Part 3 (2/2)

Several of these heavy timbers had struck the upper bridge, and carried away the centre arch. A poor cow, who was leisurely pacing over to her shed and supper, was suddenly precipitated into the din of waters. Had it been the mayor of the town, the accident could scarcely have produced a greater excitement. The cow belonged to a poor Irishman, and the sympathy of every one was enlisted in her fate. Was it possible that she could escape drowning amid such a mad roar of waves? No human arm could stem for a moment such a current; but fortunately for our heroine, she was not human, but only a stupid quadruped.

The cow for a few seconds seemed bewildered at the strange situation in which she found herself so unexpectedly placed. But she was wise enough and skilful enough to keep her head above water, and she cleared two mill-dams before she became aware of the fact; and she accommodated herself to her critical situation with a stoical indifference which would have done credit to an ancient philosopher. After pa.s.sing unhurt over the dams, the spectators who crowded the lower bridges to watch the result, began to entertain hopes for her life.

The bridges are in a direct line, and about half a mile apart. On came the cow, making directly for the centre arch of the bridge on which we stood. She certainly neither swam, nor felt her feet, but was borne along by the force of the stream.

”My eyes! I wish I could swim as well as that ere cow,” cried an excited boy, leaping upon the top of the bridge.

”I guess you do,” said another. ”But that's a game cow. There's no boy in the town could beat her.”

”She will never pa.s.s the arch of the bridge,” said a man, sullenly; ”she will be killed against the abutment.”

”Jolly! she's through the arch!” shouted the first speaker. ”Pat has saved his cow!”

”She's not ash.o.r.e yet,” returned the man. ”And she begins to flag.”

”Not a bit of it,” cried the excited boy. ”The old daisy-cropper looks as fresh as a rose. Hurrah, boys! let us run down to the wharf, and see what becomes of her.”

Off scampered the juveniles; and on floated the cow, calm and self-possessed in the midst of danger. After pa.s.sing safely through the arch of the bridge, she continued to steer herself out of the current, and nearer to the sh.o.r.e, and finally effected a landing in Front-street, where she quietly walked on sh.o.r.e, to the great admiration of the youngsters, who received her with rapturous shouts of applause. One lad seized her by the tail, another grasped her horns, while a third patted her dripping neck, and wished her joy of her safe landing. Not Venus herself, when she rose from the sea, attracted more enthusiastic admirers than did the poor Irishman's cow. A party, composed of all the boys in the place, led her in triumph through the streets, and restored her to her rightful owner, not forgetting to bestow upon her three hearty cheers at parting.

A little black boy, the only son of a worthy negro, who had been a settler for many years in Belleville, was not so fortunate as the Irishman's cow. He was pushed, it is said accidentally, from the broken bridge, by a white boy of his own age, into that h.e.l.l of waters, and it was many weeks before his body was found; it had been carried some miles down the bay by the force of the current. Day after day you might see his unhappy father, armed with a long pole, with a hook attached to it, mournfully pacing the banks of the swollen river, in the hope of recovering the remains of his lost child. Once or twice we stopped to speak to him, but his heart was too full to answer. He would turn away, with the tears rolling down his sable cheeks, and resume his melancholy task.

What a dreadful thing is this prejudice against race and colour! How it hardens the heart, and locks up all the avenues of pity! The premature death of this little negro excited less interest in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of his white companions than the fate of the cow, and was spoken of with as little concern as the drowning of a pup or a kitten.

Alas! this river Moira has caused more tears to flow from the eyes of heart-broken parents than any stream of the like size in the province.

Heedless of danger, the children will resort to its sh.o.r.es, and play upon the timbers that during the summer months cover its surface. Often have I seen a fine child of five or six years old, astride of a saw-log, riding down the current, with as much glee as if it were a real steed he bestrode. If the log turns, which is often the case, the child stands a great chance of being drowned.

Oh, agony unspeakable! The writer of this lost a fine talented boy of six years--one to whom her soul clave--in those cruel waters. But I will not dwell upon that dark hour, the saddest and darkest in my sad eventful life. Many years ago, when I was a girl myself, my sympathies were deeply excited by reading an account of the grief of a mother who had lost her only child, under similar circ.u.mstances. How prophetic were those lines of all that I suffered during that heavy bereavement!--

The Mother's Lament.

”Oh, cold at my feet thou wert sleeping, my boy, And I press on thy pale lips in vain the fond kiss!

Earth opens her arms to receive thee, my joy, And all my past sorrows were nothing to this The day-star of hope 'neath thine eye-lid is sleeping, No more to arise at the voice of my weeping.

”Oh, how art thou changed, since the light breath of morning Dispersed the soft dewdrops in showers from the tree!

Like a beautiful bud my lone dwelling adorning, Thy smiles call'd up feelings of rapture in me: I thought not the sunbeams all gaily that shone On thy waking, at night would behold me alone.

”The joy that flash'd out from thy death-shrouded eyes, That laugh'd in thy dimples, and brighten'd thy cheek, Is quench'd--but the smile on thy pale lip that lies, Now tells of a joy that no language can speak.

The fountain is seal'd, the young spirit at rest,-- Oh, why should I mourn thee, my lov'd one--my blest!”

The anniversary of that fatal day gave birth to the following lines, with which I will close this long chapter:--

The Early Lost.

”The shade of death upon my threshold lay, The sun from thy life's dial had departed; A cloud came down upon thy early day, And left thy hapless mother broken-hearted-- My boy--my boy!

”Long weary months have pa.s.s'd since that sad day, But naught beguiles my bosom of its sorrow; Since the cold waters took thee for their prey, No smiling hope looks forward to the morrow-- My boy--my boy!

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