Greed and love of money had parted those who should have grown nearer and dearer as they grew older. Such a waste of love.

He was my mother's oldest living brother and twenty years older than she, and so the younger members of the family always looked up to him as the head of the family. Perhaps it was the fact that he was unmarried that kept him so close to his brothers and sisters. He lived to be eighty-four years old, as I have said before, and looked for all the world like Uncle Sam: very tall (over six feet), thin as a rail, and wearing a goatee. He had pale blue eyes, a heavy head of white hair, a large mouth, and a large nose which having been broken as a child always leaned a little to the left.

We all had the greatest respect for Uncle Bill or William, as Mother called him, and as he grew older he was quite religious, having joined the Plymouth Brethren although brought up a Presbyterian, and he knew his Bible from start to finish. Each year he would go down to convention at Hamilton and always came home more strict than ever -prayers in the morning for everyone, and of course grace before the meal, always said in Gaelic. The Bible was read in English but the prayers were said in Gaelic.

But as a young man he was not above having his share of fun, and would have a glass of whisky but never get drunk.

One time when quite young, he and my dad were down to Nairn to some doings (Nairn was a village half way to London). It had a grist mill, a store or two, a blacksmith shop, and several thriving taverns. This particular time there had been a fair, and prizes had been given out - one of them being a young pig. After the doings were over, they all went as usual to have a drink and as usual in those times too many got drunk. The men became noisy and quarrelsome, and the cause of the quarrel was the question of to whom the pig belonged.

While the quarrel was waxing hot and heavy, Uncle Bill said to my father, "Let's be going, Sandy", and so they left and started for home. After they had been out on the summer road for a while, my dad thought he heard something moving under the buggy seat, and said "What was that, William?" Uncle Bill could not restrain himself any longer and went into gales of laughter: "Why that's the wee pig, Sandy. I thought I had better bring it along." Actually, the little pig was probably not worth more than a dollar, but he had the joke on the others.

He had lots of courage, too. When only a lad of twenty, just after the family landed in Canada, they received notice that some one was claiming their land through a mistake, and some one would have to go to Goderich, forty miles away. Now remember that there were no railway trains through those parts at that time. They had only a couple of days to re-claim their land, so young Bill got on his horse and rode all the way through the bush and the corduroy roads made of logs sunk into the ground, and in some places just trails and wild bush full of bears and other wild creatures. He rode night and day and got there in time to redeem their land, and then had to return the same way - a weary and happy young man.

When I knew him he was getting quite old, but so kind. You could go and visit him for weeks and always welcome, but he would never give you a dime or shinplaster - money as such was too scarce and precious. But if you needed it, he would give you a sack of grain for nothing - true Scotch hospitality.

I remember how he used to get thistles in his fingers when working in the hay fields, and he would get a sewing needle and say, "Come, little one, I have a stab in my finger." Then he and I would dig and prod through the skin of his big bony fingers until the stab was loosened up. Shades of blood-poisoning! Yet nothing ever happened. Sometimes my mother, if she were there, would get some hot water and make him put his finger in it but usually he did nothing.

Now, my mother would not allow any one to smoke in bed in our house, but when Uncle Bill came to visit nothing was said to him about smoking his pipe, usually a clay one up in his room. The tobacco was strong, and the air thick. As soon as he was gone, the windows were thrown open to let the sweet air come pouring back in.

Once on a fair day in our town, my brother brought some very modern young friends from college out to spend the day. We always had a crowd out from London on fair day, and Uncle Bill invariably came. Since he was more or less the head of the family, Mother always asked him to say the blessing, and I can still see the startled look on those boys' faces when Uncle Bill started to say the grace in Gaelic. They had never heard Gaelic before; and one of the boys after dinner said, "Gosh, what was he saying? It sounded like 'Hang the glue pot'! "- It really was, "We give thanks and blessings, etc."

Well, Uncle Bill lived to be eighty-four, taking a stroke just before coming one day to help my dad. just before he was taken ill, he had gone in to the tailor to buy a new suit of clothes, and the tailor, who knew him well, had persuaded him to have a made-to-measure suit, the first he had ever had. The others, all his life, had been just ready-to-wear, and not very expensive ones at that.

He told us all about it on the last visit he made at our house, and he was as pleased and excited as a boy over it. But he had waited too long, and was taken ill before he had a chance to wear it.

And so he was buried in it, and went to meet the God he had so long loved and respected, in his first tailored suit.

Duncan was the oldest child of my mother's family, and married very young, and had one daughter, Annabel; but unfortunately the young mother died at the birth of this child, and the problem arose as to who would raise her. My own mother was at this time only a babe of three months, so grandmother Margaret stepped in and took wee Annabel and raised her alongside of my mother, and breast fed them both, so that they grew up as sisters rather than as aunt and niece. In fact, for years Grandmother favoured Annabel in all their childish disputes because she was an orphan. However, when she turned out to be a little mischief and took advantage of mother, such as ducking her in snowbanks and putting grasshoppers down her back, Grandmother took action and made her behave. But in spite of all, aunt and niece remained very close to each other and later we children looked upon her more as an aunt than cousin. Annabel, like my mother, married very young.

Uncle Duncan married again shortly after his first wife's tragic death, and had four daughters: Agnes, Margaret, Jessie, and Emma, and they were all so good-looking, fair-skinned and with lovely radiant red hair, and were grand persons as well. They too must have married young because as a small child I played with their children, as old or older than I was, and my mother felt very close to them.

