94 FIFTY YEARS IN WESTERN CANADA

that the strenuous exertions to which he was put by
those various printing ventures contributed to shorten
his stay in the North. If at least he had been able to
get a suitable diet to second his physical and mental
efforts, things might have been different. Being all
alone for everything, without a servant to help him in
any way, cooking himself as well as printing, he too
often neglected the former for the sake of the latter.
And his health suffered.

For days of thirteen hours’ hard work, with no
recess after meals, he used to fry in a small pan, after
the morning service in the church, potatoes with scanty
slices of bacon, which were to do for the whole day.
In the morning, he would eat one-third of his panful,
another third at two or three p.m., that is, when the
pangs of hunger were no longer bearable, then return
to his type-setting or printing until late in the evening,
when he would consume the remaining third.

Day rest of any kind was unknown to him, unless
you call rest the changing of occupation.

As to his press, it was indeed a beautiful machine,
but it was made for power, and all the power that was
available at his place was, of course, that of his right
foot. So that when, one day, a French visitor, an
exceedingly rare bird at Stuart Lake, had for some time
silently contemplated the exertions of the clerical
pressman, ‘‘kicking’’ his machine in the midst of
drops of sweat which fell to the floor as rain to the
ground, he could not help most seriously warning him
against such excesses.

“Tf you don’t stop that,’’ he declared, ‘‘you will
be under ground in less than five years.”

Father Morice smiled, professed incredulity, con-
tinued the work he loved so much, and he now triumph-