Donovan's Station Read Online Free

land—and it was here they established Mother’s gardens.
    I think that my father never quite got used to the availability of wood in such quantities as we had near Petty Harbour. There were times when I saw him stop and gaze at a stand of spruce or fir and he would laugh aloud at the absurdity of being able to go and cut as much of it as he wanted without paying anyone a penny for the privilege. Men who had settled only a few years before he did complained bitterly that the woods around the harbour were chopped and burned to nothing, andif they couldn’t reach out their hand and cut a stick to put on the fire without getting out of their beds they were aggrieved, but for Father to travel five, ten, even twenty miles to find knees for his boats was nothing, and he often hauled our winter wood from fairly long distances.
    Whatever he could make, he did, and insisted Mother do the same. Despite the promise of a dozen red jackets, I never knew her to wear anything but homespun although she always had a way of making even the coarsest clothing look delicate. Com was so rare in those days that few could afford to purchase imported furniture or clothing, but most people got at least a few things from home. Such wasn’t the case with us. The table and two chairs we had—for we children used three-legged stools—were carved by my father during the long winter days when he would set a block of snow outside the small window near the stove to reflect light in so that he and Mother could work. He had no tools for turning legs but he carved them so perfectly that only the most discerning eye could tell the difference. My mother spun wool whenever she wasn’t busy with anything else—could do it in her sleep, she said.
    I believe the only things we had that were imported were a few dishes, the stove from Grandfather Bulley and our Argand lamp, and that last was used only on relatively rare occasions as Father was concerned that the oil would corrode the mechanism and leave us with no proper light in an emergency. Like most of the people in the Harbour, we rose with the sun, and went to bed with it as well. During winter, when the days were short, Mother and Father would often sit by the stove for a time late in the evening, using the dim light from the mica insert in the front of the stove to finish some small job, and Richard and I would listen to the quiet murmuring of their voices until we fell asleep or they climbed the loft to join us in bed. I occasionally heard them disagree—Mother wanting to raise more goats or plant more turnips than Father thought we could use, or Fatherwishing to hire on as a servant someone Mother felt was giddy or unreliable—but I never heard them raise their voices in anger, nor did I ever hear my mother weep for her lost hat-shop or her red jacket.

June 2
    Fine, cool day. No change in Mumma. Wish Lizzie would visit.
    There’s a bluebottle at the window that keeps me restless. I hope Kate comes soon to deal with it. I have such a nervous mind today, and for once I am glad I can’t speak for almost anything could come out of my mouth and there are some things best forgotten. I’m glad I settled the matter of the grave when Mr. Donovan died, for that’s one worry off my mind. I’d have preferred to be buried in town, but we belong to Topsail parish and he liked the view out over the bay, so I chose a nice double plot well back from the gate so we would be away from the tramp and curiosity of casual passersby. We always liked our own company best. Pity we never had our own graveyard here at St. Ann’s, but I suppose with no church, and the hotel, it wasn’t really practical.
    That was a nice graveyard in Petty Harbour that the Bishop set up after the smallpox epidemic. Perhaps that is what Father Roche wishes to talk about. There was some problem at the time that I did not understand—a petition had gone from several of the Protestant