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County Crier
Miramichi -New Brunswick -Canada
PUBLISHER
BARQUE & BYTE DPSO3
Volume 1 Issue No.1
Date June 2003
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| The Beaver |
THE
BEAVER LOVED A LITTLE SONG, THE JONES BOYS THEY DO SAY. IT CHIMES AT TIMES IN FREDERICTON FOR HIS LADYS NAME AND SAKE. HE LEFT HIS MARK AS BEAVERS WOULD, THE LAND HE CALLED HIS OWN. HE LOVED THAT LITTLE BEAVERBROOK, THE NAME
SWORN TO THE THRONE. HIS LOVE OF LORE GATHERS US, FORTY PLUS YEARS IN A ROW. HE CONQUERED THE WORLD AND THEN RETURNED,
TO REST AT LAST AT HOME. THE ASHES OF LORD BEAVERBROOK, IN “BEAVER’S" HEART, ARE HOME.
D.P. Stewart Folksong ©03
”To The Memory Of” Lord Beaverbrook
Max Aitken, famous son of the river Miramichi, was born 1879, Maple Ontario. His
Presbyterian family and Minister father moved into the St James Presbyterian Manse in Newcastle. Max celebrated his first
birthday there.
Max was an average child, achieving average
grades at Harkins Academy. Teachers and classmates
remembered him as curious with a hint of mischief. Eager to earn money from a young age Max was industrious. Milking cows,
carried firewood, delivered eggs and newspapers. On Sundays he pumped the organ (very impressive pipe organ of the time) at
his fathers church.
His first publication of news was The Leader at
age thirteen.
Reverend
William Aitken cancelled young Max’s publication, when he discovered him working into the Sabbath. In grade ten Max
became bored with his studies and left Harkins Academy. Taking up the study of Law in the office of R.B.Bennet.
Max took it in stride when, after learning of his failing the entrance
examination to Dalhousie University,
Said, ‘’Now, I’m going to make money.
I’m going to sell what makes money.”
By his early twenty’s Max
had become a millionaire. Acting as a stockbroker for Canadian Cement and Steel mills, Selling Bonds and Insurance all
made him a wealthy man. After his move to London, England Max was quickly recognized.
Elected to the British House of Commons in 1910 and Knighted in 1911, title of Baronet, 1916 and Peerage in 1917.
Taking control of the Daily Mail in 1916 quickly spun off to him taking ownerships of The Scottish
Daily Express, The Evening Standard, The Times and The Daily Express and the Sunday Express. He was selling what made money.
Lord Beaverbrook took his name from the small stream of his boyhood Miramichi.
During WW I lord Beaverbrook was Minister for Information to the British Cabinet. WW II he was Minister of Aircraft
Production. Spitfire aircraft were manufactured non-stop twenty-four hours a day.
Minister of Supply, in 1941-41, Minister of War Production,
1942 and Lord Privy Council 1943-45.
His passport information said he was a Journalist.
In his later years Max Aitken-Lord
Beaverbrook retuned to his Miramichi roots. Evidence of his life here and his generous donations to the region are quite visible
today in 2003. His love of folklore and song was well known to many people
The Jone’s Boy’s is one
song he taught to most everyone he new. Stalin was said to have recited it with Lord Beaverbrook during negotiations in Malta.
Along with Churchill and Molotov. The Chimes donated to the University of New Brunswick, Lady Beaverbrook Residence, are tuned
to, The Jone’s Boy’s.
Oh, the Jone’s Boy’s, they built a mill on the side
of a hill,
And they worked all night, and they worked all day,
But they couldn’t make that gosh darned sawmill pay.
The Old Manse at St James Church was purchased by Lord Beaverbrook and converted
into a Library. The Old Manse Library was stocked with a donation of 10,000 books.
Lord Beaverbrook died in London, England, in 1964 at the age of 85. His ashes lie
beneath his bust in the Newcastle Town Square.” The Beaver”, as he was, known to many, returned to his home forever.
With his keen interest in the local Folksongs, Lord Beaverbrook requested of Louise
Manny to gather and record the local folksongs and lore. He provided her with a recorder and a challenge.
That initial request has evolved from the first recorded songs of Miramichi by
Louise Manny, to the celebration of the 46th Annual Miramichi Folksong Festival. With the help of many, Louise
Manny gathered Lord Beaverbrook a wonderful collection of song and lore.
