Michael McGrath, Postmaster

Michael McGrath, Postmaster,
by Ralph Connor

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Title: Michael McGrath, Postmaster
Author: Ralph Connor
Release Date: September 12, 2006 [EBook #19257]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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MICHAEL McGRATH,

POSTMASTER

BY RALPH CONNOR
Author of "The Sky Pilot," "Black Rock," Etc.

FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
CHICAGO NEW YORK TORONTO

COPYRIGHT 1900
BY
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

MICHAEL McGRATH, POSTMASTER.
Some men and some scenes so fasten themselves into one's memory
that the years, with their crowding scenes and men, have no power to
displace them. I can never forget "Ould Michael" and the scene of my
first knowing him. All day long I rode, driving in front my pack-pony
laden with my photograph kit, tent and outfit, following the trail that
would end somewhere on the Pacific Coast, some hundreds of miles
away. I was weary enough of dodging round the big trees, pushing
through underbrush, scrambling up and down mountain-sides, hugging
cliffs where the trail cut in and wading warily through the roaring
torrent of "Sixty-mile Creek." As the afternoon wore on, the trail left
the creek and wound away over a long slope up the mountain-side.
"Ginger," said I to my riding pony, "we are getting somewhere"--for
our trail began to receive other trails from the side valleys and the
going was better. At last it pushed up into the open, circled round a

shoulder of the mountain, clinging tight, for the drop was sheer two
hundred feet, and--there before us stretched the great Fraser Valley!
From my feet the forest rolled its carpet of fir-tops--dark-green, soft,
luxurious. Far down to the bottom and up again, in waving curves it
swept, to the summit of the distant mountains opposite, and through
this dark-green mass the broad river ran like a silver ribbon gleaming in
the sunlight.
Following the line of the trail, my eye fell upon that which has often
made men's hearts hard and lured them on to joyous death. There,
above the green tree-tops, in a clearing, stood a tall white mast and
from the peak, flaunting its lazy, proud defiance, flew a Union Jack.
"Now, Ginger, how in the name of the Empire comes that brave rag to
be shaking itself out over these valleys!"
Ginger knew not, but, in answer to my heels, set off at a canter down
the slope and, in a few minutes, we reached a grassy bench that
stretched down to the river-bank. On the bench was huddled an
irregular group of shacks and cabins and, in front of the first and most
imposing of them, stood the tall mast with its floating flag. On the wide
platform that ran in front of this log cabin a man was sitting, smoking a
short bull-dog pipe. By his dress and style I saw at once that he had
served in Her Majesty's army. As I rode up under the flag I lifted my
cap, held it high and called out: "God save the Queen!" Instantly he
was on his feet and, coming to attention with a military salute, replied
with great fervor: "God bless her!" From that moment he took me to his
heart.
That was my introduction to "Ould Michael," as everyone in the Valley
called him, and as he called himself.
After his fifth glass, when he would become dignified, "Ould Michael"
would drop his brogue and speak of himself as "Sergeant McGrath, late
of Her Majesty's Ninety-third Highlanders," Irishman though he was.
Though he had passed his sixtieth year, he was still erect and brisk
enough in his movement, save for a slight hitch in his left leg. "A touch

of a knife," he explained, "in the Skoonder Bag."
"The where?"
"Skoonder Bag, forninst the walls the Lucknow--to the left over, ye
understand."
"I'm ashamed to say I don't," I answered, feeling that I was on the track
of a yarn.
He looked at me pityingly.
"Ye've heard av Sir Colin?" He was not going to take anything for
granted.
I replied hastily: "Sir Colin Campbell, of course."
"Well, we was followin' Sir Colin up to the belagured city when we run
into the Skoonder Bag--big stone walls and windys high up, and full av
min, like