Michael McGrath, Postmaster | Page 5

listened to the solemn music of the great, swaying
pines and the soft, full melody of the big river, my heart went back to
my boyhood days when I used to see the people gather in the woods for
the "Communion." There was the same soothing quiet over all, the
same soft, crooning music and, over all, the same sense of a Presence.
In my dreaming, ever and again there kept coming to me the face of
Ould Michael, with the look that it bore after reading his home-letter,
and I thought how different would his Sabbath day have been had his
sister and his little one been near to stand between him and the
dreariness and loneliness of his life.
True to his promise, McFarquhar carried off Ould Michael to his ranch
up Grizzly Creek. Before the sun was high McFarquhar had his own
and Michael's pony ready at the door and, however unwilling Ould
Michael might be, there was nothing for it but march. As they rode off
Ould Michael took off his hat under the flag and called out:
"God save Her Majesty!"
"God bless her!" I echoed heartily.
At once the old soldier clambered down and, tearing open his coat,
pulled out a flask.
"Mr. McFarquhar," he said, solemnly, "it would be unbecoming in us to
separate from our friend without duly honoring Her Gracious Majesty's
name." Then, raising high the flask, he called out with great ceremony,

and dropping his brogue entirely: "Gentlemen, I give you the Queen,
God bless her!" He raised the flask to his lips and took a long pull and
passed it to me. After we had duly honored the toast, Ould Michael
once more struck an impressive attitude and called out: "Gentlemen,
Her Majesty's loyal forces----" when McFarquhar reached for him and,
taking the flask out of his hand, said, gravely:
"It is a very good toast, but we will postpone the rest till a more suitable
occasion."
Ould Michael, however, was resolute.
"It would ill become a British soldier to permit this toast to go
unhonored."
"Will you come after this one is drunk?" asked McFarquhar.
"I will that."
"Very well," said McFarquhar, "I drink to the very good health of Her
Majesty's army," and, taking a short pull, he put the flask into his
pocket.
Ould Michael gazed at him in amazed surprise and, after the full
meaning of the joke had dawned upon him, burst out into laughter.
"Bedad, McFarquhar, it's the first joke ye iver made, but the less
fraquent they are the better I loike them." So saying, he mounted his
pony and, once more saluting me and then the flag, made off with his
friend. Every now and then, however, I could see him sway in his
saddle under the gusts of laughter at the excellence of McFarquhar's
joke.
That was the last I saw of Ould Michael for more than six months, but
often through that winter, as I worked my way to the Coast, I wondered
what the monthly mails were doing for the old man and whether to him
and to his friends of those secluded valleys any better relief from the
monotony of life had come than that offered by Paddy Dougan's back

room.
In early May I found myself once more with my canvas and
photographic apparatus approaching Grand Bend, but this time from
the West. As I reached the curve in the river where the trail leads to the
first view of the town I eagerly searched for Ould Michael's flag. There
stood the mast, sure enough, but there was no flag in sight. What had
happened to Ould Michael? While he lived his flag would fly. Had he
left Grand Bend, or had Paddy Dougan's stuff been too much for him? I
was rather surprised to find in my heart a keen anxiety for the old
soldier. As I hurried on I saw that Grand Bend had heard the sound of
approaching civilization and was waking up. Two or three saloons, a
blacksmith's shop, some tents and a new general store proclaimed a
boom. As I approached the store I saw a sign in big letters across the
front, "Jacob Wragge, General Store," and immediately over the door,
in smaller letters, "Postoffice." More puzzled than ever I flung my reins
over the hitching-post and went in. A number of men stood leaning
against the counter and piled-up boxes, none of whom I knew.
"Is Ould Michael in?" I asked, forgetting for the moment his proper
name.
"In where?" asked the man behind the counter.
"The postoffice," I replied. "Doesn't he keep the postoffice?"
"Not much," he answered, with an insolent laugh; "it's not much he
could keep, unless it's whisky."
"Perhaps you can tell me where he is?" I