Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Bidwell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team LIFE IN THE BACKWOODS, A Sequel To Roughing It In The Bush. By Susanna Moodie Author Of “Life In The Clearings,” “Flora Lyndsay,” “Geoffrey Moncton,” Etc., Etc. I sketch from Nature, and the picture's true; Whate'er the subject, whether grave or gay, Painful experience in a distant land Made it mine own. New York: John W. Lovell Company, 14 And 16 Vesey Street. CONTENTS CHAPTER I.--A Journey to the Woods--Corduroy Roads--No Ghosts in Canada CHAPTER II.--The Wilderness and our Indian Friends--The House on Fire--No Papoose; the Mother all alone CHAPTER III.--Running the Fallow--A Wall of Fire--“But God can save us yet.” CHAPTER IV.--Our Logging Bee--“Och! my ould granny taught me.”--Signal Mercies CHAPTER V.--A Trip to Stony Lake--A Feast in an Outhouse--The Squatter's Log Hut CHAPTER VI.--Disappointed Hopes--Milk, Bread and Potatoes our only Fare--The Deer Hunt CHAPTER VII.--The Little Stumpy Man--Hiding from the Sheriff--An ill-natured volunteer CHAPTER VIII.--The Fire--“Oh, dear Mamma, do save Papa's Flute”--“No time to be clane!” CHAPTER IX.--The Outbreak--Moodie joins the Volunteers--“Scribblin' and Scrabblin' when you should be in bed” CHAPTER X.--The Whirlwind--Two Miles of Trees Levelled to the Ground--Sick Children CHAPTER XI.--The Walk to Dummer--Honest, Faithful Jenny--A sad History--Tried and Found most Faithful CHAPTER XII.--A Change in our Prospects--In a Canoe--Nearing the Rapids--Dandelion Coffee CHAPTER XIII.--The Magic Spell--“The Sleighs are Come!”--Leaving the Bush--End of Life in the Backwoods LIFE IN THE BACKWOODS A SEQUEL TO ROUGHING IT IN THE BUSH. CHAPTER I. A JOURNEY TO THE WOODS. 'Tis well for us poor denizens of earth That God conceals the future from our gaze; Or Hope, the blessed watcher on Life's tower, Would fold her wings, and on the dreary waste Close the bright eye that through the murky clouds Of blank Despair still sees the glorious sun. It was a bright, frosty morning when I bade adieu to the farm, the birthplace of my little Agnes, who, nestled beneath my cloak, was sweetly sleeping on my knee, unconscious of the long journey before us into the wilderness. The sun had not as yet risen. Anxious to get to our place of destination before dark, we started as early as we could. Our own fine team had been sold the day before for forty pounds; and one of our neighbours, a Mr. D----, was to convey us and our household goods to Douro for the sum of twenty dollars. During the week he had made several journeys, with furniture and stores; and all that now remained was to be conveyed to the woods in two large lumber-sleighs, one driven by himself, the other by a younger brother.