the mine.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 'Twas where St. Mary's Ferry<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In sweet summer makes so merry,<br>
 'Twixt St. Helen's fortressed isle and Montreal,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There, on an April morning,&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As if in haughty scorning<br>
 Of the tale soft Zephyr told in passing by&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Firm and hard, like road of Roman,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Under team of sturdy yeoman,<br>
 Or the guns, the ice lay smooth, and bright, and cold.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And watching its resistance<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To the forces in the distance<br>
 That nearer and yet nearer ever rolled,<br>
<br>
 <a name="page087"><!-- Begin Page 87 --></a>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Warning off who tempt the crossing,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; All too soon so wildly tossing,<br>
 Stood a party of Old England's Twenty-Fourth.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; While as yet they gazed in wonder,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Sudden boomed the awful thunder<br>
 That proclaimed the mighty conqueror at hand.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O then the fierce uplifting!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The trembling, and the rifting!<br>
 The tearing, and the grinding, and the throes!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The chaos and careering,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The toppling and the rearing,<br>
 The crashing and the dashing of the floes!<br>
<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At such an awful minute<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A glance,&mdash;the horror in
it!&mdash;<br>
 Showed a little maiden midway twixt the shores,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; With hands a-clasp and crying.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And, amid the masses, trying,&mdash;<br>
 Vainly trying&mdash;to escape on either hand.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O child so rashly daring!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Who thy dreadful peril sharing<br>
 Shall, to save thee, tempt the terrors of the flood<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That roaring, leaping, swirling,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And continuously whirling,<br>
 Threats to whelm in frightful deeps thy tender form!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The helpless soldiers, standing<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On a small precarious landing,<br>
 Think of nothing but the child and her despair,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When a voice as from the
Highest,&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To the child he being nighest&mdash;<br>
 Falls <i>"Quick-march!"</i> upon the ear of Sergeant Neill.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O blessed sense of duty!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As on banderole of duty<br>
 His unswerving eye he fixes on the child;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And straight o'er floe and fissure,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Fragments yielding to his pressure,<br>
 Toppling berg, and giddy block, he takes his way;<br>
<br>
 <a name="page088"><!-- Begin Page 88 --></a>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Sometimes climbing, sometimes
crawling.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Sometimes leaping, sometimes falling,<br>
 Till at last he stands where cowers the weeping child.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then with all a victor's bearing.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As in warlike honours sharing,<br>
 With the child all closely clasped upon his breast,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O'er floe and hummock taking<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Any step for safety making,<br>
 On he goes, till they who watch can see no more.<br>
<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; For both glass and light are failing.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As the ice-pack, slowly sailing,<br>
 Bears him onward past the shore of far Longueil.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "Lost!" his comrades cry, and
turning.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Eyes cast down, and bosoms burning,<br>
 Gain the shelter of their quiet barrack home;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Where, all night, the tortured father<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Clasps the agonizing mother.<br>
 In the mute embrace of hopelessness and dread.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O the rapid alternations<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When the loud reverberations<br>
 Of the evening gun boom forth the hour of rest!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The suffering and the sorrow!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The praying for the morrow!<br>
 The fears, the hopes, that tear the parents breasts!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And many a word is spoken<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At the mess, so sadly broken,<br>
 Of the men who mourn their comrade brave and true<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And many a tear-drop glistens,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Where a watching mother listens<br>
 To the tumult of the ice along the shore.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And ever creeping nearer,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Children hold each other dearer,<br>
 In the gaps of slumber broken by its roar.<br>
<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Twice broke the rosy dawning<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Of a sunny April morning,<br>
 <a name="page089"><!-- Begin Page 89 --></a> And Hope had drooped
her failing wings, to die;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When o'er the swelling river,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Like an arrow from a quiver,<br>
 Came the news of rescue, safety, glad return;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the mother, as from Heaven,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Clasped her treasure, newly-given;<br>
 And the father wrung the hand of Sergeant Neill:<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Who shrunk from their caressing,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nor looked for praise or blessing,<br>
 But straight returned to duty and his post.<br>
<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And this the grateful story,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To others' praise and glory,<br>
 That the Sergeant told his comrades round the fire.<br>
<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "Far down the swelling river,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To the ocean flowing ever,<br>
 With its teeming life of porpoise, fish, and seal,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There hardy, brave, and daring,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Dwells the <i>habitant</i>; nor
caring<br>
 Save to make his frugal living by his skill.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Nor heeds he of the weather,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; For scale, and fur, and feather,<br>
 Lay their tribute in his hand the year around.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On the sunny April morning,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; That the ice had given warning<br>
 Of the havoc and the crash that was to be,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Stood Pierre, Louis, gazing,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Their prayers to Mary raising,<br>
 For a season full of bounty from the sea.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And when the light was failing,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the ice-pack, slowly-sailing,<br>
 Crashing, tumbling, roaring, thundering, passed them by,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Their quick eye saw with wonder,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; On the masses torn asunder,<br>
 An unfortunate who drifted to his doom.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page090"><!-- Begin Page 90 --></a>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "O then the exclamations!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The rapid preparations!<br>
 The launching of canoes upon the wave!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The signalling and shouting!&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Death and disaster flouting&mdash;<br>
 The anxious haste, the strife, a human life to save<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Across the boiling surges,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Each man his light bark urges,<br>
 Though death is in the error of a stroke;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And paddling, poising, drifting,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O'er the floes the light shell
lifting,<br>
 The gallant fellows reach the whirling pack:<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And from the frightful danger,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; They save the worn-out stranger.<br>
 And oh, to see the nursling in his arms!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And oh, the pious caring,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The sweet and tender faring,<br>
 From the gentle hands of Marie and Louise!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the pretty, smiling faces,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; As the travellers take their places<br>
 To return again to those who weep their loss.<br>
<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the Sergeant's story ending,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; His head in rev'rence bending,<br>
 He cried "God bless for ever all noble souls like these!"<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But cheer on cheer resounded,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Till the officers, astounded<br>
 At their mess, upon their sword-hilts clapped their hands.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the plaudits rose still higher,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When they joined with martial fire,<br>
 In the cry "God bless the Twenty-Fourth, and its gallant Sergeant
Neill!"<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page091"><!-- Begin Page 91 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="veterans">OCTOBER 13TH, 1872.<br>
 A PLEA FOR THE VETERANS OF 1812.</a></h3>
<hr>
<br>

<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Forget not, Canada, the men who gave,<br>
 In fierce and bloody fray, their lives for thine.<br>
 Pause thou, Ontario, in thy forward march,<br>
 And give a tear to those who, long ago,<br>
 On this day fell upon those Heights where now<br>
 Their ashes rest beneath memorial pile.<br>
 And while those names, BROCK and MACDONELL, wake<br>
 A throb of emulative gratitude<br>
 And patriotic fervour in thy breast,<br>
 Forget not those&mdash;"the boys," the nameless ones,&mdash;<br>
 Who also fought and fell on that October day;<br>
 Nameless their ashes, but their memories dear!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
Remember, too,<br>
 Those grandsires at thy hearths who linger still;<br>
 Whose youthful arms then helped to guard thy peace,<br>
 Thy peace their own. And ere they go to join<br>
 Their ancient comrades of the hard-won fight,<br>
 Glad their brave hearts with one applauding cheer<br>
 In memory of the day. Comfort their age<br>
 With plenty. Let them find that sturdy youth,<br>
 Whose heritage they saved, bows rev'rent head,<br>
 And lends a strong right arm to ancient men,<br>
 Whose deeds of patriot prowess deck the silk<br>
 That waves so proudly from the nation's
towers.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page092"><!-- Begin Page 92 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="loyal">LOYAL.</a></h3>
<hr>
<p style="margin-left: 2em; margin-right: 2em;">"The Loyalists
having sacrificed their property to their politics, were generally
poor, and had to work hard and suffer many privations before they
could reap crops to support their families. In those early days
there were no merchants, no bakeries, no butchers' shop's, no
medical men to relieve the fevered brain or soothe a mother's
aching heart, no public house, no minister to console the dying or
bury the dead, no means of instruction for the young; all was bush,
hard labour and pinching privation for the present, and long toil
for the rising generations."</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">REV. G. A. ANDERSON,<br>
 <i>Protestant Chaplain to the Reformatory,
Penetanguishene</i>.</p>
<br>

<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>O Ye, who with your blood and sweat<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Watered the furrows of this land,&mdash;<br>
 See where upon a nation's brow<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; In honour's front, ye proudly stand!<br>
<br>
 Who for her pride abased your own,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And gladly on her altar laid<br>
 All bounty of the older world,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; All memories that your glory made.<br>
<br>
 And to her service bowed your strength,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Took labour for your shield and crest;<br>
 See where upon a nation's brow<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Her diadem, ye proudly test!<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page093"><!-- Begin Page 93 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="heights">ON QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I
stood on Queenston Heights;<br>
 And as I gazed from tomb to cenotaph,<br>
 From cenotaph to tomb, adown and up,<br>
 My heart grew full, much moved with many thoughts.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; At
length I cried:<br>
 "O robed with honour and with glory crowned,<br>
 Tell me again the story of yon pile."<br>
 And straight the ancient, shuddering cedars wept,<br>
 The solemn junipers indued their pall,<br>
 The moaning wind crept through the trembling oaks<br>
 And, shrieking, fled. Strange clamour filled the air;<br>
 The steepy hill shook with the rush of arms;<br>
 Around me rolled the tide of sudden war.<br>
 The booming guns pealed forth their dreadful knell;<br>
 Musketry rattled; shouts, cries, groans, were heard;<br>
 Men met as foes, and deadly strife ensued.<br>
 From side to side the surging combat rolled,<br>
 And as it rolled, passed from my ken.<br>
 A silence! On the hill an alien flag<br>
 Flies flaunting in the wind, mocking the gun.<br>
 Dark forms pour o'er the heights, and Britain's day<br>
 Broods dark.<br>
 But hark! a ringing cheer peals up the height<br>
 Once more the battle's tide bursts on my view.<br>
 Brock to the rescue! Down goes the alien flag!<br>
 Back, back the dark battalions fall. On, on<br>
 The "Tigers" come. Down pours the rattling shot<br>
 From out the verdant grove, like sheets of hail.<br>
 Up, up they press, York volunteers and all.<br>
 Aha! the day is ours! See, where the hero comes<br>
 In conquering might, quick driving all before him!<br>
 O brave ensample! O beloved chief!<br>
 <a name="page094"><!-- Begin Page 94 --></a> Who follows thee
keeps ever pace with honour.<br>
 Shout Victory! Proud victory is ours!<br>
 Ours, noble Brock!<br>
<br>
 Ours? DEATH'S! <i>Death wins;</i> THE DAY IS HIS.<br>
<br>
 Ah! shudder still ye darkling cedars,<br>
 Chant yet your doleful monotone, ye winds;<br>
 Indue again your grey funereal pall,<br>
 Ye solemn junipers; for here he fell,<br>
 And here he lies,&mdash;dust; ashes; nothing.<br>
<br>
 Such tale the hill-side told me, and I wept.<br>
 Nay! I wept <i>not!</i> The hot, indignant thoughts<br>
 That filled my breast burned up the welling tears<br>
 Ere they had chance to flow, and forward Hate<br>
 Spake rashly. But calm Reflection<br>
 Laid her cool hand upon my throbbing brow<br>
 And whispered, "As up the misty stream<br>
 The <i>Norseman</i> crept to-day, and signals white<br>
 Waved kind salutes from yon opposing shore;<br>
 And as ye peered the dusky vista through,<br>
 To catch first glimpse of yonder glorious plinth,<br>
 Yet saw it not till <i>I</i> your glance directed,&mdash;<br>
 So high it towered above the common plane;&mdash;<br>
 So, towering over Time, shall Brock e'er stand.&mdash;<br>
 So, from those banks, shall white-robed Peace e'er
smile.<br></td></tr></table>
<p><i>October 12, 1881</i>.</p>
<a name="page095"><!-- Begin Page 95 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="mayor">NEW ORLEANS, MONROE, MAYOR, APRIL 29, 1862.<br>
 THE HAULING DOWN OF THE STATE FLAG FROM OVER THE CITY
HALL.</a></h3>
<p style="margin-left: 2em; margin-right: 2em;">"The crowd flowed
in from every direction and filled the street in a compact mass
both above and below the square. They were silent, but angry and
threatening. An open way was left in front of the hall, and their
force being stationed, Captain Bell and Lieutenant Kantz passed
across the street, mounted the hall steps and entered the Mayor's
parlour. Approaching the Mayor, Captain Bell said: "I have come in
obedience to orders to haul down the State flag from this
building." ... As soon as the two officers left the room Mr. Monroe
also went out. Descending the front steps he walked out into the
street, and placed himself immediately in front of the howitzer
pointing down St. Charles Street. There, folding his arms, he fixed
his eyes upon the gunner who stood, lanyard in hand, ready for
action. Here he remained without once looking up or moving, until
the flag had been hauled down by Lieutenant Kantz, and he and
Captain Bell reappeared.... As they passed out through the Camp
Street gate, Mr. Monroe turned towards the hall, and the people,
who had hitherto preserved the silence he had asked from them,
broke into cheers for their Mayor."</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">MARION A. BAKER, <i>in July (1886)
Century</i>.</p>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>A noble man! a man deserving trust.<br>
 A man in whom the higher elements<br>
 Worked freely. A man of dignity;<br>
 On whom the robes and badge of state sat well<br>
 Because the majesty of self-control,<br>
 And all its grace, were his.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I see him now&mdash;<br>
 Pale with the pallor of a full, proud heart&mdash;<br>
 Descend those steps and take his imminent place<br>
 Before the deadly piece, as who should say<br>
 "'Ware ye! these people are my people; such<br>
 Their inward heat and mine at this poor deed<br>
 That scarce we can control our kindled blood.<br>
 <a name="page096"><!-- Begin Page 96 --></a> But should ye mow
them down, ye mow me too.<br>
 'Ware ye!"<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; O men
for whose dear sake he stood<br>
 An offering and a hostage; on that scroll<br>
 Old Chronos doth unfold along the years<br>
 Are writ in gold names of undaunted Mayors,<br>
 Pepin and Charlemagne, and Whittington<br>
 And White. Did not your fathers know them?<br>
 And shall not he, your Mayor of 'Sixty-two,<br>
 Monroe, stand side by side with them?<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page097"><!-- Begin Page 97 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="emigrant">THE EMIGRANT'S SONG.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>
<center>I.</center>
<br>
 No work, no home, no wealth have I,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; But Mary loves me true,<br>
 And, for her sake, upon my knees<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; I'd beg the wide world through:<br>
 For her sweet eyes look into mine<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; With fondness soft and deep;<br>
 My heart's entranced, and I could die<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Were death a conscious sleep.<br>
<br>
<br>

<center>II.</center>
<br>
 But life is work, and work is life,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And life's the way to heaven,<br>
 And hand-in-hand we'd like to go<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The road that God has given.<br>
 And England, dear old Motherland,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Has plenty mouths to feed<br>
 Without her sons and daughters fair,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Whose strength is as their need.<br>
<br>
<br>