Songs of Miramichi by Louise Manny
and James Reginald Wilson is a publication of the festivals first ten years.
It is dedicated to The Memory of William
Maxwell Aitken, First Baron Beaverbrook, Whose Interest In The Songs Of His Native Miramichi, Inspired This Book Dr. D. (Sandy)
Ives dedicated his book Larry Gorman-The Man Who Made Songs to, Louise Manny-Charlie Gorman.
Dr. Helen Creighton of Dartmouth, Nova Scotia and Dr. Edward D. (Sandy) Ives of the University of Maine, sat beside
each other at the 1958 Miramichi Folksong Festival. Both had their recorders taping the performances. CKMR Radio was also
taping everything.
James Reginald Wilson was born in the Parish of Ludlow and collected
many folksongs from the Upper Miramichi region. While he worked in collaboration with Louise Manny, he was a representative
of Rutgers University-Douglas College, New Brunswick, New Jersey, U.S.A.
His credentials also included degrees at Dartmouth College, Juilliard School of Music and New York University. Also
a concert pianist and associate Professor of Music Douglas College and women’s division Rutgers-State University of
New Jersey.
"KEEP THE FESTIVAL ALIVE"
Last Words Of Dr. Louise Manny
Squire
Remembers This Tragic Storm
On the day of
June 19, 1958, fifty-four vessels sailed from Escuminac.
That night a freak storm prevented twenty-two of them from returning. During the gales and swamping
wakes of the storm, twenty-two boats were lost to the sea. Thirty-five men and boys were drowned. Drifting their salmon nets
on a calm bay, they were overtaken by a storm described as being, “two days and nights of terror”.
This Memorial stands at the Escuminac wharf. The names of the boys and men lost that day are still
fond in the memory of many.
To the memory of all the families, who suffered, on this tragic day. God Bless Their Souls.
Squire County Crier
The Seed
A Legend
In a small town, long ago, people lived in fear of their King. Taxes were demanded each month even
from the poorest people. If a man had no land he had no garden. One man was poorest of them all. One day as he was lamenting hungry to himself, he was a proud man and willing to go hungry
rather than beg. That day the Devil came to him. “How would you like to make a bet with me, poor man?” the devil
smiled as he asked.
Oh, the poor man was frightened. He said nothing. The Devil laughed again and eased his tone, “Oh
poor man I have a very good deal for you”. Take this seed “ and he held out his hairy hand. A small seed, “You
see, this is the seed, you take this and plant it. For one year you will grow the plant that sprouts from it. If you can name
the plant for me, you are free to barter at the Pearly Gates and will have all the gold you wish for. If you can’t name
it, then your soul will belong to me!” “I will give you three chances
to name it. You can be sure I’ll be around to check on you.” He was taunting as he made his offer.
“Why
are you here to bother me”, the poor man cowered. “I need souls of the willing to carry my word and work, you
are hungry, you are poor, you are old, what do will have to loose with such a bet?” The Devil was convincing in his
smiling voice. “But I have no land”, “Where would I grow this seed?” he asked. “It need s not a large garden to grow, a small sunny place
in the woods is all it needs”, water it and tend to it and it will grow taller than you”. “All you have
to do is grow it and then tell me its name”.
“Do we have a deal or are you going to starve in stubborn pride?”
What do I have to lose, I will take the seed.” “A deal”
the Devil shouted.
“Shake
on it poor man”, “I will be back to check on you”, and he held out his hand again. He laughed as the man accepted his hand and the deal.
“Ha, Ha, Ha, grow my seed farmer man.”
and he was gone.
The poor man knew a little place by a brook;
he went there sometimes to sleep. It was a nice place, with a spring running into the bubbling little stream and a large cedar
tree on the North side. It was a long walk but he could fish there and get clean water, so he walked. He thought about this
deal with the Devil the whole time. It was a sunny day and he traveled well despite his hunger. Little springs along the trail
kept his thirst quenched and he made it there mid-afternoon. The small sack he carried was all he was owner of, but it had
the important things inside. His knife, water can, twines and hooks, his flint-stone and a small hatchet. He dug a small hole
with the hatchet and stirred the earth well; he watered the hole and planted the seed.