Time went on, and it was Duncan's habit whenever he came to our local town to board the railway train which ran on the old Grand Trunk line back of Grandmother's farm about five miles from town and then to get off right back of the farm. He could usually do this easily as there was a steep grade and the train had to slow down almost to a stop. He lived a distance away, and loved to come and visit his mother and brother.

Then one ill-fated night he took the train as usual, and when it slowed down he tried to get off and in doing so he slipped and fell, the train running over his body.

Poor Grandmother! When they came to tell her, she put on her wraps and went along with the men to where Duncan lay. Then Uncle Bill had to go along with the trainmen to the next town to bring back the coroner before Duncan's body could be moved. And what did this brave woman do but sit for hours alone beside the railroad track with his head in her lap.

Remember that the railway ran through thick forest and was at the remote back of the farms away from all habitation. What a picture of love, loneliness, and sorrow - this mother weeping and keening beside her beloved dead, all thought of personal danger forgotten.

It never was learned what really happened to Duncan, except that he had visited the inevitable tavern during his stay in town. Those places were a curse in those times just as are so many saloons and cocktail bars in our own day.

Another aunt who shall be nameless, a pretty, even lovely girl, the beauty of the family as they said, fell in love with a cousin of my Dad's who was a real rotter. He was handsome in a slender dapper way, always well dressed, and very smooth in manners, but with the meanest disposition imaginable.

First they were to be married, and then he just decided he didn't want to go through with it at that time, so he went his own way again for four years, and then for some unaccountable reason back he came and they were married. What a wedding that one was! Folks came from miles around and brought presents of every kind, even to a hen and rooster to start them off, and blankets, quilts, fruits, home-made furniture, to help set the young folk up in housekeeping, and so on.

My aunt had been faithful to him all that time although she had had other offers of marriage, one in particular from a very fine chap but one who was not so suave and polite as this one (but who later turned out to be a prominent man in the ncighbourhood, loved and respected by all.) But this uncle of ours none of us could stand because of the way he treated my aunt after marriage. He was never through gibing and smart-cracking at her, and she never said a word. His lack of consideration used to make every one furious because K. was so loveable and such a fine housekeeper, everything spotless.

The couple had one son, a kind loveable fellow who learned early from his father to drink too often and too much, but my aunt adored him and I remember so well the boy's going away out West to work with some friends in Manitoba. He was to catch the early morning train for Toronto, so he and his mother came and stayed with us for the night, and we all got up in the dark to have breakfast with him, my dear aunt kissing him good-bye and whispering prayers for his safety, and then the tears streaming down her face as she listened to his footsteps growing fainter as he walked away to the station - Manitoba at that time seemed the end of the world to us.

This uncle in fact made very little of his son, but was a fine horseman and devoted himself to his horses. All my Dad's people loved horses and could handle them like professionals. There was a great difference in the way one could handle a horse. This uncle always seemed to have money, and would drive quite a nice horse and buggy when in town. He would drive full speed up our land, which led up to the house from the main street, through the big gate he would go up to the side door, and stop that horse in a split second, then jump out, come in, dance a jig if he had been to the tavern, or sing "0 Susanna!" and other Southern songs he had learned while down south.

Mother always hurried to put on the kettle and make him a cup of tea, and she would try to coax him to eat something. Sometimes he would; other times had been a sailor - in fact, it was as a sailor that he left Scotland and came to Canada. Like most sailors of the time, he made up for the hard conditions on shipboard by easy spending and heavy drinking when he got on shore. Thus, when he was over fifty he found himself like the Prodigal at the end of his riotous living: but with no father to go back to. He was a broken down old man without a home or family or means of support. Somehow he drifted around, and came to where we were living, on the old Buchanan homestead on the Town line between McGillivray and West Williams. He came casually and uninvited, and as a temporary hired man at small wages, and it is amazing to think that he remained for fifteen years and helped to nurse and care for us as children.

A true Highlander, Old Murdoch spoke very little English; and it was fascinating to hear him talk Gaelic. In those years, things did not go so well for my Dad, who was -an easy prey for his more avaricious brothers and brothers-in-law - he would back their notes and when they failed right and left to carry through, Dad was forced to sell his farm to meet his debts, together with all his stock. It was a hard blow, and as surety that this would not happen again, Dad took what was left (my mother's dowry) and bought the home for us in Parkhill. At the same time, as I described earlier, MY Dad determined to go south to Arizona to see if he could recoup his fortunes in the mining trade there. Poor old Murdoch wept tears when he learned that he would have to leave my parents; and it was at this point that he went to live out his life in the home of Uncle Bill and my grandmother. There he did little work, because of his age; but he had his keep - clothes, tobacco, and good food and bed: a much better fate than the poorhouse.

To the end of his life he kept his own characteristics and eccentricities. For example, he resented my name, "Minnie", feeling that it should have been "Sarah", like my mother's name; and he insisted on calling me "little Sarah". He needed eggs in his diet, and lived on farms where they were plentiful, but wouldn't touch an egg. Once he explained that when a youngster he had accepted a dare from a friend to enter a friendly egg-eating contest. It was Easter in Scotland; and he ate so many that he never could bear to touch an egg again.

