Treasure Valley Part 7

Hannah paused, and gazed around appealingly.

"She got me 'round the neck, an' I couldn't no more make her let go than I could fly," she added, as an unanswerable argument.

"Well, we jist got up to go, when there was the most awful racket started up you ever heard tell of, and that other girl, the one with the black head, comes runnin' up an' starts to dance 'round an' yell an' scream. An' at that, my girl she ups an' hollers, too, an' I never heard such a bedlam, each one screamin' they didn't want to leave the other. Jake he shouted out to a big girl standin' there to know what was the matter, an' she yells that they was twins an' hadn't never been apart. An' then I seen that they were jist as alike as two peas, except for the hair. Well, the black-headed one was makin' such a fearful holler that the matron she says to the big girl, quite sharp like, 'Take her up to the ward,' whatever place that may be. An' the big girl she grabs the poor child by the arm an' begins to haul her to the door, an' the tears streamin' down her little face.

"Well, with that, Jake he puts the red-headed one down with a bang, an'

he makes one leap for that big girl. I never seen Jake look like that before, only once, and that was when Joel McMurtry kicked his dog an'

broke its leg, thirteen years ago next twenty-fourth. It was an awful look. An' he jist grabs that child away from her, an' he says--he says--oh, I'd be ashamed to tell you the dreadful bad word he said! I wouldn't have the minister hear about it for all the earth, for Jake's been a member of the church ever since before we were married, an'

never used a bit o' bad language in his life, to my knowledge. An'

then he says, in a ter'ble voice, 'You leave that child alone, she's goin' with me,' he says. An' with that she puts her arms 'round his neck an' hangs on, an' calls him all the sweet names you ever heard.

"Well, that was bad' enough, but it seems we weren't done yet. We were jist beginnin' to get collected to start again, when one o' the twins commenced to yell again. It was the black-headed one, but I ain't sure o' their names. One's Lorena, an' the other's Lenora--ain't they awful pretty names? But I think they must change them 'round, 'cause I can never remember which is which, nor Jake, neither. Well, anyhow, the black one starts to holler louder'n ever, an' she kept screamin' in between hollers, 'I don't want to leave Timmy! I don't want to leave Timmy!' An' with that, the other girl starts up the same, an' the wee red-head he gets at it harder'n the rest, an' there was the three o'

them cryin' an' takin' on, 'Oh, let Timmy come, too! Let Timmy come, too!' 'Who's Timmy?' says Jake to the matron. 'Is he their dog?' says he. 'No,' says she, 'he's their brother,' says she. 'Lord 'a' mercy!'

says I, 'don't tell me there's another one!' 'Yes, there he is,' says she, an' she points to him. He was settin' on the edge of a long seat, all humped up, an' queer, watchin' everything, without sayin' a word, but if I live to be a hundred I'll never get the look o' that child's face out o' my mind. It was so kind o' awful lonesome an' forsaken an'

hungry-lookin', an' so fearful old, an' him not quite ten."

Hannah paused to wipe her eyes.

"I knew, the minit I seen him, we'd jist got to adopt him, or I'd wake up nights seein' his poor little face lookin' at me with them terrible eyes. But he never asked to be took. He jist looks at the others, an'

he says, kind o' gruff like, 'Go on, yous; don't you mind me.'

"Well, it was my turn this time, an' I jist bust out louder'n the twins. An' I says, 'Oh, Jake,' I says, 'he'll die if we don't adopt him, too, an' so'll I!' I says. An' Jake, he jist snaps his fingers at the little fellow, an' he says, 'Come along, then, little shaver, we'll take you, too.' An' he gives one spring off the bench an' catches Jake around the legs like a big spider, an' mind you, all the three others was hangin' on to him already like leeches, an' Jake, he looks 'round kind o' helpless like, an' he says to the matron, 'There ain't any more belongin' to this family, is there?' says he. 'Cause you might as well trot 'em out.' But the matron she laughs, an' says that was all, and were we sure we could adopt so many. Jake says, 'I dunno, I'm sure,'

says he, 'but it seems as if they'd adopted us, and we can't help ourselves.' That set everybody laughin', 'stead o' cryin', an' we picked up them four orphants an' brought them home last night, an' here we are."

She stopped, and looked around anxiously at the circle of neighbors.

"I know it was awful of us to do it. But I hope you won't mind, will you? We jist couldn't help it."

"Well, yen's true, Hannah," exclaimed old Miss McQuarry emphatically.

"It was jist the Lord's wull, wumman."

Every one looked at Mrs. Winters for her verdict.

"It's a pity to part flesh and blood, that's a fact," she admitted reluctantly. "But how you an' Jake is ever goin' to tame down them four wild things is more'n I can tell."

"You send them to school," said the Duke of Wellington, as she arose to start for that inst.i.tution herself, "and I'll answer for them the biggest part of the day."

Mrs. Sawyer's face lightened. "Indeed we will, jist as soon as we can get them to settle down a bit. An' Jake says the boys'll help him in the mill, an' the girls'll help me in the house, an' we'll get along somehow."

"Well," said Mrs. Munn, rising, and forestalling any further discussion, "there's no use talkin' about things, anyhow; that does more harm than good."

The company arose and drifted toward the door.

"D'ye think they'll be awful hard to bring up, Harriet?" whispered Mrs.

Sawyer tremulously, detaining the doctor's landlady for a moment behind the others.

