One evening a raggedly-dressed man, with a swag on his back, a bear-skin
cap on his head, and a sheath-knife in his belt, came to our place and
took possession of the barn. Dad ordered him off. The man offered to
fight Dad for the barn. Dad ran in and got the gun. Then the man picked
up his swag and went away. The incident caused much talk for a few days,
but we soon forgot all about it; and the man with the bear-skin cap passed
from our minds.
Church service was to be held at our selection. It was the first occasion,
in fact, that the Gospel had come to disturb the contentedly irreligious
mind of our neighbourhood. Service was to open at 3 p.m.; at break-of-day
we had begun to get ready.
Nothing but bustle and hurry. Buttons to be sewn on Dave's shirt; Dad's
pants--washed the night before and left on the clothes-line all night to
bleach--lost; Little Bill's to be patched up generally; Mother trotting
out to the clothes-line every minute to see if Joe's coat was dry. And,
what was unusual, Dave, the easy-going, took a notion to spruce himself
up. He wandered restlessly from one room to another, robed in a white
shirt which was n't starched or ironed, trying hard to fix a collar to it.
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