He loved whisky of any kind, and there was ample scope in Ontario in those days for the would-be toper. Old Murdock would get drunk on the least provocation - a habit which greatly disturbed Uncle Bill, who was very stern with Murdock about this. Perhaps the classic occasion, or at least the one I best remember, was at a sheep-shearing time in the summer.

It was at that time a custom for the farmers and their neighbours in a certain district to take their sheep to some nearby creek or river, and there wash their wool and shear them. A number of men would have to go along to hold the sheep, and so old Murdock always went - this time to Ailsa Craig to the river there. It happened that at that time my uncle had a young neighbor boy as hired man who was full of mischief and loved a bit of liquor as well. Where he got the bottle of whisky no one knew, but one he had, and took with him, giving so much to Murdock that when it was time to come home the old man was not able to stand or walk, but had to be brought home in the wagon box.

They carried him in and laid him on the grass in the shade beside the house, and I can still see my mother and Aunt Flora tending to him and watching that he didn't pass out to his own danger. As for the hired man - he took refuge in the hay loft -as Uncle Bill and some of the other men were going to give him a good whipping; but he was really pretty crestfallen when he saw the state the old man was in. Never again was poor old Murdock allowed to go to a sheep shearing.

Well, the years rolled by, and he lived to be eighty-four years of age, until one summer day he was taken ill, and the doctor came and said he had only a short while to live. Old Murdock was a Roman Catholic by religion, although for years he had not attended church, indeed he had no money to pay to the church. My Uncle Bill, being a good and generous man, wanted poor old Murdock to have the comfort of his religion at death, so he and a Roman Catholic neighbor drove up to the nearest town to the Roman Catholic priest there, and asked him to come and give _ihe dyingrites to this poor old man. But no - the priest refused to go on the excuse that Murdock had not been going to or paying into the church. My uncle was terribly angry; he said old Murdock should not die like a dumb -animal, and Uncle Bill thereupon drove to our Presbyterian manse and asked our minister if he would go with him to carry comfort to the dying old man. The minister, Mr. Dewar, was himself quite ill, but he at once said he would come, and so he did - reading the words of our Saviour and praying beside the sick man. On each of the remaining days left to Murdock, our pastor came and brought him the love and comfort he so badly wanted.

Then one summer day he died, and again the question arose by whom and where he should be buried. Once again the Roman Catholic neighbor got out his horse and cart and drove to interview the priest, only to be told that poor unfortunate old Murdock would not be permitted to be buried in the R.C. cemetery except in the potter's field. Discouraged and disillusioned, the kindly neighbor came and reported this to my uncle. So once more, in righteous indignation, Uncle Bill went to Mr. Dewar's Presbyterian manse, and he came and preached the burial sermon. Then my good old uncle bought a small plot in the Nairn cemetery where all our family were buried, and there today poor old Murdock lies asleep among the old friends who had befriended him in life, and had not left him in death to be buried like a criminal in potter's ground because his only crime was to be poor and have no money to buy his way into Heaven.

Perhaps this episode contributed to the kindly Catholic neighbor's later marrying a Protestant girl, and when he moved out west later on a farm, bringing all his family up as Protestants. It is only fair to say, though, that this hard-hearted and narrow-minded priest was shortly afterwards replaced by a Catholic priest we all grew to love, the merry and saintly Father McCrac.

Said a recent radio farm broadcast, which applies very well to old Murdock's case:

"What is the difference between an old gentleman and an old man? Well, if as lie grows older he has plenty of this world's goods to take care of him, he is an old gentleman. But if he is poor and shabby and perhaps hungry, he is just an old man."

We had at one time an old cousin come out from Scotland to visit during the winter, Cousin Dougal by name, and it was hard for him to believe that Canada was such a great country. This old fellow was about sixty years of age, quite short and stocky, with a ruddy complexion and bright blue eyes; and I will never forget the first time he came to visit at our home in town.

He had on a heavy overcoat which reached to his ankles, a fur cap with car-laps and a heavy scarf which he wound twice around his neck, and it still hung down below his waist - and to finish off, a pair of fur-lined high boots. Wherever he stayed overnight, the young people had the greatest fun pulling these boots off. He had a boot-jack back home, but these were not available so one of the boys would stand up, put the booted foot between his legs, and pull. How every one laughed, and Cousin Dougal as hearty as the rest.

He was an amazing old fellow, much given to exaggerations. It was a mild January day and my mother remarking to him about the weather said that we would likely have a thaw. Whereupon Dougal said in his broad Scotch voice, "Oh, my yes, Sarah. I never saw a January but what I saw a thaw, and I saw thousands of them."

At this time, visiting my Uncle Neil, was a younger brother Alex. He had done a lot of travelling all across the U.S.A. and away out to California, and was quite a tease. He took great fun out of old Dougal, telling him about the many strange things he had seen on his journeys, just to see the old fellow's eyes nearly pop out.

One day he was telling Dougal about seeing Chinamen away out West in Los Angeles, and how they all had pig-tails. Now Dougal had never seen a Chinaman wearing a pig-tail, and he was so amazed he just looked at Alex and then he burst out with, "My, my, now haven't you seen the sights, Alex! Chinamen with pig-tails!" He paused, then quickly said, "I suppose now, you saw them when they were in swimming." He spoke very broken English, as Gaelic was the tongue he used at home. He stayed around for several months and then returned home and we never saw him again.

