ABBI AND THE WINTER CARNIVAL - Book 2 in Abbi of the Wilderness Series

Her Fate – An Orphanage?

THE JOURNEY

Abbi glanced across to Mr. Morton on the opposite bench.

Mr. Morton was a slim, spectacled and studious man who preferred to do calculations in his notebook than pay any attention to her. She herself was a talkative ten year old girl, and the fact that he did not care to make conversation was frustrating for her. All she could do was to watch the scenery go by outside the window of the train car. It was a snowy scenery because it was January, and this was a slow freight train carrying logs to sawmills down the Saint John River valley from the interior wilderness of New Brunswick. Conveying logs to the sawmills downriver could not be done in any other way when the Saint John River was frozen.They were on the single passenger car, and it wasn’t even full. Not many people had reason to travel in the middle of winter. She was glad there was a stove in it that kept passengers cozy warm.

Mr. Morton was not accustomed to escorting small Native Indian orphan girls from the interior of New Brunswick all the way to Saint John, and would have been happier if she wasn't there. But the duty had fallen to him on this occasion, since he had been sent by his boss, Madam Audora Woodrow, to take an inventory of the Koski Sawmill property in the New Brunswick wilderness, now that the Woodrow Timber Milling and Manufacturing Company she headed, was buying out the portion owned by the Loggermans. And Abbi, the orphan in question, who Madam Woodrow had sent there earlier to help with the Loggermans' children, was to be returned.

Abbi hadn’t known she was an Indian girl nor adopted until last January when her adoptive mother, Jenine, had explained it all to her. Until then Madam Audora Woodrow had been “Grandmama Audora”. She tried to think of her as "Madam Audora Woodrow" now, but she still seemed like "Grandmama Audora" to Abbi. Moreover, the children with which she grew up -Mark, Jack, Jimmy and Mary - still felt like her brothers and sister, Jenine still seemed like "Mama", and Bradford who was currently missing, was still "Papa". Nonetheless, according to the revelations last January, they really weren’t her kin after all. In truth she had only been an orphan adopted as a baby and raised by kind adoptive parents. Her true kin were somewhere else. Mama - er Jenine - had said her real kin were among the Ojibwa people, the same ones who were featured in The Song of Hiawatha, the famous poem written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and published in 1855.

And now, after having been sent to help out Mrs. Loggerman in the backwoods of New Brunswick during the last six months, she was to be returned, and be subjected to the decisionmaking of Audora Woodrow, Papa’s – that is Bradford Woodrow’s – mother. She didn't know if she wanted to face her decisionmaking again like the decisionmaking that had sent her to the Loggermans in the first place - although, the experience didn't turn out to so bad. What she had in store for her now she did not know. She was hoping she would be allowed to rejoin her adoptive family and not be sent to yet another place deemed suitable for an Indian orphan by the powerful, controlling, Audora Woodrow, her former “Grandmama”.

As Abbi began anticipating what she would find upon her arrival at the end of the day in Saint John, she wondered about the condition of her adoptive Mama, Jenine, who she had seen last those six months ago when she departed from Saint John. She had only received one letter from her in the time she had been in the wilderness helping the Loggermans. It was unlike her not to have written more than the one letter. Even though Abbi wrote her again, there had not been a second letter. There had however been a letter from the eight year old Mark. After that there had only been the letter from her adoptive Grandmama Audora informing her that since the Loggermans were selling their share of the sawmill and moving to Maine, she would return with Mr. Morton who she was sending up in early January for taking inventory of the assets.

Abbi had worried that Jenine had not written more than the once. The only clue as to what had happened was in the letter from Mark. She had it with her and looked for it in her travel bag. She would read it again given that there was no conversation to be had with her escort. She unfolded it and read it again. It went like this, complete with a 8-year old boy’s poor spelling and writing:

“Dear Abbi

I saw your letter to Mama. Mama saw it but was too tird to write. She is very tird. I sed I wil reply. I niid to praktis writing. I started school at a privet school 25 miles away. Mama is tired and likes to look out the windo and sumtimes reed a buk. She siims not interested in anything. Grandmama seys it is becuz of the shok of Papas drowning but you know what I think Abbi? I think its cuz she can’t do what she always did befor.. Mama wanted to make food for us, but she couldn’t becuz grandmamma sed it was the job of the cook. Mama wanted to help us get dressd, but Grandmama sed that was the job of the governess. Mama didn’t hav anything to do. Grandmama wanted her to werk in the company office, but Mama couldn’t understand anything and did not like it. Mama couldn’t do anything she wanted. So I think she went bak in the past with her mind to wen she was doing wat she wanted, looking after us in our house in Fredricton. That is wat I think. I hope she becums better after a while like the doctor says. I am just lerning to write, so it is difficult to write. I am glad you like being with the Loggermans. Everything is fine here – except for Mama not liking how Grandmama duzn’t let her du what she really wants.

Love, Mark

P.S. Gramama Audora doesn’t kno I rote this to you. I posted it myself. I didn’t want her to see wat I wrote about her.”

Abbi understood what he meant. Jenine was a country woman who didn’t understand the life of wealthy people like Grandmama Audora – with finery and servants all around. And Grandmama Audora had never liked it that her son, Bradford, who she had expected would join her in her wealthy society helping her run the company, had instead pursued a career in railways and unexpectedly to her married a country woman and settled in a country town called Littleton. Now that Bradford was gone – vanished but nobody knew what happened to him – Jenine had noone to act as a buffer against his powerful mother.

Abbi put Marks letter away again. Nothing was to be gained by getting preoccupied with the matter. Besides, there was nothing she could do – Madam Audora was in control of everything!!

She looked for something else do while the aloof Mr. Morton did his calculating.

She had brought with her the book A Stranger in a Winter Landscape that she had received from the Loggermans’ handyman Jeffrey, and although she had already read it, she thought to read it some more to pass the time. But the train ride was like a snail's progress. Hours and hours went by as the train stopped everywhere, adding and subtracting freight cars loaded with logs or lumber. They had departed at 7 in the morning, and it was now approaching noon. Abbi decided to try once again to strike up a conversation with Mr. Morton – which she had tried at the beginning of the train ride without meeting with any success. Perhaps he was getting weary of doing his calculations. He had forever so far been looking down into his notebooks, with not even any glance at the scenery outside the train window.

“Pardon me, Mr. Morton, but you have been doing calculations in your notebook for hours. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I was wondering what the calculations are for. I suppose it has something to do with the inventory you took of everything at the Loggermans’ sawmill...”

In his reply he didn't even look up at her. “That is correct. I am calculating the value of it all, adding up numbers so as to establish how much would be a fair amount for Madam Woodrow to pay the Loggermans for buying them out.”

“I’m glad it will be a fair amount.”

“Of course it must be fair. Percy Loggerman knows the value of everything too, and he too will see a copy of my calculations, and have to agree to the amount arrived at.”

“I’m sorry for interrupting then. You must know arithmetic well. Arithmetic has been my worst subject at school. Will you be calculating all day? Don’t you ever take a break?”

“When we arrive at Fredericton there will be an opportunity to take a break there as we wait to transfer to the train from Fredericton to Saint John.” And he continued his calculating - writing numbers into a notebook obviously filled with all the items he found at the sawmill and logging camp, and the probable value of each.

Abbi continued: “Mrs. Loggerman packed our lunch in this basket beside me. At least you might take a sandwich to eat while you calculate. Let me see what she packed....” She removed the cover from the basket beside her on the seat and took an inventory of what was there. “There is a loaf of bread, a knife, some butter, and a nice piece of corned moosemeat. I think she intended us to slice them and make our own sandwiches. I will make you one and one for myself. There is also a breadboard to use for slicing. I’ll put it on the tabletop between us.” On this train there were facing benches on each side of a window, with a narrow table between them. Abbi set to work slicing the bread, and then the meat, and then adding butter to the bread. As she worked she took the liberty of talking, hoping Mr. Morton would become more sociable. It hadn’t worked earlier, but maybe this time Mr. Morton was weary of his calculations and would open up. Abbi became her normal talkative self:

“I’m so happy for the Loggermans and their children – finally being able to move away from the wilderness. On the other hand I myself am a little sad to leave the Loggermans. I felt very much at home there, seeing as it turns out I am Native Indian, as you probably realized when you saw me as they say I very much look like an Indian girl. I only learned I was adopted by the Woodrow’s last year before Grandmama Audora, I mean Madam Audora, decided to send me to stay with the Loggermans and help them with their children. That’s when Mama, I mean Jenine Woodrow, explained everything – that they adopted me. I am really Ojibwa, she said, born from an Indian woman named Paula Pictford, who sadly, died. Although New Brunswick is the land of the Mic’maq and Maliseet Indians, Mama said Paula came here from the east, from Gitche Gumee, which is Lake Superior, like the Indians in The Song of Hiawatha the long poem by Mr. Longfellow about which you are no doubt familiar. But on the other hand, I don’t regret leaving the wilderness if I can reunite again with my Woodrow family. But alas, Papa, that is Bradford Woodrow, Jenine's husband, who disappeared when on a trip to inspect a railway bridge – he was a railway construction engineer – is still disappeared, and the rest of the family is living with Madam Audora, in her mansion at Richdale, outside of Saint John, which is called Tall Pines. But I hear Mama, I mean Jenine, is not well. Oh I long to see them again. There is Mark the oldest boy, then there is Jimmy, and then there is Jack, which in French is Jacques, but it sounds the same, and finally there is little Mary, who must be more than two years old by now. I after all grew up in their family. And now that the Loggermans are moving and their sawmill will now belong entirely to Madam Audora, I am being returned into the hands of Madam Audora’s decisionmaking. I prefer to rejoin the family at Tall Pines, but I don’t know what Grandmama – I mean Madam Audora – has in store for me. She has never taken much of a liking to me, probably because I am adopted and not really kin to her.....”

Abbi realized she was rambling on and on, like was her tendency, and that Mr. Morton was probably becoming annoyed. She stopped to glance at him to see if he was annoyed, or even listening. She saw no response at all. He was in his world of numbers. Then she put a second slice of bread on top of what she had just made and handed it to him. “Here’s your sandwich, Mr. Morton. I will now make my own.”

Finally Mr. Morton showed some responsiveness. He took the sandwich. “Hmm. Thank you..... But I would appreciate it if you didn’t chatter on and on. It distracts me from my calculations.”

He at least had heard her, she thought. “I understand, Mr. Morton. I am told I have a tendency to chatter on and on. I must learn to think things out and say only what is important at that moment and not talk about everything that comes through my mind.”

Abbi pressed her lips together to force them not to talk, as she worked on a sandwich for herself.

“Oh,” she said after a minute when she inspected the contents of the basket further. “Mrs. Loggerman also put some apples in here. You can munch on an apple too when you’re through with the sandwich. I’ll put it on the tabletop – or whatever they call this top they have between the benches... There is also a glass bottle of juice. Just let me know what you would like, Mr. Morton. There are still many hours left to go. I remember when I came, the journey took all day, from early morning to late evening. It is a lo-o-o-ng way from the backwoods of New Brunswich to Saint John.”

Happily when Abbi began eating, she stopped talking. She took the liberty of looking around the car to see what other passengers were doing. There weren’t many. Perhaps when she was done eating she could get up and see if there were other people with whom she could strike up a conversation, seeing as Mr. Morton could not be drawn away from his calculating.

And that was just what she did when she was done eating her sandwich. She walked up the aisle and said hello to everyone, and judging from the responses, who was keen to talk. When she found someone, she told them all about how she was an Indian girl and an orphan, and everything else that came to her head.

“My Papa, who I discovered was my adoptive Papa, was an engineer in the construction of this very train track we are on,” she said proudly to a middle age woman going to Fredericton to visit relatives. “But he had an accident and vanished into the majestic Saint John River. People think he drowned, but they have not found anything other than his coat and boots, so I have always kept up hope that he is still alive.”

“Good for you, dear,” said the woman. “Never give up hope until you know for sure.”

“Right now, Mr. Morton, who is an accountant or something for the Woodrow Timber Milling and Manufacturing Company of Saint John, is supervising me on my return to Saint John. Madam Audora Woodrow who is president of the company, is my adoptive Papa’s mother, and has assumed responsibility for me. I wonder what she has in store for me next. I hope I will be allowed to rejoin my adoptive family at her mansion; but I fear she will only treat me like an orphan like she has always done, rather than kin. That is the sad part about being an orphan – you can never be completely part of any family.”

“Well I hope everything turns out for the best. As for me I am visiting my relatives in Fredericton.”

“I used to live in Fredericton with my adoptive family. I can tell you precisely where we lived...”

Abbi was now so happy to have found at least one other passenger to converse with in her normal chatty manner. It enabled time to fly by quickly. Before she knew it, they were arriving in Fredericton and Mr. Morton was marshalling her along to the waiting area for the express train that went between Fredericton and Saint John.

Happily Mr. Morton seemed to have finished his calculations and did not have to work on the express train between Fredericton and Saint John. Noticing him not calculating, but looking out the window like everyone else, Abbi said, “I suppose you have by now figured out how much Madam Audora will have to pay the Loggermans for their share of the sawmill.”

He glanced at her and said “Yes, I have completed the task.” His tone suggested to her “Do not start chattering at me again.” He was now interested in, it seemed, resting a little before arrival. He closed his eyes – another signal to Abbi not to bother him. Abbi thought she ought to nap a little too. Then she would feel less tired once they arrived.

BACK IN SAINT JOHN

Finally by the end of the day they arrived at Saint John Station. Abbi gathered together all her belongings and prepared herself for the winter weather once again.

Desmond, Audora’s driver, with Audora’s carriage, met them at the station. In wintertime it gets dark early, and it was getting dark even though it was only about a half past five; but the carriage had lanterns.

Mr. Morton, meanwhile, was met by his own carriage driver, and Abbi parted company from Mr. Morton.

“Thank you, Mr. Morton, for your help in bringing me back to Saint John. It took all day, but finally the journey is over. Have a good journey to your home. Say hello for me to your darling wife. I suspect you are as weary of the trip as I am.”

“Hmm,” said Mr. Morton. He nodded and proceeded to his carriage. Abbi felt a little sorry for him. Here was a man completely worn down by numbers.

Abbi turned to Desmond. “I can’t wait to see Mark, again.”

Desmond was by now putting Abbi’s luggage into the carriage. “He’s at school, Miss Abbi. Both he and Jimmy go to a boarding school 25 miles away. They only come home on every second weekend.”

“Well how is Mam. . . I mean Mrs. Woodrow, . . I mean Jenine? I heard she isn’t fitting in very well at the mansion.”

“Madam Woodrow has a nurse attend to her needs. She believes it is the consequence of his losing her husband and all the subsequent changes in her life, and time will heal all.”

“And Audora?” Abbi wondered.

“She is well. She is at her office at this moment, still working. She always works late. She is waiting for you. She has instructed me to take you there first of all. You’ll go home with her to Tall Pines when she’s done. She wishes to talk to you at her offices first of all.”

Abbi remembered the office. It was the one where it was decided last year that she ought to go to help Mrs. Loggerman at the sawmill that the company half owned. “She is still working when it is dark?”

“In winter it gets dark early. Her office has the latest in gas lighting. She prefers to get things done before she goes home. Sometimes she works after everyone else is gone.”

“She must be very dedicated to her work,” remarked Abbi. “But I’m so very weary from being on the train from morning to night. I hope she will be done by now so we can go back to Tall Pines right away.”

Desmond helped Abbi into the carriage, which had its hood up to provide shelter from the winter weather. He himself climbed up to the driver’s seat in front. They drove off from the Saint John Station, and made their way through the downtown streets to the offices of the Woodrow Timber Milling and Manufacturing Company not far away.

It was dark outside the window of the carriage, and all Abbi could see were the lights of lanterns on carriages and lamps inside buildings. There were also some sprinkles of snow in the air.

AUDORA’S OFFICE ONCE AGAIN

Leaving the baggage in the carriage, Desmond showed Abbi up to Madam Woodrow’s office. They didn’t see any other employee than a man near the entrance watching things.

“Here is Abbi, Madam Woodrow,” he announced when they arrived at the third floor office. “The train arrived on time. Mr. Morton has continued to his home, as it is late, and he said he will confer with you tomorrow.”

Audora Woodrow looked exactly the same to Abbi as the last time she saw her – stern, authoritative, but with a handsomeness in her features that had been inherited by her son, Abbi’s adoptive Papa. She wore her dark hair stylishly done up at back, and her dress was a black and businesslike. Abbi always sought out in her studying her the interesting accessorites she wore – jewelery, broaches elegant handkerchiefs, pocket watch, etc – elegant touches that revealed how fashion-conscious she was.

But Abbi didn’t study Audora for but a moment. She immediately noticed how bright it was in the office. Frosted glass globes on the walls between the windows emanated a light that was brighter than she normally saw when oil, kerosene or candle lighting was used.

“Oh, Grandma—I mean Madam Woodrow—how bright it is in here with the gas lights. It is almost like daytime!!” [1]

Audora spoke to Desmond first. “That will be fine, Desmond. I will probably be done in about 15 minutes. Please hold the carriage to take us home as soon as we’re done.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Desmond, and withdrew. He would spend the next fifteen minutes downstairs chatting with the attendant at the entrance, and checking now and then on the horses outside.

“You’ve seen gas lighting before, Abbi. I have it at my mansion. You may have seen gas lighting often without realizing it. City buildings may have it, if they are within reach of underground pipes from a gasworks company.” Audora turned her attention back to what she was working at on her desk. “Take off your coat and have a seat Abbi, while I finish up a few business matters here. . .”

Abbi took off her coat, scarf and hat, put them on the sofa there, and sat down in a chair. Besides being bright, the office was also warm. This building had central heating. Heat poured out of numerous radiators under the windows. After sitting on the wooden seats of the train, Abbi was pleased the chair was cushioned. She yawned. She felt weary.

“How tedious it is to be on trains all day,” she said. “I’m pleased it is over and I can experience a change of scenery. I can’t wait for us to get home, Grandm...I mean, Madam Woodrow.”

Audora did not say anything, but continued what she was doing at the desk. It must be very important, Abbi thought. She was reading something, and making notes. Abbi wondered what important business work she was doing, but did not dare to ask. She noted that there had been no big “welcome” from Audora, nor any desire to hug her, even though they had not seen each other in six months. It seemed ominous. But it also seemed normal, since throughout the years she had never treated her with any warmth like her adoptive Papa and Mama had. Perhaps she only saw her as a responsibility and not much more.

“I can’t believe how light it is in here,” Abbi repeated. “Perhaps it’s because you have more lights going on in here than I have seen elsewhere.”

Audora spoke, without looking up from what she was doing. “Did you have a good trip? You didn’t get into any difficulty? As I said, you’ll have to be patient Abbi, while I finish up with a few things. . . I trust Mrs. Loggerman and her sisters are all fine too? All is proceeding nicely up there with their arranging to move?”

“Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Loggerman are so happy to be moving out of the wilderness. The wilderness is not the place to raise six girls, Mrs. Loggerman always said. Had they been all boys, it would have been a different story. I was unhappy Mr. Morton couldn’t come to do the inventory until after Christmas, so I couldn’t be here for Christmas; but Christmas turned out to be happy with the Loggermans, on account of Mrs, Loggerman’s sisters getting together there. I listened to them talk about old times when they were little and all lived in that area. They also talked about how you lived near there for two years with your husband, and how my Papa—I mean Bradford—was a little boy. I can imagine it would be romantic to live there when you’ve just married and have just one baby.”

Without looking up, Audora continued: “Yes, Stanley’s father started out procuring lumber to send to England, and then masts and wood for shipbuilding in Saint John, and his son— that is Stanley, my late husband—thought of starting something on his own. A sawmill was a good idea since his father’s company was a ready-made customer. We partnered with a logging man, Harry Koski, Mrs. Loggerman’s father, because he was a seasoned veteran logger and sawmill worker. Stanley had business skills, the money to finance the operation, and his father as a prime customer. It was a good partnership. But then after two years, Stanley’s father died and we had to go back to Saint John to take the main business, this one I now head, over from his father, and we settled in at Tall Pines. . . Yes I was up there for two years with Stanley. You don’t think I would send you somewhere that I did not once find an adventure myself, do you?”

“I suppose you know me better than I thought. Being with the Loggermans was an adventure, when I think back on it, in spite of the chores, Grandma—I mean Madam Audora.”

“Believe me; children will envy you when you tell of your adventures in the wilderness.”

Audora shuffled papers on her desk, took out a large book and a quill. She dipped the quill into an inkwell and wrote some numbers in the book.

“I expect there has been no new news about Papa,” said Abbi, “—I mean my adoptive Papa. They have still not found his body?”

“No they haven’t, I’m afraid.”

“Well I will hold a glimmer of hope he is alive until it is known for sure,” Abbi replied. “I find the term ‘glimmer of hope’ very inspiring. It’s like keeping a little candle going.”

Abbi sat, stretched her legs, looked around the office. She yawned once again. “I’m so sleepy from not having had much to do on the train. I can’t wait to do something.” She noticed there was a clock that went “tick, tick, tick, tick”. On the wall above the clock there was a framed picture. It looked like a picture of Queen Victoria.

“Is that a photograph of Queen Victoria[2]? I think I’ve seen it before when I was here before I went with Mrs. Loggerman, but did not have a chance to study it.”

‘Queen Victoria’, Canadian Illustrated News, April 8, 1871, - vol III, no.14, p.209 (NLC-3865)

Audora leaned back in her chair and glanced at her favourite picture. “Yes, Abbi.” Audora replied. “It is a copy of the photograph that appeared on the cover of Canadian Illustrated News some years ago. I contacted the publication to find the photographic origins of it and had a large photograph made of that image. I had it framed and put it up on the wall. I prefer it to the standard etched portraits that you see everywhere these days on institutional walls. I like to be more original.”

Audora returned to her entering numbers in a book.

“She looks severe,” remarked Abbi.

Without looking up Audora replied: “She has to look severe to command respect. When men come in here, I like to remind them that a woman rules the British Empire. It makes it easier for them to accept a woman as a president of a company.”

“Your office looks almost like a woman’s parlour.”

“Ever since my husband Stanley died and I took it over running the company by myself, I’ve been trying to make it more feminine, more comfortable for a woman to be and work.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” concluded Abbi.

Abbi sat silently and looked around at other things in the office. There had never been time previously to look around. She saw that Audora had some magazines on a table and immediately asked: “Oh, you have magazines! Grandmama Audora, may I look at the magazines while I wait? ”

“You may have a look, but don’t call me Grandmama now that you know you are adopted. I’m not really your grandmother, just as Jenine is not really your mother. The best way to call me is probably what everyone else calls me, Madam Audora Woodrow.”

“I know, Gran-er Madam Woodrow. I was told that my real mother was an Indian from Gitche Gumee.”

“From where?”

“That’s the Indian word for Lake Superior.”

“Your mother is from Lake Superior? Where did you hear that?”

“Mama—I mean Jenine—told me when she explained I was adopted. She said my Indian mother and her husband lived in the same town, in Littleton, as they; but they died and she and Bradford raised me from four months. I spent a lot of time while I was with the Loggermans learning all about the Ojibwa language and ways from Papa’s—I mean Bradford’s—books, because that would be the same as my mother’s.”

Audora Woodrow knew that Abbi had in reality been left anonymously at the Littleton church door and as far as she knew Abbi’s mother was unknown.

“Well Abbi,” said Audora, looking up, “I can’t see how Jenine would know. It seems to me that there is a far better chance that your mother was Mikmaq, since Littleton is closest to the Mikmaq communities.”

“Mama, I mean Jenine, would not lie. . .” Abbi was alarmed.

“Well perhaps she guessed, or thought to say Lake Superior because she thought it would please you. Bradford was so involved with Longfellow’s work The Song of Hiawatha, about Lake Superior Indians.”

“But I have learned nothing about the Mikmaq!” exclaimed Abbi. “I know a little about the Wolastoqiyik Indians, because they were up there. . .”

“The what Indians?”

“The Maliseet. Their true name is Wolastoqiyik. It means ‘People of the Beautiful River’, meaning the Saint John River. Anyway there were three men who worked at the sawmill in spring from whom I learned a great deal, but nothing about the Mikmaq other than that the word ‘Maliseet’ comes from their word for ‘lazy speakers’ because they didn’t pronounce words as clearly as the Mikmaq did.”

“Abbi, you should not dwell on your Indian origins. In this world, regardless of whether you have Indian origins or not, the way to get ahead in life is to learn the ways of civilization.”

“I know. I have to make my natural father proud too. Jenine told me my father was Pictish, from somewhere around Scotland.”

Audora looked up and almost laughed. “She did, did she? And Pictish?” Audora smiled as Picts were a historical people and there were no such people as Picts this day in age. “Well I suppose it is good to be half Indian rather than full Indian. That helps you learn about the non-Indian ways, the civilized ways, as well. Perhaps Jenine was wise to tell you that.” She returned to her writing.

Audora, of course, knew that Abbi was a foundling, and her parents were actually unknown. Everyone had always assumed from Abbi’s appearance that she had at least one Indian parent, so Audora understood what her daughter-in-law had done – make up some parents and background to give Abbi something that would be more positive than being told her parents were unknown. Now Audora thought she would not undermine what Jenine had done, other than to discourage any obsession with the Indian side which she did not see having any practical value in this society.

“His name was Irwin Pictford,”continued Abbi, “and she was Paula Pictford. I’m certain that Mama, I mean Jenine, knew that Paula Pictford was Ojibwa. She seemed to be sure. And she would have learned it from Papa, I mean Bradford, who knew a great deal about Indians from what he learned at Harvard before he studied to become an engineer. I would like to ask Jenine to remember more.”

“She is currently not all that well,” replied Audora, continuing to write something. “It may be best to leave the matter for a later time when she is better.”

Abbi already suspected it from the letter from Mark, but said nothing. She didn’t want to imagine that Jenine might not be the same person she was when she last saw her.

Abbi ran over to grab some magazines and then back to the chair. She began to turn the pages on the top one. “You have some American magazines. I’ve never seen these before. This magazine, called Atlantic Monthly has no pictures, but I’m sure the literature in it is fine. Here is a poem entitled The Beautiful Woman’s Wish. [3] Although I’m far from beautiful I’m curious what a beautiful woman would wish for. It is written by Charlotte F. Bates. I’ve never heard of her, although I think Charlotte is a very pretty name. ‘Thou strokest back my heavy hair . . With smothered praises in thy touch, . . Thy long, proud look doth call me fair. . .Before thy lips have vowed me such. . . .And when between each long caress. . .Thou gazest at me held apart, . . .And with impulsive tenderness. . .Refoldest closer to thy heart, . . Over love’s deep, within eyes. . .”

Audora, without looking up, interrupted. “You’re far too young to read such material. You’re only ten. Read something else!”

“You’re right, Madam Audora. Some of the lines are a little difficult. I’d have to read this poem over and over many times before I properly understand it.” Abbi put aside Atlantic Monthly, and looked at another magazine. “Oh, I like this one. Harper’s New Monthly Magazine. It has more pictures. I like it when there are pictures to look at to supplement the text. I learned the word ‘supplement’ just recently. It means ‘to add to’.”

Abbi proceeded to browse through Harper’s Monthly.

“There are many pictures in here,” she said. “But these pictures look pen-drawn. They are not as good as pictures in Canadian Illustrated News that look more like photographs.”

Audora responded without looking up. “That’s because Canadian Illustrated News was the first magazine in the world to print photographs in a new way invented by their engraver, William Leggo, known as photo-engraving. That means making relief-engravings by a chemical process from photographs. In simple language, it can show greys as smooth areas and not as hatchings of black.”

“I have always adored Canadian Illustrated News, Audora, ever since I was little. My Papa, I mean Bradford, brought home Canadian Illustrated News regularly. I liked the pictures immensely; but alas, I haven’t seen any issues of Canadian Illustrated News ever since I went with Mrs. Loggerman. You see, the Loggermans didn’t read. Only their handyman Jeffrey did; but he mostly read books. He also got the Fredericton newspaper whenever he could, and I often read it in the outhouse. Do you have copies of Canadian Illustrated News?”

“The back issues of Canadian Illustrated News are in that glass cabinet. But they are in order. Whatever you take, I will have you return them in their proper order.”

“I only want to see recent issues, to see what has been happening in the world recently. I’ll keep them in order.”

She went to the cabinet and took out a number of copies. Then she sat down and with the pile in her lap, began to browse them. The first issue she looked at happened to be June 10, 1875.

“Grandma – I mean Audora, here is a simply marvelous picture in last June’s issue. It shows fancy women’s fashion. Women and a couple of men are standing around, it looks like a railway station.” She studied the details. “They must be wealthy,” she continued, “because there is a sign that reads ‘1st Class’. I rarely see women wearing fancy dresses. In my life I usually see ordinary women wearing ordinary dresses. It must be wonderful to be waiting for a train wearing such fashionable clothes.”

Abbi scanned one magazine and another mainly looking for pictures. Then something in the January 22 issue of 1875 caught her attention. “Fancy costumes for children!” said Abbi. “Here is a picture in the January issue last year which shows children in fancy costumes of different sorts. I wonder what they are dressed up as, and what they’re dressed for. It must be for some affair in Montreal. Children don’t go to fancy balls, hereabouts, do they?”

“Carnivals”, said Audora, without stopping what she was doing. “People dress in costumes for winter carnivals, and there are often children there. Our community at Richdale came together a few years ago and started an annual carnival too at our Richdale Exhibition Hall which in winter is a rink.”

’The Fashions’, Canadian Illustrated News, July 10, 1875,

vol.XII, no.2, 33 (NLC-3633)

’Fancy Costumes for Children’, Canadian Illustrated News, Jan 23, 1875

vol.XI, no. 4, 53 (NLC-1746)

“Yes I know that Richdale[4] has all the wealthy people, and they make sure their community has everything new and important like their own theatre. I have learned that working people live inside cities because they have no carriages, but wealthy people like you live away from the city in nicer, more spacious, places, since they have carriages to take them everywhere. I think it would take more than an hour to walk from Richdale to Saint John, instead of only 15 minutes by carriage.”

“Yes that is one of the privileges of being wealthy. And you are right. We are able to create our own cultural institutions on our main street. We have both an Exhibition Hall that becomes a rink in winter, and our own theatre called Richdale Royal Theatre, that we’re proud of. That’s what you can do when you are rich, Abbi. The Richdale Winter Carnival that we started just a couple winters ago, was inspired by one held in Saint John. In fact there was coverage of the second Saint John Winter Carnival in Canadian Illustrated News. That would be in early 1873. I remember because I happened to attend. We are right now within Saint John, and the company has many customers here. When we go home to Tall Pines, we leave Saint John and in about 15 minutes, as you just mentioned, we enter Richdale.”

“Did you really attend one reported in the magazine, Audora? I must find that issue!”

Abbi went to the glass case with the magazines and looked for the issue with the Saint John carnival picture in it. “Here is March 15, 1873. I’ll see if it’s in this one.”

Abbi sat down again, and flipped through the magazine. “This must be it. There is an illustration, and the caption reads ‘St. John, N. B. - The Fancy Dress Entertainment at the Skating Rink on the 19^th Ult. - from a sketch by E.J.B.’.”

She studied the illustration, and continued: “Everyone skating is in costume. There seems to be spectators looking on and chatting at the side. There is a very tall fellow in a white sheet. Nobody can be so tall. Someone either is carrying something on his shoulders with a false face, or is skating on stilts. I wonder what it represents. . . Some of these costumes are hard to make out. I see someone dressed as a devil, and this one is probably Robin Hood, and here is a jockey, and an Indian. I wonder if there are children at this event. There are a few short people in the picture.” Abbi looked up with a thought: “Wouldn’t it be marvelous if you were in the picture, Audora? What was your costume, Audora?”

’The Fancy Dress Entertainment at the Skating Rink on the 19^th Ult [St. John, N.B.], Canadian Illustrated News, March 15, 1873; vol.VII, no.11, 164 (NLC-3146)

Audora glanced at it as Abbi held it open. “No, I didn’t wear a costume or skates. I was among the spectators at the sides. In many such affairs the idea for me is to make an appearance as President of the Woodrow Timber Company, to socialize with presidents of other companies, not to enjoy myself or make a spectacle of myself. Although . . . when my husband was alive, we two made quite a skating couple at every skating event, and then it was often enjoyable. We even won a couple of competitions.”

“You did, Grandmama, I mean Madam Audora? I can imagine it to be the most romantic of experiences – to skate hand in hand with your beloved!”

Audora replied wryly: “I was once not quite the business ogre that I am today. And I still put on skates and costume for the annual Richdale carnival I just spoke about. I can’t let the other women of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society to which I belong and who sponsor the event get the better of me. You see, Abbi, although I operate in a man’s business world, I like to remind women I have not ceased to be a woman, but rather that they are lacking in not living up to their full potential.”

“I must find where in this magazine it describes the picture,” Abbi continued. “Here it is on the previous page 163. I’ll read it to you Madam Audora. Perhaps it will bring back memories for you. I will not read everything, just the important moments: The second fancy dress entertainment at St. John took place on the 19^th at the Rink . . . Let’s see . . . Music was furnished by the 62^nd band by getting up sets of quadrilles. . . . The beautiful figures and mazes of the dance are so beautiful at any time as when well performed by good skaters to the music of a good band – Oh Audora, I can just imagine how wonderful it is to be performing a dance on skates instead of on ordinary feet! Now it tells something about the costumes: Many of the costumes were striking on account of their oddity, others were conspicuous through their extreme gracefulness. Prominent among the gentlemen was the ‘Clown’, whose skating and acting were alike inimitable making him the observed of all observers, at least as far as the members of the male persuasion were concerned. ‘Ivanhoe’ was there, but the coat of mail enclosed a different form, or else he who wore it on the former occasion had somewhat improved the character of his skating in the interval. Conspicuous for height, if not for duplicity, was the wearer of the ‘Pepper’s ghost’ costume— That must be the tall costume in the picture, Audora—The acting of ‘Mother Goose’s son Jack’ accorded well with the assumed character. ‘Beautiful Snow’ was extensively patronized by ‘Jack Frost’, ‘Snow King’, ‘Alaska’ and others. There were two ‘Perfect Cures’ on the ice, but neither of them seemed ever to be at hand when one would naturally suppose they were most needed by the unfortunates who lost their equilibrium and furnished food for merriment to the spectators by coming down on the ice. Do you remember that, Madam Audora? Skaters falling down on the ice?”

“Well, not everyone with skates were expert skaters. I dare say it would be better not to put on skates if you don’t know how to skate, rather than falling and being laughed at, especially if you are an important person who requires preservation of his or her dignity.”

“The article continues to name some of the women’s costumes. Let me see. There was ‘Maud Miller’, ‘Little Red Riding Hood’, ‘Tambourine Girl’, and it continues: The impersonation of ‘New Brunswick’ would have been interesting from patriotic considerations even if her neatness and grace had not rendered her attractive on her own account. ‘Beautiful Snow’ had its feminine as well as masculine patrons, the most notable being ‘Winter’ and ‘Snow Queen’—‘Snow Queen’! I can just imagine how that costume might have looked – perhaps with lots of lace resembling snowflakes. ‘Night’ was there as before, though perhaps a little less conspicuous. ‘Liberty’ draped with stars and stripes, was a beautiful figure; and even more so was the childish ‘Bride’, clad in a costume white as the driven snow. At eleven o ’clock the band commenced to play ‘God Save the Queen’ which was the signal for departure, and in a few minutes the ice was cleared Oh, Madam Audora, I would love to just once attend such a carnival!”

Audora had returned to her writing and didn’t respond. Abbi became even more engrossed in browsing the magazines. She was happy that the gas lighting was so nice and bright to make reading easy.

Soon, because Abbi now seemed to be too quiet, too absorbed in the magazines, Audora felt it was time to gather some information about Abbi and her view of things. “You’re not unhappy to have been with Mrs. Loggerman?” asked Audora Woodrow as she put the large book she had been writing in aside and took out something else.

“No,” said Abbi, continuing to flip through the magazine, “It was wonderful when I was free from the chores. I walked along the ridge, I picked berries. I had a sweat lodge . .”

“A what?”

“That’s an Indian custom. It’s where you sit in a hot place, and sweat, and then run out and jump in the water.”

“You had many good experiences?”

“I did a fast, and Mrs. Loggerman helped me make an Indian dress, and I waited for a vision, but on the second night there was a thunder storm and the wigwam blew away. But I had results, and now I know my purpose in life – I’m supposed to follow in my Papa’s, I mean Bradford’s, footsteps – not his railway work but what he did at home in his study like literature. I also studied about Indians from two of his books which I took to the Loggermans’ with me. I learned some Ojibwa words – ‘Ojibwa’ is the correct word rather than ‘Chippewa’ that some say – and then met some Wolastoqiyik – that’s the better name for the Maliseet, like I said earlier – men who called me Mihkusis which means ‘Little Squirrel’ because I chatter a lot; and I learned some Wolastoqiyik words, and in the summer I actually met a Wolastoqiyik Indian Princess whose name was Saqteminimusis which means ‘Little Blackberry’ and her English name was ‘Minnie’. She was Chief Jack’s daughter. She visited while Jack’s clan were at their hunting camp, and we looked at things, such as the sign I made at the beaver dam. The Prime Minister of Canada gave me authority to designate the beaver pond as a protected area. I also tried to write a poem from a Glooscap story, in the same way that Papa—I mean Bradford—made a poem from the Aggodagauda hopping story. I found a copy of a letter Bradford wrote to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and I thought to write to him to inform him that Bradford had fallen into the Mighty Saint John River and has not been found. He wrote back and expressed his sympathy towards Bradford’s accident and gave me good advice about writing poetry, since I sent him my poem about Glooscap. . .”

Madam Audora showed surprise. “You exchanged letters with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow?”

“Yes, Madam Audora.”

Abbi just happened to be flipping through Harpers New Monthly Magazine, and almost leapt when she saw:

“Look Gran—Madam Audora! Here is a picture of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in Harpers New Monthly Magazine! He is rather old these days. The picture shows his hair is all white.”

Audora looked, then turned back to her work. “He’d be 69 I estimate,” she said, reflectively.

Abbi continued: “The article is not about him but generally about a place called ‘Cambridge on the Charles’ That must be the Cambridge near Boston where Professor Longfellow lives. And look at the bottom is a picture of his residence. Papa once told me he was once there and chatted with him before he came home from university.”

Then Abbi looked at the picture on the next page: “Oh here on the next page is a picture of Longfellow in his study!”

She studied the picture very carefully trying to draw every bit of information out of it she could. “It looks like a very creative study just like Papa’s, I mean my adoptive Papa’s, except Papa’s was not as large. His desk or table is all covered with books and things. Papa’s had Amik – his stuffed beaver to inspire him when he worked.”

She recalled all those times when she was growing up in Littleton when she visited her adoptive father, the one who was now vanished from falling from a railway bridge into a gorge on the Saint John River. It was always on his desk and it inspired his research and literature diversions when he was home from working at his job in railway construction engineering. He had had it since a boy, and was so familiar with it he even talked to it when he needed to think out loud. Abbi thought perhaps Longfellow had something similar on his desk in his study.