<center>III.</center>
<br>
 To Canada! To Canada!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To that fair land I'll roam,<br>
 And till the soil with heart of grace,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; For Mary and a home.<br>
 Hurrah for love! Hurrah for hope!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Hurrah for industry!<br>
 Hurrah for bonnie Canada,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And her bonnie maple tree!<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page098"><!-- Begin Page 98 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="summer">TO THE INDIAN SUMMER.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>And art thou come again, sweet Indian maid!<br>
 How beautiful thou art where thou dost stand,<br>
 With step arrested, on the bridge that joins<br>
 The Past and Future&mdash;thy one hand waving<br>
 Farewell to Summer, whose fond kiss hath set<br>
 Thy yellow cheeks aglow, the other stretched<br>
 To greet advancing Winter!<br>
 Nor can thy veil, tissue diaphanous<br>
 Of crimsoned haze, conceal thy lustrous eyes;&mdash;<br>
 Those eyes in whose dark depths a tear-drop lurks<br>
 Ready to fall, for Beauty loved and lost.<br>
 From thy point gazing, maiden, let us, too,<br>
 Once more behold the panorama fair<br>
 Of the lost year. See where, far down yon slope<br>
 That meets the sun, doth quick advance gay Spring,<br>
 His dainty fingers filled with swelling buds:<br>
 O'er his wreathed head, among the enlacing trees,<br>
 The merry birds flit in and out, to choose<br>
 A happy resting-place; and singing rills<br>
 Dwell on his praise. Gladly his laughing eyes<br>
 Rest on fair Summer's zone set thick with flowers,<br>
 That chide their own profusion as, tiptoe,<br>
 And arm outstretched, she reaches to restore<br>
 The fallen nestling, venturous and weak:<br>
 While many a nursling claims her tender care.<br>
 Beneath her smile all Nature doth rejoice,<br>
 And breaks into a song that sweeps the plain<br>
 Where now the swarthy Autumn, girded close,<br>
 Gathers his yellow sheaves and juicy fruit<br>
 To overflowing garners; measure full,<br>
 And blest to grateful souls. Through the low air<br>
 <a name="page099"><!-- Begin Page 99 --></a> A myriad wings circle
in restless sort;<br>
 And from the rustling woods there comes a sound<br>
 Of dropping nuts and acorns&mdash;welcome store<br>
 To little chipmunk and to squirrel blithe:<br>
 Dependants small on Nature's wide largesse.<br>
 How doth the enchanting picture fill our souls<br>
 With faith! Sweet Indian maid, we turn with thee<br>
 And greet gray Winter with a trustful smile.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page100"><!-- Begin Page 100 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="june">IN JUNE.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>I cannot sleep, and morning's earliest light,<br>
 All soft and rosy, tempts my restlessness<br>
 To ask from Nature what of peace she gives.<br>
 I gaze abroad, and all my soul is moved<br>
 At that strange calm that floats o'er earth at rest.<br>
 The silver sickle of the summer moon<br>
 Hangs on the purple east. The morning star,<br>
 Like a late watcher's lamp, pales in the dawn.<br>
 Yonder, the lake, that 'neath the midday sun<br>
 All restless glows and burns like burnished shield,<br>
 Lies as a child at rest with curtain drawn.<br>
 The forest trees are still. The babbling creek<br>
 Flows softly through the copse and glides away;<br>
 And the fair flowers, that lie as thick and sweet<br>
 As posies at a bridal, sleep quietly.<br>
 No early breeze his perfumed wings unfolds.<br>
 No painted butterfly to pleasure wakes.<br>
 The bees, whose busy hum pervades the hours<br>
 Through all the sultry day, keep yet the hive.<br>
 And, save the swallow, whose long line of works<br>
 Beneath each gable, points to labours vast,<br>
 No bird yet stirs. Upon the dewy mead<br>
 The kine repose; the active horse lies prone;<br>
 And the white ewes doze o'er their tender lambs,<br>
 Like village mothers with their babes at breast.<br>
 So still, so fair, so calm, the morning broods,<br>
 That, while I know the gairish day will come,<br>
 And bring its clouds of gnat-like stinging cares,<br>
 Rest steals into my heart, and gentle peace.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page101"><!-- Begin Page 101 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="livingstone">LIVINGSTONE.<br>
 OBIT MAY 1ST, 1883.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Sleep now and take thy rest, thou mighty dead!<br>
 Thy work is done&mdash;thy grand and glorious work.<br>
 Not "Caput Nili" shall thy trophy be.<br>
 But <i>broken slave-sticks and a riven chain</i>.<br>
 As the man Moses, thy great prototype,<br>
 Snatched, by the hand of God, his groaning millions<br>
 From out the greedy clutch of Egypt's despot;<br>
 So hast thou done for Afric's toiling sons:<br>
 Hast snatched its peoples from the poisonous fangs<br>
 Of hissing Satan, veiled in commerce foul.<br>
 For this thy fame shall ring; for this thy praise<br>
 Shall be in every mouth for ever. Ay,<br>
 Thy true human heart hath here its guerdon&mdash;<br>
 A continent redeemed from slavery.&mdash;<br>
 To this, how small the other! Yet 'twas great.<br>
 Ah, not in vain those long delays, those groans<br>
 Wrung from thy patient soul by obstacle,<br>
 The work of peevish man; these were the checks<br>
 From that Hand guiding, that led thee all the way.<br>
 <i>He</i> willed thy soul should vex at tyranny;<br>
 Thine ear should ring with murdered women's shrieks,<br>
 That torturing famine should thy footsteps clog;<br>
 That captive's broken hearts should ache thine own.<br>
 And Slavery&mdash;that villain plausible&mdash;<br>
 That thief Gehazi!&mdash;He stripped before thine eyes<br>
 And showed him all a leper, foul, accursed.<br>
 <i>He</i> touched thy lips, and every word of thine<br>
 Vibrates on chords whose deep electric thrill<br>
 <a name="page102"><!-- Begin Page 102 --></a> Shall never cease
till that wide wound be healed.<br>
 And then He took thee home. Ay, home, great heart!<br>
 Home to <i>His</i> home, where never envious tongue,<br>
 Nor vile detraction, nor base ingratitude,<br>
 Nor cold neglect, shall sting the quiv'ring heart.<br>
 Thou endedst well. One step from earth to Heaven,<br>
 When His voice called "Friend, come up higher."</td></tr></table>
<a name="page103"><!-- Begin Page 103 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="queen">ON SEEING THE ENGRAVING<br>
 "THE FIRST VISIT OF QUEEN VICTORIA TO HER WOUNDED<br>
 SOLDIERS ON THEIR RETURN FROM THE CRIMEA."</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Yes, go to them, the brave, the tried, the hurt&mdash;<br>
 'Tis very fitting so! <i>We</i> cannot go&mdash;<br>
 Some scores of million souls&mdash;to tell them all<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We
think and feel:<br>
 To ease the burden of our laden hearts;<br>
 To give the warm grasp of our British hands<br>
 In strong assurance of our praise and love;<br>
 Of our deep gratitude, to them, our friends,<br>
 Our <i>brothers</i>, who for us toiled, suffered, bled:<br>
 And left, as we, their dead upon the field,<br>
 Their comrades tried and true, around Scutari.<br>
 Go to them, then, dear Queen,'tis very fitting so!<br>
 <i>Thy</i> hand can clasp for <i>ours. Thy</i> voice express<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
<i>Our</i> hearts.<br>
 We send thee as our <i>best</i>, as so we ought;<br>
 We send thee as our <i>dearest</i>, as thou art;<br>
 We send thee our <i>elect</i>, perfect to fill<br>
 The office thou hast chosen for our sakes.<br>
 A gentle woman thou, and therefore tender:&mdash;<br>
 A loving wife, and therefore sympathetic:&mdash;<br>
 A mother, thou, and therefore patient:&mdash;<br>
 Is there a son among those wounded men<br>
 Has made his mother sad? Thy tear will soften him.<br>
 Is there a husband kept from wife and bairns?<br>
 Thy smile will comfort him.<br>
 Is there a lonely one with none to love?<br>
 He'll warm beneath thy glance, his dear Queen's glance;<br>
 And&mdash;soldiers all&mdash;they'll all forget their pains,<br>
 And long to fight again, even to fall, for thee.<br>
 <a name="page104"><!-- Begin Page 104 --></a> And if for thee, for
us; us, who would clasp<br>
 Their thin worn hands in ours, and smile our thanks,<br>
 And speak our praise of them, and heal their wounds<br>
 With gentlest care, each, for himself, if so<br>
 We might thus ease our o'er-full hearts.<br>
 Yet happy are we still in this, nay, happier,&mdash;<br>
 Thou being that <i>our best; our dearest;</i><br>
 <i>Our elect; perfect epitome</i><br>
 <i>Of all we would</i>&mdash;that thou dost go to
them.<br></td></tr></table>
<p><i>Great Western Hotel, Liverpool, June 9, 1880</i>.</p>
<a name="page105"><!-- Begin Page 105 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="child">TO A CHILD<br>
 SINGING "JESUS LOVES ME, THIS I KNOW."</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Sing, little darling, sing,<br>
 And may thy song be everlasting!<br>
 Not all the learning wits and sages boast<br>
 Can equal the sweet burden of thy song;&mdash;<br>
 Can yield such rest amid life's noisiest strife;&mdash;<br>
 Such peace to still the spirit's wildest wars;&mdash;<br>
 Such hope to stem the most tumultuous wave<br>
 May threat to overwhelm.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The
love of Jesus,&mdash;<br>
 Sweet, having this thou risest far above<br>
 All this world's clouds, and catchest glimpse of Heaven.<br>
<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Did He
who blest<br>
 That infant band that crowded round His knee,<br>
 See, in a face like thine, a tender memory<br>
 Of that dear home He left for our sakes?<br>
 It may be; nay, it must: "Of such," He said,<br>
 "My Father's kingdom." And His great heart<br>
 Went out in fondest tones: His soft embrace<br>
 Encircling such as thou, thrilled out that love<br>
 That vibrates yet, and still enfolds so warm<br>
 His tender lambs.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Sing,
little darling, sing,<br>
 And may thy song be everlasting.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page106"><!-- Begin Page 106 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="home">HOME.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>The morning sun shone soft and bright,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The air was pure and clear,<br>
 My steady steps fell quick and light,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Nor knew my soul a fear.<br>
 For though the way was long and cold,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The end I knew not where,<br>
 Hope's vivid pictures made me bold<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To wait, or do, or dare.<br>
<br>
 But ah, the change when evening gray<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Curtained a cloudy sky,<br>
 And languid, I retraced the way<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; My feet could scarce descry!<br>
 By rugged care my heart was bruised,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Hope's rainbow tints were gone;<br>
 To this world's watch and ward unused,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; I could but stumble on.<br>
<br>
 The rough wind's breath, the dark sky's frown<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Fell like the stroke of wrath,<br>
 When&mdash;from above a star looked down&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A ray beamed on my path.<br>
 The light of Home&mdash;oh, blessed light&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To weary wanderers dear!<br>
 The light of Heaven, oh, glorious light<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To souls that stumble here!<br>
<br>
 What matters now the weary road,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; My toil shall soon be o'er;<br>
 And, oh, at last, at home with God<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Life's cares shall cark no more.<br>
 Be this my hope! Be this my aim!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Though rough the road may be,<br>
 Thy feet, blest Jesus, trod the same,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And I would follow Thee.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page107"><!-- Begin Page 107 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="lost">LOST WITH HIS BOAT.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Alone&mdash;alone! I sit, and make my moan.<br>
 The fire burns low, the candle flickers dim.<br>
 Alone&mdash;alone! I rock, and think of him.<br>
 Of him who left me in the purple pride<br>
 Of early manhood. <i>Yestermorn</i> he went.<br>
 The sun shone bright, and scintillant the tide.<br>
 O'er which the sea-mew swept, with dewy drops besprent.<br>
 Before he went he kissed me; and I watched<br>
 His boat that lay so still and stately, till<br>
 Automaton she seemed, and that she moved<br>
 To where she willed of her own force and law.<br>
 But I knew better: <i>his</i> was the will<br>
 That set the pretty sprite a-going.<br>
 His arms controlled her to obedience:<br>
 Those arms that lately clasped me.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; No
alarms<br>
 Chilled my fond heart, nor dimmed my vision.<br>
 As I saw the fair white messenger move off<br>
 On fleecy puffs of cloud into the blue;<br>
 My nearest thought to trim my hearth, and make,<br>
 A dainty dish would please my darling's taste<br>
 On his return. And all day long, and through<br>
 The dreamy summer day, my thoughts were full<br>
 Of many a gay return; my ears reheard<br>
 The cheery word and joke were wont to mark them.<br>
 Nor when the sun went down in wrack and mist&mdash;<br>
 A mist that gathers who knows how or where?&mdash;<br>
 Feared I of aught. My little hearth burned bright.<br>
 The kettle sang, and pussy purred and napped;<br>
 And&mdash;rocking to and fro, as I do now,<br>
 I hummed a little song; one <i>he</i>, had sung<br>
 In other days, and with the manly tones<br>
 <a name="page108"><!-- Begin Page 108 --></a> Had stolen my heart
away.<br>
 The hearth burned low; I ate my meal alone,<br>
 And something like a fear I chased away,<br>
 Despite the deepening surges of the wind<br>
 That scurried round our cot.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I
slept: and waked<br>
 What time the summer storm, that rose and fell<br>
 In sullen gusts, flew by; and slept again,<br>
 And dreamed a glad return. When morning broke<br>
 A glorious day begun. The storm was gone:<br>
 The sparkling waves toyed with the lilting breeze;<br>
 The merry sun shone bright; and all the blue<br>
 Was decked with tiny flecks of feathery white.<br>
 A gladsome morn! But I, I missed my love.<br>
<br>
 <i>And now they say he's dead</i>. Lost, with his boat,<br>
 In that short summer storm of yesternight.<br>
 Lost! <i>lost</i>! my love is lost! No more may I<br>
 Welcome his step, hear his glad voice, and kiss<br>
 His laughing lips. I may not even clasp<br>
 His cold dead form in one long, last embrace!<br>
 And here I sit alone.&mdash;<br>
 I drove them all away, their words but maddened me.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Alone
I sit,<br>
 And rock, and think,&mdash;I cannot weep&mdash;<br>
 And conjure up the depths, those cruel depths<br>
 That chafe and fret, and roll him to and fro<br>
 Like a stray log:&mdash;he, whose dear limbs should lie<br>
 Peaceful and soft, in rev'rent care bestowed.&mdash;<br>
 Or in the sunken boat, gulfed at his work,<br>
 I see his blackened corse, even in death<br>
 Faithful to duty. O that those waves,<br>
 That with their gentle lullaby mock my wild woe,<br>
 Would rise in all their might and 'whelm me too!<br>
 Oh, love!&mdash;oh, love!&mdash;my love!<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page109"><!-- Begin Page 109 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="life">LIFE IN DEATH.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>On her pale bier the baby lay,<br>
 And healthy children from their play,<br>
 With tip-toe awe and bated breath,<br>
 Came gently in to look on Death.<br>
<br>
 One touched the flowers that decked the bier;<br>
 Another dropped a little tear;<br>
 One stroked the cheek so waxy white;<br>
 And one cowered weeping with affright.<br>
<br>
 But one fair boy won Life from Death<br>
 By that quick faith that childhood hath;<br>
 And cried, with gaze past present things,<br>
 "P'raps baby's trying her new wings."<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page110"><!-- Begin Page 110 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="rain">INVOCATION TO RAIN.<br>
 MAY, 1874.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>O blessed angel of the All-bounteous King,<br>
 Where dost thou stay so long? Our sad hearts pine,<br>
 Our spirits faint, for thee. Our weary eyes<br>
 Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud<br>
 Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn<br>
 Or East or West, no vap'rous haze, nor view<br>
 Of distant panorama, wins our souls<br>
 To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Thy
brother Spring is come.<br>
 His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray&mdash;<br>
 The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee.<br>
 Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves<br>
 Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds<br>
 Of feathery fern, in strewing o'er his path;<br>
 The dielytra puts her necklace on,<br>
 Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose.<br>
 Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass<br>
 Grows up in single blades and braves the sun.<br>
 But thou!&mdash;O, where art thou, sweet early Rain,<br>
 That with thy free libations fill'st our cup?<br>
 The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note<br>
 From off the ridge cap, but can find no spot<br>
 Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence<br>
 Explores the pasture with his piercing eye,<br>
 And visits oft the bushes by the stream,<br>
 But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tuft<br>
 Are there to hide a home. Oh what is earth<br>
 Without a home? On the dry garden bed,<br>
 <a name="page111"><!-- Begin Page 111 --></a> The
sparrow&mdash;the little immigrant bird&mdash;<br>
 Hops quick, and looks askance,<br>
 And pecks, and chirps, asking for kindly crumbs&mdash;<br>
 Just two or three to feed his little mate:<br>
 Then, on return from some small cunning nook<br>
 Where he has hidden her, he mounts the wires,<br>
 Or garden fence, and sings a happy song<br>
 Of home, and other days. A-missing thee<br>
 The husbandman goes forth with faltering step<br>
 And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard<br>
 The lab'ring plough, but the dry earth falls back<br>
 As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs<br>
 The plough-boy's feet with rich encumb'ring mould.<br>
 The willows have a little tender green.<br>
 And swallows cross the creek&mdash;the gurgling creek<br>
 Now fallen to pools&mdash;but, disappointed,<br>
 Dart away so swift, and fly so high<br>
 We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land<br>
 Doth mourn for thee.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Ah!
here thou comest&mdash;sweet Rain.<br>
 Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies!<br>
 See now, what transformation in thy touch!<br>
 Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees<br>
 Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms<br>
 From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift<br>
 Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white<br>
 As angel's raiment. Little wood children<br>
 Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth<br>
 Offers rich gifts. The little choristers<br>
 Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman<br>
 Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake<br>
 And mingle with the swift roulade of streams.<br>
 The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing<br>
 Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in<br>
 The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads<br>
 From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!"<br>
 <a name="page112"><!-- Begin Page 112 --></a> And straight they
smell new hay and clover blooms;<br>
 And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks:<br>
 And hear the plover whistling in the fields.<br>
 And little children dream of daisy chains;<br>
 And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday;<br>
 A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers.<br>
 O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain!<br>
 Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become<br>
 Like that Great Heart, whose almoner art
thou.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page113"><!-- Begin Page 113 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="remonstrance">REMONSTRANCE WITH "REMONSTRANCE."<br>
 (IN "CANADIAN MONTHLY," APRIL, 1874.)</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Why now, sweet Alice, though thy numbers ring<br>
 Like silver bells, methinks their burden wrong.<br>
 For if 'tis right, then were the hermits right,<br>
 And all recluses. And He was wrong<br>
 Who gave to Adam, Eve: and leaned upon<br>
 The breast of John the loved. So was He wrong<br>
 To love the gentle home at Bethany.<br>
 The sisters, and their brother Lazarus.<br>
 So was He wrong to weep at Lazarus' grave,<br>
 Pity's hot tears for Sin, and Death, and Woe.<br>
 And in that awful hour when manhood failed<br>
 And God forsook, He still was wrong to think<br>
 With tenderest solicitude and care<br>
 Upon his mother, and leave her in the charge<br>
 Of John. And He was wrong who gave us hearts<br>
 To yearn, and sensibilities to meet<br>
 Those "clinging tendrils" thou wouldst have us cut.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; If thou art right, sweet
Alice,<br>
 There were no ties of infancy, or age;<br>
 Of consanguinity: or noble bond<br>
 Of wide humanity, or sacred home:<br>
 For without love,&mdash;e'en our poor earthly love,&mdash;<br>
 The world were dead.<br>
 Love is the silver cord, that, being loosed,<br>
 The fabric of humanity falls wide<br>
 In hopeless wrack. Well for us it is<br>
 That when our nature, hurt, falls, shrieking, down,<br>
 The Great Physician's hand may raise it up<br>
 <a name="page114"><!-- Begin Page 114 --></a> And bind the wound.
But what mad folly 'twere<br>
 Did we, like peevish child, beat down the hand,<br>
 And tear afresh the wound. And this we do<br>
 When of our morbid selves we idols make,<br>
 And cry "No sorrow like to mine."<br>
 O rather should we turn our tenderer hearts&mdash;<br>
 Made gentler by our griefs&mdash;to gentle cares<br>
 For weak Humanity, and, knowing what woe<br>
 Our sinful nature brings upon itself,<br>
 With God-like pity love it but the more.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page115"><!-- Begin Page 115 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="absent">THE ABSENT ONES.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>How I miss their faces!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Faces that I love.<br>
 Where I read the traces<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Heart and soul approve.<br>
 Traces of their father<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Scattered here and there;<br>
 Here a little gesture,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; There a twist of hair.<br>
 Brave and generous Bertie,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Sweet and quiet Fred,<br>
 Tender-hearted Jackie,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Various, but true-bred.<br>
<br>
 How I miss their voices<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Raised in laughter gay;<br>
 And in loving blessing<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; When they go to pray.<br>
 Even of their quarrels<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Miss I now the noise,<br>
 Angry or disdainful,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; (What are they but boys?)<br>
 Shouting in the garden,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Spurring on the game,<br>
 Calling a companion<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; By some favourite name.<br>
<br>
 How I miss the footsteps,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Lightsome, loud, or slow;<br>
 Telling by their echo<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; How the humours go.<br>
 <a name="page116"><!-- Begin Page 116 --></a> Lagging when they're
lazy.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Running when they're wild.<br>
 Leaping when they're gladsome,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Walking when they're mild.<br>
 Footsteps, voices, faces,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Where are ye to-night?<br>
 Father, keep my darlings<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Ever in Thy sight.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page117"><!-- Begin Page 117 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="away">AWAY.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Oh, where are all the madcaps gone?<br>
 Why is the house so drear and lone?<br>
 No merry whistle wakes the day,<br>
 Nor evening rings with jocund play.<br>
 No clanging bell, with hasty din,<br>
 Precedes the shout, "Is Bertie in?"<br>
 Or "Where is Fred?" "Can I see Jack?"<br>
 "How soon will he be coming back?<br>
 Or "Georgie asks may I go out,"<br>
 He has a treasure just found out."<br>
 The wood lies out in all the rain,<br>
 No willing arms to load are fain<br>
 The weeds grow thick among the flowers,<br>
 And make the best of sunny hours;<br>
 The drums are silent; fifes are mute;<br>
 No tones are raised in high dispute;<br>
 No hearty laughter's cheerful sound<br>
 Announces fun and frolic round.<br>
 Here's comic Alan's wit wants sport;<br>
 And dark-eyed Bessie's quick retort<br>
 Is spent on Nellie, mild and sweet;<br>
 And dulness reigns along the street.<br>
 The table's lessened numbers bring<br>
 No warm discussion's changeful ring,<br>
 Of hard-won goal, or slashing play,<br>
 Or colours blue, or brown, or gray.<br>
 The chairs stand round like rows of pins;<br>
 No hoops entrap unwary shins;<br>
 No marbles&mdash;boyhood's gems&mdash;roll loose;<br>
 And stilts may rust for want of use;<br>
 No book-bags lie upon the stairs;<br>
 Nor nails inflict three-cornered tears.<br>
 <a name="page118"><!-- Begin Page 118 --></a> Mamma may lay her
needle down,<br>
 And take her time to go up town;<br>
 Albeit, returning she may miss<br>
 The greeting smile and meeting kiss.<br>
<br>
 But hark! what message cleaves the air.<br>
 From skies where roams the Greater Bear!<br>
 "Safe, well, and happy, here are we,<br>
 Wild as young colts and just as free!<br>
 With plenteous hand and kindly heart,<br>
 Our hosts fulfil a liberal part.<br>
 Nor lack we food to suit the mind,<br>
 Our alma-mater here we find,<br>
 And in her agricultural school<br>
 We learn to farm by modern rule;<br>
 Professor Walter fills the chair,<br>
 But teaches in the open air.<br>
 And by his side we tend the stock,<br>
 Or swing the scythe, or bind the shock.<br>
 Nor miss we academic lore,<br>
 We walk where Plato walked before,<br>
 And eloquent Demosthenes,<br>
 Who taught their youth beneath the trees;<br>
 Here with sharp eyes we love to scan<br>
 The rules that point Dame Nature's plan,<br>
 We mark the track of bear and deer,<br>
 And long to see them reft of fear.&mdash;<br>
 Though well they shun our changeful moods,<br>
 Taught by our rifle in the woods.<br>
 Yet we may tell of mercy shown,<br>
 Power unabused, the birdling flown,&mdash;<br>
 When caught by thistly gossamer&mdash;<br>
 Set free to wing the ambient air.<br>
 Cautious we watch the gliding snake,<br>
 'Neath sheltering stone, or tangled brake,<br>
 And list the chipmunk's merry trill<br>
 Proclaim his wondrous climbing skill.<br>
 <a name="page119"><!-- Begin Page 119 --></a> The bird; the beast;
the insect; all<br>
 In turn our various tastes enthrall;<br>
 The fish; the rock; the tree; the flower;<br>
 Yield to quick observation's power.<br>
 And many a treasure swells our store<br>
 Of joys for days when youth is o'er.<br>
 Our glowing limbs we love to lave<br>
 Beneath the lake's translucent wave,<br>
 Or on its heaving bosom ride<br>
 In merry boat; or skilful guide<br>
 The light canoe, with balanced oar,<br>
 To yonder islet's pebbly shore.<br>
 Sometimes, with rod and line, we try<br>
 The bass's appetite for fly;<br>
 Well pleased if plunge or sudden dart<br>
 Try all our piscatorial art;<br>
 And shout with joy to see our catch<br>
 Prove bigger than we thought our match.<br>
 Oft when the ardent sun at noon<br>
 Proclaims his power, we hide full soon<br>
 Within the cool of shady grove,<br>
 Or, gathering berries slowly rove<br>
 And often when the sun goes down,<br>
 We muse of home, and you in town;<br>
 And had we but a carrier dove<br>
 We'd send her home with loads of love."<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page120"><!-- Begin Page 120 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="joe">POOR JOE.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>He cannot dance, you say, nor sing,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Nor troll a lilting stave;<br>
 And when the rest are cracking jokes<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; He's silent as the grave.<br>
<br>
 Poor Joe! I know he cannot sing&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; His voice is somewhat harsh:<br>
 But he can whistle loud and clear<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; As plover in the marsh.<br>
<br>
 Nor does he dance, but he would walk<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Long miles to serve a friend,<br>
 And though he cares not crack a joke,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; He will the truth defend.<br>
<br>
 And so, though he for company<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; May not be much inclined,<br>
 I love poor Joe, and think his home<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Will be just to my mind.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page121"><!-- Begin Page 121 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h2><a name="fragments">FRAGMENTS.</a></h2>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>
<h3>"I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR."</h3>
A happy year, sweet as the breath of flowers:<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A merry year, glad as the song of birds,<br>
 A jocund year, gay as brown harvest hours;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A prosperous year, rich, as in flocks and herds.<br>
<br>

<hr>
<h3>THE LIFE-BOAT MAN.</h3>
When the loud minute gun alarms the night,<br>
 And plunging waters hide the bark from sight,<br>
 When lurid lightnings threat, and thunders roll.<br>
 And roaring tempests daunt the trembling soul&mdash;<br>
 'Tis thine, O Life-boat Man, such fears to brave,<br>
 And snatch the drowning from a watery grave.<br>

<hr>
<br>
 "I am learning the stitch," the lover said<br>
 As over her work he bent his head.<br>
 But the scene spake plain to the mother's eye<br>
 "I am watching these busy fingers ply."<br>
 And ever anon when a stitch she'd miss,<br>
 'Twas because he bent lower her hand to kiss.<br>
 Oh tender lover, and busy maid,<br>
 May the sweet enchantment never fade;<br>
 Nor the thread of life, though a stitch may miss,<br>
 Know a break that may not be joined by a kiss.<br>