He drank his fill of water then set a couple
of baited hooks into the small rip of the stream. The lines he tied to a low growing alder. He took his shoes off and lay
back with his feet in the cool water. In the sun, he dozed a bit, but all he kept thinking about was the deal with the Devil.
He was almost asleep when the first trout began
to splash against the hook. Whoa! He startled himself as he grabbed for the line. He ate the fresh flesh raw, and buried the
entrails in the fresh hole beneath the seed. He set the bait again and started a small fire; by the time he had a few good
coals glowing, he had two more trout. He ate the first one and cooked the other slow, for later.
The next day he woke early, the cool air under the big old
cedar smelled so fresh first thing in the morning. No dew ever made it under this old tree, as long as you had a few coals
to liger through the night; it was dry in the morning. As he came
out of his sleep he remembered his dream, a wise man had come to him.
That wise man told him that he knew of his
deal with the Devil and he could help him with the bet. Then he told him what he should do to win. Each day after the dream, he watered and cared for the plant. It grew very fast and was soon
as tall as him. Each day he pulled off the larger leaves on the lower branches. With
these large leaves he made a soothing tea, sometimes he chewed and swallowed the sweet leaves.
Just as the wise man in the dream had told him. This was a magic plant for sure, it made him forget
all his worry’s but for one. His deal with the Devil was always on his mind. The Wise man from the dream had told him
this plan, but was he to trust this dream?
Time passed by and the plant was soon twelve feet tall. Each
time he took off the larger leaves from the plant, it grew over night by inches.
It was all going along according to the Wise mans
plan, so far.
After many months had passed, the Devil surprised him at his little garden in the woods. “Oh
my” the Devil exclaimed, “What a lovely specimen you have growing for me”. “You have a green thumb
poor man, but, do you know the name?” He had his smile on as he asked the
poor man.
“If
there is a name for this plant, I do not know it, but my time is not yet up and I will try my hardest to win the bet”.
The poor man spoke with a slight quiver in his voice. “Your time is passing, you have two more chances to answer my
question so, and I’ll be back”.
He disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. “Two more chances “, he thought to himself
aloud. This life of tending to the plant had changed him; his health had come back to him. His daily fishing, the purest of
spring waters and his reason to live all helped him. He thought of this as he set his hooks for the day.
For months the only person he had spoken to was the Devil.
He feared the other poor townspeople would find out of his deal of growing the seed. He stayed in the woods and began to wander
nature for his peace of mind. He picked berries and mushrooms to add to his tea, and discovered many animals and plants. But
not in all his ventures did he see, or find a plant like his.
Again the Devil surprised him, “Oh poor man what have you been doing to my plant!”
the Devil screamed. The poor man almost jumped from his skin. Fire was in the
Devils eyes as he roared again, “What have you done you fool “. “What
have you done with all the missing branches?” The poor man stood his ground
this time, “Devil I have been eating and making tea from this plant”. “When we made the bet, at no time
did you say that the plant was yours. I grew the seed just as you asked me. The plant that grew is a magic plant for sure,
but I still do not have the answer.” He was proud of himself.
The
Devil fumed until smoke was billowing from his ears,
“You, you are right. He stammered, “I did not tell you it was mine. Now your bet all
relies on my next visit, you will have to know my answer then, or your soul is mine.”
“Do you understand poor man!”
Flames marked the spot where the devil had just been standing. He doused it with water quickly
and stood back proud. The plan from the dream was working very well indeed. The wise old man had never returned to him again
in his dreams.
His
time was running short; the plant had turned to flower and filled itself with seeds. That day he took his little hatchet and
chopped it down. Seeds scattered the ground as he chopped, the plant was very
strong and when he had finally removed the branches he had a fine pole. He chopped it in half, one section for a fishing pole,
the other for a stout walking stick. The branches he cleaned and separated the leaves and flowers. It took many trips, but
he bundled it all in his tiny sack and delivered it to all the poor people of his town. The seed were scattered along his
many trips through the woods and town, the entire valley was now his garden.
The
King heard of this Happy Town, He was eager to gather more taxes so he sent a tax collector at once to the town. Tax collectors
were of the meanest and stingy nature and this man was the meanest of all.
He summoned the townspeople and asked of them, “This
man who gave you such seeds and tea, where is he?” The poor man stepped
forward,
“It is me my lord, I am the man you are asking for!”