0ld Rory could not speak much English, and it was real fun to hear him; like many of the old Gaelic people, he got terribly mixed up. He always spoke in a very high voice and invariably got his gender mixed. For example, "Me my brother Mary" and "She my sister John."

One time I happened into the local grocery store, and the old fellow was prancing up and down following the owner of the store about as he served behind the counter, and saying, "Ed McLeod, Ed McLeod, how much you charge me for a quarter's worth of sugar?"… and Mr. McLeod replying, "Why Rory, just twenty-five cents!"

Another old fellow lived with his daughter, and of course was dependent on her charity (no old age pension in those days!) Well, the poor old man loved tobacco but it cost money and he rarely asked for it outright since the daughter was not always kind. So, when she came back from town, he would stand around hesitantly and finally he would say, "Well, Mary, did you see John Gibbs?"

Gibbs was a local grocer. If the daughter had been to the grocery store, in all probability she would have bought tobacco, but if she hadn't seen John Gibbs, then there would be no pleasant smoke for the old man.

At home, we used to use this expression in fun whenever we wanted something we weren't quite sure of getting: "Be sure and see John Gibbs!"

One young woman who also couldn't speak very good English was walking along the road one day when along came the Don Juan or "wolf" of that day known for his reputation of wine, women, and song and offered her a ride or pick-up, as we say today, in his nice rubber-tired buggy. Poor Jeanie was seen by some of the local gossips, and of course they spread the news that she had been seen riding with this character, and although it had all in fact been perfectly harmless, the story spread and spread and the good righteous folk began to look down their noses at this innocent girl.

When the slander reached her own ears, Jeanie came crying to a friend's house and said, "Oh, oh! He ruined my cracker! He ruined my cracker!" She of course meant character - but couldn't pronounce it.

Of course, in those old days girls as always got into trouble and brought into the world many illegitimate children to the heartbreak of their poor old folk. One poor old mother weeping bitter tears of sorrow over a wayward daughter, and still only at home in the Gaelic, exclaimed to a friend, "Oh, my poor Mary! She has fallen in the dung-cow."

The modem way would of course have been to send Mary away to a kindly relative out of sight and hearing for a "visit" or a "rest cure". But in those pioneer settlements, the "Scarlet Woman" had to stay and take it.

Christmas, 196o, is over, with all its glamour, its lighted trees and presents. The streets have been like fairyland, and memories crowd in of other Christmases, and I remember what a thrill to my childish mind it was to go shopping in our stores in the old town at home. Not even Saxe's or Macy's in New York, Morgan's in Montreal, Simpson's or Eaton's in Toronto, Marshall Field's in Chicago, or the Hudson Bay in Vancouver - none of these can give me the shivers up my back and the nostalgic memories of going shopping with a dearly beloved older sister, a precious dollar (or even tw~) in my little purse, and all those lovely presents to buy. There would be handkerchiefs pinned to bright ribbons hanging in the windows; pretty material by the yard for making tie-holders, bed-jackets, neckties, and socks - all on display.

Then in the grocery end of the store, fancy biscuits and nuts, the precious oranges - one of which would go into the toe of each stocking hanging by the fireplace on Christmas Eve. Great cakes of cheese, kegs of fish, barrels full of a variety of biscuits and mixed nuts, and candies in pails - these also cheerily filled the store. We would buy fancy colored ribbon and paper with which to wrap up our gifts, and then back home, hanging our stockings up by the chimney; and then off to bed, my childish heart brimming over with love and anticipation.

Then in the early morning, we would be wakened by our dear dad standing at the bottom of the stairs and calling in his Highland voice, "Christmas box on you! " He loved to be the first to say this, and he expected me as the youngest one to run down the stairs and give him a big hug, and pop a candy into his mouth.

Then, all dressed, we hurried down to the big kitchen-dining room to find Mother with the table all set and busily making our breakfast. Then came the fun of looking in the stockings. Long after I no longer believed in Santa Claus, I still loved to hang up my stockings on Christmas Eve. The gifts would be small: a pretty handkerchief of silk, a string of bright beads, a picture book, home-knit mittens and stockings, and candies and nuts, and of course the orange. Then by the plates on the table there were the presents for the older ones: a pipe or a cap for Dad, gloves for my sisters, a hanky and pretty dish for Mother, and socks for my brother.

I also well remember my brother's joy on receiving a pair of spring skates. These you fastened on your everyday shoes; there was a spring underneath that closed, holding them tight to the shoes - and away you could go over the ice. One year he had flooded a little depression in our own vard, and there he learned to skate, with me hanging on to his coat, and being a decided nuisance. We later used to skate on the brickyard pond with the other neighbouring children. (I had also by then acquired my own pair of spring skates.) When the curlers built a rink, we children were allowed two days a week for skating; then we all got hockey skates.

Later, on Christmas Day, came the preparations for the big dinner usually held in late afternoon or early evening. The table was drawn out to full size, spread on it was a snowy white linen cloth, a gay embroidered doiley in the centre on which stood a big bowl of apples and nuts, and shining in the lamplight were the best dishes and silver used only on special days.