<hr></td></tr></table>
<a name="page122"><!-- Begin Page 122 --></a>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h2><a name="graduate">THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE.<br>
 A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS.</a></h2>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h3>ACT I.</h3>
<h4>SCENE 1.&mdash;<i>Scugog</i>.</h4>
<center><i>The breakfast-room in the house of</i> BLOGGS, <i>a
wealthy Scugog merchant.<br>
 At the table</i>, KATE, <i>his daughter, reading a
letter</i>.</center>
<p><i>Kate</i> (<i>in much indignation</i>). Refused! I knew
it!<br>
 The crass ingratitude of haughty man,<br>
 Vested in all the pride of place and power,<br>
 Brooks not the aspirations of my sex,<br>
 However just. Is't that he fears to yield,<br>
 Lest from his laurelled brow the wreath should fall<br>
 And light on ours? We may matriculate,<br>
 And graduate&mdash;if we can, but he excludes<br>
 Us from the beaten path he takes himself.<br>
 The sun-lit heights of steep Parnassus<br>
 Reach past the clouds, and we below must stay;<br>
 Not that our alpen-stocks are weak, or that<br>
 Our breath comes short, but that, forsooth, we wear<br>
 The Petticoat. Out on such trash!</p>
<center><i>Enter</i> MR. BLOGGS.</center>
<p><i>Mr. Bloggs</i>. Why, what's the matter, Kate?</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Not much, papa, only I am refused<br>
 Admission to the college. <i>Sapient</i> says<br>
 The Council have considered my request,<br>
 And find it inconsistent with the rules<br>
 Of discipline and order to admit<br>
 Women within their walls.</p>
<a name="page123"><!-- Begin Page 123 --></a>
<p><i>Mr. B</i>. I thought they'd say so. Now be satisfied;<br>
 You've studied hard. Have made your mark upon<br>
 The honour list. Have passed your second year.<br>
 Let that suffice. You know enough to wed,<br>
 And Gilmour there would give his very head<br>
 To have you. Get married, Kate.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Papa, you vex me; Gilmour has no chance<br>
 And that I'll let him know. Nor have I spent<br>
 My youth in studious sort to give up now.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Bloggs</i>. What will you do? They will not let you
in,<br>
 For fear you'd turn the heads of all the boys.<br>
 And quite right, too. I wouldn't have the care<br>
 And worry of a lot of lively girls<br>
 For all I'm worth.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>He kisses her</i>.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. P'raps not, papa. But yet I mean to have<br>
 The prize I emulate.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; If I
obtain<br>
 The honours hung so tantalizingly<br>
 Before us by the University,<br>
 Will you defray the cost, as hitherto<br>
 You've done, like my own kind papa?</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She kisses him</i>.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Bloggs</i>. I guess I'll have to: they won't send the
bills to you.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Ah, dear papa! I'll make you proud of me<br>
 As if I were a son.</p>
<center><i>Enter</i> MRS. BLOGGS. <i>Exit</i> MR. BLOGGS.</center>
<p><i>Mrs. Bloggs</i>. My dearest Kate,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; How
very late<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; You
keep the breakfast things!</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. My dear mamma,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I had
papa<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; To
tell of lots of things.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Bloggs</i>. Your secret, pray,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; If so
I may<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Be let
into it also.</p>
<a name="page124"><!-- Begin Page 124 --></a>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Oh, it was just this letter, mamma, from Mr.
Sapient, telling me that the Council won't let me go to University
College to share the education that can only be had there at a
reasonable cost, because the young men would be demoralized by my
presence.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Bloggs</i>. Kate, I am astonished at you! Have I not
always said that women do not need so much education as men, and
ought to keep themselves <i>to</i> themselves, and not put
themselves forward like impudent minxes? What'll men think of you
if you go sittin' down on the same benches at the colleges, and
studyin' off of the same desk, and, like enough&mdash;for there are
girls bold enough for that&mdash;out of the same books? And what
must the professors think women are comin' to when they want to
learn mathyphysics and metamatics and classical history, and such
stuff as unfits a woman for her place, and makes her as ignorant of
household work, managin' servants, bringin' up children, and such
like, as the greenhorns that some people take from the emigrant
sheds, though I wouldn't be bothered with such ignoramuses,
spoilin' the knives, and burnin' the bread, for anythin'?</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Now, mamma, you know we have gone all over this
before, and shall never agree, because I think that the better
educated a woman is, the better she can fulfil her home duties,
especially in the care and management of the health of her family,
and the proper training of her sons and daughters as good
citizens.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Bloggs</i>. You put me out of all patience, Kate! For
goodness' sake get married and be done with it. And that reminds me
that Harry Gilmour wants you to go to the picnic with him on
Dominion Day, and to the concert at the Gardens at night; and he
said you had snubbed him so at Mrs. Gale's that he didn't like to
speak about it to you without I thought he might. Now, that's what
I call a real shame, the way you do treat that young man. A risin'
young lawyer as he is, with no end of lots in Winnipeg, and all the
money his father made for him up there; comes of a good old family,
and has the best connections; as may be a member yet, perhaps
senator some day, and you <a name="page125">
<!-- Begin Page 125 --></a> treat him as if he was quite beneath
you. I do hope you'll just show a little common sense and accept
his invitations.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Well, mamma, I think the real shame, as you call
it, is that you, and other ladies, will allow your daughters to go,
about to picnics, parties, balls, theatres or anywhere else, with
any man who happens to ask them, and without even so much as a
girl-companion, and yet you see nothing but impropriety in my
desire to attend college, where all the opportunity of associating
with the other sex is limited to a few lectures delivered by grave
and reverend Professors, under conditions of strict discipline, and
at which the whole attention of the students must necessarily be
concentrated on the subject. As for unlimited opportunities for
flirting, there are none; and the necessities of college life
compel each student to attend to his duties while within the halls,
and then go home; wherever that may be.</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Bloggs</i>. It's no use talking, Kate, you won't alter
my opinion. If they'd build another college specially for ladies,
as I hear the Council is willin' to do, and put it under charge of
a lady who would look after the girls, I wouldn't object so much,
though, as I always say, I don't see the need of so much learnin'
for women.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Well, mamma, how much would be gained by a separate
building? The Council, it is true, offer a piece of ground, within
a few minutes walk of the college, for a ladies' college, and
promise to deliver lectures specially "altered to suit the female
capacity." But if there was an intention of giddiness and
flirtation on the part of the lady students, how much hindrance do
you think the separate college would be? And if we can't understand
the same lectures as our brothers, it is evident we can't
understand the same books. Rather a hard nut to crack, isn't
it?</p>
<p><i>Mrs. Bloggs</i>. How rude you are, Kate! I am ashamed of
you.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> MRS. BLOGGS <i>in a rage</i>.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Poor mamma, she thinks her only child a very
<i>enfant terrible</i>.</p>
<hr>
<a name="page126"><!-- Begin Page 126 --></a>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h4>SCENE 2.&mdash;<i>A lady's bedroom</i>.</h4>
<center>KATE BLOGGS <i>and her cousin</i>, ORPHEA BLAGGS, <i>in
conversation</i>.</center>
<p><i>Orphea</i>. What will you do, dear?</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. A deed without a name!<br>
 A deed will waken me at dead of night!<br>
 A deed whose stony face will stare at me<br>
 With vile grimace, and freeze my curdling blood!<br>
 Will make me quake before the eye of day;<br>
 Shrink from the sun; and welcome fearsome night!<br>
 A deed will chase my trembling steps by ways<br>
 Unknown, through lonely streets, into dark haunts!&mdash;<br>
 Will make me tremble if a child observes<br>
 Me close; and quake, if, in a public crowd,<br>
 One glances at me twice!<br>
 A deed I'll blush for, yet I'll do't; and charge<br>
 Its ugliness on those who forced me to't&mdash;<br>
 In short, I'll wear the breeks.</p>
<p><i>Orphea</i>. Oh, Katie! You?</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Yes, me, dear coz.</p>
<p><i>Orphea</i>. But then your hair, and voice!</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. I'll train my voice to mouth out short, thick
words,<br>
 As Bosh! Trash! Fudge! Rot! And I'll cultivate<br>
 An Abernethian, self-assertive style,<br>
 That men may think there is a deal more in<br>
 My solid head than e'er comes out.<br>
 My hair I'll cut short off.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She looses down her abundant brown hair, and
passes her hands through it caressingly</i>.</p>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">Ah, woman's simple pride! these
tresses brown<br>
 Must all be shorn. Like to Godiva fair,<br>
 Whose heart, so true, forgot itself, to serve<br>
 Her suffering kind; I, too, must make<br>
 My hair an offering to my sex; a protest strong<br>
 'Gainst man's oppression.<br>
 <a name="page127"><!-- Begin Page 127 --></a> Oh, wavy locks, that
won my father's praise,<br>
 I must be satisfied to cut ye off,<br>
 And keep ye in a drawer 'till happier times,<br>
 When I again may wear ye as a crown:<br>
 Perchance a bang.</p>
<p><i>Orphea</i>. 'Twould, perhaps, be best to wear some as
moustache.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. The very thing! then whiskers won't be missed.</p>
<p><i>Orphea</i>. But oh, your mannish garb! How dreadful,
Kate!</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. True; but it must be done, and you must help.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exeunt</i>.</p>
<hr>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h4>SCENE 3.&mdash;<i>The same room. Evening</i>.</h4>
<center>KATE <i>alone</i>.</center>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Not let me in! We'll see. I'll beat 'em yet.<br>
 To think that down in Canterbury, girls,<br>
 Like my poor self, have had the badge bestowed<br>
 That I so fondly covet. To think that they<br>
 Enjoy the rights I ask, and have received<br>
 The Cambridge University degree, B.A.<br>
 Not only wear the gown and cap<br>
 As college students, but the hood. The hood!<br>
 And shall Macaulay's proud New Zealander<br>
 Thus sit on me? Not if I know it. No!<br>
 I'll don the dreadful clothes, and cheat the Dons.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She goes to the window</i>.</p>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">The blinds are down, the shutters
closed, the slats<br>
 As well, surely no one can see.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She takes up a man's coat and looks at it,
then the vest, then the pants</i>.</p>
<p style="text-indent: 12em;">I'll do't!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Invests herself in the masculine apparel. A
knock at the door. She starts and turns pale</i>.</p>
<p><i>A Voice</i>. Katie, dear!</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Pshaw! 'tis only Orphea!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She unlocks the door</i>.</p>
<a name="page128"><!-- Begin Page 128 --></a>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">(<i>In masculine tones</i>.) Come in,
dear coz.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Attempts to kiss her, but receives a slap in
the face</i>.</p>
<p><i>Orphea</i>. How dare you, sir! Oh! let me out.</p>
<p><i>Kate (in natural voice)</i>. Orphea, you goose!</p>
<p><i>Orphea</i> Oh, Kate, you did so scare me!</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. And is it then a good disguise?</p>
<p><i>Orphea</i>. 'Tis poor old Tom again.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. But how essay it in the street and hall?</p>
<p><i>Orphea</i>. Well, there's the gown to help. 'Twill cover
all.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. And then the cap? But that I do not mind;<br>
 My Derby hat has used me to a style<br>
 A trifle jaunty, and a hard stiff crown;<br>
 So if my hair prove not too trying<br>
 I yet may like to wear the "mortar-board,"<br>
 If still they wear such things.</p>
<p><i>Orphea</i>. Oh, Kate, it is an awful risk!</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Awful, my dear; but poor mamma<br>
 Thinks I'm an awful girl.<br>
 If she but knew&mdash;<br>
 Yet might I plead that men and women oft<br>
 Have done the same before; poor Joan of Arc;<br>
 Portia; and Rosalind. And I have heard<br>
 That once Achilles donned the woman's garb:<br>
 Then why not I the student's cap and gown?</p>
<a name="page129"><!-- Begin Page 129 --></a>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h3>ACT II.</h3>
<h4>SCENE 1.&mdash;<i>A bedroom in a Toronto boarding-house</i>.
KATE BLOGGS <i>in bed</i>.</h4>
<center><i>Enter boarding-house mistress</i>.</center>
<p><i>Kate</i>. Yes, nursey, I'll be quick, but mind your words<br>
 And looks, and do not make mistakes.</p>
<p><i>Nurse</i>. Oh no, Miss Kate&mdash;or Mr. Christopher,<br>
 As that's the name you've chose, I'll not mistake.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>. And always mind and keep my room,<br>
 My time and liberty, intact, and so<br>
 You'll make it easier for me to obtain<br>
 By surreptitious means, the rights I should<br>
 Enjoy in happier sort.</p>
<p><i>Nurse</i>. I'll do my best, Miss Kate.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> Nurse.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i> (<i>in masculine attire, about to descend to the
breakfast table, turns once more to the mirror</i>). Oh,
Harberton,<br>
 Hadst thou but taught the world<br>
 The beauty of thy new divided skirt<br>
 Ere I was born, this had not now been thus.<br>
 This blush, that burns my cheek, had long been past;<br>
 These trembling limbs, that blench so from the light,<br>
 Had gotten strength to bear me manfully.<br>
 Oh for the mantling night, when city fathers<br>
 save the gas, and Luna draws her veil!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>She sits down on a box</i>.</p>
<p style="text-indent: 0em;">Away, weak tears!<br>
 I must be brave and show myself a man,<br>
 Nay, more, a student, rollicking and gay.<br>
 Would I could feel so! (<i>Sniffs at the air</i>.) Somebody
smokes,<br>
 And before breakfast; pah, the nasty things!<br>
 Would I could smoke! They say some women do;<br>
 Drink toddy, too; and I do neither:<br>
 That's not like a man; I'll have to learn.<br>
 <a name="page130"><!-- Begin Page 130 --></a> But no! my soul
revolts; I'll risk it.<br>
 Surely there are among a studious band<br>
 Some who love temperance and godly life.<br>
 That's the crowd I'll join. They will not plunge into<br>
 Those dreadful orgies that the <i>Globe</i> describes,<br>
 Of men half-tight with lager and old rye,<br>
 Who waylay freshmen and immerse them in<br>
 The flowing wave of Taddle,<br>
 <i>Horrors! Why, I shall be a freshman!</i><br>
 If they touch me I'll scream! ah&mdash;ha, I'll scream!<br>
 Scream, and betray my sex? No, that won't do;<br>
 At Rome I'll have to be a Roman;<br>
 And, to escape that dread ordeal, I<br>
 Shall cringe and crawl, and in the presence of<br>
 A fourth year man step soft and bow,<br>
 And smile if he but condescend to nod.<br>
 Oh, yes, I'll do't. In tableaux once I played<br>
 Uriah Heep, and made the character<br>
 So "'umble" and so crawly, that for days<br>
 I loathed my hands, and slapped my fingers well<br>
 For having knuckles.<br>
 Thus will I to the tyrant play the slave.<br>
 An old antithesis.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Some one calls at the door</i>.</p>
<p style="text-indent: 12em;">Yes, yes, I'm coming, Hannah.<br>
 Now for that dreaded step yclept the first,<br>
 Pray Heaven it may cost most; but that I doubt.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Descends to the breakfast table</i>.</p>
<a name="page131"><!-- Begin Page 131 --></a>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h3>ACT III.</h3>
<h4>SCENE 1.&mdash;<i>The same as Scene 2, Act I</i>.</h4>
<center>MISS ORPHEA BLAGGS <i>solus, reading a letter</i>.</center>
<p><i>Orphea (reading)</i>&mdash;</p>
<p>"My Dearest Orphea&mdash;Congratulate me! me, your cousin, Tom
Christopher, M.A., Gold Medallist.&mdash;Mathematics, and also
Natural Sciences; Honours in Classics, and Prizeman in German
again. You cannot think how queer I feel with all my blushing
honours thick upon me, and more to come. Tuesday! my dear Orphea,
Tuesday! Only think of it, Master of Arts, or more correctly
Mistress of Arts! Now let the New Zealanders boast, and the
Cambridge girls bite their tongues, Canada has caught them up! Ah,
my dear Orphea, that is the drop of gall in the cup of your
successful cousin&mdash;the Canterbury Antipodeans got their
honours <i>first</i>. It reminds me of the saying that the nearer
to church the farther from heaven, since it is evidently the nearer
to the centre of civilization the farther from a University Degree,
so far as we unfortunate women are concerned. But never mind! I've
proved that Canadian girls are equal in mental power with Canadian
boys, and I am only impatient to let the Dons know it.</p>
<p>"And now, my love, for the conclusion of the two years' farce.
It has cost me a whole week's sleep to sketch a plan by which to
declare my sex in the most becoming manner to my fellow
students.</p>
<p>"Do you know, dear, when I look back upon the pleasures of the
past two years&mdash;how soon we forget the pain!&mdash;I am not
inclined to regret the step rendered necessary by my devotion to my
sex, for use has made me quite at home in
the&mdash;ah&mdash;divided skirt! How many lovely girls have I
danced with through the rosy hours who will never more smile on me
as they were wont to smile! How many flowers of rhetoric have been
wasted on me by the irony of fate! How many <i>billets-doux</i>, so
perfumed and <a name="page132"><!-- Begin Page 132 --></a> pretty,
lie in my desk addressed to my nether garment! And how many mammas
have encouraged Mr. Christopher, who will forever taboo Miss
Bloggs! And then the parties and the picnics! Ah, my dear Orphea,
what do I not sacrifice on the altar of my sex. But a truce to
regrets.</p>
<p>"I am longing to see the elegant costume in which I shall appear
before the astonished eyes of the multitude as Miss Bloggs,
M.A.</p>
<p>"You know my style, the latest out, which I find by the fashion
books is Mignonette trimmed with Chinese Pheasant. Buttons up the
back of the sleeves, with rubies and amethysts. Let the fichu be
Eidelweiss; trim the fan and slippers with the same, and use
dandelions and calla lilies for the bouquets. Not a button less
than forty on the gloves, and don't forget my hair.</p>
<p>"Get yourself up to match by contrast, and come and help me make
a sensation.</p>
<p>"The dinner is on the <i>tapis</i>. Webb will be caterer, Sells
will supply the cider; Shapter and Jeffery the Zoedone, and I have
entered into a contract with the Toronto Water Works for pure water
on this occasion only. I have bought up every flower in Toronto, so
that if the tariff does not prevent it, other folks will have to
import their own roses; and I have engaged every boy in the public
schools who has nothing better to do next Saturday to go to Lome
Park and bring back as many maiden-hairs as he can find. Ferns are
my craze, as you know, and I am quite a crank on maiden-hair, which
I mean to adopt for my crest with "If she will, she will," as a
motto. Ever your own,</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">"KATE."</p>
<p>A merry letter truly.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
I'll to the dressmaker.</p>
<hr>
<a name="page133"><!-- Begin Page 133 --></a>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h3>ACT IV.</h3>
<h4 class="scene">SCENE 1.&mdash;<i>A boarding-house dining-room
richly decorated with flowers and plants. Twenty gentlemen, among
whom is</i> Mr. Tom Christopher, <i>each accompanying a lady, one
of whom is</i> Miss Blaggs. <i>The cloth is drawn, and dessert is
on the table</i>.</h4>
<p><i>Mr. Biggs, B.A. (Tor. Univer.), on his feet</i>.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 2em;">Ah&mdash;ladies and gentlemen, here's
to our host,<br>
 And rising, as thus, to propose him a toast,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; I think of the days which together<br>
 In shade, and in sunshine, as chums we have passed,<br>
 In love, and esteem, that forever must last,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Let happen what will to the weather.</p>
<p>In short, ladies and gentlemen, I have to propose the
everlasting health and welfare of our host, who should have been
our honoured guest but for that persistent pertinacity he exhibited
in the matter, and which he does himself the injustice to call
womanish. But I am sure, ladies and gentlemen, no one but himself
ever accused our esteemed host of being womanish, and when we look
upon the high standing he has achieved in our University, the
honour he confers on his Alma Mater by his scholarly attainments
and the gentlemanly character he has won among all sorts of
students, I am sure, ladies and gentlemen, we should be doing great
injustice to you all were we for one moment to admit that he could
be other than he is, an honour to Toronto University, and a credit
to his sex. I am quite sure the ladies are at this moment envying
the happy woman whom he will at no distant date probably
distinguish with his regard, and it must be satisfactory to
ourselves, gentlemen, to know that it lies in our power, as the
incumbents of academic honours, to be able to bestow that reversion
of them on those who, having all the world at their feet, need not
sigh for the fugitive conquests that demand unceasing toil and an
unlimited amount of gas or coal-oil. Ladies and gentlemen, I call
<a name="page134"><!-- Begin Page 134 --></a> upon you to fill your
sparkling glasses to the honour of our host and college chum, Mr.
Tom Christopher. And here's with a hip, hip, hooray! and hands all
round!</p>
<p><i>All</i>.&mdash;Hip, hip! Hurrah!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Tremendous cheering and clinking of glasses.
Several are broken, and the excitement consequently
subsides</i>.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Tom Christopher</i>.&mdash;Ladies and gentlemen, I thank
you much.<br>
 For these your loving words. A third year man,<br>
 I came upon you fresh from nowhere;<br>
 This in itself a warranty for cold<br>
 And hard suspicion; but you received<br>
 Me with some warmth, and made me one of you,<br>
 Chaffed me, and sat on me, and lent me books.<br>
 And offered pipes, and made inquiries kind<br>
 About my sisters; and Time, who takes<br>
 Men kindly by the hand, made us warm friends,<br>
 And knit us in a love all brotherly.</p>
<p><i>Many Voices</i>.&mdash;Yes, brothers! brothers! we are
brothers all!</p>
<p><i>A Voice</i>.&mdash;And sisters!</p>
<p><i>Mr. Tom</i>.&mdash;I would say sisters too, but that I
fear<br>
 My lady guests would think I did presume;<br>
 But yet I know, and knowing it am proud,<br>
 That most men here to-night would welcome all<br>
 The sweet girl-graduates that would fill the list<br>
 Did but the College Council set aside<br>
 A foolish prejudice, and let them in.<br>
 And now, I know a girl who long has worked<br>
 To pass the exams, take the proud degree<br>
 I hold to-day, and yet her petticoat<br>
 Forbade.</p>
<p><i>Several Voices</i>.&mdash;Name! Name! A toast! A toast!</p>
<p><i>Mr. Tom</i>.&mdash;I will not name her, gentlemen, but
bring<br>
 Her to your presence, if you so incline;<br>
 First begging that you will not let surprise<br>
 Oust self-possession, for my friend's a girl<br>
 <a name="page135"><!-- Begin Page 135 --></a> Of timid temper,
though she's bold to act<br>
 If duty calls.</p>
<p><i>Many Voices</i>.&mdash;Your friend! Your friend!</p>
<p><i>Mr. Tom</i>.&mdash;I go to fetch her, gentlemen; dear ladies
all,<br>
 I beg your suffrages of gentle eyes<br>
 And kindly smile to greet my guest.</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Exit</i> MR. TOM CHRISTOPHER.</p>
<hr>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h4>SCENE 2.&mdash;<i>The same</i>.</h4>
<center><i>Enter</i> MISS KATE BLOGGS <i>in full dinner toilet of
Reseda silk, and carrying a<br>
 dandelion and lily bouquet</i>.</center>
<p><i>Miss Blaggs</i>.&mdash;My cousin! oh, my cousin!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>Rushes excitedly forward and falls into
hysterics on</i> Miss BLOGGS' <i>neck. The company gather round in
great surprise</i>.</p>
<p><i>Miss B</i>.&mdash;Dear Orphea! Orphea, my dear! oh, water,
gentlemen!<br>
 Lay her upon the couch. See! see! she gasps!<br>
 Orphea, dear girl!</p>
<p class="stage">[<i>The ladies are much alarmed, but Miss BLAGGS
soon gives signs of recovery, and sits up</i>.</p>
<p><i>Orphea</i> (<i>in tears)</i>.&mdash;Oh, Kate! it struck me so
to see you once again as you were wont to be; those nasty ugly
pants forever gone, and you a girl again.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>.&mdash;Dear friends, you look surprised.<br>
 Pray Heaven you'll not look worse when you know all.<br>
 I am indeed a girl, though you have known<br>
 Me hitherto as Thomas Christopher.<br>
 Four years ago I passed the exams, for<br>
 Us women, at your University.<br>
 Once more I passed. But when again I would,<br>
 I stumbled for the teaching that is chained&mdash;<br>
 Like ancient scripture to the reading desk&mdash;<br>
 Within your College walls. No word of mine<br>
 Could move the flinty heads of College Council.<br>
 <a name="page136"><!-- Begin Page 136 --></a> Order and discipline
forbade, they said,<br>
 That women should sit-side by side with men<br>
 Within their walls. At church, or concert, or<br>
 At theatre, or ball, no separation's made<br>
 Of sexes. And so I, being a girl<br>
 Of firm and independent mind, resolved<br>
 To do as many a one beside has done<br>
 For lesser prize, and, as a man, sat at<br>
 The feet of our Gamaliels until I got<br>
 The learning that I love. That I may now<br>
 Look you all in the face without a blush, save&mdash;that<br>
 Which naturally comes at having thus<br>
 To avow my hardihood, is praise, I trow,<br>
 You will not think unworthy; and to me<br>
 It forms a soft remembrance that will ever dwell<br>
 Within my grateful heart.<br>
 Can you forgive me?</p>
<p><i>Many Voices</i>.&mdash;We do, we must. All honour to the
brave!<br>
 Speak for us, Biggs.</p>
<p><i>Mr. Biggs</i>.&mdash;I cannot speak, except to ask the lady's
pardon<br>
 For our rough ways.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>.&mdash;No; pardon me.</p>
<p><i>Many Voices</i>.&mdash;No! no! we ask your pardon.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>.&mdash;If that, indeed, as I must need believe<br>
 From all your looks, you do not blame me much,<br>
 Endue me with a favour. It is this:&mdash;<br>
 Let every man and woman here to-night<br>
 Look out for those petitions that will soon<br>
 Be placed in many a store by those our friends<br>
 Who in this city form a ladies' club,<br>
 And each one sign. Nay more, to show you mean<br>
 What I, with swelling heart have often heard<br>
 You strongly urge, the rights of women to<br>
 The College privileges, get all your friends<br>
 To sign. Do what your judgment charges you<br>
 To help so good a cause, and let the lists<br>
 Of 1883 have no more names<br>
 <a name="page137"><!-- Begin Page 137 --></a> Set by themselves as
women. Let us go<br>
 In numbrous strength before the Parliament,<br>
 And ask our rights in such a stirring sort,<br>
 They shall be yielded. Then I shall know<br>
 Your brotherly and pleasant words mean faith,<br>
 And shall no more regret a daring act<br>
 That else will fail of reason.<br>
 May I thus trust?</p>
<p><i>All</i>.&mdash;You may! You may.</p>
<p><i>Kate</i>.&mdash;Then hands all round, my friends, till break
of day.</p>
<hr>
<a name="page138"><!-- Begin Page 138 --></a> <a name="page139">
<!-- Begin Page 139 --></a>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<h2><a name="fables">FABLES:<br>
 ORIGINAL AND FROM THE FRENCH.</a></h2>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<a name="page140"><!-- Begin Page 140 --></a> <a name="page141">
<!-- Begin Page 141 --></a>
<h3><a name="fables1">THE CHOICE.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>As fragrant essences from summer flowers,<br>
 Steal, on a&euml;rial pinions, to the sense,<br>
 So, on the viewless wing of rumour, sped<br>
 A word that set the aviary on flame.<br>
 "To-morrow comes the Prince," it said, "to choose<br>
 A bird of gifts will grace the royal bower."<br>
 O then began a fluttering and a fume&mdash;<br>
 A judging each of all! Pert airs and speech<br>
 Flew thick as moulted feathers. Little heads<br>
 Were tossed in lofty pride, or in disdain<br>
 Were turned aside. For each bird deemed his own<br>
 The merits that would charm. One only sang<br>
 To-day his daily song, nor joined the crowd<br>
 In envious exultation. To him spoke<br>
 Another of his kind. "Vain one, refrain<br>
 That everlasting pipe, fit for a cage<br>
 Behind some cotter's lattice, where thy gray<br>
 And thickset form may shun the cultured eye.<br>
 A word of warning, too&mdash;hide from the Prince."<br>
 "Dear brother," cried the gray, "be not annoyed;<br>
 Who sees your elegance of form, and depth<br>
 Of perfect colour, ne'er will notice me."<br>
 The morrow came,&mdash;the Prince. Each bird essayed<br>
 To please the royal taste, and many a meed<br>
 Of praise was won and given&mdash;this for his hue;&mdash;<br>
 That for his elegance;&mdash;another for<br>
 <a name="page142"><!-- Begin Page 142 --></a> His fascinating
grace. Yet something lacked,<br>
 'Twas evident, and many an anxious glance<br>
 Betrayed the latent fear.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "Yon
little bird<br>
 In quiet gray and green courts not my praise,<br>
 Yet should a singer be," exclaimed the Prince,<br>
 As with a critical and searching eye<br>
 He scanned the small competitors for choice.<br>
 Obedient to his governor, the bird<br>
 Poured forth his song, oblivious of the crowd<br>
 Of vain and envious round him, in whose eyes<br>
 He stood contemptible. The Prince, entranced,<br>
 Broke forth at length: "Nor hue, nor elegance,<br>
 Nor fascination, can outvie the gift<br>
 Of genius. My choice is made."<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And to
the great offence<br>
 Of one bright bird, at least, the humble gray<br>
 Became the royal treasure.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page143"><!-- Begin Page 143 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="fables2">INSINCERITY.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Tired of the narrow limits her assigned,<br>
 Truth fled the earth; and men were fain to grope<br>
 In utter darkness. Blindly they blundered,<br>
 And were long distraught, till on the horizon rose<br>
 A luminosity, and in its midst<br>
 A form. They cried, "'Tis Truth! fair Truth returned!'<br>
 And though the light seemed dim, the form but faint<br>
 To that of other days, they worshipped it,<br>
 And all things went along much as at first.<br>
 Until, born none knew whence, a doubt arose;<br>
 Grew strong; and spake; and pondering, men began<br>
 To quest their goddess' claim. Then, too, was set<br>
 A secret watch, a covert test for proof;<br>
 And one fine day there rose a clamour, such<br>
 As cheated mobs will make, when cunning puts<br>
 A veto on their claim.<br>
 For this mob found that, in her stolen guise<br>
 Of softer beams, they had adored a cheat;<br>
 A make-believe; a lie.<br>
 Immense their rage! One aim inspired them all&mdash;<br>
 To punish. But while they swayed and tossed<br>
 In wrathful argument on just desert,<br>
 Fair Truth indeed appeared, clad in her robes<br>
 Of glorious majesty. "Desist, my friends,"<br>
 She cried; "the executioner condign<br>
 Of Insincerity, and your avenger,<br>
 Is Time, my faithful henchman."<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page144"><!-- Begin Page 144 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="fables3">THE TWO TREES.<br>
 FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Two trees, amid whose leafy shade<br>
 The warbling birds their vigils paid,<br>
 Stood neighbours&mdash;each as noble tree<br>
 In height and girth as one might see.<br>
 The one, sequestered in the vale,<br>
 All sheltered from the boisterous gale,<br>
 Had passed his days in soft repose;<br>
 The other from the cliff arose,<br>
 And bore the brunt of stormy wind<br>
 That lashed him oft in frenzy blind.<br>
<br>
 A day there happed when from the north<br>
 Aquilon drave his forces forth,<br>
 And hurled them headlong on the rock<br>
 Where, proudly poised to meet the shock,<br>
 Our bold tree stood. In gallant might,<br>
 He took the gage of proffered fight,<br>
 And though in every fibre wrung,<br>
 Kept every fibre still upstrung.<br>
<br>
 "Thou tremblest!" cried the sheltered tree,<br>
 "Thine own the folly! Come to me.<br>
 Here no wild tempest rocks our boughs&mdash;<br>
 Scarce may it bend our haughty brows&mdash;<br>
 Scarce may a breeze our branches kiss&mdash;<br>
 From every harm a shelter this."<br>
 <a name="page145"><!-- Begin Page 145 --></a><br>
 No word replied the storm-tried tree,<br>
 But, wrestling for the mastery,<br>
 He bowed and straightened, writhed and shook,<br>
 And firmer of the rock he took<br>
 A tightening clutch with grip of steel,<br>
 Nor once the storm-fiend made him reel;<br>
 And when his weary foe passed by,<br>
 Still towered he proudly to the sky.<br>
<br>
 Then through the vale the wing&egrave;d blast<br>
 For the first time in fury passed,<br>
 As through ripe grain the sickles go,<br>
 Widespread he scattered fear and woe;<br>
 Prone fell the tree&mdash;so safe before&mdash;<br>
 'Mid ruin dire, to rise no more.<br>
<br>
 He cannot fall who knows to fight<br>
 With stern adversity aright.<br>
 But soon is laid the victim low,<br>
 That knows not how to ward a blow.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page146"><!-- Begin Page 146 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="fables4">FABLE AND TRUTH.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Simply attired in Nature's strictest garb,<br>
 Fair Truth emerged from out her sheltering well;<br>
 But Time so many of her charms had touched<br>
 That age and youth before her presence fled:<br>
 And no asylum showed an open door<br>
 Of welcome to the waif of shivering limb.<br>
 Sudden upon her sight a vision breaks&mdash;<br>
 Gay Fable richly robed, and pranked withal<br>
 In plumes and jewels&mdash;mostly false 'tis true,<br>
 But bright enough. "Ah, is it you, my friend?<br>
 How do?" quo' she, "but why upon the road.<br>
 "And all alone?"<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "You
see I freeze," says Truth,<br>
 "And yet of those who pass I but implore<br>
 A simple shelter, but I frighten them.<br>
 Alas! I see an aged woman gains<br>
 But small consideration!"<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
"Younger than I,"<br>
 Saith Fable, "are you? Yet I may aver,<br>
 Without conceit, that everywhere<br>
 I am received with joy. But Mistress Truth,<br>
 Why did you brave the light in such scant robe?<br>
 'Twas most ill-judged. Come, let's arrange for both,<br>
 Since the same end is aim for me as you;<br>
 Get 'neath my cloak, and we'll together walk.<br>
 Thus, for your sake, I shall not by the wise<br>
 Be buffeted; and for my sake, you shall<br>
 Be well received among the simpler sort.<br>
 Thus every one his proper taste may suit,<br>
 And by these means each shall her end attain,<br>
 Thanks to your sense, and my amusing speech.<br>
 And you will see, my sister, everywhere<br>
 We shall be well received, in company."
&mdash;<i>Florian</i>.</td></tr></table>
<a name="page147"><!-- Begin Page 147 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="fables5">THE CALIPH.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>In ancient days the Caliph Almamon<br>
 A palace built in Bagdad, fairer far<br>
 Than was the vaunted house of Solomon.<br>
 The portico a hundred columns graced<br>
 Of purest alabaster. Gold and blue<br>
 And jasper formed the rich mosaic floor.<br>
 Ceiled with the fragrant cedar, suites of rooms<br>
 Displayed a wealth of sculpture; treasures rare<br>
 In art and nature vied; fair flowers and gems,<br>
 Perfumes and scented myrtles; verdure soft<br>
 And piercing lustre; past the embroidered couch<br>
 The gushing fountains rolled on dancing wave.<br>
 And beauty reigned o'er all.<br>
 Near this abode, but just beyond the gate,<br>
 A simple cottage stood, old and dilapidate,<br>
 The home of a poor weaver. There, content<br>
 With little gain procured by labour long,<br>
 Without a debt and thus beyond a care,<br>
 The old man lived, forgotten perhaps, but free.<br>
 His days all peaceful softly wore away<br>
 And he nor envied was, nor envying.<br>
 As hath been told, his small and mean retreat,<br>
 Just masked the palace gates. The Grand Vizier<br>
 Would pull it down, without formality<br>
 Of law, or word of grace. More just his lord<br>
 Commands to buy it first. To hear is to obey;<br>
 They seek the weaver's bearing bags of gold;<br>
 "These shalt thou have."<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "No;
keep your lordly sum,<br>
 My workshop yields my needs," responds the man,<br>
 "And for my house, I have no wish to sell;<br>
 Here was I born, and here my father died:<br>
 <a name="page148"><!-- Begin Page 148 --></a> And here would I die
too. The Caliph may,<br>
 Should he so will, force me to leave the place<br>
 And pull my cottage down, but should he so<br>
 Each day would find me seated on the stone<br>
 The last that's left, weeping my misery.<br>
 I know Almamon's heart; 'twill pity me."<br>
 This bold reply the Vizier's choler raised;<br>
 He would the rascal punish, and at once<br>
 Pull down the sorry hut. Not so the Caliph:<br>
 "No; while it stands my glory lives," saith he,<br>
 "My treasure shall be taxed to make it whole;<br>
 And of my reign it shall be monument;<br>
 For when my heirs shall this fair palace mark<br>
 They shall exclaim 'How great was Almamon!'<br>
 And when yon cottage 'Almamon was just!'"
&mdash;<i>Florian</i>.</td></tr></table>
<a name="page149"><!-- Begin Page 149 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="fables6">THE BLIND MAN AND THE PARALYTIC.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Kindly let us help each other,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Lighter will our burden lie,<br>
 For the good we do our brother<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Is a solace pure and high,&mdash;<br>
 So Confucius to his people,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To his friends, the wise Chinese,<br>
 Oft affirmed, and to persuade them,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Told them stories such as these:&mdash;<br>
<br>
 In an Asiatic city<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Dwelt two miserable men,&mdash;<br>
 Misery knows nor clime nor country,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Haunts alike the dome or den&mdash;<br>
 Blind the one, the other palsied,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Each so poor he prayed for death;<br>
 Yet he lived, his invocations<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Seeming naught but wasted breath.<br>
 On his wretched mattress lying,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; In the busy public square,<br>
 See the wasted paralytic<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Suffering more that none doth care.<br>
<br>
 Butt for everybody's humour,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Gropes the blind his devious way,<br>
 Guide, nor staff, nor helper has he,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To supply the light's lost ray;<br>
 E'en a poor dog's willing service,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Love, and guidance are denied;<br>
 Till one day his groping finds him<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; By the paralytic's side.<br>
 There he hears the sufferer's moaning,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And his very soul is moved.<br>
 He's the truest sympathizer<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Who, like sorrow, erst has proved.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page150"><!-- Begin Page 150 --></a> "I have, sorrows,
thou hast others,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Brother, let us join our woes,<br>
 And their rigours will be softened,"<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Thus the blind began propose.<br>
 "Ah, my friend, thou little knowest<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That a step I cannot take;<br>
 Thou art blind; what should we gain then<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of two burdens one to make?"<br>
 "Why, now, brother, see how lucky,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; 'Twixt us both is all we lack:<br>
 Thou hast eyes, be thou the guide then,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Thee I'll carry on my back;<br>
 Thus without unfriendly question<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; As to which bears heaviest load,<br>
 I will walk for thee, and thou, friend,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Choose for me the smoothest road."
&mdash;<i>Florian</i>.</td></tr></table>
<a name="page151"><!-- Begin Page 151 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="fables7">DEATH.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>On a set day, fell Death, queen of the world,&mdash;<br>
 In hell assembled all her fearful court<br>
 That 'mongst them she might choose a minister<br>
 Would render her estate more flourishing.<br>
 As candidates for the dread office came,<br>
 With measured strides, from Tartarus' lowest depth,<br>
 Fever, and Gout, and War&mdash;a trio<br>
 To whose gifts all earth and hell bare witness&mdash;<br>
 The queen reception gave them.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then
came Plague,<br>
 And none his claims and merit might deny.<br>
 Still, when a doctor paid his visit, too,<br>
 Opinion wavered which would win the day.<br>
 Nor could Queen Death herself at once decide.<br>
 But when the Vices came her choice fell quick&mdash;<br>
 She chose Excess. &mdash;<i>Florian</i>.</td></tr></table>
<a name="page152"><!-- Begin Page 152 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="fables8">THE HOUSE OF CARDS.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>How softly glide Philemon's happy days<br>
 Within the cot where once his father dwelt<br>
 Peaceful as he!<br>
 Here with his gentle wife and sturdy boys,<br>
 In rural quietude, he tills his farm;<br>
 Gathers his harvest, or his garden tends.<br>
 Here sweet domestic joys together shared<br>
 Crown every evening, whether 'neath the trees<br>
 The smiling summer draws the table forth:<br>
 Or round the cosy hearth the winter cold<br>
 With crackling faggot blazing makes their cheer.<br>
 Here do the careful parents ever give<br>
 Counsels of virtuous knowledge to their sons.<br>
 The father with a story points his speech,<br>
 The mother with a kiss.<br>
 Of different tastes, the boys: the elder one,<br>
 Grave, studious, reads and thinks the livelong day;<br>
 The younger, sprightly, gay, and graceful, too,<br>
 Leaps, laughs incessant, and in games delights.<br>
 One evening, as their wont, at father's side,<br>
 And near a table where their mother sewed,<br>
 The elder Rollin read. The younger played:<br>
 Small care had he for Rome's ambitious deeds,<br>
 Or Parthian prowess; his whole mind was set<br>
 To build a house of cards, his wit sharp-drawn<br>
 To fit the corners neatly. He, nor speaks,<br>
 Nor scarce may breathe, so great his anxious care.<br>
 But suddenly the reader's voice is heard<br>
 Self-interrupting: "Papa, pray tell me why<br>
 Some warriors are called Conquerors, and some<br>
 The Founders, of an Empire? What doth make<br>
 The points of difference in the simple terms?"<br>
 <a name="page153"><!-- Begin Page 153 --></a> In careful thought
the father sought reply:<br>
 When, radiant with delight, his younger son,<br>
 After so much endeavour, having placed<br>
 His second stage, cries out, "Tis done!" But he,<br>
 The elder, harshly chides his brother's glee,<br>
 Strikes the frail tenement, and so destroys<br>
 The fruits of patient toil: The younger weeps:<br>
 And then the father thus: "Oh, my dear son,<br>
 Thy brother is the Founder of a realm,<br>
 Thou the fell Conqueror." &mdash;<i>Florian</i>.</td></tr></table>
<a name="page154"><!-- Begin Page 154 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="fables9">THE BULLFINCH AND THE RAVEN.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>In separate cages hung, the same kind roof<br>
 Sheltered a bullfinch and a raven bold,<br>
 The one with song mellifluous charmed the house;<br>
 The other's cries incessant wearied all.<br>
 With loud hoarse voice he screamed for bread and meat<br>
 And cheese; the which they quickly brought, in hope<br>
 To stop thereby his brawling tongue.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The
finch<br>
 Did nought but sing, and never bawled and begged;<br>
 So they forgot him. Oft the pretty bird<br>
 Nor food nor water had, and they who praised<br>
 His song the loudest took the smallest care<br>
 To fill his fount. And yet they loved him well,<br>
 But thought not on his needs.<br>
 One day they found him dead within his cage,<br>
 "Ah, horror! and he sang so well!" they cry,<br>
 "What can it be he died of? 'Tis, indeed<br>
 A dreadful pity."<br>
 The raven still screamed on, and nothing lacked.
&mdash;<i>Florian</i>.</td></tr></table>
<a name="page155"><!-- Begin Page 155 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="fables10">THE WASP AND THE BEE.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Within the chalice of a flower<br>
 A bee "improved the shining hour,"<br>
 Whom, when she saw, a wasp draw near,<br>
 And sought to gain the fair one's ear,<br>
 With tender praise: "Oh, sister mine&mdash;<br>
 (For love and trust that name entwine)"<br>
 But ill it pleased the haughty bee,<br>
 Who answered proudly: "Sisters!&mdash;we?<br>
 Since when, I pray you, dates the tie?"<br>
 With angry warmth the wasp's reply<br>
 Came fuming forth&mdash;"Life-long, indeed.<br>
 In semblant points all eyes may read<br>
 The fact. Observe me if you please.<br>
 Your wings, are they not such as these?<br>
 Mine is your figure, mine your waist,<br>
 And if you used with proper taste<br>
 Your sting, as I do, we agree<br>
 In that."<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "'Tis
true," replies the bee,<br>
 "Each bears a weapon; in its use<br>
 The difference lies. For fierce abuse,<br>
 And insolence your dart doth serve.<br>
 Mine gives the chastisement that these deserve,<br>
 And while you irritate your dearest friend;<br>
 I take good heed myself, but to defend."
&mdash;<i>Florian</i>.</td></tr></table>
<a name="page156"><!-- Begin Page 156 --></a> <a name="page157">
<!-- Begin Page 157 --></a> <a name="page158">
<!-- Begin Page 158 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h2><a name="translations">TRANSLATIONS</a></h2>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <a name="page159"><!-- Begin Page 159 --></a>
<h3><a name="trans1">A MEMORY OF THE HEROES OF 1760.
<br>FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>O ye who tread with heedless feet<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; This dust once laid with heroes' blood,<br>
 A moment turn your backward glance<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To years of dread inquietude:<br>
 When wars disturbed our peaceful fields;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; When mothers drew a sobbing breath;<br>
 When the great river's hilly marge<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Resounded with a cry of death.<br>
<br>
 Then, full of fire, the heroes sprang<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To save our heritage and laws.<br>
 They conquered! 'twas a holiday.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Alas, the last in such a cause!<br>
 Bloody and shamed, the flag of France<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Perforce recrossed the widening seas;<br>
 The sad Canadian mourned his hopes,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And cherished bitter memories.<br>
<br>
 But noble he despite his woe!<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Before his lords he proudly bends,<br>
 Like some tall oak that storms may shake,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And bow, but never, never rend.<br>
 And oft he dreams a happy dream,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And sees a flag, with lilies sown,<br>
 Come back whence comes the rising Sun,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To float o'er landscapes all his own.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page160"><!-- Begin Page 160 --></a> Oh when the south
wind on its wings<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Bears to his ear strange sounds afar,<br>
 To him they seem the solemn chant<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of triumph after clam'rous war.<br>
 Those echoes weird of gallant strife<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; E'en stir the coffined warrior-dead,<br>
 As stirs a nation's inmost heart<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; At some proud pageant nobly led.<br>
<br>
 O France, once more 'neath Western skies,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; We see thy standards proudly wave!<br>
 And Mexico's high ramparts fall<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Before thy squadrons, true and brave.<br>
 Peace shalt thou to the land restore;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; For fetters shalt give back the crown;<br>
 And with thy shining sword shalt hurl<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The base usurper from the throne.<br>
<br>
 Hear ye, how in their ancient urns<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The ashes of our heroes wake?<br>
 Thus greet they ye, fair sons of morn,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; For this their solemn silence break.<br>
 They greet ye, whose renown hath reached<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Past star on star to highest heaven!<br>
 Ye on whose brow their halo sits,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To ye their altar shall be given!<br>
<br>
 Arise, immortal phalanxes,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Who fell upon a glorious day!<br>
 Your century of mourning weeds<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Posterity would take away.<br>
 Arise and see! our woods and fields<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; No longer nourish enemies!<br>
 Whom once ye fought are brothers now,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; One law around us throws its ties.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page161"><!-- Begin Page 161 --></a> And who shall dare
our homesteads touch,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; That for our heritage ye gave:&mdash;<br>
 And who shall drive us from the shores<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; To which your blood the verdure gave?&mdash;<br>
 E'en they shall find the oppressed will rise<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; More powerful for the foe withstood;<br>
 And ever for such heinous crime<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Shall pay the forfeit with their blood.<br>
<br>
 Ye, our defenders in the past,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Your names are still a household word!<br>
 In childhood's ear old age recounts<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The toils your hardy youth endured.<br>
 And on the field of victory<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Hath gratitude your memory graved!<br>
 In during brass your story lives<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A glory to the centuries saved!<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page162"><!-- Begin Page 162 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="trans2">THE SONG OF THE CANADIAN VOLTIGEURS.
<br>FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Our country insulted<br>
 Demands quick redress.<br>
 To arms, Voltigeurs!<br>
 To the struggle we press.<br>
 From vict'ry to vict'ry,<br>
 Brave, righteous, and just,<br>
 Ours the mem'ries that cling to<br>
 Our forefathers' dust.<br>
<br>
 Defend we our farm-lands,<br>
 Our half-crumbled walls!<br>
 Defend we our sweethearts,<br>
 Our hearths and our halls!<br>
 Our dear native tongue,<br>
 Our faith keep we free!<br>
 Defend we our life,<br>
 For a people are we!<br>
<br>
 No rulers know we, save<br>
 Our time-honoured laws!<br>
 And woe to the nation<br>
 That sneers at our cause.<br>
 Our fields and our furrows,<br>
 Our woods and our streams,<br>
 Should their columns invade,<br>
 Shall entomb their vain dreams!<br>
<br>
 To our foes, the perfidious,<br>
 Be war to the knife.<br>
 Intrepid, yet duteous,<br>
 We leap to the strife.<br>
 <a name="page163"><!-- Begin Page 163 --></a> More terrible
shewing<br>
 In danger's red hour;<br>
 We know to avenge,<br>
 And unbroken our power.<br>
<br>
 List the thunderous roar<br>
 As the shot rushes by!<br>
 To our war-song heroic,<br>
 The chorus of joy.<br>
 At the ring of the musket<br>
 To the battle we fly;<br>
 Come! come to the field,<br>
 See us conquer or die.<br>
<br>
 What! we become slaves<br>
 To an alien foe?<br>
 We bear their vile trammels?<br>
 Our answer is, No!<br>
 Assistance shall reach us<br>
 From heaven's lucent arch:<br>
 Come! seize we our muskets<br>
 And "double-quick march!"<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page164"><!-- Begin Page 164 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="trans3">THE LEGEND OF THE EARTH.
<br>FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN RAMEAU.</a></h3>
<hr>
<center>[The Prize Poem in the Christmas (1885) Number of the Paris
<i>Figaro</i>, translated for the <i>Week</i>.]</center>
<br>

