"and I am something better
still; I am a Christian and a Canadian. Are you?"

Thomas beat a hasty retreat.

The Presbyterian minister was away from home, and the English Church
minister--who was also a young man lately arrived--said he would go
gladly.

The Twelfth of July was a beautiful day, clear, sparkling and
cloudless. Little wayward breezes frolicked up and down the banks of
Moose Creek and rasped the surface of its placid pools, swollen still
from the heavy rains of the "First." In the glittering sunshine the
prairie lay a riot of color; the first wild roses now had faded to a
pastel pink, but on every bush there were plenty of new ones, deeply
crimson and odorous. Across the creek from Thomas Shouldice's little
house, Indian pipes and columbine reddened the edge of the poplar
grove, from the lowest branches of which morning-glories, white and
pink and purple, hung in graceful profusion.

Before noon a wagon filled with people came thundering down the trail.
As they came nearer Thomas was astonished to see that it was an
American family from the Chippen Hill district.

"Picnic in these parts, ain't there?" the driver asked.

Thomas was in a genial mood, occasioned by the day and the weather.

"Orange walk and picnic!" he replied, waving his hand toward the bluff,
where a few of the faithful were constructing a triumphal arch.

"Something like a cake-walk, is it?" the man asked, looking puzzled.

Mr. Shouldice stared at him incredulously.

"Did ye never hear of Orangemen down yer way?" he said.

"Never did, pard," the man answered. "We've peanut men, and apple
women, and banana men, but we've never heard much about orange men. But
we're right glad to come over and help the show along. Do you want any
money for the races?"

"We didn't count on havin' races; we're havin' speeches and some
singin'."

The Yankee laughed good-humoredly.

"Well, friend, I pass there; but mother here is a W.C.T.U.-er from away
back. She'll knock the spots off the liquor business in fifteen
minutes, if you'd like anything in that line."

His wife interposed in her easy, drawling tones: "Now, Abe, you best
shet up and drive along. The kids are all hungry and want their
dinners."

"We'll see you later, partner," said the man as they drove away.

Thomas Shouldice was mystified. "These Americans are a queer bunch," he
thought; "they're ignorant as all get out, but, gosh! they're
friendly."

Over the hill to the south