Mrs. Munn looked steadily into Hannah Sawyer's kindly eyes. These two had been stanch friends since the days when they had sat together in school and shared dinner-pails. Only to this old comrade did Harriet Munn's reticent tongue speak out the deep thoughts of her heart. She laid her hand on Mrs. Sawyer's shoulder.

"It's jist the Lord's hand that's led you, Hannah," she said quietly, "that's what it is, and you don't need to be afraid o' nothin'."

Hannah Sawyer's homely face grew radiant. "That's jist what the minister said last night!" she exclaimed. "We'll jist do our best, an'

I'm sure, with Jake an' the Lord to look after us, we ain't likely to come to want."

CHAPTER V

THE MILKSTAND CLUB

He that sees clear is gentlest of his words, And that's not truth that hath the heart to kill.

--ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.

The Cameron homestead could scarcely be said to belong to Elmbrook, but formed a suburb all by itself. It was a comfortable-looking red-brick, set away back in its orchards and fields, and was further cut off from the village by the ravine where the mill-stream ran.

Perhaps this was partly the reason why the Cameron family seemed a little exclusive. There was a deep suspicion throughout Elmbrook that old lady Cameron, as she was called, thought herself above ordinary folks, and unconsciously Elmbrook thought so, too. The father had died when the children were all little, but she had kept them together through poverty and hardship, imbuing them all with her splendid, self-sacrificing spirit, until now the elder ones had each taken an honorable position in life. James, the eldest, lived on the farm, and had lately paid off the mortgage and built a new house and barn; Hugh was a lawyer in a neighboring city; Mary was married to a minister--the greatest achievement of all; Elsie promised to be a singer, and by making special sacrifices the family had succeeded in giving her a year's training under the best teachers in the land; Malcolm was going to be a doctor, had finished his second year with honors, in fact; and Jean and Archie were still to be given their chance.

Old lady Cameron's brother-in-law, Uncle Hughie, was the best-known member of the family. He was the village philosopher, and spent his time hobbling about the farm, doing such odd jobs as his rheumatism would permit, and "rastlin'" out the problem of human life. He was sitting on the milkstand just now, his small, stooped body almost covered by his straw hat, his long beard sweeping his knees. He was swinging his feet, and singing, in a high, quavering voice, his favorite song, "The March o' the Cameron Men."

When Sawed-Off Wilmott started a cheese factory down on the Lake Simcoe road each of his patrons had built, just at the gate, a small platform, called a milkstand, from which the cans were collected. The Cameron milkstand had a flight of steps leading up to it, and a grove of plum-trees surrounding. It was a fine place to sit, of an evening, for one could be isolated and yet see all that was going on up in the village. Here Uncle Hughie regularly gathered about him a little group of friends. Next to the minister, he was considered the most learned man in the community, and the Cameron milkstand was a sort of high-cla.s.s club, where only the serious-minded were admitted, and where one heard all sorts of profound subjects discussed, such as astronomy and the destiny of the British Empire.

To-night the club was to a.s.semble for a special purpose. Uncle Hughie had promised the minister that they would all accompany him down the ravine to give a welcome and a kind word to the poor tramp who had come to live in Sandy McQuarry's old shanty by the Drowned Lands. So the philosopher was waiting for his friends, and as he sang he gazed expectantly up the village street.

From across the ravine, growing purple in the evening shadows, came the sound of children's voices at play, and the joyous bark of a dog. Down in the river pasture hoa.r.s.e shouts, mingled with a dull thud, thud, told that the young men were playing football. Women could be seen gossiping across from their home gates, for while the men might gather in groups at the store or the post-office, Elmbrook was not sufficiently advanced to have yet felt the woman's club movement. The soft, plashy sound of the little waterfall, pouring down under the bridge, made a charming accompaniment to the mingled harmony.

"_Oh, there's many a man o' the Cameron Clan,_"

sang Uncle Hughie.

There was a ring of triumph in his voice, for he had finished the whole line with one start, a most unusual achievement. He generally started on a high key, and as the tune climbed up the word "Cameron" was far beyond the range of human voice. He would make a shrieking attempt at it, collapse, and start again, quite cheerfully. But by some strange misunderstanding between his ear and his vocal cords, no matter how deep he might lay the foundations of his song, he would raise upon it such a lofty structure that the pinnacle was sure to be unattainable.

He always saw the heights ahead, and made a gasping effort to gain them, his voice strained to its utmost, his face wearing a look of agony. He failed many a time, but invariably succeeded in the end, and with a broad smile of triumph would sweep into the refrain:

"_I hear the pibroch sounding, sounding, Deep o'er the mountain and glen._"

Old Uncle Hughie's whole pain-racked life had been like that song. He was always striving for the heights, often slipping back, frequently failing just as the top was reached, but ever starting off again with renewed hope and faith, and in the end always attaining.

There was a wild patter of feet down the lane, and a harum-scarum girl, half woman, half child, came scrambling recklessly over the fence, and tumbled upon the ground at his feet. She sprang up and tossed her hair back from her handsome, mischievous face.

"He's coming!" she announced tragically. "Where'll I hide? I saw him paddlin' across the creek like a silly old gosling!"

Uncle Hughie's golden-brown eyes danced with laughter.

"Hoots, toots! Och, hoch, but it is the foolish la.s.s you will be!

Poor Davy, ech, poor lad! When I would be going sparkin' the la.s.sies, it wasn't running away they would be."

"Oh, but then you must have been so handsome and so fine, Uncle Hughie," said the girl diplomatically. "If I go up into the village will you tell mother you said I might?"