<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>When the Creator had laid out the deeps,<br>
 The great illimitable fields of sad-eyed space,<br>
 A weighty bag upon His neck He threw,<br>
 Whence issued sound confused of huddled stars;<br>
<br>
 And, plunging in the sack His mighty hand,<br>
 He traversed all the ether's wondrous plain<br>
 With slow and measured step, as doth a sower,<br>
 Sowing the gloomy void with many suns.<br>
<br>
 He tossed them&mdash;tossed them&mdash;some in fantastic
groups,<br>
 And some in luminous; some terrible.<br>
 And 'neath the Sower's steps, whose grain was stars,<br>
 The furrows of the sky, ecstatic, smoked.<br>
<br>
 He tossed them&mdash;tossed them&mdash;out of His whirling
hand,<br>
 Plenteous in every place, by full broad casts<br>
 Measured to rhythmic beat; and golden stars<br>
 Flew o'er the wide expanse like firefly swarms.<br>
<br>
 "Away! away!" cried He of worlds the Sower:<br>
 "Away, ye stars! spring in the wastes of heaven;<br>
 Broider its purple fields with your fair gems;<br>
 Tuneful, elated, gladsome, take your course.<br>
<br>
 "Go, wave of fire, into a darksome night,<br>
 And there make joy, and there the pleasant day!<br>
 And launch into the depths immeasurable<br>
 Quick, quivering darts of glowing light and love!<br>
<br>
 <a name="page165"><!-- Begin Page 165 --></a> "I will that all
within your bounds shall shine,<br>
 Be glad, be prosperous, happy, blest, content,<br>
 Shall sing for ever 'Glory be to Thee,<br>
 Creator, Father, Sower, who with suns<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Hast
filled infinity!'"<br>
<br>
 Thus He dismissed the stars, weighted with life,<br>
 Careering round their calm Creator's feet<br>
 As, in a desert place July has scorched,<br>
 The grains of sand may cloud the traveller's steps.<br>
<br>
 And glittered all, and sang; and, hindered not,<br>
 Upon their axes turned, constant and sure;<br>
 Their million million voices, strong and deep,<br>
 Bursting in great hosannas to the skies.<br>
<br>
 And all was happiness and right, beauty and strength;<br>
 And every star heard all her radiant sons<br>
 With songs of love ensphere her mother-breast;<br>
 And all blessed Life. And blessed the Highest Heaven.<br>

<hr>
Now, when His bag of stars he had deplete,<br>
 When all the dark with orbs of fire was strown,<br>
 The Sower found at bottom, 'twixt two folds,<br>
 A little bit of shining sun, chipped off.<br>
<br>
 And wondering, knowing not what sphere unknown<br>
 Revolved in crimson space all incomplete,<br>
 The great Creator, at a puff, spun off<br>
 This tiny bit of sun far into space;<br>
<br>
 Then, mounting high up to His scarlet throne,<br>
 Beyond the mist of thickly scattered worlds,<br>
 Like a great crowned king whose proud eye burns<br>
 At hearing from afar His people's voice,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He
listens,<br>
 <a name="page166"><!-- Begin Page 166 --></a><br>
 And He hears<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The
mighty Alleluia of the stars,<br>
 The choirs of glowing spheres in whirling flood<br>
 Of song and high apotheosis,<br>
 All surging to His feet in incense clouds.<br>
<br>
 He sees eternity with rapture thrilled;<br>
 He sees in one prolonged diapason<br>
 The organ of the universe, vehement, roll<br>
 For ever songs of praise to Him, the Sower.<br>
<br>
 But suddenly He pales. From starry seas<br>
 A smothered cry mounts to the upper skies;<br>
 It rises, swells, grows strong; prevailing o'er<br>
 All the ovation of the joyful spheres.<br>
<br>
 From that dim atom of the chipped orb<br>
 It comes; from wretches left forsaken, sad,<br>
 Who weep the Mother-star, incessant sought<br>
 And never found from that gray point of sky.<br>
<br>
 And the cry said "Cursed! Cursed are we, the lost<br>
 By misery led, a wretched pallid flock,<br>
 Made for the light and tossed into the dark!<br>
<br>
 "We are the banished ones; the exile band;<br>
 The only race whose eyes are filled with tears.<br>
 And if the waters of our seas be salt,<br>
 'Twas our forefathers tears that made them so.<br>
<br>
 "Be He Anathema, the Sower of Light!<br>
 Be He Anathema whom worlds adore!&mdash;<br>
 If to our native star He join us not<br>
 Be He accursed, through all creation cursed, for aye!"<br>
<br>
 Then rose the God from His great scarlet throne,<br>
 And gentle, moved, weeping as we, He stretched<br>
 His two bright arms over the flat expanse,<br>
 And in a voice of thunder launched reply:&mdash;<br>
<br>
 <a name="page167"><!-- Begin Page 167 --></a> "Morsel of Sun,
calling thyself the Earth:&mdash;<br>
 Chrysalides on her grey bounds supine:&mdash;<br>
 Humanity&mdash;sing! for I give you Death,<br>
 The Comforter, he who shall lead you back<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Safe
to your Star of Light,<br>