“I wonder,” she continued, “if Mr. Longfellow has something to inspire him on his desk. It is hard to make out what is there. He has a nice fireplace, so he can feel nice and warm while working. In this picture he looks deep in thought. Do you think Madam Audora that maybe he is thinking about the letter I sent him? Maybe my letter is somewhere on the table. Although the picture is etched by artists for the magazine, I expect it is done from a photograph, isn’t it? Therefore maybe it really was on that desk somewhere when the original photograph was taken.”

‘Longfellow’s Study’ Harper’s New Monthly Magazine - pg 205 – 1875

Audora looked up and was reflective. “I was a fan of Mr. Longfellow once. He wrote the poem Evangeline, about the hardships of Acadians . . .You see my grandmother was of Acadian origins.”

“Are you partly French, Madam Audora?”

“Everyone whose ancestors settled here in the Americas, is partly a lot of things – partly French, partly Scottish, partly Irish, partly English, and many other things. After the immigrants came here, they all married one another.”

“Jenine’s mother was Acadian too. That’s how I and the children know a little Acadian.”

“I knew a little Acadian,” replied Audora, “but after marrying Stanley there was no further use for it in my life. New Brunswick is today governed by the English language. We now reside in the Dominion of Canada which is in the British Commonwealth. Here we are also closely associated with the New England states in culture and business. All business here is conducted in English. We are not in France. What use is there for French here? – other than to show off yourself as an educated person – if you studied proper Parisian French in a university like Bradford did. There is no status or practical value in speaking Acadian in my world.”

“Mama, I mean Jenine, told me that Acadians came first and married Indians and perhaps many Acadians are part Indian. Acadian women must have found Indian men very handsome. Perhaps you are partly Indian too, Madam Audora?”

“If so it is a very small fraction, going back along one of the branches. And by the same token, Indians living near settlers, are getting European ancestors. One day there will be no pureblooded Indians left, and no settlers who do not have Indian blood—other than newer immigrants.”

“You are so wise, Madam Audora. I have never thought of it. It makes me feel better for not being fully Indian nor fully Pictish.”

“You will be wise not to dwell either on your knowledge of Acadian or on your Indian side. You must learn English, reading, writing, arithmetic, and so on. That is what will get you ahead in this world and in New Brunswick.”

“I found Indian customs useful, Madam Audora. I had a fast, like I said. All I had to guide me was what I read in Papa’s legend book by Mr. Henry Schoolcraft which I took with me. It is a custom where a young person stays by themselves in an enchanted place, without eating, in order to receive a vision or dream that reveals what their purpose is in life. I learned that my purpose in life is to continue what Papa, I mean Bradford, was doing—not his railway work, but what he was studying and writing in his study—the things that were inspired by his stuffed beaver he always had on his desk. I want to go to university like him, and learn all about literature, writing poetry, and about Indian legends and ways. Perhaps I will be a professor.”

Madam Audora shook her head. “Don’t get your hopes up, Abbi. You will find it very difficult to be both an Indian and a woman in this world. If you set your sights too high, you will be very disappointed.”

“My vision said that I should not forget the stuffed beaver. Do you still have it?”

“Yes. In fact it is over there in that glass cupboard. I don’t know what else to do with it, besides put it with all the other things from Bradford’s youth. I brought it here because I thought to donate it to a museum or school so students can see what a beaver looks like; but it’s getting old and worn with time. Bradford had it since childhood.”

Abbi hadn’t noticed it earlier, as it was in another cabinet with glass doors. It almost filled the entire space like a museum exhibit behind glass. She leapt from the chair and ran to it, and studied it through the glass. “Can I have it, Madam Audora? It would mean so much to me to have it.”

“We have other things to deal with first, before we discuss such things. I trust you did not spend all your time doing a fast, or whatever else you contrived to do when by yourself. Did you go to school? Yes, I believe you did, as I recall from the correspondence.”

Abbi returned to the chair.

“Yes, Madam Audora. But the school was just a log cabin. And there were only wooden benches, and slates, and the books were only those the teacher had. His name was Mr. Turbot. He was very nice, and helpful. The school was three miles away and I had to miss an hour or two every morning since it took an hour to reach it, and I couldn’t leave until Mrs. Loggerman’s little girls were fed.”

“Well it is good to hear you continued with school just fine.”

“I must continue with school now, Madam Audora. It’s winter. There is school going on right now. I want to continue in school.”

“Well, Abbi, let me finish what I am doing, and we’ll discuss it afterward in just a few moments.” She turned back to writing in the large book.

“Alright,” said Abbi, “I will continue looking at your magazines.”

Abbi resumed looking at magazines. She selected yet another magazine from the small pile she had fetched. “Oh, Madam Audora, you also have ‘Scientific American’. I’m glad it has pictures too.”

Scientific American, page 4, July 1869

She turned the pages of Scientific American. “I like science. . Here in the July 3, 1869 edition is an article about an improvement to a horse’s bridle. . . It begins ‘Anything that renders the horse more docile, or what is still more important, tends to instruct the public in common sense and humane treatment of that noble animal, is worthy the consideration of all intelligent men. . .’. . .I think that is right, Madam Audora. I think the horse is a very noble animal. I like to talk to them and stroke them whenever I can, to thank them for taking me from one place to another.”

“Indeed,” replied Audora as she worked, “What would humanity do without the horse today.”

“What exciting things are happening in this world today, Madam Audora! Photographs are an amazing development. I really like photographs like the one on your wall showing Queen Victoria. Photographs look very realistic, except they are all in blacks and greys. . .With photographs you can now make pictures as real as life without any artist needing to paint them . . . But they’re not in colour. You still need an artist for color pictures—except that I once saw a hand-coloured photograph. It looked so real.” She paused as she turned more pages, and then continued: “And telegraphy is a wonderful thing these days too. Wherever there are railway tracks there are telegraph lines, and everyone can send telegraphs wherever there is a railway station, and, in the cities, many other places.”

“Indeed, newspapers and police these days use telegraphy regularly,” said Audora not looking up. “They can learn about things instantaneously whereas a letter may take some days.”

“Train stations need telegraphy to regulate the timing of trains. That’s what Papa explained once. The messages go through the wires that run along the train tracks. I predict that someday there will be wires to every house, and we will be able to telegraph each other whenever we want, without any need for letters. When that happens I wouldn’t mind where I lived, because then I could telegraph my friends whenever I wanted. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if every house could have a telegraph machine[5] ?”

“Well, if you invent such a household convenience,” remarked Audora, as she shuffled papers, “let me know. I might buy it from you.”

“No. I’m not an inventor. I just like to imagine things. That’s easy. Making them come true is not easy at all. In fact it is very difficult. You can imagine things till you are blue in the face and they won’t come about for real. So I accept what Fate decrees. ‘What Fate decrees’ – isn’t that an interesting phrase?”

“Well, Abbi, we are not all such victims of fate. Some humans have more power ‘decreeing’ our fates than you think. It all depends on how much power you have.”

“I guess you’re right. You read in books about emperors ‘decreeing’ that this or that shall be done throughout the land. You never read about a poor farmer’ decreeing’ anything, except maybe ‘decreeing’ that his children must eat their vegetables at supper.”

Abbi stretched her face when she pronounced the word “decreeing”. It was not an easy word to say with a normal face because of the long EE sound.

Abbi continued to turn magazine pages. Audora Woodrow continued to write things into her large book. The clock went “tick-tock”. Abbi was getting a little tired of browsing the magazines. Her boots were pinching her so she undid the laces, stretched out her legs and let them drop off. Once off, she pulled off her socks too, and dropped them to on the floor. She had worn long warm woolen socks reaching to her knee instead of stockings. They were easy to pull off. She had hardly ever worn stockings when she had been at the Loggermans, as stockings were too fancy and got holes easily. She preferred long bloomers reaching down almost to her knees and long socks reaching up to her knees when the weather was cold.

With boots and socks on the floor, she put the magazine onto the chair and walked around on the Persian rug on the floor rubbing her toes in it indulgently. How good it felt!

“Oh what a beautiful Persian rug, Madam Audora! I can just imagine all the work that went into making it. I can imagine the Persian women, seated in front of a loom, making it. Your office is so cosmopolitan, Madam Woodrow, for having things from foreign countries in it. I heard the word ‘cosmopolitan’ means something that belongs to the whole ‘cosmos’ ”

Audora finally looked up to see what Abbi was doing. “What are you doing with your boots and socks off!”

“They have been on my feet ever since I left Pinewood. I have not had a chance to take them off. Also I wanted to feel the carpet between my toes.”

“Put your boots and socks back on! This office is not the wilderness where you can take your boots off and walk around like the wild animals! You’ll be free of them in but a half hour when we arrive at my home.”

“But haven’t you ever walked barefoot on your carpets? It is one of the greatest sensations a human can experience, next to walking barefoot in grass.”

Audora Woodrow looked back down and continued her work. She repeated: “This floor is not a lawn. Put your boots and socks back on!”

Abbi sat back in the chair and put her boots and socks back on.

“Madam Audora, when will I be able to see my former brothers, sister, and my former Mama? Will I see them when we go home? I have been dying to see them again.”

“The priority at the moment is what we shall do with you next. You have to realize that the family situation you knew in Fredericton or Littleton is no more. I suppose you will be able to see the littlest two as we figure out what is next for you. I have a nurse-governess looking after them. However, Mark and Jimmy are at school 25 miles away during the week in a private school. They are there right now and not at home. Jenine, although better, may not take seeing you very well. The doctor says it is because of her husband’s falling from the bridge into the Saint John and not being found. It is the lack of closure and the stress of keeping up hope. In her mind you are with Bradford on one of your ‘adventures’. If she sees you she will wonder where Bradford is, and ask you many questions, and then being reminded of the truth. She has to get a little better.”

“Mark said that it is because she wasn’t able to do what she did before.”

“He did, did he? When did you communicate with Mark?”

“He wrote me a letter.”

“Well I am more likely to believe what the doctor thinks rather than an 8 year old boy. The doctor says that her denying her husband’s accident happened is a manner of coping. Perhaps she would have done better returning to be with her sister, but her sister is gone out west somewhere with her family, Lord knows where. The new railways are taking many people like them west to seek opportunities there.”

Finally, Audora Woodrow put her quill down and seemed to be done. She tidied her desktop, clasped her hands and looked up at Abbi. Ten-year-old Abbi, almost 11, was now steeling herself for the worst. Was she now to go to another woman with lots of household chores? She knew that Audora viewed her in another way than her son’s and Jenine’s children because she was an Indian orphan. She really didn’t want her with the others. What was next for her?

“Well I have finished the work I was doing. And now we turn our attention to your predicament. Here is my problem, Abbi: Even though you are an orphan and not kin, you have been raised by my son, Bradford, to become so much like him, who after two years we have to assume really drowned. He must have had a great influence over you. You can defy me, and go your own way, in spite of my wishes, as he could. And I know it will just become worse and worse as you grow up if you and I are together too much. And both you and I will become unhappy. You will like to fly away into nature, and take your shoes off, and whirl around in your inventive imaginings. And now that you know you are Indian, I can’t even imagine what you will do in that regard – have your fasts and seek visions and whatnot in our back yard? You will not feel at home in my world of orderliness, decorum, self-control, and businesslike manner, just as my son didn’t. I will not make the same mistake with my grandsons Mark and Jimmy as I did with Bradford— to send them far away where I can’t keep an eye on them. At least here at the local private school I can keep an eye on them...”

She was still bitter about how her son had disappointed her by not taking over the company like his father had taken over his fathers’ but pursuing a career in railways instead.

She continued: “And I suppose Jenine too, a country woman, was out of place when she moved into my world. Mark may be right in what he wrote to you. She may need to be in the country. As for you, I think, as I said, Abbi, you have so much independence of thought that you are unmouldable. You will be what you will be, no matter what anyone tries with you.”

Abbi did not know whether that was a compliment or criticism.

Audora continued: “Returning to the circumstances relating to Jenine: as I have explained, your former adoptive mother doesn’t do much anything. She just lies about or sits and looks into space. I pay for a nurse to attend to her and a doctor to help her cope. The doctor says she will probably come out of it in time. In any event, as I said, there is no point in you seeing her because your presence may stir memories that will be upsetting. How can one predict what will happen? It is very delicate. I’d want to consult with the doctor on such matters. Therefore, circumstances being as they are, the duty of dealing with you now falls entirely on my shoulders, as the only adult who has some sort of continued responsibility for you, the Indian orphan they adopted years ago in Littleton. As I was saying, I fear that if you were to stay with me, without being able to walk barefoot in the grass, and everything else, you may go mad like Jenine. Not that Jenine is really mad—it is better regarded as illness. Or else I will go mad. And you. You don’t want to go mad, do you?”

“No. . .” replied Abbi, “although I can imagine myself going mad in a romantic-tragic way like Ophelia in Shakespeare’s play ‘Hamlet’. ”

“You’re confusing me, Abbi,” said Audora with a tone of exasperation. “with your unexpected references. You are making it difficult for me to concentrate.”

“I’m sorry Madam Audora.”

“Well, I remain of the opinion that you need another path. You’re not suited to live in my world. It is impossible for me to picture you in a fashionable gown, behaving according to the fineness and decorum of high society. What shall I do with a wild child like you? It is clear that what you need is to continue in school and get your basic education for living in this world. Happily through Bradford’s attention and teaching you, you have mastered reading and writing and more, at a level beyond your age. So we have to get you back into school as quickly as possible. The path is clear. First we temporarily get you back into schooling, and then we can consider what the next step should be for you. Perhaps we can find your kin. Perhaps there are Native Indians who would like to adopt you, and then you can continue to learn about being Indian as well. But the question is what is the best for you right at this instant.”

“I’d like to get back to school.”

“The only problem is that schools for the wealthy around here are all very proper, sophisticated, refined – quite contrary to your nature. So what are we to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well here is an idea, which will immediately place you back into schooling in the short run, and in the long run assist us to find your best situation. I got the idea this morning, while I knew you were coming. Coincidentally, this morning I received a report about the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society Orphan Home. It is a project of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society. That is one of the organizations that I am involved in as a member of Richdale society. I believe I mentioned it earlier. I donate lumber and other things to the school programmes. I am sent their annual reports.”

“You want to put me in an orphanage?” asked Abbi in bewilderment. [6]

Audora continued. “As far as orphanages are concerned, this Orphan Home is not like the others. It tries to be a real home for all children living in it, and also be an educational facility, a school. If you went there, you could continue with school immediately, and be in a homelike environment while we seek the situation most suitable for you. In your case, since you are connected to me from having been my son’s adopted daughter, I will actually pay the Orphan Home for your being there. Thus you will cost them nothing. Anyone in my situation will see it as the perfect solution—for my acting as your sponsor covering your costs, as a combination of charity and responsibility.”

“How long will I have to be there?”

“Until we find that situation that will suit you the best, one like the Loggermans’ but better, with school nearby and if possible some connection with Indian culture.”

“How long will it be before that happens?”

Audora opened up the Orphan Home report again for a look. “Not long. The time children spend there before being adopted is typically not long. Perhaps the solution will be found before the end of the school session. I will give them instructions as to what kind of situation and adoptive parents they should find for you.”

“But couldn’t I live with my former family and go to school there?”

“It would be too far to go every day. But don’t fret. It won’t be very different from a boarding school. Mark and Jimmy are at one right now as I said 25 miles from here. They live there; so it will be similar for you.”

So that was her fate—to be sent to an orphanage? But the way Audora put it, it did not seem bad. Something run by wealthy women of Richdale could not be bad. It was something like a boarding school...? “If everything you say is true, and there is school there. . .”

“Well, then it’s settled!”

“When can I see my former family, at least my former brothers and sister?”

“We’ll now return to my mansion with Desmond, who is waiting for us with the carriage downstairs. It is late now, and the two littlest will be in bed. Mark and Jimmy are away in boarding school, as I said, and Jenine will have retired to bed too. So for tonight we want to hasten you to bed to rest up for tomorrow. You will perhaps be able to catch the two littlest in the morning and look in on Jenine without disturbing her. Tomorrow we will put you into school at the Orphan Home. There is a complex admission process, but I am a member of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, so I have some power to influence their decision-making. I will send you there tomorrow with a letter from me. A letter is far better than my talking to them personally, because a letter is something they can show to their Superiors, a hard document, while direct conversation is just talk-talk-talk. That is why in business we put everything in writing. Just be patient for a few months, Abbi. It will all work out very well. You’ll see.”

“Can I take Amik?”

“What?”

“The stuffed beaver in the glass case. Amik is the Ojibwa word for ‘beaver’.”

“Oh yes, that. What use would you have for it?”

Abbi was reluctant to reveal how important it was to her now, it having inspired her adoptive Papa in his study, and having appeared in her dream recently while she had her Indian fast or ‘vision quest’ where a young Indian is alone and fasts so as to obtain a dream or vision showing them their path in life. But Abbi knew Audora would not understand her true relationship to Amik, so she said: “I can use it to teach the class about my experience with beavers. They are endangered because of trapping. There was a beaver pond at the Loggermans. I wrote a letter to Prime Minister MacDonald and he said I could protect the pond from trappers.”

Madam Audora almost laughed. “You have been corresponding with the Prime Minister too?”

“Yes, someone wanted to trap the beavers in the nearby marsh, so I wrote to the Prime Minister that beavers should be protected. He wrote back that children like me are right to be concerned about the country they will inherit and that he would talk to the Premier of New Brunswick, and that in the meantime with his letter I could proclaim our beaver pond a sanctuary. I made a sign at the pond forbidding trapping there. I have so much to teach other children, and city children have never seen one, except in pictures. I can show Amik when I tell of my experiences with the real beavers.”

“Very well, take it. I expect your story will be well received by children and teach them much about the beaver – which is Canada’s national animal symbol. But it will be up to you to take care of it.”

“Yes, Madam Audora.” Abbi smiled as she went to the glass cupboard, opened it, and took out Amik. Being filled with straw shaped by twine, he was light, in spite of being nearly half as tall as she was.

“Now put the magazines away, and put on your coat again while I turn off the gas lighting in here and fetch my coat. Desmond is waiting with the carriage downstairs. We’ve already probably been more than the 15 minutes I estimate. I trust your baggage is still in the carriage?”

“Yes, Madam Audora.”

Abbi put Amik on the chair, and hastened to put the magazines back. There was nothing more Abbi could add to the situation. Madam Audora was certainly a sharp businesswoman: she knew exactly what she wanted, and how she was going to achieve it. It was hopeless to argue or debate anything with Audora when she had made up her mind what she would do with you. It seemed she had already decided at the beginning, and all the talk was purely to win her over to her way of thinking.

But, with Amik under her arm, Abbi was happy, and she didn’t worry herself much about what the future would hold. After all, her vision at her vision quest had revealed that as long as she did not forget Amik, her future was set.

An Unpleasant Start

CHECKING IN

Next day, on this mid-January morning in Richdale, the Woodrow carriage, with hood up to keep out the weather, made its way along the streets, slushy with snow. As it went, Abbi watched the comings and goings on the streets from the carriage window. It amazed Abbi to think that just a day ago she was in the backwoods of New Brunswick, saying her final goodbyes to Mrs. Loggerman, Mr. Loggerman, Mrs. Loggerman’s sisters, handyman Jeffrey, her school friend, Mildred, and the Loggerman babies – Sylvia, Gladis, Evergreen, Conifer, Jeffrina and Percina. How rapidly her life could change!

Soon the carriage pulled up in front of the ironwork gate of a large lot containing a large brick building. That’s all Abbi could see from the carriage window so far.

“Here you are, Abbi,” said Desmond, Madam Woodrow’s coachman. He descended to open the door of the carriage for Abbi. Abbi climbed out, her travel bag of belongings in one hand, and Amik, the stuffed beaver, under her other arm. Although Amik was still small as far as beaver size was concerned, Amik was large compared to Abbi. Fortunately, because he was only straw and twine inside, he was quite light to carry.

It was a typical early January day – cold, somewhat grey. Steam rose from the bodies of the two horses after the drive from the mansion through the streets of Richdale. Audora had insisted she did not come with her, and had given Abbi an envelope with a letter. Abbi was dressed for winter in her coat, hat, scarf, and mittens. Desmond lifted her additional small trunk off the carriage and put it on the ground. He then said: “I’ve been instructed just to drop you off. You are to simply go up the walk and enter. I’m not to have any discussion with the people. Everything they need to know will be explained to them in the letter in the envelope that Madam Woodrow gave you. Madam Woodrow said that this approach, instead of the normal one –as there is normally a long admission process – would hasten the process of getting you in there. Do you have the envelope?”

Abbi took the letter out of her coat pocket and held it up in her mittened hand, while trying not to drop Amik, under her arm. “Yes, sir, I have it. But I still don’t understand why Madam Audora would not bring me herself.”

“I do not have the answer to such a question, Miss Abbi. Perhaps it is because she is a very busy businesswoman, and has appointments to attend to. I only do as instructed. I will carry your trunk to the front steps, and then you will be on your own. Give them the letter. I have been told to watch you until you enter, and then I will go. There is nothing I can tell them. I don’t even know what is in that letter. Alright, Miss Abbi?”

“Yes, sir.”

Desmond opened the ironwork gate a little and Abbi stepped through. Abbi lingered a moment to take her bearings. A walkway, recently cleared of snow, led to the front door of the building. Desmond hastened ahead of her with her trunk, and left it on the steps. After he had done so, he came back, encouraged her to proceed, and returned to the carriage, to wait for Abbi to enter the building.

Abbi cautiously studied the surroundings. The Orphan Home was located in a normal house, but a quite large one, presumably altered for its new purpose as a home for orphans. Abbi could see that there was some yard space around the house and some buildings at back. Judging from the laneway on one side, there was probably a carriage house of some kind back there, perhaps housing a wagon and maybe also a small stable with a couple horses for use by the orphanage; and various sheds, workshops and such. But at that moment Abbi saw little of what was around the back. She only saw a large brick building with a basement and two stories above it. The basement level was indicated by small windows at ground level, and the first story which began after climbing some stone steps, had many large windows. The second story was underneath the slope of the roof. A row of windows protruding from the roof, adorned with curtains, suggested the second story was in regular use – probably the dormitory area, Abbi imagined, which later proved to be correct.

With gesture, Desmond encouraged Abbi to proceed.

As Abbi went up the walkway, she saw further that there were some shrubs round about, but it was now winter, and there were no leaves, and if there was grass, and gardens, they were covered with January snow. A brick wall surrounded the property, and snow sat like cotton on its top. Lots of tracks in the snow indicated that lots of children had recently played there in the yard.

Abbi came to the steps. She glanced back towards the carriage. Desmond waved her on. She was now on her own. She went up the stone steps and found herself in front of a large door. A sign on the door said “Please Enter”, so she didn’t knock, but, putting her travel bag down for a moment, opened the door, picked up the bag again, and entered. Seeing Abbi enter, Desmond turned the horses around and drove away.

Abbi found herself in an entry hall. Looking this way and that, she proceeded slowly, wondering when someone would appear and notice her. She heard some sounds of children somewhere echoing through the building. She looked to put her bag or Amik down for a moment to close the door; but suddenly a woman appeared from some offices to her right. She was rather young, maybe in her early 20’s, with dark hair tightly pulled over her head and affixed at the back in a bun. She burst out into the hall in a businesslike manner as if off to attend to something urgent; but was halted in her tracks upon seeing the girl, heavily dressed for winter, carrying a travel bag, holding a stuffed beaver under her other arm, and looking as if seeking to check into a hotel.

“Little girl!” said the Orphan Home woman, “What are you doing here? Can I help you? Are you lost?”

“I have been sent here to check into this Orphan Home,” said Abbi.

“But you can’t enter an Orphan Home just by walking in. There is a procedure to be followed. We are not a hotel. And we are so filled up here, that there are already many who we unfortunately have had to refuse. Who sent you?”

Abbi was filled with horror: “Y-you don’t want me either?” she said with a quiver in her voice.

“Who sent you here? How did you get here? Is someone outside?” asked the woman almost angrily. She instantly went to the door and looked about outside. She saw nobody. There was just the trunk on the steps.

“I was dropped off in a carriage,” Abbi explained, “and I was to simply enter, and give whoever was in charge here this envelope. It contains a letter I believe.” She gave the woman the envelope.

The somewhat pretty Orphan Home lady must be a worker here, Abbi thought, because her dress and apron seemed to be something of a uniform.

The young Orphan Home lady took the envelope and studied the writing on the face of the envelope. With her free hand she began to direct Abbi into the office from which she had just rushed out. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Abbi,” Abbi replied. “Abigail Pictford. I used to be Abbi Woodrow, until I was told I was adopted.”

“Well my name is Priscilla. I am one of the matrons that look after the children here. Children call me Matron Priscilla.”

Entering the office area, Matron Priscilla signaled the attention of the superintendent, or manager, of the Orphan Home, who was further through another door; and she continued to usher Abbi forward. superintendant Wellington, as he was called, stood up from a desk and met the two with a questioning look. Matron Priscilla said: “This little girl has just appeared at the door, saying that she was simply dropped off and told to enter and present this letter. It is addressed to you, Superintendant Wellington.”

Superintendant Wellington was middle aged, wore a neat vest and suit, and had an air of authority on account of having an authoritative-looking moustache which also compensated for thin hair on top. He had a watch chain hanging from his vest, like Abbi had seen railway men wearing. She supposed the Superintendant of an Orphan Home needed a watch to ensure that everything here marched according to schedule.

“Is this someone trying to force another child on us?” exclaimed Superintendant Wellington loudly while pulling on the end of his moustache. “Everyone should know that we are full up, and we can’t accept children at a faster rate than they leave. It is only January now, and adoptions are slow. They won’t pick up until the public experiences the promise of spring. We can return the child to wherever she was previously located, until our situation improves. But let’s have a look at what the letter says. . .”

The Superintendant opened the letter and read it out loud so that Matron Priscilla could hear.

“Dear Superintendant Wellington of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society Orphan Home :

I am Audora Woodrow, President of the Woodrow Timber Milling and Manufacturing Company and a member of the board of directors of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society who sponsors the Orphan Home. As you know in the past my company has provided lumber and tools for your boys’ educational programmes.”

“Yes, I know the woman well,” said Superintendant Wellington, pausing. He continued reading:

“Please excuse me for not following due process, as it would take too much time, and rob a child of her education. The child who bears this letter is Abigail, an orphan originally adopted out of charity by my son many years ago, but his family has been compromised by his disappearance, presumed drowning these past two years, as you may well know. You have certainly heard about it in the newspapers. I have taken in my son’s wife and four natural children, and have assumed responsibility for assisting the orphan as well, to seeing her towards a destination best suited for a person of her circumstances and nature. All things considered it appears this particular girl is most in need of a country home with kind parents and not the kind of life I lead. She has already spent nearly two years in the house of a Mr. and Mrs. Loggerman in a wilderness and it suited her well. That situation has ended on account of the Loggermans moving to Maine. It is clear that she wishes and is most suited for a similar country situation, except for three improvements – few children to look after, a good school within easy walking distance, and some connection among her new guardians to Indians. As one can see from her face, Abigail is certainly Indian to some considerable degree, and has become interested in that side of her, when, becoming ten, she was made aware she had been adopted when a baby.

“So as not to disrupt her education and development, I implore the Orphan Home to take her in immediately for the schooling carried on there daily. Your further assistance in finding the kind of situation I describe above for her, through those who contact you, is also welcomed

“As it would be too inconvenient for her to walk to and from my home, which is some distance from the Orphan Home, I am happy to support her boarding. Since the Orphan Home does not formally encounter such special arrangements, I have taken the initiative of including with this letter a bank cheque for a donation in the amount of $500 to offset the costs of her boarding and education, and securing your ongoing assistance finding her the perfect place, which, as I said, ideally would include an Indian individual she can relate to. I will continue as always to donate in my normal fashion to the Orphan Home and other charitable projects of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society.
“The girl is very talkative and will tell you everything more you need to know, about herself, her former life, and much more besides, that may not be of any consequence.

Respectfully Yours,

Madam Audora Woodrow, President,

WoodrowTimber Millwork & Manufacturing Company”

The Superintendant gave Priscilla a look, and then reached into the envelope again to pull out a bank cheque for $500 made out to the “Richdale Women’s Charitable Society Orphan Home”. Such payment for boarding children from outside was not entirely unheard of for private orphanages with educational programs in those days in North America, but this was the first time it had arisen in this particular orphanage. The amount of $500 may seem small today, but $500 at the end of the 19th century was similar to $5,000 a century later! Thus we should not be surprised that Superintendant Wellington and Matron Priscilla were a little stunned by the amount. No further exchange of words was necessary. The plain fact was that Madam Woodrow was a member of the board of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society and had just contributed a large sum of money. There would be no need to follow due process in this case. They would certainly have to admit Abbi.

“Well Abigail Woodrow. . .” began the Superintendant.

“I was told my real last name is Pictford,” Abbi corrected.

“Well, Abigail Pictford, it looks like Madam Audora Woodrow has great powers of persuasion with her dollars. I think we can squeeze you in at this time. The fact of the matter is that a bed became free in the girls’ dormitory early this morning because a couple of adoptive parents removed their chosen girl a week earlier than we expected, and we hadn’t yet chosen the next occupant from among the parentless children at the large asylum in the large cities. You can have her bed. Here you will find yourself among other children in a home-like environment looked after by several woman we call ‘Matrons’, like Matron Priscilla here. We’re not church-run here so we don’t have ‘Sisters’, that is, nuns, like at church-sponsored institutions. We have ‘Matrons’. We do still have religion however on Sunday mornings, with a Sunday School led by a woman who volunteers here. I myself manage the Orphan Home and live in a flat at the back with my wife Helen who is also a Matron here. In addition to managing the Orphan Home for the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, I teach the school sessions and direct the boys in their practical education. You may call me ‘Superintendant Wellington.’”

He extended his hand to Abbi and Abbi politely shook it and said, “Thank you for accepting me, Superintendant Wellington. For a moment I was expecting to be rejected and once again have to return to Madam Woodrow’s decision-making.”

“Not you Abigail. It so happens that your sponsor, Madam Woodrow, is a member of the board of directors of this Orphan Home. That means she is an important person, and her wishes are to be respected. So, welcome Abigail, then. Matron Priscilla will show you where to put your outer clothing, and take you to the girls’ dormitory and show you were you will sleep.”

“Come with me Abbi,” said Matron Priscilla. “First let’s put your outdoor clothes in the cloakroom in the hallway, and then go upstairs and I will show you your bed in the girls’ dormitory. Dormitories are large rooms full of beds, the girls in one dormitory and the boys in the other.”

They left the office area and returned to the hallway. Priscilla now took special note of the stuffed beaver under Abbi’s arm.

“And what is this?” she wondered.

“That’s Amik,” said Abbi.

“Oh, like a teddy bear. . .”

“No!” exclaimed Abbi. “I’m too old for a teddy bear! Amik is a stuffed real beaver that my Papa had—my adoptive Papa not my real one. I need it for. . .for. . .scientific purposes. I’m interested in nature. I’d like to teach other students about the beaver.”

She could not reveal that perhaps Amik was indeed a little like a teddy bear – a source of security, something important to her adoptive Papa, and now to her because of his appearance in her dream during her vision quest or fast she had had on the ridge near the Loggermans’

“Oh,” said Priscilla. “Well fine then. But would you not want to leave it down here. I can put it in main hall where we have our classes.”

“I would prefer not, Matron Priscilla. It belongs to my Papa, I mean Madam Woodrow’s son, and it is not 100% certain he drowned, as he has not been found. I would hate for it to be damaged by children.”

“Very well, bring it with you. You can keep it in your trunk—I presume that’s your trunk on the steps—after most of its current contents are taken out. It should just fit in the trunk when empty.”

Abbi put down Amik temporarily on the bench along the hallway, and also her bag, as Matron Priscilla took Abbi’s coat and put it in the adjoining cloakroom with the other children’s outerwear. Matron Priscilla then stepped outside to fetch Abbi’s trunk. It wasn’t too large nor too heavy for her, but would have been for Abbi. Abbi was still small. At 10, almost 11, she had not yet experienced a spurt in growth, as she liked to say to explain her small stature.

Matron Priscilla carried the trunk and they proceeded together down the hallway. Abbi carried her bag and Amik.

Matron Priscilla oriented Abbi to the Orphan Home as they walked: “When we have been to the dormitory, and shown you where you will sleep, you’ll come back down to our main hall. By then the children will be having their mid-day meal there. I can introduce you to everyone all at once when you come down. Boys and girls are together for meals, and for the morning schooling session. This afternoon, after the meal we have our practical sessions, and you’ll join the girls. Girls and boys study different things—girls sewing for example, and boys do woodworking and such. That’s how we are a little different from a regular school. We feel it is important to teach orphan children practical skills and not just the 3 R’s.”

“Are there many orphans here?” Abbi wondered as she followed Matron Priscilla down the hallway.

“There are in this Orphan Home currently 32 boys and girls, 16 of each. Well, it became 15 girls this morning, but you will bring it back up to 16. Most of them are around your age. We don’t have very young children here. We are more like a school here not a nursery. Children here are between 7 and 12, sometimes a little younger and sometimes a little older. And the older children help the younger, just like in a real family of children. It is like a very, very, large family with lots of children and with adults to keep order. It’s also like a school, where children of many ages and levels of accomplishment study together. There are some older children, who we help to find work in the community while they are living and being schooled here. There are 32 children, as I said. We wouldn’t be able to accommodate any more than about 32 children. That’s too much as it is for this building. I expect you have gone to school a little?”

“Yes, and I so much want to continue school,” said Abbi. “It’s the reason Madam Woodrow decided to get me in here immediately. I liked going to school in Pinewood and then earlier in Fredericton. My life seems to be one of contrasts. The one in Fredericton was very modern, but the one at Pinewood was in a log cabin and it was so far away I always missed an hour or so in the morning just getting there. Here I will not miss anything, I like to look at the bright side of things.”

“That’s a good attitude, Abbi,” Matron Priscilla replied as they reached the stairs and began up them to the second floor. “When you are at our school, you will find yourself in the same place that you just finished breakfast. There is no walking to school at all here! It would be nice if we were larger and we had a dining room separate from a classroom, but that is impossible at this time. There are so many children needing help, that we have to make the most of every ounce of space to accommodate as many as possible. The main hall I just told you about has to serve many functions[7]. At the start of the day there is breakfast there, then after a short rest period when you can get ready for school, the same tables you had breakfast on become tables for your school lessons. Superintendant Wellington teaches school, and I assist him. Then after the morning lessons, the main hall becomes a dining room again, like it is becoming right now. All the children are in the main hall right now getting ready for the midday meal. You probably heard their chatter coming from there. We’ll have to hurry you up so you can join us. . .”

“I think it’s a good idea that an orphanage is like a home,” said Abbi, as they struggled up the stairs, Matron Priscilla with the trunk and Abbi with Amik and her large bag.

“Yes, Abbi. It’s not like the asylum or workhouse orphanages. They can do little more than to feed and shelter the children waiting for adoption. This orphanage is built inside a very large old house, so it feels very much like a very large family filled to the brim with children. The Richdale Women’s Charity Society is very proud of it and likes to call it an ‘Orphan Home’. It’s not a real home by any means, but it is certainly much better than things were in the olden days.”

“I have read ‘Oliver Twist’,” said Abbi, recalling the book as one of those that she had found among the books of the Loggermans’ handyman, Jeffrey, which he had loaned her to read. “Oliver started out living in a place like you described – the kind that’s in an asylum or workhouse.”

“You have read Oliver Twist? Good for you!”

“Jeffrey at the Loggermans where I was last had a copy. I am told I read books far beyond the level of others my age, and a 10 year old girl shouldn’t have read ‘Oliver Twist’, [8] but I have. When I was coming into the building just now I was a little apprehensive, picturing the workhouse orphanage of that book. But at the same time, I began imagining myself being like Oliver, carried by Fate this way and that but ending up at a wonderful conclusion. It would be so romantic to discover in the end that you are actually the child of a noble family. Do you live in this house too? Or do you live elsewhere, Matron Priscilla? I can imagine you away from here, with your hair let down, looking so very beautiful.”

“Well, thank you, Abbi,” replied Matron Priscilla. “As a matter of fact I’m one of the employees who do come and go from here. I have a small flat which I share with my aging mother. But Helen, the Superintendant’s wife, and our cook, Matron Gorda, live on the premises. And then there are many women who are pure volunteers, women of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, particularly older ones whose own children have grown up, who come and go according to their own schedules. They sit and supervise the children when they are playing outdoors or indoors, so as to give the Matrons who are actually employed here, the freedom to see to running things. You will get to know some of them, such as Mrs. Cumberland.”

“Matron Priscilla, you must be very experienced with explaining this Orphan Home to new children, because you have told me almost everything I’d every want to know, all in the space of a couple minutes.”

“Well, I feel the more a new child knows, the less apprehensive they will be and the more quickly they will fit in, so I try to give them as much information as I can the moment they arrive.”

Matron Priscilla reached a large door to the left and opened it. “Here we are, Abbi,” she said. “Here is the girl’s dormitory.” It was currently empty on account all the children being in the main hall. “There are two rows of beds,” Matron Priscilla continued. “along one wall and the other, eight beds in each row, meaning 16 girls in all.”

Abbi found it to be neat and elegant, and not as plain as she had at first envisioned.

“Now on the other end of this floor, if we turn right at the top of the stairs, is the boy’s dormitory. Their dormitory is similar to that of the girls. Superintendant Wellington keeps the boys in line. And between the two dormitories in the middle are the washrooms.”

“It looks nicer than what I imagined an orphanage dormitory would look like,” said Abbi.

“That’s because the women of Richdale are proud of this Orphan Home and see to it that it is nice and has modern things. But it is a little crowded, as I said. 14 boys and 14 girls would be adequate. We have 16 of each right now. There is barely enough space between each bed to climb in. We are in dire need of expansion. So many little children are left out, or have to endure greater hardship at the old-fashioned orphan asylums. But we survive purely from the charity of wealthy Richdale citizens and their businesses here and in Saint John. In order to be able to do any expansion, we envision we would require about $1500 beyond our normal funding. Your sponsor, Madam Audora Woodrow, has just now contributed $500. And that is very welcome. But where can we get another extra $1000, beyond our regular fund-raising? It is always very difficult if you depend on charity for the required money.”

Back in those days, $1500 was equivalent to something like $15,000 a century later. It was a great deal of money! But Abbi knew little about money and how much things cost, and changed the subject. “I like that this room is furnished with a light colour wallpaper,” she said. “It makes it seem very spacious even if it isn’t.”

Matron Priscilla led Abbi down the aisle between all the beds. “As Superintendant Wellington said downstairs,” continued Matron Priscilla, “one girl has found a home and already left a week ahead of time, early this morning before you came. So by stroke of luck there is a bed ready for you. It has even been made up by Matron Helen, all ready for a new orphan. Here it is.”

“Oh, I hope I’m not taking up the space of another orphan!” worried Abbi.

“No, as it was, we hadn’t yet decided who to admit to this spot. Perhaps it is Fate who has decided it should be you. That’s how you should look at it.”

“I’m glad,” said Abbi, “because I don’t consider myself that much of an orphan. I’m sure that if Madam Audora Woodrow had not succeeded in placing me here, she would have thought of something else. She seems very good at thinking up solutions to problems.”

