Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald (1857-1940)

During Ethelwyn’s stay at Union Springs Boarding School, New York, she experienced a Christmas which stayed in her memory all her life. In 1940 she shared it in a children’s column in the Welland Tribune. It is a real insight into how life was lived in the 1800s.

Christmas is supposed to be a call from Home Sweet Home, a strengthener and sweetener of domestic ties. Yet one of the pleasantest Christmas holiday seasons of my life was spent at a Friends’ Boarding School in Union Springs, on Cayuga Lake, New York State. Eight of us, five boys and three girls, being so far from home that the family purse refused to consider transportation charges, we were destined to spend the holidays together. The Friends’ idea being that the way to cure a person of wanting a thing extravagantly is to give it to him in reasonable amounts, there were none of us either boy crazy or girl mad. Sitting opposite to boys at meal time is a great destroyer of glamour and builder-up of companionableness. Miss Pope, the girls’ governess, who lived in the village and Elijah Cook the Principal, whose home joined the Seminary, were more than kind; but J.J. Thomas showed himself a super-man.As a trustee we were afraid of him; as a reprimander he was to be avoided. But now his great heart is moved to compassion. Poor little demons! So far away from home and mother! So brave and cheerful about it. Why, that girl from Canada had so sore a throat on Christmas Day, she was in the hospital wing, and could no more have eaten a slice of turkey than she could have chewed up her geography cover! Now, what to do about it? He goes into a huddle with himself and presently emerges with a radiant smile. This he conveys to the Girls’ Sitting Room, where are collected the homeless eight.

“How would you like to go somewhere?”

We are electrified. The writers of letters to home, drop their pens. The crocheters drop their crochet hooks. The checker players drop their boards. All eyes are on the speaker.

“You might drive my carryall to Blankley Quarterly Meeting next Seventh Day, and return that evening. No teacher would go with you; we can trust you.” He glances at my room-mate Mattie Williamson, who nods intelligently,(she later married a Methodist minister) and also at Daniel-I can’t recall his name, but a Daniel come to judgement could not be more impeccable. He is about to add the time worn “I am sure you will conduct yourselves in a way that will confer credit etc. etc.” but is overpowered by a chorus of young voices, exclaiming, rejoicing, delighting in anticipation. Not that we are crazy over Quarterly Meeting; but to go where we haven’t gone, see what we haven’t seen, do what we haven’t done—that is what youth desires.

As may be surmised, this carryall is not in the first heyday of youth. It is a large, top heavy vehicle, somewhat creaky in the joints and unsteady in the sinews, but otherwise still in the ring. Daniel the Dependable mounts to the driver’s seat. Mattie goes with him to do her back seat driving to advantage Three boys within try to sit by red headed Mate Moore, but Eddie and I see no one but each other. With a shout of acclaim we are off! The horses show signs of life, not to an indecorous extent, the intelligent brutes know they are going to Quarterly Meeting, but they are certainly in motion. Jiggetty jog, jiggetty jog; we laugh and sing and spare not! The wayfaring man in quiet country villages is accosted with: “Does your mother know you’re out?” the prevailing gag o the period. The fourteen miles of our pilgrimage are comfortably covered in less than three hours and we arrive in time for meeting, full of self importance.

A tall, wide, hospitable Friend and his fat and smiling wife were evidently apprised of our coming as they took us home with them to dinner. Never before or since have I been confronted with so large and thickly populated a dinner plate. On it reposed three large slices of turkey, two heaping tablespoons of dressing, the same of Irish potatoes mashed, ditto of sweet potatoes, ditto of creamed onions, ditto of mashed turnip, a large amount of cranberries, a sweet pickle and plenteous gravy poured profusely over all. Before seating ourselves our host inquired:”Which is the sick girl? This one? Fat as a match! Couldn’t eat her Christmas dinner hey? Well I’ll see she eats this one.” He seats me next t him. I blush as brightly as the red flannel bandage showing its edge so coyly among the white ruffles at my throat. Having lived on “milk-toast” three or four days, I am not afraid to eat, and my host’s hearty “Atta girl!” cheers me on. But at the advent of plum pudding, mince pie and pumpkin pie, enthusiasm wanes!

The short winter day draws quickly to a close. After a trip to the stables to inspect sheep, cows, ducks and chickens, we gather around the organ to sing with hearts and voices. Then we begin to talk of returning. But this we are not allowed to do without a parting lunch of doughnuts and cider. Eddie and I drive most of the way back and do not seriously imperil the lives of the party. We stop at a small hotel to “rest the horses.” One of them breathes heavily and the other shows signs of exhaustion. The boys treat us to soda water and we play games and start to dance. Oh that dance! If I live to be a thousand years old I could never forget it! Holding hard to your partner you went tum tumpty tum tum,(two steps to the left) and tumpty umpty, tum, tum (two steps to the right). Like the earth we have two motions; one on our axis, the other largely interfering with the axises(Goodness! What IS the plural?) We giggle and laugh, bubble and squeak. The landlord looks in, grinning from ear to ear from teeth to toes. Presently he reappears with a large tray bearing eight tall glasses of raspberry vinegar. This he observes grandly, is on the house.

So we all sit and sip and simmer down. Someone remarks that the horses having been watered have now regained their pristine vigour, and we promised J.J. not to be late. We resume our places in the carryall, Mattie and her Chosen One(was it Alf or Davy?) mount to the driver’s seat, and we move with conscious propriety through the quiet Main Street of Union Springs. Suddenly there is a jerk, a pause, a scraping, scrunching sound. Evidently something untoward has happened.We look  out to see the right front wheel moving gracefully away into the ditch, while a broken axle drags on the ground. We all alight, villagers gather around and advice is freely given. The horses are not alarmed. Probably this is not the first time they have been compulsory witnesses of a similar scene. After some consultation, four of us start on the uphill walk to the school. One boy remains to guard the horses and three are sent to explain to J.J. We feel sorry for the explainers but they report next day that the sterling old gentleman blamed no one but himself. One of nature’s nobleman was old J.J. Thomas.