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    Michael McGrath, Postmaster
    Michael McGrath, Postmaster
    Michael McGrath, Postmaster
    Ebook56 pages41 minutes

    Michael McGrath, Postmaster

    By Ralph Connor

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Michael McGrath, Postmaster
    Author

    Ralph Connor

    Ralph Connor was the pseudonym of best-selling Canadian writer Charles William Gordon. Born in a small town in Ontario, Gordon’s interest in writing was ignited as a student first at the University of Toronto and then at Knox College, where he completed his divinity studies. Gordon went on to become a reverend in both the Presbyterian and United churches, and used the pen name Ralph Connor to keep his literary activities separate from his religious vocation. Over the course of his career, Connor published more than forty works, including the wildly popular The Sky Pilot, which sold more than one million copies, Glengarry School Days, The Man from Glengarry, and Postscript to Adventure, a posthumous autobiography published after Gordon’s death in 1937.

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      Book preview

      Michael McGrath, Postmaster - Ralph Connor

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Michael McGrath, Postmaster, by Ralph Connor

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Michael McGrath, Postmaster

      Author: Ralph Connor

      Release Date: September 12, 2006 [EBook #19257]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICHAEL MCGRATH, POSTMASTER ***

      Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Joseph R. Hauser and the

      Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      (This file was produced from images generously made

      available by the Canadian Institute for Historical

      Microreproductions (www.canadiana.org))

      MICHAEL McGRATH,

      POSTMASTER

      By RALPH CONNOR

      Author of The Sky Pilot, Black Rock, Etc.

      FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

      CHICAGO        NEW YORK        TORONTO

      Copyright 1900

      BY

      Fleming H. Revell Company

      Michael McGrath, Postmaster.

      Some men and some scenes so fasten themselves into one's memory that the years, with their crowding scenes and men, have no power to displace them. I can never forget Ould Michael and the scene of my first knowing him. All day long I rode, driving in front my pack-pony laden with my photograph kit, tent and outfit, following the trail that would end somewhere on the Pacific Coast, some hundreds of miles away. I was weary enough of dodging round the big trees, pushing through underbrush, scrambling up and down mountain-sides, hugging cliffs where the trail cut in and wading warily through the roaring torrent of Sixty-mile Creek. As the afternoon wore on, the trail left the creek and wound away over a long slope up the mountain-side.

      Ginger, said I to my riding pony, we are getting somewhere—for our trail began to receive other trails from the side valleys and the going was better. At last it pushed up into the open, circled round a shoulder of the mountain, clinging tight, for the drop was sheer two hundred feet, and—there before us stretched the great Fraser Valley! From my feet the forest rolled its carpet of fir-tops—dark-green, soft, luxurious. Far down to the bottom and up again, in waving curves it swept, to the summit of the distant mountains opposite, and through this dark-green mass the broad river ran like a silver ribbon gleaming in the sunlight.

      Following the line of the trail, my eye fell upon that which has often made men's hearts hard and lured them on to joyous death. There, above the green tree-tops, in a clearing, stood a tall white mast and from the peak, flaunting its lazy, proud defiance, flew a Union Jack.

      Now, Ginger, how in the name of the Empire comes that brave rag to be shaking itself out over these valleys!

      Ginger knew not, but, in answer to my heels, set off at a canter down the slope and, in a few minutes, we reached a grassy bench that stretched down to the river-bank. On the bench was huddled an irregular group of shacks and cabins and, in front of the first and most imposing of them, stood the tall mast with its floating flag. On the wide platform that ran in front of this log cabin a man was sitting, smoking a short bull-dog pipe. By his dress and style I saw at once that he had served in Her Majesty's army. As I rode up under the flag I lifted my cap, held it

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