Of course many a day passed after the great catastrophe before Red River was itself again, with its river confined to the proper channel, and its prairies rolling with grass-waves; but it was not long before the energetic inhabitants returned to their labours and their desolated houses to begin the world anew. About the 1st of May the flood began; by the 20th of the same month it had reached its height, and on the 22nd the waters began to assuage. On that day they had made a decided fall of two inches. The height to which the waters had risen above the level of ordinary years was fifteen feet. The flood subsided very gradually. About the middle of June the ploughs were at work again, and the people busy sowing what was left to them of their seed-barley and potatoes.
Among the busiest of the busy at that bustling time was Peegwish. While others were hard at work clearing, rebuilding, ploughing, and sowing, our noble savage was fishing. The labour of this occupation consisted chiefly in staring at his line, while he sat on a mud-heap on the river bank, and smoked in the pleasant sunshine. Occasionally he roused himself to haul out a goldeye. Wildcat assisted him ably in his labours, and still more ably in the after consumption of the goldeyes. Angus Macdonald discovered them thus occupied, and had difficulty in resisting his desire to pitch the lazy fellow into the river.
“What wass you doin’ there?” he cried. “Wass it wastin’ your time wi’ small fush you will pe doin’, an’ every wan else workin’ hard? Go an’ putt the ox in the cart an’ haul watter. Look sharp!”
Angus concluded with some deep gutturals in Gaelic which we cannot translate, and Peegwish, rising hastily, went off to do as he was bid. But Peegwish was a poor water-drawer. The ox turned out to be more obstinate than himself, and also more callous, for when it became fatigued with hauling the water-barrel to and fro, it stopped at the foot of the slope near a corner of the garden, and refused to budge. Peegwish lashed it, but it did not feel—at all events, it did not care. He tried to wheedle it, but failed: he became abusive, and used bad language to the ox, but without success. He was in the height of his distress when Petawanaquat passed by with a load of firewood on his shoulder. The red man having been reconciled to his old enemy, had remained at Red River, partly to assist him, partly to see the end of the flood, and partly to be near his friend Sinclair and his adopted son Tonyquat. From the latter he could not tear himself away.
The Indian stood and gazed solemnly at his brother savage for some minutes, then he threw down his load, and entering the garden, cut the remains of a cabbage which had survived the flood. With this he went to the ox and held it to its nose. The animal advanced; the Indian retreated a few steps. The ox advanced again in the hope of obtaining a savoury mouthful, but the Indian still retreated. Thus, step by step, the slope was ascended!
“Wah!” said Petawanaquat, with a grave look, as he handed the cabbage to Peegwish, who profited by the lesson, and gained his ends.
“She’s fery lazy,” muttered Angus to himself—referring to Peegwish—as he went up the river bank towards the knoll, where his house now stood triumphantly, “fery lazy; more lazy than—than—”
Failing to find a just comparison, he tailed off in expressive but untranslatable Gaelic.
“Goot tay to you, Muster Ruvnshaw,” said Angus, on reaching the summit of the knoll. “It wass fery goot of you, whatever, to let my hoose stand here.”
“Don’t mention it, Angus,” said the old gentleman, removing his pipe with one hand, and extending the other. “It would be difficult to prevent it remaining where it is now. Besides, I passed my word, you know, and that cannot be broken. Come, sit down. I’m thankful your house was so considerate as to spare my smoking-box, though it has given it a shove of a few feet to the south’ard. In other respects the house is an advantage, for while it has not hurt the view, it serves to protect my box from the quarter which used to be exposed to east winds. But there is one stipulation I have to make Angus, before the bargain is closed.”
“An’ what may that pe?” asked Angus, with a shade of anxiety.
“That this smoking-box and the ground on which it stands, together with the footpath leading up to it, shall remain my property as long as I live.”
Angus smiled. He had the peculiarity of turning the corners of his mouth down instead of up when he did so, which gave a remarkably knowing look to his smile.
“You shall pe fery welcome,” he said. “And now, Muster Ruvnshaw, I came here to say a word for my poy. You know it iss natural that Ian will pe getting anxious apout the wedding. It iss impatient he will pe, whatever. He is a little shy to speak to you himself, and he will pe botherin’ me to—”
“All right, Angus, I understand,” interrupted Mr Ravenshaw. “You know both he and Lambert are busy removing your barn from my lawn. When that is finished we shall have the weddings. My old woman wants ’em to be on the same day, but nothing can be done till the barn is removed, for I mean to have the dance on that lawn on the double-wedding day. So you can tell them that.”
Angus did tell them that, and it is a remarkable fact which every one in the establishment observed, that the unsightly barn, which had so long disfigured the lawn at Willow Creek, disappeared, as if by magic, in one night, as Cora put it, “like the baseless fabric of a vision!”
