need?
In later years the British found the graveyard. Perhaps in the heat of war they might have laid waste to it, but years after the old war had ceased, they simply viewed it as the remains of a sad story. Yet night after night, for years to come, the treasure hunters would make their way into the darkness of the French Cross Burying Grounds. Treasure-dowsers and vagabonds alike would root through the bones and the dirt, hoping to find the remnants of French treasure. It was whispered that before fleeing Acadia, the refugees had buried what treasure they couldnât transport in a large coffin-shaped iron box that was supposed to be buried some-where in the graveyard.
Again and again, the treasure hunters sought out the fabled French Cross iron box, yet all who searched for it ended up poverty-stricken. Men swore that their picks and shovels and pry bars bent and twisted in the hardened Acadian dirt, and many claimed that they were chased from the burial grounds by a long yellow spirit. Others swore that every time they dug down with shovels, they would strike the iron box, and it would travel through the dirt. No matter what the story, the end result was always the same. The treasure was impossible to find.
There are many guesses as to what this treasure might hold. Most talk of golden coins, rare gems, and other valuable collectibles that a typical Acadian dirt farmer might have tucked beneath his seed corn and plow.
For myself, I think the treasure might have been something far more prosaic â perhaps a cherished French psalter, a chalice and candle sticks, or maybe even a portrait of great-grandpère. Who knows? The treasure may be out there still, ready to be dug. Or perhaps itâs just a ghost of a treasure, a fantasy wish thatâs destined never to be found.
10
THE PIPERâS
POND PIBROCH
WINDSOR
I have been a member of the Halifax Storytellersâ Circle for a very long time. I first joined when the group met every month at the Alderney Gate Library in Dartmouth. Back then, it wasnât much to speak of, just a friendly little group of folks who got together to tell tales to whatever audience might show up. Weâve been to a lot of places since then, telling our tales to whoever cares to listen.
This is a story I heard back in 2004 at the Haliburton House Halloween festival just outside of the little town of Windsor, about sixty-six kilometres northwest of Halifax. The Storytellersâ Circle was telling tales in support of the event. We were performing outside in the middle of the woods, in a comfortable open canvas tent. The wind was blowing softly through the autumn leaves, and it was perfect weather for ghost tale telling.
Our host told this tale to two separate tours with the help of a ghostly bagpiper who showed up at the appropriate moment. I didnât get to hear this presentation because I was busy telling my own tales in the tent.
It wasnât until afterwards that our host kindly related the tale to me again.
Thomas Chandler Haliburton was born in Windsor, Hants County, in 1796, and gained fame as an author, a lawyer, a politician, and a judge. He is best known for the creation of his cantankerous tale-telling Yankee peddler, Sam Slick, whose clever quips, âbarking up the wrong tree,â âquick as a wink,â âraining cats and dogs,â and âfacts are stranger than fiction,â are perhaps better known than their author.
In January of 1833, Thomas Haliburton purchased forty acres of land located on Ferry Hill, just overlooking the town of Windsor, Nova Scotia. He took it upon himself to name the estate âCliftonâ after his wifeâs own home in Bristol, England. There he and his wife lived happily in their modest one-and-a-half story home.
Today the house looks very different than it did in Haliburtonâs time. Successive owners have altered and added to the house, but the memories still remain. Some say that the ghost of
In later years the British found the graveyard. Perhaps in the heat of war they might have laid waste to it, but years after the old war had ceased, they simply viewed it as the remains of a sad story. Yet night after night, for years to come, the treasure hunters would make their way into the darkness of the French Cross Burying Grounds. Treasure-dowsers and vagabonds alike would root through the bones and the dirt, hoping to find the remnants of French treasure. It was whispered that before fleeing Acadia, the refugees had buried what treasure they couldnât transport in a large coffin-shaped iron box that was supposed to be buried some-where in the graveyard.
Again and again, the treasure hunters sought out the fabled French Cross iron box, yet all who searched for it ended up poverty-stricken. Men swore that their picks and shovels and pry bars bent and twisted in the hardened Acadian dirt, and many claimed that they were chased from the burial grounds by a long yellow spirit. Others swore that every time they dug down with shovels, they would strike the iron box, and it would travel through the dirt. No matter what the story, the end result was always the same. The treasure was impossible to find.
There are many guesses as to what this treasure might hold. Most talk of golden coins, rare gems, and other valuable collectibles that a typical Acadian dirt farmer might have tucked beneath his seed corn and plow.
For myself, I think the treasure might have been something far more prosaic â perhaps a cherished French psalter, a chalice and candle sticks, or maybe even a portrait of great-grandpère. Who knows? The treasure may be out there still, ready to be dug. Or perhaps itâs just a ghost of a treasure, a fantasy wish thatâs destined never to be found.
10
THE PIPERâS
POND PIBROCH
WINDSOR
I have been a member of the Halifax Storytellersâ Circle for a very long time. I first joined when the group met every month at the Alderney Gate Library in Dartmouth. Back then, it wasnât much to speak of, just a friendly little group of folks who got together to tell tales to whatever audience might show up. Weâve been to a lot of places since then, telling our tales to whoever cares to listen.
This is a story I heard back in 2004 at the Haliburton House Halloween festival just outside of the little town of Windsor, about sixty-six kilometres northwest of Halifax. The Storytellersâ Circle was telling tales in support of the event. We were performing outside in the middle of the woods, in a comfortable open canvas tent. The wind was blowing softly through the autumn leaves, and it was perfect weather for ghost tale telling.
Our host told this tale to two separate tours with the help of a ghostly bagpiper who showed up at the appropriate moment. I didnât get to hear this presentation because I was busy telling my own tales in the tent.
It wasnât until afterwards that our host kindly related the tale to me again.
Thomas Chandler Haliburton was born in Windsor, Hants County, in 1796, and gained fame as an author, a lawyer, a politician, and a judge. He is best known for the creation of his cantankerous tale-telling Yankee peddler, Sam Slick, whose clever quips, âbarking up the wrong tree,â âquick as a wink,â âraining cats and dogs,â and âfacts are stranger than fiction,â are perhaps better known than their author.
In January of 1833, Thomas Haliburton purchased forty acres of land located on Ferry Hill, just overlooking the town of Windsor, Nova Scotia. He took it upon himself to name the estate âCliftonâ after his wifeâs own home in Bristol, England. There he and his wife lived happily in their modest one-and-a-half story home.
Today the house looks very different than it did in Haliburtonâs time. Successive owners have altered and added to the house, but the memories still remain. Some say that the ghost of
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