Matron Priscilla put the trunk down on the floor and pushed it under the bed from the front. Beds, made of ironwork, were quite high off the floor in those days and the over two-and-a-half feet height was plenty of space to put any size trunk, almost. She continued: “You keep your assorted belongings, like your travel bag and trunk, and your Amik fellow, under the bed. You should always hang up all your clothes with hangers on the hooks on the wall behind the bed so they don’t get wrinkled, or folded on the shelf above the hooks. The children wear clothes we make from donations of fabrics from businesses. That is why it may seem like there is a uniform here when you see the same fabric and clothes patterns over and over. We’ll give you a dress and apron to wear, Abbi. Often the clothes children come in get worn out quickly or they grow out of them. It is best to keep the clothes you came in, if they are fine, for special occasions so as not to wear them out in everyday use.”

Abbi noted that there was less than about two feet separation between each bed. It was crowded here, indeed. She wondered how she would cope with so many girls all together. She supposed it would not be as bad as sleeping with many babies in the next room like at the Loggerman’s.

“Well, I’ll leave you now,” said Matron Priscilla “You can rest a moment and get used to the bed, hang up any clothes you need to hang up, and wash up in the washrooms located in the centre of this floor, close to the stairs, over through those doors; and then come downstairs. Just follow the noisy talk of children. We are all right now finishing our midday break after morning school studies, and getting ready for the midday meal in the main hall. When you are ready, come down and join us for the lunch. I’ll be waiting for you there, and introduce you the moment you enter the room, to the rest of the children. And then you can tell everyone a little about yourself.”

“Very well, Matron Priscilla—is that the way one should always call you?”

“That’s the best way. Use the word ‘matron’ for the women staff. However many volunteer women like to be called by their normal names, like Mrs. So-and-so. The word ‘matron’ means ‘mother’. It is because we are mother-substitutes. Luckily for the girls, there’s no shortage of adult women to talk to—the three regular matrons and any volunteer women who might come in. It’s not the same for the boys. Currently there is only one man involved here full time – Superintendant Wellington. But there are a few older boys who have not found homes and who help the Superintendant with the boys’ tasks. Generally men are not too interested in children, and they don’t stay here long if hired. That makes Superintendant Wellington a little special. He enjoys it. Besides managing the Orphan Home operation from his office, Superintendant Wellington is also the person who teaches school for all the children in the mornings, and practical skills to the boys in the afternoon, as he already told you. I assist him in the morning, and teach practical skills to the girls in the afternoon.”

“You have been very thorough, Matron Priscilla, in describing the Orphan Home. There is much to absorb in all you have said. It is such a major change in my life. It will take me a while to become adjusted to it,” said Abbi.

“Well, you’ll learn everything about this Orphan Home as you go. I’ll see you downstairs shortly. Don’t take too long.”

“Yes Matron Priscilla.”

After Matron Priscilla had left, Abbi thought to herself that she liked the young brunette-haired matron and wanted to know her better. She did as Matron Priscilla had said—hung any clothes from her travel bag and trunk onto hangers and the hangers onto the hooks on the wall at the head of the bed. With her trunk emptied of clothes she put Amik in there for safekeeping. The trunk was just large enough for him and then some smaller things could be introduced around him after he was in there. Next Abbi generally became familiar with the surroundings, opening doors, poking her nose into the boy’s side of the floor, investigating the washrooms, etc. But she hurried because she knew Matron Priscilla was waiting for her.

She discovered that the washrooms had some kind of new water closet type toilets. What a change from the Loggerman’s outhouse! This was positively modern! She also found porcelain basins for washing; and there were large mirrors. She had never before seen such large mirrors in a washroom. This was the first time she had seen such a complete reflection of herself. She studied her face. “Hello Abbi. I can now see my Indian features, now that I have seen Chief Jack and the other two Wolastoqiyik men, and Princess Minnie when I was at the Loggermans’. I never thought about it before. My skin is a little tan, and I have high cheekbones. And most significant of all I have straight, raven-black, hair.” She tried to fix her hair a little. “I couldn’t have imagined in the least, just last week, that I would end up in an Orphan Home next!”

After making some more faces in the mirror, she realized she had better make her way downstairs, as instructed, to the main hall where the children would be eating. There, Matron Priscilla had said, she would be introduced to all the rest.

Abbi ventured down the stairs and to the hallway, observing all that she could. She already knew about Superintendant Wellington’s office near the entrance. From what she had seen so far or would eventually find out, the Orphan Home building had three levels like she had initially guessed. First there was the basement level which was partly above ground so that it would have light coming in from windows at ground level. If there was central heating here, there would be a furnace with a pile of coal. There would also be storage for things used in running the Orphan House. Next, the first floor was reached by climbing some stone stairs at the front door as she had done when she arrived. This floor would have all the day-to-day facilities and activities—the office of the Superintendant, kitchen, but most importantly, the common area called “main hall” that Matron Priscilla was talking about, that was used alternatively for mealtime, schooling, and free time activities. Next up the stairs from where she had just come was the floor that was under the steep slope of the roof. The stairs came up to this third floor in the center part, and turning left was the girls’ dormitory and turning right was the boys’ dormitory. The washrooms were in the center between the two dormitories, one for boys and one for girls.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard the noise of children and went towards the noise. As she went, she wondered to where the other halls and doors led. Where did the live-in staff sleep? What were the other staff and matrons like? Which way led to a kitchen, with its adjoining pantry or storeroom for food? And who was responsible for that work? Was there a room with a library? She hoped indeed that there was a library, with shelves lined with plenty of books she could read.

No sooner had she posed the questions she found herself at the open door from which came the noise of children. She entered and stood for a moment just inside until Matron Priscilla noticed her there.

It was as Matron Priscilla had said: the main hall was a large room. It seemed like it was nearly half of the first floor, and spanning from one row of windows to the other. Wealthy people probably lived here at one time, and this must have been a big hall for dances and dinners. This wealthy person must have become more wealthy and donated this house for the Orphan Home. It still had fancy fixtures and décor left over from the old home; so it had a proper homelike feeling. It had a fireplace along one wall because in the olden days buildings were only heated with fireplaces; but now there were radiators under the windows, which indicated central heating. That meant there would be a furnace and a boiler in the basement that heated water that was piped around to radiators.

Although it was an old house, the sponsors of this home appeared to have kept it up to date with developments, making renovations and changes as necessary. Just like in Madam Audora’s mansion, old oil-lamp or candle fixtures, would be converted to gas, if gas service was available in the area as was the case here.

Thinking of what Matron Priscilla had said – that this large room was also used as a classroom – Abbi saw immediately evidence of that. There was a blackboard at the far end. It was not attached to the wall but probably it had wheels and was movable. Other things associated with a schoolroom at the far end, included a national flag, a map of the world, a picture of Queen Victoria, shelves with books, and other paraphernalia of a classroom. Elsewhere around the room, mostly on this side, there were cabinets, trunks, closets, and so on, suggesting further uses for this room. Abbi even saw some sewing machines, waiting for use presumably in sewing classes.

But whatever else the room could become, at that moment, the hall was being used for the midday meal. It was lunchtime. Everyone had plates of food in front of them and were busy eating and chatting.

The children were seated at two long tables oriented lengthwise to the room, one filled with boys and the other with girls. The long tables were actually two rectangular oaken tables each placed end-to-end. They were properly set with table cloths and china. The proper setting of tables for meals was probably part of the girls education. There were 16 boys busy eating and chatting at one of the long tables, and 16 girls at the other – or rather 15 as there was now a vacant chair since one the orphans had left for her new home.

There was a third rectangular table here, a single, not double, this one running crossways to the room, in front of and parallel to the blackboard, and perpendicular to the two long children’s tables. Abbi saw Superintendant Wellington, Matron Priscilla, and two other matrons seated at this table. One must be the Superintendant’s wife, Helen. The other one was a big woman. She learned later that she was Matron Gorda, the woman who looked after everything connected with food. This was where the staff sat at mealtime, facing the children.

Abbi imagined how this dining situation would become a learning situation. In a school session, instead of meals in front of them, the children would have books and slates. Instead of the staff sitting having a meal at the front table, there would be a teacher sitting behind that table using the table as a desk. Then later, by moving tables around, this room could also serve for practical education lessons, like sewing lessons. And at yet other times it could be a common room, a living room, a recreational area, or whatever else was needed.

Seeing Abbi at the doorway looking around at everything, Matron Priscilla stood up, and said: “Boys and girls, as you all know, Elizabeth was fortunate enough to leave with new parents this morning. And here is a new girl to take her place. Her name is Abigail Woodrow, or rather, Abigail Pictford, as Pictford was the name of her natural parents. Come in Abbi. Sit in the middle there with the girls in that vacant place. Nancy would you get plates and utensils for Abbi?”

Abbi went to the vacant place at the table, while the girl named Nancy left to get tableware for Abbi. Nancy went through a door to an adjoining room, which Abbi would later learn was the kitchen.

Abbi was now facing towards the other table, so that she had an opportunity to study the array of boys there. She saw that they were all dressed more or less the same. It was as Matron Priscilla had said: the children were dressed in the same way on account of their making clothing from the same donated materials and the same patterns. Thus nearly all the boys wore identical trousers and vests of some brown material. Meanwhile most girls wore dresses of unappealing donated fabric—fabric that failed to sell obviously—covered with a large white apron, with frilly edges. Abbi thought the aprons were more attractive than the dresses underneath. She would probably get something similar to wear in her size by tomorrow.

“Now, Abbi,” continued the young Matron Priscilla, “before you sit down, tell us something about yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Abbi.

She took a moment to think of what she’d like to say.

“I’d like everyone to know that my name is Abbi,” she began, “which is short for Abigail. About my life experiences, it’s best to be brief as I have a tendency to go on for hours. I understand that I became an orphan when I was just a baby, only four months old. My first nine years of life were good ones. I lived in a family named Woodrow. I didn’t even know I was an orphan until Mr. Woodrow had an accident—it was in all the newspapers: they presume he drowned in the Saint John River—and I was finally told my real origins. Because he disappeared we could not remain in Fredericton so we went to live with my adoptive grandmother, Audora Woodrow. My adoptive grandmother then placed me with Mrs. Loggerman in the wilderness, whose husband ran a company that was also owned by Madam Woodrow’s company, because Mrs. Loggerman needed household help. She had six children all ranging from a new baby up to five. I had lots of chores on my hands looking after them with Mrs. Loggerman. I went to school in the village of Pinewood. But then Mr. Loggerman got a new position in a sawmill in Maine and they had to move; so I was sent back to my adoptive grandmother here in Richdale just a couple days ago. And that’s why I’m now here. She felt it was the best place for me, to immediately continue school. I have always felt I was more of a country person than a city person, and I do not mind too much not living with my adoptive grandmother. My Papa who fell in the Saint John River over a year ago was Bradford Woodrow. I don’t mean my real father. When it was all explained to me, I learned my natural parents were named Pictford. I was told my father was a Pictish man and my mother was an Indian woman of the Ojibwa nation. She died of smallpox maybe three months after having me, and he died later at sea. When I was growing up people were always commenting on my looking Indian. I have high cheekbones, tan skin, and straight black hair. But I never suspected I was one until I heard people whispering ‘adopted’ now and then and I began to wonder what it meant, shortly before it was all explained to me by Jenine – my adoptive Mama. My full name is Abigail because my Woodrow parents were inspired by ‘Abbi’ which was on my shirt when I was found. ‘Abbi’ is short for the Indian word abbinochi which means ‘child’ or ‘baby’ – at least in the Ojibwa language. So the short form of my name should be written with an ‘I’ on the end, not a ‘Y’. ”

“Hear that, children?” said Matron Priscilla. “When writing Abbi’s name write it with an ‘I’ on the end not a ‘Y’”

“Whoop! Whoop!” said a boy reacting to Abbi’s mention she was Indian.

“Baby Indian! Baby Abbi!” shouted another boy followed by snickering.

Abbi hadn’t experienced such a reaction before at Pinewood. Perhaps urban boys were more ignorant and childish. She tried to ignore it and continued: “When I was at the Loggermans, there was wilderness all around and I learned all about Indian ways from my Papa’s—I mean my adoptive Papa’s—books and from observing nature itself. I also met Maliseet Indian men at the sawmill, but they should be called Wolastoqiyik which means ‘People of the Lovely River’ and . . . .”

“Whoop! Whoop!” a boy shouted.

“Abbi, where’s your feathers?” asked another boy.

“And your bow and arrow?” asked yet another boy.

“I happen to be very proud of my Indian origins!” declared Abbi. This reaction from the boys took her by surprise. She hadn’t previously experienced such ignorance and stereotyping regarding Indians. Meanwhile Nancy came back and put a dish, cup and utensils down in front of Abbi.

“Stop it children,” broke in Matron Priscilla, standing. “Enough teasing! You must behave! Do you imagine any family would accept any of you if they had witnessed your behaviour right now? Now Abbi, help yourself to the food laid out on the table. Here we try to act like one large family, and everyone behaves as they would in a normal dinner situation. You will be pleased to know, Abbi, that the girls always have a hand in the preparation of the food, setting the table and so on, under the guidance of Matron Gorda, just like in a normal home. The boys are responsible later for cleaning up and rearranging the room for the morning’s school sessions, and the afternoon’s practical lessons.”

An older girl next to Abbi added, “Boys like the afternoon practical lessons better than the school sessions, Abbi. They have woodwork, leatherwork, and tend to our horses and wagons out back – that sort of thing.”

“Work that doesn’t require any brains,” said another girl loudly, sticking out her tongue at the boys.

Abbi assumed all was fine now and helped herself to bread and jam on the table, and poured some milk from a pitcher. She was quite hungry. But she had to eat fast, since the other children were by now half-done.

But the boys’ rowdiness had been stimulated. One vegetable available in winter was the carrot. Thus one of the food items set out on the table were carrots, scraped and cut end to end into thin sticks, and intended to be eaten by hand. Although most nutritious in this form, they weren’t particularly popular, and the Orphan Home scheme was that what was not eaten at lunch went into the soup at suppertime. In any event, one of the boys took one of the carrot sticks from a bowl filled with them, and treated it like an arrow or spear and shot it across the room at Abbi. It landed on the table in front of her. When Abbi noticed it, the boy said: “That’s an arrow, Abbi.”

The boys laughed.

Abbi was by now very annoyed. There was nothing she could think of for responding verbally, so she grabbed the carrot stick that had been fired at her, and threw it back to the boys’ table. All the boys then started firing carrot sticks from the bowls of carrot sticks on the table, across to the girls table until there were no more. They let out war whoops. Those aiming at Abbi yelled “Baby Indian! Whoop! Baby Abbi! Baby Abbi! Whoop!”

The girls responded by throwing everything back and then their own carrot sticks. Boys responded by throwing other food missiles from their table, food that they didn’t like but which adults said was good for them. Food fight! Food fight! Abbi was too upset to participate. She had been the main target of the teasing and abuse. She could only stand and clench her fists. Not being able to stand it any more, she got up from the table and ran out.

Whack! Superintendant Wellington at the front table stood and hit a yardstick on the table extra hard, and the food fight ended.

Matron Priscilla stood too and shouted: “Food is the source of life! We don’t obtain food for this Orphan Home very easily! Much of it is donated to us! Everything you have thrown has to be picked up, washed, and eaten! We’ll put it all into this evening’s soup, then it will be germ-free.”

Matron Gorda, without stopping her eating said between chews: “Girls pick up the food, wash them off in the kitchen. Boys get buckets and wash the floors. Needs washing anyway.” She didn’t even have to talk loudly. Her distinctive voice was easily heard. The punishment clearly stated, she continued eating. She was a large woman, built like a barrel, who loved to eat. No wonder she was in charge of the kitchen.

Superintendant Wellington added: “Our afternoon practical lessons will be delayed until the cleanup is done. Furthermore, for supper this evening, boys and girls will not sit at separate tables. It will be boy-girl-boy-girl. You can all sit and eat quietly and reflect on what you have done.”

That was the most dreaded punishment of all – for boys to have to sit next to girls and girls next to boys! Yes, nothing was worse punishment for boys or girls of the ages 7-12! It was so dreadful to them that handing it out for only one mealtime was enough!

Matron Priscilla broke away from the table and went after the fleeing Abbi. “I’d better see to Abbi. What a way to begin a stay here, to be teased so brutally right at the moment of arrival.”

She found Abbi upstairs in the dormitory lying face down on the bed that had been assigned to her. “I don’t like it here,” said Abbi when Matron Priscilla arrived.

“It won’t happen again,” said Matron Priscilla. “I will declare a horrible punishment for any boy who teases you about your being Indian or your name. You have to learn not to be so sensitive, Abbi. It will happen again I’m sure, if not here then elsewhere.”

Abbi turned towards Matron Priscilla. “It is hard not to be sensitive, when you’re an Indian. When I was in the Woodrow family, everyone would take notice of me and I never knew why, until I was told the story. I never even saw a single Indian person in all of Fredericton. Maybe some came, but I never saw them. Audora, I mean Madam Woodrow, is right. Being an Indian will be a curse, and being a girl Indian even worse. I will never get anyplace in life. I have never in my life heard of an Indian professor, or Indian businessman, or anyone Indian who is famous. What hope is there for me?”

Matron Priscilla sat down on the adjacent bed and comforted her. “Don’t say that. There are plenty of famous Indians. There is for example a gentleman named George Copway. He was a friend of Mr. Longfellow, and gave many lectures and wrote books.”

“But are there any Indian women? There are only a few famous Indians and no famous Indian women at all! There aren’t even many famous women of any kind!—other than Queen Victoria. Madam Woodrow is the only woman who runs a company I have ever heard of. Madam Woodrow is right. Being both an Indian and a woman will be the worst way to be of all! What’s the use of trying!”

She plopped back face down on her bed.

“Well, we’ll just have to find some examples of famous Indian women in our world,” replied Matron Priscilla emphatically.

Abbi turned to her. “Oh, Matron Priscilla, I would be ever so thrilled to learn of examples of famous women who are Indian, to give me hope. But I fear you won’t find a single one!”

“I promise I’ll investigate. I have a secret interest in famous people, famous women. I’m particularly interested in famous women of the theatre. I’ll have a look in the information I have about them, to see if any are Indian.”

“Oh it would be glorious if there really were an actress of the stage who was famous in spite of being Indian,” said Abbi, wiping away her tears, “but it seems impossible that there will be.”

“Well, then,” said Matron Priscilla, “I will make it my mission for the next few days when I go home. I intend to find an actress who has Indian origins to prove you wrong.”

Just then the girl who had been sitting beside Abbi downstairs, came up. She was a sandy-haired girl with curly locks and blue eyes, like Mildred, her schoolmate when she was with the Loggermans, but somewhat taller and more expressive.

“I was excused from the food cleanup to come up here to say we girls are so sorry for reacting to the boys, instead of ignoring them like girls are supposed to do. What a way to start a stay here, Abbi!”

“I will leave you two to talk,” said Matron Priscilla. “Both of you remember in about an hour the afternoon practical lessons begin. Don’t get so caught up with getting acquainted so as to be late.”

Matron Priscilla left and the sandy-haired girl asked: “When I came in, I heard her talk about finding a famous actress?”

“Matron Priscilla says that she will try to find an example for me of a famous woman with Indian origins so that I can see that being an Indian girl still has promise. She will investigate when she goes home. She told me that she lives in a flat with her aging mother, and goes home every evening.”

The girl sat on the next bed, where Matron Priscilla had just sat. “Yes she comes and goes. That’s lucky for her. Who’d want to live here 24 hours a day if they could help it! God designed women to handle at most maybe 6 children. But there are many more children here than even in a normal schoolroom of children. Anyway, my name is Peggy, Abbi. And guess what? It just happens that I have the next bed! What fortune! We can get to know each other.” She indicated the bed next to Abbi’s on which she had just sat.

“Tell me more about this place, as much as you can!” Abbi pleaded.

“Well the main thing is that we not only learn in a school session, but we also do chores just like in a regular home. It’s like being at home, where sometimes the children use the dining room table for doing schoolwork on. Except this home is filled with 32 children, whereas the normal home has about 6 children. You can imagine how much organizing is needed for 32 children. There are only three matrons working here permanently. They assign everyone chores every week on a blackboard. We children have to run everything ourselves, but they manage it all. But some volunteer women come now and then to help. I imagine us to be like a little children’s army, marching to the commands of our matrons and Superintendant. It can therefore become quite maddening around here; and soon everyone prays for a home where there are only a few children, only a few brothers and sisters! The Superintendant and matrons blame it all on overcrowding. They wish this house were bigger.”

“Is there time to get away from chores and schooling?” wondered Abbi. “Everywhere else I have been I have been able to wander away at times and do interesting things. I fear that here I will not have any freedom to be by myself, or even to think my own thoughts!”

Abbi was thinking of how at the Loggermans she had been able to walk along the ridge upriver from the sawmill and be alone there to study books or explore.

“Well we can play out in the snow,” Peggy replied. “And the boys cleared an iced-over pond in the back where we can skate. And sometimes there are group excursions. The Orphan Home has two wagons in the carriage house in back, and four horses, and a small stable for them. They can carry many children on an outing, or carry lumber or provisions that the Orphan Home requires. The boys look after them. It is good training for the boys to look after those. There are fundraising activities too. The boys who have been here for some time say there are some annual fundraising events we are part of, like picnics. In winter there is an annual event called the Richdale Skating Carnival. It is sponsored by the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society just like the school. That’s what an older boy said. Superintendant Wellington will talk about it soon, he said. Superintendant Wellington always opens the day here. Every morning after breakfast he says the Lord’s Prayer and talks about major events concerning the Orphan Home to start the day. He always tells us we must always look like proper ladies and gentlemen if we want decent families to adopt us. Then we have a short break, then we sing ‘God Save the Queen’ to Queen Victoria’s picture, and school begins.”

Just then a few other girls barged into the dormitory from the stairs, to make their acquaintance with the new resident.

“Did you pick up and wash all the vegetables?” asked Peggy of them.

“Yes,” one said giggling. “And now the boys are scrubbing the floor. What a food fight you started Abbi! We haven’t had such fun at boring mealtime for I don’t know how long!”

They all giggled and laughed, as girls do. Abbi no longer felt upset.

When they asked her to tell them more about her adventures at the Loggermans in the wilderness, she took out Amik from the trunk under her bed, and told the girls all about it, and her adventures at the beaver pond near the Loggermans’ clearing. But she couldn’t tell too much as very soon it was time for the afternoon practical educational session, and the girls had to go back downstairs.

THE AFTERNOON

Back downstairs for the practical class, Abbi and the girls kept talking. Abbi had no lack of topics to cover.

“Girls,” said Matron Priscilla to the chattering group of girls, “you can talk about Amik and Abbi’s experiences with beavers later. We now have our practical lessons.”

All the girls were assembled back in the same room where earlier they had had lunch. The tablecloths were gone and four long bare oaken tables were awaiting the afternoon’s activities. The boys were elsewhere, probably in the buildings out back with Superintendant Wellington, possibly learning how to put a harness on a horse or something like that.

“Abbi,” Matron Priscilla continued, “you may find these afternoons interesting. You won’t find it in a regular school. What you learn here will add to your skills and character, and make you all the more attractive to prospective adoptive parents. Here we learn such things as how to cook, how to set a table, how to make and present tea, proper etiquette, sewing, and much more. Abbi, you may already know a little from your previous experience, in which case you can add to your knowledge and skill. Today we will practice some sewing. Abbi, in your case, your project would be to adjust one of our dresses and aprons to fit you better, for you to use while you are here. Peggy can help you.”

Abbi was very pleasantly surprised that there were such practical lessons here in the afternoons, where all the girls could be together and practice girl things. Neither of her two previous schools had anything like this.

Matron Priscilla continued: “And, Abbi, in case you are wondering what happened to the boys, well they are with Superintendant Wellington, where they are learning boy things like wagon repair, harnessing a horse, woodworking, leatherworking, and things like that. Some of the new sheds in back were made by them. The boys also help in repairs around here. Since their work is rough, they go elsewhere, such as the barn or carriage house out back, and normally we girls have this room with all the large tables all to ourselves. We also have several sewing machines to use, and of course we have the kitchen and pantry to use, which adjoins this room. In its original use, this big hall was a large dining room, I believe. That’s why the kitchen is handy from here. All clear, Abbi?”

“Yes, Matron Priscilla,” replied Abbi.

“Alright then, girls. Let’s get out the sewing we were all working on, and let’s also get Abbi fixed up with the clothing she will wear while she is here. Tomorrow we will look at table manners for formal occasions, but today we will finish up with our sewing work.”

Amik and

Renewed Hope

AMIK IS IN THE SPOTLIGHT

Abbi’s first day at the Orphan Home ended without further incident – except, sitting boy-girl-boy-girl was uncomfortable for all the children. They were all happy afterward that Superintendant Wellington was lenient in administering this sort of dreaded punishment, and that it was only once!

In the evening after dinner, Abbi chattered to exhaustion to all the children about her experiences during the last year in the New Brunswick wilderness while living with the Loggermans and helping them with their many little girls, including how she was called Mihkusis meaning ‘little squirrel’ by the Indian men because she chattered so much. The girls in her dormitory were particularly intrigued by the fact that she had a stuffed beaver in her trunk, and Abbi found herself talking a great deal to many of them about the beaver lodge in the pond near the Loggermans where she was last. She spoke to exhaustion, and then slept well. She awoke to the rays of the morning sun shining in through the east-facing windows of the girls’ dormitory.

One of the matrons at the Orphan Home was Matron Helen Wellington, Superintendant Wellington’s wife, a pleasant, brunette, energetic, middle-age woman. She was in charge after hours when the regular daytime staff had their time off. She looked after everything concerning the dormitories, grooming, and health. She made sure the children got to bed and woke up according to the routine. Every morning she woke up the girls with some clapping of her hands. “Get up girls. Wash up and go down to breakfast.” She did the same in the boys dormitory on the other side of the central washrooms. In the boys’ dormitory the boys could be a little rowdy, but she could, nonetheless, handle the boys by threatening to report them to the male authority, Superintendant Wellington, who was by then in his office downstairs preparing today’s schedule, who she could fetch instantly and who could apply unpleasant punishment if needed.

Because Abbi was following the routines here for the first time she was straggling behind everyone else and was pretty well the last one to be ready to go downstairs. She had now acquired the common Orphan Home clothing which included the rather plain dress with big white apron. As Matron Priscilla had said, many dresses worn by the girls looked the same because the same material and patterns were used over and over. Still, some girls wore something a little different made from some other material or something of their own; but all the girls had the same very practical white apron over top, with its handy pockets that any housekeeper of the day needed.

“Oh I’m so slow. All this is new,” said Abbi to Peggy. “I don’t know if I like wearing these clothes. I am so used to my own.”

“Hurry up, Abbi,” said Peggy, ready to go downstairs.

“Don’t wait for me, Peggy. Save the chair next to you. I’ll come in a moment.”

“Alright, Abbi,” Peggy replied, and hastened downstairs.

Matron Priscilla came up to see how Abbi was doing.

“I’m a little slow, Matron Priscilla,” said Abbi. “I’m just getting accustomed to the routine.”

“Abbi, you didn’t have much of a chance to talk about yourself to the class, yesterday. Would you like to present yourself in a more thorough fashion this morning? I mean, everyone seems to be very interested in your stuffed beaver, Amik, and your stories about your experiences with beavers in the last place you were. I thought, as I overheard you talking to the girls, that you may wish to bring Amik down, and tell all about it to the whole class, all at once. Or else you will still be telling the children one by one for months.”

Abbi considered it and agreed. “You’re right Matron Priscilla. I must have already told some stories four times to different groups of girls and boys. I am sure to be exhausted talking about the beavers I met at the Loggermans, before long.”

“Fine, I’ll tell Superintendant Wellington before he starts classes. He does science class this morning, and a talk about the beaver will fit in very well. I’ll also tell him that it belongs to your Papa, and you would prefer to keep it safe for the time being, and not leave it downstairs. I’ll see you in a few minutes then.”

Matron Priscilla left, and Abbi hurried to finish getting ready. She then took Amik out from her trunk under her bed where he had been lying sideways to fit, and went downstairs.

Downstairs, the girls whose duty it was to put down the table cloth and set the tables, were busy at work. They brought from the adjoining kitchen the food that was to be on the table for children to help themselves – pitchers of milk, bread, butter, jam, etc. Porridge would later be fetched by the individual children from the kitchen after the Superintendant’s morning message was over.

Abbi was becoming familiar with the dining room routine from yesterday’s suppertime. In a rotating fashion a few girls or boys were assigned to assist Matron Gorda make the food, serve the food, and help in the dishwashing. There were other housekeeping duties too, of course, besides the dining room and kitchen duties, for which responsibilities were assigned in a rotating fashion. A large blackboard was used to organize all the assignments.

Before she sat down, Abbi glanced at this blackboard on the side wall near the door. It listed all the names of the children down the left side, with the days of the week across the top, and the chore they were responsible for where the name and the day intersected. She wondered if her name was there yet. It wasn’t. She supposed they were giving her a few days to familiarize herself with the surroundings and routines before assigning her to things besides personal responsibilities like making your own bed. The idea was that the children would be engaged in activities similar to what they would have in a regular household. The Orphan Home was to be as if a giant-size home, not an institution. The wealthy ladies of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society who sponsored the Orphan Home, were adamant about that.

Matron Priscilla saw Abbi enter the main hall carrying Amik, and signaled Abbi to put Amik at the front on a sill, while they were having breakfast.

After putting Amik on the window sill, Abbi sat down at the place Peggy had saved for her.

Peggy repeated to Abbi about how the morning generally goes: “He always says the Lord’s Prayer every morning,” she said. “Then he gives us some news about what has happened or will happen. Then we have breakfast. Then we clean up and have a break to get ready for classes. Then before we being classes we sing ‘God Save the Queen’ for Queen Victoria whose picture is on the wall.”

“Yes I’ve seen that picture at the front of my other schools, and even in railway stations,” said Abbi. “My grandm...or Madam Woodrow, has a real photograph of her she got from a magazine publisher.”

When everyone was settled in their places, Superintendant Wellington began with the prayer. “Our Father, who art in Heaven,” he began. “Please whisper it to yourselves children.” There was no desire to have the children say it out loud, because a group of 32 would create nothing more than an incoherent noise. He then proceeded through the Lord’s Prayer in a monotonous way, monotonous and uninspiring obviously from having said it every day for years and years. Then when done, he added a blessing for the morning meal. “God bless our morning meal.” After saying “Amen”, the children relaxed to await his morning speech.

“Welcome children to a new day. You all realize that you are here courtesy of the charity of Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, who convey to you, as always, good luck towards getting into a nice adoptive home, and best wishes for your education and future success. I know you are all pleased that you are not required to sit boy-girl-boy-girl any longer, but be warned that if you misbehave like you did yesterday when Abigail arrived, that punishment can be instantly reinstated. Abigail is now part of your family, and I would like to see you all – particularly the boys – welcome her warmly. So, we welcome again Abigail Pictford to our Orphan Home, who gave us a brief introduction about herself yesterday, and who has much to tell about her experiences at her last location. What else is there to talk about? There isn’t much more for today. Tomorrow, I will have a special announcement about something we have planned for you children, and a couple ladies from the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society will drop by for a visit, to elaborate on it. Since we will spend considerable time talking about it tomorrow, I will leave my morning talk short this morning, to compensate for tomorrow. Matron Priscilla has informed me that Abbi has brought with her a stuffed beaver that belonged to her adoptive father, and that many of you are very interested in it, as well as in her experiences with beavers in a pond near where she lived last, and that it would be a good idea for science class this morning to have Abbi show and tell to everyone at once, or else she will have to repeat herself over and over individually. So we can look forward to that this morning.”

Everyone looked Abbi’s way, and many were uplifted by the prospect of an interesting science class, and not the regular dull one. Many had also heard of Abbi’s stories so far, and wanted to know more.

The Superintendant continued: “Let us have our breakfast now, then, and after breakfast, at 9 AM sharp, we’ll begin our morning classes. So that’s what is on the agenda for today. Now file in to the kitchen and get your porridge, children, and begin.”

The children got up and carried their bowls to the adjoining kitchen. This was Abbi’s first breakfast here, so she followed what Peggy did. It was probably similar to yesterday’s supper. They lined up then too, to collect their potatoes and meat from the kitchen. This morning it involved fetching porridge.

In the kitchen, as the children came one by one, two of the older girls whose duty it was to do this chore today, dumped a ladle full of oatmeal porridge from a giant pot into each bowl. When Abbi’s turn came and the girl, whose name was Cher, seeing how small Abbi was, gave her only a small portion.

Abbi looked at the small amount of porridge. Because at the Loggerman’s she had become used to a large bowl of porridge in the morning, Abbi said: “Please Cher, I want some more.” And Cher, chagrinned, gave her another big ladleful, filling the bowl right up heaping full.

Abbi said to Peggy who had been ahead of her in the line. “Now I have too much! I hope I can eat all this porridge! It’s my lot in life that I get too little or too much! I wish one day I will get something ‘just right’. Before I came here, for example, I rarely saw people because I was in the wilderness, and now I am in the middle of 32 children day and night! That is one for-example. I can think of other for-examples!”

They went back to the table, where everything else – bread, jam, jugs of milk, fruit in bowls – were already at hand and one helped oneself. Abbi took a large pitcher that had milk in it and poured glassfuls for herself, Peggy, and another girl to her other side. Abbi saw some jam and wondered what it was. It was apple sauce jam. She spooned some onto her oatmeal porridge.

“I suppose apple sauce jam is the most economical,” said Abbi to Peggy. “If I were back at the Loggermans, we’d have wild blackberry jam to add to the porridge. I suppose in the city blackberry jam would be expensive, as it would have to be brought in from the wilderness.”

Most of the children finished breakfast by 8 AM, and after taking their used bowls, cutlery, cups and glasses to the kitchen, they left for an hour’s break – except those children who had the chores related to breakfast cleanup or setting up for the morning classes.

“What do we do now?” Abbi asked Peggy, after they were finished breakfast.

“School always begins at 9AM. It’s only 8:15. We have some free time to collect our school supplies and do some studying, or to chat – except those children who have breakfast chores or setting up things for the school.”

Matron Priscilla found what was needed for Abbi by way of school equipment and supplied it to her. Of the staff, only Superintendant Wellington and Matron Priscilla remained for the morning school session. Matron Gorda began planning lunch, while Matron Helen tidied up in the dormitories and organized chores for laundry and cleaning. Generally in this Orphan Home, the children did most everything, and the Matrons and the Superintendant assigned the tasks, supervised, directed, and kept it orderly. Volunteer women tended to visit in the evening when supervision for children playing or studying in the hall or outside was needed and the regular matrons needed a rest. They were older women of the Society mostly, whose own children had grown up and they had time on their hands.

When at 9 AM Superintendant Wellington rolled forward a large blackboard on wheels to the front of the room, the children knew that school was starting. The table that the staff used for their breakfast, with tablecloth removed, now became the teacher’s desk. Superintendant took his educational books and materials from an adjacent cabinet and put them on the table. He began:

“First we will sing ‘God Save the Queen’ as we look at the picture of our Queen Victoria. Stand up class.” He struck a tuning fork for the starting note, and then led the class in the singing. (Singing ‘God Save the Queen’ and the Lord’s Prayer was normal in all the schools Abbi had been in, so she did not find this in any way unusual.) He then motioned them to sit down, and the class was now begun.

“Now everyone, turn your chairs towards me. We don’t want you to strain your necks turning this way. One day we’ll have proper student desks facing the right way, and a separate dining hall.” He waited a moment as children shuffled their chairs to properly face the front. He continued: “Today, as you know, we tackle science. And Matron Priscilla has suggested we discuss the beaver, so we can have Abigail speak of her experiences. The beaver is not just an industrious and intelligent animal, but Canada’s emblem animal. Unfortunately the beaver was heavily trapped here in the past centuries and its pelts sold in great quantities in Europe, resulting in the animal’s extinction in many places. Our new resident, Abigail, comes with a stuffed beaver specimen that belonged to her adoptive father, which she likes to keep safe in case he returns and needs it back. I was reminded that her adoptive father was a railway design engineer, and the son of Madam Woodrow of Richdale, who belongs to Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, and who is well known in social circles in Richdale. Two years ago we learned from our newspapers about his tumbling into the Saint John River from a railway bridge under construction high up the river, and not having ever been found despite much searching. He is presumed drowned, but it is most correct not to assume it with finality until such a fate is ascertained for certain. And until it is, we assume he still owns this furry creature on the sill. Well we will make this creature part of our morning science project, and Abigail has agreed this morning to talk about him, and her own experiences with live beavers which she has already shared with some of you. Abigail, would you like to come up front and talk about the beaver and your experiences?”

Abbi was not shy. She had already many times in her several years of schooling, spoken in front of a class. She went to the front, took Amik off the sill, and placed him on the table that was now the teacher’s desk. Superintendant Wellington stepped to one side to listen along with the children.’

She surveyed all the little eyes looking at her and began: “This is Amik. He is a real beaver, except stuffed, like people do now and then, to capture how it looked when it lived. This one is not as large as beavers can be, thankfully. Otherwise it would be too large for me to carry! I called him Amik, as that is the Ojibwa Indian name for the beaver, as used by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in his long poem ‘The Song of Hiawatha’ . In French the beaver is called castor. Papa, my adoptive one Mr. Woodrow, got it when he was a boy, so it must be very old by now. He always had it on his desk or table in his study. He liked it very much. It was his inspiration. When he was lost in the Mighty Saint John River, we had to move away from Fredericton down here to live with his mother, and Amik was brought along too. Amik has been here in Richdale this last year and a half, so I haven’t seen him in a while. But while I was with the Loggermans far in the interior of New Brunswick, I experienced real live beavers. Mrs. Loggerman’s husband operated the Koski Logging and Sawmill Company. It was beside a small river, called Sawmill Brook. And a stream running into Sawmill Brook – which I named Qapit Creek after the local Indian word for ‘beaver’ – had been dammed by a beaver family, creating a pond down from the house and sawmill, and I went there to observe the beavers whenever I could. Eventually they were not very afraid of me, and I watched them a great deal. I had already learned from my adoptive Papa that beavers were rare in the east, because of all the trapping of them, and therefore I considered it special that they were there.”

“Explain why there was so much trapping of beaver,” said Superintendant Wellington, seeking to guide Abbi’s presentation a little.

“It was because it was all the fashion in Britain and Europe – the fur was made into hats mostly.”

“Continue on,” said Superintendant Wellington.

