Our Little Canadian Cousin

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Our Little Canadian Cousin

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Preface

In "Our Little Canadian Cousin," my intention has been to tell, in a general way, although with a defined local setting, the story of Canadian home life. To Canadians, home life means not merely sitting at a huge fireplace, or brewing and baking in a wide country kitchen, or dancing of an evening, or teaching, or sewing; but it means the great outdoor life—sleighing, skating, snow-shoeing, hunting, canoeing, and, above all, "camping out"—the joys that belong to a vast, uncrowded country, where there is "room to play."

This wide and beautiful Canadian Dominion possesses, of course, a great variety of climate and of scenery. To treat at all adequately of those things, or of the country's picturesque and romantic history, would require far more scope than is afforded by this one small story.

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List of Illustrations

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CHAPTER I.

It was the very first day of the loveliest month in the year. I suppose every month has its defenders, or, at least, its apologists, but June—June in Canada—has surely no need of either. And this particular morning was of the best and brightest. The garden at the back of Mr. Merrithew's house was sweet with the scent of newly blossomed lilacs, and the freshness of young grass. The light green of the elms was as yet undimmed by the dust of summer, and the air was like the elixir of life.

[2]

Two children sat on the grass under the lilacs, making dandelion chains and talking happily.

Jack, a little fair-haired boy of six, was noted for his queer speeches and quaint ideas. His sister Marjorie was just twice his age, but they were closest chums, and delighted in building all sorts of air-castles together. This afternoon, when she had finished a chain of marvellous length, she leant back against the lilac-trees and said, with a sigh of happiness:

"Now, Jack, let's make plans!"

"All right," Jack answered, solemnly. "Let's plan about going to Quebec next winter."

"Oh, Jackie! Don't let's plan about winter on the first day of June! There's all the lovely, lovely summer to talk about,—and I know two fine things that are going to happen."

"All right!" said Jackie again. It was his[3] favourite expression. "I know one of them; Daddy told me this morning. It's about Cousin Dora coming to stay with us."

"Yes—isn't it good? She's coming for a whole year, while uncle and aunt go out to British Columbia,—to make him well, you know."

"I wish she was a little boy," said Jackie, thoughtfully. "But if she's like you, she'll be all right, Margie. What's the other nice thing you know?"

"Oh, you must try to guess, dear! Come up in the summer-house; it's so cosy there, and I'll give you three guesses. It's something that will happen in July or August, and we are all in it, father and mother and you and Cousin Dora, and a few other people."

They strolled up to the vine-covered summer-house, and settled down on its broad seat, while Jack cudgelled his brains for an idea as to a possible good time.

[4]

"Is it a picnic?" he asked at last.

Marjorie laughed.

"Oh, ever so much better than that," she cried.

"Try again."

"Is it—is it—a visit to the seaside?"

"No; even better than that."

"Is it a pony to take us all driving?"

"No, no. That's your last guess. Shall I tell you?"

"Ah, yes, please do!"

"Well,—mother says, if we do well at school till the holidays, and everything turns out right, she and father—will—take us camping!"

"Camping? Camping out? Really in tents? Oh, good, good!"

And Jackie, the solemn, was moved to the extent of executing a little dance of glee on the garden path.

"Camping out" is a favourite way of spending[5] the summer holiday-time among Canadians. Many, being luxurious in their tastes, build tiny houses and call them camps, but the true and only genuine "camping" is done under canvas, and its devotees care not for other kinds.

As our little New Brunswickers were talking of all its possible joys, a sweet voice called them from the door of the big brick house.

"Marjorie! Jack! Do you want to come for a walk with mother?"

There was no hesitation in answering this invitation. The children rushed pell-mell down the garden path, endangering the swaying buds of the long-stemmed lilies on either side.

Mrs. Merrithew stood waiting for them, a tall, plump lady in gray, with quantities of beautiful brown hair. She carried a small basket and trowel, at sight of which the children clapped their hands.

[6]

"Are we going to the woods, mother?" Marjorie cried, and "May I take my cart and my spade?" asked Jackie.

"Yes, dearies," Mrs. Merrithew answered. "We have three hours before tea-time, and Saturday wouldn't be much of a holiday without the woods. Put on your big hats, and Jack can bring his cart and spade, and Marjorie can carry the cookies."

