“ALL HALLOWLTEN.” 
BY KATE RESTIEAUX. 
Most of us know the reason why 
-our master poet, in ‘‘ Evangeline,” 
speaks of the last warm days of autumn 
as the “ Pious Summer of All Saints.” 
Among Catholics and others having a 
fund of religious legendary lore there 
is a belief that a certain time of the 
year is hallowed by the presence of 
all departed souls who are up and 
abroad. That disembodied but still 
energetic spirits should be capable of 
magic and of assisting in the reading 
of the future and other clairvoyant 
achievements is, of course, natural. 
I remember once, at a so-called 
‘seance or expression of psychic power, 
under test for investigation, the first 
question asked by a young lady pres- 
ent was something concerning her 
own matrimonial prospects. In the 
face of so remarkable a demonstration 
of a hitherto unknown force and under 
conditions such as to preclude all pos- 
sibility of deception, I remember 
how I was astonished at such a ques- 
tion. But I afterward remembered 
that I was not, by the display of this 
unknown power, immediately con- 
vinced of the presence of the departed, 
and it was very natural that, accom- 
panying the credulity that could be- 
lieve on such slight evidence, should 
go the faith that begets an easy con- 
fidence and may be necessary for 
preserving the mental balance of such 
a believer. Just fancy for a moment 
those who have passed on, saints and 
sinners alike, to be animated and 
moving about among us as naturally 
as the sound wave moves and as 
invisibly. 
Long ago, on the anniversary of 
All Staints, I chanced to speak of it 
to our cook, a very intelligent and 
highly sensitive Irish girl. She told 
me it was indeed the time when all 
sons of saints or otherwise were 
abroad, and she said we must be 
careful where we placed our feet for 
fear of stepping on them. She was 
so earnest about it that I was really 
uncomfortable for some time, fearing 
to do other than tread softly in the 
presence of such a host of witnesses. 
She spoke lightly, if earnestly, of them, 
and fully believed in their power to 
make their presence known under cer- 
tain conditions. 
I do not wonder that the people of 
ancient days, taught to believe in such 
things, defended themselves from the 
uncanniness by getting on friendly 
terms with their ghostly visitants and 
calling on them to assist in their Hal- 
lowe’en revels. 
All who are familiar with Robert 
Burns’ poem, “ Tam O’ Shanter,”’ wlli 
recall his horror at the thought of the 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
2 
‘«‘ Bogies ”’ and “‘ Kelpies’”’ who should 
meet him on his homeward ride at the 
ghostly midnight hour, also of: the 
easy way in which he refers to the 
revels of the ‘lads and lasses”’ who 
were dead but not sleeping. 
But whether they are asleep or 
awake,we, at least, are awake and very 
much alive these glorious October 
days. Who can visit the woods in 
autumn and find any fault with his 
Creator? Indeed, it seems as if the 
whole world is right and man, only, at 
variance. And in nature’s defense I 
do not wonder at the old idea, which 
I do not in the least believe, that 
through man came sin and death into 
the world. Death is as natural and 
as beautiful as life. Itis, in fact, just 
the best way that God knows of for 
“bringing life and immortality to 
light.” No wonder men have bowed 
down to it. It is in Dombey & Son 
that the greatest of novelists says: 
‘The old, old fashion, death, the 
fashion that came in with our first 
garments and shall last till the race 
of man has run its course and the wide 
firmament is rolled up like a scroll.” 
But sin is ignorance, and against 
ignorance and his followers the whole 
armor of God is ever in array. So 
you see that sin and death should no 
more be catalogued together. 
I rested during an October day on 
the side of a wooded hill, near the 
boundary line between our town and 
Essex. There was that indescribable 
hush that broods over the woodland 
when the south wind blows softly in 
October. There is nothing in nature 
quite like it, and I can feel it now 
with closed eyes even as I did then. 
The red and gold of the whispering 
leaves, the silence so sad, so beautiful 
of the ways that late re-echoed to all 
summer sounds. It is the Indian 
summer, the kindly gift of the great 
Indian God, Cantontowwit, the God 
of the southwest wind. 
Most of the birds were gone, and 
in the brush the clatter of a nut 
dropped by some adventuresome 
squirrel alone disturbed the quiet air. 
Neither spring not summer moves 
me as the autumn does, and I think it 
must be the suggestion of that beauti- 
ful, natural death, soon to overtake 
the green living things that are so 
truly my fellow-beings. The teeling 
holds just enough of sadness to melt 
and just enough of joy to fill my 
heart. 
Suddenly, as we lie on the hillside 
looking lazily through the dancing 
oak leaves at the blue, blue sky and 
munching our dinner of sandwiches 
and big red apples, my small boy 
starts up, asking, ‘‘ Mamma, is that a 
man?” I half arise, more startled 
than ever was Robinson Crusoe on his 
desert island. I had fancied this quiet 
hillside all my own. Where was the 
man? By much eye-searching I am 
able to conclude that the blackened 
trunk of a tree seen through the 
bright foliage is the only intruder. I 
relapse again into reverie, and listen- 
ing only to be disturbed by the wee, 
wee voice, ‘‘ Mamma, what would you 
do if you saw a big bear coming right 
up the hill now? What would you 
do?” ‘I would take that great stick, 
dear, the one with the prickles all 
over it, and I would pound that bear 
till he died; yes, I would.” He turns 
away with a satisfied smile, quite at 
ease in the belief that his little mother 
is proof against even a bear, and I 
smile to think how he would be unde- 
ceived could he have heard me scream 
when a very small bear in the shape 
of a fat bumblebee became entangled 
in the lace at my waist front. Dear, 
innocent faith of childhood: how 
ligh.'y we hold it! Their world of eye 
and ear, where neither memory nor 
anticipation plays much part, is, after 
all, a world, and I suppose a bear or 
two helps to keep up a healthful ex- 
citement and interest. 
Five minutes later we are on our 
knees at the edge of the cranberry 
meadow, picking the pear-shaped rosy 
globules, and it is merry toil and 
great fun. Right in our path is a 
patch of the curious pitcher plant, 
and seeing them I am suddenly smit- 
ten with thirst, so as each little hairy- 
lipped pitcher is filled with cold water, 
in sheer bravado I drain off three of 
them before the eyes of my astonished 
baby. 
It is almost nutting time, and when 
the leaves have left the maple at the 
lane’s end, and the great oak above us, 
stripped of her changeable dress, 
stretches her gaunt, bare limbs ever 
skyward, we shall come again to the 
wood for the fruit of the “ shag-bark ”’ 
tree, and if we choose a day when the 
south wind blows we may feel the 
breeze again, and in the woody still- 
ness, whence all the birds have flown, 
we shall hear again the faint, faint 
footfall of departing summer. 
North Shore Breeze: 
Please send the 
Breeze to the address given below 
Gentlemen: 
months. 