“Well everyone knows that in some places beavers are all gone, and in some places rare, but nobody does much about it. So when one day I found a trap set for my beavers, I took the trap away, and I put up a sign saying ‘Beaver trapping not allowed here’. But Mr. Loggerman said that may not be enough, since most trappers would know that nobody owned that part. Mr. Loggerman said: ‘You see, the area of the beaver dam is not part of our property. It belongs to the government, and the government allows trapping.’ I asked him ‘Couldn’t you buy it?’, and he said ‘It would be a difficult process. And how would I use a beaver pond? A better idea would be to tell the government to protect the beavers everywhere they are rare. If men are trying to trap these ones, they will also be trying to trap any located elsewhere.’ So that is what I did. I decided to write to the Prime Minister of the Dominion of Canada, Mr. John A. MacDonald. Well after some weeks a letter came back from the Prime Minister, and I brought the letter here in my apron pocket.” She took it out. “Here is what the Prime Minister wrote:

‘Dear Abigail,

I was very impressed by your letter, especially your ability to express yourself and your fine penmanship, considering you are only ten years old. I was also moved by your concern about the survival of our country’s beaver population in some regions in the face of continued trapping of this animal, especially since it is Canada’s animal symbol. While in some more remote parts of the Dominion of Canada, there are plenty, I have heard that in the east beavers are rare and in some places nonexistent as a result of being trapped to extinction. Thus I agree with you that the beaver should be protected in some parts. I will forward your letter to the Premier of New Brunswick and direct him to look at the matter there. In the meantime, you have by my authority, the right to designate the beaver pond about which you are concerned, a protected area. Feel free to use this letter as your authority. I hope that the beaver family in your pond produces numerous babies, and they multiply. Please continue to be concerned about issues such as this. It is very good to see young people interested in the circumstances they will inherit in our great land.

Sincerely, John A. MacDonald, Prime Minister of Canada’”

Abbi continued: “I informed Mr. Wilson at the Pinewood General Store, and soon the news about my receiving the letter spread far and wide and trappers did not dare to trap at our beaver pond again. I added to my sign the words ‘by authority of Prime Minister MacDonald of the Dominion of Canada’”

“Very good, Abigail,” said Superintendant Wellington. “You can see children that even a girl can influence the government. Don’t be afraid to speak up if you see something not right. Now let’s look at the beaver more closely. After all, we have a stuffed beaver to look at, which represents its external appearance. Being stuffed he would be straw and twine inside. This is far better than a picture in a book. So may I suggest Abigail explains the details of Amik, and then you can all come up and look more closely.”

“Well, the most important thing about the beaver,” continued Abbi, “is that it has sharp teeth that can even cut down trees. Even big trees. See these sharp teeth? He gnaws off piece after piece going round and round the trunk till the tree topples over.”

“Explain why it gnaws down big trees, Abigail,” said Superintendant Wellington.

“Well for two reasons. First of all, it likes to eat the bark of the branches up high, so by cutting the tree down, it can get at the branches. The second reason is that when the big trees have fallen, the sun can reach the ground and very soon a whole crop of saplings sprouts, and beavers like that too. They are like farmers in that respect. And like farmers too, they collect branches and store them under the water in front of their lodges to eat through the winter.”

“Do they eat the branches?” a boy asked.

“Not all of it. They like the inner bark of certain trees like poplar. Then they use it as construction material.”

“What does it taste like?” a girl asked.

“I tried it. It tastes very bitter and feels like eating sawdust. So I suppose it gets getting used to eating bark. And humans probably can’t digest it like beavers can. Beavers also need to get branches and twigs for making dams.”

“Explain why the beavers make dams, Abigail,” said Superintendant Wellington, guiding her again.

“The beavers make dams because usually the water where a creek runs is shallow. By damming the creek valley, they can create a pond deep enough so they can build lodges and to swim about under the ice during the winter. The trees die where the water rises, and soon fall over, leaving a large pond. If the beavers leave the area and the dam breaks, the result is a pretty meadow called a ‘beaver meadow’ Animals that like grasses and meadow plants benefit from it.”

“Now continue pointing out some of its features, Abigail.”

“Well you can see from this stuffed beaver, since it is posed sitting up and holding a small twig, that its hands are suited for picking up a branch to chew on. And here we see his back feet are webbed so he can propel himself through the water. His tail helps him to swim and steer. Also, when a beaver is swimming and senses danger, it will dive so that it slaps his tail on the water to warn other beavers.”

“Alright, children,” said Superintendant Wellington. “Come up to look more closely at the beaver, and ask Abbi any further questions.”

And so it went. Abbi was suddenly a celebrity, quite the opposite of yesterday when she was teased for being an Indian. Abbi thought it would be fine to be a teacher, even a professor at a university, one day. Here was yet another way Amik seemed to be a guide in her life. She had enjoyed teaching the children about Amik and wouldn’t mind being a professor. But, considering again what Audora Woodrow had told her, would the world have such a place for her given she was a girl and an Indian?

THE NEXT DAY – HOPE IS RENEWED

Abbi and Amik were a hit. The boys who had teased her were actually impressed with her now. She had done things that many a boy can only dream of doing! They even nearly forgot she was a girl. The children studied Amik and beavers generally throughout the morning. After Abbi had finished, Superintendant Wellington lead a discussion about how the beaver dam was constructed, then the nature of a beaver lodge, showing on the blackboard how their entrance came into it from under the water. He even taught from a book about when the beavers had their babies and how many, something Abbi did not yet know, herself.

Soon it was lunchtime, where they all made sandwiches from five loaves of bread Matron Gorda had baked that morning. Then came the afternoon practical sessions. The boys went out back to learn how to repair wagons, and the girls remained in the main hall, and learned table manners for formal occasions and practiced them. And then there was some free time, then supper, then doing some school assignments. Abbi learned the routine very fast! She assumed some chores and joined in with the other girls right away. That was her nature: new experiences were thrilling and she wasn’t shy one bit from getting involved right away!

Feeling very close to Amik, she was careful not to forget about him and leave him somewhere. After all in her dream when she had fasted on the ridge near the Loggermans, Amik had said to her ‘Don’t forget me’. She had interpreted that dream as indicating he was important to her as he had been to her adoptive Papa. It probably meant she should become a scholar like her adoptive Papa had been in his study. This, it was very important she keep him with her. When, that evening, she was certain all the children had had enough chance to look at him while he sat on the window sill, she took him back upstairs and put him again in the trunk under her bed. Before going to sleep she peeked under the bed, and said in an inaudible whisper ‘Goodnight Amik’. Although she would have denied it vehemently if someone had suggested it, Amik truly was becoming a little bit of a teddy bear for her – something that gave her comfort and security. It was moreover a connection to her adoptive Papa, who she hoped was still alive somehow in spite of tumbling into the roaring gorge of the upper Saint John River.

All in all, the second day had gone very well. But her teaching the class about the beaver had revived her dreams about being a professor. But was it but a dream? Was she deceiving herself? What if what Audora had told her about being both a woman and an Indian in these times being the worst possible way to be, was true? When she thought of it in the darkness of the dorm after the lights had been put out, she noted again that she had never heard of any famous women Indians. Perhaps she will have to forget about her aspirations of being a professor and face a dimmer reality. It seemed Madam Woodrow was right about not elevating her expectations too high. She sighed and turned over on her side. Was there any hope for an Indian girl being like her former Papa like her interpretation of her dream during her vision quest suggested? Of studying in university? Of doing great research into Indian ways? Of writing scholarly papers? Or of being a famous author for that matter? Or an actress like she had been back in Littleton when playing the daughter in her adoptive Papa’s poetic theatrical based on an Indian legend called Aggodagauda and his Daughter? Or of becoming a famous poet writing Glooscap legends into verse like she had done while at the Loggermans? Of being well known, like perhaps Mr. Longfellow? Was there any hope at all!!!??? . . . .And yet her fast, involving the dream in which Amik says ‘Don’t forget me’, had suggested this was still the direction she should go, that her path lay in doing scholarly work like her adoptive Papa had done in his study with the stuffed beaver on his desk.

Next day dawned bright and early and the morning routine of getting up, dressing, and washing was repeated. Abbi was intrigued by the fancy new water-closet. You pulled a chain that hung down from a tank up above and everything you had made in the toilet bowl simply disappeared. Amazing! It was much better than the old outhouse at the Loggermans for which it was wise to take a closepin from the clothesline to pinch your nose closed.

Matron Priscilla came up just as Abbi and Peggy were ready to go downstairs. “Wait a moment Abbi,” she said. “I did as I promised you a couple days ago.... Peggy, continue downstairs. Abbi will join you in a minute.”

Peggy continued downstairs as Matron Priscilla sat down on Peggy’s bed to talk to Abbi.

“What is it Matron Priscilla?”

“I promised I’d try to find an example of a famous person who appears to have Indian origins. I succeeded.”

“You did, Matron Priscilla?” replied Abbi, her eyes widening.

“It was an interesting evening pursuit after I had put my aged mother to bed.”

“What did you find?”

“Fact is, there have for some time been shows and entertainments featuring Indian women, many acted by women who weren’t even Indian. I suspected that a real Indian woman wishing to be an actress would probably want to avoid being stereotyped—that means to avoid only playing an Indian woman. So I also read texts written about regular actresses whose facial features in their photographs seemed they could be Indian. I found an article about the famous actress of the stage who is called ‘Ophelia Summer’. That’s obviously a stage name, among other stage names she has used. Her original name is unknown. The old article said that she began when she was very young, playing Indian women’s parts in entertainments which involved Indians. But, because – I think – she became fed up with the stereotype Indian woman roles, she decided to hide the fact she was Indian and looked for parts with women of dark skin and black hair – Mediterranean women, Egyptian, Persian, Chinese. . . She has even played dark haired French and English women successfully.”

“Tell me more” said Abbi. She had sat on her own bed facing Matron Priscilla, and was full of anticipation.

Matron Priscilla continued: “With only small changes like curling her hair, nobody would know she was an Indian, and today she is famous. Now few people know she is actually Indian, nor really care if they know. And with wigs, she can even have another colour hair.”

“I would be thrilled to see what she looks like, Matron Priscilla”

“I then remembered I had a photo post-card of this actress. I picked it up myself years ago when she performed in a touring play that was at the Royal Richdale Theatre near here for a week. She doesn’t look at all Indian in the photo, I think because she made her hair very curly for the photograph.”

Matron Priscilla took out the postcard from a pocket in her uniform. It was one of those late 19^th century photo-postcards to promote people and places, famous performers and tourist destinations. Photography was a wonderful new development at that time; but methods for printing photographs on printing presses had not yet matured; so instead, studio laboratories, operating almost like small factories, produced large quantities of copies of photos by regular photographic development means. And it was these photographically developed copies that were sold as cards—to promote all sorts of things which benefited from photographic realism—from tourist scenes to famous people, including celebrities of the stage.

Abbi took it from Priscilla and looked at it with wide eyes. “Yes, Matron Priscilla,” she said. “I can easily imagine her to have an Indian heritage. Oh she is beautiful. You’ve given me hope.”

The photo-card showed the actress Ophelia Summer glamorously dressed and lighted. It was quite a close view of her so that one could definitely see her face. And at the bottom of the photograph was written “Ophelia Summer”. And then elsewhere was written the name and address of the photography studio that had created it. [9]

“Can I keep it? Can I please keep it? At least for a little while?” Abbi pleaded. “Even if she curls her straight raven black hair, it is still special to know she is actually Indian, and that she has managed to become famous in spite of it.”

“Yes you can keep it for a while. But I am a fan of hers too, so don’t lose it.”

These were the days before movies, when theatre was a major popular entertainment, and the famous actors and actresses came from the world of theatre. Their fame developed from attention and reviews in newspapers and magazines throughout the land, helped along by their own agents creating advertising and promotion that was multiplied thousands of times on printing presses.

“Do you think she might be playing near Saint John soon? Perhaps even in Richdale? Do you think I might actually be able to see her some day?” Abbi wondered.

“It’s very possible, Abbi. Theatre is very popular here in Richdale, and also in Saint John. Richdale is a district of wealthy people. They follow the latest in theatre and other arts and entertainments, rivaling anything appearing in Saint John, the properly big city 15 minutes from here by carriage. Because of the wealth and culture here, even though Richdale is small, famous plays that normally might only appear in the largest cities, often come here to the Royal Richdale Theatre because theatre has a wealthy following. Besides, it is not too far from Saint John and plays that come here count on attracting audiences from Saint John too. ”

“Oh, it would be my utterly highest dream, just to meet an actress, let alone one who has endured the same experiences as me on account of being Indian,” said Abbi.

“Now put all those thoughts from your mind about being limited in life because you are an Indian and a girl. Here is proof that everything is possible if you put your mind to it!”

“Yes, Matron Priscilla.”

“Come let us go for breakfast.”

They made their way down the stairs, Abbi clutching the precious card. Abbi said as they went, “Thank you, Matron Priscilla for discovering this actress and letting me have this photograph-card for a while. I will look at it whenever I become depressed about my lot in life, to lift my spirits. I intend one day to be a successful scholar and teacher in spite of being a woman and Indian. She gives me inspiration.” She put the card in the breast pocket of her apron.

Abbi joined Peggy at the vacant chair Peggy had saved for her as Superintendant Wellington was about to start the Lord’s Prayer. When done he now addressed the children: “Welcome children to a new day. You all realize that you are here courtesy of the charity of Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, who convey to you, as always, good luck towards getting into a nice adoptive home, and best wishes for your education and future success. I told you yesterday that this morning we would have a very special announcement, plus two guests. This special announcement concerns something inspiring to look forward to, as a break to the dull monotony of day-to-day chores and schooling, not to mention the monotony of winter itself as there are two months of it more to come. I’m talking about the Richdale Winter Skating Carnival. The Richdale Women’s Charitable Society has always involved the Orphan Home in their annual Richdale Winter Skating Carnival. It has become a fundraiser for the Orphan Home in much the same way as the Annual Picnic has, that we hold in the summer. A few of you who unfortunately are still with us from last year, will know what I am talking about. Midwinter skating carnivals are popular these days in many cities. Thousands of people attend them dressed up in sometimes bizarre costumes evoking characters from news and literature. Even though Richdale is a smaller place, the society of wealthy families here has endeavoured to have their own midwinter carnival, at their own Richdale Exhibition Hall and Rink for two years, now drawing many attendees from Saint John as well. Who here – who wasn’t here last year – has heard about winter skating carnivals?” A couple of children raised their hands. Superintendant Wellington saw Abbi raise her hand. “Abbi? Tell us what you know.”

Abbi stood up: “I’ve seen illustrations in ‘Canadian Illustrated News’. There was a picture on the cover of one in Montreal which celebrated the marriage of Princess Louise and Marquis something-or-other. I also recently saw an illustration that showed one in Saint John a couple of winters ago. Madam Woodrow said she was there. I’ve always wanted to attend one.” Abbi then sat down.

“Yes the Saint John carnival is what inspired our Richdale event. ‘We have to have one too’, said the board of directors of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society. ‘It would be a fine use of our modest sized Exhibition Hall in winter,’ they said. And so it was started, and now it draws attendees from beyond Richdale, indeed from Saint John itself, as I said. Ours is more intimate than the other skating carnivals because it is smaller, and that makes it all the better. From the admission charge, it raises much-needed funds for running this Orphan Home. What will interest you, is that you, the Orphan Home children, will all attend too. Some of you may never experience something like this again as it is a city affair. It is attended, as I said, by practically everyone in Richdale and more from Saint John and wherever else people have the ability to come from in the surrounding areas during winter. You will be there because we must show you off and draw attention to the Orphan Home that this event is supporting. Many adoptions and further private donations arise from our showing you off to the attendees. And we have in the past two years encouraged children here to fashion costumes for themselves and join the skating instead of being purely spectators. This year will be no different. We want the children to be in costumes like most everyone else. Unfortunately without devoting special attention to costume-making, the improvised costumes of the children have been somewhat disappointing so far. We’d like to draw attention to you more. This year, to encourage even finer costumes, we plan to make costume-making part of the girls’ practical lessons in the next couple of weeks leading up to the carnival. We should, this year, arrive at normalb costumes that will draw the attention of all attendees and possibly even result in some adoptions, since dressmaking ability is highly valued these days given that much attention is given to fashion, especially among the wealthy women of the area.”

An excited buzz went through the table of girls. Superintendant Wellington continued: “As for the boys, clothes-making is not something for which the boys are trained here, nor do many find any interest in it; so it’s not practical to create a costume competition for them. Still, boys are encouraged to improvise costumes for themselves too like last year, and participate in the general competitions for boys costumes, if they choose. Fortunately most male costumes are more easily improvised and do not demand as much design and sewing. But you boys will have a separate creative challenge too. In the afternoons while the girls are busy making their costumes, I will lead you boys in the designing and erecting of all that is required at the Rink in a practical sense, for the event – making benches, setting up the stage, adding decorations, and so on. We will look for ideas that will give the event an exciting and festive air that is fresh and different, compared to previous years.”

Animated chatter now went through the tables of children, as they absorbed and reacted to what Superintendant Wellington was saying. He continued: “While I have been talking we have just now been joined by two ladies from the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society.” The children turned to notice two women who had entered and had been standing near the entrance for a minute. “They are here to explain further what’s in store. I’ll let the chairwoman of the Richdale Skating Carnival committee, Mrs. Cumberland, explain to you further.”

Mrs. Cumberland made her way to the front of the children. She was a cheery woman of light curly short brown hair and bright-coloured clothing.

“Good morning, children,” said Mrs. Cumberland as cheerily as the morning sun that came in from the east-facing windows of this hall. “How are we all today?”

“Fine, Mrs. Cumberland,” the children replied more or less in unison. They knew her already from her dropping by often as a volunteer.

“I don’t want to keep you children from your breakfast so I’ll be as brief as possible. Superintendant Wellington has just revealed to you who where not here a year ago, which is over half of you, all about this wonderful annual event that we have here in Richdale in midwinter, which results in much support from the business community of Richdale for the charitable activities of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, and in particular this Orphan Home.” She looked at Superintendant Wellington, and clasping her hands, expressed glee at new developments entertained for this year’s festival, already touched upon by Superintendant Wellington. She continued: “Well, in our never-ending quest to make our winter carnival ever better, this year we are adding to the fare of attendees skating about and showing off their costumes, a competition just for you children—well, at least the girls. The costumes you will make and show off at the event, will be judged and a winner selected during the carnival. Doesn’t that sound exciting children?”

A contest! Mrs. Cumberland’s gleeful energy was infectious. She continued. “How did we come upon this idea? One of the objectives here at the Orphan Home is to teach the girls as much as we can in the art of sewing, whether for mending or making clothing. Thus, we thought, why not make the costume-making a more serious matter, make it part of your educational program here? First you will determine which girls are the most skilled at skating to wear the costume created, and then form teams with them to design and create the costume. What better advertising for your abilities than that? Let’s draw attention to you. I dare say some of the audience might snatch up an orphan or two right then and there upon seeing the demonstrated skills!”

She chuckled merrily.

She continued: “Therefore, I have asked Matron Priscilla, for all the days up until the event, to devote the girls’ afternoon practical lessons to making costumes and preparing the performance of the chosen one in each team to wear it and show it off. And needless to say I expect to see some lovely examples of costumes. Oh, I shouldn’t talk any more, as you are all hungry for breakfast. I and Mrs. Darville – who volunteers here from time to time and you know already – just thought we would drop in here at the Orphan Home personally to give you, especially the girls, this good news. I hope it will bring some fresh excitement to your lessons, at least for a couple of weeks.”

Superintendant initiated clapping from the students, and then said: “Thank you Mrs. Cumberland for coming by. You are sure to see some absolutely splendid costumes at the Skating Carnival! Should we inform the children of an additional treat at this year’s carnival?”

“Of course, of course. Thank you for reminding me, Superintendant Wellington. This year, children, we are fortunate to have obtained a special guest of honour to open our carnival, a genuine celebrity to generally brighten up the event, but also draw in the crowds and raise much money. This year we will have as our feature guest the world-famous actress Ophelia Summer. This is possible only because by remarkable coincidence a touring theatrical production in which she is the lead actor will be playing at the Royal Richdale Theatre at the same time as our Skating Carnival. This play is called ‘Stranger in a Winter Landscape’ derived from the famous book. The play has been traveling from city to city throughout Canada and the United States for the past year. I’m sure that any children among you who have an interest in plays will be thrilled about that!”

Abbi’s heart nearly leaped into her throat. This was the actress whose photo she had in her pocket that Matron Priscilla had given her! And wasn’t that the name of the play the same as the book Jeffery, the Loggerman’s handyman had given her as a gift? She had read it so many times! What an extraordinary coincidence! She sneaked the photo-card out of her pocket to look at it. Yes it was the same name, “Ophelia Summer”. She put the photo back into her pocket. She thought it wise to keep this fact secret, especially the fact that Ophelia Summer might be Indian. She did not want to be teased again.

“Well, goodbye, children,” said Mrs. Cumberland. “Now eat your breakfast; and we’ll see you in your lovely costumes and skates in a few weeks. I will be looking forward to it, and so will all of us at the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society.”

The two women left, and the buzz of excitement rose again up and down the tables of children. Superintendant Wellington tapped his yardstick on the table for the children’s attention.

“Well, then,” he said, “although the boys are somewhat excluded from the formal costume competition, unless someone has an interest in the art of the tailor, there is plenty for the boys to do, as I already stated earlier. Everyone, both boys and girls, of course may skate at the Carnival if they wish, whether costumed or not, whether entering a competition or not, as the wearing of costumes at such events is generally voluntary—costumes ranging from mere improvised ones to well tailored ones. For those of you who were not here last year, I should point out that we have a good supply of skating blades that can be affixed to your boots with leather straps, and you can practice your skating on the pond at the back of the property that the boys prepare and maintain. Now, I think our porridge has been cooling quite enough, and it is time to begin our breakfast. Everyone, line up to take your bowls into the kitchen to fetch your porridge.”

Superintendant Wellington sat down. Matron Priscilla stood up and added the following comment. “Girls, we will get organized for costume making this afternoon.”

The children, like yesterday, took their bowls to the kitchen to have porridge ladled into them by girls whose responsibility it was today and then returned to the tables were everything else was in reach in pitchers or plates.

As she ate, Abbi imagined being at the event and seeing Ophelia Summer. Her heart was going a mile a minute. She would be in the very same place as the very woman whose picture she had in her pocket at that very moment. She might even have a chance to get close to her and talk to her! Despite her excitement, she vowed to control herself, and not exclaim her thrill to everyone, for fear of jinxing it. She would keep it to herself as much a she could. Matron Priscilla would obviously know. Indeed Matron Priscilla had cast a glance towards Abbi and read the excitement in her face very easily. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself before the event, be teased, and then be disappointed on top of everything if a meeting for some reason never came about. But she was bursting to tell someone, and Peggy beside her could be trusted.

“Peggy,” she said, pausing half-way through her porridge, and with a tone as if she was about to reveal a most important secret. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you, because you were already down here when Matron Priscilla came. Look!” She took the photo out of her pocket. “Matron Priscilla just gave me this photo card this morning. It’s the same woman that Mrs. Cumberland mentioned, the one that will be at the Carnival! Matron Priscilla said she discovered she is Indian in origins, even though she is like any other famous actress of the theatre playing every kind of role. Matron Priscilla thinks most people don’t even know she has Indian origins.”

Peggy studied the card. “That’s the woman who will attend?”

“Yes, Peggy, it’s the same woman Mrs. Cumberland just mentioned—Ophelia Summer! I’m sure! The name written on the card is exactly the same as Mrs. Cumberland mentioned! Imagine! She is an Indian just like me!!”

“She’s beautiful,” said Peggy.

“But don’t tell anybody, Peggy. I don’t want the children to tease me if I betray all my excitement about her. They’ll start their war-whooping again.”

“Well I can see how wonderful it might be for you if she is genuinely an Indian woman!” said Peggy supportively, as she gave it back. Abbi put it back in the breast pocket of her apron that was close to her heart.

As the children and staff carried on with their breakfast, discussion continued throughout the children’s tables about the upcoming Richdale Skating Carnival. The children who had been at the Orphan Home since last year, and who had experienced the last Carnival, were queried intensely by all the newer residents. There was general agreement among them that it was a really enjoyable event, perfect for breaking the gloom of early February.

Abbi was now very happy, quite the opposite of how she felt when she had arrived and had been teased. With the costume-making and the prospect of actually seeing an actress who was also Indian, being at the Orphan Home was completely the opposite of the gloomy existence she had at first imagined she would face here! For now at least—she did not know how it would be later after the Carnival was over.

Later Abbi thanked Matron Priscilla for learning that Ophelia Summer was of Indian origins.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Abbi?” she replied. “I couldn’t have imagined that Ophelia Summer would be coming to Richdale with a play so soon! Last time was about three years ago. I suppose I should have read the newspapers more – there would have been an announcement in newspapers about it.”

“I understand, Matron Priscilla. From my experience it is men who are mostly interested in newspapers – it is filled with politics and war and such. My Papa - my adoptive Papa - always read newspaper all the time. My adoptive Mama, Jenine, was only interested in a summary. Women tend to read magazines about fashion and cooking and gardening and such.”

Costume-making and Classes

SOME ENJOYABLE DAYS, ORPHAN HOME

When the afternoon came, after an hour of leisure following the morning classes and lunch, the boys were taken elsewhere by Superintendant Wellington while the girls stayed in the main hall again for their afternoon with Matron Priscilla.

“Well, as promised,” said Matron Priscilla to the girls, “we will now put all our other projects aside, and our practical lessons for the next while will be devoted to preparing for the costume and skating competition. The boys will be pursuing other aspects of the event with Superintendant Wellington, but here we girls will give attention to costumes. We shouldn’t all try to make a costume each, as that might be too daunting for some, and there isn’t enough time. We’ll form groups, as Mrs. Cumberland suggested, in which one of you will be the one to wear the costume and skate with it and show it off. First we have to determine who would like to be the costume presenters in the competition – you have to be a good skater and not mind attention upon you – and then next who will be part of her team, in making the costume and preparing the presentation. Therefore, who among you consider yourself good skaters and would like to present? Who have attempted to do figures on the ice – a figure eight, for example? That is what we are looking for. It will help you win if the presenter skates elegantly and does not stumble about. Raise your hands if you think you are bold enough and skilled enough to be the person who will present the costume at the Carnival.”

About six hands went up instantly and the rest looked awkward, willing to let the most enthusiastic ones assume the roles. Abbi was among the quickest to raise her hand. “Abbi,” said Matron Priscilla, “you can skate?”

“Yes, Matron Priscilla. When I was living with the Loggermans, last December the children at our school in Pinewood used a frozen pond for skating and we skated during the lunch hour. Mrs. Loggerman found skates she had used when younger, for me. I can do a perfect figure eight backwards. I can also spin.”

Abbi recalled that as one of the physical activities at the school she enjoyed during her brief participation in the small Pinewood log cabin school she attended from September to January before returning. But the pond was frozen enough only by December so she hadn’t had too much time perfecting her skating skills. She hoped it was enough.

“Well, that will impress any judge. Your participation as a competitor would certainly be well received by them too. You girls should know that Abbi has a connection to an important benefactor to the school and member of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, businesswoman Madam Audora Woodrow of the Woodrow Timber Company, who has contributed lumber for our woodworking and also financially. It would therefore be a good thing that Abbi present a costume and performance on the ice. Don’t you think so?”

Other girls already knew about Abbi being there because of a wealthy businesswoman. One girl whispered to her neighbour: “Abbi doesn’t really have to be here! Her wealthy businesswoman sponsor put her here as if it was a boarding school, not an orphan home!”

“What did you say, Marcia?”

“Nothing Matron Priscilla. Abbi can be a competitor, but I hope she doesn’t win because of her wealthy businesswoman sponsor. That would be unfair.”

“Of course. But do not begrudge her participating or winning if she deserves it, because that would be wrong too. Anyway, it will be fair. From past experience, the judges will not make up their mind themselves, but respond to the clapping and approval voiced by all the attendees when each costume and skater is presented. The audience will decide.”

This was the first time Abbi realized she was seen by the other girls to have special status at the Orphan Home, and also that a portion of the girls didn’t like her for it. It seemed unfair for them to begrudge her, since in her view, the truth of it was that Madam Audora really wanted to get rid of her, in spite of appearances, because her son and Jenine had adopted her, and she wasn’t really kin like the other children in the Woodrow family. Grandmama Audora, now simply ‘Madam Audora’, since she learned she was adopted, had always been dismissive of her when growing up in Littleton, giving most of her attention to the other children, even when her son and his wife protested. Abbi was sure that she wouldn’t have been sent to this Orphan Home if she had been actual kin. Audora would certainly have found a real boarding school for girls, at least, and figured out a way for her to remain with her family at Tall Pines. Yes, Abbi concluded, Madam Audora was doing just enough not to feel guilty, and no more. If Papa - her adoptive Papa, Bradford Woodrow – were still around, he would certainly not have allowed his mother to treat her like this. In spite of Madam Audora, Abbi was determined to make the most of the situation, and costume-making and participating in a real winter skating carnival like she had heard about was just about the best thing that could happen to her right now, especially if she would meet a famous actress who was a celebrity in spite of being of Indian origins! She patted her pocket that contained the postcard picture of Ophelia Summer.

“Alright,” said Matron Priscilla, “Abbi will be one costume presenter and skater. Who will become part of Abbi’s team for making her costume? We want to closely resemble real life in this project, where you will usually make clothes for people other than yourself.”

Peggy put up her hand, but nobody else.

“Nobody else wants to join Abbi’s team?”

“She’s not a real orphan,” one complained. “She has someone who can buy her anything. She shouldn’t be here.”

Some other girls agreed.

This time Abbi protested. “But I am an orphan!” she exclaimed. “My parents died around when I was four months old, and I have now lived in three different places before now – Littleton until I was seven, Fredericton until I was nine, and finally with Mrs. Loggerman at Pinewood in the wilderness. I’m as much an orphan as any orphan! And Madam Audora put me here to get rid of me, I’m sure of it, even if she is paying for me and pretending it is something different than it is.”

“She may be right,” said Matron Priscilla to the other girls. “Abbi is an orphan in that her sponsor has directed us also to find her a new home in a rural area ideally with some connection to Indians. She clearly is not concerned with keeping Abbi with the Woodrow family in which she grew up, and is not putting Abbi here for just schooling. Madam Audora Woodrow’s helping of her, could be interpreted as her desire to release herself from responsibility for Abbi now that her son had vanished and she is in charge of his wife and family at her mansion. There is nothing to indicate her support of Abbi will continue, if someone takes her. But, girls, it is not for us to second-guess or judge the views and actions of our benefactors. The woman does occupy a prominent place in Richdale society and her business supports us; and her good will and financial support towards the Orphan Home is admired and respected. Now, who else will become part of Abbi’s costume-making team? Nobody else? Nobody else? Three girls is best.”

Nobody else responded.

Matron Priscilla continued: “Well I can’t force anyone – it would not be enjoyable that way. Very well, Abbi and Peggy will be one team. You two will simply have to work harder. You can go to that table over there now and start thinking about what you would like to make by way of a costume. As for the skating part, we all know that the boys have created a small rink in the back, where the costume presenters can practice after lessons. Now, who is next? Let’s form four more teams giving five in all so that each group can have one table each of our five tables. Marcia? You had your hand up a moment ago. You can skate?”

“Yes, Matron Priscilla. I think I can learn some nice figures.”

And so Matron Priscilla continued to assemble teams, while Abbi and Peggy withdrew to consider what they would make by way of costume.

When they were away from the others Abbi asked Peggy: “You didn’t put up your hand for being a costume-wearer. Don’t you want to?”

“I can skate a little but I don’t think I could feel comfortable with all that attention. I would dread winning and have a thousand people looking at me. But you seem to have no problem in drawing attention to yourself and being the focus of attention. You are a natural attention-getter.”

“It has been my lot in life that people have always singled me out for attention. I’m used to it. It’s because I looked so completely different from the family in which I lived. I don’t mind attention if it’s in a good way; but I don’t like to be teased.”

“Anyway,” said Peggy, “do you have an idea for a costume? Maybe you could dress like an Indian if you are one.”

Abbi sought to make good friends with Peggy, and she her, and they had already begun to take every opportunity to work or learn side by side. Normally it was not always possible since the matrons were often indiscriminate as to what child would work with what child in practical lessons or chores. For this project, Matron Priscilla allowed the girls to assume their own teams, instead of dictating who would work with whom. The girls were glad of that. Abbi could not imagine working on the costume with anyone else than Peggy at this juncture.

“When I was with Mrs. Loggerman,” said Abbi, “she helped me make an Indian dress for my fast. I gave it to Minnie, a Wolastoqiyik Indian Princess. But an Indian dress requires deerskin. There isn’t any deerskin here.”

“For your what? Gave it to who?”

“For my fast. I thought it would be more authentic if I dressed and behaved according to my Indian – Ojibwa – custom.”

“What’s a fast?”

“It’s an Indian custom, at least among the Ojibwa, that when the time came, Indian youth would live by themselves for up to a week in the wilderness, eating nothing until they had a dream or vision that revealed to them their future path in life.”

“How did you know what to do?”

“I learned how from a book of Ojibwa legends by Henry Schoolcraft of my adoptive Papa who was very interested in Indians even though he wasn’t one. I pleaded with Mrs. Loggerman that since I had recently found out I was Indian, I absolutely had to figure out how to do a fast and find my path in life, because I was now very confused. They agreed since it was summer and the weather was warm and there wasn’t much work to do. So I made my own fasting wigwam on a ridge overlooking a valley near the Loggerman place and Mrs. Loggerman checked on me every evening after dinner when she could leave her babies under the watchful eye of her husband.”

“How did you know how to make an Indian dress?”

“It was described in the book and Mrs. Loggerman helped me make it using an extra deerhide of her husband’s. I adorned it with all kinds of interesting things like porcupine quills and feathers from the Loggerman’s chickens – I couldn’t find any feathers from any wild bird, except I did find an eagle feather beneath an eagles nest, which I put in my hair.”

“How did it go?”

“After the second night there was a thunderstorm and it blew my wigwam away and I had to run home in the flashes of lightning. At first I thought I had failed but then realized I was successful. My Papa’s Amik appeared in a dream and said ‘Don’t forget me’ and I finally figured out it meant that I would use Amik in the same way as my adoptive Papa when he had it for inspiration on his desk in his study in Littleton and Fredericton.”

“And you then gave your dress to someone?”

“Since my fast was successful and I was returning to Saint John, I figured I might never wear the Indian dress I made again, so I gave it away to Minnie.”

Abbi in front of her fasting wigwam in her Indian dress she made with Mrs Loggerman’s help while she was at the Loggermans last summer. She gave the dress to Minnie an Indian girl she met

before she left.

“Who is Minnie?”

“She’s the Indian girl I met. Her real name was Saqteminimusis, which means ‘little blackberry’ which her mother gave her because she chose to be born when her mother was picking blackberries on the ridge, I decided to give it to her since she had not had a fast yet and was my size.”

“She is a princess? A Wola –what princess?”

“Yes, she is the daughter of Jack, who is a chief of his clan and his tribe too at an Indian village high up on the Saint John River. He and his brothers worked at the Loggerman sawmill for a few weeks and I was able to talk to them. Chief Jack spoke English very well and taught me Wolastoqiyik words. Wolastoqiyik is how the Maliseet Indians of New Brunswick call themselves, who are related to the Ojibwa from which I come. It means ‘people of the beautiful river’. Since Jack was a hereditary chief, that is something like a king, which is hereditary, therefore his daughter has to be a princess. But she or Jack don’t wear anything fancy normally. Indians nowadays look and dress much like everyone else.”

Peggy could have asked a million more questions since she knew nothing about Indians and had never even lived in the wilderness, but it was time to get on with making a costume.

“I’ll explain everything further in detail, Peggy[10],” finished Abbi. “Anyway, without feathers and deerskins, there is no point in making an Indian costume. I don’t think we will find any deerskin or feathers around here....”

“What shall we make, then?”

“I know!” exclaimed Abbi. “I think that we should make a costume befitting of the winter theme of the carnival, a costume of a ‘Snow Princess’. Let’s imagine a kingdom far in the north, with a castle made of ice, and in that castle is a king, with a daughter known far and wide as the ‘Snow Princess’. Now all we have to imagine is how she would be dressed.”

“She would probably be dressed in a gown white as snow,” began Peggy.

“Yes,” continued Abbi, “Her dress would be made of snow-white lacy fabric. And there would be snowflakes on her cuffs and her apron and she’d have to have a crown.”

“Some kinds of lace look like frost crystals. We could make snowflakes from lace.”

“I can imagine a giant snowflake collar!”

The two girls were interrupted. Matron Priscilla raised her voice to address all the girls: “Girls, girls. The material for our costume unfortunately has to come from the textiles and used clothes that we have available in our textile cupboards and trunks; thus you should all rummage through the boxes of materials and old clothes before you get carried away with your ideas. We can only use existing materials. It is best we take everything out of the boxes and get ideas of how to develop what you find into a costume. We want you to alter existing used clothes and only add new fabric if absolutely necessary. Let’s start by rummaging through what we have to work with.”

The girls rushed to the corner where textiles and trunks of old clothing were stored for the sewing classes, and started pulling them out, tossing them this way and that onto chairs and tables and floor. Peggy and Abbi joined the fray.

“Gosh,” said Peggy, “I hope we can at least find a white dress. If we’re to make a costume for the Snow Princess, we need to start with a white dress.”

“Maybe an old used bridal gown,” said Abbi, “discarded by the bride after the tragic failure of her marriage, to relieve her of memories of what could not be!”

“Oh, Abbi, you always put an imaginative story on everything!” exclaimed Peggy, by now familiar with Abbi’s imaginative nature.

“I suppose my imagination comes from my adoptive Papa who raised me. He had lots of imagination too – when he was in his study away from his work with the railway construction management company.”

Within minutes, the girls had all sorts of used clothes extracted from the trunks and boxes in which they had been stored, and spread all over, on the tables, chairs, and even on the floor. Everyone looked for clothes that had some flair and exotic qualities. The drab and simple items were immediately tossed aside.

Matron Priscilla addressed all the girls again: “Don’t grab something without cause, girls. If you can’t explain to me why you have selected a particular item, it has to go back. I don’t want anyone grabbing items or fabric just because they look nice. They must have a purpose in your design before you take it. We don’t want you to deprive use of it for another team who really needs it. Finally, check with me before you cut something up. I want to make sure it is not an item that is better to be mended and remain what it is, than to be transformed or taken apart.”

“What fortune!” exclaimed Abbi, finding a white bridal dress. “A bridal dress! There was one here! Maybe we can use that. It’s snow white. Can we use this, Matron Priscilla? Our costume is for a Snow Princess.”

Matron Priscilla looked at the dress. “That’s a good idea. There are often Snow Queens or Princesses at such carnivals. It suits the occasion. Let’s see what you have pulled out of the box. It looks like an old bride’s dress. It’s in fairly good shape, and it isn’t practical to repair a bride’s dress. Brides tend to want a brand new dress. They won’t buy a repaired old one. But it’s meant for an adult, so you’ll have to greatly reduce it to fit you, Abbi.”

“Alas,” said Abbi, “I have not yet experienced my spurt in growth. I am still almost the same size now as I was two years ago! The dress will have to be greatly reduced!”

“But then there will be so much white material, and we can make it all puffy and frilly and everything,” said Peggy. “We were thinking, Matron Priscilla, to add lace that is cut to look like snowflakes.”

Matron Priscilla replied: “Well, I think you’ll find lots of lace material that’s worn or torn in our supply. Lace is not repairable. But you can cut the good parts into the shape of snowflakes. That would be a very good way of using up old lace. Look through those boxes there. That’s where we throw old lace.”

Abbi and Peggy began to rummage for lace, and found plenty. Meanwhile Matron Priscilla went on to help some other girls.