<hr>
And this is why&mdash;lofty, above mishap,<br>
 The Poet, made for stars of molten gold,<br>
 Spurns earth; his eyes; fixed on the glowing heavens,<br>
 Toward which he soon shall take his freer
flight.<br></td></tr></table>
<a name="page168"><!-- Begin Page 168 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="trans4">THE EMIGRANT MOUNTAINEER.
<br>FROM THE FRENCH OF CHATEAUBRIAND.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>How doth fond memory oft return<br>
 To that fair spot where I was born!<br>
 My sister, those were happy days<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In
lovely France.<br>
 O, country mine, my latest gaze<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Shall
turn to France!<br>
<br>
 Remember'st thou with what fond pride,<br>
 Our lowly cottage hearth beside,<br>
 She clasped us to her gladsome breast&mdash;<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Our
dearest mother;<br>
 While on her hair so white, we pressed<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
Kisses, together?<br>
<br>
 My sister, canst thou not recall<br>
 Dor&eacute;, that bathed the castle wall,<br>
 And that old Moorish tower, war-worn<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And
grey,<br>
 From whence the gong struck out each morn<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The
break of day.<br>
<br>
 The tranquil lake doth mem'ry bring,<br>
 Where swallows poised on lightest wing;<br>
 The breeze by which the supple reed<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Was
bent,&mdash;<br>
 The setting sun whose glory filled<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The
firmament?<br>
<br>
 <a name="page169"><!-- Begin Page 169 --></a> Rememberest thou
that tender wife,<br>
 Dearest companion of my life?<br>
 While gathering wild flowers in the grove<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; So
sweet,<br>
 Heart clung to heart, and Helen's love<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Flew
mine to meet.<br>
<br>
 O give my Helen back to me,<br>
 My mountain, and my old oak tree!<br>
 Memory and pain, where'er I rove,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
Entwine,<br>
 Dear country, with my heart's deep love<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
Around thy shrine.</td></tr></table>
<a name="page170"><!-- Begin Page 170 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="trans5">FROM "LIGHTS AND SHADES."
<br>FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>When on the cliff, or in the wood<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; I muse the summer evening by,<br>
 And realize the woes of life,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; I contemplate Eternity.<br>
<br>
 And through my shadow-chequered lot<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; GOD meets my earnest, gazing eye;<br>
 As through the dusk of tangled boughs<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; We catch bright glimpses of the sky.<br>
<br>
 Yes, when, at last Death claims her own,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The spirit bursts the bonds of sense,<br>
 And&mdash;like a nestling&mdash;in the tomb<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Finds pinions that shall bear her
thence.</td></tr></table>
<a name="page171"><!-- Begin Page 171 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3><a name="trans6">VILLANELLE TO ROSETTE
<br>FROM THE FRENCH OF PHILIPPE DEPORTES, SIXTEENTH CENTURY.</a></h3>
<hr>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>In my absence, though so short,<br>
 You, Rosette, had changed your mind:<br>
 Learning your inconstancy,<br>
 I, another mistress find.<br>
 Never more shall charms so free<br>
 Gain ascendancy o'er me.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We shall see, oh light Rosette,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Which of us will first regret.<br>
<br>
 While with tears I pine away,<br>
 Cursing separation drear;<br>
 You, who love by force of wont,<br>
 Took another for your dear.<br>
 Never vane all lightly hung,<br>
 To the wind more swiftly swung.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We shall see, oh vain Rosette,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Which of us will first regret.<br>
<br>
 Where are all those sacred vows,&mdash;<br>
 All those tears at parting wept?<br>
 Can it be those mournful plaints<br>
 Came from heart so lightly kept?<br>
 Heavens, that you so false could be!<br>
 Who shall trust you, cursed is he.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We shall see, oh false Rosette,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Which of us will first regret.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page172"><!-- Begin Page 172 --></a> He who to my place
has climbed,<br>
 Ne'er can love you more than I;<br>
 And in beauty, love, and faith,<br>
 You're surpassed I own with joy.<br>
 Guard your new love lest he range,<br>
 Mine, the darling, knows not change.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Thus we put to proof, Rosette,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Which of us will first
regret.<br></td></tr></table>
<hr>
<a name="page173"><!-- Begin Page 173 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h2><a name="notes">NOTES.</a></h2>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <a name="page174"><!-- Begin Page 174 --></a> <a name="page175">
<!-- Begin Page 175 --></a>
<h3>LAURA SECORD, THE HEROINE OF 1812<br>
 A DRAMA.</h3>
<h4>NOTE 1, <a href="#page011">page 11</a>.</h4>
<p>The simple heroic story thus enlarged into dramatic form is not
unknown to the Canadian muse, but has been sung by several of her
votaries, notably by Miss Machar, of Kingston; Mr. John Reade, of
Montreal; and Dr. Jakeway, of Stayner.</p>
<p>Dr. Jakeway's verse is not so well known as it deserves to be,
not only for its literary merit, but also for its patriotic
fervour, the fervour of a true and loyal Canadian: I shall
therefore be pardoned if I quote the closing stanzas of his "Laura
Secord":</p>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>&nbsp;&nbsp; "Braver deeds are not recorded,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; In historic treasures hoarded,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Than the march of Laura Secord through
the forest, long ago.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And no nobler deed of daring<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Than the cool and crafty snaring,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; By that band at Beaver Dam, of all the
well-appointed foe.<br>
<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; But we know if war should ever<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Boom again o'er field and river.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And the hordes of the invader should
appear within our land,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Far and wide the trumpets pealing.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Would awake the same old feeling.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And again would deeds of daring sparkle
out on every hand."</td></tr></table>
<h4>NOTE 2, <a href="#page012">page 12</a>.</h4>
<center>And Stony Creek was ours.</center>
<p>A 49th man thus writes to Auchinleck, p.
178:&mdash;"Sir,&mdash;To your, account of the battle of Stony
Creek I would like to add a few particulars.... At eleven o'clock
at night the Light Company and Grenadiers of the 49th were under
arms; every flint was taken out and every charge was drawn. Shortly
after we moved on in sections, left in front, the Light Company
leading the way towards the enemy's camp. I had been driven in that
afternoon from Stony Creek, and was well acquainted with the
ground. The cautious silence observed was most painful; not a
whisper was permitted; even our <a name="page176">
<!-- Begin Page 176 --></a> footsteps were not allowed to be heard.
I shall never forget the agony caused to the senses by the
stealthiness with which we proceeded to the midnight slaughter. I
was not aware that any other force accompanied us than the
Grenadiers, and when we approached near the Creek, I ventured to
whisper to Col. Harvey, 'We are close to the enemy's camp, sir.'
'Hush! I know it,' was his reply. Shortly after a sentry challenged
sharply; Lieutenant Danford and the leading section rushed forward
and killed him with their bayonets; his bleeding corpse was cast
aside, and we moved on with breathless caution. A second
challenge&mdash;who comes there?&mdash;another rush and the poor
sentinel is transfixed, but his agonized dying groans alarmed a
third who stood near the watch fire; he challenged, and immediately
fired and fled. We all rushed forward upon the sleeping guard; few
escaped; many awoke in another world. The excitement now became
intense; the few who had escaped fired as they ran and aroused the
sleeping army. All fled precipitately beyond the Creek, leaving
their blankets and knapsacks behind.</p>
<p>"Our troops deployed into line and halted in the midst of the
camp fires, and immediately began to replace their flints. This,
though not a <i>very</i> lengthy operation, was one of intense
anxiety, for the enemy now opened a most terrific fire, and many a
brave fellow was laid low. We could only see the flash of the
enemy's firelocks while we were perfectly visible to them, standing
as we did in the midst of their camp fires. It was a grand and
beautiful sight. No one who has not witnessed a night engagement
can form any idea of the awful sublimity of the scene. The first
volley from the enemy, coming from a spot as 'dark as Erebus,'
seemed like the bursting forth of a volcano. Then again all was
dark and still, save the moans of the wounded, the confused click!
click!&mdash;noise made by our men in adjusting their flints, and
the ring of the enemy's ramrods in reloading. Again the flash and
roar of the musketry, the whistling of the bullets, and the crash
of the cannon. 'Chaos has come again.' The anxious moments (hours
in imagination) have passed; the trembling excited hands of our men
have at last fastened their flints; the comparatively merry sound
of the ramrod tells that the charge is driven home; soon the fire
is returned with animation; the sky is illumined with continued
flashes; after a sharp contest and some changes of position, our
men advance in a body and the enemy's troops retire. There were
many mistakes made in this action, the two greatest were removing
the men's flints, and halting in the midst of the camp fires; this
is the reason why the loss of the enemy was less than ours, their
wounds were mostly made by our bayonets. The changes of position by
different portions of each army in the dark accounts for the fact
of prisoners having been made by both parties. I must give the
enemy's troops great credit for having recovered from their
confusion, and for having shown a bold front so very soon after
their having been so suddenly and completely surprised.</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">"Yours, A 49TH MAN."</p>
<a name="page177"><!-- Begin Page 177 --></a>
<h4>NOTE 3, <a href="#page013">page 13</a>.</h4>
<center>Friend Penn.</center>
<p>Of this character, of whom the writer has made a somewhat free
use, Col. Coffin says: "There is a tradition in the neighbourhood
that Harvey himself having borrowed the garb and waggon of a
Quaker"&mdash;of which sect there were many settled in Upper Canada
at the time&mdash;"penetrated into the American lines, selling
potatoes and 'taking notes.' Those who can recall the commanding
stature and bearing of the gallant officer maintain that this was
the very last disguise in which he was likely to succeed. It is not
impossible that some patriotic 'Friend' really found a good market
for his produce and valuable information for Harvey."</p>
<h4>NOTE 4, <a href="#page015">page 15</a>.</h4>
<center>Hymn.</center>
<p>An air to this hymn has been composed.</p>
<h4>NOTE 5, <a href="#page016">page 16</a>.</h4>
<center>Pete and Flos.</center>
<p>That the rights of the slave-holder had legal recognition in
1812 is not to be doubted, and that nearly every family of any
means or repute held slaves is certain. The Bill abolishing slavery
in the British Dominions did not pass until 1832, when it was
introduced by Lord Stanley (the late Earl of Derby). A strong
feeling in favour of its abolition had however permeated society,
in consequence of the powerful representations made on the subject,
both in and out of the British Parliament, by Wilberforce and
Clarkson, "who had successfully shown," says Hamilton in his
"Outlines of the History of England," "that the effect of this
iniquitous system was no less injurious to the moral condition of
the people of England than it was to the physical well-being of the
African race." That no ill-feeling towards their masters generally
existed in Canada in the minds of the slaves may be fairly inferred
from the fact that, at their own request, a coloured regiment was
formed to assist in the defence of the country in 1812, and under
Captain Runchey did good service at the Battle of Queenston
Heights. In this connection it is also to be remembered that large
numbers of freedmen were to be found both in England and
Canada&mdash;men who for faithful or special services had received
the gift of freedom from their grateful and generous masters.</p>
<p>That the Legislature of Upper Canada was free even at that early
period to deal with its domestic questions is shown by the fact
that in 1793 an Act was passed at Newark, "forbidding the further
introduction of slaves into the province, and ordering that 'all
slave children born after the 9th of July in that year should be
free on attaining the age of twenty-five.'" To this Act is due the
fact that Canada was as early as 1800 a city of refuge for escaped
slaves, numbers of whom found their way hither from Baltimore and
Maryland. (<i>See</i> also <a href="#appendices">Appendix</a>.)</p>
<a name="page178"><!-- Begin Page 178 --></a>
<h4>NOTE 6, <a href="#page018">page 18</a>.</h4>
<center>We'll have it though, and more, if Boerstler.</center>
<p>It has generally been stated that Mr. Secord heard of the
intended surprise of Fitzgibbon by accident. The facts of the case
are, however, related in the poem, Mrs. Smith, a daughter of Mr.
and Mrs. Secord, who yet survives, being the authority.</p>
<p>Mrs. Smith states that with the insolence of the victorious
invader, Dearborn's men came and went, ordered, or possessed
themselves of, whatever they chose, and took every form of
familiarity in the homes of the residents within their lines, and
that it was fast becoming an anxious question with the farmers and
others, what they should do for supplies if Dearborn were not
ousted within the season.</p>
<h4>NOTE 7, <a href="#page019">page 19</a>.</h4>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&mdash;and fell a-talking, loud,<br>
 As in defiance, of some private plan<br>
 To make the British wince.</td></tr></table>
<p>The ill-feeling of the Americans towards British subjects can
scarcely be too strongly represented for the facts. A bitter
antagonism was naturally the feeling of each side so lately in the
deadly struggle of a civil war. To gloss over this state of things,
deplorable as it was, and as its results have often been, is to
belie history, and to no good or useful end. Had the contention
been akin to a mere friendly tug-of-war, as some would have it
represented now, lest a growing friendliness should be endangered,
it would be necessary for the historian to re-write all that has
been written, for otherwise the arguments of contention would have
no meaning, no <i>raison d'&ecirc;tre</i>; in fact, they could
never have been formulated, for the premisses would have been
wanting. "He is the best cosmopolite, who for his country lives."
says some one, and it is to this truth that the peace of the world,
which we all wish to see established, will be owing, not to any
false representations in place of facts.</p>
<h4>NOTE 8, <a href="#page025">page 25</a>.</h4>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>That hate to England, not our country's name<br>
 And weal, impelled mad Madison upon this war,<br>
 And shut the mouths of thousand higher men than
be.</td></tr></table>
<p>"The Democratic Party," says Col. Coffin (see "Chronicle of the
War," pp. 30-1-3), "eager to humble Britain, accepted any
humiliation rather than quarrel with France. They submitted to the
capture of ships, the sequestration of cargoes, the ransom of
merchandise, with a faint remonstrance. French war ships seized
American merchantmen at sea&mdash;plundered and burnt them. They
consoled themselves with the belief that the anticipated triumph of
the French Emperor in Europe would ensure their supremacy on this
continent. They were prepared to divide the world between them...."
In the words of the historian Alison, "the ostensible object of the
war was to establish the principle that the flag covers the
merchandise, <a name="page179"><!-- Begin Page 179 --></a> and that
the right of search for seamen who have deserted is inadmissible;
the real object was to wrest from Great Britain the Canadas, and,
in conjunction with Napoleon, extinguish its maritime and colonial
empire. Politicians, too, of this early American school had a
notion that French connection and the conquest of Canada were
synonymous terms. This was a great mistake ... but ... it had an
unexpected good effect, for the very suggestion of a French policy,
or the exercise of French influence, tested the British feeling
still latent in the hearts of thousands of Americans. In the New
England States a war with England was denounced.... Citizens of
these States expressed an abhorrence of France, and of its rule,
and protested against the contemplated introduction of French
troops on this continent, which, under the pretext of subduing or
seducing the French-Canadians, might prove to be subversive of
their own liberties.</p>
<p>"It is probable that to this spirit of truthful independence may
be ascribed the fact that during the whole of the ensuing war
(1812-15) the immense extent of frontier between Lower Canada and
the States of Vermont and New Hampshire and Maine was unassailed by
an enemy.... No hostile irruption was attempted upon the Province
from Lake Champlain to the ocean.... War was declared on the 18th
June, 1812, by Act of Congress. Mr. Madison, then President, who
had done all in his power to exasperate the existing ill-will, and
to lash the popular mind to frenzy, eluded the responsibility of
the fatal act, and made a cat's paw of the Legislature."</p>
<p>The people of the United States were disunited on the subject of
the war.... The Legislature of Maryland openly denounced the war.
The Governments of Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island had
refused the quota of militia demanded of these States respectively.
Such men as Quincey declared in the House of Representatives at
Washington that "since the invasion of the Buccaneers, there was
nothing in history more disgraceful than this war." The same view
of President Madison's action is also held by Auchinleck, Christie,
and, indeed, by every trustworthy historian of the time.</p>
<h4>NOTE 9, <a href="#page025">page 25</a>.</h4>
<center>In opening up a road to reach the great Pacific.</center>
<p>In 1812 the vast promise of the West had begun to attract public
interest. The discovery of the Columbia River in Oregon, including
what is now Washington Territory, was made by Captain Gray, of
Boston, in 1792, and upon this was based the general claim of the
United States to the Territory. The British, however, held a prior
claim of occupation and discovery. In 1804-6 Captains Lewis and
Clarke explored the whole country from the mouth of the Missouri to
the mouth of the Columbia, and in 1811 Fort Astoria was built. The
Treaty of 1845 settled the question of claim to this Territory in
common with other Western lands in favour of the United States.
Although California was not largely settled by United States
subjects until the Treaty of 1844, yet its reputation for being a
gold-bearing <a name="page180"><!-- Begin Page 180 --></a> country
was well established, and had been increasing in public regard from
the time of its first exploration by Sir Francis Drake in 1570, who
expressed a strong opinion as to its auriferous character. Long
before the famous expedition of Colonel Fremont across "the
plains," numerous trails, too often marked by the white bones of
their victims, bore testimony to the dauntless courage and sanguine
enterprise that has opened up the great empire of the West.</p>
<h4>NOTE 10, <a href="#page026">page 26</a>.</h4>
<center>Brock! MacDonell! Dennis!</center>
<p>It would be a work of supererogation to say anything of
Major-General Sir Isaac Brock here, so completely is his name
enshrined in Canadian history, literature, and tradition. I may,
however, be pardoned if I quote a few descriptive sentences to be
found in "A Chapter of the War of 1812," by Col. William Stanley
Hatch, Acting Assistant Quartermaster-General of the army with Hull
at Detroit.</p>
<p>"General Brock was an officer of distinction. His personal
appearance was commanding; he must have been six feet three or four
inches in height, very massive and large boned, though not fleshy,
and apparently of immense muscular power. His Aides were elegant
young men, very near, if not quite six feet in height, and in their
splendid uniforms all three presented a brilliant appearance. But
how transitory and evanescent the gratification of that day and
that event!" [the taking of Detroit]. "In a few short
weeks&mdash;less than two months&mdash;on the 13th October, 1812,
two of these noble men and gentlemanly officers had fallen. At this
distant day I feel it due to myself and to them to record the
sentiment of regret which impressed itself upon my mind when the
announcement came that General Brock and Colonel MacDonell, public
enemies as they were, had terminated their earthly career at
Queenston."</p>
<p>Lieutenant-Colonel MacDonell, A.D.C. to General Brock, was "one
of five sons of a brother of MacDonell, Laird of Glengarry, who
bore a prominent part in supporting Prince Charles, called the
Pretender.... The family came out to this country shortly after the
American Revolution, and settled in the County of Glengarry among
other Scotch settlers, who had been located on lands in that county
upon the disbanding of the regiment known as the Royal Highland
Emigrants. Lieutenant-Colonel MacDonell came up to Toronto (then
York) and studied law, and was appointed Attorney-General of the
Province when a very young man, and afterwards accompanied, as
aide-de-camp, General Brock at Detroit and Queenston," where he
gloriously fell in the gallant charge that followed the fall of
Brock.&mdash;<i>Extract of private letter</i>. (<i>See</i> also
<a href="#appendices">Appendix</a>.)</p>
<p>"I have heard that he (Lieut.-Col. MacDonell) was brought up by
the late Hon. Alexander MacDonell, who gave him a valuable piece of
property in the then Town of York to start him in the legal
profession. On his way up the Niagara River with General Brock,
having a kind of presentiment of <a name="page181">
<!-- Begin Page 181 --></a> what might happen, the Colonel made his
will, and bequeathed the land referred to, to James MacDonell,
eldest son of the Hon. Alexander MacDonell. The land is now owned
by the widow of James (Mrs. M. S. MacDonell, living at 305 Bathurst
Street). It comprised the west side of Church Street, from
Wellington Street to King Street, and went some distance
west."&mdash;<i>Extract of private letter</i>.</p>
<p>Beside the lady above mentioned, several connections of
Lieut.-Col. MacDonell reside in Toronto, among them W. J.
MacDonell, Esq., French Vice-Consul; Angus D. MacDonell, Inland
Revenue Department; and Alex. MacDonell, Esq., Osgoode Hall. The
late Bishop MacDonell was also of this family, as were most of the
MacDonells who grace the pages of Canadian histories of the War of
1812.</p>
<p>Captain James Dennis&mdash;the third of the trio whom Mrs.
Secord apostrophises&mdash;then Lieutenant, had been among the
wounded on board the <i>Monarch</i> man-of-war at Copenhagen, but
recovered so as to accompany his regiment to Canada. In 1812 he was
in charge of one of the two flank companies of the 49th, stationed
at Queenston, and gallantly led the defence, directing the one-gun
battery and holding the enemy completely in check until their
discovery of a path to the summit of the Height turned the scale on
the wrong side, where it stood until the arrival of General Brock.
In the splendid charge up-hill Captain Dennis was wounded, and, it
was supposed, killed; he, however, bravely kept the field until the
day was won, despite pain and weakness. He was not related to the
Dennises of York, and Buttonwood, near Weston; but two members of
this family were in the York militia, and served at Queenston. The
late Bishop Richardson, an uncle of theirs, also served in the navy
on the lakes, where he lost an arm.</p>
<h4>NOTE 11, <a href="#page027">page 27</a>.</h4>
<center>The Widow, Stephen Secord.</center>
<p>This lady was the widow of Stephen, an elder brother of James
Secord, who, in conjunction with another brother, David, a major in
the militia, and after whom the village was named, built and owned
the grist mill at St. David's. Stephen Secord appears to have died
some years previous to the war, leaving a family of several sons.
With the wisdom and spirit of a sensible woman the widow carried on
the business, and thereby brought up her family. During the war all
her sons were variously engaged in it with the exception of the
youngest, and in the absence of sufficient help the widow worked
with her own hands, turning out flour for which the Government paid
her twenty dollars a barrel. Many of the Secords who are to be
found scattered through the Province at the present time are
children of her sons.</p>
<h4>NOTE 12, <a href="#page027">page 27</a>.</h4>
<center>Sergeant George Mosier.</center>
<p>This character is singular in being the only pure invention in
the poem; and the name was chosen as being most unlikely to be
borne by any one in the neighbourhood of Queenston. By one of those
coincidences, however, <a name="page182">
<!-- Begin Page 182 --></a> that are not unknown, it appears that
there was a Captain Mosier living at Newark in 1812, and commanding
a vessel on Lake Ontario. Captain Mosier was of some service to the
British Government, and on one occasion was able to be of special
use in carrying off and concealing, until the mischievous effect
was over, a somewhat hot-headed gentleman who in the ardour of his
loyalty had thought it his solemn duty to cross the river and
bayonet the sentinel at Fort Niagara.</p>
<h4>NOTE 13, <a href="#page027">page 27</a>.</h4>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
&mdash;all is pretty quiet still<br>
 Since Harvey struck them dumb at Stony Creek.<br>
 Along the Lake bold Yeb holds them fast,<br>
 And Erie-way, Bishopp and Evans back him,</td></tr></table>
<p>"On the withdrawal of the British troops, the battlefield of
Stony Creek was, as before said, for a short space re-occupied by
the Americans under Colonel Burns, a cavalry officer, upon whom the
command had devolved. He merely remained long enough to destroy the
tents ... and stores. He then rapidly retired to the protection of
the lines of Fort George, though in executing this manoeuvre he was
intercepted and suffered much. On their advance the Americans had
been accompanied all along the lake shore by a flotilla of boats
and batteaux. Burns fell back upon this support, and embarked his
wounded, and such of his men as had not yet got under cover, and
was slowly creeping down the coast to the place from whence he
came, when, on the 8th June, Sir James Yeo, who by this time had
become master of his own movements, and had got out of Kingston,
appeared in the offing; intelligence from the shore had apprised
him of the state of things, and of the position of the enemy; and
Richardson (the late James Richardson, D.D.) dwells with sailorly
impatience on the perversity of a calm.... A breeze sprung up and
the squadron closed in with the shore, cutting off the twelve
rearmost boats of the American flotilla, laden with valuable
supplies and stores. Perceiving an encampment in the woods on the
beach, the Commodore disembarked in the ship's boats two companies
of regulars under Major Evans of the 8th Regiment. This active
officer landed, and in the evening having been reinforced by two
companies from Burlington Heights under Colonel Bishopp, the second
deserted American camp was entered. It was in a state of
conflagration, ... but the captors saved from the flames 500 tents,
140 barrels of flour, 100 stand of arms.... Thus did this exploit
of Harvey free the whole Peninsula from the invaders, and threw
them back upon the mere edge of the frontier with a deep and
dangerous river in their rear, between them and their supports and
supplies."&mdash;<i>Col. Coffin's Chronicles of the War of
1812</i>. (<i>See</i> also <a href="#appendices">Appendix</a>.)</p>
<h4>NOTE 14, <a href="#page029">page 29</a>.</h4>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; She, our neighbour
there<br>
 At Queenston.</td></tr></table>
<p>This brave woman was Mrs. Maria Hill, a soldier's wife, who
pitying the hungry condition of men who had been called out before
day-break on a cold <a name="page183"><!-- Begin Page 183 --></a>
October morning, to meet a foe already in partial occupation and
temporarily victorious, had no means of procuring or cooking
supplies, and indeed could not even break their fast, except by the
intervention of those whose property they, for the time, had been
unable to defend. Mrs. Hill carried her little stores on to the
field, and leaving her babe, who crowed and cheered, it is said, as
though mightily diverted by the sight of the red-coats, under the
shelter of a wood-pile, lighted fires, boiled water, and carried
tea and food to as many of the men on the field as she could
