Oh, the happy nights I lay
    With my brothers in their beds,
  Where we soundly slept till day
    Shone brightly o’er our heads. 
  And the blessed dreams that came
    To fill my heart with joy. 
  Oh, that I now could dream,
    As I dreamt, a little boy.

  The sun shone brighter then,
    And the moon more soft and clear,
  For the wiles of crafty men
    I had not learn’d to fear;
  But all seemed fair and gay
    As the fleecy clouds above;
  I spent my hours in play,
    And my heart was full of love.

  I loved the heath-clad hill,
    And I loved the silent vale,
  With its dark and purling rill
    That murmur’d in the gale. 
  Of sighs I’d none to share,
    They were stored for riper years,
  When I drain’d the dregs of care
    With many bitter tears.

  My simple daily fare,
    In my little tiny mug,
  How fain was I to share
    With Cato on the rug. 
  Yes, he gave his honest paw,
    And he lick’d my happy face,
  He was true to Nature’s law,
    And I thought it no disgrace.

  There’s a voice so soft and clear,
    And a step so gay and light,
  That charms my listening ear
    In the visions of the night. 
  And my father bids me haste,
    In the deep, fond tones of love,
  And leave this dreary waste,
    For brighter realms above.

  Now I am old and grey,
    My bones are rack’d with pain,
  And time speeds fast away—­
    But why should I complain? 
  There are joys in life’s young morn
    That dwell not with the old. 
  Like the flowers the wind hath torn,
    From the strem, all bleak and cold.

  The weary heart may mourn
    O’er the wither’d hopes of youth,
  But the flowers so rudely shorn
    Still leave the seeds of truth. 
  And there’s hope for hoary men
    When they’re laid beneath the sod;
  For we’ll all be young again
    When we meet around our God.

J.W.D.M.

CHAPTER XXII

THE FIRE

  Now, Fortune, do thy worst!  For many years,
  Thou, with relentless and unsparing hand,
  Hast sternly pour’d on our devoted heads
  The poison’d phials of thy fiercest wrath.

The early part of the winter of 1837, a year never to be forgotten in the annals of Canadian history, was very severe.  During the month of February, the thermometer often ranged from eighteen to twenty-seven degrees below zero.  Speaking of the coldness of one particular day, a genuine brother Jonathan remarked, with charming simplicity, that it was thirty degrees below zero that morning, and it would have been much colder if the thermometer had been longer.

The morning of the seventh was so intensely cold that everything liquid froze in the house.  The wood that had been drawn for the fire was green, and it ignited too slowly to satisfy the shivering impatience of women and children; I vented mine in audibly grumbling over the wretched fire, at which I in vain endeavoured to thaw frozen bread, and to dress crying children.