“Three in one, one in three”— The Trinity… so signifies the green shamrock worn proudly by “the part of me that’s Irish” this blessed St. Patrick’s Day.

We have anticipated happily its coming. “By St. Patrick’s Day” we said with some longing when the fall hushed the crickets’ tunings and turned the cattle down the summer – path to continued stabling And in mind we pictured the break of the spring tide along the farmlands. We could fancy then [sic] as we looked off over the silent fields, the burst of music we should hear. No funeral march then, but an elfin movement, a light melody full of the blythe [sic] laughter of the tricking streamlets that ever at Alderlea, steal down from the rise of slope above us bearing off Winter to the millstream and river below. St Patrick’s Day invariably brings us, as now, those among opening bars, the eager happy prelude to the Spring Song we enjoy.

Its coming too, brings us choice glimpses of that Emerald Isle we think we have come to know better of late, since the lady of the manse at the corner, born and reared there as was her husband the minster of the “Old Kirk” has told us something of its rare beauty and charm…

Some day, who knows? We may come there to visit with James, to see that countryside where Irish folk declare “A bit of Heaven lies,” with its gold green sod, its misty mountains, its “lakes and fells.”

And he will see first the ponies, the cattle and pigs (“Isn’t that a handsomeone, Ellen.” he will say) and the sheep. And it will come to mind that maybe the forbears of those were of a flock the boy Patrick tended so carefully, when as a slave of the marauding King Niall, and only the age of Jamie, he was brought a captive to Erin’s shores. Born, historians are nat [sic] sure where— maybe in Britain or France they say— when the centuries were young, he was destined to become one of the greatest of missionaries. 

Called in a dream later to return from other lands to which the years had taken hime, to, Ireland, he heeded the voice that had begged him to “come and walk with us a before.

So great was his gift and zeal, it is said he made converts wherever he went, and before he died the whole Island was won to Christianity. He taught the doctrine if the Trinity by plucking a shamrock an pointing to the three perfect lobes growing from the one stem.

Rosa Mulholland, whose pen must have been dipped in Irish magic, so characteristically sweet sad the verses are, wrote: I wear a shamrock in my heart Three in one, one in three— Truth and love and faith, Tears and pain and death, O sweet the shamrock is to me!

Lay me in my hollow bed, Grow the shamrocks over me. Three in one, one in three Faith and hope and charity, Peace and rest and silence be With me where you lay my head: O, dear the shamrocks are to me”

– Ellen’s Diary, March 17th 2021

Source: Islandnewspapers.ca

With James’ help at times— for was it not he who rocked him so fondly to sleep? We enjoyed a spell of baby-sitting today taking over the care of “Wee Alex” when the rest of the family in the house across the lane must take a trip to town this afternoon. This outing was mainly to meet Granddaughter’s appointment at the dentist’s, though it had its other interesting incidentals besides.

There was, perhaps to be the most important item of all, a pair of sturdy white boots brought home to replaie [sic] those scuffed and worn by the active lad who before long will be making first steps. He creeps smartly, and can now easily draw himself up beside chairs and couches. He can also get himself into awkward places from which a quick rescue must be made!

However perhaps to Mack, a man-size shovel was the most engaging souvenir of the trip, a clean shining thing to be of much assistance to him clearing away any March snow from the verandahs and yardpaths about. Or above all else, contributing as we see it no small share to the wellbeing of farm and family, though in roundabout ways, were not the sacks of “store feed” for the animals, the truck carried home to lane’s end of most moment? Or maybe back of those, we smiled weighing everything, were the farmers’ uniforms of blue denim — the overalls, [illegible] most important items of all?

James in the armchair, stock now bedded for the night, clears his throat, as ignal [sic] that he is about to share with us some pleasing article in the farmpaper he reads. 

“Hear this, Ellen” he says “The heading asks ‘Where Have The Farmers Gone?… Science did a shameful thing, it forced the farmer to become an agriculturist’…

It goes on to say: ‘There used to be farmers, men who worked the soil, raised stock and children, accumulated debts and blamed the government. It is time to shed a tear for the vanishing race.’

“ ‘Today it seems, we have agriculturist, agronomists, country squires and land economists — indeed everything but farmers. Some farms are beginning to look like scientific laboratories, others like sprawling machinery depots, It is all in the name of progress… The march of science has changed the way of rural life.’ ”

“I cant read it all to you, Ellen” James offers. “You’ll have to read it for yourself — it’s real interesting” he nods. “It ends like this: “ ‘Yes, there was a day when a strong man dedicated to the soil and his animals, and unafraidi [sic] of hard work could become a farmer. Today you are almost second rate unless you graduated from an accredited agricultural college. And worst of all your farm has to have electric lights, running water, a flush toilet and television or you are not progressive.’

‘Some farmers are not only living but beginning to look like the gray flannelled suburbanite who catches the 7.45 every morning. Well, why don’t they go whole hog and move into the city? I say there should be a place left in this big country of ours where a man can still wear overalls and chew tobacco!’ “

James looked over his paper when he finished the reading. “And isn’t it the truth, Ellen”.  he chuckled.

And March, the minx, continues to bring farm-folks her quiet or wind-blown gray days.

– Ellen’s Diary, March 14th, 1958

Source: Islandnewspapers.ca

No winter? Not actually. Only the odd cheerless day we had, to have us recalling scenes from the snowy winters past and gone, well pleased with that now passing. And today, another in the March spell of weather which has given a continuation of days quietly beclouded and dampish.

Softly gray they have been as the feathers of remembered geese of a farm, that about this time of year would hide in low strawy nests, treasures of eggs for the children to find — to lift carefully and exclaim over the size, and ever regard them in the light of pure magic.

Softly gray — from the sky above  to the mist – wreathed hills it touched, and the slopes below listened to the wind patiently for a hint of news of first footsteps of spring… that was today.

Jeanie, mistress of the house across the lane, carrying an offering of shell to the fowls in the poultry-house, paused, catching a new voice among the sounds of the morning. She smiled and drew our attention to a dark “passel” of the blackbird family perched on the ridgepole of a piggery.

“And I thought for a moment it was a robin” she commented. “We’ll be hearing them shortly, I’m thinking, if this mild weather continues”, James said. “And its too early yet to have the spring – breakup. Think of the long spell of mud we would have!”

It has already commenced. The little truck has been a homeess [sic] vehicle of late. Now left in the shelter of woodlands at lane’s end again momentarily settled down, just by the hilltop, and it may be before long it will be as Rob’s is at present, set down a mile off by the highway, there to go on any excursions of farm or family it may be called upon to take.

Now the millstream in the valley runs in increased flow, and [illegible]. And along the old mill-road, where in days that are, and likely will be no more, grits passed, and this time of year, logs [illegible] the sawing, we found on a recent stroll with Mack, sprays of pussy willows in fetching springbloom.

“Can you believe it!” he smiled stooping there in the snow to feel the satin of the slivery cat kiss Against a young cheek, “I guess” he nodded “that does it: there goes the winter!” he said.

Now our house-ferns send up bare but graceful green shoots and nothing the growth we fell to wondering today, how the spring flowering bulbs of last Autumn’s planting are faring under the snow. And we made promise that notwithstanding such duties as may come to us, we would make time “ to pick more buttercups” this summer.

We would as in young springs search out again a rare bed of trailing arbutus, and up woodsy trails find first violets and trilliums and the other shy blossoming and sweet that we love.

A gray day of March this? Yes, but from dawn to candle-light and beyond into these stilly night-hours, one only pleasant and good.

– Ellen’s Diary, March 19th, 1958.

Source: islandnewspapers.ca