Читать книгу Chez Nous (Our Old Quebec Home) - Adjutor Rivard - Страница 8

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Four goodly planks of sound wood, stoutly joined, make the body of the cradle. The corner posts which support the frame are carved at the top in the likeness of a bulrush, and the same rustic skill has given the head-piece an outline of sober grace. The rockers are without a knot and are curved so that the cradle swings easy and smooth as a boat upon the wave.

You have but to fit the bottom board into the notches; to add a tiny mattress and a pillow; furnish sheets, blankets and quilt; on a half-hoop at the head to stretch the awning which shields young eyes from too strong a light; and, let him rock who will, you may be sure that the little lad within will sleep there soundly with closed fists.

The cradle is very old; generations have been rocked in it. In a manner of speaking I could say that our cradle was there from the beginning, for, so many years has it seen, its age is known to none. It was in the house before the chairs with seats of interlaced horse-hide,—before the dumpy stove which took over the duties of the open fire-place,—before the red kneading-trough that one always remembers in the north-east corner,—before the great blue chest where coverlets have been stored so far back as anyone can recollect. One might risk it that the cradle saw the very house built, room by room, and lay attending the shelter of a roof, for events were just on the edge of need for its services. In truth this bit of furniture is as old as the family itself.

The little lad within will sleep there soundly ...

By honoured tradition the cradle passes from generation to generation, a precious family possession; and it is the born right of the eldest married daughter to fetch it from her father’s roof when she awaits the first visit of the stork. Thus from mother to daughter has the old cradle, affectionately known as the ‘blue-box,’ descended to us.

And who fashioned it in the far-away past? I like to think of the rugged forefather who brought these four planks together and made of them the cradle of his race, and I seem to see him, remote, standing on the very confines of history.

The colonist has hewn for himself a home in the forest. In the middle of the clearing he has built the house which harbours his love, his joy, his dearest hopes. On the sill of their log-cabin stands his helpmate, and follows her man with her eyes as he departs, ax on shoulder, singing as he goes. The foot-path takes a winding way through the charred stumps, and the sun blazes down on him.

As yet the encircling woods are close at hand, and soon he halts before a lofty maple whose sturdy shaft towers high above the lower growth. With a keen glance he measures the great tree as though pitting himself against it. A sign of the cross, and firmly he plants his feet, the strong back bent, the muscles taut. His good blade swings, burying itself in the green wood; again, and the first chip flies.

‘Ahoy there Nicolas! What are you about? This is no time to be clearing your land!’

‘True enough. When the season for that comes round the untouched forest shall feel my ax; just now this maple will answer. I chose it from a thousand because it is the strongest. From a thousand I chose it because it is the straightest. See how rough the bark, how sound the heart!’ The steel sinks again and again into the living wood and the chips dance in air.

‘Months ago was it that I marked this tree. One evening, the day’s work done, at the hour when the fields are misty beneath the setting sun, my young wife sitting by me told of her hope. With bared head I answered “Now God be praised!” And from the threshold of our cabin I showed her this maple at the edge of the wood, taller than its fellows:— “That is the very one I shall fell for the cradle.” ’ Swifter the blows, and thicker fly the chips.

‘And now has come the hour when the tree must fall, for the time is not distant when a cradle will be wanted in my house. A few more days of waiting and you shall see me driving to the village, happy as any prince, and you shall hear the bells ring for the christening. Joy will abound under my roof, and neighbours will be welcome to come through the forest to see the woodman’s son, for the table will not be bare.’ And yet more keenly bites the steel, till the chips rain through the air and strew and whiten the ground.

The wood-cutter smites with all the strength of his rejoicing thews; his ax is at the tree’s heart, and still it falls, swings, falls again in the broadening deepening cut. Another blow, and the top shivers against the sky. For the last time the steel flashes ... the old king bows himself over the wound, hangs thus for an instant, shudders to his uttermost twig, and with a long groan comes crashing to earth.