On the table would be placed bread and butter, dishes of pickles and chile sauce and cranberry sauce and pickled red beets. Then the big roasted turkey on a big platter, flanked on either side by mashed turnips and potatoes, would be placed in front of Father's place; the tea cups and cream and sugar in front of Mother's. What fun it was to watch the carving of the turkey, and being asked what part you liked best; my brother always wanted a leg and a piece of the breast; my oldest sister liked the leg also; so it was lucky that the other sister and I liked the wing and a piece of the breast. What Mother and Dad had I can't remember. Then there was the flavor of the bread dressing. We were always told the story of the old lady who had been invited out to Christmas dinner, and when asked what part she would have, replied, "Oh, just a wing, and a leg, and a piece of the breast."

Then the mince pie and the pudding would be brought in, spiced and steaming; and we sometimes had something of both; and then would finish off with an orange and nuts.

In the eighties a great change took place - a large number of men were thrown out of work when machines replaced manual labor, and especially hurt were the type-setting printers. Some had no way to earn a living and became tramps, roving through the countryside. They became a menace to the women especially, on farms and small towns.

Our old home in Parkhill was the last house on the right side of the main road going north. On a slight depression below us was what we called the Miller's Flats. These derelicts would often leave the road and climb the hill behind our barn and the land in our yard.

We used to be frightened of the tramps, and if we were alone and had time, we always locked the doors and refused to let them in as most of them were ragged and unshaven and often dirty, and sometimes rather menacing-looking, because they had probably slept in the open or in barns or hay-stacks if one was handy.

One time a young cousin of seven or eight and myself about the same age were getting ready to play With the neighbours' children; Mother and Dad had driven over to the farm for an hour or so. As I was about to go and lock the back door a big brawny tramp stepped up and asked for food. He said he was hungry, but I kept the door almost closed and said we couldn't give him anything because our mother was out, but he was suspicious we were not telling the truth since he could hear my cousin inside. However, he went away, and we got out as fast as we could. When we told Mother she was upset, and warned me never to open the door, and even more of course, never to tell the vagrants that we were alone!

Another time my older sister and I saw some three or four men coming up the hill; we locked the doors and ran upstairs and looked out the front window. Sure enough - one came to the front door, knocked, no answer; then he went around to the back but still no answer, so he went back to his companions at the front gate and they all sat down under one of the big maple trees, took out a lunch, and then, after eating it lay down for a rest. For an hour or two we stayed quietly upstairs, and finally the men after lolling around on the cool grass went away.

Another time, just at deep dusk, a big old man with a limp and carrying a cane came into the yard, sat down evidently for the night under the crabapple tree which was in the front yard, and when Mother asked him to move on he said, "Let me in or I will burn down your barn." He was trying - successfully! -to frighten us; at that time we had only one constable, a fairly old man, in the heart of the town, so Mother told the tramp to come in, which he did. He ate a hearty supper and talked all the time. He said he was Scotch, and Mother to tease him made out that she was English. At this he became extremely abusive. He hated them, he said with much emphasis. Meanwhile Mother, out of the goodness of her heart, went into an empty bedroom, put some bedding on the bed, and told the vagrant he could sleep there for the night. Then, when she thought he was asleep, she turned the key in the lock and there he was, securely locked in at least for the night. Early next morning she and my older brother got up and quietly unlocked the door; then Mother told the burlv stranger to go and see Mr. Mains, the constable, and he could stay at the lock-up for the night. But the tramp was so mad about having been locked up for the night, that as he went out down the back steps he turned to Mother and said - rude old man! - "Thank you for your little kindness! "

One afternoon my sister and I saw an old man coming around from the barn. He appeared to be all in; he came to where we were sitting and asked so nicely if he could sit in the shade at the side of the house. He was so clean and tidy my sister asked him if he would like a glass of milk, and he said yes he would, so she made him up a couple of sandwiches and put them on a tray with a pitcher of milk and a glass. He almost wept. We told him to rest awhile, so he finished his milk and part of the bread, and told us how he had been a printer and had lost his job and of course was too old to learn anything new. When he decided to leave, we picked a couple of lovely ripe harvest apples off a tree in the orchard, and he put them in his pocket. He told us he was going to try and get to Strathroy to the poorhouse there as he had no relatives or friends. We told him to go to see the constable at the town-hall for a night's lodging and that there was a coach to Strathroy in the morning. When he left he asked God to bless and keep us and thanked us for all our kindness. Well, he spent that night in the lock-up, and in the morning got on the coach for Strathroy which was about 20miles away. But the dear old man died on the coach and when the report came out in the Gazette that week, it spoke of a sandwich and two harvest apples being in his pocket. He was not entirely forgotten, as we often mentioned what a decent old man he was, and how happy we were we had given him what kindness we could.

I have just finished reading an article in The Gazette by Edgar Collard called, "Sleigh Days and Cahots". It took me back to my own girlhood in Parkhill. A rather long lane led up to the front gate of my home and after a snowstorm it would be filled soft and deep across from fence to fence. But about seven in the morning, the town snow plow would arrive and clear a path out to the road.

Not long afterwards we would don our school clothes, consisting of overshoes, long pullover stockings knit by mother and reaching up and over our knees, and meeting the warm flannel panties, also homemade; a warm dress and cloth coat, a tuque over our ears and a scarf around our neck, and of course woolen mitts, also knit by mother in the long evenings when listening to our homework, seated around the dining room table.