supply.</p>
<h4>NOTE 15, <a href="#page030">page 30</a>.</h4>
<center>The Lady Harriet Acland.</center>
<p>This lady was the daughter of Stephen, first Earl of Ilchester,
and accompanied her husband, Major John Dyke-Acland, to Canada in
1776.</p>
<p>The story put into the mouth of Sergeant George Mosier may be
found in the <i>Saturday Magazine</i> for May, 1835, and also in
Burke's "Romance of the Aristocracy." Her beauty, bravery and
tender love for her husband made the name of Lady Harriet Acland an
honour and delight among the men of her husband's regiment, and
thus it is that Sergeant Mosier is made her historian with great
propriety.</p>
<p>In the <i>Gentleman's Magazine</i> for February, 1778, I also
find the following note, p. 69, in "Extracts from the Congress
Accounts of the Northern Expeditions":</p>
<p>"Oct. 11.&mdash;Some letters passed between the Generals, the
first from Gen. Burgoyne, by Lady Acland, whose husband was
dangerously wounded, recommending her Ladyship to the care and
protection of Gen. Gates. Gen. Gates's answer, in which he
expresses his surprise that his Excellency, after considering his
preceding conduct, should think that he could consider the greatest
attention to Lady Acland in the light of an <i>obligation</i>."</p>
<h4>NOTE 16, <a href="#page030">page 30</a>.</h4>
<center>Save perhaps the Baroness.</center>
<p>The Baroness Reidessel, the wife of one of the officers of the
Hessians. This lady, together with the wives of Major Harnage and
Lieutenant Reynell, was with Lady Acland during the painful march
that preceded the action of the 19th September, 1777. They had
followed the route of the artillery and baggage as being less
likely of attack on the road, and when the engagement begun found
themselves at a little uninhabited hut, from whence they could hear
the roll of the guns that were carrying death to scores of brave
men. Here they had to endure a great trial, for their only refuge
was also the only place to which the wounded, who soon began to
arrive in great numbers, could be brought for first care. Soon
Major Harnage was brought in desperately wounded. Not long after
the news arrived that Lieutenant Reynell was shot dead, and before
the day was done Major Acland was a prisoner dangerously wounded.
Herself saved for the present such terrible <a name="page184">
<!-- Begin Page 184 --></a> trials, Baroness Reidessel
distinguished herself by her ministrations to her suffering
companions, and to the dying and wounded around, thus gaining the
affectionate remembrance of many a poor fellow who had no other ray
of comfort in his anguish.</p>
<h4>NOTE 17, <a href="#page037">page 37</a>.</h4>
<center>"Rule Britannia."</center>
<p>This, together with "The King: God bless him," and "The Duke of
York's March" were at this period new and favourite tunes all over
the British Empire. In the <i>Times</i>, Oct. 3, 1798, under the
heading "Drury Lane Theatre," it is reported that "after the play
the news of Admiral Nelson's victory (over the French under Admiral
Brueys at Rosetta) produced a burst of patriotic exultation that
has been rarely witnessed in a theatre. 'Rule Britannia' was
lustily called for from every part of the house, and Messrs. Kelly,
Dignum, Sedgwick, Miss Leak and Mrs. Bland came forward and sang
it, accompanied by numbers of the audience. It was called for and
sung a second time. The acclamations were the loudest and most
fervent we have ever witnessed. The following lines, written for
the occasion, were introduced by Mr. Dignum and Mr. Sedgwick:</p>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>"'Again the tributary strain<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Of grateful Britons, let us raise;<br>
 And to the heroes on the main,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Triumphant add a Nelson's praise.<br>
 Though the "Great Nation" proudly boasts<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Herself invincible to be,<br>
 Yet oft brave Nelson still can prove<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Britannia Mistress of the Sea.'</td></tr></table>
<p>"The audience was not satisfied with this repeated mark of
exultation, but in the effusion of enthusiasic loyalty called for
'God Save the King,' which was received with reiterated
plaudits."</p>
<p>In another column of the same issue it is told that, "A person
last night in the gallery of Drury Lane House calling frequently in
a boisterous manner for the tune of 'Britons, Strike Home!' was
immediately silenced by the appropriate observation of another at
some distance from him, 'Why, damn it, they have, haven't
they?'"</p>
<p>The great popularity of "Rule Britannia" was owing to its entire
consonance with the spirit of the nation, a popularity not even yet
diminished. A further instance of its use in the celebration of a
great national event is given in the <i>Times</i>, Nov. 7, 1805, in
which is recorded the official account of the Battle of Trafalgar
and the death of Nelson. At Covent Garden, where both the Kembles
were then playing together with Mrs. Siddons, a "hasty but elegant
compliment to the memory of Lord Nelson" was presented. It
"consisted of columns in the foreground decorated with medallions
of the naval heroes of Britain. In the distance a number of ships
were seen, and the front of the picture was filled by Mr. Taylor
and the principal singers of the theatre. <a name="page185">
<!-- Begin Page 185 --></a> They were grouped in an interesting
manner with their eyes turned toward the clouds, from whence a
half-length portrait of Lord Nelson descended with the following
words underwritten, 'Horatio Nelson, Ob. 21st Oct.'" Mr. Taylor and
the other performers then sang "Rule Britannia," verse and chorus.
The following additional verse, written by Mr. Ashley, of Bath, was
introduced and sung by Mr. Taylor with the most affecting
expression. It was universally encored:&mdash;</p>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>"Again the loud-toned trump of fame,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Proclaims Britannia rules the main;<br>
 While sorrow whispers Nelson's name,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And mourns the gallant hero slain.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Rule, brave Britons, rule the main.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Revenge the God-like hero
slain."</td></tr></table>
<h4>NOTE 18, <a href="#page037">page 37</a>.</h4>
<center>Can you wonder? ... shot at, etc.</center>
<p>The cruel treatment of the Loyalists, or <i>King's Men</i>, by
the <i>Continentals</i>, as they called themselves, is one of the
features of this painful time, records of which abound: the story
of Moody is well known: another as authentic may be here quoted.
The Rev. G. A. Anderson, late Chaplain to the Reformatory at
Penetanguishene, in writing to the press with reference to the U.
E. L. Celebration in 1884, says:</p>
<p>"My grandfather, Samuel Anderson, was born of Irish parents,
near Boston, 4th May, 1736.... He joined the King's forces, serving
under General Abercrombie ... then under General Amherst, ... and
was at the taking of Ticonderoga.... In 1775 he was offered a
captaincy in the <i>Continental</i> service which he peremptorily
refused. Some time after he was offered the command of a regiment;
this he also refused. He was at once suspected of being a <i>King's
Man</i>, taken prisoner, and with several others, confined in
Litchfield gaol, where he suffered almost death for two years. One
morning, having heard that he and his fellow-prisoners were to be
shot the following day, being a powerful man he wrenched the iron
bars from the windows, and, with his companions, escaped to
Canada....</p>
<p>A quotation from the "Boston Confiscation Act," Sept., 1778, ch.
48, speaks volumes as to the attitude of the new Republic towards
the Loyalists: "In Massachusetts a person suspected of enmity to
the Whig cause could be arrested under a magistrate's warrant, and
banished, unless he would swear fealty to the friends of liberty;
and the select-men of towns could prefer charges of political
treachery in town meetings, and the individual thus accused, if
convicted by a jury, could be sent into the enemy's jurisdiction.
Massachusetts also designated by name, and generally by occupation
and residence, three hundred and eight of her people, of whom
seventeen had been inhabitants of Maine who had fled from their
houses, and denounced against any one of them who should return
apprehension, imprisonment and <a name="page186">
<!-- Begin Page 186 --></a> transportation to a place possessed by
the British, and for a second voluntary return, without leave,
death, without the benefit of clergy. By another law the property
of twenty-nine persons, who were denominated 'notorious
conspirators,' was confiscated; of these fifteen had been appointed
'Mandamus Councillors,' two had been Governors, one
Lieutenant-Governor, one Treasurer, one Attorney-General, one Chief
Justice and four Commissioners of Customs."&mdash;Lorenzo Sabine,
<i>Historical Essay prefixed to Biographical Sketches of the
American Loyalists</i>. (See further, chapters 39 and 41, vol. 2,
Ryerson's <i>Loyalists of America and Their Times</i>. <i>See</i>
also <a href="#appendices">Appendix</a>.)</p>
<h4>NOTE 19, <a href="#page038">page 38</a>.</h4>
<center>"James Coffin is good."</center>
<p>The name of Coffin is famous in the annals, military, naval and
civil, of Canada, and is scarcely less marked in the history of the
earlier United States of America. Two branches of the family came,
U. E. Loyalists, to Canada in 1775-78. One established itself on
the St. John, New Brunswick, the other in Quebec. "Twenty years
after the landing from the <i>Mayflower</i>, the first of the name
put in an appearance from Brixton, near Plymouth, South Devon,
England, at Newbury Port, in New Hampshire." James Coffin,
mentioned above, was the sixth son of John Coffin, who settled in
Quebec, and did such good service at the
<i>Pr&egrave;s-de-ville</i>, when Montgomery and Arnold invaded the
Province. Like all the Coffins, James was of a genial and kindly
disposition, and his appointment as a Commissary Officer permitted
opportunities for consideration and courtesy to people of all
ranks, which he did not fail to avail himself of. He died Assistant
Commissary-General in 1835, at Quebec.</p>
<h4>NOTE 20, <a href="#page040">page 40</a>.</h4>
<center>From proffered gifts, or gold.</center>
<p>"To the soldiers of this regiment (the 41st), as indeed to all
others, every temptation had been presented to induce them to
desert and enlist in their service, by money, land, etc. After it
was found impossible to persuade any number of them to do so the
American Government encamped them, for nearly two months, in a
pestilential marsh near Sandusky without covering." (<i>See</i> Dr.
Strachan's letter, as Treasurer of the Loyal and Patriotic Society
of Upper Canada, to Thomas Jefferson, Esq., Ex-President of the
United States of America.)</p>
<h4>NOTE 21, <a href="#page041">page 41</a>.</h4>
<center>The beech-ridge.</center>
<p>This was a ridge of high land clad with beeches which overhung a
hollow in the road to Beaver Dam, and now forms the basin of the
Welland Canal. "The spot," says Colonel Coffin, "which then rang
with the outcries of the combatants now resounds with the hum of
industry and the working-chant of the sailor."</p>
<a name="page187"><!-- Begin Page 187 --></a>
<h4>NOTE 22, <a href="#page047">page 47</a>.</h4>
<center>The small, neglectful bird.</center>
<p>This is Tengmalm's Owl, or Death-bird. "The Indians of North
America," says Rev. J. G. Wood, "have a superstition that whoever
hears the note of this bird must whistle in reply, and if the bird
returns no answer the person will die within the year."</p>
<h4>NOTE 23, <a href="#page050">page 50</a>.</h4>
<center>Beaver Dam&mdash;Decau's house.</center>
<p>Decau's farm house at the Beaver Dam was British headquarters
more than once during the War of 1812. Close to this famous spot
the town of Thorold now stands, and the interested visitor may
reach it by tram-car from St. Catharines. Decau's Falls, near by,
preserve the memory of the ancient settler on the spot in less
correct orthography, Decew and less euphonious form than the
original, which is said to have been also, Decamps.</p>
<p>Another form of it may be found in "Loyalists of America," p,
243:</p>
<p>"In the summer of 1800 my mother had a very nice help as nurse.
Jenny Decow had been apprenticed to a relative, and at the age of
eighteen, she received her bed, her cow, and two or three suits of
clothing (those articles it was customary to give to a bound girl)
and she was considered legally of age, with the right to earn her
own living as best she could. ... Jenny had a wooer, ... young
Daniel McCall made his appearance."</p>
<h4>NOTE 24, <a href="#page050">page 50</a>.</h4>
<center>Fitzgibbon.</center>
<p>This brave officer is thus described in the letter of "A Green
'Un," I have elsewhere quoted, and which was written in 1852, at
which date Colonel Fitzgibbon was yet alive:&mdash;"Colonel
Fitzgibbon has long been known in Canada, in both a civil and a
military capacity, and if he was now present he would be able to
give you much more interesting and valuable information. At the
time of this attack" (Black Rock, July 12th, 1813), "he was a
Lieutenant in the 49th, and his daring spirit and energy of
character were well known to the whole army. General Vincent had
placed him in command of a sort of independent company of Rangers.
Volunteers from the different regiments were asked for, and strange
to say so many men offered that it was difficult to decide who
should be permitted to go. From the numerous young subs. desirous
of joining him he selected his friend Lieutenant Winder of the 49th
(now Dr. Winder, Librarian to the House of Assembly at Quebec),
Volunteer D. A. McDonnell of the 8th, Volunteer Augustus Thompson
of the 49th; and another youngster of the 49th (the late Judge
Jarvis, of Cornwall) who were permitted as a great favour to join
his corps." Colonel Coffin in his "Chronicles of the War of 1812,"
gives a very full account of Colonel Fitzgibbon's career, of which
only a brief outline is proper here. Colonel James Fitzgibbon was
the son of an English farmer, had a little early education, and
acquired a <a name="page188"><!-- Begin Page 188 --></a> fondness
for reading; his passion for arms was irresistible. At seventeen he
enlisted, and the same day, 25th, October, 1798, was made a
sergeant. At twenty-one he was made Sergeant-Major. He served in
Ireland and before Copenhagen, where the 49th acted as marines. He
was appointed to an ensigncy and adjutancy, and came to Canada. In
1809 he succeeded to a lieutenancy; and resigned the adjutancy to
command a small detachment in the field. His exploits at the Beaver
Dam gave him his company. He thus rose by dint of meritorious
service, at a time when commissions and promotions were not so
freely given to deserving men as they are now. On this, and on all
other occasions, during the war, Fitzgibbon made his mark.</p>
<p>"At the close of the war, he settled in Canada, and filled many
offices of honour and emolument under the Government. His last
appointment was that of Clerk to the Legislative Council. He
retired on a pension, and returned to his native land, when, in
just appreciation of his services, he was made a Military Knight of
Windsor."</p>
<h4>NOTE 25, <a href="#page050">page 50</a>.</h4>
<center>"The Times." A newspaper of four pages.</center>
<p>The first name of this great newspaper was <i>The Daily
Universal Register</i>, but it had taken its latest title as early
as 1801. An issue of that date containing the official accounts of
the Battle of Copenhagen is in the writer's possession.</p>
<h4>NOTE 26, <a href="#page055">page 55</a>.</h4>
<center>And gray the dawn, and cold the morn of Rensellaer's
attack.</center>
<p>The 11th October had been first decided upon for the invasion of
Queenston, but it proved one of those fierce October days that
drench the earth with a cold rain, making roads into quagmires, and
rivers into torrents, stripping the trees of their leafy honours,
and not unfrequently tearing them up by the roots. The 13th opened
cold and gray, but developed into a fine fall day, much to the
convenience of the invaders. (<i>See</i> also <a href=
"#appendices">Appendix</a>.)</p>
<h4>NOTE 27, <a href="#page055">page 55</a>.</h4>
<center>Though sad to me, who caught Brock's latest
breath.</center>
<p>"And our gallant General fell on his left side within a few feet
of where I stood. Running up to him, I enquired, 'Are you much
hurt, sir?' He placed his hand on his breast but made no reply, and
sunk slowly down."&mdash;<i>Mr. G. S. Jarvis (the late Judge
Jarvis, of Cornwall), in Auchinleck's History of the War of</i>
1812, p. 105.</p>
<p>Mr. Jarvis was taken prisoner at Queenston, but was exchanged
for a Captain of militia within a week.</p>
<h4>NOTE 28, <a href="#page059">page 59</a>.</h4>
<center>Affliction leaves him in our hands to do him
justice.</center>
<p>The noble mind is always alert to see that he who cannot take
care of himself shall be tenderly cared for, and that the more
fully, the more he is exposed to injury by the prominence or
delicacy of his position.</p>
<a name="page189"><!-- Begin Page 189 --></a>
<p>In 1812 the King's malady, which in 1805 is recorded to have
affected his eyes to such a degree that "he had to wear a green
shade ... after candle-light," and could not "distinguish any
person unless he be very near," and by the assistance of a glass,
had increased to such an extent that Prince George had to be
appointed Regent, and there were not wanting those who chose the
opportunity to laugh at and depreciate the King's character.</p>
<h4>NOTE 28a, <a href="#page060">page 60</a>.</h4>
<center>Like dart of Annee-meekee.</center>
<p>Annee-meekee is the Ojibway for the thunder; "dart of"
consequently is the lightning.</p>
<h4>NOTE 29, <a href="#page059">page 59</a>.</h4>
<center>Of whom some fought for him at Copenhagen.</center>
<p>The majority of the men with Fitzgibbon at Beaver Dam belonged
to the 49th Regiment, to which Fitzgibbon himself belonged. It was
also Brock's regiment. He had joined it in 1791 at Barbadoes. The
regiment being removed to Jamaica, Brock was thence obliged to get
leave of absence in 1793 on account of his health. On June 24,
1795, after doing recruiting service both in England and Jersey, he
purchased his majority. Next year his regiment returned from
Jamaica, and on the 25th October, 1797, he purchased his
lieutenant-colonelcy, and soon after became senior
lieutenant-colonel. In August, 1799, the 49th Regiment was ordered
to Holland as part of the force under Sir Ralph Abercrombie. On the
return of the expedition, the 49th was again quartered in Jersey
until the spring of 1801, when it was despatched with the fleet for
the Baltic under Sir Hyde Parker. The same year the 49th returned
to England, and in the next spring was sent to Canada where it took
up its quarters at York (Toronto). On the flag of the regiment is
inscribed "Egmont-op-Zee," "Copenhagen," "Queenstown," and its
colours and appointments bear the word "China" and the device of
the Dragon.</p>
<p>Of the career of the 49th Regiment in Canada during the war of
1812-15, it is impossible to speak too highly. From their
brilliancy of attack and energy in action the American soldiers
dubbed them the "Green Tigers," and on the fatal day at Queenston,
those of the wounded who had passed over "had described the charge
of the 'Green Tigers' and militia in the morning, and had warned
them what they might expect if they came in contact with troops
infuriated by the loss of their beloved General" (Auchinleck, p.
106.) That the 49th revelled in the honour conferred by such a
<i>soubriquet</i> is clear from the fact that Fitzgibbon's company
dubbed themselves "Fitzgibbon's Green 'Uns," and one of them, the
late Judge Jarvis, of Cornwall, then a cadet of eighteen, says,
over the <i>nom de plume</i>' "A Green 'Un," in Auchinleck: "We
were all dressed in green uniform made from clothing which had been
taken from the enemy."</p>
<a name="page190"><!-- Begin Page 190 --></a>
<p>In a private letter to the writer Judge Jarvis says, under date
<i>Cornwall, 7th November</i>, 1876: "The uniform of the 49th was,
of course, of a scarlet colour with green facings, rather a light
green. Around the edges of the cuffs and collar was a band of gold
lace one inch wide, thus (a drawing is given).</p>
<p>"The militia had no uniform during the War of 1812; they were
furnished with a blanket only." At the taking of Fort Detroit the
militia are generally said to have been in uniform, but these were
only a few and in the first engagement.</p>
<p>"The Americans wore coarse grey or blue cloth, mostly the
former." Homespun; in pursuance of the line of action required by
the blockade. "One regiment, the Irish Greens, wore dark green
cloth, but they were not at either Stony Creek or Beaver Dam."</p>
<h4>NOTE 30, <a href="#page059">page 59</a>.</h4>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &mdash;and the Queen's, too,<br>
 Who loves all nobleness.</td></tr></table>
<p>Queen Charlotte's intense admiration for all nobility of
character is well exemplified by Sir Walter Scott in Jennie Deans
("Heart of Midlothian"), to whom she showed the most marked
kindness and sympathy. This was but one instance out of many which
were well known and duly appreciated by the British people.</p>
<h4>NOTE 31, <a href="#page060">page 60</a>.</h4>
<center>You, Cummings, mount.</center>
<p>James Cummings, of Chippewa, was engaged in the Indian trade. He
accompanied Clark's plucky expedition on Black Rock, when they
surprised the work, captured the guard together with several stand
of arms, one brass six-pounder, and a large store of provisions. On
Bishopp hearing of this exploit, he fired up, "Hang the fellow, he
has got before me. By Jove, it was well done; we'll try it again."
And he did, as history tells.</p>
<h4>NOTE 32, <a href="#page060">page 60</a>.</h4>
<center>Twelve-Mile Creek.</center>
<p>"The site of St. Catharines, formerly known as the Twelve-Mile
Creek or Shipman's Corners, after the oldest inhabitant of the
place, was first selected as a country residence by the Hon. Robert
Hamilton, father of the Hamilton who gave his name to the
flourishing and rising city which still bears it, so early as the
year 1800, at which period he owned the mills afterwards known as
the Thomas's Mills, upon the Twelve-Mile Creek, up to which point
boats at that time ascended. But it was not until after the war,
viz., in 1816, that the town-plot of St. Catharines was first
purchased and laid out as a village by the Hon. W. H. Merritt and
Jonathan H. Clendennen, and received the name of St. Catharines, in
honour of Mrs. Robert Hamilton, whose name was Catharine."</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">&mdash;<i>Anglo-American
Magazine</i>, vol. 3, p. 129.</p>
<a name="page191"><!-- Begin Page 191 --></a>
<h4>NOTE 33, <a href="#page060">page 60</a>.</h4>
<center>I have friends beyond.</center>
<p>These were the household of Miss Tourney, an intimate friend of
Mrs. Secord, and owner of a large farm some three miles beyond
Beaver Dam. To this house Mrs. Secord proceeded, accompanied by an
escort furnished by Lieut. Fitzgibbon, but, it need hardly be said,
not exactly in the manner described. Here "she slept right off, for
she had journeyed on foot twenty miles, and safely, God be
praised." Mrs. Secord returned to her anxious husband on the third
day after having started on her perilous undertaking, but neither
through the woods, nor on foot, thanks to her brave deed, and the
success of British arms.</p>
<h4>NOTE 34, <a href="#page063">page 63</a>.</h4>
<center>Ye Yankee rogue! ye coward!</center>
<p>This incident, which Col. Coffin places as preceding the
occupation of Beaver Dam by Fitzgibbon, is thus described by Judge
Jarvis in a letter subsequent to the one already quoted, and which
was apparently dictated by the awakening of did memories by the
enquiries that led to the former letter: "Although I write with
great labour and pain" [the result of rheumatism] "I cannot refrain
from giving you the following incident. Lieut. Fitzgibbon, who
always preferred going on any dangerous expedition to sending any
other person, on receiving the information of the patriotic woman,
went forward to reconnoitre. On approaching a small tavern two
American soldiers came out of the door, and immediately presented
their rifles. He seized the rifles, and crossed them in front of
his person" [Col. Coffin says: He seized the musket of the more
advanced man and by main strength threw him upon his fellow, whose
musket he also grappled with the other hand'] "so that neither
could fire without shooting his fellow-soldier. Here he held them
until one of them drew Lieut. Fitzgibbon's sword, and held it up
over his head, of course intending to stab him forthwith. The woman
of the house saw the position, and rushed out and seized the sword,
and got it from the soldier's hand. Fitzgibbon then tripped up one
of the soldiers and felled the other with a blow, then took them
both prisoners and marched them into the line occupied by his
company."</p>
<p>It is a pity this brave woman's name cannot be discovered in
order that it might be added to the roll of those patriotic women
whose names adorn Canadian history.</p>
<h4>NOTE 35, <a href="#page064">page 64</a>.</h4>
<center>Lieut.-Col. Thomas Clark.</center>
<p>Lieutenant-Colonel Clark, of the 2nd Lincoln Militia, was, says
Colonel Coffin, "a Scotchman by birth." He "was an Indian trader
and forwarder of goods to the Western hunting grounds; a member of
the firm of Street &amp; Clark.... From the first outbreak of the
war Clark was foremost in frontier frail. He had acquired the
confidence of his men, and obtained the cordial co-operation of
those who, like Bishopp, understood volunteers, and could
appreciate the merits of the extemporaneous soldier."</p>
<a name="page192"><!-- Begin Page 192 --></a>
<h4>NOTE 36, <a href="#page064">page 64</a>.</h4>
<center>"But twenty sir, all told."</center>
<p>These were militia. "Old Isaac Kelly," says Colonel Coffin
(Chronicles of the War of 1812), "born and raised on 48 Thorold, a
septuagenarian, hale and hearty, who still [in 1864] lives not a
mile from the spot, tells how, when he was a boy of eighteen, and
was in the act of 'hitching up' his horses for the plough, he heard
the firing in the wood, and outcries of the Indians; how he ran to
his two brothers, both a-field; how the three got their
muskets&mdash;they were all militiamen&mdash;men home to put in a
crop; how, led by the sounds, they crossed the country to the beech
grove, meeting eight or ten more by the way, suddenly roused, like
themselves; how, from behind the trees, they opened fire on the
American train, and on the guns which were then unlimbering to the
rear, and how the Americans, more worried and bothered than hurt,
changed their position, and took-up ground in David Millar's apple
orchard."</p>
<h4>NOTE 37, <a href="#page064">page 64</a>.</h4>
<center>Boerstler's lost his head.</center>
<p>Not altogether without reason. "We frightened the enemy," says
Judge Jarvis, in a letter before quoted, "with our Indians, and
from sounding the bugle on different positions to make them suppose
we were numerous, and had them surrounded."</p>
<h4>NOTE 38, <a href="#page065">page 65</a>.</h4>
<center>Terms generous and honourable, sir.</center>
<p>"Particulars of the capitulation made between Captain McDowell,
on the part of Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler, of the United States
Army, and Major De Haren, of his Britannic Majesty's Canadian
Regiment, on the part of Lieutenant Colonel Bishopp, commanding the
advance of the British, respecting the force under the command of
Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler:</p>
<p>"Article 1.&mdash;That Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler and the
forces under his command shall surrender prisoners of war.</p>
<p>"Article 2.&mdash;That the officers shall retain their arms,
horses and baggage.</p>
<p>"Article 3.&mdash;That the non-commissioned officers and
soldiers shall lay down their arms at the head of the British
column, and shall become prisoners of war.</p>
<p>"Article 4.&mdash;That the militia and volunteers with
Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler shall be permitted to return to the
United States on parole.</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">"ANDREW MCDOWELL,<br>
 "<i>Captain of the United States Light Artillery</i>.</p>
<p>"Acceded to and signed,</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">"P. G. BOERSTLER,<br>
 "<i>Lieut.-Col. commanding detachment United States Army</i>.<br>
 "P. V. DE HAREN,<br>
 "<i>Major Canadian Regiment</i>."<br>
<br>
 &mdash;<i>Auchinleck's History of the War</i>, p. 175.</p>
<a name="page193"><!-- Begin Page 193 --></a>
<h4>NOTE 39, <a href="#page065">page 65</a>.</h4>
<center>The golden epaulettes.</center>
<p>These were the insignia of a captain's rank in those days, and
as Major De Haren is made to predict, Lieutenant Fitzgibbon won his
company by the exploit of Beaver Dam.</p>
<hr>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>A BALLAD OF 1812.</h3>
<h4>NOTE 1, <a href="#page070">page 70</a>.</h4>
<center>Irresolution ruled.</center>
<p>Proctor's irresolution, timidity, or want of promptness, led to
many disasters, notably that at Moraviantown, and at length was his
own destruction.</p>
<h4>NOTE 2, <a href="#page070">page 70</a>.</h4>
<center>Our people, by forced parole held.</center>
<p>James says, "No sooner had the American Army got possession of
the Niagara frontier [27th May, 1813] than officers with parties
were sent to every farmhouse and hovel in the neighbourhood to
exact a parole from the male inhabitants of almost every age. Some
were glad of this excuse for remaining peaceably at their houses,
and those who made any opposition were threatened to be sent across
the river, and thrown into a noisome prison."</p>
