countries.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BATTLE WITH THE WILDERNESS BEGINS.

A roaring fire of logs upon the wide hearth, logs built up into walls
and roof, logs wrought into rough furniture of tables and stools--here,
within the emigrant's hut, the all-encompassing forest had but changed
its shape. Man had but pressed it into his service; from a foe it had
become a friend; the wooden realm paid tribute, being subjugated.

The still life of the cabin was rude enough. No appliances for ease,
not many for comfort, as we in England understand the words. Yet the
settler's wife, sitting by her wheel, and dressed in the home-spun
fruits thereof, had a well-to-do blooming aspect, which gaslight and
merino could not have improved; and the settler's boy, building a
miniature shanty of chips in the corner, his mottled skin testifying to
all sorts of weather-beating, looking as happy as if he had a toyshop
at his command, instead of the word being utterly unknown in his
experience; and the baby, rolled up in the hollowed pine-log, slept as
sweetly as if satin curtains enclosed its rest. Back to Sam Holt's mind
recurred words which he knew well: 'A man's life consisteth not in the
abundance of the things that he possesseth.'

The woman rose and curtsied. She had not been accustomed to make that
respectful gesture for a long time back; but something in the appearance
of the strangers half involuntarily constrained it.

'I needn't ask if you're Canadian born,' said Mr. Holt; 'you've the
manners of the old country.'

'My father and mother were from Wiltshire, and so be I,' she answered,
setting back her wheel, and looking gratified at the implied commendation.
'But that be so long ago as I scarce remember.'

'And she made amends by marrying me,' said the settler, entering from
the outer door, and latching it behind him. 'Mary, get the pan and fix
some supper quick. Them duck I shot won't be bad. You see, I've been
expectin' you along rather;' and he flung down an armful of wood, which
he began to arrange with architectural reference to the back-log and
fore-stick.

'Expecting us?' exclaimed Robert Wynn.

'You're for lot fifteen in ninth concession, township of Gazelle? Wall,
so I guessed; for I heard from Zack Bunting who lives at the "Corner,"
that it was sold by Landenstein; and I calc'lated you'd be along
presently:' and he finished his fire-building by a touch with his foot,
which appeared to demolish much of his labour, b