Then, so well prepared, we would make a run for the road where we listened to hear if a sleigh was coming up the hill. Often it would be a load of logs and we would climb up on these -and ride downtown, and then when the sleigh turned towards the sawmill on Mill Street, we jumped off and walked the rest of the way to school.

Edgar Collard's article mentioned deep holes in the roads, made by the cutters and sleighs and called cabots in Quebec. In our Ontario town we called them potholes. They were a series of huge waves one after the other and often over three feet deep -real roller coasters! The horses hated these and sometimes in trying to get out would overturn the cutter and try to break free.

Then the bells of the sleighs were typical of the oldtime Canadian winter- what different kinds there were: some harsh, others so musical. Our local doctor, Dr. Caw, had a string of silver bells; they were so lovely, like chimes in the cold air. We loved them and always listened when we heard him driving up the hill. "The Dr. must be out on a call", and we wondered who was sick.

The farmers usually had a couple of harsh bells on the sleigh, and every sleigh that passed had a bell of some sort, tinkling or chiming.

Sometimes after school we would climb into a farmer's sleigh box, and go for a ride out along a piece of the road; then catch a ride back. But one time four or five of us teen-agers took too long a ride out, and although we waited in the winter dusk for a returning sleigh going back to town, none came, and we had to walk all the way back as it was growing late. I think that ended the rides into the country after school!

I sang for some time in the choir of the old Methodist Church, and often the church choir would decide to have a sleighing party, and the local liveryman would be hired to take us out five or six miles into the country and then back to some hospitable person's home for an oyster supper, or perhaps it would be steaming casseroles of macaroni and cheese, with sandwiches and cake. What we now call a buffet supper was the order of the day. Then the lovely evening would end with music and charades.

It all made for harmony and friendships which in many cases have lasted over the years.

This is the twenty-fourth of May, 1955, and what a drab affair it is for most people! When a child, the twenty-fourth of May was one of the big days of my life. The local blacksmith always before seven a.m. fired a grand salute which could be heard all around the town, and then the fun and excitement began. My brother would get out a big flag and fasten it to one of the big maple trees which lined the lawn leading to our townhouse, Dad would hurry over to the farm to finish the chores, while Mother and my sisters got busy on the house which was already in apple-pie order, and start preparing food for the lunch to which my old uncle and sometimes a few cousins from a distance would be likely to come. The big crowd came to supper. My job as a young girl was to dust the parlor and sitting-room, and fill them with flowers. In a vacant lot opposite our house was a long row of lilac bushes, lilac and white, and yellow honeysuckle bushes and these were always in bloom on the twenty-fourth. We picked great bunches of these for every room; we always placed a lovely bunch on the drawn-out diningroom table with its snowy linen cloth set with my mother's pretty dishes, white with violet-coloured flowers and the shining glassware; little silver was used except the flatware; and there were crystal goblets, berry-bowls, sugar bowls, and creamers. For lunch there would be a hot meal, but the supper was always cold - platters of cold meat, pickles, potato salad, bread and butter, dessert, filled pies (lemon and cream), and bowls of fresh and preserved fruit.

Outside, the large crabapple tree in the forefront of the side lawn was a picture to behold in its bloom. It was a lovely sign of spring.

Luncheon over, we all hurried to dress and go off down town around 2 p.m., since there were usually a couple of brass bands in town - our own, and one or two from neighbouring places - these played on the town square and then formed and marched to the Fair Grounds to see the races, with the people of the town following in a happy and carefree way. Even the Irish Derby or the Sweepstakes could not compete with these in my childish mind. These were, of course, not running races but what were called Harness Races -the horse was hitched to a light sulky or two-wheeled rig with a high seat, and I can still feel my heart beating as they lined up for the start in front of the grandstand. Although we didn’t bet on the horses, we lustily cheered the driver (often the owner) - Charlie or Sam or whoever - there would be hundreds of folk on hand, coming in from the surrounding towns and villages, and wagon loads of country folk.

The entrance fee was usually 25c (10c for children, and 50c for the Grandstand). But if you were young, the grass offered a good seat. I remember that my husband as a child lived about nine miles from the old town, and he used to tell in later life how he and his older brother wanted to come to the races, and his dad with a great show of generosity let them have the buggy and an old farm horse, and handed them 25c each for the day's outing. Of this, 10c was to he entrance fee, and 15c for horse, feed, and stable. The mother, with gentle forethought and kindness, made up a hinch; the boys, however, put some oats and a bit of hay under the buggy seat, and on reaching town found a nice quiet lane, unhitched the horse and left him to rest. Nine or ten miles was a long drive for a horse on the hot twenty-fourth; they then ate their own lunch, leaving them thus 15c to splurge on, and what a time they had. How different from today when youngsters take money as though it had no value, tear around to the nearest restaurant to spend 25c or more on indigestible cones, fried potatoes, and candy!

We used to sing, "Hip, Hip, Hurray, the Queen's Birthday! If you don't give us a holiday we'll all run away." And people laughing on every side.