“A snowflake has a six-pointed form.” said Abbi to Peggy. “What we need is lace that radiates in six directions. Then we can cut snowflakes out of it. But I doubt anyone makes hexagonal lace. We can only hope. If not, I suppose nobody will notice if we made snowflakes with eight points.”

“Let’s also give you a cape with a hood, and trim it with fur. Look over there – some old rabbit fur muffs that seem to be falling apart. We can cut that up for the fur trim.”

Matron Priscilla addressed all the girls again: “Also, girls, we have only three sewing machines. We’ll have to arrange to take turns using the machines. But much can be sewn by hand too.”

“I know how to operate a sewing machine,” Abbi said to Peggy. “My former Mama showed me a few times when I was in Fredericton. She made all her children’s clothes. Right now, she’s at Audora’s mansion called Tall Pines with nothing to do because Audora has hired help to do everything that she used to do. I wish she could return to the countryside where she grew up. She doesn’t fit in – as well as not having gotten over her husband’s disappearance. Audora said I couldn’t talk to her as I would bring back memories that may upset her at this time. The doctor said she only needs some time and rest before she is able to cope better.”

“I’m sorry about your adoptive Mama, Abbi. I expect if she was better and in charge she would insist you remain with her.”

“She didn’t want Audora to send me to the Loggermans last spring, but Madam Audora is very powerful. The only person more powerful than her is her son, Bradford, my adoptive Papa, the one who vanished. He always insisted she let him raise his family his way and not to interfere. He managed her fine. I suppose that the only other person stronger than Madam Audora would be Queen Victoria who rules the British Empire”

“Well if your adoptive Papa who fell into the river gorge has not been found, maybe he is still alive, and will come back.”

“That’s what I’m hoping, although I can’t imagine how he could survive and not contact us for close to a year.”

“Maybe he is lost in the wilderness and is far from any telegraphy station or even post office.”

Abbi too had thought of that and was keeping a glimmer of hope alive as long as there was no concrete evidence he drowned. But for now, she had to make the best of things, and drive all negative thoughts from her mind. Right now the prospect of making costumes and attending a winter carnival was filling her with great enthusiasm and inspiration. It was easy to forget all her troubles now!

Abbi and Peggy set to work. Abbi removed her apron and put the adult bridal gown on over her dress and Peggy began pinning it up and marking it for how much had to be cut off from the bottom or hemmed, how much the waist had to be taken in, and so on. Matron Priscilla came around to give pointers to the different groups of girls.

“Oh I’ve never enjoyed myself so much in a long time, Peggy,” said Abbi as they worked, spreading their work over a whole table. Everyone could use the sill along the windows and all five tables in the hall while the boys were not there.

Abbi was anticipating the event already, picturing it in her mind: “I can’t wait for the Carnival, Peggy. I’ll even see the famous actress Ophelia Summer! Do you think she will talk to me? I can ask her what Indian tribe she is from.”

Abbi stopped to make sure that the photo-card of Ophelia Summer was still in the pocket of her apron.

“What are you doing Abbi?”

“Just making sure my photo-card of Ophelia Summer is still there. I’d hate to have discovered it was not there, and that this is a dream.”

The costume-making for the Richdale Skating Carnival was fully under way. The enthusiasm for it among the girls was so great that some of them worked on their costumes in the evening in the main hall when they should have been doing school homework, or recreation! Matron Priscilla had to tell them the next day not to work on their costumes at the expense of their regular schoolwork.

“If you must work on your costumes in the evening free time, do so only when you have completed all your schoolwork assignments,” said Matron Priscilla in the morning breakfast announcements.

But many girls didn’t heed the recommendation, and had to hustle to complete assignments in the short period between breakfast and the beginning of classes at 9 AM.

ABBI’S TALENT IS RECOGNIZED

The schooling sessions in the morning were the standard ones, as set out by the government. Abbi was familiar with the readers they used too. This morning was literature and Superintendant Wellington had students read from the readers. When Abbi’s turn came to read from the book out loud, he was surprised how well Abbi read.

“You appear to be able to read far above what is expected for your age, Abbi,” he said.

“That’s because my adoptive Papa, the one who vanished and people think drowned, taught me from an early age, Mr. Wellington. He always read and wrote things in his study after getting home from a long day working in railway design – mostly bridges and culverts. Whenever I interrupted him he loved to talk to me about things and teach me. He had shelves covering an entire wall filled with books because he went to Harvard University and earned two degrees, first in the arts which means literature, languages, and such, and then in practical science where he learned everything needed to do engineering designing.”

“Well, I can see his intellect has rubbed off on you. We’ll have to have you read from the reader at a higher level with the older students. It is unusual for an Indian girl to acquire much education these days, and you were lucky to have had such an educated adopted Papa.”

“Yes, Superintendant Wellington. He was also interested in Indians on account of his being inspired by Henry Longfellow who was his professor of language when he first went to university. Mr. Longfellow then retired to write his long poem about Indians, The Song of Hiawatha, and Papa became inspired by it to learn more about Indians and to read the same books that Mr. Longfellow did by a man named Henry Schoolcraft.”

“Yes Abbi, I know about The Song of Hiawatha and his using the real legends gathered by Henry Schoolcraft. We have a copy of The Song of Hiawatha in our library. We have quite a good library here, Abbi, in the shelves in the parlour next to our offices. Children who wish to read sometimes sit there. Since this orphan home is run by the wealthy women of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, we get many books from the libraries of wealthy people. There is no lack of books here.”

That was wonderful, thought Abbi. At the log cabin school in Pinewood when she was with the Loggerman’s there were almost no books at all, and the teacher, Mr. Turbot, had to pass around his own books.

“Well,” continued Superintendant Wellington, “since the children here have come to accept the fact you are an Indian orphan, and even the boys are interested in your adventures with the beavers and whatnot, perhaps we can invite you to enlighten us some more about Indians, Abbi. Would you like to do that?”

“I would be happy to talk about what I know about Indians. I studied about them last summer after I learned from my adoptive Mama I had been adopted when I was a baby. I have my Papa’s copy of The Song of Hiawatha as well as two of his books by Henry Schoolcraft. I took them when I went to the Loggermans, and brought them back. They are in my trunk underneath Amik. But I have to keep them, just like Amik, in case my Papa is not drowned and returns.”

Superintendant Wellington then addressed the whole class: “Since Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is a famous poet in the English-speaking world, perhaps in the next literature class we can study his poems, and give particular attention toThe Song of Hiawatha, children, so that Abbi can also give us some of her insights into Indian customs and language. Would you like that?”

There was a chorus of agreement. Anything departing from the ordinary routine was welcome to the children!

“Very well then, next time we’ll read excerpts from The Song of Hiawatha, and Abbi, as your assignment, think of interesting information about Indians that you think the children would like to know, or ought to know.”

“May I explain one thing, Superintendant Wellington?” asked Abbi.

“Yes, go ahead.”

“The Song of Hiawatha verse in in a special meter and when I was seven my adoptive Papa turned an Indian legend from Schoolcraft’s book into the same kind of verse. It was called Aggodagauda and His Daughter. Our family and my aunt’s – my adoptive aunt’s – family performed it in our community, and Papa played Aggodagauda and I played his daughter. When I was in the wilderness recently, I turned a Glooscap legend of the Micmac and Maliseet Indians into verse too. If you like, I can read it to the class. I sent a copy to Mr. Longfellow when I wrote him to inform him of my Papa, my adoptive Papa, falling into the Saint John River and disappearing. He wrote back that my poem was very good for a ten-year-old.”

Superintendant Wellington chuckled to discover that this new resident of the orphan home had corresponded with the famous poet. He said: “With an endorsement like that, we simply must hear it. And, as the children already know, the amusing Indian legends about the character called Glooscap are quite popular at least in this region.”

Abbi beamed with pride. She was becoming more and more like a teacher, even a professor, by the minute.

“But now, children, let us turn to arithmetic. I expect you are not particularly advanced in arithmetic Abbi?”

“No,” replied Abbi, shaking her head. “Although Papa knew all about arithmetic for his engineering calculations, he never did any engineering work at home in his study. But he did help me when I had arithmetic problems when I started school in Fredericton.”

Everyone, including Abbi, could not wait for arithmetic in particular and the morning school sessions in general to be over so they could again work on their projects for the Carnival.

RIVALRIES AND POETRY ABOUT INDIAN LEGENDS

The Richdale Winter Carnival was only a couple weeks away, and the girls worked diligently, sometimes in their enthusiasm carrying it on into the evening and, as we said, neglecting schoolwork assignments.

Rivalries were developing between the groups of girls. While Abbi and Peggy were developing a costume suited to an imagined princess living in an arctic castle of ice, other girls were making costumes based on characters in various children’s books. They were: Little Red Riding Hood, Jack Frost, Old Mother Hubbard, and Little Miss Muffet.

“I’m sure to win,” said Marcia, the leader of Abbi’s major rival group. “My costume is much better sewn than yours. Look at all your poor workmanship! We have better sewing skills than you and Peggy.”

“We’ll see,” Abbi replied. “Matron Priscilla said that the decision will be from the strength of applause from the spectators when we skate out and present ourselves. So it’s not just a question of how well the costume is made, but the overall effect of each of our presentations.”

“Ha, ha,” laughed the rival girls. “We hope you fall flat on your face!”

“No I won’t,” said Abbi. “I can skate. Anyway, I have been practicing every day on the ice in the back pond with Peggy.”

“Well, we’ll see who is the better skater, Abbi. I skated all winter in the last home in which I lived. I’m sure the attendees will like my costume and figure skating better!”

Later, when Abbi was outside at the pond in the back with Peggy, she was having doubts about her ability to perform on skates strongly enough to leave an impression. Sitting on a bench, Abbi attached the skating blades to the bottom of her boots with the leather straps used for that purpose: “I wish we had proper skates, with blades properly attached to boots, Peggy. These strap-on blades do not always stay straight.”

“We’ll just have to make sure the blades are sharp and the straps are tight before you perform, Abbi,” said Peggy. “You won’t fall. You won’t be leaping like some men and boys try to do.”

There were a few other children skating around, not just some rival girls, but boys too. A boy skated past and did an impressive leap into the air and came down without falling. He then came over to Abbi and Peggy to tease them. “You’re lucky, Abbi, that they don’t have competition between boys and girls. Otherwise I’d win over you, handily, in skating. Did you see my jump?”

“Judges do not expect girls or ladies to jump. It isn’t lady-like. Anyway, who would want to see a Snow Princess jump!” Abbi, having her skates on now, got up from the bench. “Watch me! I’ve mastered the twirl.” She went out onto the ice. “Look. You start your spin with arms out, and then you pull your arms inward and it increases your spin.”

Abbi did a demonstration, but, becoming dizzy she lost her balance and fell down. A group of the rival girls skated by and laughed at her.

“I just got dizzy!” Abbi retorted.

“Come, Abbi,” said Peggy. “Ignore the teasing. You’ll do fine.” She helped Abbi to her feet.

“I became dizzy, Peggy,” Abbi repeated.

“With practice, you won’t get dizzy, Abbi,” replied Peggy. “The judges will be impressed if you finished your presentation with a spin.”

The boys and girls practiced their spins, jumps, and figures every evening, each attempting to outdo the other. Costumed or not, they could all show off their skating skills at the Carnival.

The normal routines of having dinner, taking a break in the evening, going to sleep, getting up, having breakfast, doing assigned chores, taking morning lessons, having a midday break, . . .all continued in the normal fashion; but everything seemed to fly by for the girls in anticipation of the afternoon sessions of costume-making. Even for Abbi, who normally loved school, the costume-making and the prospect of attending a winter carnival that would feature a famous actress who was of Indian origins, dominated her mind and soul – except perhaps the anticipation of the next class in literature in which they would discuss The Song of Hiawatha.

The boys similarly looked forward to the projects Superintendant Wellington led them in preparations at the rink. While the girls were bent over their costume-making, the boys went over to the Richdale Exhibition Hall that was a rink in winter, in the orphanage’s wagons, to plan and design the décor. Since only six boys from last year were still at the Orphan Home, it was all very new for most of them and Superintendant Wellington allowed fresh ideas to emanate from them instead of having the boys repeat what they had done the previous year.

“The exhibition hall is so ordinary and drab,” said a boy named Gary when the boys and Superintendant Wellington first gathered in the Richdale Exhibition Hall/Rink to plan what they were going to do. “All attendees can see are the flags and coats of arms along the balcony and the picture of Queen Victoria at the end.”

“Well we cannot remove those. They come with the exhibition hall,” said Superintendant Wellington. “But we can certainly temporarily add decorations to distract from the regular decor.”

“We could have lots of flags that look like icicles and have them hanging on ropes from above.” someone suggested.

Lots of ideas were thrown about, but they had to be practical and possible to achieve with the modest budget at hand.

And so it went. The days flew by. Abbi could not believe that being at the Orphan Home could be so enjoyable. Not only would she be attending a winter carnival, but Superintendant Wellington had even be asked to teach the children about what she knew about Indians!

And it wasn’t but a few days that it was English literature time again, when the class would study Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and look specifically at his The Song of Hiawatha . Abbi made certain she brought her own verse in Hiawatha meter about the Glooscap legend of how the rabbit got long ears.

After the breakfast and opening formalities were over and English literature class had begun Superintendant Wellington commences by giving the children a brief biography of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow – how he became a professor of languages at Harvard University near Boston, how he wrote his first famous long poem Evangeline while still a professor, and then wrote The Song of Hiawatha after retiring from his professorship.

“You children probably know a great deal about The Song of Hiawatha already. It is a very famous poem. Most of our popular knowledge about Indians comes from his poem, since only the scholars actually read the original ethnographic works of Henry Schoolcraft. Perhaps you already know some of his verse which is in one of our school readers. For example, the following about Hiawatha’s childhood...”

He opened the book and read:

“By the shores of Gitche Gumee’

By the shining Big-Sea-Water,

Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,

Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.

“Some of you must have heard those lines before. What does Gitche Gumee refer to, anyone?”

Abbi raised her hand.

“I know you know Abbi. Does anyone else know?”

An older boy raised his hand. “Lake Superior.” he said.

“That’s right. Why is he situating his poem events at Lake Superior?”

A girl replied: “Because it is about Lake Superior Indians.”

Abbi raised her hand.

“Yes Abbi. I can see you have some special insight into it.”

Abbi stood and replied: “Mr. Longfellow borrowed legends and information from Mr. Schoolcraft’s books and he wrote about the Lake Superior Indians when he was an Indian agent at Sault Ste Marie and was married to a woman who was half Ojibwa on her mother’s side. My Papa said Mr. Schoolcraft basically learned about those Indians who are known as Ojibwa. That is why Mr. Longfellow situated his poem around Lake Superior. Gitche Gumee means ‘large water’”

“Very good, Abbi. Thus The Song of Hiawatha is actually about the Ojibwa of Lake Superior, not Indians in general, like many people believe. I will read some more, children. Notice the interesting meter – it is reminiscent of drumming...

Dark behind it rose the forest,

Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees,

Rose the firs with cones upon them;

Bright before it beat the water,

Beat the clear and sunny water,

Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.

There the wrinkled old Nokomis

Nursed the little Hiawatha,

Rocked him in his linden cradle,

Bedded soft in moss and rushes,

Safely bound with reindeer sinews;

Stilled his fretful wail by saying,

‘Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!’

Lulled him into slumber, singing,

‘Ewa-yea! my little owlet!

Who is this, that lights the wigwam?

With his great eyes lights the wigwam?

Ewa-yea! my little owlet!’

Many things Nokomis taught him

Of the stars that shine in heaven;

Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet,

Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses;

Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits,

Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs,

Flaring far away to northward

In the frosty nights of Winter;

Showed the broad white road in heaven,

Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows,

Running straight across the heavens,

Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows.

At the door on summer evenings

Sat the little Hiawatha;

Heard the whispering of the pine-trees,

Heard the lapping of the waters,

Sounds of music, words of wonder;

’Minne-wawa!” said the Pine-trees,

Mudway-aushka!” said the water.

Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee,

Flitting through the dusk of evening,

With the twinkle of its candle

Lighting up the brakes and bushes,

And he sang the song of children,

Sang the song Nokomis taught him:

‘Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly,

Little, flitting, white-fire insect,

Little, dancing, white-fire creature,

Light me with your little candle,

Ere upon my bed I lay me,

Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!’

Saw the moon rise from the water

Rippling, rounding from the water,

Saw the flecks and shadows on it,

Whispered, ‘What is that, Nokomis?’

And the good Nokomis answered:

‘Once a warrior, very angry,

Seized his grandmother, and threw her

Up into the sky at midnight;

Right against the moon he threw her;

’T is her body that you see there.’

Saw the rainbow in the heaven,

In the eastern sky, the rainbow,

Whispered, ‘What is that, Nokomis?’

And the good Nokomis answered:

‘’T is the heaven of flowers you see there;

All the wild-flowers of the forest,

All the lilies of the prairie,

When on earth they fade and perish,

Blossom in that heaven above us.’

When he heard the owls at midnight,

Hooting, laughing in the forest,

’What is that?’ he cried in terror,

‘What is that,’ he said, ‘Nokomis?’

And the good Nokomis answered:

‘That is but the owl and owlet,

Talking in their native language,

Talking, scolding at each other.’

Then the little Hiawatha

Learned of every bird its language,

Learned their names and all their secrets,

How they built their nests in Summer,

Where they hid themselves in Winter,

Talked with them whene’er he met them,

Called them ‘Hiawatha’s Chickens.’

Of all beasts he learned the language,

Learned their names and all their secrets,

How the beavers built their lodges,

Where the squirrels hid their acorns,

How the reindeer ran so swiftly,

Why the rabbit was so timid,

Talked with them whene’er he met them,

Called them ‘Hiawatha’s Brothers.’

“This is just a small excerpt, children. As you can see, it is a large poem. After describing Hiawatha’s childhood, the poem moves on to the following chapters - Hiawatha and Mudjekeewis, Hiawatha's Fasting, Hiawatha's Friends, Hiawatha's Sailing, Hiawatha's Fishing, Hiawatha and the Pearl-Feather, Hiawatha's Wooing, Hiawatha's Wedding-Feast, The Son of the Evening Star, Blessing the Cornfields, Picture-Writing, Hiawatha's Lamentation, Pau-Puk-Keewis, The Hunting of Pau-Puk-Keewis, The Death of Kwasind, The Ghosts, The Famine, The White Man's Foot, Hiawatha's Departure. With 22 chapters of verse, The Song of Hiawatha was quite a major work. Before I pass the book around and let some older students read some more passages to the class, Abbi has offered to read to us her attempt in doing what Longfellow did – to convert Indian legend – in this case a Glooscap story – into verse in Hiawatha meter. Will you read it to the class?”

Abbi couldn’t wait. So far only a few people had read it besides Mr. Longfellow in her letter to him. There was Mrs. Loggerman, Mildred her friend at Pinewood, and Jeffrey the handyman at the Loggermans where she was last.

“Come to the front, Abbi, and make it a proper recital. Dramatize it a little with movements if you are inclined.”

Abbi didn’t hesitate. She brought her sheets of paper with her poem on them to the front. She began: “I made this poem in the same meter as in the Hiawatha, which means each line has exactly eight beats.”

As she read it, she did some pantomiming of the action while holding her papers and reading.

How Rabbit Got Long Ears

a Glooscap Legend

Once upon a time in memory,

When the Rabbit’s ears were stubby,

When his ears were not so floppy,

Rabbit found the days so boring,

Felt like he should do some mischief,

Play a prank, a joke to fool them,

Fool the creatures of the woodland,

He would tell them, this he’d tell them:

Tell them that the sun is fading,

It will set and there be staying,

Leave the land so dark and freezing,

Like a winter never ending.

Rabbit told the Beaver firstly,

Told him this invented story.

Scared was Beaver, who then scurried

Off to inform all the others.

First the Beaver told the Chipmunk,

Then the Chipmunk told the Squirrel,

Then the Squirrel told the Raccoon,

And so on and on and then when

All the animals had heard this,

Heard the awful, dreadful, story,

They were all so very worried.

“That is awful, that is dreadful,”

Said the creatures of the forest.

“If the sun will stop its shining,

Earth will darken and be chilly.

We must work and strive to prepare,

As we do when winter’s coming,

Even though we’re still in summer.”

Squirrel began nuts to gather;

Beaver hastened collect branches;

Animals who slept in winter

Ate to fatten up their bodies,

Build up fat around their bellies.

‘Long came Glooscap, Indian leader,

For to chat with nature’s creatures;

But he found them all so busy,

Without time to stop for talking;

Without time around the fire,

Without time for sitting, chatting,

Without time for tea and biscuits.

Without time for singing, dancing,

Without time for teaching babies.

Glooscap wondered what was happening,

Why his visit was not welcomed,

Why none seemed to have a moment,

Why they all kept busy working,

Never for to stop for talking,

Sitting, chatting, telling stories!

So Glooscap he asked the creatures.

First asked Bear this very question:

“What’s the cause of all this rushing?

All this work with no relaxing?”

Spoke the Bear and said he thusly,

In a low voice very gruffly:

“Soon the sun will set and stay there,

Earth will become cold like winter.

That is why we all are rushing

We’re preparing for a winter

Storing food and fattening bodies

Have no time for conversation,

Have no time for sitting, chatting,

Have no time for tea and biscuits,

Have no time for singing, dancing,

Have no time for teaching babies,

Have no time to welcome Glooscap.

Glooscap said it was all error.

“Sun indeed will keep on rising,

Keep on rising and keep shining,

Keep on lighting, and too warming,

In the manner it has always.

Where’d you hear this kind of story?”

Bear then said, said this to Glooscap:

“It’s Raccoon who has this told me.

Was from him that this was told me.

That is from whom I have heard it,

From the mouth of woodland’s masked-one.”

“Hmm,” said Glooscap, thinking, pondering.

“Then I must go find the masked-one,

Ask him where it is he heard it.

Thank you for the information.”

Glooscap then went ‘bout the forest,

Looked for Raccoon for to ask him,

Where it’s from that he had heard it.

Raccoon paused from fishing, eating,

Took a moment answered Glooscap:

“T’was from Squirrel, Squirrel told me.

From his small lips it was chattered.”

So Glooscap went find the Squirrel,

Asked the Squirrel where he’d heard it.

“T’was from Chipmunk that I heard it,

Chipmunk told me as he scurried

All about the forest carpet.”

Thus Glooscap he kept inquiring,

Till at last he came to Beaver.

Beaver stopped his gathering branches,

Spoke thus to the noble Glooscap:

“T’was from Rabbit that I heard it,

Heard the sun will stop its shining,

Stop its path of rising, setting,

Leaving earth so dark and chilly,

Dim and freezing just like winter.”

As he’d done with all the others,

Glooscap said there was no truth here.

“You should stop and act as normal,

Nothing strange is gonna happen

Go back to your sitting chatting,

Having tea around the campfire,

Dancing, singing, telling stories,

Teaching all your little babies,

Everything you did like normal”.

Then Glooscap the Indian leader,

Went now on to find the Rabbit.

Rabbit was the final creature,

There was no one else to ask it,

Must be he from where it started!

Rabbit was who Glooscap sought now,

Rabbit was the one to ask from,

Rabbit had to do explaining,

Why he started all this mischief.

But the Rabbit had been listening;

Knew Glooscap would come a-calling,

Asking him from whom he heard it,

After having asked all creatures,

Leaving none more in the forest,

None towards to point a finger.

Rabbit thus avoided Glooscap,

Looked for places good for hiding,

Hiding so as not be questioned,

Not be found that he’s the prankster,

He’s who started all this mischief.

So he crouched in hiding places,

In some burrows, under branches,

In the grasses, in the bushes.

Along came Glooscap walking briskly,

Walking looking for the Rabbit,

Looking this way, looking that way,

Searching for to ask the question.

Glooscap saw a bush start shaking,

Reached his hand right down inside it.

What was there that caused the shaking?

That was what Glooscap was wondering.

Felt some ears and then he grasped them,

Pulled to lift them but the Rabbit,

Held to branches and resisted,

Causing Glooscap pull much harder,

Causing ears to stretch and lengthen,

Till the Rabbit stopped resisting,

Up he came from bushes swinging,

By the ears Glooscap was grasping,

Looking red-faced, very foolish.

Glooscap now had found the prankster,

Found from whom the rumour started,

Found the liar who caused the mischief,

Found the source of all the trouble!

That’s the story, that’s the legend,

Why the Rabbit’s ears are lengthy;

Why the ears of creature hoppy,

Starting short, became so floppy.”

The children enjoyed it, some clapped, some laughed.

“Very good, Abbi,” said Superintendant Wellington. “I can see how Mr. Longfellow would have approved of it. It is considerably advanced for your age.”

“I worked very hard at it, changing lines a thousand times.”

“Perhaps, children, after we have studied Longfellow’s poem, we can all see if we can come up each of us with a short poem in the Hiawatha meter. Like Abbi said – you must design each line to be eight beats. And as you heard it isn’t necessary to rhyme. Well, first let’s read some more from The Song of Hiawatha. I will pass around the book, and each person read some lines until I say stop, and pass it to the next.”

Abbi could not have been more thrilled. For the first time ever, she was in a class that was actually studying The Song of Hiawatha and inviting her to teach children about what she knew about it and about the Ojibwa Indians!!!

The literature class took up most of the morning, and went by all too fast. And then it was lunch and then costume-making. It was as if everything she had ever wanted was coming true in spite of the fact that her adoptive Grandmother had sent her here to get rid of her. It was ironic, she thought, how her adoptive Grandmother’s actions had now twice resulted in benefiting her in a way she could not have expected – by sending her to the Loggermans she was able to learn about Indians, and by sending her to the orphan home she was able to teach children about Indians, and agt the same time realize her dream of attending a real winter skating costume carnival like she had seen on the cover of the Canadian Illustrated News. She had seen the illustration when she was six, and had asked her adoptive Papa if she could keep the cover, He had cut it out and put it in a frame and on her wall for a while. She had it now in her trunk with her belongings without its frame. She showed it to Peggy that evening at bedtime.

“It’s getting worn because I’ve kept it since I was six, Peggy. It depicts an actual event in Montreal at their Victoria Hall. The woman and man in the center, Papa said, are actors who are depicting the marriage of Princess Louise and Marquis of Lorne. Princess Louise is the second youngest daughter of Queen Victoria. I’ve always pretending I was there skating around. I think the rink here in Richdale is probably much smaller, but I’m fine with that.”

“Yes, Abbi,” said Peggy studying it. “It looks like a very big rink. Richdale’s rink is probably less than half the size.”

After they had studied and commented on it enough, Abbi took it back and returned it to her folder of letters and writings she kept in her trunk along with Amik and some books belonging to her adoptive Papa that she had taken with her to the wilderness and still had with her.

The girls then got into bed and under the covers.

After a moment, Peggy remarked, “Your poem about how the rabbit got long ears that you presented in class was very good,” said Peggy from her bed. “You should become a poet like Mr. Longfellow. I can even imagine for the Carnival we could have made a rabbit costume and pantomimed the legend while I was reading your poem. We could start with short ears that, when pulled, become long.”

Fancy Dress Entertainment at the Victoria Skating Rink, ‘Canadian Illustrated News’, April 1, 1871 (NLC-4377)

The illustration that had inspired Abbi when she saw it

when she was six.

“I don’t know Peggy,” said Abbi gazing from her bed at the ceiling. “I thought of it but I think the rabbit in the story is a boy rabbit, a mischievous boy. It doesn’t behave much like a girl rabbit. Besides I think you are too small to play the part of Glooscap even for a moment. Glooscap was I think almost seven feet tall. If we were boys then I think a costume about Glooscap and the rabbit would have been perfect. I think we made the right decision in making our costume a Snow Princess. ”

Matron Helen clapped her hands to signal all the girls in the dormitory stop their chatting and get into bed, and turned off the gas lights, leaving only a small one burning in order to get to the washrooms.

Winter Carnival Time
Arrives

RICHDALE SKATING CARNIVAL ARRIVES

Then finally the big day arrived. It was now the second Sunday of February. The Richdale Winter Skating Carnival unfolded on schedule, ready to receive all the Richdale socialites coming together under the roof of the Richdale Exhibition Hall, now transformed into the Rink. Many more were expected to come in their carriages from Saint John as well.

The day before the event, with weather well below freezing, water was added to the ice surface to give it a fresh surface that was mirror smooth.

The Orphan Home children were shepherded to the rink in several groups by Superintendant Wellington and the matrons. Since they had a special role at the Skating Carnival, the children arrived early. Besides the Orphan Home children, others who arrived early included the members of the Richdale Regimental Band who would supply the music.

Upon arrival, the children were directed to a specified section to the side of the ice, and told to keep together in the same area. Raised benches had been constructed for them so they could see and be seen. The costume wearers had put on their costumes at the Orphan Home, and come with their coats and hats on top, to be removed on arrival. Those wishing to do so were permitted to put on their skate blades and test the ice, while the final preparations of the skating carnival were being made.

Abbi hastened to strap the blades onto her boots. She kept her coat on top of her costume for now.

She stepped out onto the mirror-smooth, freshly made ice, with barely any streaks in it yet. She pushed off with her skates but stayed close to where all the other children were. As she practiced skating, she studied the setting in which the Richdale Skating Carnival was to be held. She saw they were inside a large building with a high ceiling. There was a narrow balcony going around, midway up, all around the sides. There weren’t any spectator seats back then since such events were not spectator events. Attendees were participants. However at every such event there were always many anyway who hung around the sides to socialize and observe.

From the balcony railings, flags of every kind, but particularly the Union Jack, flag of Canada, and flag of New Brunswick, were draped over the side, so they were visible from below. At the end, on the balcony railing part, there was a picture of Queen Victoria—the same print, she thought, that she had seen in many other institutional walls. It must have been printed in the thousands, she thought. The Richdale Regimental Band was settled in with their instruments on the balcony above the Queen.

At the other end of the Rink, where the entrances were, there was a big clock. Windows on all the walls let in daylight. When dark outside, such rinks and halls employed gas lighting. But this particular event was on Sunday afternoon, so no gas lighting was required. There was certain to be a limelight spotlight here up on the balcony at the end. She had never seen one before, but Papa had told her about that sort of thing being used in theatres to put a very strong light on the performer.

The Rink had ice now, but Abbi could imagine how it looked in the summer as a regular exhibition hall for summertime festive events such as exhibitions, sporting events, lectures, and more.

Abbi heard some practice sounds from The Richdale Regimental Band. It echoed in the still-empty rink. They would provide musical background for the entire affair, ranging from rousing march-like pieces to waltz music. Below the Band and below the Queen’s picture affixed to the balcony, Abbi saw there was a raised platform set up on the ice. This was probably something the boys had constructed. It was festively decorated for the occasion. On top of this stage, there was a row of chairs and a podium. Important people such as organizers and judges would be seated here, Abbi imagined. And it would be from this platform, Abbi guessed, that the featured guest, actress Ophelia Summer, would speak and open the event.

On the side of the rink opposite to where the Orphan Home children were gathered Abbi saw some benches which could be used by attendees for putting on skates, or simply resting, or generally looking on. True spectators did not use the benches for watching, obviously, because when sitting one couldn’t see anything. Spectators would need to either stand at the sides, or serious ones could go up to the narrow balcony area to be able to look down over the railing.

“They should have raised benches like the boys have constructed for us here, for spectators in general – so they can be above the events,” Abbi thought.

The raised benches the boys had built for the Orphan Home children went up in staircase fashion, so that children could climb them and see above the skaters; and also be seen from the ice by the crowd. Abbi was glad the orphans had a way to get above the heads of the crowd. Otherwise she would not be able to see anything going on at the platform. She would not be able to see Ophelia Summer over the heads of the adults if she couldn’t get up high.

“Keep together, here,” Matron Priscilla repeated to the children for about the third time. “We want the public to see you. We do not want you to be running all over and into the balcony. If you leave this area it is only to skate.”

The children who were not wearing costumes wore their Sunday best clothes – the clothes that they did not use every day – with added festive decorations like snowflakes made of paper, or some twigs of fir tree or a hat with cotton added on top to represent snow. Outside of the formal costume wearers of the competition, few children had anything that might be seen as a genuine costume. One boy however wore black clothes, carried a broom, covered his face in soot and presented himself as a chimney sweep, demonstrating that it was sometimes possible to achieve a good costume without much effort. Another boy had a straw hat heaped with cotton, plus a red woolly scarf. Boys were good at being inventive and economical, even if they could not sew a stitch!

Exploring further as she tested her skating, Abbi noted that there would be hot drinks served too, such as hot cider or hot cocoa, since stands for serving them were being set up too at the sides – no doubt provided by the host, the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, also to raise money.

Seeing Abbi looking around, but not looking up above her head, a couple of the boys came towards her, boasted of their involvement in setting things up, and directed her attention upward. “See up there, Abbi? The boys created that. We put it up before you girls arrived.”

Abbi looked up. What the boys had erected was completely original. They had devised an array of long thin white pointed flags of varying lengths made to resemble icicles, hanging down from an array of six ropes, coming together at the center.

“Oh that’s wonderful, Billy,” exclaimed Abbi. “It looks like we have icicles hanging overhead. However did you get it all up there?”

Billy was keen to boast of the clever design of it all. “First, we laid all the ropes and the slender icicle-flags out on the rink surface, and then with the six outside ends of the ropes fixed to balcony railings, we pulled it all up from the middle with a pulley and then tied up the rope by which it was pulled up. See, the middle rope is holding it up. To bring them all down we only need to untie the middle rope which is affixed over there at the side and lower it the same way we raised it. See, with six ropes not only is it icicles hanging down but it is also a giant snowflake because a snowflake has six points.”

“You boys certainly are ingenious,” said Abbi. “It is wonderful. I can now see that it is one giant snowflake too. I would have loved to be involved with making that, if we girls weren’t busy making our costumes. Whoever thought it up is very inventive!”

Billy and other boys who were with him basked in the praise. Normally most of the Orphan Home children were at the age where boys think girls are to be avoided as much as possible, and vice versa; hence the two groups tended to be quite separate from each other and very competitive. But the boys liked it when they were able to impress the girls, even if they didn’t want any involvement with them.

Abbi saw that by now other children were practicing skating and some of the costume wearers were anxious to remove their outer wear from their costumes and put their costumes in order, and were beginning to do so. Abbi decided to do the same. She took off the coat she had on top of her costume. She gave it to Peggy. “Put it with the other coats, please Peggy.”

She straightened her costume as Peggy put Abbi’s coat with the others.

“How do I look?” Abbi asked Peggy, hoping it was all straight and looking just as they had planned it.

“Breathtaking!” exclaimed Peggy. “With all the extra fabric from the large bride’s dress and all that lace you look positively puffy, puffy like fresh-fallen powder snow! You are a personification of puffy snow itself, Abbi!”

Abbi indeed was like everything Peggy said. The dress had been made very puffy as it was draped abundantly with layers of fabric and lace made to resemble snowflakes. In addition she had a cape over her shoulders with a narrow trim of rabbit fur. To top it off they had made a crown from paper and wire, with the tip of it resembling a snowflake. They had even made paper snowflakes for earrings and a wand with a large snowflake on the end. For this special occasion Abbi also had her hair tied up.

“You look wonderful,” said Peggy again, feeling pride in helping make it. She helped Abbi adjust the cape and other elements of the costume so that everything was perfect. “And you look so sophisticated with your hair up. We’re sure to win!”

“I hope my skating will be as good.”

“Well it’s our overall presentation that counts, Abbi. Don’t try too hard. We’ll do our pantomime just like we practiced on the pond at the back of the Orphan Home. You’re going to look splendid. Our ‘Snow Princess’ costume at least fits in with wintertime. What has Little Red Riding Hood, or Little Miss Muffet, to do with winter? Look how out of place Marcia’s Little Miss Muffet looks wearing skates.”

“Well,” replied Abbi, “there’s Marg’s group with their costume of ‘Jack Frost’. She’s playing a man. She should have called herself ‘Jill Frost’. That would have worked better”

“Not everyone has your imagination, Abbi. I would never have thought of changing ‘Jack Frost’ to ‘Jill Frost’. Nonetheless, have you ever seen a more sinister icicled creature, with that long nose and icicle on its end? Why would people approve of anything that sinister-looking in a festive event?”

Each team obviously thought their costume was the best, and the rivalry was intense.

“You can’t possibly win the competition, Abbi,” said her biggest rival, Marcia, approaching her, dressed as Little Miss Muffet. “Your costume doesn’t mean anything. Who knows what a ‘Snow Princess’ really looks like? You made it up from your imagination. At least we had lots of pictures to go by since Little Miss Muffet has been in a nursery rhyme a long time and there are lots of pictures of her in books.”

“Ignore her, Abbi,” said Peggy.

The children now began to witness all the refined ladies and gentlemen of Richdale society coming in through the main entrance on the other side, chatting with one another, and each presenting their own particular air of wealth and importance.

These were late Victorian times when the model for such affairs was the traditional social gathering called a “ball”, with music and dancing of the waltz, often with people dressed up in costume if it was a costume ball. The Skating Carnival was such a gathering, except that the waltzing—for those who had mastered it—was done on skates. As in the traditional ball, there were many who remained on the sidelines. These people, who did not engage in skating or wearing costumes, formed the spectator contingent, who helped themselves to the food and drink provided at tables on the side, mingled, and interacted with one another around the sides either at rink level or on the narrow balconies that ran along the sides.

There was also a sense of winter regatta at such an event. Talented skaters were keen to show off their skating skills, particularly their ability to describe figures on the ice or to do leaps over barrels, if the organizers were prepared to create an open space for them at some point in the programme.

Most attendees, however, came just to dress up, skate, and have an enjoyable time.

Showing off costumes was a major feature of this particular event. Being admired for having the best costume, funniest costume, etc. was a large part of the programme. For most, therefore, a costume was imperative! It was not necessary, however, to be extravagant. Not too many skaters went so far as to create spectacular tailored outfits. Mostly ladies might create a thematic hat and attach thematic adornments to regular clothing. Thus, complete tailored costumes were not common; so when they appeared, they were quite special, and got much attention.

Abbi had learned that there would be general judging of costumes at this event as was the custom at other such events elsewhere. The carnival organizing committee of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society had established the following judging categories for costumes – men’s, women’s, boys’, girls’ – with prizes for the best costume in each category. The judging of the Orphan Home girls costumes was a separate event planned for the end.

After some practice skating, Abbi and Peggy returned to the Orphan Home benches to rest. Realizing that among the people entering, one of them would be the famed actress, Abbi said: “Let’s watch for the entry of actress Ophelia Summer, Peggy.” They climbed as high as they could to be able to watch the people entering. The entry to the rink was on the side to their right, below the clock, which was opposite to the side with the band, the Queen’s picture, and the stage or platform.

Abbi had her photo-card of Ophelia Summer with her. She had made sure to create a pocket in her costume for it. Besides Matron Priscilla, who had given her the photograph, she had only confided her interest in Ophelia Summer to Peggy, who she felt she could trust with the secret and who would not tease her.

“Do you see her? Do you see Ophelia Summer, the famous actress?” asked Peggy seeing Abbi craning her neck watching the people entering.

“No, I don’t,” said Abbi, who had climbed as high on the elevated benches as she could. “I have been straining my head and watching the entry area so much, I fear my neck will develop a cramp soon.”

