The Black Creek Stopping House - Nellie McClung
His wife interposed in her easy, drawling tones: "Now, Abe, you best
shet up and drive along. The kids are all hungry and want their
dinners."
"We'll see you later, partner," said the man as they drove away.
Thomas Shouldice was mystified. "These Americans are a queer bunch," he
thought; "they're ignorant as all get out, but, gosh! they're
friendly."
Over the hill to the south came other wagons filled with jolly
picnickers, who soon had their pots boiling over quickly-constructed
tripods.
Thomas, who went over to welcome them, found that nearly all of them
were the very Americans whose unholy zeal for their own national
holiday had so embittered his heart eight days before.
They were full of enquiries as to the meaning of an Orange walk. Thomas
tried to explain, but, having only inflamed Twelfth of July oratory for
the source of his information, he found himself rather at a loss. But
the Americans gathered that it was something he used to do "down East,"
and they were sympathetic at once.
"That's right, you bet," one gray-haired man with a young face
exclaimed, getting rid of a bulky chew of tobacco that had slightly
impeded his utterance. "There's nothin' like keepin' up old
institootions."
By two o'clock fully one hundred people had gathered.
Thomas was radiant. "Every wan is here now except that old Papist,
O'Flynn," he whispered to the drummer. "I hope he'll come, too, so I
do. It'll be a bitter pill for him to swallow."
The drummer did not share the wish. He was thinking, uneasily, of the
time two years ago--the winter of the deep snow--when he and his family
had been quarantined with smallpox, and of how Father O'Flynn had come
miles out of his way every week on his snowshoes to hand in a roll of
newspapers he had gathered up, no one knows where, and a bag of candies
for the little ones. He was thinking of how welcome the priest's little
round face had been to them all those long, tedious six weeks, and how
cheery his voice sounded as he shouted, "Are ye needin' anything,
Jimmy, avick? All right, I'll be back on Thursda', God willin'. Don't
be frettin', now, man alive! Everybody has to have the smallpox. Sure,
yer shaming the Catholics this year, Jimmy, keeping Lent so well." The
drummer was decidedly uneasy.
There is an old saying about speaking of angels in which some people
still believe. Just at this moment Father O'Flynn came slowly over the
hill.
Father O'Flynn was a typical little Irish priest, good-natured, witty,
emotional. Nearly every family north of the river had some cause for
loving the little man. He was a tireless walker, making the round of
his parish every week, no matter what the weather. He had a little
house built for him the year before at the Forks of the Assiniboine,
where he had planted a garden, set out plants and flowers, and made it
a little bower of beauty; but he had lived in it only one summer, for
an impecunious English couple, who needed a roof to cover them rather
urgently, had taken possession of it during his absence, and the kind-
hearted little father could not bring himself to ask them to vacate.
When his friends remonstrated with him, he turned the conversation by
telling them of another and a better Man of whom it was written that He
"had not where to lay His head."
Father O'Flynn was greeted with delight, by the younger ones
especially. The seven little Breezes were very demonstrative, and
Thomas Shouldice resolved to warn their father against the priest's
malign influence. He recalled a sentence or two from "Maria Monk,"
which said something like this: "Give us a child until he is ten years
old, and let us teach him our doctrine, and he's ours for evermore."
"Oh, they're deep ones, them Jesuits!"
Father O'Flynn was just in time for the "walk."
"Do you know what an Orange walk is, father?" one of the American women
asked, really looking for information.
"Yes, daughter, yes," the little priest answered, a shadow coming into
his merry grey eyes. He gave her an evasive reply, and then murmured to
himself, as he picked a handful of orange lilies: "It is an institution
of the Evil One to sow discord among brothers."
The walk began.
First came the fife and drum, skirling out an Orange tune, at which the
little priest winced visibly. Then followed Thomas Shouldice, in the
guise of King William. He was mounted on his own old, spavined grey
mare, that had performed this honorable office many times in her youth.