<h4>NOTE 3, <a href="#page072">page 72</a>.</h4>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>The substance all too poor and sparse<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Our stinted fields may grow.</td></tr></table>
<p>The war was declared on the 18th of June, and at once every able
male in the Provinces sprang to arms. The necessary absence from
their farms thus forced upon them curtailed the sowing, and
lessened the harvest, though the women and children of every rank
did their utmost to countervail the losses thus threatened. The
next year there was less to sow and less, consequently, to reap,
notwithstanding the leave granted to the militia at all possible
junctures, to attend to their work; but intermittent farming is not
more successful than other occasionally prosecuted labour, and the
war laid bare many previously fruitful clearings.</p>
<h4>NOTE 4, <a href="#page073">page 73</a>.</h4>
<center>Or many-rattled snake.</center>
<p>An extraordinary danger attended the bite of the rattlesnake in
the case of a married woman. The Jenny Decow alluded to in Note 23
had become Mrs. McCall, and while working in the field with her
husband was bitten. Her husband killed the snake, thinking,
according to the ideas of the time, that by so doing he should save
his wife's life; he also sucked the poison from <a name="page194">
<!-- Begin Page 194 --></a> the wound; but before he had carried
her to her cottage the foot had burst. An Indian remedy was
applied, but it was years before she recovered from the effects of
that bite. In the meantime two children were born, each of whom
turned spotted and sore, and then died. A third born after her
recovery was strong and healthy, and grew to manhood.</p>
<h4>NOTE 5, <a href="#page073">page 73</a>.</h4>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Oh, at the mill my brother lies<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Just at the point of death.</td></tr></table>
<p>This was Mr. Charles Ingersoll, after whom Mrs. Secord named her
only son. He had been wounded, and lay at St. David's Mill in a
very precarious condition. He recovered, however, to fight again,
and to become one of Woodstock's most prominent citizens.</p>
<h4>NOTE 6, <a href="#page074">page 74</a>.</h4>
<center>The fritil' butterfly.</center>
<p>This is the small fritillary, a beautiful little creature that
may be seen flitting from blossom to blossom, or careering in the
early summer air in the manner almost of a tumbler pigeon, before
any other of its kind has left its winter's cradle. It is
beautifully marked, of a golden brown, and the edges, of the wings
are bordered with a narrow vandyking of pearly gray.</p>
<h4>NOTE 7, <a href="#page074">page 74</a>.</h4>
<center>She hears the wolves' dread bands.</center>
<p>"Wolves were the pests of the country for many years, and even
after they were partially expelled by the settlers, they used to
make occasional descents upon the settlements, and many a farmer
that counted his sheep by twenties at night would be thankful if he
could muster half a score in the morning."-<i>See Ryerson's
Loyalists</i>, p. 246.</p>
<h4>NOTE 8, <a href="#page075">page 75</a>.</h4>
<center>Doomed St. David's Mill.</center>
<p>Auchinleck says, "From the 8th of July" [Chippewa was fought on
the 4th] "to the 23rd of the month, General Brown, with his
enormous force, was content to remain without striking a blow,
unless an occasional demonstration before Forts George and
Mississaga, or the wanton conflagration of the village of St
David's, be considered as such."</p>
<p>Of this atrocity an American officer, a Major McFarland,
writes:&mdash;"The militia and Indians plundered and burnt every
thing. The whole population is against us; not a foraging party but
is fired on, and not infrequently returns with missing numbers.
This state was to be anticipated The militia have burnt several
private dwelling-houses, and, on the 19th instant, burnt the
village of St. David's, consisting of about thirty or forty houses.
This was done within three miles of camp, and my battalion was sent
to cover the retreat, as they [the militia] had been sent to scour
the country, and it <a name="page195"><!-- Begin Page 195 --></a>
was presumed they might be pursued. My God, what a service! I never
witnessed such a scene, and had not the commanding officer of the
party, Lieutenant-Colonel Stone, been disgraced" [he was dismissed
the service by sentence of a court-martial for this deed] "and sent
out of the army, I should have resigned my commission."</p>
<p>This disgust was not caused by any half-heartedness in the war
on the part of Major McFarland, for he says in the same letter that
"he desires no better fun than to fight the British troops."</p>
<h4>NOTE 9, <a href="#page080">page 80</a>.</h4>
<center>Oh, chief, indeed no spy am I.</center>
<p>So impossible did it appear to the Indian that a woman should be
found traversing alone so strongly invested a section of the
country, that it was with the greatest difficulty Mrs. Secord
persuaded him of the truth of her story.</p>
<h4>NOTE 10, <a href="#page082">page 82</a>.</h4>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Nay, five and forty, one by one,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Have borne her from the day.</td></tr></table>
<p>From 1813 to 1860, seven and forty. Five is, however, used as a
division of equality.</p>
<h4>NOTE 11, <a href="#page083">page 83</a>.</h4>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>And when from o'er the parting seas,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; A royal letter came.</td></tr></table>
<p>"When, in 1860, the Prince of Wales was at Niagara, he went to
see the aged lady, and from her own lips heard the tale; and,
learning that her fortune did not equal her fame, he sent her, most
delicately and most gracefully, the sum of one hundred guineas. God
bless him for <i>that</i>, is the aspiration of every true Canadian
heart. He is his mother's true son."&mdash;<i>Col. Coffin's
Chronicles of the War of 1812</i>.</p>
<hr>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>JUBILEE POEM.</h3>
<h4>NOTE 1, <a href="#page084">page 84</a>.</h4>
<center>Mercy, whose message bore thy first command.</center>
<p>The first act of the Crown which Her Majesty was called upon to
perform was the signing of the death-warrant of a soldier who had
been sentenced to be shot for desertion. The Queen took it keenly,
and asked the Duke of Wellington if there was no possible plea on
which the man could be respited: had he <i>no</i> good quality?</p>
<p>"Your Majesty, he is a very bad soldier, having deserted three
times; but I believe he is a good husband."</p>
<p>"Oh, thank you," the Queen replied, and wrote "Pardoned" across
the document.</p>
<hr>
<a name="page196"><!-- Begin Page 196 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>THE HERO OF ST. HELEN'S ISLAND.</h3>
<h4>NOTE 1, <a href="#page086">page 86</a>.</h4>
<p>This touching incident, bright example as it is of that fine
sense of duty that has built up the renown of the British Army, is
related in his charming volume, "The Emigrant," by Sir Francis Bond
Head. The author, in introducing it, says: "In the different
regions of the globe it has been my fortune to visit, I have always
experienced great pleasure in pausing for a few minutes at the
various spots which have been distinguished by some feat or other
of British enterprise, British mercy, British honesty, British
generosity or British valour.</p>
<p>"About the time I was in Canada a trifling circumstance occurred
on the breaking up of the ice, which I feel proud to record.</p>
<p>"In the middle of the great St. Lawrence there is, nearly
opposite Montreal, an island called St. Helen's, between which and
the shore the stream, about three quarters of a mile broad, runs
with very great rapidity, and yet, notwithstanding this current,
the intense cold of winter invariably freezes its surface.</p>
<p>"The winter which I am speaking of was unusually severe, and the
ice on the St. Lawrence particularly thick; however, while the
river beneath was rushing towards the sea, the ice was waiting in
abeyance in the middle of the stream until the narrow fastness
between Montreal and St. Helen's should burst, and allow the whole
mass to break into pieces, and then in stupendous confusion to
hurry downwards towards Quebec." The story follows, and in winding
up the account Sir Francis says: "Colour-Sergeant William Delaney,
and Private George Morgan, of the 24th Regiment now at Chatham,
were eye-witnesses of the above occurrence."</p>
<p>The dangers Sergeant Neill so bravely encountered are thus
graphically depicted by Sir Francis B. Head on p. 42 of the same
volume, in describing the breaking up of the ice of the River
Humber, a stream not a tenth of the length or breadth of the St.
Lawrence, so that the scene bears but a slight comparison to that
witnessed on the larger river. "... As soon as the great movement
commenced, these trees and the ice were hurried before my eyes in
indescribable confusion. Every piece of ice, whatever might be its
shape or size, as it proceeded, was either revolving horizontally
or rearing up on end until it reeled over; sometimes a tree
striking against the bottom would rise slowly up, and for a moment
stand erect as if it grew out of the river; at other times it
would, apparently for variety's sake, stand on its head with its
roots uppermost and then turn over; sometimes the ice as it
proceeded would rise up like a house and chimneys, and then rolling
head over heels, sink, leaving in its place clear water.</p>
<p>"In a few hours the turmoil was completely at an end, the
torrent had diminished, the stream had shrunk to its ordinary
limits, and nothing. remained to tell of the struggle." (<i>See</i>
also <a href="#appendices">Appendix</a>.)</p>
<hr>
<a name="page197"><!-- Begin Page 197 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>LIVINGSTONE.</h3>
<h4>NOTE 1, <a href="#page101">page 101</a>.</h4>
<center>Snatched by the hand of God his groaning millions.</center>
<p>The representations by Livingstone of the terrible condition
among the inland peoples of Africa by slavery, tribe enslaving
tribe, people making war upon people for the sake of prisoners to
be sent to the slave market, and the horrors endured by the poor
wretches, thus given over to a fate worse than death, by the greed
of the Arabian and certain white merchants of the coast, led to
action on the part of the British and other Governments, which has
done much to break up the inhuman traffic, and will never cease
"till that wide wound be healed."</p>
<hr>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>THE SWEET GIRL GRADUATE.</h3>
<h4>NOTE 1, <a href="#page122">page 122</a>.</h4>
<p>This little comedy appeared in <i>Gripsack</i> for 1882, and was
written at the request of the editor of <i>Grip</i>, who was, and
is, in full sympathy with all efforts to secure the rights of
women. At that date the Council of University College had refused
to entertain the application of ladies to be admitted to the
lectures of University College, and that such an adventure with its
<i>denouement</i> did not become a fact is only to be credited to
the wisdom that, on further consideration, withdrew the objection,
for history affords many instances of woman's use of a disguise in
order to attain her wishes, and the annals of co-education furnish
numerous proofs of her equality with, and not unfrequently her
superiority to, her rivals of the other sex in competitive
examinations.</p>
<h4>NOTE 2, <a href="#page127">page 127</a>.</h4>
<center>To think that down in Canterbury, girls.</center>
<p>The circumstance here so mournfully quoted by Kate was a fact.
The University of Canterbury, New Zealand, was open alike to men
and women. The examination papers used were prepared by Cambridge
University (England) on the same standing as their own, and were
returned to Cambridge for adjudication thereon. In 1881 a lady took
the degree of B.A., the first in the world, and was invested with
the hood with some <i>eclat</i>.</p>
<a name="page198"><!-- Begin Page 198 --></a>
<h4>NOTE 3, <a href="#page136">page 136</a>.</h4>
<center>Who in this city form a ladies' club.</center>
<p>The Toronto Women's Literary Club, incepted by Dr. Emily H.
Stowe, of Toronto, and meeting at her house from 1876 until its
resolution into the Canadian Women's Suffrage Association in 1883,
was responsible for the public agitation of the right of women to
admission to University College; and also for the circulation of
the petition to that end, which, by the kind help of many of
members of the Legislature, won from the Provincial Parliament a
recommendation to the Senate of the University that women should be
admitted. Several of the leading fourth year men of 1882 offered
their assistance in circulating the petition among the students;
and the greatest sympathy was shown by educators in every part of
the Dominion.</p>
<hr>
<a name="page199"><!-- Begin Page 199 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h2><a name="appendices">APPENDICES.</a></h2>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <a name="page200"><!-- Begin Page 200 --></a> <a name="page201">
<!-- Begin Page 201 --></a>
<h3><a name="appendix1">APPENDIX NO. 1.</a></h3>
<p>[The following account of 13th Oct., 1812, written by
Lieut.-Colonel Evans, of the Eighth or King's Regiment, Acting
Brigade-Major to the Forces at that date, will be read with
interest, and is doubly valuable as being a piece of well-attested
history.]</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">GOVERNMENT HOUSE, Fort George. Oct.
15, 1812.</p>
<p>After dinner on the evening of the 11th inst., Major-General
Brock handed me a note from Captain Dennis, commanding flank
companies of the 49th Regiment at Queenstown. After perusing its
contents, which were of an alarming nature, setting forth the
highly mutinous state of his detachment, his men having
deliberately threatened to shoot their officers, etc., the General
said, "Evans, you will proceed early in the morning and investigate
this business, and march, as prisoners, in here, half-a-dozen of
those most culpable, and I will make an example of them. You can
also cross the river and tell Van Rensellaer I expect he will
immediately exchange the prisoners taken in the <i>Detroit</i> and
<i>Caledonia</i> [two vessels coming from Amherstburgh cut out by
Americans whilst at anchor at Fort Erie] for an equal number of
Americans I released after the capture of Detroit."</p>
<p>I reached Queenstown early in the morning of the 12th, and
finding many of the grenadier company confined, and the guard-house
gutted, and Captain Dennis himself in apparent alarm at the state
of things, I proposed proceeding at once to select those most
prominent, for example. At this juncture, however, and when about
leaving Hamilton's house [Captain Dennis' quarters] a scattered
fire of musquetry from the American shore took place, and on a
musket ball entering the room passing betwixt us, I inquired with
surprise the meaning of such unusual insolence. Captain Dennis
stating the practice to have existed more or less for some days,
insomuch as to render ingress by the river door hazardous, I deemed
it fitting first to cross the river, desiring Captain Dennis would
prepare his men against my return. On passing along the river bank
for Mr. T. Dickson, the enemy kept up an incessant fire of
musquetry till I entered that gentleman's house, but happily
without mischief. I now begged Mrs. Dickson kindly to, prepare a
white handkerchief as a flag of truce, asking Mr. Dickson, who was
a Captain of Militia, would he accompany me across the water; he
had no objection, but both Mrs. Dickson and all present urged the
danger of any attempt to cross, convinced as they were, in the
enemy's then temper, the flag would not be respected. Feeling
<a name="page202"><!-- Begin Page 202 --></a> this to be no time
for discussing about personal safety, I took Dickson by one hand
and the flag in the other, then descending the precipitous steep to
the water's edge, we launched our frail canoe amidst an unsparing
shower of shot which fell all around us; nor did the firing cease
till the canoe, become quite unmanageable, tossed about in the
waters of the strong eddies; when, as if struck by shame at his
dastardly attempt to deter us from our purpose the enemy gave the
signal to cease fire. I was thus relieved (and enabled) on
approaching the shore to observe more calmly all that was passing.
On touching the ground, with water in the leaky canoe ankle deep, I
was about, as was my custom, leaping ashore, when a sentinel from a
guard brought to the spot, came to the charge with fixed bayonet,
authoritatively commanding me not to leave the boat. To my enquiry
for Colonel Solomon Van Rensellaer, (the Adjutant-General) with
whom I usually conferred, I was told he was sick. I then stated
having an important message from General Brock for their Commander,
which if inconvenient for their General to receive from me
personally, I begged an official person might be immediately
deputed to convey it to him. After some delay, Mr. Toock, the
General's Secretary, made his appearance, but his reply to General
Brock's request being abrupt, and as I thought somewhat
significant, "that nothing could be done till the day after
to-orrow," I ventured to remind him of General Brock's liberality
towards their people which the fortune of war had thrown into his
hands, entreating that he would again consult his General, and
enable me to carry to mine something more satisfactory. In
compliance, as he stated, with my wishes, but as it appeared to me,
more with the intent to consume my time, rendered precious from its
being after midday, he detained me in my miserable position for
more than two hours, and then returned expressing the General's
regret "that the prisoners having been marched for Albany they
could not instanter be brought back, but that might assure General
Brock with his respects that all should be settled to their mutual
satisfaction the day after to-morrow." I was now too anxious to
depart to wish the parley prolonged, my mind being quite made up as
to the enemy's intentions, and to the course it was most fitting
for me to pursue under the circumstances. It had not escaped me
that their saucy numbers had been prodigiously swelled by a horde
of half-savage troops from Kentucky, Ohio and Tennessee, which
evidently made it hazardous for their northern countrymen to show
their accustomed respect for a flag of truce from a foe; but my
most important discovery was their boats slung in the sides or
fissures on the river bank covered only by the brush, with indeed
many decided indications that an attack on our shores could not be
prudently delayed for a single day. Under such impression the first
thing on reaching our own side was the removal by Mr. Dickson of
his family from his own house on the beach, the very site of the
prospective struggle, and giving note of preparation to the few
militia which, with the 49th flank companies, were all the
immediate disposable force for the defence of Queenstown. Aware of
the imminence and magnitude of the danger, the lateness of the
hour, after <a name="page203"><!-- Begin Page 203 --></a> three
p.m., and distance from Fort George, Headquarters more than six
miles, I hesitated not assuming the responsibility of liberating
all the 49th prisoners, on the specious plea of their offence
proceeding from a too free indulgence in drink, appealing to them
for proof of their loyalty and courage, which they were assured
would be severely tested ere another day dawned. Then, after a
rapid but effective arrangement of the several points requiring
attention, seeing to the re-supply of fresh ammunition, and
infusing all the spirit and animation in my power to impart, I left
Captain Dennis, exhorting his utmost diligence in keeping his
charge on the alert for repelling the enemy's attempt, which I
foresaw would not be deferred. Having to put the many posts on the
line of communication on the <i>qui vive</i>, although I rode at
full speed, it was past six p.m. ere I reached Fort George, and
then from having been exposed for thirteen hours, under much
anxiety, to wet feet and extreme heat, without refreshment of any
kind, I was so exhausted as to be unequal to further immediate
effort. Refreshed, I narrated to General Brock all that had
occurred, the precautionary steps I had taken, and the
responsibility I had assumed as to the 49th prisoners, which, under
the stated circumstances, I trusted he would approve, and at once
authorize my making preparations for coming events, so
indispensably required. The General evidently doubting at first,
hesitated, but seeing my earnestness in rebuking his attendants of
charging my being over-sanguine, and chagrin at their proffered
bets against my predictions, he became unusually grave, desired I
would follow him to the office, where at his request I succinctly
recapitulated the day's occurrences, adding my solemn conviction
that a moment was not to be lost in effectually preparing for
defence.</p>
<p>The General now thanked me, approved of all that I had done,
and, returning to the dining room, directed officials to be
immediately written and despatched by Provincial Dragoons, calling
in the militia of the vicinity that same evening, those more
distant to follow with all alacrity. I was directed to make all
requisite preparations at Headquarters. In this work I was busied
till near eleven p.m., with but few converts, however, to my
convictions, when, worn down by fatigue, I stretched myself on my
mattrass. After a slumber of a few hours I was aroused by a distant
cannonade soon after two a.m., 13th October, but without surprise,
well knowing the quarters where the ominous sound came. The General
who, himself, had all in readiness at once mounted his horse and
proceeded for the post attacked. His Aides-de-Camp were awoke, and
soon followed. Major-General Sheaffe, second in command, assumed
charge at Headquarters, but the impression on General Brock's mind
being that the attempt at Queenstown would prove only a feint to
disguise his (the enemy's) real object from the creek in rear of
Fort Niagara, his apparent wish was that whilst all were held in
readiness to act in any quarter, no decisive movement by the troops
should take place till the enemy's intentions were fully developed.
The Indians and regular Artillery were, however, promptly
despatched, and the <i>elite</i> of the 41st with an equal
   <a name="page204"><!-- Begin Page 204 --></a> number of
   well-drilled militia flank companies ready to follow on the
   first summons. As the day dawned, the scouts I had sent out
   reporting no symptoms of hostile movement in the quarter
   indicated, these troops all proceeded at double quick for the
   succour of Queenstown, the debouching of the head of which
   column on the main road appeared to be the signal for opening a
   brisk cannonade from Fort Niagara on the troops, the town, and
   Fort.</p>
<p>Soon after, the news of the gallant Brock's unhappy fall reached
us, which, by necessarily removing General Sheaffe to Queenstown,
the command at Fort George devolved on me as next senior officer.
At this moment the scene around was awfully discouraging, the gaol
and court house were suddenly wrapped in flames, which as
containing many political prisoners, I at first imagined the act of
an incendiary, but other buildings soon appearing in a similar
state of conflagration left me no longer in doubt as to the new
enemy of hot shot with which we had to grapple, and its easy
distance, on wooden edifices I foresaw, must be attended with very
destructive effect. Luckily, a <i>posse</i> of militia-men had now
come in, which I distributed in separate bodies, collecting all the
water-buckets and requisite implements from the inhabitants of the
town.</p>
<p>This arrangement, though in part effective, from the energy and
courage displayed in extinguishing the flames as they occurred, I
felt to be insufficient in itself for our security; selecting
therefore, all the old veteran militia artillerymen with two
intelligent staff non-commissioned officers of the 41st, by bending
our whole efforts to the attainment of one object, we at length
succeeded in stopping the mischief by diminishing and crippling the
enemy's guns, but not before he had burnt to the ground many
buildings, amongst the number, beside the gaol and court house, the
Chief Engineer's quarters; the more important ones, however, the
"Royal Barracks," "Block House," "King's Stores" and other public
buildings, though repeatedly fired were, by steady and untiring
intrepidity, preserved. Thus temporarily relieved, I was enabled to
attend to Capt. Derinzy's (commanding 41st Batt.) note, from which
it appeared, he found on arriving at Queenstown, the enemy in
possession of the opposite heights, and our heavy one-gun battery
there:&mdash;that the enfilading on our side, too distant from the
landing to be quite effective&mdash;then protected by his
division&mdash;had been powerfully aided by Capt. Holcroft, of the
Royal Artillery, who, unmindful of consequences, boldly dashed his
gun through the valley into Hamilton's court-yard within point
blank range, thus succeeding in sinking some of the enemy's crowded
boats and damping the ardour of his troops for crossing. Seeing his
critical position Capt. Derinzy had sustained him by a party of the
41st Regiment. He briefly mentioned that the spirited Brock finding
on his arrival the 49th grenadiers and militia, though resolutely
defending the landing-place, hard pressed, had called to their aid
the 49th light company from the Height's summit, the key of the
position. The enemy, profiting by this step, moved unperceived
about 150 men&mdash;and over a precipitous steep it was deemed
impracticable for a human <a name="page205">
<!-- Begin Page 205 --></a> being to ascend&mdash;who suddenly
appeared to the astonished General just on the mountain summit, and
the next instant in possession of the redoubt, putting its
defenders to the sword. The gallant spirit of Brock, ill brooking
to be thus foiled, with a courage deserving a better fate, hastily
collected the weak 49th company and a few militia; debouching from
a stone building at the mountain's brow, with these little bands,
he spiritedly strove to regain his lost position, but in which
daring attempt he was killed by a rifle ball entering under the
left breast, passing out by the right shoulder. Capt. Williams by
taking a wider range, made a second effort, but as the result
proved with too inadequate a force, the A.D.C. (McDonell), being
mortally wounded and Capt. Williams' head partially scalped by a
rifle ball.</p>
<p>These circumstances convinced me General Sheaffe would be more
circumspect than attack without a concentration of every disposable
man. Under such impressions, after first despatching Lieutenant
McIntyre, 41st Regiment, with about 140 men of his regiment and
militia, and afterwards Wm. Martin with every regular soldier and a
few active militia from Fort George, I hastened to forward, at all
hazards, the most active of the men from the many posts on the line
of communication. On starting those from Young's Battery, the
enemy, as though by signal, re-opened his cannonade from Fort
Niagara on Fort George and the town. However mortified by this
unlooked-for occurrence, prudence required that whilst sending our
whole effective force to Queenstown, Fort George and its
dependencies should not be neglected, for what with the alien and
prisoners in the Block House, with those set at liberty by firing
the gaol, their number was little short of 300, with but a few raw
militia left for their security, or that of the fort or town. I
was, therefore, left no alternative but to gallop back and
ascertain the enemy's power for further mischief. Well it was that
I did so, for on reaching the gate of Fort George, I met a crowd of
the militia with consternation in their countenances, exclaiming
the magazine was on fire. Knowing it to contain 800 barrels of
powder, with vent side-walls, not an instant was to be lost.
Captain Vigoreux, of the Engineers, therefore, at my suggestion,
was promptly on its roof, which movement was with alacrity followed
by the requisite number of volunteers, when by the tin being
stripped off the blazing wood was extinguished. Thus was confidence
reassured. The enemy, taking advantage of a bend in the river, had
brought a battery with hot shot to enfilade the barracks, magazine
and King's stores, and despite all our efforts to dislodge him he
had effectively consumed the store-houses with all the lower
buildings, and repeatedly set on fire the barracks and magazine.
Our success was perfect: the enemy's fire being again silenced and
the necessary precautions taken to avert future disaster, I made
another effort to reach Queenstown, when I met Captain Chambers,
41st Regiment, with the glad tidings that General Sheaffe, by a
spirited and judicious movement away to his right, and crossing the
vale high up with his collected forces, had approached&mdash;as to
ground&mdash;his enemy on more favourable terms, and that his
operations had <a name="page206"><!-- Begin Page 206 --></a>
resulted in the enemy's complete destruction. But, for the details
of this brilliant success I must refer to the despatches of the
distinguished officer who, with his gallant troops, achieved
it.</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">(Signed) THOMAS EVANS,<br>
 <i>Brigade-Major to the Forces</i>.</p>
<p>[The statement made above by Lieut.-Col. Evans that in the 49th
were still smouldering the fires of the insubordination that Brock
himself had summarily dealt with several years before, is as
remarkable as it is painful to those who would fain think a
regiment famed for its brave achievements in so many engagements,
and to which Brock had belonged for many years, could not be guilty
of anything so disgraceful as is insubordination. It must, however,
be remembered that of all duties, garrison duty is most trying to
the soldier, and to these men, the greater part of whom were
veterans who had fought at Bergen-op-Zoom and Copenhagen, where
