This tearing up of roots is a much sorrier business than I had imagined. And more difficult. I find it hard to know what to take and what to leave behind. And there is so much to be thought of, so much to be arranged for, so much to be done. I have had to write Duncan and tell him I’ll be a few days later than I intended. My biggest problem has been with Whinstane Sandy and Struthers. I called them in and had a talk with them and told them I wanted them to keep Casa Grande going the same as ever. Then I made myself into the god from the machine by calmly announcing the only way things could be arranged would be for the two of them to get married.

Struthers, at this suggestion, promptly became as coy as a partridge-hen. Whinnie, of course, remained Scottish and canny. He became more shrewdly magnanimous, however, after we’d had a bit of talk by ourselves. “Weel, I’ll tak’ the woman, rather than see her frettin’ hersel’ to death!” he finally conceded, 281 knowing only too well he’d nest warm and live well for the rest of his days. He’d been hoping, he confessed to me, that some day he’d get back to that claim of his up in the Klondike. But he wasn’t so young as he once was. And perhaps Dinkie, when he was grown to a man, could go up and look after his rights. ’Twould be a grand journey, he averred with a sigh, for a high-spirited lad turned twenty.

“I’ll be stayin’ with Pee-Wee and the old place here,” concluded Whinstane Sandy, giving me his rough old hand as a pledge. And with tears in my eyes I lifted that faithful old hand up to my lips and kissed it. Whinnie, I knew, would die for me. But he would pass away before he’d be willing to put his loyalty and his courage and his kind-heartedness into pretty speeches. Struthers, on the other hand, has become too flighty to be of much use to me in my packing. She has plunged headlong into a riot of baking, has sent for a fresh supply of sage tea, and is secretly perusing a dog-eared volume which I have reason to know is The Marriage Guide.

Gershom, all things considered, is the most dolorous member of our home circle. He says little, but inspects me with the wounded eyes of a neglected spaniel. He will stay on at Casa Grande until the 282 Easter holidays, and then migrate to the Teetzels’. As for Dinkie and Poppsy, they are too young to understand. The thought of change excites them, but they have no idea of what they are leaving behind.

Last night, when I was dog-tired after my long day’s work, I remembered about Dinkie’s school-essays and took them out to read. And having done so, I realized there was something sacred about them. They gave me a glimpse of a groping young soul reaching up toward the light.

“We have a Flag,” I read, “to thrill our bones and be prod of and no man boy woman or girl” (and the not altogether artless diminuendo did not escape me!) “should never let it drag in the dust. It flotes at the bow of our ships and waves from the top of most post offices etc. And now we have a flag and a flag staf in front of our school and on holdays and when every grate man dies we put said flag up at haf mast.... It is the flag of the rich and the poor, the flag of our country which all of whose citizens have a right to fly, the hig” (obviously meant for high) “and the low, the rich and the poor. And we must not only keep our flag but blazen it still further with deeds nobely done. If ever you have to shed your 283 blood for your country remeber its for the nobelest flag that flies the same being an emblen of our native land to which it represens and stands in high esteem by the whole people of a country.” ... God bless his patriotic little bones! My bairn knew what he was trying to get at, but it’s plain he didn’t quite know how to get there.

But the drama of the Capture of Quebec plainly put him on easier ground. For here was a story worth the telling. And what could be more glorious than the death of Wolfe as I see it through my little Dinkie’s eyes?