"Oh, please let me haul the cookies in my cart," said Jack. "Gentlemen shouldn't let ladies carry things, father says,—but Margie, you may carry the spade if you want something in your hands very much!"

"All right, boy," laughed Marjorie. "I certainly do like something in my hands, and a spade will look much more ladylike than a cooky-bag!"

The big brick house from which Mrs. Merrithew and the children set out on their walk stood on one of the back streets of a[7] little New Brunswick city,—a very small but beautiful city, built on a wooded point that juts out into the bright waters of the St. John River. Of this river the little Canadian Cousins are justly proud, for, from its source in the wilds of Quebec to its outlet on the Bay of Fundy, it is indeed "a thing of beauty and a joy for ever."

Our little party soon left the streets, went through a wide green space covered with venerable maples, crossed a tiny stream and a railway track, and entered the woods that almost covered the low hill behind the town. Though it was really but one hill, the various roads that subdivided it gave it various names, some derived from the settlements they led to, and some from buildings on the way. It was through the woods of "College Hill" that Marjorie and Jack and their mother wandered. Being all good walkers, they were soon back of the fine old college, which stands looking[8] gravely out over the tree-embowered town to the broad blue river.

When the delicious green and amber shadows of the woods were reached, little Jack at once began to search for fairies. Marjorie contented herself with looking for wild flowers, and Mrs. Merrithew sought for ferns young enough to transplant to her garden.

"I am afraid I have left it rather late," she said at last. "They are all rather too well-grown to stand moving. But I will try a few of the smallest. What luck have my chicks had? Any fairies, Jackie?"

Jackie lifted a flushed face from its inspection of a tiny hole in the trunk of a fir-tree.

"No fairies yet, mother; but I think one lives in here, only she won't come out while I am watching."

Mrs. Merrithew smiled sympathetically. She heartily agreed with the writer (though[9] she could not remember who it was) who said: "I always expect to find something wonderful, unheard-of, in a wood."

"In olden days," she said, "people believed that there were beautiful wood-spirits, called dryads, who had their homes in trees. They were larger than most fairies, and yet they were a kind of fairy."

"Please tell more about them, mother," said Marjorie, coming up with her hands full of yellow, speckled adder's-tongue.

"I know very little more, I am sorry to say," their mother answered, laughing. "Like Jackie with his fairies, I have always hoped to see one, but never have as yet."

"Are they good things?" Jackie asked, "or would they frighten little boys?"

"Oh, my dear, they were always said to be kind and beautiful, and rather timid, more apt to be frightened themselves than to frighten any one else. But remember, dears, mother[10] did not say there were such things, but only that people used to think so."

"Please tell us a story about one, mother," Jack pleaded.

But Mrs. Merrithew shook her head.

"We will keep the story for some other time," she said. "Let us have a cooky now, and a little rest, before we go home."

This proposal was readily agreed to. They chose a comfortable spot where a little group of white birches gave them backs on which to lean, opened the precious bag, and were soon well occupied with its crisp and toothsome contents. Mrs. Merrithew, knowing well that little folk are generally troubled with a wonderful thirst, had also brought a cup and a bottle of lemonade. How doubly delicious things tasted in the clear, spicy air of the woods!

By the time Jack had disposed of his sixth cooky he felt ready for conversation.

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"Mother," he said, "I wish you would tell us all about Dora."

"All about Dora, dearie? That would take a long time, I expect. But it would not take long to tell you all that I know about her. I have only seen her twice, and on one of those occasions she was a baby a month old, and the next time only two years,—and as she is now, I do not know her at all."

"But—oh, you know, mother—tell us about her father and mother, and her home, and everything like that. It makes her more interesting," urged Marjorie.

Mrs. Merrithew saw that she was to be beguiled into a story in any case, so she smiled and resigned herself to her fate.

"Well, my dears, I know a great many things about Dora's father, for he is my only brother, and we were together almost constantly until we were both grown up. Then your Uncle Archie, who had studied electrical[12] engineering, went up to Montreal, and there secured a good position. He had only been there a short time when he met a very charming young lady" ("This sounds quite like a book-story," Marjorie here interposed) "by whom he was greatly attracted. She was partly French, her mother having been a lady of old French family. But her father was an English officer, of the strongest English feelings, so this charming young lady (whose name was Denise Allingham) combined the characteristics—at least all the best characteristics—of both races. Do you know what that means, Jackie?"