“She’ll probably be fashionably late,” said Peggy. “She’s the main attraction of the event this year. I know that the orphans are supposed to be the centre of attention, but the people have all seen orphans before. They will probably get twice as many guests as normal just to see her, with guests even coming from Saint John. She is famous everywhere, they say—everywhere that people follow theatre. This place will be very crowded!”

“You’re right, Peggy,” said Abbi, turning her head back to rest her neck muscles. “All eyes will be on her. And she will probably not arrive until moments before the start has been scheduled. A famous person like her just has to make a big entrance when all the other people are already in.”

Suddenly, someone poked Abbi from the floor below. She turned. It was her former adoptive brother Mark, now nine years old, and dressed in finely tailored clothes, not a costume. “Mark!” said Abbi. “How is it you are here?”

“This is an important Richdale social event,” Mark said. “Grandmama Audora just has to be seen here. She’s part of the organizing committee, even though she doesn’t really like the organizing ladies very much. She dragged me here, since I’m nine and she said it would be good experience for me to start to meet the important people of Richdale. I think she expects one day I will take over the Company from her and wants to prepare me for Richdale society.”

“I completely forgot about Audora,” said Abbi, “and that she is actually part of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, and would be here. But I’d rather not talk to her. I fear she will spoil my happiness, as she always does, with her decision-making.” Realizing Mark did not know Peggy, Abbi added: “This is Peggy, Mark. She helped me make my costume. Peggy, this is Mark, the oldest of the Woodrow brothers with whom I grew up.”

“Hi, Peggy,” said Mark to Peggy. Then he added to Abbi: “Come away a moment Abbi. I have something I want to talk to you about more private-like.”

She climbed down from the bleachers and joined Mark at the floor level and stepped off to the side with him. Mark said: “You won’t believe it! Grandmama can skate! She will actually put on skates here and will show off her skating skills! She said she was quite a skater in her youth and she always attended such skating events with her husband, when he was alive.”

“Yes, she told me at her office when I came back that she sometimes puts on skates.”

“Can you imagine her skating? This I have to see! She says the chairwoman and the others of the organizing women will also be skating. I suppose it is most important that the organizers of an affair they’ve organized for skating, be front and center with their own skates and costumes. And Grandmama probably wants to show that she is equal or better than those women in skating and costume. And she has the most expensive skates money can buy. They are black and polished and with the skate blades attached right to the boot. And she has a costume. She is dressed as the witch in the Hansel and Gretel fairy tale. She only had to use one of her normal dresses, and just had her dressmaker make her a tall pointed hat.”

When growing up all the Woodrow children had been raised quite plainly, away from the world of wealth and finery that their grandmother valued. Thus they had viewed their grandmother as somewhat eccentric, and this kind of conversation between Mark and Abbi was not unusual.

“I can’t yet imagine Grandmama Audora skating,” replied Abbi. “But I can imagine her as a witch,” she added, rolling her eyes.

“And Grandmama wants to be seen to be a strong supporter of the Orphan Home too. She doesn’t want to be seen in a negative way. She is treating it like she put you in a boarding school, while helping out the Orphan Home at the same time. She tells everyone about giving the Orphan Home $500 for them to educate you. But I think she wanted to get rid of you.”

“Mark, I oh so much wanted to see you, Mama, and everyone else, last Christmas, and then again when I came here, before I went to the Orphan Home; but Madam Audora only made excuses. ‘Not yet’, she said. ‘Not yet’. She said you and Jimmy were at boarding school, and she was afraid of what would happen if Mama recognized me on account of her being affected by Papa’s disappearance. She wanted to consult with the doctor about that, so I was only allowed to see her from a distance, and the two littlest, before her driver, Desmond, took me to the Orphan Home. How are things, generally, Mark? How is Mama? Is she better? Oh I wish I could see her up close! Even if she doesn’t recognize me like Madam Audora keeps saying. Just to see her!”

“Mama is still lost in another world – just stares out the window in her upstairs room in the big mansion, and takes forever to read a book. We can visit her but she doesn’t seem to respond much. The little children are taken care of, though. The nursery-governess is taking their attention off Mama. She tells the children that Mama is ill, very tired, needs rest, don’t bother her, and so on. So we all wait for her to get better. But it’s been a long time now that she’s been like that – almost since we came to live in Grandmama’s mansion and since you left Abbi. But the doctor says she is getting better. And Grandmama gives us anything we want. And you won’t believe it, Abbi! Grandmama is spoiling me like a madwoman! Look at this money!” He pulled a bill out of the pocket of his vest. “It’s a $10 bank note. Have you ever seen so much money before?”

“You have money of your own?” Abbi replied. “Nobody’s ever given me money of my own.”

“She gives me a whole $10 a month to do as I please, as long as I ‘invest it wisely’ she says. She wants to see what I do if she gives me money. I think it is a test. Later she asks me how I used it. But I never know what I’m supposed to do, what she expects me to do with it. Here Abbi. Take it. Keep it. You never know when you’ll need some money.”

“Gosh, Mark,” said Abbi. “$10 is a lot of money!”

(Indeed in the late 19^th century $10 was worth the same as $100 a century later.) [11]

“Take it, Abbi. Grandmama will give me another $10 bank note next month!”

Mark had certainly acquired his sarcastic characterization of his grandmother from his father. Like all the other Woodrow children, he had accepted whatever the eccentric grandmother gave him or instructed him to do. It had always been easiest for the Woodrow children, just to go along with the eccentric woman, and not puzzle too much about her motives or reasoning.

“Alright,” said Abbi, putting the money in the large breast pocket that was part of her costume, the pocket she had created to hold the photograph postcard of the actress Ophelia Summer.

Mark then had a moment to look at Abbi’s costume. “What are you supposed to be?” he asked.

“A Snow Princess,” replied Abbi. “There’s going to be a competition among costumes from the Orphan Home, made by the girls. The costume wearers will skate about and one of us will be judged the winner in the Orphan Home girls category.”

“I hope you win, Abbi.” Mark replied. “I have to get back to Grandmama. She instructed me not to talk to you. She says we live in two different worlds and it is better not to. But I’ll try to meet you whenever I can, anyway.”

With that the nine year old Mark went away and Abbi went back to Peggy. She didn’t tell her at that point about the $10 bill. Mark had more or less forced the money on her, and she didn’t have time to give it any real thought. Topmost on her mind was the idea that Madam Audora was going to be among the skaters and had a witch costume. She shuddered at the prospect of meeting up with Witch Audora in the next while!

“What did he say?” Peggy asked when Abbi rejoined her on the raised benches.

“He said that Madam Audora Woodrow is here and is wearing a witch costume. I expected she would be here, but I forgot. She has to show herself as a great benefactress of the Orphan Home and the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society. Mark also told me about Mama and I feel sad . . .”

Seeing Abbi becoming melancholy, Peggy said: “Don’t worry yourself about it, Abbi. Imagine she were here looking on and how pleased she would be that you are doing this.”

Abbi brightened up: “At least I’m glad I finally saw Mark. I haven’t seen him in almost a year!”

Meanwhile the rink had been filling up with costumed attendees many of them now already on the ice warming up their skating skills. It seemed the expectation of a large number of attendees, on account of Ophelia Summer’s attendance, would prove to be correct.

“Look!” exclaimed Peggy pointing towards the entrance, “There she is, Abbi! There she is! I mean Miss Ophelia Summer! I can tell by all the fuss of the people around her!”

“Where?”

“There, just coming in. It must be her! Look at all the fuss that people are making around her. She is removing her wrap. And she has a costume underneath. Oh, Abbi, it’s a beautiful white costume!”

With the arrival of the star guest, the programme began. Abbi could barely contain her excitement.

As Miss Ophelia Summer entered with her entourage of people—including the owner of the Richdale Royal Theatre and his wife, other actors in the current production, publicity people, etc.—the band started up with a march-like piece to signal the start of the Richdale Skating Carnival. Some notable people were assembling on the platform or stage below the band, and the Ophelia Summer group was ushered towards it to be ready to respond to being called.

The beginning of the Carnival was signaled by the playing of ‘God Save the Queen’. When it was done, from among the people now on the stage, a man with a wide handlebar moustache stepped forward. He turned out to be the master-of-ceremonies. He looked like a man who was normally very formally dressed – perhaps he was normally an accountant – determined now to look festive. His neat suit and tall hat had accessories affixed to it to reflect the festive midwinter occasion: a colorful scarf thrown around his shoulders, paper snowflakes attached to his hat, etc. In any event he had a strong booming voice that carried far – a necessity in the days before microphones – who appeared to easily achieve a rapport with the audience.

He called for attention from the crowd of attendees who until now had been haphazardly distributed about the ice, testing their skates. “Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen!” A spotlight situated on the balcony was trained on him. Before electricity, a bright spotlight was created by igniting oxygen and hydrogen squirted on a piece of limestone and focused with mirrors. It was called ‘limelight’. Everyone became quiet. He began:

“The organizing committee of Richdale’s annual Skating Carnival, welcomes you all, whether you are costumed skaters or spectators, whether you will present your skills upon the ice or watch from the sides.”

The children climbed on top of their benches to be better able to see the introductory events at the stage and not have their view blocked by adults. Abbi was keen on being able to see Ophelia Summer. She had already climbed as high as she could and now strained her neck to see better.

In response to the master-of-ceremonies some of the audience shouted out comments, some clapped. He continued: “As most of you are aware, the annual Richdale Skating Carnival is organized by the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society as a fundraiser for its many charitable activities, notable the Richdale Orphan Home. Mrs. Mary Cumberland, chairwoman of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, has reminded us that unlike other orphan asylums, which are sponsored by the good work of the churches, this Orphan Home is a project of distinguished matrons of Richdale society who themselves contribute much of their own time and money. I will draw your attention to the five leading women of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society responsible for organizing this year’s Carnival. They are seated behind me on the stage. First we have Mrs. Mary Cumberland, the chairwoman of the Society costumed to represent Little Bo-Peep. Stand up Mrs. Cumberland.” She stood up and the audience clapped. “Next we have Mrs. Smith, who, with all the roses on her dress, represents a rose bush.” More clapping. “Then Mrs. Thornapple I believe is dressed as Cinderella’s fairy godmother.” More clapping. “Then Mrs. Darville who is dressed as an Oriental woman.” More clapping. “—all of them wives of prominent political and military gentlemen of this town. Last but not least is the distinguished Richdale resident and widely known businesswoman Audora Woodrow, wife of the late Stanley Woodrow founder of the Woodrow Timber Milling and Manufacturing Company, with her tall black hat, dressed, I am informed, as the witch in Hansel and Gretel.” She stood and there was more clapping.

Abbi strained to see the important women as they were introduced. These women were not in particularly tailored costumes. They were for the most part adapted from regular clothes. It was difficult to decide, without some explanation, who each was supposed to be. For example, except for her shepherd’s crook and colourful bonnet, it was difficult to determine Mrs. Cumberland was supposed to be Little Bo-peep. But finally when Abbi saw Madam Audora Woodrow stand up, wearing a black dress, pointed hat, and holding a broomstick, she thought that nothing could be a better witch costume, even if it was devised from her regular clothes!!

The master-of-ceremonies continued: “I will now call on Mrs. Cumberland, chairwoman of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society to say a few introductory words.”

Mrs. Cumberland, the merry woman who had talked to the children at the Orphan Home some weeks ago, came forward. She paused to survey the crowd, and beamed a cheery smile.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, honoured guests, children of our Orphan Home,” she began. “I as the chairwoman of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society welcome you to our third annual Richdale Winter Carnival at Richdale’s Exhibition Hall and Rink. Although our rink is not as large as the one in Saint John, it is nonetheless ours and we, the citizens of Richdale, can stage fine events here. I welcome you and hope you have a good time. Since I do not have a very loud voice, I will now give the floor back to our Master-of-ceremonies, Jake Wesley, who will carry on with his wonderfully loud booming voice.”

Indeed Abbi barely heard her. The master-of-ceremonies took the stage again as Mrs. Cumberland, cheerily retreated to her chair, carrying her shepherd’s crook. The master-of-ceremonies led the crowd in clapping. “Applause to Mrs. Cumberland and all the women of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society on the stage for their tireless efforts to make this a memorable annual event.”

He then continued with his booming voice: “Each year we endeavour to make the Carnival better than the last. We are pleased to inform you that this year’s Carnival has two special features. First of all, the Orphan Home children will offer us something new. Before I explain what it is, let me say that this event is intended to support the children of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society Orphan Home and every year we make certain those children are attendance and very involved. We are proud every year to give these unfortunate boys and girls an entertaining time during the middle of winter while they wait to be adopted by families far and wide. But they are here also to remind one and all to support our Orphan Home. I draw your attention to the Orphan Home children over there to my right, your left, on the west side of the ice, situated on the raised benches, currently straining to see the stage.”

The audience turned and there was some clapping.

The master-of-ceremonies continued: “But this year is not like previous years for them and for us. This year we have done something special. As you will see, a number of girls are splendidly dressed in genuine costumes they have themselves designed and tailored, not something improvised like many of us usually do. This year the costumes have been made as part of the girls’ practical training as a demonstration of their design and dressmaking skills in their sewing classes under the direction of Matron Priscilla. I believe that the costumes you will find among them are Little Red Riding Hood, Jack Frost, Old Mother Hubbard, Little Miss Muffet, and Snow Princess. They have made them also in the exciting spirit of competition, because we have included them in a special category – the Orphan Home girls’ category – in our judging of best costumes. As in all the costume competitions categories, the winning costume will be decided by you all by your clapping and voiced approval. We judges merely judge which clapping was the loudest. That will come later in the programme. But let us not forget the Orphan Home boys. While the girls have been sewing, they have been designing and building the stages, benches, and décor in this rink, including the festive affair you see above your heads, giving the rink a wintery air, namely the six ropes of icicle flags creating one giant snowflake. Isn’t that amazing! This year’s festivities will take place under a giant snowflake!”

The audience looked up and many gave a gasp when they became aware for the first time that it was in fact a giant snowflake. Everyone cheered and clapped in acknowledgement of the Orphan Home children’s efforts.

The master-of-ceremonies continued: “The second special feature of this year’s Carnival, is that we are this year graced by the presence of the world famous actress of the theatre stage, Miss Ophelia Summer, who by stroke of fate is in town playing the lead role in the play ‘A Stranger in a Winter Landscape’ which arrived here recently and will play for one more week at the Richdale Royal Theatre. This actress and this play have already drawn strong praises along its tour of many major cities of the United States and Canada, and those who have seen it already here at our Royal Theatre have nothing but high praise as well. In addition to opening our Carnival in a few moments, she will be available to chat with guests. But please do not crowd her or monopolize her time. We would like her to enjoy the Carnival too!”

The crowd clapped loudly.

He continued: “As is always the case with this Skating Carnival, it is regularly attended by the most distinguished persons of our fair city, in the realm of the military, politics and business, and some from Saint John besides. Normally we might have to spend half our time acknowledging them all and having them speak, however, they all come in the carnival spirit and have all requested that we not pay any special attention to them, as they have enough attention given to them in formal ceremonial events, and do not want protocols to interfere with the progress of the festivities. They are here, like all of you, to enjoy themselves, as a break from the winter doldrums. You all know them well anyway by sight, many sitting over there—Hello Mayor.” A stout older man with a moustache and long sideburns waved his hand in greeting.

“And what enjoyment we will all have this Sunday afternoon! Most of you have come festively dressed even if not in full tailored costume. Determining what each other is supposed to be is part of the thrill of this carnival. There will be music of various kinds presented by the Richdale Regimental Band behind me up there on the balcony behind Queen Victoria’s image. Let’s hear a few bars from the band.” The band played a few bars and was then signaled to stop. “Enough!” They stopped. “And as always, we will also present amazing presentations of skating, including the making of figures, amazing leaps, and dancing the waltz on skates. We are only now determining who is here to perform what, and in what order we shall present their performances. But to start it all off, we have a most famous guest. As Mrs. Cumberland said, we have with us this afternoon the world famous actress of the theatre stage, Miss Ophelia Summer, who, as Mrs. Cumberland mentioned, is in town this week playing the lead role in the play ‘A Stranger in a Winter Landscape’ at the Richdale Royal Theatre. It is simply our good fortune that the appearance of this play in Richdale this time in February, coincides with the timing of our annual Skating Carnival, and that Miss Ophelia Summer has agreed to honour us with her presence, and to say a few words by way of opening this year’s Carnival. I therefore invite Ophelia Summer now to our small stage to say a few words and properly open the Carnival. Miss Ophelia Summer! Come to the stage!”

The Snow Queen and

Snow Princess

OPHELIA SUMMER ENTHRALS

Abbi was straining her head to see. The actress had not been on the stage yet but had been standing with her entourage at the base of the stage; and now she came up onto the stage. And then Abbi could see her. She was far away from Abbi, though.

“Her hair is long and curled,” said Abbi to Peggy. “I suppose it is for her part in the play. Yes, I remember the heroine in the story is a dark haired Louisiana woman returning to Acadia in the winter to look for relatives. She is playing a Louisiana French woman. But I would like to know for sure that she is really Indian”

“If you are able to get close to her,” suggested Peggy, “You can ask her to confirm what Matron Priscilla said about her was true.”

“If I can get close to her!” replied Abbi, imagining it nearly impossible considering how people had swarmed around her when she came in.

The band struck up a rousing number to punctuate her rising to the stage. There was enduring applause from the crowd.

Ophelia Summer had dressed in a costume herself and looked perfectly regal in it. It was a white formal gown with an abundance of white lace. In her hair there was a small crown or tiara. Around her neck there was a white necklace. As the rink was not particularly warm, she had a white fur stole around her shoulders. Probably real arctic fox, not something made out of rabbit fur, thought Abbi.

The actress paused some moments as she scanned the audience and waved her hand in greeting to the different parts of the rink that were raising cheers. And then she prepared to speak, and the band stopped. Being an actress of the stage, she knew how to project her voice well.

“Ladies and gentlemen, guests of this famous Richdale Winter Skating Carnival . . .” she began. She waited for the crowd noise to die down and continued: “Although Richdale is not a large city, I have heard that this festival rivals in quality at least if not size, anything put on in Saint John, Halifax, or even Montreal. I trust many of you who have made your way here from nearby Saint John will agree.”

The crowd cheered and she smiled. When the cheering had died down, she continued: “I was splendidly pleased when I learned that the run of the touring play ‘A Stranger in a Winter Landscape’ at the Richdale Royal Theatre would coincide with the time of your festive midwinter carnival, uniquely presented here in the Richdale Exhibition Hall and Rink and inviting the donning of costumes and the bringing of skates. As you all can see by how I am dressed up, I too, have taken the liberty of wearing a costume.”

She did a turn to show off her costume, and then continued: “In a short while I will put on my own skates and join the parade of costumes. This costume, entitled ‘Snow Queen’ has been contributed by the wardrobe staff of our stage production, especially created for tonight.”

“Her costume is a Snow Queen!” exclaimed Abbi to Peggy. Here heart skipped a beat. “It’s breathtaking!”

“But I must disqualify myself,” Ophelia continued, “from the costume competitions, so as not to compromise the efforts of other women and their splendid costumes. I am told that instead I will perform the official duty of presenting the prizes to the costumes judged the best in the various categories – men’s, women’s, boy’s and girl’s and last but not least the Orphan Home girls costume-making competition.”

She beamed a broad grin. She was a woman of about 30 who adored the attention, and was also experienced and mature in being famous and in handling her public. When cheers had died down, she continued: “Although I have never attended before, I am told splendid fun is had by all at this event. I too will endeavour to partake in the merriment. I will allow myself to be entertained by the skating, the costumes, and the music performed by the Richdale Regimental Band. But I especially look forward to the special attention being given to the costumes of the children of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society Orphan Home. Let us acknowledge them again.”

A rousing cheer for the Orphan Home.

She continued: “Accompanying me here tonight are Mr. and Mrs. Archibald, owners of the Richdale Royal Theatre, as well as other members of the cast and crew of ‘A Stranger in a Winter Landscape’. We are pleased at the attendance and fine words for the play so far from both here and Saint John. We will all be accessible should any of you have questions, but if you do not have a chance to talk to one of us, we invite you to attend the performance at the Richdale Royal Theatre if you have not already done so, sometime during its run here until the end of the coming week.”

Another flurry of clapping and cheering.

“I will therefore try not to interfere with the programme further, but withdraw from the stage again and take my place among the guest skaters, and enjoy myself, the same as you all.”

More applause. More broad smiles from Miss Ophelia Summer.

“I therefore declare this Richdale Winter Skating Carnival of 1876 open, and hand you back to the master-of-ceremonies, who will guide you through the programme.”

With that the band struck up again as Miss Ophelia Summer climbed down from the stage. The master-of-ceremonies came forward and waited until the actress had returned to the ice level and rejoined her entourage. Then he signaled the band to stop, so he could speak again.

“To begin the activities,” he began, “we commence with a musical programme of the band, to which all our skaters can skate to warm up their skating legs. Note that the skating will go clockwise, so one skater does not collide with another. Following that, we will have performances of skating skill and dexterity by Mr. Harvey, and other marvelous performances including skaters who will demonstrate skating the waltz on ice. That will be followed by a skate-about for the viewing of costumes. At that time, your applause when we introduce them individually will signal your level of approval of the individual costumes, and which our judges, the distinguished ladies of the organizing committee on stage, will use as a guide to judge the best in each of the categories – boys, girls, men, and women. There is much to entertain and amuse. Our programme will end with a skate of the Orphan Home girls to show off their handiwork. We will at that time have you judge the best costume from among them. There is much to look forward to this afternoon. During the course of this affair you are invited to help yourselves to tea, hot apple cider, hot cocoa, and other hot beverages, none being alcoholic I’m afraid – we do not wish our skaters to become tipsy and fall on the ice! – provided at the stands set up in various parts of this exhibition hall, at a modest price. All funds will be applied to the charitable work of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, in particular the Orphan Home. Strike up the band! Let us skate!”

With that the Carnival began, the Richdale Regimental Band starting with rousing march music that promoted skating. The entire exhibition hall of people began to turn clockwise as they skated round and round. Those who did not come to skate, naturally became spectators, consuming beverages, socializing with friends and neighbours, and viewing the proceedings from the side.

Among the children, the rivalry between the various groups of girls who had made competing costumes continued on the ice. And Abbi was a favourite target for some. “Look at Abbi,” said Marcia. “She’s positively wobbling when she skates. Her costume should have been that of a clown!”

“Don’t listen to them, Abbi,” said Peggy. “You’re doing fine.”

“It’s the skates. If the straps get loose, the skates wobble. I’d like to skate closer to Miss Ophelia Summer, to get a better look at her. Where is she?”

“It’s unlikely you’ll have the chance yet,” said Peggy. “She is surrounded by people seeking to talk to her. She is famous, after all.”

Abbi and Peggy fell into the stream of skaters circling the rink in step with the music. It was too fast for them; so they again moved out of the stream to the side, and suddenly they found themselves before Audora Woodrow and Mrs. Cumberland, both now on skates, paused in their skating and conversing with one another at the side. Abbi noted first Audora’s costume. All she really had beyond a black business dress was a tall witch hat on her head. The hat consisted of a brim and a cone sticking up about two feet. She also had rouge circles on her cheeks, darkened eyes and exaggerated eyebrows. She held a witch-broom made of branches in her hand. Abbi then noted Mrs. Cumberland’s costume. As Little Bo-Peep she had an enormous, colourful bonnet on her head, and a shepherd’s crook in her hand.

“Abbi,” said Audora, her exaggerated eyebrows rising a little in surprise, “how pleasant to see you!”

“Madam Audora!” Abbi exclaimed. “Ah. . .This is Peggy. You look very elegant upon skates, Madam Audora. And appropriately costumed. And you too. . . Mrs. . . .”

Audora continued: “I was pleased to hear you will be a competitor with the Orphan Home costume and skating competition. You see, my decisions are always the correct ones – aren’t they, Mrs. Cumberland? My spending $500 to have the Orphan Home give you an education was clearly the best decision for the circumstances, as you can see.”

“Well you are a businesswoman,” said the always-cheery Mrs. Cumberland. “Decision-making is what you do, and no one quarrels with the fact that you are good at it.” She turned to Abbi. “My you have an attractive costume! We’ll see you present it later.” She turned again to Audora: “I dare say, Madam Woodrow, you have offered the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society many good business suggestions over the years, including assisting with the economics of staging this event. And I can see that your late son’s orphan, Abbi, is fitting in well and your sponsoring her is bearing fruit. We should encourage many wealthy people to entirely sponsor particular orphans as a fine alternative to either housing orphans from general fundraising or adopting.”

It was interesting to Abbi how Audora Woodrow had turned her ploy to get rid of her into something else. She was there as if in a boarding school was she? All the woman was really doing was disposing of her! She had to get away from Hansel and Gretel’s witch as quickly as she could before she contrived some new unwelcome design for her life at this moment when she was quite happy. She didn’t want to give her a chance to formulate some new idea in regards to her! She had to get away!

“Pardon me, ladies,” said Abbi, “but I have to continue practicing skating. . . Don’t we Peggy? . . .”

She hurried off into the skating crowd, as fast as her skates could take her, without making sure Peggy was behind her.

“Peggy,” she said when she felt far enough away, “that was close! I couldn’t get away from that woman fast enough!”

She looked around and there was no Peggy in sight. “Peggy! Where are you? I’m lost. How can I see where I am with all these grown-up skaters towering all around me?”

Abbi found herself separated from Peggy, and in the middle of a crowd of skaters. She moved off to the side again at another location to watch the skating crowd stream pass in order to find Peggy again.

Before she could spot Peggy, she discovered that where she was at the side, she was standing not far from Miss Ophelia Summer. She saw her from the back, still without skates on, engaged in joyful exchanges of conversation with guests who had sought her out.

On her problematic strap-on skates, but splendidly dressed as a Snow Princess, Abbi came up behind Ophelia Summer and simply stared up. Her heart was pounding hard. This was the actress, this elegant and sophisticated lady was her! Soon the guests facing in Abbi’s direction noticed her standing and staring; and Miss Ophelia Summer noticing they were looking at something, turned her head and looked down. Ophelia Summer was tall and statuesque compared to the small Abbi, who had not experienced the surge in growth that she soon expected.

“And what have we here?” asked Miss Ophelia Summer.

“It’s one of the Orphan Home girls in her costume.” said the VIP she had been talking to.

“My, what a pretty girl and a pretty costume!” said Miss Ophelia Summer. “What is your name? And what is the nature of your costume?”

“My name is Abigail Pictford,” replied Abbi very formally. “People call me the brief version ‘Abbi’ usually, but I think it is nice to use my full name, ‘Abigail’, on an important occasion such as this. Pictford is the last name of my natural parents who died. I think it is wise to use Pictford when I am not attached to any particular family.”

“Well then, Abigail Pictford, what is the nature of your costume?”.

“My costume, made by myself and Peggy Brown, is called ‘Snow Princess’.”

“What an interesting coincidence. My costume is called ‘Snow Queen’.”

“I had no idea you would be ‘Snow Queen’, Ophelia Summer.”

“Nor did I know there would be a ‘Snow Princess’ here. My wardrobe staff just improvised this costume from something else just this morning. I didn’t even know what my costume would be until I put it on this afternoon. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence—a Snow Queen and Snow Princess! And I see you even have a wand with a snowflake on the end of it.”

“Yes, it’s the way the Snow Princess makes it snow – she waves her wand and it snows. She keeps it in her belt when she’s not using it.”

“How creative!”

Abbi had seen Ophelia Summer’s costume from a distance when she made the speech, but now she saw it up close. Miss Ophelia Summer’s costume involved a white gown with great amounts of lace looking like snow, a crown, ice-like earrings and necklace, and a long white stole thrown around her shoulders, made of white fur. She also had long white gloves that reached all the way up to her elbows.

“You look absolutely breathtaking in your costume, Miss Ophelia Summer. Your long curly black hair contrasts well with the white of your costume. In my case my hair is straight and only tied up. I would love one day to make it curly.”

“Well, you’re very pretty anyway.”

“But I have something to ask you, Miss Ophelia Summer. I am such an admirer of yours. I have a photo card of you. It is here in my pocket.”

“Have you indeed a photo-card of me? Can I see?” She knelt down as Abbi took out the card. She looked at it. “Yes, I remember when the photographer took it; it was some years ago in New York. Where did you get it?”

“Matron Priscilla of the Orphan Home had it. She collects such things, and is a fan too; and she gave it to me one day after I was greatly distressed after boys at the Orphan Home teased me about being Indian – actually I’m half Indian. Matron Priscilla found an old article that said you were an Indian, and became famous and successful in spite of it, to make me feel better. Is that true? Are you really an Indian? If you are, then being an Indian girl will not be a curse in my life.”

Ophelia Summer laughed and handed the photo back to Abbi. She stood back up. “Yes, it is true, Abigail, but people see me purely as an actress now, and the public doesn’t care about my origins, and few even know.”

“You give me hope, Miss Ophelia Summer, that I’m not doomed to a life of hardship and struggle forever, by being an Indian girl.”

“Forget about what other people think, and do what you want.”

“I have something else to tell you Miss Ophelia Summer. I have read the play in which you are acting. Last fall, Jeffrey, the handyman where I lived, at the Loggermans, gave me a copy of the book of ‘Stranger in a Winter Landscape’ as an early Christmas present. I have read it several times, and can picture you perfectly in the title role.”

“My! You are a reader too! You are a remarkable girl! The play is happily one that older children can understand and enjoy. Perhaps I can invite the children of the Orphan Home to a matinee—that’s where we perform the play in the afternoon on Saturday— perhaps next Saturday before the play travels on to its next location.”

“Could you do that, Miss Ophelia Summer? That would be absolutely wonderful!”

“I’ll see what I can do. It would be good for children to be introduced to the world of the arts—especially unfortunate children who might otherwise never see a play.”

Some of the entourage around Ophelia Summer were becoming a little impatient at the way this girl was monopolizing the time of the stage celebrity, and started to make subtle motions that Ophelia Summer should break away from talking to this girl; but Ophelia Summer reacted against their suggestions.

“No,” Ophelia Summer responded, “this girl interests me. I should join the skaters before the master-of-ceremonies moves the program to the next stage. It would be splendid for me to don skates and skate around with this girl. What could be more appropriate than if the ‘Snow Queen’ skates around with the ‘Snow Princess’?” She laughed a wonderfully joyful laugh.

Ophelia Summer’s entourage responded immediately by bringing her skates. To her entourage, now it did seem an interesting stunt, for the ‘Snow Queen’ to skate with the ‘Snow Princess.’

When Ophelia Summer had her skates in hand, she motioned Abbi over to a bench at the side of the ice. “Sit down on the bench while I put on these skates, and then we can skate a little together.” They sat down on the bench and Ophelia Summer continued: “Here is a secret between you and me, now that we are away from the others: People do make a fuss over Indians, and often it is better they do not know you are one. I started out playing Indian women in entertainment shows with Indians in them, but then I hid the fact I was one and auditioned for roles with women who were Italian, French, Persian, Chinese, and so on—any role that needed a woman with long black hair and darker skin. If people make a fuss about Indians, pretend you are just a girl with raven black hair. It is easy to be, for example, part French, and part Persian, and part Chinese—whatever mixture you imagine would work. It is when you say you are Indian, that they will all start calling you Wenona, picture you fresh from the wilderness, and let you play nothing other than a narrow stereotype.”

“Ever since I found out I was part Indian when I was nine, almost ten,” replied Abbi, “I have always told everyone about it, because everyone likes the Indian, and Indian ways, and I originally thought it was wonderful to be one.”

“But people do not see the Indian in a realistic way. They never see the real Indian who is losing his land and way of life because of settlers and governments, even while the public celebrates their traditional ways, thanks to the poem ‘The Song of Hiawatha’. It is a paradox. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, we’ve used the word paradox in literature class in school. Two contradictory things exist at the same time.”

Abbi watched Ophelia Summer lace up her skates and marveled at the boots with skate blades actually attached. Abbi said: “It must be wonderful to be able to afford boots with skate blades actually attached, and the white color suits your costume. My own skates are just blades tied to my plain leather boots with leather straps. And they belong to the Orphan Home. And they wobble if the straps stretch.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll do fine, Abigail. We are not performing great feats of jumping. Now tell me a little more about yourself.”

Abbi folded her hands, thought for a moment, and dutifully began to tell her life story as she had done many times before: “I have learned that I was orphaned when I was a baby. I didn’t know that I was adopted until I was almost ten years old after my adoptive father disappeared. My adoptive mother then revealed to me that my parents were Irwin and Paula Pictford, and Paula was Indian from Lake Superior, probably Ojibwa, since that is the tribe up there. Anyway, Irwin and Paula Pictford lived in the same town as my adoptive mother and father, and both died. First she died from smallpox, and then he later died when he was a sailor—there was a big storm in the Atlantic.”

Little did Abbi know that this history about Paula and Irwin Pictford was something here adoptive mother, Jenine, had made up for her, because she did not want to tell her the truth – that she had been left at the Littleton church door, and that her origins were actually unknown. But it was good she didn’t know the truth, otherwise she would have constantly wondered about her true origins.

Abbi continued. This part was true: “I grew up with my adoptive Mama and Papa not knowing I was adopted by them, until Papa had an accident. Papa’s mother, who was wealthy, took in everyone, but she thought I was old enough to help a woman in the wilderness she knew with six little children and sent me there. I lived with the Loggermans in the woods of New Brunswick for close to a year. There was a school in a log cabin at Pinewood, and there was so much to explore and discover in the nearby woods, and I had some of my Papa’s books about Indians—my adoptive Papa’s I mean – I keep forgetting to say ‘adoptive’ since I never said it before I was ten. And then Mr. Loggerman got a good position managing a large sawmill in Maine, and so I was finally sent back to my adoptive Papa’s mother with Mr. Wilson who she sent up there to take inventory. But she did not think I would fit in with her society, and put me into the Orphan Home here for schooling, and for them to find me another place like the Loggerman’s except a little better. I said I would be thrilled if it were an Indian family and the school was much closer. Have I described enough?”

“That’s enough,” replied Miss Ophelia Summer, “I don’t want to make you feel miserable here at this joyous carnival, by making you remember the bad parts of your past. Now it would only be fair that I’ll tell you something about myself in exchange. There is nothing special about me as a person. All the glamour that fame brings is just an illusion. Many years ago I was just an ordinary girl too. I was however an Indian girl. My mother died just before I became a teenager, and I was then alone with my father. When the world became very interested in Indians, a producer of entertainments arranged for my father, who was a chief, to travel to the big cities – even across the ocean to London – to present himself in lectures. Since I was about 13, and not a child anymore, he took me along. The producer thought it a good idea – he was an Indian King and I was the Princess. We were dressed up in buckskin and put on show. But then, a while later, when our Europe tour was over and we were touring the United States, my father caught an illness and he died, and I was left with the entertainment producer and his wife as guardians. When Indians became even more popular on account of Longfellow’s poem about Hiawatha, he kept me on in his shows about Indians, performing and acting. Then suddenly one day he died too – that was about 10 years ago – and I was now old enough – about 20 – to look after myself. I settled on the stage name Ophelia Summer, and hid the fact that I was an Indian and looked for regular acting parts. I played French women, Italian women, Chinese women, Persian women. Nobody knew I was actually an Indian. I put curls in my hair sometimes. Sometimes I wore wigs. It is easy to look ordinary by filling my hair with curls and wearing regular clothes. Your Matron, who discovered a text that said I was of Indian origins must have read a very old article, when some reporters knew where I had come from. Today, when I go out in public, people do not see an Indian woman. If they did, they would expect me to be dressed in deerskin and feathers, including here at this Carnival, instead of as a Snow Queen. Perhaps people will not care anymore, but I am always afraid that if I am open about being Indian, they will demand I play Indian woman roles again and nothing else.”

Ophelia Summer found it refreshing to talk to this little girl, as she could be frank and not have to put up pretence.

“I will keep it secret, Miss Ophelia,” replied Abbi. “I have only told my best friend at the Orphan Home, Peggy, about what Matron Priscilla told me, about you having Indian origins. I was afraid to tell the others for being teased again. Where are you from? I learned there are many Indian nationalities. Have you gone back home?”

Ophelia laughed in reaction to Abbi’s earnestness. “I’m not sure, but I remember when we were on show at the start, that my father was introduced as a chief of the Chippewa. I can remember Chippewa words too if I try hard enough, but you know, a person forgets their language if they don’t use it, and I haven’t used it since my father died. When we were touring and the entertainment producer and his wife kept me on, I was too young and involved with what I was doing to think about the place I and my father came from, and then when the producer’s wife died and he too died, I couldn’t find out exactly where I had come from. I had never thought of inquiring from him before he died. I knew my mother had died earlier. So with my father’s death and then my guardians’ death I was an orphan myself. All by myself. But by then I was 20 and making a living, so I could take care of myself without any guardian. I would still like to determine where I am from. I hear the Chippewa peoples are many, covering many of the Great Lakes, with many communities.”

“The proper word is Ojibwa,” said Abbi. “According to Henry Schoolcraft, the word ‘Chippewa’ is a corruption.”

“Well ‘Ojibwa’ then,” laughed Olivia, recognizing that this girl seemed to know more about Indians than she. “In any event to find out about my roots, it would take some months visiting and searching. They are out of the way places that don’t have postal service or telegraphy. I have not had a chance to do that, and time has flown by.”

“I hope you will one day discover where exactly you came from,” replied Abbi. “Maybe you have an aunt or an uncle wondering what happened to you. And in my case too, I don’t know where Paula Pictford came from. According to Mama, after she died, and then, Irwin, my adoptive parents hardly knew anything as they had not been told by them very much when they were alive. There may be relatives who still don’t know what happened to Paula Pictford, my mother or me.”

“You and I therefore share uncertainties about our origins, Abigail, and have a challenge ahead of us to determine it.”

Abbi had been clutching the photo card in her hands all the while. “I’d better put the photo card back in my pocket before I lose it.” As she put it back in the pocket of her dress, she noticed the $10 bill from Mark there, but didn’t think it relevant to talk about it or how she came by it, especially since Miss Ophelia Summer hadn’t noticed it anyway.

“There,” said Miss Ophelia Summer, tying the final knot in the laces and standing up on the skates. “Let us skate, Miss Abigail Pictford. Here take my hand, and we’ll try to move along with the circling skaters. If we move towards the centre, the movement is slower than on the outside.”

Public attention quickly fell upon the actress skating with the costumed girl from the Orphan Home. Skaters pulled back and made room for them so that soon they were by themselves near the centre and also the centre of attention. Abbi, concentrating so much on her skating with her problematic skates, was at first unaware of eyes upon them. Miss Ophelia Summer signaled that the skaters should continue to skate and not slow down or stop —that she simply wanted to be a regular skater among them. They complied but kept looking in their direction as they skated.

Soon Abbi’s ankles were sore. “My ankles are hurting from trying to keep my skates straight,” she said.

“Then let’s sit down on the benches again,” Ophelia said. “Perhaps we can both fetch a mug of warm cocoa. They provide cocoa and other warm drinks over there for the guests. Let us rest our ankles as we will need to use them again in a while.”