Time passed, and changed the face of nature entirely. Wrecks were swept away; houses sprang up; fences were repaired; crops waved on the fields of Red River as of yore, and cattle browsed on the plains; so that if a stranger had visited that outlying settlement there would have been little to inform his eyes of the great disaster which had so recently swept over the place. But there would have been much to inform his ears, for it was many a day before the interest and excitement about the great flood went down. In fact, for a long time afterwards the flood was so much in the thoughts and mouths of the people that they might have been mistaken for the immediate descendants of those who had swarmed on the slopes of Ararat.
Let us now present a series of pictures for the reader’s inspection.
The first is a little log-hut embosomed in bushes, with a stately tree rising close beside it. Flowers and berries bedeck the surrounding shrubbery, pleasant perfumes fill the air. A small garden, in which the useful and ornamental are blended, environs the hut. The two windows are filled with glass, not parchment. A rustic porch, covered with twining plants, conceals the door, and a general air of tidiness marks all the surroundings. Need we say more to convince the intelligent reader that this is the hut of old Liz? It occupies the spot where it was deposited by the flood, the family having been allowed to remain there.
Under the genius of Herr Winklemann and Michel Rollin the old hut has displayed some characteristics of the cactus in sending forth offshoots from its own body. An offshoot in the rear is the kitchen; another on the right is a mansion, as large nearly as the parent, in which Winklemann has placed his mother, to the great relief of Daddy, who never forgot, and with difficulty forgave, the old woman’s kicking habits when their legs reposed together on the table. It must be added, however, that the old people live on good terms, and that Mrs Winklemann frequently visits Daddy, and smokes with him. The offshoot on the left, built by Michel, is a stable, and an excrescence beyond is a cow-house. There, are fowls in front of the hut, and flour, sugar, pork, and tea within, so it may be concluded that the families are now in comfort.
When the improvements just mentioned were completed, Michel Rollin, unable to settle down, had arranged with Peegwish and Wildcat to go off on a fishing expedition.
Before starting he entered the hut, and said to Winklemann, who was filling his “moder’s” pipe for her—
“You vill be here ven I come back? You vill not leave the ol’ peepil?”
“No; I vill stope till you retoorns. Be sure I vill take care of zee old vons. But dere is not much fear of anodor flood joost now.”
“What says he, Liz?” asked old Daddy, with a hand to his ear. “Speak oot.”
“Oh, he’s jist haverin’ aboot the flood. He says there’s nae fear o’ anither flood, an’ I think he’s aboot right.”
“I’m no sae sure o’ that,” returned Daddy, whose memory for the past was much stronger than for current events. “It’s been said, on the best authority, that there was a seemilar flood i’ the year seeventeen hunner an’ seeventy-sax, anither in seeventeen ninety, an’ anither in aughteen hunner an’ nine.”
“Hoots! haud yer gab. What div ye ken aboot floods?”
Daddy, hearing nothing, and believing from the pleasant expression of Liz’s countenance that she appreciated his remarks, nodded to Mrs Winklemann cheerily, and smiled.
“Ha!” laughed her son; “you is von stranch being, old Liz—ver stranch.”
Having finished the filling of his “moder’s” pipe and lighted it for her, Herr Winklemann arose and followed his friend Michel out of the hut.
Let us look at another picture.
It is a pair of cottages close to each other, and about a stone’s cast from the farm at Willow Creek. The buildings are new, and much alike in form and size. There are well-tilled fields around, and fat cattle and a few sheep. The insides of these mansions have not much to boast of in the way of ornament, but there is enough to display the influence, the good taste, and the refinement of woman.
Immediately after the abating of the waters Ian Macdonald and Louis Lambert set to work to build these houses, and you may be sure they were not long about it, for the tyrannical old father-in-law elect not only compelled them to take down the barn on the lawn before the weddings, but also to build houses for their brides.
And after the knots were tied and the dance on the lawn at Willow Creek was over, and the happy couples were fairly established in their own homes, they kept open house for a long time, and interchanged innumerable visits between Bearclaw Cottage, (that was Ian’s), and Hunter’s Lodge, (that was Lambert’s), and the Ark on Ararat, (that was the house of Angus), and Willow Creek, insomuch that Tony was heard one day to inform Miss Trim confidentially that he found it difficult to tell where he lived, or which was his proper home—and Miss Trim confessed that she was in much the same condition of mind.
“What an amazing time we have passed through!” said Miss Trim, referring to the flood, at one of their social gatherings.
“Yes,” said Victor hastily, for he knew that Miss Trim was on the point of delivering one of her parenthetical and pointless orations, “it was indeed an amazing time! Such boating on the plains, and such camping out! To say nothing of tumbling into the water and being half drowned.”
“By the way,” asked Ian, “was not poor John Flett nearly drowned about the beginning of the flood?”
“Of course he was,” said Mr Ravenshaw, “and if it had not been for your father he and his family would have been lost altogether. Is not that so, Angus?”