Jack nodded, thoughtfully.

"I think so, mother. I think it means that she—that young lady—had all the nicenesses of the French and all the goodnesses of the English."

"That is just it, my dear, and a very delicate distinction, too," cried his mother, clapping[13] her hands in approval, while Jackie beamed with delight.

"Well, to continue: Miss Denise Allingham, when your Uncle Archie met her, was an orphan, and not well off. She was teaching in an English family, and not, I think, very happy in her work. She and your uncle had only known each other about a year when they were married."

"And lived happily ever after?" Marjorie asked.

Mrs. Merrithew considered a moment, then:

"Yes, I am sure I can say so," she answered. "They have had some business troubles, and a good deal of sickness, but still they have been happy through it all. And they have one dear little daughter, whom they love devotedly, and who is named 'Dora Denise,' after her mother and—who else?"

"You, mother, you," both children exclaimed.

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"The chief trouble this happy trio has had," Mrs. Merrithew continued, "has been the delicate health of your uncle. For the last four years he has not been strong. Twice they have all three gone away for his health, and now the doctors have ordered him to try the delightful climate of British Columbia, and to spend at least a year there if it agrees with him. He needs all his wife's attention this time, and that, my dears, is why little Dora Denise Carman is coming to spend a year with her New Brunswick relations.

"And now, chicks, look at that slanting, golden light through the trees. That means tea-time, and homeward-bound!"

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CHAPTER II.

It was a tired and homesick little girl that Mr. Merrithew helped out of the coach and led up the steps of his house, about a fortnight after our story opens. The journey from Montreal had been long and lonely, the parting from her parents hard, and the thought of meeting the unknown relatives had weighed upon her mind and helped to make her unusually subdued. But when the door of the Big Brick House (which had been named by the neighbours when it was the only brick house on the street, and the largest one in town) opened, and her aunt's motherly arms closed around her, while Marjorie's rosy, laughing face and Jackie's fair, cherubic one[16] beamed on her in greeting, her spirits began to revive. The greeting was so warm and kind, and the joy at her coming so genuine, that her fatigue seemed turned, as by magic, to a pleasant restfulness, and her homesickness was lost in this bright home atmosphere.

Mrs. Merrithew took the little newcomer to her room, had her trunks settled conveniently, and then left her to prepare for the late tea which was waiting for them all. When Dora was ready, she sat down in the little armchair that stood near a table piled with books, and looked about her contentedly.

There was an air of solid comfort and cosiness about this house that rested her. This room—which her aunt had told her was just opposite Marjorie's—was all furnished in the softest shades of brown and blue, her favourite colours. The carpet was brown, with a very small spray of blue here and there; the wallpaper was lighter, almost creamy, brown, with[17] a dainty harebell pattern, and the curtains had a rich brown background with various Persian stripes, in which blue and cream and gold predominated. The bed, to her great delight, had a top-piece, and a canopy of blue-flowered chintz, and the little dressing-table was draped to match it. Just over the side of the bed was a book-shelf, quite empty, waiting for her favourite books. While she sat and looked about in admiration, the door was pushed gently open, and a plump maltese kitten came in, gazed at her doubtfully a moment, and then climbed on her lap. Then Marjorie's bright face appeared at the door, and, "May I come in?" she asked.

"Oh, please do," Dora cried. "Kitty has made friends with me already, and I think that must be a good omen."

Marjorie laughed, as she patted the little bunch of blue-gray fur in Dora's lap.

"Jackie has made friends with you already,"[18] she said, "and I think that is a better omen still. He told mother he thought you were 'the beautifulest girl he ever saw.'"

Dora's eyes opened wide with astonishment. "It is the first time I ever was called beautiful," she said, "let alone 'beautifulest.' What a dear boy Jack must be."

Then they both laughed, and Marjorie, obeying one of her sudden impulses, threw her arms around Dora's neck and gave her a cousinly hug. "You and I will be friends, too," she said. "I knew it as soon as I looked at you."

Dora's dark brown eyes looked gravely into Marjorie's blue ones. She seemed to be taking the proposition very seriously.

