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WALTER HARLAND

OR,

MEMORIES OF THE PAST

BY H. S. CASWELL

AUTHOR OF CLARA BOSCOM; EARNEST HARWOOD, ETC.

1874

CHAPTER I.

Left entirely alone on a quiet afternoon, the unbroken stillness whichsurrounded me, as well as the soft haze which floats upon theatmosphere, in that most delightful of all seasons, the glorious "IndianSummer" of Eastern Canada, caused my thoughts to wander far away intothe dreamy regions of the past, and many scenes long past, and almostforgotten, passed in review before my mind's eye on that quietafternoon. While thus musing the idea occurred to me that there are fewindividuals, however humble or obscure, whose life-history (if noteddown) would prove wholly without interest to others, in the form of abook; and this thought caused me to form the idea of noting down somepassages from my own life—as they were on that day recalled to my mind.Like the boy who dreamed a most remarkable dream and, when asked torelate it, "didn't know where to begin," so was I puzzled as to how Ishould make a beginning for my story. But the incidents of oneparticular day when I was about thirteen years old were so vividlybrought back to my mind, that I have decided upon that day as astarting-point; and now to my story.

"Where alive has that lazy, good-for-nothing boy taken, himself off tonow, I wonder, and the weeds I left him to pull in the garden not halfdone yet; but it's just like him, as soon's my back's turned to skulkoff in this way. I'll put a stop to this work one of these days, see ifI don't. Its likely he's hiding in some out-of-the-way corner with abook in his hand as usual." These and many other angry words cameharshly to my ears, on that June afternoon now so long ago. I was seatedin the small room over the kitchen which was appropriated to my use inthe dwelling of Farmer Judson, where I was employed as "chore boy," or,in other words, the boy of all work.

"Walter, Walter Harland, come down here this minute, I say."