A good job done! Now, Nicolas, strip the mighty trunk. Let the neighbours lend a hand. Here! you Johnny Baptistes, stoutly ply the two-handed saw; square the timber skilfully with the shining broad-ax; and now, you sawyers, cut me up this master-block. Fine planks they are, and truly sawn! Be at them, Nicolas, with hand-saw, auger and plane. Dovetail the ends and drill the holes straight. Carve bulrushes on the post heads with your knife. Now, put all together. Here are the pegs, made to fit snugly. Work away with chisel, draw-knife and mallet!

The expected baby may arrive when it likes and the holy water may flow and the christening-bells ring, for here is the cradle ready!

From mother to daughter the cradle has come down to us—the cradle of our forefathers, made of clean straight-grained maple.

In the course of a long life the cradle has known many vicissitudes. The pretty slate-blue has dulled to gray. Hard wear has rounded the corners and made the bulrush heads shiny, and the touch of many a patient foot has worn away the points of the rockers. A story of knocks and bangs and bruises and scorchings is written in the scars it bears.

One night the lightning struck and set the house on fire; first the baby was saved, then the cradle. The flames were licking the head-board and the blister is there to see.

In a spring freshet the river overflowed its banks and the water rose above the floors; people got away as best they could—through the window in the gable, by canoe; the unhappy cradle battled about for days in the flood.

Many a wound is there of which I do not know the history, but the cradle was built to withstand life’s onslaughts and is sound as ever and rocks as smoothly.

When the cradle is not in use it reposes on a beam in the attic; at the coming of a baby they carry it down again. But the flaxen heads follow so fast that it is scarcely worth while from year’s end to year’s end to stow it away—so unfailing the demand for its good offices. Nor is there happier sound in the house than the constant rocking, and the lullabies which keep time to it.

C’est la poulette grise

Qu’a pondu dans l’église ...

The mother herself it may be, with another child in her arms, or fingers busy with the knitting, who stirs the cradle with her foot as she sings. Her voice falls lower and lower as drowsiness comes, and trails off to silence when baby falls asleep.

C’est la poulette caille

Qu’a pondu dans la paille ...

Perhaps the father is there, groping for a softer tone in his hearty voice. His wife is back and forth as she makes the soup; and the ploughman gently swings the tiny cot with the great hand which all day has held the handles of the plough. But the red-cheeked tot does not want to go to by-bys and would rather clutch the beard conveniently in reach of his chubby fist.

C’est la poulette blanche

Qu’a pondu dans la grange ...

Or the eldest girl, none very old at that, has been allowed the treat of putting baby to sleep. Seated on the foot of the cradle, her voice rings out at the pitch of her lungs as though her task were to waken the whole house; and she rocks with such goodwill as to threaten everything with shipwreck!

C’est la poulette brune

Qu’a pondu dans la lune,

Elle a pond un beau petit coco

Pour l’enfant qui va faire dodo.

Dodiche, dodo!

Dodiche, dodo!

Though grandmamma’s voice quavers and fails, her aid is sought on those evenings when little fits of bad temper possess the occupant of the cradle, for no one has quite the old lady’s knack with children—so many a one has she rocked in her day!

It is when she is beside the cradle that the family loves best to draw near. One is so sure of a smile! Heads bend over curiously; the big people have a word of admiration, the little folk of amazement:—‘Grandma, it has eyes! Look Grandma, it has a nose!’ The small one-before-the-last holds staggeringly to the top of a post and sulks. The tears are not far away, for has she not been turned out of her very own cradle in favour of a little usurping brother! But she is consoled with the promise that she shall have papa’s place in the big bed just for to-night.

And when everyone in the house sleeps you might still hear the cradle going;—fastened to mother’s wrist by a string it is rocking in the dark.

O God, do Thou bless the houses where the cradle is held in honour! Bless those hearths where many a birth comes to cheer the ancient cradle and bring it perpetual youth! Bless the families who hold in reverence the virtues of former days, to the glory of our Church and of our Country!