“I will pay your taxes, name the price!”
He did just as the Wise man had told him. All the clouds in the sky turned to flames and the Devil was there.
The townspeople and the taxman cowered. The poor old man
laughed.
“You foolish little man how dare you laugh at me, I
am the Devil!” Fire scorched the poor mans feet but he stood strong. “What is all this, a gathering of the poor
people, how pathetic!” The Devil laughed loud “Ha, Ha, Ha!” “Fools” “You are all to be mine in purgatory”
”Ha, Ha!” The Devil stopped when he noticed the poor
man was not cowering. “What has become of the plant foolish man?” “I
have shared it with all and have scattered the seeds far and wide. The plant was mine, now what’s your deal!”
He taunted the Devil.
“Our little bet poor man was, what is the answer to
my question!” “Do you have it!”
The Devil was smoking from the ears again.
“Yes devil, I have your answer, the plant has a name.
It is God’s Plant and I have shared it with Gods people!”
The Devil had lost the bet for the poor mans soul. The plant indeed was not his but God’s. The poor man won his
bet.
The Devil did not laugh as he disappeared in shame and left
no fire to mark his spot.
It was truly a plant of God. The Wise man had been right.
The town’s people rejoiced at their new happiness and
wealth. The poor man was now richer than the King. The poor townspeople were the happiest in the land.
They shared their seed with everyone, as well with all their
gold.
The poor man was now King.
The End
5/20/2003 9:54:50 AM
© D. P.
Stewart Barque & Byte 03
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Memory Jog's by Squire-
In 1974 Squire was presented by afriend, an autographed
first edition copy of a book titled New Bruswick. Author Michael Collie 1974. The autograph is dated October 22, 1974. For
Peter Collie are the only other words on the page and the printers press placed them.
At the time, my friend asked me to read this Publication
of
history and observations written, by a come from away un-biased
point of view. Honest interpretation of our cultural roots.
My friends intention, as mine, were not for me to read
the book then, but, wait until I was mature enough to understand the picture that would be painted in my mind as, Mr. Collie's
book
and observations unfolded. My first read was 1989 an informal
scattered browse, randomly scanning for general information.
Interest was sparked; time then was much consumed by work schedules and the birth of my daughter. I stored it away again in
1990, during a visit to the family homestead. I knew it was in a safe place. As in history, some things repeat, most things
evolve with change. In the year 2003 I am using it for
a comparison and to help develop my dream of publising
a
real History of Miramichi. My true friend, I realize now,
wanted to stir an interest, just like Michael Collie had stirred him into suggesting and presenting the book to me. Spark
of interest,
hint of something hidden here.
Miramichi has a very important history of social evolution,
politics, cultural evolution, population control, deep
religious
and colonial roots can all be studied here.
My friend who I still consider my main mentor in life, is
slowly fading. As his happy life is slowly beginning to
replay in his mind, he knows that his spark has been freshly kindled and his fire of desire will continue to burn. He does
not speak to me as much as in days of not long past. Days of wonderful conversation
I will always remember. Some questions recently asked of
him were awnsered with, "You already know the awnsers, just don't realize it yet, it will all come out in the wash". "Take
it and don't stop running with it until you finish".
Ten
years of my busy life had slipped by since my most recent visit with my mentor. His statement to me many tears
ago that, "Time flies in favour of the dishonest and corrupt.
Honest people do not need a great memory". What wonderful
words of wisdom to offer a then seventeen year old Squire.
Sebastian was my nom de plume at that time and I don't
think he really agreed to my change to Squire in 2002. His belief was of a truer representation of my bloodline and personal
pedigree.
Never during our hours and hours of conversation do I believe that I ever once offended my friend even during hightened
disagreements and opposing views. He has, I believe
groomed the Squire (Sebastian) without my even noticing.
Gestures such as this, are only being fully realized upon
his nearing exit, from a life he loved here On The River
and his seventy-year dream of putting this book together. I shall truly
and sadly miss his final departure and hope that I may
be able to keep his dream stimulated and continued into this new millenium.
His lifelong notes and journals are now in my possesion
and with this, new found interest has been deeply enhanced
by
finally understanding his first gift to me in 1974.
Squire (Sebastian) Esq. County Criers Office April 25/03
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