But now she seemed lacking in the pride that befits the part. Thomas
himself was gay with ribbons and a short red coat, whose gilt braid was
sadly tarnished. One of the Yankees had kindly loaned a mottled buggy-
robe for the saddle-cloth.
Behind Thomas marched the twenty-three-verse soloist and the other
faithful few, followed by the seven Breeze boys, gay with yellow
streamers made from the wrapping of a ham.
The Yankees grouped about were sorry to see so few in the procession.
They had brought along three or four of their band instruments to
furnish music if it were needed. As the end of the procession passed
them, two of the smaller boys swung in behind the last two Breezes.
It was an inspiration. Instantly the whole company stepped into line--
two by two, men, women, and children, waving their bunches of lilies!
Thomas, from his point of vantage, could see the whole company
following his lead, and his heart swelled with pride. Under the arch
the procession swept, stepping to the music, the significance of which
most of the company did not even guess at--good-natured, neighborly,
filled with the spirit of the West, that ever seeks to help along.
Everyone, even Father O'Flynn, was happier than James Shewfelt, the
drummer.
The fifer paused, preparatory to changing the tune. It was the
drummer's opportunity. "Onward, Christian Soldiers," he sang, tapping
the rhythm on the drum. The fifer caught the strain. Not a voice was
silent, and unconsciously hand clasped hand, and the soft afternoon air
reverberated with the swelling cadence:
"We are not divided,
All one body we."
When the verse was done the fifer led off into another and another. The
little priest's face glowed with pleasure. "It is the Spirit of the
Lord," he whispered to himself, as he marched to the rhythm, his hand
closely held by the smallest Breeze boy, whose yellow streamers and
profuse decoration of orange lilies were at strange variance with his
companion's priestly robes. But on this day nothing was at variance.
The spirit of the West was upon them, unifying, mellowing, harmonizing
all conflicting emotions--the spirit of the West that calls on men
everywhere to be brothers and lend a hand.
The Church of England minister did make a speech, but not the one he
had intended. Instead of denominationalism, he spoke of brotherhood;
instead of religious intolerance, he spoke of religious liberty;
instead of the Prince of Orange, who crossed the Boyne to give
religious freedom to Ireland, he told of the Prince of Peace, who died
on the cross to save the souls of men of every nation and kindred and
tribe.
In the hush that followed Father O'Flynn stepped forward and said he
thanked the brother who had planned this meeting; he was glad, he said,
for such an opportunity for friends and neighbors to meet; he spoke of
the glorious heritage that all had in this great new country, and how
all must stand together as brothers. All prejudices of race and creed
and doctrine die before the wonderful power of loving service. "The
West," he said, "is the home of loving hearts and neighborly kindness,
where all men's good is each man's care. For myself," he went on, "I
have but one wish, and that is to be the servant of all, to be the
ambassador of Him who went about doing good, and to teach the people to
love honor and virtue, and each other." Then, raising his hands, he led
the company in that prayer that comes ever to the lips of man when all
other prayers seem vain--that prayer that we can all fall back on in
our sore need:
"Our Father, who art in heaven,
Hallowed be Thy name,
Thy Kingdom come."
Two hours later a tired but happy and united company sat down to supper
on the grass. At the head of the table sat Thomas Shouldice, radiating
good-will. A huge white pitcher of steaming golden coffee was in his
hand. He poured a cup of it brimming full, and handed it to the little
priest, who sat near him. "Have some coffee, father?" he said.
Where could such a scene as this be enacted--a Twelfth of July
celebration where a Roman Catholic priest was the principal speaker,
where the company dispersed with the singing of "God Save the King,"
led by an American band?
Nowhere, but in the Northwest of Canada, that illimitable land, with
its great sunlit spaces, where the west wind, bearing on its bosom the
spices of a million flowers, woos the heart of man with a magic spell
and makes him kind and neighborly and brotherly!