The next morning the snowfall had ceased, and although the sky remained lowering, there was no sign of a storm. Indeed, it was still too early in the season for frequent or abundant snow. The climate of Canada has this peculiarity which meteorologists have failed to explain—that whereas, in other parts of the continent, such as the north-west, and even so far down the Mississippi Valley as St. Louis, the winter temperature has moderated with the clearing of the forests and the cultivation of the soil, in Canada it remains precisely the same as it was two and three hundred years since. A comparison of the daily registers kept at present with those diurnally consigned in the Relations of the Jesuits, shows—as the historian Ferland tells us—that, day for day and month for month, the indications of the thermometer in 1876, for instance, tally with those of 1776. At the present time, in Canada, although the cold really begins to be felt in the beginning of November, the winter is not regarded as having finally set in till the 25th of the month. That is known as St. Catharine's day, and its peculiar celebration will be described further on, being connected with one of the episodes of our story. The last month of the autumn of 1775 may therefore be supposed to have followed the general rule. Indeed, we know from the records that it was, if any thing, milder than usual, and that the winter was uncommonly tardy, a vessel having sailed from Quebec for Europe as late as the 31st December.

As we have said, the weather, on the particular morning on which we write, was cold but calm. The snow lay crisp and hard upon the level places; in the hollows and gorges it was piled in light fleecy banks. The atmosphere was of that quality that, although it had a sting when first it was faced, so soon as the ears, hands, cheeks, and other exposed parts got used to it, the whole system felt a pleasureable glow of buoyancy. It was capital weather to work in, and so a number of sturdy farmer's wives, residing on the north bank, a little above Quebec, gathered at the river to do their washing. They had on immense quilted mob-caps, with large outstanding ears, petticoats of thick blue or purple woollen, the work of their own hands, heavy stockings to match, and pattens lined with flannel. A great double handkerchief, of flowery design, was set upon their broad shoulders, covering their necks and crossed over their voluminous bosoms; but there was free play left to the arms, which flushed with rosy color under the influence of work and weather. A broad board fastened to the bank, jutted out five or six feet into the water, and was supported there at a proper level by a solid trestle. A boat was attached to this primitive jetty, and there was besides a small building of rude timber, which served for the women to boil their clothes in, or hang them up to dry.

Four women were working together along one plank, and of course there was continuous talk among them. But whenever the conversation became more than usually animated, or they would fall to disagreeing among themselves, they would call out to their companions who were similarly working and talking some yards away to the right and left.

One lively old girl, who was striking her pallet so hard on a bombed bundle of yellowish clothes, that meshes of brown hair broke from under her cap and fluttered on her forehead, seemed to be the oracle of the party.

"Perhaps this will be the last time we shall wash clothes here. Those are terrible fellows who have come. They call them Bastonnais. They come from very far, and are very bad men. They will burn our houses and barns. They will empty our cellars and granaries. I saw M. le CurÉ yesterday, and he told me that we will have to shut ourselves up, and not show our faces, because ... you know."

"Pshaw, Josephine," said another, "it will not be so bad as that. My old man says that they are like other men. I'm not afraid. I will talk to them. I am sure there are some pretty fellows among them."

"Marguerite is always a coquette," continued a third. "But she will have no chance. These strangers are poor, lean, broken-down, and badly dressed. They are not soldiers at all, like the men at the citadel. No lace, no gold tape, no epaulettes, no feathers in their hats. The officers have no swords, and many of the soldiers are without muskets. Men like that I would not allow to approach me, and if they come to our house, I will dance them out with this paddle."

Saying which, the speaker fell to, beating her clothes with renewed vigor.

The youngest and prettiest of the four women having listened to all this, straightened herself up from her tub, and placing her arms akimbo, said:

"Pierriche"—meaning her husband—"was in the city all yesterday afternoon. You know Pierriche is a great talker, and likes to know all the news. Every time he goes to the city he has enough to talk about for a week afterwards. Well, do you know what he says? He is such a hoaxer, such a blagueur, that I did not believe him, and hardly believe him now, but he swore to me that it was true."

"What was it?" asked her three companions simultaneously.

"Well, he said that after he had been in the city a little while, and sold what was in his sleigh, he thought he would take a stroll into Lower Town. There he met a lot of his friends, and one of his cousins from Levis. And they told him...."

"What did they tell him?" asked the three women, who had now abandoned their work and gathered around the speaker.

"Well, you know all the boats were taken away from the other side of the river, but these men were so frightened that they ran down the bank till they came opposite the Isle of Orleans. Then making a kind of raft with a few logs they got over to the Island. There they found boats which took them to the city. And they immediately spread the news of what they had seen."

"What had they seen?" queried the excited women. "You are provoking, Matilde, with your long story."

"You will not believe me."

"I'll believe everything," said one.

"I'll believe nothing," said another.

"Never mind what we will believe. Only tell us what it is," said the third.

"Well, they told Pierriche that these Bastonnais are terrible men, tall and strong. They suffer neither cold nor heat. Nothing can hurt them, neither powder, nor ball."

"And why not?"

"Because...."

Here the pretty housewife paused suddenly, and with a look of mingled fear and surprise, pointed to the river. Her companions turned and saw a light birch-bark canoe, shooting out from the opposite shore and directed for mid-stream. Three men were in it.

"There!" said the first speaker. "Just what Pierriche said. Look at them. Look especially at that tall man sitting in the stern. The boat is approaching very quick. See, he raises his cap and salutes us."

"What a handsome fellow," said Marguerite.

"Yes, but look at his dress and that of his companions," exclaimed the others.

"Just what Perriche said," repeated the first.

"They are devils, not men," cried out a second.

"Just what Pierriche said. They are clad in sheet-iron."

"Yes, that is true. Sheet-iron men!"

And the frightened women, leaving the clothes on the jetty, fled precipitately up the bank.

The boat described a wide semi-circle in the river, and the young man sitting at the stern swept the north shore with a field glass. It was Cary Singleton, an officer of Morgan's riflemen, one of the chief corps of Arnold's army. He had been sent to reconnoitre.

Morgan's riflemen were all tall, stalwart men from Virginia and Maryland, and they were dressed in tunics of grey unbleached linen. The French would say vÊtus de toile. But the panic of their sudden arrival, at Levis, changed toile into tÔle, and the whole country side rang with the cry of "sheet-iron men." The amusing incident is historic.