“Well, it iss droont he would have been in all probabeelity,” said Angus, “for he was on the wrong road when I met him, an’ he couldn’t find the right wan, whatever. Shon Flett iss a good man, but he iss also foolish. You see, when the watter came on him so strong that his hoose began to slup away, he took two of his oxen an’ he tied them together wi’ ropes, an’ put planks on their backs, which he also tied; ay! an’ so he made a sort of livin’ stage, on which he sat his wife and four children; two of them wass poys and the other two wass girls, whatever. The frightened craters went about the best way they could, sometimes wadin’ an’ sometimes sweemin’, an’ Shon, he wass leadin’ them wi’ a line roond their horns, an’ he wass wadin’ an’ sweemin’ also. I came across them wi’ my post an’ took them in. That was just pefore we saw the hoose on fire floatin’ down the river.”
“The house on fire!” exclaimed Cora; “I did not hear of that.”
“No wonder,” said Lambert. “There have been so many strange incidents and hairbreadth escapes during the flood that we won’t likely hear about them all for many a day to come.”
“But what about the house on fire?” asked Victor; “was any one in it?”
“No, it was only a house that had been left somewhat hastily by its owners, who must have forgot to put out the fire or capsized something over it. At all events the house was seen floating down stream at night, and a splendid sight it was, burning furiously, with the flames glittering in the water that swept it away.”
“How sad!” said Elsie, whose mind dwelt on the evil rather than on the picturesque aspect of the incident.
“I can’t imagine what ever was the cause of the flood,” remarked Mrs Ravenshaw.
“Well, my dear,” said her husband, in a somewhat oracular tone, “no one can certainly tell what caused it, but my own opinion is that it was caused by the unusual wetness of the fall. You remember how it rained; well, when the lakes and rivers were as full as they could hold, and the ground was soaking like a full sponge, the winter came on us suddenly and set all fast, thus preventing the water getting away. Then came the snow, also unusually heavy. Then came a late spring with a sudden burst of warm weather, and a south wind for several days in succession, turning all this accumulation into water. Red Lake, Otter-tail Lake, and Lake Travers overflowed, as you know; the Red River ice burst up and jammed against the solid ice of Lake Winnipeg, which stopped the current, and thus caused the overflow. That’s my notion about the flood. Whether it’s right or no, who can tell?”
“Your observations, sir, are fery goot, whatever,” said Angus, taking an unusually long draw at his pipe.
Turn we now to look upon one more picture. It is on the shores of the great lake—Lake Winnipeg. There among a tangled but picturesque mass of reeds and bushes, a canoe is resting on the reeds, and, not far from it, a rude structure of boughs and bark has been set up. It is open in front, and before it burns a large fire, whose light, however, is paled by the effulgence of the glorious sun as it dips into the lake.
Petawanaquat is there, seated with a book on his knee, and a dignified, yet slightly perplexed expression on his face. His friend Sinclair is there too, teaching him to read the Word of God. Meekeye, faithful partner and sympathiser with the red man, is also there; and beside them reclines our friend Tony. That child’s taste for hunting is strong. Having been—according to Miss Trim’s report—a very good boy and remarkably diligent at his lessons, he has been granted a holiday and permission to go a-hunting with his red father. He is tired after the day’s hunt, and reclines placidly awaiting supper, which Meekeye with downcast look prepares.
Having spent two hours over the Book that evening, Petawanaquat closed it slowly and looked up.
“You find it rather difficult to understand,” said Sinclair, with a pleasant smile.
The red man rose, drew himself up, and, turning his black eyes, like the eagle, on the flashing sun, stretched out his hand.
“My brother,” he said, “beholds the sun. Can he tell where it comes from, or whither it goes? No; but he understands that the Great Spirit guides its course, and he is satisfied. When Petawanaquat was a child he understood very little. He is a man now, and understands a little more. When the Great Spirit takes him up yonder, no doubt his mind shall be made bigger, and it shall be filled. The book that the Great Spirit has sent is very big. Some things in it are hard to understand, but the greatest thing of all is not hard. There is but one thing needful. Is not Jesus the one thing? Petawanaquat wishes to live for ever. To know the Great Spirit and Jesus is to live for ever. Petawanaquat has lived long and seen much. He has seen men torture men like evil spirits. He has seen scalps torn from men and women. He has seen little ones dashed against the stones. The spirit of Petawanaquat has groaned within him—he knew not why—perhaps the Great Spirit was speaking to him in his heart. ‘Shall these deeds of evil never have an end?’ he asked, but there was no answer. Now, an answer has come. Jesus is the Saviour from sin. All things shall be put under Him. When that time comes all things shall be good. At present good and evil are mixed.”
The red man paused a moment, with a slightly troubled look, but the shadow passed like a fleeting cloud as he dropped his arm, and, with an air of simple humility, sat down again beside his friend.
“Petawanaquat is only a child,” he added; “at present he is only learning. In good time he shall know all.”
The sun’s last rays were still gilding the horizon and flickering on the waves of Winnipeg when the tired hunters lay down to rest. Gradually the camp-fire lost its ruddy glow; the evening breeze died slowly down; one by one the stars came out, and the soft curtain of night, descending like a gentle spirit on the wilderness, hid the red man and his comrades from mortal eyes, and wrapped them in profound repose.
The End.
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