Down at the Fair Grounds one would meet old friends whom one hadn't seen for perhaps a year. Then, the races over, the crowd would begin to stream back down town, or to the homes of friends for supper, The country folk would start for home to do their chores and put the small fry to bed. When we reached home, we quickly got supper ready? and I have often seen as many as twenty-four or five boys and their girls and also aunts and uncles and cousins sitting around on the lawn if the day was fine, or filling the house if it was cold. The girls would re-comb their hair and freshen up in the big bedroom upstairs, chattering away all the while. Then the call to supper-, and after supper every one except mother and dad would go back down town to the concert in the Town Hall. Since the seats were not reserved, it was really a question of getting there early for a good seat. This crowd was mostly the younger element, and the concert was always good: made up partly of local talent, and also some really good artist from nearby London. Ruthven MacDonald and his Quartette was one group I remember. The concert over, every one would start for home, with perhaps a stop-over at the ice-cream parlor for a last bit of fun, and another big day would come to an end.

These memories come back to me particularly because recently I attended the races at Blue Bonnets Track in Montreal, and saw a gallant young jockey, Cherami, ride the winner in five times. The crowd cheered him as I had never heard them do before. How I love to see those beautiful horses run (and I can still pick a winner by looks). I have never lost my love of a race horse, and this goes back, I believe, to my days as a child at the races in our old town on the Twenty-fourth of May.

My dad was a very rabid Conservative, so naturally we children were Tory also. One amusing incident comes to my mind - the first time I saw the great Liberal leader, Sir Wilfrid Laurier. This was when he toured the small towns in Ontario before his election, I think about 1904 was the election in question.

Sir Wilfrid arrived on the noon train and was met at the station by the heads of the local Grit organization. He was driven around the town in an open carriage and then called on the local parish priest, Father McCrae. From there the party drove to the curlers' skating rink, the only place large enough to hold the crowd.

The Grits arrived with red ribbons in their buttonholes, the ladies with red rosettes. However, we good and loyal Conservatives - not to be outdone - got a number of ladies together and we also wore rosettes and streamers of blue, the Tory color, on our dresses. We also went early and took a front seat. We were mostly "teen-agers" and maiden ladies. I will never forget the look on the faces of Sir Wilfrid and his wife, and the local Senator Mills and daughter, and indeed the rest of the platform party when they saw us sitting there. The more I think of it over the years, the more laughable it is.

I can still see Sir Wilfrid as he was that day - tall, erect, a thin man with locks of grey hair. He was immaculately dressed in a grey suit and wore a grey topper, his usual dress. The grey hat he removed when speaking. We were all, regardless of party, moved by his strong personality. He didn't speak long, and at the conclusion there were the usual cheers for him and all his party. Lady Laurier had not been mentioned so an old farmer in the back of the hall shouted out, "and now three cheers for Mrs. Lauree!"

After this the party left to catch the afternoon train east. Senator Mills was a small elderly man, accompanied by his daughter. The rest of the party I have forgotten. But Sir Wilfrid I have never forgotten, and as the years went by I had a great respect for him personally. I first visited the Laurier House in Ottawa in 1954 and found it most interesting, looking at the household and personal effects which he and his wife loved.

These pioneer women also-made their own soap. Over the winter the grease or fat was saved, the left overs from soups or gravies and pig killings. All wood ashes were kept in barrels and when spring came rain water was poured into these barrels over the ashes. Holes had been bored near the bottom and some straw and bricks placed in the bottom of the barrels to keep the holes from plugging up. After a couple or three days when the ashes were completely wet, the holes in the lower side of the barrel would be opened and a stave or a piece of tin inserted, and this lye would trickle out into a vessel placed there to catch it. The barrel was called a leach.

Then the big iron kettle came into use and was hung on a supporting pole with a big fire put under, the lye was put in this and kept boiling, while in would go all the grease. They knew to a moment when it had boiled long enough, and this would then be poured into a half keg barrel and allowed to set.

I have only seen this in the jelly state, yellowish brown in color, and it was used mostly for scrubbing floors. It would make them almost white. Hard soap was also made but not until later.

My grandmother, years earlier, also made all the candles for lighting. We had the moulds which she used.

Later my mother used to save all the wood ashes and sell them to the ash-man who called with a wagon on which was a high box. Under his seat there was a closed-in box in which he kept hard soap, clothes pins and bluing, and these he would exchange for the ashes. What a thrill to my childish eyes when he opened this pandora box.

Porridge, oatmeal, or cornmeal (for breakfast):
The cooked porridge was placed in a soup-like plate, a bowl of milk set in front, and the older folk liked to spoon their porridge into this bowl of milk; then eat it. Porridge, oatmeal, or cornmeal (for breakfast):
The cooked porridge was placed in a soup-like plate, a bowl of milk set in front, and the older folk liked to spoon their porridge into this bowl of milk; then eat it. Porridge, oatmeal, or cornmeal (for breakfast):
The cooked porridge was placed in a soup-like plate, a bowl of milk set in front, and the older folk liked to spoon their porridge into this bowl of milk; then eat it. Porridge, oatmeal, or cornmeal (for breakfast):
The cooked porridge was placed in a soup-like plate, a bowl of milk set in front, and the older folk liked to spoon their porridge into this bowl of milk; then eat it.

Maple syrup: not only for itself, but for wonderful Maple syrup: not only for itself, but for wonderful

Sometimes the filling would be ground oatmeal and suet, and onion and pepper and salt, all mixed, then put in the casings. These would be boiled, and then eaten hot or allowed to get cold; then sliced and fried or warmed in the oven, and eaten with bread and butter. (The Scotch call it skirlie, I believe.)

