Father’s religion was grim and stern, Mother’s gentle Father’s operated through the Presbyterian, Mother’s through the Anglican Church. Our religion was hybrid: on Sunday morning we were Presbyterian, Sunday evening we were Anglican. Our little Presbyterian legs ached from the long walk to church on Sunday morning. Our hearts…

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The cow yard was large. Not length and breadth alone determined its dimensions, it had height and depth also. Above it continually hovered the spirit of maternity. Its good earth floor, hardened by many feet, pulsed with rich growth wherever there was any protection from the perpetual movement over…

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All our Sundays were exactly alike. They began on Saturday night after Bong the Chinaboy had washed up and gone away, after our toys, dolls and books, all but “The Peep of Day” and Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress had been stored away in drawers and boxes till Monday, and every…

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