This usually had a subduing effect, as did the voices at family devotions which issued through the tent-openings. But we were little pagans after all, and many a time did not resist the temptation to pluck at a woman’s skirt, or punch a foot, as we caught sight of them under the half-rolled tent folds, while the occupants knelt in prayer.
Not compelled to listen to the long morning and afternoon sermons, except on Sundays, we had to attend evening services or go to bed. But there was much to make them endurable, especially if a certain woman “got the power.” And, anyhow, the scene was impressive out there in the night, the tents gleaming in the distance, and the hymns and petitions echoing under the trees.
We went willingly to the Children’s Meetings, held after dinner in a huge tent with its carpet of straw. Certain brethren and sisters would address the children. Many an infant convert would “go forward” amid great rejoicing. The singing and childish “experiences” were interesting, though then our religious natures were fortunately but slightly aroused. I would choke up and cry softly sometimes, but was not deeply moved—the woods being a powerful rival at that early age.
But one dear old lady (she seemed old even then) I always loved to hear. She would come in at the side of the tent, Bible and camp-chair in hand, stoop under the tentfolds, wade through the straw, which would cling to her black skirt (the smell of straw always reproduces this scene), place her blue Brussels camp-chair in front of us, and open the meeting with, “Now, Children.” I can’t remember what else she used to say, but that “Now, Children” was so intimate and confidential—not sanctimonious like many who addressed us. Her voice was rich with emotion, but controlled, so as not to make her listeners uncomfortable. (Those good sisters whose voices were on the ragged edge of tears used to irritate me; it seemed indecent; even in my most devout days I never overcame my repugnance toward those who “went to pieces” when giving testimony.) What she said to us day after day I forgot years ago, but her face, her kindly comprehensive glance, and the inflections of her voice became a part of my consciousness, deeply fixed in memory.
Years later, soon after entering the hospital where my work has since been, the poor soul was brought here as a patient. Going on the wards one morning, note-book in hand, eager to take the history of the patient admitted the previous night, I found dear old Sister Mifflin, the same who had exhorted us at Children’s Meetings years before—no older, it seemed to me, only more broken, pitiably broken.
How the scene at Auburndale came back at the sight of her face, the sound of her voice! She was just a feeble, whimpering old woman to the others, but to me she was those dear, dark woods with the white tents, the holy songs, Mother, Sister, Brother—Childhood! Such a flood of recollections surged through me that I could only attempt a few words of consolation and postpone my case-taking till under better control. But I told her where I used to know her, and she brightened pathetically at the word “Auburndale.” And here she was now, a child among other gray-haired children who had lost their way, while the Drumlin Child, whose feet she had tried to lead in the old paths, was henceforth to guide her faltering steps to the journey’s end!
I remember the last time we tented at Auburndale an instance of Mother’s watchful care that humiliated and incensed us then, but for which I am grateful now: We were probably fourteen and fifteen years old when, one evening, Sister and I and some other girls and boys stole up through the little gate and outside the grounds to some willows a short distance away. We knew it was wrong; the boys were new acquaintances, unknown to Mother (sons of a man who later became our pastor); besides, we were not supposed to go beyond the grounds without permission. But with many misgivings we set out, feeling quite like young ladies walking out with young men—a very delectable stolen sweet we were nibbling! Sitting under the trees while the boys made willow canes for us, tracing fantastic designs on them, we enjoyed ourselves for a brief period. Presently an uncle of ours went by and, greeting us, passed on to the camp-ground. The chatting and cane-making continued. Twilight deepened, but it was still light enough to see that which filled Sister and me with consternation and chagrin—Mother coming down the road, bare-headed (in those days betokening great haste) coming rapidly toward us, and—with whips in her hand!
With one accord we all arose and meekly followed her back to the camp-ground. Something very like hatred stirred within us at the course she had taken to show us before our new acquaintances that we were still children and subject to her authority. Not that we questioned her right to require us to return, but it seemed needlessly humiliating to come after us with whips. I think we rebelled at her carrying the whips, and that she finally dropped them.
How crestfallen we all looked, the boys whittling the canes, and the other girls probably seeing in ours a fate similar to their own! We got a vigorous talking-to before we were sent to bed. Our uncle, it seems, had alarmed Mother by saying that we were lounging under the willows with a “lot of strange fellows.” This was a favourite trysting-place for the young people whose devotion led them into these by-paths rather than to the evening meetings. I can laugh now at our discomfiture and at Mother’s wrath, but it was no laughing matter that August night so long ago.
I don’t know how old I was when I “experienced religion.” Reared from infancy “in the nurture and admonition of the Lord,” there had been, during childhood, a period of apparent indifference to such matters; later one of acute interest; then the lull and reaction from the excitement of a revival; then one of renewed and deepened interest, followed by a gradual decline in religious observances, a creeping in of doubt and unbelief; a period of acute suffering, extending probably over three or four years (because I could no longer walk in the old paths); then one of lonely wanderings in strange paths, till I finally settled down to where I now find myself, though that state would be hard to define. Of the length of these various periods, and the age at which some of them occurred, I am uncertain.