They both went and fetched mugs of cocoa from the vendor at a table, and then sat down on a bench. Ophelia Summer’s handlers quickly rushed forward to pay the vendor the two nickels it cost.

Abbi put the cocoa temporarily on the bench beside her, as she tightened the straps on her right skate.

“Well,” said Miss Ophelia Summer, “let’s watch the others skate past, shall we? Some are practicing. Look at that man over there at the side. He practiced a figure 8. That means he described the number 8 in the ice. He will perform some remarkable skating in a while I expect. I think they call it ‘figure skating’. He creates figures on the ice.”

Abbi took a sip of the cocoa. It was warm and delicious.

Ophelia continued: “And look at that costumed couple over there. They are turning a waltz even as they move with the flow of skaters, and even if the music is quite fast. No doubt we will see some astonishing waltzing on skates a little later. And have you ever seen such a variety of costumes? Are you excited?”

“I’m excited beyond description,” said Abbi now that she had a moment to grasp how special the situation was. “But mostly from being able to meet you. Oh thank you so much, Miss Ophelia Summer, for giving me so much of your attention. I never thought I’d even get close to you, let alone talk and skate with you. I wish I could be adopted by someone like you. All the while that I grew up people commented on how I looked different from the rest of the family and that I was adopted, but I was too little to know what it all meant. It took me a while to learn that it is common that natural children resemble their parents, and if they don’t, people wonder what the explanation is. Except—my adoptive Papa had dark hair, in a British way, so it was less of a problem when I was out with him.”

“If I were not always traveling from city to city, with the theatre, I would love to adopt you, Abigail. With our appearance, we could indeed be considered to be mother and daughter in the eyes of everyone.”

“You would adopt me if you could?”

“I certainly would. I’ve often wanted to settle down and become a mother; but my profession has always stood in my way. And when you become a celebrity, when you become famous, the public wants you to continue being that way. They won’t let you stop. That is the tragedy of my life. Everyone has a tragedy of one sort or another. Don’t believe that anyone is perfectly happy. We all wish for that which we do not have, and cannot get. But let’s not talk about unhappy things. It would spoil this moment, to mix unpleasant things into it. I can tell from the way you talked about your original parents, that thoughts or imaginings about them, even though you didn’t yourself remember these people, are pleasant ones. It is good to have pleasant memories from the deepest roots of your life. It makes you grounded. A tree with deep roots can withstand much wind, while a tree with shallow roots, or no roots at all, is pushed over by the smallest breeze.”

“I wish I had memories of my beginnings, but actually I can’t remember much of anything from before I was about four years old. I have to use my imagination for anything earlier.”

Ophelia Summer then changed the subject: “Look at the people. They are a little angry that I am spending this much time with you. Look how they seem to want me to return to paying attention to the adults, to be shaking their hands and receiving their praiseful comments about my acting, instead of spending my time with an orphan girl. And look over there. The Orphan Home matrons and children are watching us too, wondering why I am giving you this attention. I suppose when we have finished our cocoa, we should return to our normal duties, you and I, behave as they expect us to. A performer always has to put the audience first, to give them what they want, what they expect.”

They sat and sipped their cocoa a while more. Then Miss Ophelia Summer stood up. “So now, Abigail, let’s take our empty mugs back to the table and return to behaving like everyone expects us to.”

Abbi got up and they proceeded to take their mugs back. Once done, Ophelia Summer extended a hand to Abbi and said: “In spite of being in this crush of people, I hope we can talk again, Miss Abigail Pictford.”

“I so hope we can talk again, Miss Ophelia Summer. But if we aren’t able to, I will cherish the memory of this conversation. You give me hope that I can become what I want in spite of being a girl and an Indian.”

Miss Ophelia Summer knelt down and gave Abbi a quick hug. “Now rejoin the other children. There is no need to tell them everything we talked about. You can leave out things they wouldn’t understand, that were just between you and me.”

“Thank you Miss Ophelia Summer,” said Abbi. “If we don’t meet again, I will remember this day for the rest of my life, and follow your career in the newspapers.”

With that, Abbi hastened back to the children, while Miss Ophelia Summer pushed herself once again into the midst of the guests who aspired to exchange some words with the famous star of theatre.

MUCH FUN IS HAD

Abbi returned to a flurry of questions from the children. Having kept the truth of her adoration of Ophelia Summer from all the children, except for Peggy, she gave a superficial explanation to the children in general of what had gone on between them. She said that Miss Ophelia Summer gave her attention only because of her costume.

“She liked my costume,” said Abbi loudly, “because by coincidence I was a Snow Princess and her costume represented a Snow Queen, and thought it appropriate that we should skate together.”

Then Abbi tried to get away from the other girls in order to talk more privately with Peggy.

Peggy said: “I wondered where you had disappeared to. One minute we were skating together and the next minute you were gone. And then when the skaters opened up a big space, there you were in the center skating with Miss Ophelia Summer. Anyway, how happy I am for you to actually meet her!”

“We had a wonderful conversation, Peggy. She even addressed me ‘Miss Abigail Pictford’ twice! Nobody has ever addressed me like that before. She is very sophisticated. I will tell you everything later!”

At this point the master-of-ceremonies signaled the band to stop, and all skating stopped. He called for attention and began again: “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let us move to the sides in order that Mr. Harvey can demonstrate some of his amazing skill on skates.”

The crowd moved to the sides, and the stated Mr. Harvey came forward, dressed in a dashing costume,

The limelight was now turned his way. He performed some utterly amazing feats, including figures, leaps and spins. The band played nothing all the while, but supplied drum rolls ahead of some of his more amazing tricks. One could hear the audience gasp when he succeeded. When finished and a little out of breath, he took a bow and the audience clapped vigorously.

Next a man and a woman were introduced, and they performed the waltz all over the ice, to an appropriate waltz tune performed by the band, as easily as if they were on their regular feet. Abbi expressed her utter amazement to Peggy: “I wish I will be able to dance a waltz on the ice some day, Peggy! It looks so absolutely romantic!”

But that was not all. They were joined by a number of other costumed skater pairs who joined in the waltzing. These additional ones were, however, not as skilled; but the spectacle of several pairs of skillfully waltzing skaters in costume going around the ice was memorable!

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” announced the master-of-ceremonies “we put the spotlight on the costumes. If you have registered your names on this sheet I have in my hand, please come forward when I call your name. I will introduce you and your costume, upon which you may perform some skate or pantomime to highlight your costume.” The master-of-ceremonies thus began to call out names, and the nature of the costume. The person called, would then come forward. Usually they might simply skate around to show off their costume, but some offered to perform elaborate pantomimes, reflecting the way they were dressed, to entertain the crowd – usually in a humorous vein. Men dressed and acting like women is always funny, Abbi noted. Men produce such inelegant women! But not everyone sought comedy, or even to put on any elaborate act at all. They were simply proud of their costumes and it was enough to be introduced and seen.

Thus for the next hour and more, the master-of-ceremonies introduced the costumes and their wearers, who then showed them off, whereupon the spectators clapped in appreciation after each one.

In the categories of women’s costumes, girl’s costumes (other than the Orphan Home girls), boy’s costumes and men’s costumes, the winning costumes were decided after each group, by the panel of judges—the ladies of the organizing committee on the chairs on the stage—gauging the crowd response to each presentation. When all the costumes had been skated, the names of the winners were called, and they came forward and received a prize: a specially made medal for the boys and men, and a silver brooch made in a snowflake shape for the girls and women. The organizers had Miss Ophelia Summer present the prizes to the winners each time. The whole competition and award-giving took up the better part of two hours, and Abbi, like everyone else in the rink enjoyed every minute of it! Finally it was the Orphan Home girls turn.

The master-of-ceremonies spoke: “Ladies and gentlemen, the finale for the Skating Carnival is at hand. Our attention is now directed towards the Orphan Home children and their costumed skaters. Mrs. Cumberland will now come forward and speak some words.”

The Richdale Women’s Charitable Society Carnival Organizing Committee ladies who were responsible for this evening’s event, again assembled on chairs on the stage. Mrs. Cumberland came forward.

“Unfortunately I lack Jake’s booming voice, so I will be brief and let Jake take over again,” she began. “Yes, now is the time to admire the costume work of the girls of the Orphan Home, and judge which is the best in overall appearance and presentation here tonight....”

As Mrs. Cumberland talked, Abbi and Peggy stepped out the side door, which was just behind the bleachers where the Orphan Home children were located. It was a snowy early February with plenty of snow. Very quickly they scooped fresh snow and put it in a snow-white wicker basket that they had obtained earlier. Then they went back inside where Abbi helped get Peggy into a white sheet coverall and a crown of paper snowflakes. It was for their presentation. They resumed listening to Mrs. Cumberland, who was still talking.

“Thank you Mrs. Cumberland for the brief introduction to the highlight of the day,” the master-of-ceremonies was saying as Abbi and Peggy rejoined the orphan group. “Let us proceed with our most special presentations – the Orphan Home girls costume creations. Let us begin by having all the Orphan Home costume makers come onto the ice and skate in a circle around the center of the rink for a first look at them. Those who were involved with making a costume, skate with the girl who was chosen to wear the costume, so that we can see all the girls who were responsible for the costume we are looking at. We ask the audience to pay attention, and form some initial ideas as to which ones you like best. In some minutes, the children will move to the side and we will call each costume forward individually apon which time the costume-makers will skate and I understand each one has developed a pantomime. We will then ask for your applause. We will determine the winner from the loudness of your applause as with all the earlier competitions. Come now, Orphan Home children first the general skateabout – boys too – I see some boys have contrived some imaginative costumes for the general boys competition earlier.”

The music began and all the children skated a turn around the ice, to begin with. Abbi was accompanied only by Peggy because she was the only one who had helped her. Other girls formed larger groups around their costume and wearer. Then the music stopped and the children moved to the side. Next, the master-of-ceremonies, referring to a piece of paper for names, called each group forward according to costume name and the girls responsible. “Little Miss Muffet worn by Miss Marcia Little—please skate forward to the center of the rink. You may make a turn or figure or pantomime to show off your costume.”

Marcia’s group responded. Her team had devised a spider made of paper and wires, which hung by a thread from a stick affixed to her back and sticking up above her head. She did a pantomime reacting to the spider dangling in front of her face. And then she did some figures to complete the presentation. The master-of-ceremonies, referring to the sheet of paper again, continued: “The costume Marcia is wearing was made with the help of her teammates Miss Betty Bing and Miss Ella MacGraw. Please join Marcia now so we can see you, girls.” The two girls did so. “Some applause for these girls and their Little Miss Muffet costume!”

The crowd responded with applause.

The master-of-ceremonies continued: “Alright girls, move back to the side. Next on the list is Miss Lisa Cuthbridge wearing a costume representing Little Red Riding Hood. Please skate forward Lisa and perform a figure or pantomime highlighting your costume.”

Lisa came forward carrying a basket. One of the girls of her team had a wolf mask on that they had made, and they performed a pantomime where Little Red Riding Hood saw the wolf and skated away, looking over her shoulder. The wolf chased her around in a wide circle. The crowd chuckled. “This costume was made with the help of Miss Mary Hubbard, and Miss Sally Tubble. Please join Lisa so we can see you girls.” The girls did so. Mary, with the wolf mask, took it off. All the girls did a curtsy. Everyone applauded.

Each group of girls was introduced in this way. The named girl wearing the costume would come forward and then after a small performance be joined by those who helped make it. The process was repeated until four costumes had been identified and presented. Abbi and Peggy were the final presenters.

“And finally,” said Jake, the master-of-ceremonies, “last but not least, we have Miss Abigail Pictford, and Miss Peggy Brown. Abigail is wearing the costume entitled ‘Snow Princess’, representing the daughter of the King of Snow and Ice who lives in a castle of ice in the arctic. The Snow Princess, uses her magic wand with the snowflake on the end to make it snow I read here. Abigail and Peggy come forward and present your costume. I am told that the Snow Princess will make it snow with real snow!”

Abbi skated around, holding her snowflake wand which she waved in time with the music created by the band. Peggy, who was draped in the white sheet and carried the large white wicker basket, skated behind Abbi. Every time Abbi waved her snowflake wand, Peggy threw a handful of snow up above Abbi’s head as if the wand had made it snow. They had practiced the routine earlier on the pond behind the Orphan Home. To finish it all off Abbi did a figure 8 forward and backward and ended by doing a twirl. This time she did not get dizzy.

“Thank you Abigail,” said Mrs. Cumberland. “The girl who helped her, who helped the Snow Princess make it snow, is Miss Peggy Brown. Come forward again, Peggy, and join Abigail. Now some applause for our ‘Snow Princess’ presentation!”

For Abbi, the applause was tremendous. It was probably less to do with the costume and skating that the fact that the audience had seen her skate with Ophelia Summer. But who can quarrel with the audience? Abbi was the obvious winner!

Mrs. Cumberland among the women of the organizing committee on the stage, who were also the judges, nodded towards the other women, who seem to agree from the rousing cheers that the ‘Snow Princess’ was the winner. The master of ceremonies went to Mrs. Cumberland for the verdict and then came back to the front of the stage again.

“Abbi and Peggy’s presentation was the last of the five Orphan Home girl presentations, and it seems that judging from your applause we have a clear winner: the last one – Snow Princess! Miss Abigail Pictford and Miss Peggy Brown with their ‘Snow Princess’ costume are therefore the winners of the Orphan Home costume competition. Most would agree that ‘Snow Princess’ reflects the wintry purpose of this carnival. And it has not escaped our attention the coincidence between the ‘Snow Princess’ costume and the ‘Snow Queen’ represented by Miss Ophelia Summer’s costume, which I am told is a complete coincidence. Thus I declare the ‘Snow Princess’ costume and the team of Miss Abigail Pictford and Miss Peggy Brown the winner of our first Orphan Home costume competition. Come forward girls and receive your prize of the snowflake brooch we have had specially made as prizes for girls and women.”

A roar of approval arose from the crowd, as Abbi and Peggy came forward again to receive their prize. Unlike the regular competition where only the costume wearer got one, in this case both Abbi and Peggy got one each. As with the other prize presentations, Ophelia Summer came forward to present the prize, to pin it on them. Abbi was absolutely thrilled to receive the prize from Ophelia Summer, even though it was actually provided by the organizing committee. “Well done, girls. Well done Abigail,” said Ophelia as she pinned the brooch on Abbi’s costume, and then on Peggy’s white sheet, which she had kept on for the moment.

Ophelia Summer stepped back again and the master-of-ceremonies continued: “But let us also give a round of applause for all the other little Orphan Home girls, for the great effort they put into making costumes. You are all winners! Come forward everybody, skate around, show off your costumes in the open space in the center of the rink one more time. Even though you others did not win, you all deserve applause for your demonstrated skill in costume-making. Anyone seeking to adopt one of these girls, note that you will get a girl with useful dressmaking skills.”

The band played and the costumed girls and their teams skated some more. There was resounding applause. Then upon a signal from the master-of-ceremonies, the band stopped again.

He continued: “And before our finale, can we also bring forward our special guest this evening, Miss Ophelia Summer, for some final words.”

Ophelia Summer dutifully came forward and joined the master-of-ceremonies on the stage. As before she received a round of applause and had to wait for it to die down. Then she began:

“Congratulations to Miss Abigail Pictford and her teammate Miss Peggy Brown, for winning the costume competition among the Orphan Home children. I am partial to her costume myself as mine just happened to be similar. Congratulations to all the winners from earlier in the programme, in all the categories! Would they identify themselves for some more applause?” She initiated clapping as the various winners waved their hand or skated forward into the open space in the centre of the rink. Then she continued. “As the Carnival comes to a close I wish to thank the organizing ladies for including me in your Carnival. I had an enjoyable time. Congratulations on a very successful event! I shouldn’t talk too much more, but I should now withdraw, as it is most proper that the Carnival close on the women who organize this event. After all, the real celebrities are they, for their tireless efforts in assisting orphans in the area. And on the Orphan Home and the ultimate purpose of the event, to raise funds for the unfortunate orphans. The master-of-ceremonies will lead this Carnival to its close now.” She waved her hand in response to cheers and applause from the attendees. “I’ll see you all, hopefully, at the Royal Richdale Theatre sometime this week, if you have not already attended. See you all then?”

She smiled and waved again as she descended from the stage, was joined by her entourage and disappeared into the shadows. The master-of-ceremonies watched her go, and when the applause had died down he came forward again. “One more round of applause for our special guest at the Richdale Winter Carnival of 1876,” he said. The crowd applauded yet again.

THE UNEXPECTED FINALE

Finally when it had died down again, the master-of-ceremonies continued: “As Miss Ophelia said it is most appropriate to signal the closing of the Carnival of 1876 with thank you’s to the organizing women and a focus on the Orphan Home. Therefore, before the band plays ‘God Save the Queen’ and we bring everything to its final conclusion, let us honour the women of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society Carnival Organizing Committee who are responsible for this Carnival, and the Orphan Home that the funds from this event will serve. Accordingly I invite the five principal women to the center of the ice, all of whom have also demonstrated their skills on skates, which they yet have on their feet, and let the limelight be shone on them. The fellow managing the limelight up there on the balcony is asked to shine the spotlight on them now.” He lifted his hand to his forehead to look right into the light that was currently on him in order to catch sight of the limelight spotlight operator.

The five women, all with skates and costumes on, beaming with broad smiles, came forward to the center of the ice. The master-of-ceremonies introduced each of the women as they came into the centre “First forward is Mrs. Cumberland, chairwoman of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society Carnival Organizing Committee. Next we have members Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Thornapple, Mrs. Darville, all dressed in their festive costumes, and last but not least businesswoman Audora Woodrow of the Woodrow Timber Milling and Manufacturing Company with offices in nearby Saint John, carrying on the company begun by the Woodrow family of Richdale.”

Each woman gave a wave of acknowledgment to the crowd when their name was spoken.

The master-of-ceremonies continued: “What shall we do for a fitting finale? Shall we have them skate around, audience?”

The crowd cheered in the affirmative.

“May I suggest, Mrs. Cumberland, that you all join hands and let our pretty Snow Princess, representing the Orphan Home, lead you in one turn around the ice? Come back on the ice, Abigail our Snow Princess, and join the women for a skateabout.”

Abbi came back to the center. Mrs. Cumberland extended her hand to Abbi, who took it, who in turn extended her other hand towards Mrs. Smith to take it; and then Mrs. Smith had the next woman take her other hand and so on until Audora Woodrow took the last position in the chain.

“Well, Mrs. Cumberland,” the master-of-ceremonies continued, “shall we then skate around with Abigail one final time? The Richdale Regimental Band back there, who we also thank for their wonderful music—give us some music, before we finish off with the playing of ‘God Save the Queen’ to close this year’s Carnival. Proceed, Abigail, our Snow Princess, and the women of Richdale Women’s Charitable Society Carnival Organizing Committee! Take a turn around the rink to receive our applause for another successful Carnival!.”

Abbi had never been happier nor more inspired. Someone had to take the lead, since a line of people cannot skate in parallel, without prior practice, and Abigail had been charged with the responsibility of leading.

As the Band played dramatic music befitting of closing the event, the eager Abbi was inspired to skate quickly in time with the music, causing the women closest to her to skate quickly too; but as everyone knows, when something is swung in a circle the inner part may move slowly, while the outer part is forced to move fast. Abbi, being in the center of the turning line of women, needed only move slowly to cause Audora at the other end to skate fast to keep up, or break the chain.

Then, when making the turn, Abbi’s skating became wobbly because of her continuingly problematic skate straps, and she started to fall and flailed her arms to regain her balance. Her flailing was transferred to Mrs. Cumberland who wobbled from Abbi’s wobbling, and flailed her arms too to keep balance, and her flailing of arms transferred to the next woman, and that to the next, and so on it went down the line. Within moments, they were all flailing their arms to keep balance, and the whole line of mid-aged women had to break their hold as they went flying onto their fannies. After letting go of Mrs. Cumberland, Abbi managed to recover her balance and stay on her feet, only to find that everyone else in the chain was lying scattered on the ice.

Uh-oh!

But that was not the end of what happened! Madam Audora Woodrow who, having been on the outside and having had to skate the fastest, having the greatest momentum, slid on her fanny towards the side, and spectators opened up a path for her slide to avoid colliding with her, so that she ended up at the side where the middle rope for the icicle-affair above everyone’s head was affixed. Struggling to get up, Audora grabbed the rope, and that grabbing pulled loose the knot that secured it all, releasing the central rope. The whole affair above, the giant snowflake of icicle flags, came falling down, fluttering on top of the women who were scattered about the central area of the ice. The final result was an ice full of large women, their proud airs shattered, with small flags and banners scattered on top of them and the ice in the shape of a very large, now floppy, snowflake.

When the audience realized everything that had happened, they roared with laughter, including Miss Ophelia Summer who was a happy distance away now, at the side, preparing for her departure.

The proud women who had been thrown to the ice were hurt to have their dignity and sophistication suddenly taken away from them and being turned into clowns. In the subsequent minutes, as they got off the ice, they may have pretended to take it in stride with a sense of humour, but clearly most were extremely angry inside, particularly Madam Audora Woodrow.

“Uh-oh,” said Abbi as she surveyed the final result.

The Band, the moment they were aware of what had happened, suspended their last piece of music and hastened to ‘God Save the Queen’ to quickly bring the Carnival to a close.

The Ladies were not

Amused

TWO DAYS LATER

Abbi’s hopeful beginnings at the Orphan Home came to an end when Superintendant Wellington called Abbi into his office two days after the Richdale Skating Carnival. He motioned her to sit in the chair facing him and his desk.

Superintendant Wellington was holding a newspaper. He lifted the newspaper, peered over the top of it at Abbi, looked back down and read, in a serious tone: “This year once again marked the midwinter festivities of the Richdale Skating Carnival, held last Sunday afternoon at the Richdale Rink and Exhibition Hall. The event, which is organized annually by the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, was carried once again by a programme of music from marches to waltzes performed by the Richdale Regimental Band. The ice was in fine condition and more people skated than every before, everyone once again presenting costumes and displaying their talents in skating. In addition to the usual programme, this year featured the appearance of the distinguished actress of the theatre, Miss Ophelia Summer, who was coincidentally appearing in the play at the Richdale Royal Theatre, ‘A Stranger in a Winter Landscape’, and who, wearing a stunning white costume depicting a ‘Snow Queen’, opened the Carnival with a few warm words to the crowd in attendance. Also new this year was a costume competition for the girls of Richdale Women’s Charitable Society Orphan Home, who presented costumes the girls made themselves in class. Among them the unanimous winner based on crowd response was a raven-headed girl by the name of Abigail Pictford. She wore an outfit entitled ‘Snow Princess’ consisting of a white dress adorned with snowflake-like lace. However the event offered yet another spectacle when to close the Carnival, the winning girl was asked to lead a line of distinguished women of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society, organizers of the event, hands joined, around the ice on their skates, as a finale to the Carnival. These ladies included Mrs. Cumberland, Smith, Thornapple, Darville, and businesswoman Audora Woodrow. Due to a stumble by this small girl leading the skating line, who struggled to regain her balance, and perhaps also due to a turn that was a little too sharp, all the ladies were thrown in disarray all over the ice, particularly the woman at the end of the turning line, who was whipped along at a good clip, Madam Woodrow. She slid far to the side where some ropes were affixed to hold up an affair of flags resembling icicles. Pulling a rope to lift herself off the ice, she loosened the knot there that held the abovementioned affair of flags that hung above the event, and caused the rope to be released and bring the affair down upon the scattered ladies on the ice, creating a spectacle that was a source of great amusement to all who witnessed it, but certainly a source of embarrassment to the ladies. This finale for the Carnival of 1876 is one which no one in attendance is ever to forget.”

Superintendant Wellington peered again over the newspaper at Abbi: “Well,” he asked, “What do you think of that? The incident is all here in black and white for all the world to see. Imagine the embarrassment you have caused for the very ladies who organized the event, arranged the costume competition, and who also run this Orphan Home.”

Abbi had the greatest look of remorse on her face: “I didn’t mean to cause all those ladies to spill all over the ice,” she said in near tears. “The straps on my skates were forever slipping. . . I almost fell myself.”

“It may have done you well had you fallen too, then it would have seemed to be nobody’s fault. But you were taking the lead and you didn’t fall. The blame is seen to reside entirely in your direction.” He put the newspaper down on his desk. “Whether you were at fault or whether it was the fault of all involved, or nobody’s, it happened, and the damage has been caused, and blame is being sought. The ladies thus injured, have contacted me and we have all discussed the matter at length. Some women are willing to accept that no single person was at fault, but Madam Audora Woodrow is inclined to direct all the blame on you. She is the angriest of them all. She fears her dignity in the eyes of her business clients is ruined forever. She was quick to bring forth an inventory of all your misdeeds from her contacts with you over the years when you lived with her son. She pictures you as being impulsive, vain, and wanting to make yourself the center of attention; seeing in your behaviour at the Carnival a flaunting of your costume and your seeking out Miss Ophelia Summer and to monopolize her time when numerous people were waiting to talk to her. And then when you led the ladies around on the ice after your costume was declared the winner, she attributes the spill to your impulsiveness and vanity, your getting carried away by the attention on you and your not considering the interests of the large ladies behind you when you skated too fast and made the turn too sharp.”

Abbi started to weep under the barrage of accusations. “I didn’t mean to. . .”

“Those are the accusations—and mainly from Madam Audora Woodrow, Hansel and Gretels witch, who has influence over the others. Obviously it is all magnified by her anger. Something that began as a mere stumble has become very large. Well be what it may, the fact is that the women were laughed at and greatly embarrassed in front of all the city’s important people, and they feel that they will be mocked for the rest of their lives, always reminded of the day they were thrown about on their fannies in the winter of 1876. While some of the ladies are willing to forget it and try to laugh off the incident, Madam Woodrow is particularly adamant that you be punished in some way. Led by her, all agreed that it cannot simply be glossed over like it never happened. I am being asked to decide on some kind of punishment, even if in reality it is a token one for their benefit. To begin with they have asked the brooch you won be taken back.”

Abbi could only weep. She took off the snowflake brooch she loved to wear and gave it to him.

The Superintendant continued: “I have no choice, Abigail. I at least need to show them I am doing something about this matter, particularly since the very woman who presents herself as your sponsor, Madam Audora Woodrow, is the strongest voice in the matter of disciplining you. She is a prominent member of the Richdale Women’s Charitable Society and also an important woman in Richdale business and social circles. Of all the ladies humiliated, she appears to be most angry, as I said, and the most interested in seeing something done. It seems to have confirmed in her mind her wisdom in keeping you at a distance from her. In her mind you contain ‘the Devil’s seed’, or perhaps she attributes it to being Indian—we can only imagine how she imagines your parents to have been and how you came to be. Like it or not, whether totally fair or not, I am commanded to determine some punishment that will satisfy those ladies, Abigail. They are my bosses. Through them I am paid a salary for my work here.”

Abbi wiped a tear from her eye. “What punishment?”

He continued: “A good punishment for children in the Orphan Home has been to take away their free time and give them chores that are not particularly pleasant. For boys we usually have them shovel coal into the furnace downstairs. For girls tedious chores in the kitchen – like peeling potatoes, scrubbing the oven, and so on – will do. Thus I have decided that is what we have to do—take away your free time and put you to work assisting our cook Matron Gorda. No skating, no reading, no chatting with the other children, no outings. Only schoolwork. Whenever the children are free, you are to report to Matron Gorda.”

Abbi continued crying.

“Stop crying. If you’re afraid of Matron Gorda, rest assured that she is frightening only on her exterior.”

“I can’t help crying,” replied Abbi. “I have gone from the happiest day of my life meeting Miss Ophelia Summer to the most miserable.”

The Superintendant had put the newspaper aside by now, and sat with hands clasped. “Well, if it is of any consolation, Abigail, the spectacle of seven ample women being spilled all over the ice onto their large bottoms was rather comical wasn’t it? The entire audience thought so, judging from the laughter.”

Abbi smiled at Superintendant’s attempt to cheer her up. “Especially my former Grandmama, Audora,” she ventured, “who has been trying to get rid of me in one way or another since her son was lost and I became her responsibility. And simply because I’m not kin, and I’m Indian. I can picture her still . . .” And then she caught herself so as not to be misunderstood. “But I was perfectly happy for even her to remain on her skates to the end!”

Superintendant Wellington smiled in a fatherly fashion: “Well, Abigail, perhaps she deserved what she got. I am myself not a fan of that woman, from my contacts with her. She may be good at making business decisions, but she is certainly not a warm person. But do you think the other ladies deserved it?”

“No. . .” she said quietly.

“Well, let’s make a deal, Abigail. I will allow you the satisfaction of having thrown Madam Woodrow in her witch costume onto her bottom; therefore the punishment will be for embarrassing the other ladies who didn’t deserve it. Does that sound reasonable?”

“I guess so,” replied Abbi. “But for how long will I have to report to Matron Gorda in my free time?”
“I suspect perhaps a week or two. I will gauge the embarrassed ladies on that score whenever I meet them, some of whom volunteer here from time to time, mainly to supervise children during free time. I’m sure as time passes they will all turn their anger to laughter. It will all be over before you know it. Just grit your teeth and accept it that it is something you and I must do to smooth things out, whether it is just or not. Before long everyone will have forgotten about it, and the ladies themselves will be able laugh about it. Alright?”

“Yes, Superintendant Wellington,” replied Abbi, realizing he really didn’t have much choice in the matter.

PUNISHMENT

While the other girls were gossiping and playing in the main hall, Abbi reported to Matron Gorda for chores. “Abigail Pictford reporting for chores, Matron Gorda,” said Abbi when she appeared.

“Go to the root cellar, and get forty potatoes and forty carrots, and peel them,” was Matron Gorda’s first instruction in her gruff accented voice.

Abbi sighed and went to the basement where the potatoes, carrots, turnips, radishes, onions and so forth were stored in a cool and dark room. Forty potatoes and carrots was a lot of potatoes and carrots. She filled a handled basket with as many as she could, and struggled upstairs with them. Reaching the kitchen, she emptied the basket and returned to the basement. Several trips were necessary because forty potatoes and carrots was quite a lot! In any event, soon she was peeling potatoes.

Peeling potato after potato became quite tedious very quickly. She yearned for some way to reduce the tedium. Perhaps she could strike up a conversation. Matron Gorda spoke very little: she was clearly not much of a conversationalist. But Abbi decided to be her talkative self and see how Matron Gorda would respond. She began: “I don’t really mind peeling potatoes and carrots, Matron Gorda. Peeling a few is very interesting. It is interesting to watch how the peel comes off. Sometimes I try to see how thin I can make the peel. If the peel is thick, good food is thrown away, isn’t it; so it is beneficial if one peels the potato as thinly as possible. I hear that fresh potatoes do not need to be peeled, just washed. But of course in winter one cannot find fresh potatoes. As potatoes stay in storage they try to grow. They sprout buds; the skin starts to go green. I sympathize with the potato. Imagine sitting in the dark, as if buried in the soil and then wanting to find daylight. If they see any daylight at all, any evidence of light, the potato is inspired. It thinks that if it starts sending a bud in that direction it will emerge into the light. That is why root cellars have to be completely dark, so that the potatoes stay asleep. The word is ‘dormant’. Do you ever think of interesting things like that when you are peeling vegetables, Matron Gorda?”

Matron Gorda said: “Peel potatoes!”

Abbi sighed as she picked up her twentieth potato. “I’ve now done my twentieth potato. My arithmetic tells me 20 more to go. 40 minus 20 equals 20. I suppose you do arithmetic like that. I guess a cook must. You have to measure things: a pound of this, an ounce of that, a tablespoon of this, a cup of that. I suppose if a person wants to be a cook, it is useful to be good at arithmetic. There. Now 19 to go.”

Abbi sighed once again as she put the peeled one down in the large pot and took the next potato from the basket.

She continued: “I imagine that peeling vegetables would not be as tedious if you did not have to do so many one after the other. Is it possible, Matron Gorda, that I could do the potatoes and carrots at the same time? I do one potato and then a carrot and then a potato and so on. And if you also want turnips peeled or onions, well I could do potato, carrot, turnip, onion, potato, carrot, turnip, onion, and so on. It would be less tedious that way, don’t you think? What are you doing over there Matron Gorda? I am fascinated by cooking. But not by cooking that has to follow a recipe book. My cooking would be done by ‘feel’, like the greatest chefs do it. The tastes of various ingredients would be artfully brought together, like images in poetry or notes in a piece of music. Have you ever cooked food in that way, Matron Gorda, by ‘feel’? I suppose it takes a great deal of training and experience to create food in a purely artistic fashion. Are you artistic? Nobody knows anything about your background, Matron Gorda. It could be that you were once a world famous chef, forced by unfortunate circumstances to abandon your post in the kitchens of a European countess. Perhaps you made a small mistake one day, and a guest became ill, and you were fired and banished from that European kingdom. I’m sorry to say that the name ‘Gorda’ isn’t particularly appealing to me. I think the name ‘Gerta’ is a touch more elegant, don’t you think? That’s short for ‘Gertrude’. Have you ever thought of having people call you ‘Matron Gerta’? But maybe your name is not short for ‘Gertrude’. Was your father named ‘Gordon’? ‘Gorda’ could be a girl’s version of the name ‘Gordon’. Were you named after your father, or uncle, or grandfather or some other male relative? I don’t mean to pry, but how people acquire names has recently become a fascination for me, especially when I discovered that Mrs. Loggerman, the last woman with whom I lived, hadn’t even had the time to name all her little girls, and there were six of them, all less than five years. I eventually named them all for her, with very creative, yet not strange, names. I suppose that you really don’t have to name a child until they need a name. And Indians wait patiently for the spirit world to suggest one. But I would think that a child should have a name by the time they start to talk. Or else they will start to believe that their name is ‘Hey You’ or ‘My Dear’ or something like that. Imagine growing up and having the first name ‘Hey You’. But I suppose if you say it fast, and it sounds like ‘Heiu’, then that could be a usable name, couldn’t it? Oh, this potato peeling is tiring. I’ve now done 25, 15 to go. . .I’ll grab another and peeling will start over again. I suppose once I’ve peeled hundreds, I shall be very fast, and it will be very automatic. When something is automatic, like walking, then it is easier to do. Imagine having to be aware of how to move your feet when you walk! But I suppose that is what a baby faces when they start walking. Put one foot there, and then balance and move the other foot in front of the other, and so on. I imagine when a baby first learns to walk it is as difficult as when a girl first learns to peel potatoes. Luckily I’m already experienced in helping in the kitchen, from my former homes. But certainly not experienced in peeling vegetables for 32 children and some matrons! I suppose you are already used to peeling hundreds of potatoes at a time, Matron Gorda. Do you ever read a book while preparing food? When you can do something automatically, it is good to read a book. When I was at Mrs. Loggermans, by fall I could feed the babies, or rock them to sleep, and read old Jeffrey’s books all at the same time”

Matron Gorda stood up, placed her hands on her enormous hips. Abbi stopped to see what she was doing.

“BE QUIET!” roared Matron Gorda.

Abbi was startled, and froze in her tracks. Then Matron Gorda’s tense body relaxed again and she returned to what she was doing, Abbi sighed and said quietly to herself: “14 to go. 26 done.”

AN INTOLERABLE SITUATION

The worst part of being punished was that one was separated from the others most of the time, and it was difficult to feel part of the Orphan Home family. The only consolation Abbi found was from the stuffed beaver under her bed. When there was nobody else to talk to, she could always talk to Amik under her breath. She imagined that somehow Amik would come to her rescue, save her from this situation.

In the evening, four days into the punishment, Peggy had an urgent reason to find Abbi. Abbi, tired and angry after hours of cleaning the kitchen’s enormous oven, had gone to lie on her bed.

“Abbi, there you are, lying on your bed,” said Peggy when she found her. “Shouldn’t you be doing your schoolwork downstairs? Why are you up here on your bed? At least you are given this time to do schoolwork for tomorrow’s lessons. We can at least talk a little at that time.”

“I’m so exhausted from working for Matron Gorda so much and not having any time to rest or go outside like other children. It’s nothing but work, work, work. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could have pleasant conversations with her, like I always had with Mrs. Loggerman at my last place; but she is a woman of few words, and I have to control my own talkative nature when I’m around her. Now I do a lot of talking to myself under my breath, instead, to relieve the stress. This place has become like a prison of late. My excitement of the first few weeks since my arrival, is over.”

Peggy sat down on her own bed, beside Abbi’s: “I came to look for you, Abbi, because I have some news that is both good and bad.”

“What is it, Peggy?” Abbi reacted, getting up on one elbow.

“I have to say ‘Goodbye’, Abbi. Our relationship of only four weeks is cut short.”

Abbi rose to her elbow: “Oh no, Peggy! What has happened?”

“And now the good news, Abbi: I have been adopted! That is why I have to go!”

“Oh, I’m happy for you, Peggy!”

Peggy explained: “It seems that many guests to the Richdale Skating Carnival were moved to adopt some orphans, in particular those who stood out from the others with their making of the costumes—those that showed sewing talents. City women strongly value girls who can sew and mend clothes. Marcia and Mary, our worst rivals in the costume competition, are leaving too! And somebody must have liked me too because of the costume we made. But I can’t understand why nobody chose you, Abbi. I felt certain someone would adopt you, because we made the winning costume. So I thought why has nobody chosen you too, Abbi? You know what I think? I think that the Orphan Home would not offer you because you were under punishment. They must have given some excuse to anyone interested in you. The women who fell on their fannies need to get their revenge on you first. That’s the only explanation.”

“You’re right, Peggy,” said Abbi, sitting up from the bed. “If they let me get adopted, they would be denied the satisfaction of getting back at me. That is terrible, Peggy! To be denied even being presented to anyone for adoption. That is a punishment far worse than working like a slave for Matron Gorda!”

“Yes, Abbi, I think that they are overlooking you purposefully during this punishment time, not showing you to people, not putting you for consideration for adoption. I’m afraid you’re stuck here until they decide that your punishment is over, that you have corrected the evil of your ways in the opinion of the upset ladies.”

“Which is mainly the proud and arrogant Madam Woodrow,” Abbi declared. She flopped back onto her bed and glared at the ceiling, with hurt in her expression. “It’s not fair! I’m being doubly punished! As long as I’m under punishment, I also have no hope to be adopted! This is really like being in a prison!”

But that was not the end of the bad news! Peggy added: “And you know how Miss Ophelia Summer arranged for the children to attend a matinee of the play? Well it’s tomorrow, Saturday, and the other girls are certain that you will be left behind, because it is an outing, and you’re not allowed to go on outings. You won’t be able to go with all of us to see the play at the Richdale Royal Theatre.”

Abbi was now near tears. She turned on her side to brood. “I was the one who inspired Miss Ophelia Summer to arrange for the Orphan Home children to attend the final matinee performance on Saturday. And now I’m the one who can’t see it! What’s the use of my being here! Leave me alone now Peggy. I feel very unhappy.” She turned herself face down on the bed.

But Peggy felt uncomfortable leaving Abbi, and stayed seated on her bed next to her. Abbi realized Peggy was not going away and raised herself up again and wiped away a tear. “I do feel very happy for you, however, Peggy. I’m sure you will have a very happy future. It’s better you leave first than me. I’m by now used to tragedy in my life.”

“I’ll miss you, Abbi. And I won’t be happy until you have found a new home too.”

