It was past three o’clock in the afternoon before the road was completed and the litter made, the last being effected by cutting two iron-wood poles eight feet long, and fastening them together by broad straps of bass-wood bark three feet apart.  A blanket, doubled, was then laid over these straps, upon which we placed the poor man, whose bleeding wound had been stopped with some difficulty.

It appeared that a small twig had caught the axe, which caused it to glance in its descent, and struck the instep of his right foot, making a gash about five inches long, the edge of the axe coming out at the sole of the foot.  It was a dreadful cut,—­one of the worst I ever saw—­ and I have seen and dressed a great many axe wounds since my residence in Canada.

Mr. G. was a very heavy man, and as only four persons could conveniently carry him at once, we found it very hard work.  I was completely done up when we reached the house.

Mr. Reid and his family did everything in their power to make him and his wife comfortable.  Mr. Stewart, his brother-in-law, kindly sent for two of the children:  the other two remained with their father and mother.

It was ten months before the poor invalid was able to leave his hospitable host, and resume his settlement in the bush.  I mention this little circumstance to show what kindly feelings exist between the settlers, especially in cases of this kind.  I shall also relate some remarkable passages in this poor man’s life which present an almost unparalleled train of misfortune.  I shall tell his dismal story, as nearly as possible, in his own words.

The experience of life proves to a certainty, that some persons are compelled to drink deeper of the cup of adversity than others, nay even to drain it to the dregs.

We know that the Jews of old and the heathen world still suppose that such are visited for their sins by the judgment of Heaven; but the Divine Teacher has taught us better things, and warned us against such rash conclusions, instructing us indeed that

 “There surely is some guardian power
 That rightly suffers wrong;
 Gives vice to bloom its little hour,
 But virtue late and long.”

Poor G. was one of these unfortunate persons, whose melancholy history I will now relate, in his own words.—­He was, it seems, a native of Ireland, from which country he emigrated soon after the last American war, with his wife and two children, leaving three other children at home with his father and mother, who were the proprietors of a small estate in the county of Cork.  He arrived safely with his family at the Big Bay in Whitby (Windsor,) and purchased a lot of land close to the lake-shore.