present time, its people could scarcely ever
know what kingdom held dominion over them. They were a peaceful race,
taking no delight in warfare, and caring nothing for military renown.
And yet, in every war, their region was infested with iron-hearted
soldiers, both French and English, who fought one another for the
privilege of ill-treating these poor, harmless Acadians. Sometimes the
treaty of peace made them subjects of one king, sometimes of another.

At the peace of 1748 Acadia had been ceded to England. But the French
still claimed a large portion of it, and built forts for its defence.
In 1755 these forts were taken, and the whole of Acadia was conquered
by three thousand men from Massachusetts, under the command of General
Winslow. The inhabitants were accused of supplying the French with
provisions, and of doing other things that violated their neutrality.

"These accusations were probably true," observed Grandfather; "for
the Acadians were descended from the French, and had the same friendly
feelings towards them that the people of Massachusetts had for the
English. But their punishment was severe. The English determined to tear
these poor people from their native homes and scatter them abroad."

The Acadians were about seven thousand in number. A considerable part of
them were made prisoners, and transported to the English colonies. All
their dwellings and churches were burned, their cattle were killed,
and the whole country was laid waste, so that none of them might find
shelter or food in their old homes after the departure of the
English. One thousand of the prisoners were sent to Massachusetts; and
Grandfather allowed his fancy to follow them thither, and tried to give
his auditors an idea of their situation.

We shall call this passage the story of

THE ACADIAN EXILES.

A sad day it was for the poor Acadians when the armed soldiers drove
them, at the point of the bayonet, down to the sea-shore. Very sad were
they, likewise, while tossing upon the ocean in the crowded transport
vessels. But methinks it must have been sadder still when they were
landed on the Long Wharf in Boston, and left to themselves on a foreign
strand.

Then, probably, they huddled together and looked into one another's
faces for the comfort which was not there. Hitherto they had been
confined on board of separate vessels, so that they could not tell
whether their relatives and friends were prisoners along with them.
But now,