"I have always wished for a real friend, or a twin sister," she said, thoughtfully. "The twin sister is an impossibility, and I have never before seen a girl that I wanted for a great, great friend. But you,—ah, yes! You are[19] like my father, and besides, we are cousins, and that makes us understand each other. Let us be friends."

She held out her hand with a little gesture which reminded Marjorie that this pale, dark-haired cousin was the descendant of many French grandes dames. She clasped the slender hand with her own plump fingers, and shook it heartily. So, in girlish romance and sudden resolution, the little maids sealed a compact which was never broken, and began a friendship which lasted and grew in beauty and strength all through their lives.

At the breakfast-table the next morning there was a merry discussion as to what should be done first to amuse Dora. Jackie, who had invited her to sit beside him and beamed at her approvingly over his porridge and cream, suggested a walk to his favourite candy-store and the purchase of some sticks of "pure chocolate." Marjorie proposed a picnic at Old[20] Government House. This was approved of, but postponed for a day or two to allow for preparations and invitations. Mr. Merrithew said "Let us go shooting bears," but even Jackie did not second this astounding proposition. As usual, it was "mother" who offered the most feasible plan.

"Suppose, this morning," she said, "you just help Dora unpack, and make her thoroughly at home in the house and garden; then this afternoon perhaps your father will take you for a walk, and show Dora the house where Mrs. Ewing lived, and any other interesting places. That would do for to-day, wouldn't it? Then, day after to-morrow we could have the picnic; and for the next week I have a magnificent idea, but I want to talk it over with your father," and she nodded and smiled at that gentleman in a way which made him almost as curious as the children.

"That's the way with mother," Marjorie[21] said to Dora after breakfast. "She never ends things up. There is always another lovely plan just ahead, no matter how many you know about already."

And Mr. Merrithew, who overheard the remark, thought that perhaps this was part of the secret of his wife's unfailing youthfulness both in looks and spirits.

The walk that afternoon was one which Dora always remembered. Mr. Merrithew had, as Jackie said, "the splendidest way of splaining things," and found something of interest to relate about almost every street of the little city. They went through the beautiful cathedral, and he told them how it had been built through the earnest efforts of the well-known and venerated Bishop Medley, who was afterward Metropolitan of Canada. Then they wandered down the street along the river, and saw the double house where Mrs. Ewing (whose stories are loved as much in the[22] United States and in Canada as they are in England) lived for a time, and where she wrote.

She had called this house "Rika Dom," which means "River House," and had written in many of her letters of the beautiful river on which it looked, and the gnarled old willows on the bank just in front of her windows. These willows she had often sketched, and Dora carried away a spray of the pale gray-green leaves, in memory of her favourite story-writer. It was one of Dora's ambitions, kept secret hitherto, but now confided to Marjorie, to write stories "something like Mrs. Ewing's."

They saw, too, the picturesque cottage in which a certain quaint old lady had attained to the ripe age of a hundred and six years,—a record of which Fredericton was justly proud. This venerable dame had been addicted to the unlimited eating of apples, and her motto—she was not a grammatical old lady![23]—had been (according to tradition), "Apples never hurts nobody."

They spent some time in the Legislative Library, where was enshrined a treasure in the shape of a magnificent copy of Audubon's Books of Birds. Then in the Departmental Buildings, near by, there was a small but well-arranged museum of stuffed birds and beasts, all Canadian, and most of them from New Brunswick. There were other things, too, to see, and many anecdotes to hear, so that it was a somewhat tired, though happy and hungry party which trudged home just in time for tea.

And such a tea, suited to hearty outdoor appetites born of the good Canadian air! There were fresh eggs, made into a white and golden omelette by Mrs. Merrithew's own hands; for even Debby, who had cooked for the family all their lives, owned that an omelette like Mrs. Merrithew's she could not manage,—"No, sir, not if I was to cook day and night."[24] There was golden honey in the comb; there was johnny-cake, hot and yellow and melting in your mouth; strawberry jam that tasted almost as good as the fresh fruit itself; ginger-cake, dark and rich and spicy; milk that was almost cream for the children, and steaming fragrant coffee for their elders.

"It is rather nice to get good and hungry," Jackie gravely observed,—"that is, if you have plenty in the house to eat. I think life would be very dull without meals."