For I read: “The french said Wolfe” (can has first been written and then scratched out and would substituted) “never get up that rivver but Wolfe fooled them with a trick by running the french flag up on his shipps so the french pilots without fear padled out and come abord when Wolfe took them prissoners and made them pilot the english ships safe to the iland of Orlens. He wanted to capsture the city of Quebec without distroiting it. But the clifs were to high and the brave Montcalm dified Wolfe who lost 400 men and got word Amherst could not come and so himself took sick and went to bed. But a desserter from the french gave Wolfe the pass word and when 284 his ships crept further up the rivver in the dark a french senntry called out qui vive and one of Wolfe’s men who spoke french well ansered la france and the senntry said to himself they was french ships and let them go on. Next day Wolfe was better and saw a goat clime up the clifs near the plains of Abraham and said where a goat could go he could go to. So he forgot being sick and desided to clime up Wolfe’s cove which was not then called that until later. It was a dark night and they went in row boats with all the oars mufled. It was a formadible sight that would have made even bolder men shrink with fear. But it was the brave Higlanders who lead with their muskits straped to their sholdiers climing up the steep rock by grabbing at roots of trees and shrubbs and not a word was wispered but the french senntrys saw the tree moving and asked qui vive again. The same sholdier who once studdied hard and lernt french said la france as he had done before and they got safe to the top and faced the city. At brake of day they stood face to face, french and english. But Montcalm marched out to cut them off there and Wolfe lined his men up in a line and said hold your fire until they are within forty paces away from us. 285 The french caused many causilties but the english never wavered. Montcalm still on horse back reseaved a mortal wound, he would of fell off if two of his tall granadeers hadn’t held him up and Wolfe too was shot on the wirst but went right on. Again he was shot this time more fataly and as they were laying him down one of the men exclaimed See how they run. Who run murmurred the dieing Wolfe. The enemy sir replied the man. Then I die happy said Generral Wolfe and with a great sigh rolled over on his side and died.... And when the doctor told Montcalm he could only live a few hours he said God be prased I shall not live to see Quebec fall. Brave words like those should not be forgoten and what Wolfe said was just as brave. No more fiting words could be said by anybody than those he said in the boats with the mufled oars that night that the paths of glory leed but to the grave.” ...

I have folded up the carefully written pages, reverently, remembering my promise to return them to Peter. But for a while at least I shall keep them with me. They have set me thinking, reminding me how time flies. Here is my little boy, grown into an historian, sagely philosophizing over the tragedies of 286 life. My wee laddie, expressing himself through the recorded word.... It seems such a short time ago that he was taking his first stumbling steps along the dim hallways of language. I have been turning back to the journal I began shortly after his birth and kept up for so long, the naÏve journal of a young mother registering her wonder at the unfolding mysteries of life. It became less minute and less meticulous, I notice, as the years slipped past, and after the advent of Poppsy and Pee-Wee the entries seem a bit hurried and often incoherent. But I have dutifully noted how my Dinkie first said “Ah goom” for “All gone,” just as I have fondly remarked his persistent use of the reiterative intensive, with careful citations of his “da-da” and his “choo-choo car,” and a “bow-wow” as applied to any living animal, and “wa-wa” for water, and “me-me” for milk, and “din-din” for dinner, and going “bye-bye” for going to sleep on his little “tum-tum.” I even solemnly ask, forgetting my Max MÜller, what lies at the root of this strange reduplicative process. Then I come to where I have set down for future generations the momentous fact that my Dinkie first said “let’s playtend” for “let’s pretend,” and spoke of “nasturtiums” as “excursions,” and announced that he could bark loud 287 enough to make Baby Poppsy’s eyes “bug out” instead of “bulge out.” And I come again to where I have affectionately registered the fact that my son says “set-sun” for “sunset” and speaks of his “rumpers” instead of his “rompers,” and coins the very appropriate word “downer” to go with its sister word of “upper” and describes his Mummy as “wearing Daddy’s coffee-cup” when he really meant using Daddy’s coffee-cup.

It all seems very fond and foolish now, just as at one time it all seemed very big and wonderful. And I remember schooling my Poppsy to say “Daddy’s all sweet” and how her little tongue, stumbling over the sibilant, converted it into the non-complimentary “Daddy’s all feet,” which my Dinky-Dunk so scowlingly resented. And I have even compiled a list of Dinkie’s earliest “howlers,” from the time he was first interested in Adam and Eve and asked to be told about “The Garden of Sweden” until he later explained one of Poppsy’s crying-spells by announcing she had dug a hole out by the corral and wanted to bring it into the house. I used to smile a bit skeptically over these tongue-twists of children, but now I know they are re-born with each new generation, the same old turns of thought and the same 288 old kinks of utterance. I don’t know why, but there is even a touch of sadness about the old jokes now. The patina of time gathers upon them and mellows them and makes me realize they belong to the past—the past with its pain and its joy, that can never come back to mortal mothers again.