way.
“‘I sat up on the train, rigid with anxiety, terrified I’d miss my stop. I was hardly able to take in the pretty countryside, dotted with lakes and rivers. I needn’t have worried. The guard called out, “Lindsay,” in a loud voice, and moments later I was standing beside my new tin trunk, on a platform bustling with life. Trains came and went, and people jostled to greet new arrivals, to pass the time of day, or to find their seats before the next departure. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. It was the first time in years I hadn’tbeen part of a crowd of boys, herded from one place to another, obeying rules and regulations. I was on my own, bewildered and uncertain.
“‘How would Mr. Mitchell know me? I’d been told I was to be met, but suppose he forgot–how would I get to the farm? I made sure the name tag pinned to my jacket was facing out. Then I hauled my belongings to the steps beside the station entrance, so anyone going in or out would notice me.
“‘Once or twice people looked my way, but no one stopped to speak. The cold seeped through my boots. I must have waited two hours or more. At last a burly man, whom I’d noticed tying up his horse and buggy and who’d come down the steps to speak to the stationmaster, walked up to me. I jumped to my feet, and whipped off my cap, “Mr. Mitchell, sir? I’m William Carr, your boy from the orphanage.”
“‘“My boy?” He laughed, mocking me. “I don’t have a boy, only a houseful of girls.” He laughed again, enjoying his little joke. Then he walked all around me. If he’d carried a pitchfork, I swear he would have prodded me with it.
“‘“I’ve changed my mind. You’re too small. My pigs weigh twice what I do and they’d gobble you up in no time.” He roared with laughter atthe prospect. “I’ve had a word with the station-master–you can go back on the next train.”
“‘“Please, sir, I’m strong, and pigs don’t scare me.” I hoped Mr. Mitchell wouldn’t guess that the nearest I’d ever been to a pig was the rare occasion I’d tasted a pork sausage, or looked at a pig’s head on a slab in the window of a butcher’s shop in London. But to be sent back would be a disgrace.
“‘“My nephew’s been sent for from out West. The wife decided she doesn’t want anyone who isn’t kin around the place.” Then he turned his back on me and walked away.
“‘It had all been a game. He’d made up his mind long before he even spoke to me.
“‘I tore off my name tag and shoved it in my pocket. I swore I’d never go back to the orphanage. They’d sent me to Canada for a better life, and I was resolved to find it.
“‘I asked the stationmaster if he’d let me leave my trunk in the baggage room while I looked around the town, and he said that would be fine.
“‘Outside the station, porters were handing luggage up the steps of a high-wheeled horse-drawn bus, with BENSON’S HOTEL written on the side. I watched the horses struggling to turninto the muddy main street. Horses! Surely there would be a job in some stable for a boy who wanted to work with horses. I set off to find myself a place.
“‘I walked down Kent Street, and in the next couple of hours I’d called in at six or seven livery stables attached to the hotels. None of them needed a stable boy. At Hamilton’s Carriage-works, a boy cleaning some harnesses told me to try the forge behind Queen’s Square. He’d heard the apprentice had gone back to his home in Bobcaygeon. I crossed the wide muddy street. The mud slopped up to my ankles and over my boots.
“‘The smith was shoeing a horse. I stood at the entrance feeling the heat of the fire and watching the sparks fly into the dusk, like fireflies on a summer night. The blacksmith cradled the horse’s front foot in his lap, starting with the heel of the shoe, loosening it gently before he removed the old nails with his pincers. Then he cleaned out the mud and gravel before fitting the
“‘I sat up on the train, rigid with anxiety, terrified I’d miss my stop. I was hardly able to take in the pretty countryside, dotted with lakes and rivers. I needn’t have worried. The guard called out, “Lindsay,” in a loud voice, and moments later I was standing beside my new tin trunk, on a platform bustling with life. Trains came and went, and people jostled to greet new arrivals, to pass the time of day, or to find their seats before the next departure. I had no idea what I was supposed to do. It was the first time in years I hadn’tbeen part of a crowd of boys, herded from one place to another, obeying rules and regulations. I was on my own, bewildered and uncertain.
“‘How would Mr. Mitchell know me? I’d been told I was to be met, but suppose he forgot–how would I get to the farm? I made sure the name tag pinned to my jacket was facing out. Then I hauled my belongings to the steps beside the station entrance, so anyone going in or out would notice me.
“‘Once or twice people looked my way, but no one stopped to speak. The cold seeped through my boots. I must have waited two hours or more. At last a burly man, whom I’d noticed tying up his horse and buggy and who’d come down the steps to speak to the stationmaster, walked up to me. I jumped to my feet, and whipped off my cap, “Mr. Mitchell, sir? I’m William Carr, your boy from the orphanage.”
“‘“My boy?” He laughed, mocking me. “I don’t have a boy, only a houseful of girls.” He laughed again, enjoying his little joke. Then he walked all around me. If he’d carried a pitchfork, I swear he would have prodded me with it.
“‘“I’ve changed my mind. You’re too small. My pigs weigh twice what I do and they’d gobble you up in no time.” He roared with laughter atthe prospect. “I’ve had a word with the station-master–you can go back on the next train.”
“‘“Please, sir, I’m strong, and pigs don’t scare me.” I hoped Mr. Mitchell wouldn’t guess that the nearest I’d ever been to a pig was the rare occasion I’d tasted a pork sausage, or looked at a pig’s head on a slab in the window of a butcher’s shop in London. But to be sent back would be a disgrace.
“‘“My nephew’s been sent for from out West. The wife decided she doesn’t want anyone who isn’t kin around the place.” Then he turned his back on me and walked away.
“‘It had all been a game. He’d made up his mind long before he even spoke to me.
“‘I tore off my name tag and shoved it in my pocket. I swore I’d never go back to the orphanage. They’d sent me to Canada for a better life, and I was resolved to find it.
“‘I asked the stationmaster if he’d let me leave my trunk in the baggage room while I looked around the town, and he said that would be fine.
“‘Outside the station, porters were handing luggage up the steps of a high-wheeled horse-drawn bus, with BENSON’S HOTEL written on the side. I watched the horses struggling to turninto the muddy main street. Horses! Surely there would be a job in some stable for a boy who wanted to work with horses. I set off to find myself a place.
“‘I walked down Kent Street, and in the next couple of hours I’d called in at six or seven livery stables attached to the hotels. None of them needed a stable boy. At Hamilton’s Carriage-works, a boy cleaning some harnesses told me to try the forge behind Queen’s Square. He’d heard the apprentice had gone back to his home in Bobcaygeon. I crossed the wide muddy street. The mud slopped up to my ankles and over my boots.
“‘The smith was shoeing a horse. I stood at the entrance feeling the heat of the fire and watching the sparks fly into the dusk, like fireflies on a summer night. The blacksmith cradled the horse’s front foot in his lap, starting with the heel of the shoe, loosening it gently before he removed the old nails with his pincers. Then he cleaned out the mud and gravel before fitting the
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