they had acted as marines, anything approaching to the spirit of
the martinet in their superior officers must have been very
galling.</p>
<p>To this want of tact on the part of certain officers is
attributed, by those who have enquired most carefully into the
matter, the uncomfortable state of the gallant 49th at and before
the epoch of the war.</p>
<p>Even Brock himself was tired of garrison life at such a stirring
time at home, and had applied for active service in Europe, and
Major-General Sheaffe had actually been appointed to his offices,
both civil and military, when the declaration of war by President
Madison gave him the employment he was looking for.]</p>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>APPENDIX NO. 2.</h3>
<p>[From the other end of the Niagara Frontier comes an equally
interesting account of that notable day&mdash;the 13th Oct., 1812,
that of Lieutenant Driscoll of the 100th Regiment. (See Ryerson's
"Loyalists of America and their Times." Vol. 2, pages 36-81.)]</p>
<p>"I was stationed at Fort Erie on the memorable 13th Oct., 1812.
At daybreak, having returned with my escort as visiting rounds,
after a march of about six miles in muddy roads through the
forests, and about to refresh the inward man after my fatiguing
trudge, I heard a booming of distant artillery very faintly
articulated.</p>
<p>"Having satisfied myself of the certainty of my belief, wet and
fatigue were no longer remembered; excitement banishes these
trifling matters from the mind; and I posted off to my commanding
officer to report the firing, now more audible and rapid.</p>
<p>"I found my chief, booted and spurred and snoring&mdash;lying,
as was his wont, on a small hair mattrass on the floor in his
barrack room, which boasted of furniture, one oak table covered
with green baize, a writing desk, a tin basin containing water and
a brass candlestick, which had planted in it a regulation
mutton-dip, dimly flickering its last ray of light, paling before
the dawn, now making its appearance through the curtainless
window.</p>
<a name="page207"><!-- Begin Page 207 --></a>
<p>"The noise I made on entering the Major's sleeping and other
apartment awoke him. As he sat up on his low mattrass he said,
'What is the matter?' 'Heavy firing down the river, sir.' 'Turn the
men out.' 'All under arms, sir.' 'That'll do.'</p>
<p>"By this time he was on his legs&mdash;his hat and gloves on.
His hutman was at the door with his charger, and his spurs in his
horses' flanks in an instant&mdash;leaving the orderly, hutman, and
myself to double after him up to the fort, some hundred yards
off.</p>
<p>"As we reached it, the men were emerging through the gate in
measured cadence, and we were on our way to the batteries opposite
the enemy's station at Black Rock.</p>
<p>"Before we reached our post of alarm the sun was up and bright.
We had not assumed our position long before an orderly officer of
the Provincial Dragoons rode up, and gave us the information that
the enemy were attempting to cross at Queenston, and that we must
annoy them along the whole line, as was being done from Niagara to
Queenston, by any and every means in our power short of crossing
the river. Everything was ready on our part. The enemy all appeared
asleep, judging from the apparent quiet that prevailed on their
side the river.</p>
<p>"The command to annoy the enemy was no sooner given than bang!
bang! went off every gun that we had in position.</p>
<p>"Now there was a stir. The enemy's guns were in a short time
manned, and returned our fire; and the day's work was begun, which
was carried on briskly the greater part of the day on both sides of
the Niagara.</p>
<p>"About two o'clock, another Provincial Dragoon, bespattered,
horse and man, with foam and mud, made his appearance, not wearing
sword or helmet.</p>
<p>"Said an old Green Tiger to me: 'Horse and man jaded, sir;
depend upon it he brings bad news.' 'Step down and ascertain what
intelligence he brings.' Away my veteran doubles, and soon returns
at a funeral pace.</p>
<p>"Light heart, light step," were my inward thoughts. I knew by
poor old Clibborn's style of return something dreadful had
occurred. 'What news, Clibborn? What news, man? Speak out,' said I,
as be advanced towards the battery that was still keeping up a
brisk fire. Clibborn walked on, perfectly unconscious of the balls
that were ploughing up the ground, uttered not a word but shook his
head.</p>
<p>"When in the battery the old man sat down on the platform; still
no word, but the pallor and expression of his countenance indicated
the sorrow of his soul.</p>
<p>"I could stand it no longer. I placed my hand on his shoulder.
'For Heaven's sake, tell us what you know.' 'In choking accents he
revealed his melancholy information: 'The General is killed; the
enemy has possession of Queenstown Heights.'</p>
<p>"Every man in the battery was paralyzed; the battery ceased
firing.</p>
<p>"A cheer by the enemy from the opposite side of the river
recalled us to our duty. They had heard of their success down the
river. Our men, who <a name="page208"><!-- Begin Page 208 --></a>
had in various ways evinced their feelings&mdash;some in weeping,
some in swearing&mdash;some in mournful silence&mdash;now exhibit
demoniac energy. The heavy guns are loaded, traversed and fired, as
if they were field pieces.</p>
<p>"Too much hurry for precision. 'Take your time, men; don't throw
away your fire, my lads.' 'No, sir, but we'll give it to them hot
and heavy.'</p>
<p>"All the guns were worked by the 49th men of my own company, and
they wished to avenge their beloved chief. Brock, whom they knew
and valued with that correct appreciation peculiar to the British
soldier. They had all served under him in Holland and at
Copenhagen.</p>
<p>"I had a very excellent reconnoitering glass; and as I kept a
sharp lookout for the effect of our fire, and the movements of the
enemy, I observed that powder was being removed from a large wooden
barrack into ammunition waggons. The only man of the Royal
Artillery I had with me was a bombardier, Walker. I called his
attention to the fact I had observed, and directed him to lay a gun
for that part of the building wherefrom the powder was being taken.
At my request he took a look through my glass, and, having
satisfied himself, he laid the gun as I ordered. I, with my glass,
watched the spot aimed at. I saw one plank of the building fall
out, and at the same instant the whole fabric went up in a pillar
of black smoke, with but little noise, and it was no
more&mdash;horses, waggons, men and building all disappeared; not a
vestige of any was to be seen.</p>
<p>"Now was our turn to cheer; and we plied the enemy in a style so
quick and accurate that we silenced all their guns just as a third
dragoon came galloping up to us, shouting 'Victory! Victory!' Then
again we cheered lustily, but no response came from the other side.
Night now hid the enemy from our sight.</p>
<p>"The commissariat made its appearance with biscuit, pork, rum
and potatoes, and we broke our fast for that day about nine
p.m.</p>
<p>"How strange and unaccountable are the feelings induced by war!
Here were men of two nations, but of a common origin, speaking the
same language, of the same creed, intent on mutual destruction,
rejoicing with fiendish pleasure at their address in perpetrating
murder by wholesale, shouting for joy as disasters propagated by
the chance of war hurled death and agonizing wounds into the ranks
of their opponents! And yet the very same men, when chance gave
them the opportunity, would readily exchange, in their own peculiar
way, all the amenities of social life, extending to one another a
draw of the pipe, a quid or glass; obtaining and exchanging
information from one and the other of their respective services, as
to pay, rations, etc., the victors with delicacy abstaining from
any mention of the victorious day. Though the vanquished would
allude to their disaster, the victors never named their
triumphs.</p>
<p>"Such is the character of acts and words between British and
American soldiers, which I have witnessed, as officer commanding a
guard over American prisoners.</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">"JAMES DRISCOLL,<br>
 "<i>Of the 100th Regiment</i>."</p>
<a name="page209"><!-- Begin Page 209 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>APPENDIX NO. 3.</h3>
<p>[Lieutenant-Colonel Bishopp was a son of Sir Cecil Bishopp,
Bart., afterwards Lord de la Zouche. He was an accomplished
gentleman. He had served in the Guards. Had represented Newport, in
the Isle of Wight, in Parliament. Had been attached to a Russian
embassy. Had served with distinction in Flanders, in Spain, in
Portugal and died full of hope and promise in Canada, gallantly
"doing his duty," and not without avail, for his example still
lives.]</p>
<p>"At two a.m. on the morning of the 11th July, 1813, accompanied
by Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Clark, and Lieutenant James Cummings
(both of the Lincoln Militia), backed by about 240 men&mdash;200
being regulars, and forty of the 2nd and 3rd Lincoln Militia,
Bishopp swooped down upon Black Rock, the American naval depot on
the River Niagara.</p>
<p>"The assault was a success; the work of destruction of the naval
stores, chiefly by sinking them in the river, was complete. But
Porter's force was aroused, and a speedy retreat on the part of
Bishopp necessary. The men re-embarked unmolested, and Bishopp was
the last to retire. Scarcely had they left the bank when the
Indians who had crawled to the top commenced to fire. Part of
Bishopp's men were landed and drove the enemy back into the
woods.... Bishopp was everywhere commanding, directing, getting his
men off. In the confusion of the moment some of the oars of his own
boat were lost, and she drifted helplessly down stream exposed to
an ever-increasing fire. Here Bishopp received his death-wound. He
was borne back to his quarters, where, in a few days he expired at
the early age of twenty-seven. 'Never was any officer, save always
the lamented Brock, regretted more than he was.' His remains lie
beneath a modest monument erected to his memory by the pious care
of his sisters, the Baroness de la Zouche and Mrs. Pechall, in the
churchyard at Lundy's Lane."&mdash;<i>Coffin's Chronicles</i>.</p>
<p>A tablet to his memory is also to be seen at the family
burial-place, Parham, Sussex, England, with the following
epitaph:&mdash;</p>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>"His pillow&mdash;not of sturdy oak;<br>
 His shroud&mdash;a simple soldier's cloak;<br>
 His dirge will sound till Time's no more&mdash;<br>
 Niagara's loud and solemn roar.<br>
 There Cecil lies&mdash;say where the grave<br>
 More worthy of a Briton brave?"<br></td></tr></table>
<p>[Lieutenant-Colonel (afterwards General) Evans, Brigade Major,
was one of the most valuable officers of the War of 1812. His cool
head, sound judgment, energy, and capability in administration made
him a tower of strength to his superiors, all of whom at various
times, took an opportunity of testifying to his merits.]</p>
<p>On the 17th August, 1812, the day after the surrender of
Detroit, General Brock wrote to him:&mdash;</p>
<p>"Dear Evans,&mdash;Detroit is ours, and with it the whole
Michigan Territory, the American Army Prisoners of War. The force
you so skilfully prepared <a name="page210">
<!-- Begin Page 210 --></a> and forwarded at so much risk, met me
at "Point au Pins" in high spirits and most effective state. Your
thought of clothing the militia in the 41st cast-off clothing
proved a most happy one, it having more than doubled our own
regular force in the enemy's eye. I am not without anxiety about
the Niagara with your scanty means for its defence, notwithstanding
my confidence in your vigilance and admirable address in keeping
the enemy so long in ignorance of my absence and movements, etc.
(Signed) I. BROCK."</p>
<p>There is no need here to allude to the events of the 13th
October, 1812, at Fort George, since they are given in Lieut.-Col.
Evans' own account of that day, to be found at <a href=
"#appendix1">Appendix No. 1</a>, and show that his Generals had
good reason for the esteem in which they held him. Suffice it to
say that in the despatches of General Sheaffe from Queenstown; of
General Vincent from Burlington Heights; of Deputy Adjutant-General
Harvey, Burlington Heights, with reference to the successful attack
on Forty-mile Creek by a wing of the 8th or King's Regiment under
Lieut-Col. Evans; of General Riall, after Chippawa, Fort Erie, and
Lundy's Lane; and of General Drummond, after Lundy's Lane,
Lieut.-Col. Evans is always mentioned with special approbation. And
the same feeling is evident in the public prints of the day,
notably the London <i>Gazette</i>, the official organ, as well as
in histories of the war.</p>
<p>Previous to his removal to Canada with his regiment, Lieut.-Col.
Evans had been officially connected with the Government of
Gibraltar in 1802, at the time that the Duke of Kent, as Governor,
was trying to introduce some much-needed reforms, by doing which he
brought a hornet's nest about his ears. In this affair the Royal
Duke was ably backed by his subordinate, and in 1826, when
Lieut.-Col. Evans was applying for a staff situation in Canada, his
Royal Highness gratefully supported his request.</p>
<p>Brigade-Major Evans' local rank throughout the War of 1812 was
that of Lieutenant-Colonel.</p>
<p>General Evans was an Englishman of Welsh ancestry. He married a
daughter of Mr. Chief Justice Ogden, of Three Rivers, and after
occupying several important appointments, returned to Canada, dying
in Quebec in February, 1863, and was buried with military honours.
His body was afterwards removed to Three Rivers, and lies by the
side of his wife.</p>
<p>Major R. J. Evans, now resident in Toronto, to whom I am
indebted for the above particulars, as also for the valuable paper
to be found elsewhere, is a son of General Evans.</p>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>APPENDIX NO. 4.</h3>
<p>Guests from the 'Royal' stroll frequently to the grassy ramparts
of old Fort George, whose irregular outlines are still to be traced
in the open plains which now surround it. Here landed in 1783-84,
ten thousand United <a name="page211"><!-- Begin Page 211 --></a>
Empire Loyalists who, to keep inviolate their oaths of allegiance
to the King, quitted their freeholds and positions of trust and
honour in the States to begin life anew in the unbroken wilds of
Upper Canada.</p>
<p>"History has made us somewhat familiar with the settlement of
Nova Scotia and New Brunswick by the expatriated Loyalists. Little
has been written of the sufferings and privations endured by 'the
makers' of Upper Canada.</p>
<p>"With the present revival of interest in American history, it is
singular that writers do not awaken a curiosity about the Loyalists
of the Revolution. Students and specialists who have investigated
the story of a flight, equalled only by that of the Huguenots after
the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, have been led to admire the
spirit of unselfish patriotism which led over one hundred thousand
fugitives to self-exile. While the Pilgrim Fathers came to America
leisurely, bringing their household goods and their charters with
them, the United Empire Loyalists, it has been well said, 'bleeding
with the wounds of seven years of war, left ungathered the crops of
their rich farms on the Mohawk and in New Jersey, and, stripped of
every earthly possession, braved the terrors of the unbroken
wilderness from the Mohawk to Lake Ontario.'"&mdash;<i>Jane Meade
Welsh, in Harper's New Monthly for August</i>, 1887.</p>
<p>"1812&mdash;like the characters on the labarum of
Constantine&mdash;is a sign of solemn import to the people of
Canada. It carries with it the virtue of an incantation. Like the
magic numerals of the Arabian sage, these words, in their
utterance, quicken the pulse, and vibrate through the frame,
summoning from the pregnant past memories of suffering and
endurance and of honourable exertion. They are inscribed on the
banner and stamped on the hearts of the Canadian people&mdash;a
watchword rather than a war cry. With these words upon his lips,
the loyal Canadian, as a vigilant sentinel, locks forth into the
gloom, ready with his challenge, hopeful for a friendly response
but prepared for any other. The people of Canada are proud of the
men, and of the deeds, and of the recollections of those days. They
feel that the War of 1812 is an episode in the story of a young
people, glorious, in itself and full of promise. They believe that
the infant which, in its very cradle, could strangle invasion,
struggle and endure bravely and without repining, is capable of a
nobler development, if God wills further trial."&mdash;<i>Coffin's
Chronicles of the War, Chapter I., preamble</i>.</p>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>APPENDIX NO. 5.</h3>
<p>[Mr. Le Moine, in "Quebec Past and Present," states that slavery
was finally abolished in Canada in 1803.] "Near Fort George, less
than a century ago, stood the first Parliament House of Upper
Canada&mdash;a building rude in comparison with the massive pile,
the Bishop's Palace, used for a similar purpose at Quebec&mdash;but
memorable for one at least of the many liberal laws <a name=
"page212"><!-- Begin Page 212 --></a> its homespun representatives
enacted. Here, seventy years before President Lincoln's
Emancipation Proclamation, the first United Empire Loyalist
Parliament, like the embattled farmers at Concord, 'fired a shot
heard round the world.' For one of the first measures of the exiled
patricians was to pass an act forbidding slavery. Few readers know
that at Newark&mdash;now Niagara, Ontario&mdash;was enacted that
law by which Canada became, not only the first country in the world
to abolish slavery, but as such, a safe refuge for the fugitive
slaves from the Southern States."&mdash;<i>Jane Meade Welsh, in
Harper's New Monthly, August</i>, 1887.</p>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>APPENDIX NO. 6.</h3>
<p>[The Twenty-fourth or Second Warwickshire Regiment, now the
South Wales Borderers, is of ancient and gallant fame. On its
colours are inscribed "Egypt," "Cape of Good Hope," "Talavera,"
"Fuentes d'Onor," "Salamanca," "Vittoria," "Pyrenees," "Nivelle,"
"Orthes," "Peninsula"&mdash;a goodly show.]</p>
<p>To us, perhaps, the claims of the Regiment upon our admiration
are eclipsed by those upon our pity when we remember the terrible
disaster of Isandula in 1879, when six companies of the Regiment
were cut to pieces, and as it was at first feared, the colours
lost. But it was not so; several companies of the 1st Battalion had
fought in the victorious affair of Rorke's Drift the day before,
and "Lieutenant Bromhead" says the <i>Daily News</i> of Feb. 21,
1879: "1st Battalion, 24th Regiment, and Lieutenant Chard, R.E.,
left in charge of the Drift with a company of the 24th Regiment,
first received intimation of the disaster [at Isandula] from
fugitives making for the Drift. Lieutenant Coghill with others rode
away to communicate with Helgmakaar, and were killed by Zulus in
crossing the river."</p>
<p>With Lieutenant Coghill was Lieutenant Melville carrying the
colours. The company holding the Drift was annihilated by the
on-rushing savages, and no tidings of the colours could be gained
until some days after when, behind a mound, were found the bodies
of the two brave Lieutenants, one of whom grasped the pole with
hands stiffened in death and around the other the precious flag was
wound, "safe on the heart of a soldier."</p>
<p>The following touching lines will be welcome to the lover of
noble deeds; it is to be regretted that the name of the poet cannot
also be given:&mdash;</p>
<center>THE LOST COLOURS.</center>
<table align="center" summary="poem positioner">
<tr>
<td>Who said we had lost the Colours?<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Who carried the tale away.<br>
 And whispered it low in England,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; With the deeds of that awful day?<br>
 The story was washed, they tell us,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Freed from a touch of shame&mdash;<br>
 Washed in the blood of those who died.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Told in their sacred name.<br>
<br>
 <a name="page213"><!-- Begin Page 213 --></a> But they said we had
lost the Colours,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And the Colours were safe, you see;<br>
 While the story was told in England,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Over the restless sea.<br>
 They had not the heart to blame us.<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; When they knew what the day had cost;<br>
 But we felt the shame of the silence laid<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; On the Colours they thought were lost.<br>
<br>
 And now to its farthest limit<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; They will listen and hear our cry;<br>
 How could the Colours be lost, I say,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; While one was left to die?<br>
 Safe on the heart of a soldier,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Where else could the Colours be!<br>
 I do not say they were found again,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; For they never were lost, you see.<br>
<br>
 Safe on the heart of a soldier,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Knotted close to his side,<br>
 Proudly lie on the quiet breast,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Washed in the crimson tide!<br>
 For the heart is silent forever,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Stirred by no flitting breath,<br>
 And the Colours he saved are a fitting shroud,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And meet for a soldier's death.<br>
<br>
 What more would they know in England?<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; The Colours were lost, they said;<br>
 And all the time they were safe, of course,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; Though the soldier himself was dead.<br>
 The band was stiff, and the heart was cold<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; And feeble the stalwart limb;<br>
 But he was one of the Twenty-fourth,<br>
 &nbsp;&nbsp; So the Colours were safe with him.</td></tr></table>
<p>The following which appeared in the Toronto <i>World</i>,
Saturday, July 16, 1887, will also be found of interest to those
whose sympathies have been awakened by the poem:</p>
<center>"NO LONGER THE TWENTY-FOURTH."<br>
<br>
 <i>How the Heroes of Isandklwana came to be called South Wales
Borderers</i>.</center>
<p>"In the London <i>Graphic</i> there have appeared lately several
good articles headed 'Types of the British Army,' with excellent
full-sheet coloured cuts, by eminent artists, of men in marching
order or otherwise belonging to the corps on which the article is
written. The last one is in the <i>Graphic</i> of April 30, being
the fourth to appear, and the picture represents a soldier of the
gallant 24th Regiment. Much has been said by old officers and
soldiers in the press relative to the abolition of the
time-honoured numbers of the old corps, and now this splendid old
regiment is no longer the 24th, but since 1881 is called the 'South
Wales Borderers.' And not only did the historical old <a name=
"page214"><!-- Begin Page 214 --></a> number disappear from the
Army List, according to the new system, but they lost their green
facings, and now wear the white, which all regiments, English and
Welsh, according to the territorial system, have to wear. The Irish
wear green, the Scotch yellow, and all Royal regiments wear blue.
The Artillery and 60th Rifles have red facings, and the Rifle
Brigade black. Corps on the line now go by territorial titles.
First and second battalions and many old regiments are joined to
other old corps which formerly had nothing whatever to do with the
county or province from which they now derive their title." In
connection with this a former captain in the 46th writes to the
Montreal <i>Witness</i> as follows:</p>
<p>"It may be interesting to many to know the reason why regiments
now bear their new titles; and, as the writer was intimately
acquainted with the 24th before the fearful calamity at
Isandhlwana&mdash;where they were annihilated in 1879 by the
Zulus&mdash;and was stationed with them in Brecon, South Wales, he
can give the rather curious origin of their present title.</p>
<p>"Some time before the Zulu campaign, there were many sweeping
changes made in the army, amongst them being the abolition of
numbers, and an order was issued that all members of militia,
yeomanry and volunteers at home should have their adjutants
appointed from officers serving on full pay with the regiments of
cavalry or infantry, and that the artillery, militia and
volunteers, should have their adjutants from the Royal Artillery or
Marine Artillery; the appointment to last for five years, and at
the expiration of that time the officer to return to his corps, and
another one to succeed him. The writer was at that time adjutant of
the 46th Regiment, and the first to be thus appointed to the Royal
Brecon Rifles, South Wales&mdash;a small corps of only four
companies. There was another smaller corps of only two companies in
the adjoining county, Radnorshire, and, perhaps for economy's sake,
it was ordered that both of these corps should be made one
regiment. Each wanted to retain its old militia designation, but it
was decided by the officers to give them a totally new one, and
they were christened the 'South Wales Borderers.'</p>
<p>"Brecon was made a depot centre, and the 24th Regiment were to
recruit and have their depots there. Being then without a title
they took that of the local militia, and are, therefore, now the
'1st and 2nd Battalions South Wales Borderers.' But they will
always be known as the time-honoured 24th, who lost one colonel,
one major, four captains, fourteen lieutenants and seven entire
companies, including band, buglers and drummer boys, at
Isandhlwana. Lieutenants Melville and Coghill, on that occasion,
seeing that all was lost, attempted to save the colours. Melville
was first hit, and Coghill turned back to share his fate. The
colours were afterwards found in the bed of the Buffalo River, and
when brought home Her Majesty tied a small wreath of immortelles on
the staff head at Osborn. They are still in the possession of the
regiment, and the wreath presented by Her Majesty is preserved in a
handsome hermetically-sealed oak box, mounted in silver."</p>
<a name="page215"><!-- Begin Page 215 --></a> <br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<h3>APPENDIX NO. 7.</h3>
<p>[In his "La Litt&eacute;rature au Canada Fran&ccedil;ais" M.
Bender says of M. L. Pamphile Le May:]</p>
<p>"Le May sings in a clear and tender voice, reminding one of
Alfred de Vigny, and approaching the elegance and polish of that
poet.... In words of melody he celebrates the beauties of rural
life and scenery. He is touching, pleasing and sympathetic. He
knows his subject well; he has seen it, he has felt it, he has
loved it; indeed he yields too much to inspiration, and does not
sufficiently finish his verse, nor does he fully develop his idea
so as to reap all its wealth.... His creations evince originality
and beauty of form." In his preface to "Essais Po&eacute;tiques,"
published 1865, M. Leon P. Le May tells his readers that his
friends discouraged him in his worship of the Muse; they said
verse-making did not pay, that it cost a man too much to devote
himself to an art so little esteemed. But he sang nevertheless, and
Canadian literature in the French language is the richer by much
that is sweet, tender, beautiful and inspiring. We ought to thank
M. Le May for being wiser than his advisers; and such of us as have
not yet considered Canadian Literature worthy of especial regard
would do well to hunt up the numerous volumes that lie all but
unknown upon booksellers' shelves, and convince themselves that
there is a field of intellectual enjoyment open to them of which
they may be justly proud to be the heirs.</p>
<br>
 <br>
 <br>
 <br>

<hr>







<pre>





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812.
by Sarah Anne Curzon

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAURA SECORD, THE HEROINE OF 1812. ***

This file should be named secrd10h.htm or secrd10h.zip
Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, secrd11h.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, secrd10a.txt

Produced by David Garcia, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.

Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our Web sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg

These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).


Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03

Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month:  1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):

eBooks Year Month

    1  1971 July
   10  1991 January
  100  1994 January
 1000  1997 August
 1500  1998 October
 2000  1999 December
 2500  2000 December
 3000  2001 November
 4000  2001 October/November
 6000  2002 December*
 9000  2003 November*
10000  2004 January*


The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.

As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

In answer to various questions we have received on this:

We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.

While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.

International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.

Donations by check or money order may be sent to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information online at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart hart@pobox.com

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     eBook or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees.  Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart.  Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*



</pre>

</body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2025-12-24 01:58:07 +0000