I have made this same thing, but boil it in a pudding bag and serve it hot.

Then, usually in the lenten season, salt fish would arrive and they bought this in kegs or small barrels. When wanting to use these, the fish were soaked over night; then boiled and served with hot buttered potatoes; it was something to taste these. My father and mother greatly enjoyed them, eating them rapidly and with gusto.

Codfish: whole pieces, salt soaked out and boiled; sometimes creamed. Codfish: whole pieces, salt soaked out and boiled; sometimes creamed. Codfish: whole pieces, salt soaked out and boiled; sometimes creamed. Codfish: whole pieces, salt soaked out and boiled; sometimes creamed.

Eggs:
put up for the winter in salt and water, or greased and wrapped in paper and kept in a cool place.

Apples in barrels or in outside pits; or dried in the fall on screens hung over the kitchen stove.

Preserves and jellies made from crabapples and from berries of all kinds, picked and preserved. These early settlers didn't can much fruit - made mostly preserves and jellies. Preserves and jellies made from crabapples and from berries of all kinds, picked and preserved. These early settlers didn't can much fruit - made mostly preserves and jellies. Preserves and jellies made from crabapples and from berries of all kinds, picked and preserved. These early settlers didn't can much fruit - made mostly preserves and jellies. Preserves and jellies made from crabapples and from berries of all kinds, picked and preserved. These early settlers didn't can much fruit - made mostly preserves and jellies.

Custards with a brown crust, on which nutmeg rested. Cabbages hung from the ceiling in the so-called basements; and there also in the cool shadows were potatoes in barrels, beets, onions, peas, carrots - all put in boxes sprinkled with sand. Custards with a brown crust, on which nutmeg rested. Cabbages hung from the ceiling in the so-called basements; and there also in the cool shadows were potatoes in barrels, beets, onions, peas, carrots - all put in boxes sprinkled with sand. Custards with a brown crust, on which nutmeg rested. Cabbages hung from the ceiling in the so-called basements; and there also in the cool shadows were potatoes in barrels, beets, onions, peas, carrots - all put in boxes sprinkled with sand. Custards with a brown crust, on which nutmeg rested. Cabbages hung from the ceiling in the so-called basements; and there also in the cool shadows were potatoes in barrels, beets, onions, peas, carrots - all put in boxes sprinkled with sand.

Eating habits. I remember my grandmother cooking eggs, and she would boil them on a big scale - they would be piled high in a large vegetable serving dish, and every one had one or two or three as they desired. There was lettuce in the summer season; yet my dad, who lived to be over ninety, I am not afraid to bet never ate a whole lettuce head in his life. But onions! he used to carry salt in his pocket and as he passed the onion bed he would pull up a couple and eat them raw. I never myself saw cauliflower grown until I was grown-up. We always had lots to eat, but little money.

Flour and a coarse kind of salt were always in a big barrel or tin can. Flour and a coarse kind of salt were always in a big barrel or tin can. Flour and a coarse kind of salt were always in a big barrel or tin can. Flour and a coarse kind of salt were always in a big barrel or tin can.

After harvest, the grain would be sold and perhaps a fat steer or two; but this money had to pay taxes on the farm and town house. Apples sold to the cider mill in the fall; windfalls or those shaken off the trees, would sell for about 25 cents for a wagon-boxfull. (In 1957 one paid 20 cents for three). The apples in the town orchard were sold to the apple pickers and picked by hand; and these paid well. What was left over was carefully put in the cellar, and as we sat around the olddining table doing our homework, a big pan of spies or greenings or russets was always there to be eaten.

One of my childish memories is of lying in bed on a summer night, looking out over the moon-lit hills, and then suddenly an over-ripe harvest apple would break loose and start to fall; and I can still hear the rustle as it fell through the leaves, then thumped onto the ground.

Pear trees and English cherry trees, rows of currant bushes (where mother got her switches to use on our legs, if naughty) and a row of black cherry trees, into which it was my delight to climb, and sit and eat the delicious fruit. These later developed a fruit disease called black knot, and there are now none left.

Maple syrup is a product found only in a small area of the north-eastern part of North America. When the white men came they found the Indians making and enjoying maple sugar and syrup. The early settlers all made great supplies of syrup to last over the year as white and brown sugar was very scarce. Our parents have told us how they tapped the maple trees and inserted home-made wooden spiggots and collected the sap in wooden buckets and boiled it in great iron kettles over open bonfires. They set up crossed limbs of the trees as far apart as needed, put across a pole from one to the other and hung the iron kettle on this pole, then built a fire under and everyone had to keep that fire going. When the sap was boiled nice and thick, they carried it hoine in buckets on a sleigh box and if they wanted to make maple sugar, they boiled it still more in a big iron pot hung in the fireplace. They put this sugar in pans to cool and, when hard, they piled these cakes of sugar away. This sugaring off was often the pretence for a party and they would go on different nights from one farm to another and pull taffy and cat fresh sugar, then back to the house and dance until daybreak, to the music of some local fiddler. Square dances were the order of the times, but later the round dance became the vogue. One cousin who later had built himself a grand brick house near London gave such parties, and they tell how four full sets for square dancing could be held in the dining room - 32 persons all dancing. One cousin was absolutely superb in calling off. He sang it all and he would no doubt be on TV today.

As a small child I can still hear him singing: