The Oaken Snuggery Part 26

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 26

BY TED CURRIE

     I was in great need of a change of pace the other evening, sitting in my small room, which is actually an office space used by my host, Mrs. Bosevelt, here at The Oaken Snuggery. She has an interest in older religious texts, some she admitted receiving from a great aunt many years ago, and had added a few additional ones when she found them at flea markets and second hand shops. I was intrigued by a tiny, badly worn and misshapen text, entitled “Original Poems For Infant Minds,” as written by “Several Young Persons.” It was the 8th edition of the religious book, this one being published in London at the time of the war between Canada and the United States, in 1812. The date certainly drew me into the text, because I wanted to know what “Several Young Persons” could come up with, in terms of insightful poems of a religious context, to entertain and inform children of that era. Keep in mind that Washington Irving had not yet published his “Sketch Book,” (1818) or “Bracebridge Hall,” (1822). It was a fascinating couple of hours, because I simply had to read it cover to cover. There were some rather macabre poems in the mix, including “The Last Dying Speech And Confession Of Poor Puss,” which is full of unfortunate details of animal abuse. It’s the only poem I actually had to stop reading because, as an owner of four stray cats, I couldn’t stomach the tales of mistreatment and suffering at the hands of abusive owners. I kept reminding myself that the book was published in 1812 long before the establishment of the Humane Society, and there was little fear of being punished for beating a poor old farm cat.

     But it was the poem, simply entitled “Night,” that caught my attention more than all the others. Keep in mind, this was for “Infant Minds”. I could not have read this poem to my sons when they were infants. I’m not sure I feel entirely comfortable today reading them this macabre analogy of night as death. Here is how it unfolds for a child’s entertainment, in the Christian mission of 1812.

     “No longer the beautiful day, Shines over the landscape so light, the shadows of evening grey, are closed in the darkness of night; The din of employment is over, not a sound, not a whisper is heard; The wagon bell tinkles no more, and still is the song of the bird. The landscape, once blooming so fair, with every gay color inlaid; The landscape, indeed, is still there, but all its fair colors are shade. The sun sinking under the hill, no longer shoots bright to the earth; The bustle of business is still, and hushed is the glamour of mirth. The busy hand, busy no more, is sunk from its labors to rest; closed tight every window and door, where once the gay passengers pressed. The houses of frolic and fun, are simply, dreary and dark; the din of the coaches is done, and the weary horse rests from his work. Just such is the season of death, which comes upon each of us fast! The bosom can’t flutter with breath, when life’s little day-time is past. The blood freezes cold in its vein. The heart sinks for ever to rest; not a fancy flight over the brain, nor a sigh finds its way from the breast. The tongue stiff and silent is grown, the pale lips move never again; the smile and the dimple are flown, and the voice both of pleasure and pain. Clay cold the once feverish head, the bright eye is sullen and dark; for death’s gloomy shadows have spread, that night in which no man can work. But as from the silence and the gloom, another gay morning shall rise, so, bursting awake from the tomb, we shall mount far away to the skies, and those who with meekness and prayer, in the paths of religion have trod, shall worship all glorious there, among the Archangels of God.”

     I closed up the book wondering if the two wee lasses who haunt this old farm house, had been reading over my shoulder. I put the tiny book back on Mrs. Bosevelt’s shelf, wishing not to consult it again during my stay. 

     I’m naturally inquisitive, and I was one of those precocious children who badgered elders for answers to impossible questions. My teachers told me that the learning curve depended on the answers to questions, and that the only way to succeed in life, was to be forever questioning. I took their advice, but truthfully I was a question badger even before I was sent to Burlington Public School that first year. Then I badgered teachers, and it was often noted on my report cards way back then, that “Ted is very curious…..” The rest of the sentence? I’m sure you can fill in the blanks. So when I noticed a small watercolor painting, framed and hung in a rather dark corner of the Great Room at The Oaken Snuggery, I simply had to enquire who the children were in the image, wearing brightly colored hats, at play sitting amongst wildflowers, on a hillside overlooking a pond, that looked very much like the valley and pasture we could view from the huge windows at the back of the farmhouse. Mr. Bosevelt was the first to cross my path, as I was sitting in my favorite arm chair, with the best view over the lowland at this early afternoon time of the day, but he didn’t no much about the painting other than it came with the house. When he went back to the kitchen and asked his wife the same question, she emerged, baked goods in hand for the inn’s tea time, to let me know that the painting had belonged to the former family who had owned the property up until recently, and the girls had something to do with neighbors but we have no other explanation. I think it was the case that their neighbors had passed on, and left an estate to be settled by family, and for some reason of association, this image was acquired by the owners here, most likely because they had some unexplained connection to the children. “It looks a lot like our pond, doesn’t it,” she noted, taking a closer look at the well executed watercolor in a frame that would date it to the 1860’s, if my antique training counts for anything. When she turned back to me, as if she had seen a ghost, or two, Mrs. Bosevelt said, “Is it possible that the girls in this painting are Cynthia and Francis, the wee ones who may still be with us? Even the trees around the pond look similar and the wildflowers thrive on that hillside in mid-summer.”

     I got up out of my chair to get a closer look, beside Mrs. Bosevelt, who seemed stunned by her own revelation, and that possibly, the image, nearly obscured by a deep recess of shadow, half hidden in this corner of the house, was part of the story all along. “We wanted to display as many items of significance, that we found in the house when the family packed up the estate, leaving, for whatever reasons, a few interesting relics, including the painting of the farmhouse from the 1920’s or 30’s, this little scene of the girls at play, and a few small bits and pieces left in cupboards and found when rugs and the kitchen flooring was removed during the renovations.” “Do you think this painting is of the girls,” she asked me, as I handled the painting, having taken it off the wall to check the back for any names of either the subjects, in this case, or the artist, and where it may have been painted. There was a faint imprint of a pencil, and one word, or name located on the bottom right corner of the backing paper. I asked Mrs. Bosevelt if she had a camera phone, to take a picture of the imprint, so that it could be blown up to give us a better opportunity to determine the letters of the name. In a few moments, after bringing out a tea pot on a tray with four cups and saucers, she pulled the phone from her pocket, and together we manipulated the framed original in order to maximize the light enhancing the faint letters only marginally visible to the naked eye.

     After three or four attempts to get a good clear image of the name, Mrs. Bosevelt was able to blow up the print and highlight it with the camera options, clearly identifying the name as “Smith.” There was nothing more on the back, but it was something more than we had a few minutes earlier, before I had even had my attention drawn to the watercolor. Which of course, also leads me to believe that the girls may be up to their old tricks once again, because after close to three weeks staying at the Snuggery, I had never looked at the picture as anything more than a decoration for a less than visible corner unworthy of even a chair. But for some unexplained reason this afternoon, it had the kind of allure attached, to make a questioning fellow wonder if the spirits have once again been at work, or play, to draw me further into their story. If these are representative of Cynthia and Francis, who have been keeping us all rather busy this last while, what on earth, or in heaven, is the story here, that they seem determined to dictate to the rather confused scribe, tripping over the encumbrance of so many puzzle pieces that still don’t fit anything we come up with, as the so called “bigger picture,” of why this old house and scenic property are being occupied by their restless spirits. What will satisfy them that we take them seriously, I thought, while standing with a cup of tea and a freshly made biscuit, looking out onto the hollow where the pond reflects golden this afternoon, in a most delightfully warm spring sun. I was, at the very least, able to send my research partner, Suzanne, a name that might have some relationship to the neighborhood back in the 1800’s, using some of our archive books and maps of the early homestead properties.

     In less than an hour, Suzanne called me back to let me know she found reference to three holdings, of early homesteaders, right up to the cusp of 1879, when the Guide Book and Atlas was published, that were under the ownership of settlers by the name of “Smith.” While not an uncommon name, it was typically the case, with free land grants, that parents, sons, brothers, uncles and cousins also came to Muskoka and made land claims in vicinity of one another for obvious reasons. In this area of Muskoka, being the northerly border of what is still recognized as South Muskoka, there were three farmsteads within a mile of one another, owned by pioneers by the name of “Smith,” presumably having arrived here from overseas to start new lives, bringing their young families. What this find allowed us to initiate, thankfully, was an ancestral search online, to find out if any of the Smith’s in census documents, had daughters by the name of Cynthia and Francis. It was a long shot of course, and being career researchers on such matters, we are always prepared to abandon one route when warranted, and sometimes never find anything tangible to prove our arguments about lineage. There are a lot of dead ends investigating, well, the dead!

     Before retiring to my room, much later that evening, Suzanne called once again, this time with some amazing news. The third Smith she was able to identify on a government census, did have children, five of them in fact. They had three boys and two girls. And yes, the girls were Cynthia and Francis, and had been born in Liverpool, England, and came to Canada as infants, with their older siblings, settling eventually on this Muskoka acreage, that on the 1879 map from the Guidebook and Atlas, suggests the Snuggery property and the Smith homestead were kitty corner to one another, making it entirely likely the two lasses criss-crossed the Bosevelt’s property in the 1860’s onward, as a matter of childhood amusement and recreation. All of this came from an obscure watercolor painting hung in a dark corner of the farmhouse, and the ever so faint imprint of a pencil of a long-ago artist, who, thankfully, extended just enough information for us contemporary adventurers to make sense of the association with two unsettled, unresolved spirits, who want to tell their story. Now it all gets much more interesting. Who was Alfred Smith and why are his children haunting this beautifully restored farmhouse here in the ghost hamlet of Rose Hill, Ontario? It’s not a story yet, but there’s at least a greater likelihood now, the ancestry specialist, Suzanne, will be able to find out more as she looks for more crumbs of family history, going way back in the Smith family chronicle, that eventually takes her into the rich history of England, Scotland and Ireland.

     I will sleep better tonight? Or may not!

     “Miss Fanny was found of a little canary, that tempted me more than mouse, pantry or dairy; so, not having eaten a morsel all day, I flew to the bird cage, and tore it away. Now tell me, my friends, was the like ever heard, that a cat should be killed for just catching a bird? And I’m sure not the slightest suspicion I had, but that catching a mouse was exactly as bad. Indeed, I can say with my paw on my heart, I would not have acted a mischievous part; but, as dear mother Tabby was often repeating, I thought birds and mice were on purpose for eating. Be this as it may, when my supper was over, and but a few feathers were left on the floor, came Fanny, with scolding, and fighting, and crying, and gave me those bruises of which I am dying. But I feel that my breathing grows shorter space, and cold clammy sweats trickle down from my face; I forgive little Fanny this bruise on my side - she stopped, gave a sigh, and a struggle, and died!” I knew I shouldn’t have read that poem even in part. Now I’ll be dreaming about it for the next week. So yes, indeed, I have haunted myself by my own hand, of picking this book to read for entertainment, when I should have been trying to connect with two girls who have a story of their own to share. It won’t be about cats, I know that for sure.