Life in the Backwoods | Page 4

the children, but there were no private rooms in the house. The apartment we occupied was like the cobbler's stall in the old song, and I was obliged to attend upon them in public.
"You have much to learn, ma'am, if you are going to the woods," said Mrs. J----.
"To unlearn, you mean," said Mr. D----. "To tell you the truth, Mrs. Moodie, ladies and gentlemen have no business in the woods. Eddication spoils man or woman for that location. So, widow (turning to our hostess), you are not tired of living alone yet?"
"No, sir; I have no wish for a second husband. I had enough of the first. I like to have my own way--to lie down mistress, and get up master."
"You don't like to be put out of your -old- way," returned he, with a mischievous glance.
She coloured very red; but it might be the heat of the fire over which she was frying the pork for our dinner.
I was very hungry, but I felt no appetite for the dish she was preparing for us. It proved salt, hard, and unsavoury.
D---- pronounced it very bad, and the whiskey still worse, with which he washed it down.
I asked for a cup of tea and a slice of bread. But they were out of tea, and the hop-rising had failed, and there was no bread in the house. For this disgusting meal we paid at the rate of a quarter of a dollar a-head.
I was glad when, the horses being again put to, we escaped from the rank odour of the fried pork, and were once more in the fresh air.
"Well, mister; did not you grudge your money for that bad meat?" said D----, when we were once more seated in the sleigh. "But in these parts, the worse the fare the higher the charge."
"I would not hare cared," said I, "if I could have got a cup of tea."
"Tea! it's poor trash. I never could drink tea in my life. But I like coffee, when 'tis boiled till it's quite black. But coffee is not good without plenty of trimmings."
"What do you mean by trimmings?"
He laughed. "Good sugar, and sweet cream. Coffee is not worth drinking without trimmings."
Often in after years have I recalled the coffee trimmings, when endeavouring to drink the vile stuff which goes by the name of coffee in the houses of entertainment in the country.
We had now passed through the narrow strip of clearing which surrounded the tavern, and again entered upon the woods. It was near sunset, and we were rapidly descending a steep hill, when one of the traces that held our sleigh suddenly broke. D---- pulled up in order to repair the damage. His brother's team was close behind, and our unexpected stand-still brought the horses upon us before J. D---- could stop them. I received so violent a blow from the head of one of them, just in the back of the neck, that for a few minutes I was stunned and insensible. When I recovered, I was supported in the arms of my husband, over whose knees I was leaning, and D---- was rubbing my hands and temples with snow.
"There, Mr. Moodie, she's coming to. I thought she was killed. I have seen a man before now killed by a blow from a horse's head in the like manner." As soon as we could, we resumed our places in the sleigh; but all enjoyment of our journey, had it been otherwise possible, was gone.
When we reached Peterborough, Moodie wished us to remain at the inn all night, as we had still eleven miles of our journey to perform, and that through a blazed forest-road, little travelled, and very much impeded by fallen trees and other obstacles; but D---- was anxious to get back as soon as possible to his own home, and he urged us very pathetically to proceed.
The moon arose during our stay at the inn, and gleamed upon the straggling frame houses which then formed the now populous and thriving town of Peterborough. We crossed the wild, rushing, beautiful Otonabee river by a rude bridge, and soon found ourselves journeying over the plains or level heights beyond the village, which were thinly wooded with picturesque groups of oak and pine, and very much resembled a gentleman's park at home. Far below, to our right (for we were upon the Smith-town side) we heard the rushing of the river, whose rapid waters never receive curb from the iron chain of winter. Even while the rocky banks are coated with ice, and the frost-king suspends from every twig and branch the most beautiful and fantastic crystals, the black waters rush foaming along, a thick steam rising constantly above the rapids, as from a boiling pot. The shores vibrate and tremble beneath