CHAPTER I.

THE PRETTY ASTER AND MR. HAM.


It was the autumn of the year, and the dress of the Canadian woods
at that season, forty years ago, differed little from the gaudy garbs
of now. Near a small village not far from the town of Little York, I
choose as the place for the opening of this true story.

The maple, of all the trees in the forest, was the only one so far
frost-smitten and sun-struck. The harvests had been gathered, and the
only tenants of the fields were flocks of pigeons that came to feed
among the stubble; for many a ripe ear fell from the heads in the
tying of the sheaves; many a shower of the golden grain had fallen as
the load, drawn by slow oxen, lurched and swayed along the uneven
ground.

Nestling in a grove of primeval pines that sentinelled the placid,
shining waters of the Don stood a low, wide-eaved cottage. It was
completely clad in ivy; and upon the eastern side there was a dull
copper tinge through the matted masses of the Virginia creeper.

Many of the earlier flowers had faded; but the pinks and the poppies
were still rich in blood; and the sunflower sturdily held up its
yellow face like 'a wizened sorcerer of old,' as a fair and gifted
friend of my acquaintance puts it. The cottage and the grounds about