Peggy lay back on her own bed too, in the empty dormitory, and both now lay on their respective beds and stared up at the ceiling. It was still early evening and the rest of the girls and boys were doing homework or pursuing some recreation or other in the main hall, or outdoors. Peggy and Abbi were free to speak in the empty dormitory without needing to keep their voices down.

Abbi silently stared at the ceiling deep in thought. Peggy turned to study Abbi, wondering what she was thinking.

Abbi finally said: “If they don’t want me, I might as well leave!”

“You can’t leave, Abbi. You need to eat and have shelter.”

“I could go to Littleton where I grew up and where Mama, my adoptive Mama, Jenine, said I was born and grew up. Jenine told me before I went to the Loggermans that I was born to an Indian woman there named Paula Pictford; but she died from smallpox shortly after I was born and Jenine adopted me. I didn’t even know I was adopted until a year ago. I think I told you about it Peggy.”

“Yes you told me earlier,” answered Peggy.

“Anyway,” continued Abbi, “I grew up from a baby in the Woodrow family and we lived there until Papa – adoptive Papa – was no longer needed for the Amherst-Moncton railway and had to work to design for the railway going up the Saint John River – not in the river, but beside the river. I lived in Littleton until I was about eight. People there will know me, wouldn’t they? Surely they’ll remember Bradford and Jenine Woodrow and their children, and maybe there will be someone who knows me and will give me sympathy. Perhaps I can persuade someone there to adopt me.”

“But that seems silly – People won’t adopt you simply if you ask them. They’ll send you back.”

“I know Peggy. That is why I have an even greater purpose – to find someone there who remembers back eleven or twelve years to when Irwin and Paula Pictford, my natural parents, lived there. I’ll learn everything I can about them. If I am to now use the name Abigail Pictford, seeing as Madam Woodrow has completely rejected me, I should discover where I really came from. I can never use the name ‘Abbi Woodrow’ again.”

Abbi was completely unaware that her adoptive Mama had made up the story of having been born from ‘Paula and Irwin Pictford’ because she didn’t want to tell her she had simply been left by an unknown person behind the Littleton church door. Oh what a hopeless adventure Abbi was now planning!

“There must be older people there who remember Irwin and Paula Pictford,” Abbi continued as her plan took form in her mind. “I’m only ten years old, eleven in a month. That’s not a long time when you’re grown up. People who were 20 when I was born, will now be 31. People who were 30 years old when I was born will now be 41. 40 year olds will be 51, 50 year olds 61, and so on. Eleven years is a short time for older people. If I tell people I was the little baby of Irwin and Paula Pictford, and that Paula was Indian—Indians stand out—they will certainly remember them. Everyone would remember an Indian woman and that she died when I was only four months, and that I was then adopted by Jenine and Bradford Woodrow, and that I was their Indian girl who played Aggodagauda’s daughter. . .”

“Aggoda-what?”

“The poem-play my adoptive Papa wrote and the family performed. I told you about it. Anyway I’m sure there will be many people who remember me as the Indian girl at the Woodrows; but there must also be some older people who may actually remember back to before I was adopted, and tell me something more about Irwin and Paula Pictford. They wouldn’t need to be that old, Peggy. They only need to have lived in Littleton more than eleven years. They should remember an Indian woman, who had a baby and then died, shouldn’t they? She would have stood out, wouldn’t she? And I could go to her gravestone and talk to her.”

“But it is pointless to even think of going. How would you make it to Littleton, anyway? Littleton is all the way beyond Moncton, like you told me earlier.”

Abbi lifted herself off the bed and reached under the bed, where her trunk and travel bag were stored, and reached inside her bag. She pulled out the $10 that Mark had given her. She showed it to Peggy and said: “This! It will easily pay for the train fare and much more!”

Peggy sat up. “A $10 banknote! Abbi, where did you get it!” She studied it more closely.

“Remember at the Carnival, when my former brother Mark pulled me aside? He gave me this. He said that Madam Audora gives him a $10 note every month. But we were not raised in a wealthy household, so he doesn’t know how to spend that much money. He just gave it to me, saying he’ll just get another one next month.”

“Well that would certainly pay the fare and more,” said Peggy, “but I don’t know Abbi. . . It’s far, and going alone? Even if you get away, you’ll be reported gone. They’ll find you and bring you back – I’m sure of it.”

“I have to try. I’ve made up my mind! I’ve decided that If I can’t go to the play, I’ll go home to Littleton!!...”

“I don’t know, Abbi.....”

“Besides, I want to see again the town where I lived my first years, to see how it has changed; and meet people I might remember. I was just eight when we left. I will go to the cemetery there and find the gravestone of Irwin and Paula Pictford – or at least Paula Pictford who died there of smallpox, since my Mama told me Irwin died at sea and is probably at the bottom of the Atlantic. I will stand in front of the grave and speak to her, and tell her spirit I am her daughter. It will be profoundly spiritual and satisfying—better than seeing a play. I must do it. And, Peggy, if I am sent back here afterward, I’ll accept any punishment I am given. I’ll feel stronger. I’ll come back with memories and a feeling of rootedness. Miss Ophelia Summer said that when one knows about one’s past one feels more rooted—actually I think she said ‘grounded’ which means the same. No punishment later can be worse than what I am enduring now, Peggy. Being in an actual prison would be better than this, especially if tomorrow I will have to endure imagining all the other children seeing the performance while I am scrubbing the oven, like Cinderella, and I can’t see it, nor see Ophelia Summer again. It would be utterly unbearable, Peggy!”

Peggy saw how serious she was. “I don’t know, Abbi.” Peggy repeated, a little fearful of Abbi’s determination. “I know I would be very scared to travel by myself.”

“Don’t worry Peggy,” Abbi assured her. “I’m used to traveling long distances by train. The last time was almost alone, since Mr. Morton ignored me as he calculated things in his notebooks. I must do it, Peggy. It would be easy. I could go early in the morning before the sun rises, make my way to the railway station – I only have to walk to the Richdale Station, not all the way to the Saint John Station – and before long, in about three or four hours if the train is express, I will be there in Littleton. I know where it is. It is beyond Moncton on the new line towards Amherst. I’ll only take my travel bag. Everything else I’ll leave. Amik is in my trunk. I will write a message on my trunk ‘please forward to Mark Woodrow at Tall Pines’ If I never come back, I know Mark will look after all my things until I come one day to pick them up.”

“I don’t know, Abbi. . .” said Peggy, apprehensively.

Abbi leaned towards Peggy and said with earnestness: “You must swear that if you see me gone, that you mustn’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. I must go if they won’t let me see the play!”

“The people who are adopting me are probably picking me up tomorrow, Abbi. I might not see the play either. But please don’t do anything drastic. I’d like to see you again sometime. Maybe when the punishment is over, things will be much better.”

“I have to do something, Peggy. I just have to do something. I can’t stay here while all the other children go to see Ophelia Summer.”

Abbi lay back on her bed again. One could see from her vacant gaze towards the ceiling that she was developing her plan in her mind. Peggy didn’t go and they were silent for a minute. Then Peggy remembered something.

“There is something else, Abbi.... I heard they took the snowflake brooch away that you won.”

Abbi nodded. “Superintendant Wellington had me relinguish it to him when he set out my punishment. It is completely unfair since winning the competition has nothing to do with the mishap of the ladies falling on their bums!”

Peggy continued: “I thought, before I went that I would give you mine. You after all did most of the work. Here, Abbi. . .” She took it off her dress and began to hand Abbi her silver snowflake brooch.

Abbi was touched and got up on an elbow again. She was a good friend. “No, Peggy, keep it. We can share just the one. We don’t need two.” Abbi pinned it back on Peggy’s dress. And then she hugged her. “If you find me gone before your new parents take you, Peggy, I promise I will find your address and write you a letter telling you what became of me.”

Peggy became tearful. They hugged each other as if they might never see each other again.

5 AM, LATE FEBRUARY, OFF TO LITTLETON

That night Abbi could not sleep a wink. Her mind was filled on the one hand with upset at the thought she would not go to see the matinee of ‘Stranger in a Winter Landscape’, at the Richdale Royal Theatre, and on the other hand with a fiery determination to go away from the Orphan Home and everything connected with Madam Audora Woodrow, forever.

About 5 am in the morning she lifted herself from bed onto an elbow and looked around. All the girls in the dormitory were sleeping soundly.

“What would be the point of my being here for even one more day,” she said to herself one more time under her breath. “If I can’t go to see the play, I might as well leave right away!”

She got out of bed, crawled underneath (beds in those days were quite high), and whispered to the trunk.

“I hope you don’t find it too stuffy in there Amik. If I don’t return, the Orphan Home will take you back to Tall Pines, where I can trust Mark to look after you. I have written a letter saying my belongings should go to Mark. I am going to the Richdale train station and the train will take me to Littleton.”

She then took her travel bag, and climbed out from under the bed. She put the clothes with which she had come from the hangers above the bed into the travel bag. Quietly, in her nightgown, she carried the travel bag to the washroom. There in the washroom, where there was a small gas light burning for children who had to use the facilities during the night, she took out the clothing she had put in the travel bag, and dressed. She straightened her hair and then, carrying the bag, she crept down the stairs. She crept into the kitchen, where she took some rolls and a couple of apples, which she put inside her bag, being very quiet since she knew Matron Gorda’s quarters were adjacent to the kitchen. Then she crept to the front hallway where she fetched her coat, boots, mittens, scarf, and warm hat, from the clothes closet. She sat on the bench there and put them on. She carefully opened the front door and left into the chilly snowy morning.

The Richdale railway station was not far away. She already knew where it was and how to get there from the Orphan Home. While the sun was peeping over the horizon, she scurried down the road towards the railway station.

As the sun rose, the city was awakening. People and carriages started to move about. Richdale was coming to life this snow laden late February morning.

Abbi entered the railway station and went to the blackboard where a stationmaster was writing the anticipated arrival/departure times with chalk. She waited until he had left, so as not to draw his attention to herself. She looked down the column under the word “To:” to find “Littleton”, but didn’t see it. She went to the stationmaster’s ticket window.

“Pardon me, sir, but Littleton is not on the schedule board.”

“That’s because the displayed schedule shows only the train run to Moncton. Littleton is beyond, south from there in the direction of Amherst. You must transfer to another train at Moncton, the one that is headed towards Amherst, that turns at Painsec Junction.”

“How would one get there?”

“To begin with, take the express train to Moncton which will pass through here very soon from the Saint John station, and inquire at the Moncton station when you arrive there which train to take to get to Littleton.”

“I would like a ticket to Littleton, please,” she asked politely.

“Are you traveling alone? It is not good for a girl so young to travel alone.”

“I’m going home,” she said in a businesslike fashion and her lowest tone of voice. “I am older than my small stature makes me appear, sir.”

The stationmaster eyed her suspiciously. Abbi tilted her head back and tried to look as mature as she could. She gave him the $10 bill that Mark had given her. He gave her lots of change and the ticket.

Abbi was quite familiar with the routine of riding the train, having most recently experienced it in the journey from Pinewood back to Saint John. But she had never traveled fully alone like this. She decided to act mature beyond her years so as not to draw attention towards herself. She knew how to speak beyond her years, so she only needed to look more than her nearly eleven years. She imagined she could be viewed as a teenager of small stature and was determined to give that impression.

The express train to Moncton pulled into the small but fancy Richdale station, having just come from the Saint John station, which was a major terminal. Abbi climbed aboard and sat on one of the wooden seats that were used in trains in those days. In her lap, she held her familiar canvas travel bag – the one with the two large wooden handles, that she first acquired at Tall Pines when she was first sent to the Loggermans.

Soon the locomotive was chugging, and the wheels were clicking and clacking and the scenery turned from buildings laden with snow, to rural landscapes of white blankets. Her heart was pounding because she had never done anything like this, all by herself, ever before. But she had to remain calm she told herself. She had to act maturely at all times because travelers hardly ever saw nearly eleven year old girls traveling alone on trains.

Soon the conductor came around. “Tickets please,” he said. She gave him her ticket and he punched it. He said: “Your ticket indicates Littleton. Transfer at Moncton station.”

“How long will it take, sir?”

“Several hours by express to Moncton – it is hard to give a precise time owing to winter weather; and then perhaps half an hour to Littleton from there. The train going towards Littleton is scheduled to depart so as to receive passengers from this one.”

“Thank you kind sir,” she said, mustering a low tone to sound much older.

Since she got on the train at about 7 am, she could be there around noon. Four or five hours would be quite pleasant, she thought, considering the journey from Pinewood to Saint John took all day. If she arrived around noon, that left her the afternoon to do her investigation at Littleton. If the afternoon was not sufficient, she could take a small room in the hotel with some of the money left over from the ticket. But she hoped she would find old friends of the Woodrow family to take her in temporarily. Even if they didn’t adopt her, old friends or neighbours of the family would certainly have her as a guest. She hoped they would sympathize and not send her back to Richdale right away. Perhaps they would even help her discover more about her origins. If she had to return to Richdale, it would be tolerable if she had learned all about her original parents Paula and Irwin Pictford.

The snowy countryside flew past the window. People sat on the benches with far-off looks in their eyes, thinking about where they had just been or where they were now going. Or maybe their minds were simply blank to pass the time; she did not know. Others read newspapers or books. There were men in suits, women traveling with men, and some women with a child or two. Where were they going? What were the situations in each of their lives that required them to travel? These questions were food for thought.

The express train stopped only at major towns, as we said, coasting through the smaller stations without stopping. But when it did stop, people went on and off, the conductor shouted ‘All aboard!’ and the train chugged forth again, after which the conductor walked through the cars again inspecting and punching tickets.

There was plenty of time for Abbi to think on the train, and her mind wandered to when less than a year ago she first learned about Paula and Irwin Pictford. She thought about that afternoon a couple months after Papa, her adoptive Papa, had not been found, that it had been decidedthey had to move out of their leased home in Fredericton since there was no money coming in anymore. Nobody wanted to move from the wonderful life they had started in Fredericton. And she herself had started school too. It had been a sad time and Mama – Jenine – had come to her bedroom upstairs to tell her the story of how she had been adopted.

“Look in the mirror, Abbi,” Jenine had said, turning her in the direction of the dressing mirror. “The fact of the matter is that you are indeed Indian, and we adopted you. You are a very beautiful Indian girl. See your tan skin, your straight black hair, your high cheekbones? That is why people think you look Indian when they see you. I’m sorry Abbi, we were going to tell you everything when you were ready, perhaps when you were 11 or 12, but I can see the time has now come even though you are only nine. The fact is that indeed Papa and I adopted you and raised you as our own, but Grandmama Audora always saw us raising an Indian orphan girl out of charity, and never really saw you as part of our family. She never saw you as ‘kin’ because you were not born from me and her son. Mark my words she will try to get rid of both me and you, Abbi, because we do not have her blood in our veins.”

“If I was adopted, please tell me, Mama,” Abbi had said. “Tell me where I came from.”

Abbi remembered how Jenine’s kind motherly face with blue eyes had become buried in thought, as if struggling hard to decide how to explain it all to her. “Well,.....your name was Abbi with an ‘I’,” she had begun, “as it is still. We called you ‘Abigail’ for the long form.”

“If it’s ‘Abigail’ I’ve always wondered why ‘Abbi’ with an ‘I’ and not with a ‘Y’?”

“That’s because it is Indian. Papa said that it was short for abbinochi according to one of his books. That is Indian for ‘baby’ or ‘child’. Your mother obviously liked to call you that. It was embroidered on your shirt when we got you when we lived in Littleton. Your parents . . . uh. . .lived there too.”

“I know the word abbinochi, from reading with Papa. It’s an Ojibwa or Chippewa word. Does that mean my mother was from the Ojibwa or Chippewa tribe? Papa’s books were about them.”

Jenine had looked a little uncertain. “I don’t know very much about Indian tribes. I only know about Mikmaq and Maliseet. Are there many tribes?”

“Papa explained that there are different tribes, and because they lived so far apart, even though they may have begun speaking the same way, each developed their own dialect and sometimes their own new words. ... But if my mother called me abbinochi, like you said, she came from the Ojibwa tribe. That was their word according to the man named Schoolcraft. They are the people in The Song of Hiawatha and also in the book of myths written by Mr. Schoolcraft. They are situated at Gitche Gumee which is Lake Superior. If she used the word abbinochi, then did she come from there? Was my mother Ojibwa? Was she from Gitche Gumee?”

“Oh!” Jenine had replied “Evidently Papa has taught you a great deal!. . . Well. . .yes. . .That’s right! She was from the same people. Yes. I remember that is the case. She did come from Lake Superior, from Gitche Gumee. Yes, and like Hiawatha’s tribe, her tribe lived on the north shore of Lake Superior, yes. I remember that was the case. But I’m afraid I don’t know more. Papa knew much more about this. He studied Indians a great deal in his study.”

“But Mama, if my mother was at Littleton like you were, why would my Ojibwa mother come from Lake Superior to Mikmaq territory? They are quite far apart.”

“Well. . .hmmm. . .it was on account of the man she married. They fell in love when he was at Lake Superior. He was a fur trader for a while. But they came east on account of wanting to settle down somewhere, and he found work on the same railway project Papa worked on, and so they came east to Littleton.”

Abbi remembered being very surprised. “A fur trader? What was he like? And what was my mother’s name? Did I have another name besides ‘Abbi’, because if it comes from abbinochi, then saying ‘Abbi’ is like calling a little boy or girl a ‘child’. It isn’t a real name.”

“Abbi you are asking so many questions at once. Well your father was. . .uh. . .Pictish......Yes, he was Pictish – the people in northern Britain before the Scottish came. His first name was uh. . .Irwin. His last name was uh. . .Pictford. I don’t know what your mother’s Indian name was, but everyone called her Paula, Paula Pictford.”

“If her homeland was Gitche Gumee, Mama, then she could have had an Indian name like in Mr. Longfellow’s poem. Was it Wenona? Was it Minnehaha? I like Minnehaha. Or perhaps I had that name. Minnehaha would have been a very good name for me, I think.”

Jenine had looked perplexed. Fact is what she knew about Indians was what he had picked up from her husband as he educated his children or recited to them from The Song of Hiawatha. Abbi had learned considerably more from her frequent visits to see him in his study.

“I’m sorry, Abbi. Nobody in Littleton called her by her Indian name, and you were so new, perhaps she hadn’t even given you your Indian name yet, but called you ‘Abbi’ for the time being.”

“Tell me more, Mama. Leave nothing out. When did you get me? How did my mother die? What happened to my father?”

“Well,...... she was fine when you were very little, and she could nurse you, but then she became ill. You see, Indian women are very susceptible to diseases from Europe. They do not have the same resistance Europeans have developed over the centuries. She got, I believe. . .uh. . . smallpox. Indians everywhere died from smallpox after the Europeans arrived. Irwin your father was so very sad when Paula died. Then, since a father has to work and can’t look after a baby of four months, he looked around for assistance, and found that I and Papa had just married and wanted to start a family; so he visited us one day with you in his arms and said. ‘I have to go away to work and to get away from everything. I have got myself hired on a ship that carries wood to Britain, and I wonder if you can look after Abbi, when I am at sea. I will send money to help support her from time to time, and visit whenever I’m on this side of the Atlantic.’ That’s what he said. You were so lovely so we were happy to take care of you for him. Before that we did not know Paula and Irwin or you too well – only from gossip around town – so we never learned things like your mother’s exact tribe or Indian name and so on. Afterwards, because Irwin was away at sea so much of the time while you were in our care, we had little chance to ask more about you, him, or Paula. I would have loved to ask him many more questions if I had had a chance.”

“What happened then? What happened to him?”

“I’m afraid that the second time he crossed the Atlantic as a sailor on the ship that carried wood, the ship was in a storm and broke apart, with lumber scattered all over the North Atlantic, and everyone on board, they say, was drowned.”

“Oh!” Abbi had reacted. She had now lost two fathers to drowning, although it wasn’t confirmed yet for the second one.

“I’m sorry, Abbi,” Jenine then had said, comforting her. “It must be terrible to learn that your earlier father also suffered an accident.”

“Don’t worry, Mama. I am getting used to deaths in my life. Besides, I think it is romantic to drown in the enormous Atlantic ocean in a hurricane while struggling to keep the ship together. I will now forever picture the storm in my mind, with waves 50 feet tall, and how all the sailors struggled against the mighty sea.”

These revelations from Jenine, had been absolutely amazing to Abbi. Suddenly there was so much more to her identity. She had had no idea that Jenine had made it up, nor that in reality Jenine still had no more idea where the baby left at the church doorstep came from than the day she found her. And Abbi still had no idea.

Abbi had no idea that the town constable had failed to determine her origins in spite of thorough investigations and had expressed the view that whoever left the baby had done it with great planning, perhaps to ensure the baby had a good life in a rural area instead of being sent to a city orphan asylum and an uncertain future.

Abbi had no idea that Jenine had been torn about lying to Abbi, but still realizing that if she had told Abbi the truth, then Abbi would be consumed by questions that had often consumed her. Questions like: What was the reason Abbi’s mother was unable or did not want to keep the baby. Was she still alive somewhere? Or had her mother died, and a friend had left the baby? Was it a child obtained out of wedlock? Or was the mother so poor and already had a dozen children, and decided to give up the newest one? A thousand questions can fill the void of knowing nothing. That would be a nightmare for a girl with lots of imagination like Abbi had. She had to tell Abbi a story that was clear, known, and solid. She would postpone the truth until their lives were stable and happy once again. By then Abbi would be older too and better able to understand the difficulties faced by women who give up their babies, and be able to process it in a more mature way.

As the train’s wheels click-clacked along, Abbi still had absolutely no idea the story of her origins was a lie. She had accepted what Jenine had told her as the absolute truth.

“Yes, Abbi that’s the story,” Jenine had finished. “The fact of the matter, Abbi, is that I didn’t give you birth. Another woman did. You came out of another woman. But I got you when you were only a baby, so I might just as well have given you birth. Yes ‘adopted’ means that I and Bradford took you to be our own. And you can’t remember it because you were too young to remember it. If people have not properly treated you as part of the family, it is because you do look very much like an Indian, like you already understand.”

Abbi remembered than having pleaded for Jenine to tell her more about her parents. How did they look, for example. If she came from Gitche Gumee, maybe she was an Ojibwa princess? It would be so grand if she were the daughter of a chief from Gitche Gumee. By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis—Paula probably called her grandmother Noko, but it is sad she was so far from her home at Lake Superior. She must have missed her Noko, while living at Littleton. Her mind had been filled with ideas.

“Yes, Abbi,” Jenine had continued, trying hard to quench Abbi’s thirst for information. “Lake Superior is very far away. Perhaps Mr. Pictford managed to get a message back by post when she died, but there was no reason for Irwin Pictford to send you there when she died, since Mr. Pictford expected to be back to visit you from time to time while we looked after you. He probably wanted to spend a few years at sea forgetting about Paula, and then remarry and take you back from us. But he drowned, and you were with us, and he had never told us where you were from other than Paula was from the Lake Superior area of course. But we knew nothing about where on Lake Superior her tribe was. Irwin had not had a chance to tell us. So you stayed with us. But we loved you and it was fine with us if you stayed permanently. And Bradford – Papa - did look into discovering where you were from. And the Constable did too. Perhaps Papa would have discovered it by and by – by the time you were ready to be told you were adopted. But now he has disappeared and I don’t know what he had discovered about you by now.”

Abbi recalled as she lay back on her bedm feeling a breeze of relief flowing over her – suddenly everything becoming clear – all the attention on her by strangers, all the discussions about her when they didn’t think she could hear, the frequent use of the word ‘adopted’ or ‘Indian’.... She had then laid on her bed with a faraway look in her eyes. “Well, then I will have to continue looking, myself, Mama,” she had declared. “Perhaps one day I will discover my tribe and my relatives at Gitche Gumee and let them know I am fine!”

“There is no rush, Abbi. We can right away begin to investigate like Papa did, to look for more clues, although I’m sure Papa has already done so. Perhaps after much detective work, we can trace your past and find relatives. Right now, we have to deal with the current situation and with Grandmama Audora, and having to move into her mansion at Tall Pines. I hope telling you all this hasn’t upset you, Abbi.”

“Don’t worry, Mama. I feel relieved that you told me. It explains clearly why Grandmama Audora doesn’t like me, and never really has. But, it will take me a while to get used to the idea that my mother was really an Indian, and my looking the way I do isn’t a coincidence but that I’m really Indian. I have so much to think about now. I have never even seen a real Indian before— except in pictures.”

This conversation took place before Grandmama Audora found some excuse not to include her with the family at Tall Pines but send her to the Loggermans to help her look after her five little girls. Thinking back, Abbi realized that in doing so, it gave Abbi a chance to explore her Indian identity with the help of the books she had taken with her that belonged to her Papa – adoptive Papa – which was mainly The Song of Hiawatha and Henry Schoolcrafts book summarizing Ojibwa legends. While there, she had managed to even have a fast in which on the second night Amik appeared in a dream and came to life and told her ‘Don’t forget me’ which she later figured out meant her path in life was to become a scholar since Amik had watched over all the scholarly things her Papa had done on his desk in his study....... Yes, Abbi concluded, as the locomotive blew its whistle yet again, Madam Audora’s sending her to the Loggermans in the end helped her discover her Indian identity. Near the end she even met Minnie, the daughter of a chief, and became friends with her. She had the address of the Indian village where she lived and would write her soon, bearing in mind Minnie could not read nor write, and knew little English, and that her father would have to help her....

“Tickets! Tickets!” shouted the conductor as he came around again, in order to punch the tickets of people who had boarded at the last stop. That brought Abbi back to the present – the swaying train, the click-clack of the wheels on the joints between the rails, the frequent whistle of the locomotive as it approached railway crossings to warn wagons a train was coming. She showed the conductor that her ticket was already punched and he continued on.

She opened her travel bag for a snack. She had anticipated becoming hungry on the trip and took out one of the apples she had put in her bag from the kitchen, and began to eat it. As she munched on the apple and looked wistfully out the window she said quietly to herself: “I’m free. Free of Audora Woodrow. Free of the Orphan Home. I’m going home, home to Littleton, the home of my birth, to discover everything there is to know about Paula and Irwin Pictford!”

Finally they arrived in Moncton. Since she had no luggage other than her travel bag which she had carried on board, she didn’t have to wait, but proceeded directly to the stationmaster to inquire which train to take for Littleton. She did not have to wait long to board that train and be off again.

In less than an hour, she would be there!!! Her heart was racing at the thought of returning to her roots!!!

Stranger in a Winter Landscape

A SNOWY ARRIVAL, LITTLETON, N.B.

This second train was not express, otherwise it would not have stopped at a small place like Littleton. But then, she didn’t have as far to go, and the several small stops along the way could be tolerated.

Abbi remembered when they lived in Littleton, Papa, her adoptive Papa, often went to Moncton. This time it would be like returning to Littleton from Moncton. The snowy scenery once again flew past the window.

The train turned, as she had been told, at Painsec Junction. If you went straight, you’d end up at Shediac and the ferry dock for crossing to Prince Edward Island. She certainly wouldn’t want to make that mistake!

Before long, the new conductor on the new train shouted “Littleton”, and she gathered her things together. “Excuse me,” she said as she squeezed past a stout lady that had come to sit beside her.

She descended from the train to a snowy platform. It had been cleared but new snow was falling and covering it again. It was about noon, but she couldn’t tell for sure; and she headed into the small Littleton train station building. It had been about three years ago since the Woodrow family left Littleton. Abbi felt a warm feeling like she was coming home; but there was a knot in her stomach because she knew that there was no Woodrow family here anymore. The cottage they used to live in would contain some other people. And Aunt Gwendoline and her family, had left too, gone west. Nonetheless she was hoping to meet up with some friends of the family at least and they might help her discover information about her original parents. But nobody knew she was coming. She now regretted not having planned it in advance instead of making the decision to come here only yesterday. Had she corresponded with someone from their past, they could have welcomed her and even helped her in her quest. Perhaps someone in the area could even decide to adopt her!! Abbi had high hopes – perhaps too high.

The late February weather was chilly, and snow was beginning to come down. She entered the railway station waiting room area, warmed by a stove in the center, and found it empty except for the stationmaster in a corner behind a counter. While some people had boarded the train when it stopped, she had been the only one to get off. Apparently nobody else had had any need to travel to Littleton from elsewhere today. The train had to stop anyway to load and unload mail and other shipments, even if nobody got on or off.

Since he was the only other person there, Abbi approached the stationmaster. “Pardon me, sir,” she began. Noticing the stationmaster was writing as the telegraphy machine at the side was clacking away, she said: “I’m sorry, sir. Is that a telegraph machine? I appear to have disturbed you in taking down the telegraphy message coming in.”

When the telegraph machine had stopped clicking, the stationmaster turned to Abbi. “What can I do for you, Miss?”

“I was wondering if you are born and raised around here. Have you known of an Irwin and Paula Pictford, who lived around Littleton years ago, more than eleven years ago?”

“I’m sorry, Miss,” he replied. “I’m not born and raised here. I was posted here in this job only about three years ago shortly after the station was built. This railway is quite new.”

“Yes. My Papa, my adoptive Papa, helped put the Amherst-Moncton railway here. He worked for the railway construction company.”

Then he noticed she was a young girl alone. “What is a young girl like you traveling alone, and in weather like this?”

“I’m older than my small stature may make it seem,” she lied in a mature voice. “I’m expecting someone to pick me up, but. . .” she noted through the window the snow was coming down now in small cotton balls, and getting heavier...“perhaps they have been delayed in coming by the snow. Perhaps I will walk.”

The inquiring tone in her voice prompted the stationmaster to respond: “The main street of Littleton, if that is what you seek, is but a short walk that way. But if someone is coming, you are advised to wait a while more, or else they will be looking for you.”

Her only intention of speaking to the stationmaster was to determine if he had lived here more than eleven years ago. That accomplished, there was no reason to stay. But for appearances she should appear to wait a short time. Perhaps she could get more information from him. She decided to strike a conversation with him. “It may interest you to know that I’m aware that it is by means of telegraphy that the railway coordinates the movement of the trains, prevents them from running into one another. I noticed the telegraphy wires running all the way along the track as I looked out the window as I came. You see, I know quite a great deal about how railways operate on account of my adoptive Papa having been a railway man, as I mentioned. Perhaps you have heard of him, since you work for the railway: Bradford Woodrow. We lived here in Littleton until about three years ago.”

“I’m sorry I have not. As I said, I was posted here three years ago.”

Of course. Someone would have to have been here more than three years ago to even remember the Woodrows, and over eleven years ago to remember the Pictfords!

She thought she was starting to be too talkative and annoying the man; so she left him alone. She was too impatient to stay at the railway station, even for appearances of waiting for someone, for she had been sitting on train seats for four or five hours. So she walked around looking at train schedules and advertisements posted on the walls, and then she left as if her transportation had arrived. The stationmaster, immersed in his work, did not pay any attention.

She walked, bag in hand, cotton ball snow falling on her hat and coat, in the direction of the town. Its major buildings were visible through the snowfall. Having lived here until she was almost eight, much seemed familiar, in spite of being blanketed with snow. It was hard to believe just how much had happened between when the family left and now. There had been a continuation of life in Fredericton, and then her adoptive Papa’s accident, and then having to give up the Fredericton home and move to Richdale, near Saint John, into Grandmama Audora’s mansion called Tall Pines, then Audora sent her into the interior of New Brunswick to live with and help the Loggermans, and then she returned in January, only to be sent to the Orphan Home where she experienced a Winter Carnival. Yes an awful lot had happened to her. It seemed much more than three years!!

The snow and wind were picking up now and making it harder to see. Still, looking up the road to the right, in the distance she saw, even though blurred by the snowfall, the unmistakable silhouette of the Littleton church.

There was nobody about in this snowy weather. She yearned to find people she could speak to in order to find someone that she knew or knew her and her adoptive family from years past, and then find someone who had been here a very long time. She spied the Littleton Hotel along the main street, went towards it and climbed steps to go inside.

She carefully opened the door and walked in, but saw nobody, until she saw a counter and a man behind it. The man looked up, a little surprised. He was a little stout man, balding on top. He had a broad white moustache.

“What is a young girl like you doing in Littleton in weather like this?” asked the man, distracted from what he had been doing behind the reception counter.

Surely this must be a man of the area, thought Abbi. “I am seeking someone who has lived in this area eleven or more years ago. I once lived here in this area. I was born here, I was told, to Irwin and Paula Pictford. Then I spent my first years in the Woodrow family. Kind sir, please tell me that you are a long-time resident of this area.”

“Sorry, young woman,” he said. “I and my wife purchased this little hotel only a year and a half ago. But the former owner, well, he was of this area, establishing this hotel many decades ago. Seems its value greatly increased when the railway came, and he decided to profit by selling it and retire. After the property became mine, he moved elsewhere.”

Abbi was disappointed by this second instance of a person who was new to the area and couldn’t help her—who weren’t even familiar with the Woodrow family.

The man continued by way of explanation: “The railway changes things plenty. Every place the railway reaches experiences a dramatic growth. Seems that many original residents and businesses are not comfortable with the change, or can’t keep pace, and find it easier to retire and sell their property, especially considering its value has risen dramatically.”

“I left with the Woodrow family only three years ago. The railway was already here for a few years already. Have things changed so much in three years?”

“I don’t know, Miss, how it was earlier; but I can tell you there are new businesses. The general store was sold and the new owner made it into a larger dry goods store. A new grocery store has been established recently. The livery and wagon repair shop has changed hands too.”

“Yes it was owned by my adoptive mother’s brother-in-law, Wilbur Cartsmith. The family decided to take the new railways into the west. I think they’re now in Toronto.”

Abbi was sorry to learn that the Littleton of her childhood was not here any more. But, she told herself, she was not here for visiting Littleton. She was on a mission to learn about her natural parents. She resumed her purpose: “Although I’d like to meet people who knew my adoptive family, the Woodrows, who lived in the cottage just at the edge of town, I’d really like to find people who were here over eleven years ago who may have known my original parents, the Pictfords, sir. You see they died when I was a baby and I was adopted by the Woodrows.”

“I see. . .Well people in some of the farms around the area have probably been here a long time.”

“Well, I will seek out some farmers, then,” replied Abbi.

“You won’t find farmers living in town, nor, by the looks of the storm, will any come visiting town to buy supplies today,” replied the man, glancing through a window at the weather outside.

“Well, thank you very much, sir,” said Abbi and headed outside again. The man in the wide moustache went to the window to watch her with some curiosity.

Abbi stood outside wondering what to do, and then she turned and went back inside. She found the man close inside the door. “Pardon me again sir,” she said. “I would like to find someone who can take me to the nearest farm then. I have money to pay.” She opened her hand to reveal more than $5. After purchasing the train ticket, she had received plenty of change back from her $10 bill.

“And what is a girl doing walking around by herself in a snowfall with such a large sum of money?” the hotel owner inquired. Then, figuring it was none of his business, he replied to her question: “I cannot be a help, Miss. Perhaps there is someone at the livery. Perhaps they have a sleigh and driver. But best you wait to see if the snowfall will lessen. You can sit in here if you like and wait for the snow and wind to calm down. How is it that a girl as young as you would come to Littleton all alone and not even have someone here to meet them? If you once lived here, then surely the way to go about it is to first make contact with old friends and neighbours of the area and pursue your quest through them.”

Abbi came to a sudden realization he was absolutely right. It had not been a good idea to simply travel to Littleton on impulse out of anger at not being able to see Ophelia Summer in the matinee of A Stranger in a Winter Landscape.

“You’re right, sir. I ought to have tried to remember some friend or neighbour of the family first and write them and make an arrangement with them. But my decision to come here occurred very fast – just yesterday. There was no time to make arrangements. Alas, now that I’m here I have to try to achieve my objective in whatever way I can. As beautiful and warm as it is in here in your charming hotel as a blizzard goes on outside, I have a purpose in coming here and I’m determined to follow it. Besides, I have just been sitting on the train from Richdale and then from Moncton since 7 in the morning. I have had enough sitting.” Then Abbi had an idea. “I know! I’ll walk over to the church. That’s not far away! It is visible from here. There’s a cemetery there. I can talk to the reverend. I can see if I can find the gravestone of my parents. At least Paula Pictford ought to be there. Perhaps the old reverend is there, and he will know. If he is still here, then he has probably been here more than eleven years and would know about the Pictfords! There isn’t a new reverend here is there? Tell me there isn’t a new reverend, sir.”

“No,” replied the moustached man, “the Reverend Jones is quite elderly, and I understand he has been here a long time. He would be of help I’m sure. Yes, I see that would be your solution in your quest to find someone who has resided in the area quite a long time. But won’t you wait for the snow to lessen? Even a quarter mile is a considerable distance in whirling snow and wind. It has become quite heavy since the last half hour, as you can see by looking out the window.”

“But I must!” replied Abbi feeling frustrated that things were not going as she anticipated. “What if the snow does not let up? My time will all go to waste, and I may never get another chance. I must, I must! Don’t worry sir, I’m familiar with blizzards from when I lived in the interior of New Brunswick. If things do not go well, I may come back, sir, and rent a room here for the night, in your charming establishment.”

With that, Abbi left the hotel and headed through the blowing snow in the direction of the church. Meanwhile the moustached man started putting on his coat. A woman of about the same age as he, apparently his wife, appeared from the back and asked him “Where are you going?”

He replied: “Over to the town constable’s office. There is a girl walking around alone in the storm who has come without anyone to receive her, and has a considerable sum of money in her possession. Something is amiss, I’m certain, in regards to this mysterious small stranger wandering around in this winter landscape! My sense is that it is something the town police constable should look into. The girl is now walking towards the church. I also fear for her safety. It is hard to see where you are going with the snow blowing about. She could very easily get lost even in walking a quarter mile. I will alert the constable.”

Abbi trudged along the road, insofar as the road was revealed by the tracks of sleighs that had traveled there in hours past; tracks which however were now getting covered up by the new snow.

As she went, she thought that if she had had snowshoes, she would have resembled the dark-haired heroine in the story ‘Stranger in a Winter Landscape’ as she tramped about in the winter looking for her roots in Acadia. But it also reminded her that about now the children of the Orphan Home would be seeing the matinee of the play. It angered her. The thought of it made her even stronger in her purpose!

She pulled her woolen hat down well over her ears and wrapped her scarf over her mouth. Her mittens were adequate for keeping her fingers warm.

Before long she came to the church and saw the small white house of the reverend beside it. She remembered the scene from her years here with the Woodrows from when they all went to church regularly. There was smoke coming from the chimney, which suggested the reverend was at home. She walked to the door and knocked. But there was no answer. Perhaps the wind was blowing and howling too loudly for the reverend to hear. Perhaps there was another door? Or maybe he was in the church? She walked around the house towards the church and spied the church cemetery behind. While the cemetery area was covered with a blanket of white, the gravestones protruded up through the snow; so she thought she would go and see if she could find the gravestone of Paula Pictford, at least.

“James Ryan . . . Gerald Jones . . . Frances Brown. . . .” She went from one gravestone to the other reading them all, but could not find what she was looking for. She said to herself: “Where could it be? Where could the gravestone of Paula Pictford be? Could it be under the snow? Could it have fallen over? I can’t understand it!”

It had now been about a y