My mother was often sorely tried for the lack of things common as dirt these better days.  Frequently our only baking-powder was white lye, made by dropping ash-cinders into wafer.  Our cinders were made by letting the sap of green timber drip into hot ashes.  Often deer’s tallow, bear’s grease, or raccoon’s oil served for shortening, and the leaves of the wild raspberry for tea.  Our neighbors went to mill at Canton—­a journey of five days, going and coming, with an ox-team, and beset with many difficulties.  Then one of them hollowed the top of a stump for his mortar and tied his pestle to the bough of a tree.  With a rope he drew the bough down, which, as it sprang back, lifted the pestle that ground his grain.

But money was the rarest of all things in our neighborhood those days.  Pearlash, black-salts, West India pipe-staves, and rafts of timber brought cash, but no other products of the early settler.  Late that fall my mother gave a dance, a rude but hearty pleasuring that followed a long conference in which my father had a part.  They all agreed to turn to, after snowfall, on the river-land, cut a raft of timber, and send it to Montreal in the spring.  Our things had come, including D’ri’s fiddle, so that we had chairs and bedsteads and other accessories of life not common among our neighbors.  My mother had a few jewels and some fine old furniture that her father had given her,—­really beautiful things, I have since come to know,—­and she showed them to those simple folk with a mighty pride in her eyes.

Business over, D’ri took down his fiddle, that hung on the wall, and made the strings roar as he tuned them.  Then he threw his long right leg over the other, and, as be drew the bow, his big foot began to pat the floor a good pace away.  His chin lifted, his fingers flew, his bow quickened, the notes seemed to whirl and scurry, light-footed as a rout of fairies.  Meanwhile the toe of his right boot counted the increasing tempo until it came up and down like a ratchet.

Darius Olin was mostly of a slow and sober manner.  To cross his legs and feel a fiddle seemed to throw his heart open and put him in full gear.  Then his thoughts were quick, his eyes merry, his heart was a fountain of joy.  He would lean forward, swaying his head, and shouting “Yip!” as the bow hurried.  D’ri was a hard-working man, but the feel of the fiddle warmed and limbered him from toe to finger.  He was over-modest, making light of his skill if he ever spoke of it, and had no ear for a compliment.  While our elders were dancing, I and others of my age were playing games in the kitchen—­kissing-games with a rush and tumble in them, puss-in-the-corner, hunt-the-squirrel, and the like.  Even then I thought I was in love with pretty Rose Merriman.  She would never let me kiss her, even though I had caught her and had the right.  This roundelay, sung while one was in the centre of a circling group, ready to grab at the last word, brings back to me the sweet faces, the bright eyes, the merry laughter of that night and others like it: