We had arranged to start on Friday, May 21, and the day dawned beautifully fine. I fetched the caravan round to the parish hall, where our things were stored, and we loaded up. This was no easy task, for unless you did it very carefully you could not get everything in. The packages reached from floor to roof now that we were fully equipped. Whilst we were busily engaged in this task we did not notice that the weather had changed, but presently a great wind arose, and then an ominous darkness blotted out the sun. We knew that that horror of horrors, a fierce dust storm, was raging. It was a veritable blackness that might be felt; and when we went to say good-bye to some Regina friends they begged us not to start. One of them travelled for a firm, and he assured us that no commercial traveller would venture out in such a storm. It was bound to get worse and worse, he said, and he did his best to dissuade us. But I had arranged to get to Buffalo Lake by Sunday, and I had already been obliged to alter the date once owing to the delay in getting the caravan, so I felt that I could not put them off any more. If one delays for difficulties one will never do anything. So we started.
The wind whipped and whistled around the caravan, and blew the earth in great clouds over us, and formed huge drifts on the trail, which made the car skid as on loose sand. It was distressing to remember that this earth was full of newly-sown wheat. It was hard enough to see the way when we started, though Winifred held the map and directed me; but after sunset it was impossible to go on, as the headlights could not penetrate the dense clouds of dust. However, we had gone a good distance, and therefore decided to camp. Meanwhile our late host, at the urgent instigation of his wife, was searching the trail for our mangled remains.
The next morning was fine, and we started early; but quite soon we struck sand, and after the storm of the day before it lay in drifts. I tried to rush through at full speed, but with a tremendous skid the car lurched sideways and stuck fast in a drift. We got out, and tried to jack it up in order to wind rope round a wheel, as I had been told that Parsons' chains are useless in sand. To crown our misery the wind now began to blow hard, and we were almost blinded by the flying sand, which stung our eyes cruelly. In the dust-storm of the previous day we were spared this torture by the wind-screen and side-doors being kept shut. But help was at hand. One after another six men in all stopped their cars and came to our assistance. It was easier for them to get through the sand-drifts than for us because their cars were so much lighter, although a good deal of the caravan was made of a kind of stout beaver-boarding to save weight, but this was counteracted by our camping equipment, etc.
Our helpers pulled us out with great difficulty, and we continued on our way through Moose Jaw. Towards evening we sighted Buffalo Lake church and steered for it, expecting that the vicarage would be near by. But before we reached it, in trying to negotiate a mud hole, we stuck fast once more. A farmer ploughing near came to our aid, and fastened his team to our rope. One of the trials of a mud hole was that when you got out to adjust the rope, etc., your boots became thickly coated with sticky mud, so that you could scarcely work your gear pedal. It was also exceedingly difficult to drive the car close at the heels of restive horses. They hated the noise of the engine, and were all ready to kick; and when the car reached firm ground it rushed forward almost on to the horses, and was only stopped by jamming on the brakes.
Thanks to this timely aid we reached our goal in good time to make camp. But the wind was still blowing strong, and as I was cooking on the Primus it suddenly burst into flames. Thinking the caravan in danger, Winifred hastily threw earth on it—which put an effectual end to my culinary efforts for that night. We made a fair meal on the food we had with us, and just as we had finished a buggy came along with the vicar and his family. They had been shopping in the neighbouring town. From the van he guessed our identity, and came up to ask how we had managed our cooking in this wind. We tactfully evaded this point, and assured him that we had madea good meal. But we were not sorry when he said that next day we must have meals at the vicarage.
The next day was Whit Sunday, and we were very glad to be where we could have an early Celebration. So widely scattered is the population that there was only one other worshipper besides ourselves. After breakfast the vicar was going to take duty at a place about five miles away, so I offered to drive him in the caravan as there was another dust storm blowing up and he had nothing but an open buggy. As he was the first vicar I had driven I determined not to disgrace myself by sticking on the trail, and so went full tilt all the way and successfully ploughed through the drifts. We skidded and swayed a good deal, but my passenger seemed thoroughly to enjoy it. When we arrived, however, we found that none of the congregation had cared to face the storm; we therefore did a little visiting and returned home.
There was a regular weekly Sunday School here in which two of the parents taught. It was brilliantly fine in the afternoon and the children and their parents were all able to come. Car after car drove up, until there was a long line of them. The children were most beautifully dressed, with dainty white frocks and pretty hats. The parents and the elder boys and girls were also extremely well turned out. Indeed, it is one of the most striking features of prairie life that, with all their heavy manual work, the people dress well when not engaged in actual toil—a fine example of personal self-respect.
It was delightful to see this school, conducted by two of the mothers. We longed to give professional assistance but hesitated to offer it, as of course the idea of constructive criticism and demonstration lessons was quite foreign to them. But an opportunity for the latter presented itself when we gave round "Hope of the World" postcards and the children began to ask questions about them, whereupon the mothers appealed to me to give the explanation.
After the school there was a Family Service (characteristic of the prairie) at which all are present, from the fatherto the infant in arms. There were a great many baptisms, which made one think of Whitsuntide in the early Church. A delightful feature of the service was the freedom with which the children ran out to play when tired. I could see them from the window jumping in and out of the cars. But when they had worked off their superfluous energy they came back quietly to their places.
After the service we were introduced to all the people, and one young man remarked: "We thought your car was a motor ambulance and supposed there'd been a scrap."
The fervour of these people, and their evident appreciation of the services of the Church, made a strong impression on me. It was shown by their coming long distances—twenty miles in some cases—after working very hard for very long hours all the week.
In the evening I drove the vicar to another church for evensong. It was coated so thickly with dust from the storm of the morning that we had to clean it down before a service could be held.
Next morning the vicar showed us his stable, and we photographed his special pride, a handsome colt which he had broken himself. We had had a most delightful week-end, and were much cheered by our kind reception from the vicar and his wife, and felt quite weak with laughter at the former's amusing stories.
In the afternoon we started for Eyebrow, but did not get very far that day, as we stuck in the mud and had to wait to be pulled out. We arrived at Eyebrow next day, however, and went to see the layman in charge of the mission. It had not been possible as yet to arrange for us to visit any schools, so we decided to go on and spend some time here on our return journey. They entertained us most hospitably to supper, and allowed us to put our baggage in the church porch as it was raining in torrents. We next made a two days' journey on to Riverhurst, and on arrival went into a Chinaman's restaurant for supper. The food in these restaurants is both good and cheap. A three-course dinner costs only about one and eightpence in English money. As we were comfortably eating our supper we were surprisedand rather alarmed to see a district policeman making straight for us. He put us through a searching catechism. Who were we and where did we come from? A brother officer had seen us and put him on our trail. We told him who we were and whose authority was behind us, and after a few more questions he seemed satisfied and left us to finish our supper in peace. We longed to know what crimes he had mentally charged us with.
We found that there was a Union Sunday school at Riverhurst which all the children attended, including the only Anglican children in the place, four in number. It seemed hopeless to try to start a Sunday School for these four, so we noted them for enrolment in the Sunday School by Post, and went on towards Elbow.
We started in a dust storm, the unpleasantness of which custom cannot stale. I took some photographs of it, however. Presently we thought that we must have taken the wrong trail to Elbow, and so tried to turn on what looked like firm grass, but the ground was soft underneath, and the heavily-weighted car stuck fast, sinking in up to the axles. It was far away from any sign of human habitation, and the recommendation of Dr. Smiles seemed the only solution. So I started to dig out a wheel. Suddenly a boy on a horse appeared as if by magic, and asked if we wanted help, saying that he would go back to his father's farm for horses, which sure enough he did, and handled them manfully. He fastened his team to our rope, and I got into the car and started the engine. Then followed the usual breathless moment when the car charged forward on to the horses' heels. The boy then directed us to take a certain trail, and after his recent display of prowess we naturally followed his advice. But we soon found ourselves going up a very steep and narrow track with a bank on one side and a sheer drop into a ravine on the other, and with literally not an inch to spare on either side. On the steepest part of this road the car stopped dead, and I had to keep my foot hard down on the foot brake to prevent it slipping backwards. There was nothing for it but to unload the heaviest things, and I could not get out to help, as the car would then have run back.Winifred opened the back doors so that I could see behind me, and I managed to get safely down to the bottom of the hill, though it was exceedingly difficult to back round the sharp corners. I then put on full speed and rushed the car up, and at the top we loaded her again, thinking that the worst was over. But as we went on we found the road was as narrow as ever, with a very bad surface, big stones cropping out here and there. I was driving, with one wheel low down in a rut and the other high up, when the car again stopped at a steep bit, and I had to jam on the brakes as before whilst Winifred unloaded. But when I tried to release the brakes I found that the hand brake had jammed, and I could not get out and hammer it free as the van would have run backwards when I shifted it. At this crisis two men came along and helped us, and between us we put the brake right and got the car to the top of the hill. This was the only bad hill we had found and the only stony road. We discovered afterwards that it was not the right trail for Elbow. The town is so named because the Saskatchewan River runs in a elbow-like curve through the ravine at the bottom of this hill, on the crest of which the town is built.
We went on beyond Elbow to Loreburn, and camped near the vicarage for the night. The vicar and his wife had only just arrived in the parish, with a little baby of a month old. She looked hardly fit to cope with all there was to do, but they insisted that we should come in to meals with them. I was the more grateful for this as I had had a difference of opinion with the spirit lamp, which blew up in my face and nearly blinded me.
This was the first occasion on which we used the tent, and its erection was something of a puzzle, as we had no sketch of the finished article, and had never seen it in action. But by the time I had it all laid out, and was wondering how I should put it up without help (Winifred having gone to the vicarage), some boys appeared, and said that they knew all about tents, and helped me splendidly. There was no difficulty about finding the children at our stopping places, for the caravan drew them like a magnet. We reversed Froebel's injunction—"Come let us live with our children"—for the children invariably came and lived with us. On occasions their company was so persistent as to be rather embarrassing. One never knew at what moment the tent would be invaded by eager visitors. They were most delightful children, extraordinarily intelligent and full of practical wisdom. It was truly a case of "development by self-activity." They freely offered assistance and advice when they saw we were in need of either. It was a five-year-old girl who noticed one evening that I had laid the potatoes outside the caravan, and thoughtfully warned me: "I shouldn't leave those potatoes out all night if I were you; the gophers will eat them."
To face p. 48
On that first night at Loreburn we had torrents of rain, and next morning the trails were deep in mud. But I had promised to drive the vicar into Elbow, as he had no buggy as yet. We skidded violently from side to side of the road all the way, and had more than one narrow escape from a slough—I had horrid visions of a congregation waiting indefinitely for a vicar hopelessly submerged. I put on the Parsons' chains before making the return journey. This is a job one willingly defers till it is unavoidable.
Despite the weather there were many people at church, so I was glad that I had made the effort. These prairie services really were an inspiration. In the afternoon I superintended the Sunday school, which consisted as usual of children from six to sixteen. Winifred and I divided the children into two classes, and the vicar and a teacher listened to our teaching. The greatest difficulty, here as elsewhere, was the grading of hymns and prayers. The best way seemed to be to open with devotions suitable to the infants and then to let them go off to another part of the church for their lesson while we had other prayers and hymns for the elder ones, closing the school in a similar manner; but if this made the session too long, we began with devotions suited to the younger children and closed with those more suited to the elder.
After school there was the usual family service, at which I specially noticed how well the organist played. We were afterwards invited to supper with him and his wife, andwere interested to find that they used to live at Leeds and had sung at Morecambe Musical Festival. Canadian meals are delicious, and we had a sumptuous supper—bacon and eggs, layer cake and stewed fruit, and strong tea, very acceptable after our sketchy caravan meals. After supper we had some good music, and the organist told us some of his experiences as a prairie choir-master. His choir showed talent, so he felt that they were capable of chanting the psalms, and trained them to do so. He kept this as a pleasant surprise for the congregation, and felt very proud of his pupils when they duly acquitted themselves well. But the real surprise was his. Next day most of the congregation waited upon him in a body and stated that they would not attend church in future if such High Church practices were followed.
We had obtained permission from the trustees of the public school at Loreburn to give religious instruction in school hours, as it was more convenient for us. I took the upper division, children of twelve to eighteen, and Winifred took the lower form, children of six to twelve, it being a two-roomed school. (In these prairie schools the scholars stay from six to eighteen.) The teachers were very nice. They showed interest in our work and listened to our lessons. As I could give them only one lesson, I wanted it to be one of permanent value, sufficiently connected with their everyday experience to recur frequently to their minds, so I spoke on the Union Jack, which floats over almost all of these little schools. I began with the splendid work of Canada in the War, and referred to the men of the widespread British Empire all united under one flag, thus leading on to the unity of Christian soldiers and telling the stories of the three saints whose crosses unite in the British flag. (A further bond of empire now is the photograph of the Prince of Wales, which is found everywhere in this neighbourhood since his visit to Regina.)
After the lesson we gave each child a prayer card and a picture of the "Hope of the World" or "The New Epiphany." It was very distressing to find that only two or three of the thirty children present knew the Lord's Prayer. Apropos of this a clergyman's wife told me howshe had asked a child, "Do you knowOur Father?" and the child answered, "No, but I know our grandfather."
The children seemed to hang on our words, listening with intense eagerness to the lessons. "They listen to lessons here in this country that they would never dream of attending to in the Old Country," Winifred wrote home. "One has no fear here of possibilities of naughtiness either. They are good without being disciplined, not restless like the children at home."
The intense hunger for knowledge holds these sturdy, open-air little people in a trance of breathless interest. It was their desire rather than our skill which exercised the spell, as we knew well.
It rained hard all next day, so I spent the time in making some things for the caravan; in particular, a wire cage for the electric bulb, which was always being knocked against and broken. One could never start directly the rain ceased, the trails were too bad, and when we did take the road on the following day we found a sea of mud. On the second day we arrived at Outlook, and camped above the ferry. There was no resident clergyman here, but a local lady did what she could for the spiritual needs of the children, holding a very successful Sunday School in the church, where she had arranged a beautiful "Children's Corner." A few suitable pictures and simple printed prayers were pinned on the wall within easy reach of kneeling children. They are encouraged to make this spot their special oratory. This particular "Corner" was arranged near the font, which seemed a specially suitable place for it. Unfortunately, we were unable to meet this lady, as she was ill, but we went to see the lay reader who took the services on Sunday.
After we had camped that night a young girl came to talk to us. She explained that she was very unhappy and unsettled with regard to religion. She had gone to the "Pentecostals," poor child, because she was deaf, and could hear their loud declamations; but she had received no sort of help from them. Her parents belonged to the Church of England, but since they had been in Canada the younger children had not been baptized. Presently the girl's mother joined us, and we made friends at once and had "a good crack" when we each found that the other came from Cumberland. She told me that she had been brought up a Baptist, but had joined the Church of England. I urged her to prepare her children for baptism herself, and have them baptized at the earliest opportunity. This she promised to do.
Next day we had to cross the Saskatchewan River, no easy task from all accounts. We had been regaled with hair-raising stories of how a man drove his car too fast down the pier to the ferry boat, which had not been linked up, and the car plunged into the river and was never seen again. The same fate overtook a man who fell out of his boat when mending the ferry cable. I was not quite at my best for this particular undertaking, as I had one eye badly swollen from a mosquito bite through forgetting to put on my net when sitting down to write a letter. There were three ways of getting down the river bank to the ferry pier. One road zig-zagged so sharply that the long caravan could not turn at the bend, and the paling just there was so frail that had we run into it we must have broken through and gone down a bank. The other road was strewn with huge stones, so I eschewed roads altogether, and went down the rough grass bank, swaying and bumping and almost overturning, but it seemed the least perilous passage. I took the car down while Winifred was on in front, looking for a better road, as there was no reason why we should both be upset. A narrow road led on to the pier, which was a long wooden structure built over the sand and mud of the river's edge. The ferry, a wooden barge worked by a cable, was moored to the end of it, and I drove on to it cautiously. The men working the ferry were three Englishmen, who had served with the Canadian contingent, and they hailed the van delightedly as a long-lost friend, at first thinking it was an old motor ambulance from France. We took photos of them, whereupon they begged that we would not exhibit them as "specimens of the white heathen we met out there." "I felt indeed that we must look missionaries of the fiercest type," was Winifred's comment on this incident.
There was only one trail to Bounty, our next destination, so when we came suddenly on a dreadful hole right across the path, with a bank on either side of the road, there was nothing for it but to go on. I tried to rush across, and suddenly felt an awful concussion. I was flung up against the roof of the van and saw stars for the moment, but somehow or other we got across. Then I went round to see what damage was done to our baggage, etc., and found that a three-gallon tin of coal oil had been flung up and had come down upside down. There it was, standing on its cork. I next examined the engine, which seemed very odd. The gear pedal had gone wrong and everything was crooked. Then I saw that the bonnet was not fitting. I lifted it up and found that the whole engine was two or three inches out of the straight. I saw that I could not put things right myself, and so determined to try to reach the town. Meanwhile, in this as in other mishaps, Winifred helped me enormously by sitting calmly on the bank reading a novel. She never fussed or made worrying exclamations, or hindered me by offering useless suggestions or unwanted assistance. She never complained, either, under the most trying circumstances, or made the slightest sound in those wild moments when we were nearly thrown out of the van by the roughness of the road.
We were five miles from Bounty, but I found that I could get along on low gear. A few miles farther on we came to another bad place, where the conduit had fallen in, but we managed to crawl through somehow. I was thankful to find a big garage at Bounty, with an efficient mechanic. He and I examined the car and found that theframe was sprung three inches on either side. He said that the body would have to be slung up and the engine taken out and a new frame put in, and that this would take a week to do. So we unloaded the van by the church, and took out the mattresses also for use in the tent, and then left the poor invalid at the garage.
There are garages in every prairie town, even in what we should call little villages, for in Saskatchewan there is a car for every two people. These garages are well fitted up, and have all the latest inventions. Outside all of them there is a petrol pump and a "Free Air" cable for the convenience of passers-by. The latter has a gasolene engine which pumps up the air, so that you can fill your tyres in a second. No one thinks of using a hand-pump unless he has a burst right out on the prairie.
We lived in the tent this week, with most of our baggage stored in the church porch. As usual, the children helped us to arrange our things. I had quite a holiday, with the caravan off my hands, but Winifred's duties went on as usual. We had apportioned the work as follows: she was to keep the interior of the van clean and do all the washing-up, whilst I drove, cleaned the engine, did repairs, etc., and cooked. Winifred's job was no sinecure. She hardly ever had much water for washing-up, so she used to clean the horrid greasy dishes and things with paper and then rinse them; and though I sometimes nearly threw her out of the van, she in turn sometimes kept me out of it when she was having a thorough clean up—a necessary evil after a muddy day or a dust-storm.
I wanted to telephone to Mr. W. at Regina, as he was holding my insurance policy for the car, so I asked permission to do so from a resident who had already greatly befriended us. When 'phoning I found it very difficult to hear what Mr. W. said; it seemed as if all the receivers were open. I was further distracted by hearing the owner of the telephone remark to Winifred, as she gazed at my back, "Eh! isn't she fat?" as who should say, "No wonder the frame was sprung!"
Next morning I walked to Conquest (six miles away) tointerview the secretary of the Municipal Council, as the inhabitants of Bounty thought that the hole should have been attended to, and advised me to claim damages. I failed to get any compensation, but Bounty benefited from our misfortune, as the hole was immediately filled up. Calling at the Conquest post-office for letters, the old postman remarked to me, "I have heard all about your accident. You girls, you drive too fast." It seemed that the entire district knew all the details, even to the cost of the repairs. I now remembered having heard that a favourite winter amusement on the prairie was to take down your receiver and listen to the conversations along the line. Report said that a certain courtship had in this way provided entertainment for the whole neighbourhood.
It was unfortunate that there was no Anglican Sunday School in this place, where we had perforce to spend a week. There were very few Anglicans there at all, but a great many Presbyterians and Nonconformists, who united to form a Union church and Sunday School. There was a very nice Anglican church, but most of the congregation lived at farms some distance away, coming in for Sunday services, when the vicar also came in from one of his other districts. He came to see us on the Saturday night, and explained that on the morrow there would be a United Family Service in the Anglican church, to which he was inviting all the members of the Union church. He asked us to write out and fix up notices about it. He also asked if we would give an address after the service on the need for religious instruction for the children.
Sunday was a very hot day, and with sinking hearts we realised that the congregation would be arrayed in lovely summer clothes, and that it was up to us not to discredit the Old Country. But it is difficult to look one's best when caravanning, and even one of Paquin's frocks would lose its bloom in a cotton bag, and the smartest hat would look dashed after the three-gallon oil tin had collided with it. Personally, I felt that my bravest efforts would be futile since Winifred's remark as we arose that morning: "Let me look and see if you are as much a fright as you were yesterday." When your nose and one eye have been entirely remodelled by a mosquito bite you do not look your best, nor can you be quite unselfconscious in public, and, alas!Ishould have to give that address, for Winifred had flatly refused.
Patience is required when attending prairie meetings. What with the immense distances, varying clocks, and unexpected obstacles on the trails it is difficult to get anywhere to time. In this case we waited an hour for the organist, whose car had stuck in a mud hole. Winifred rose to the occasion, and was just making her way to the organ when the belated car was heard and the big bronzed young farmer hurried in.
The elders of the Union church preceded the vicar and his churchwardens up the aisle. The service was a shortened form of evensong, interspersed with many hymns. The sermon was a clear but non-controversial exposition of the Apostles' Creed. It was remarkable to notice how the preacher held the attention of all present, from the child of five to the old lady with grey curls. One hoped that this united worship might pave the way for union on Christian essentials, so that Christian teaching might be agreed upon for the schools and a united stand made against materialism and the many so-called Christian sects.
After service I was called upon to address the congregation. I had to speak from before the altar rails, there being no other place from which to command the congregation, except the pulpit, which I did not wish to occupy. As there had been a fairly long service, and the church was very full and very hot, I thought that a ten minutes' address would be sufficient. So I spoke briefly on the importance of religious education, leading up from the wonderful way in which Canadians had helped in the War, to the need fortheir help in warfare against evil. Christian soldiers must be trained, and a young country needs a Christian foundation. It is extraordinarily easy to hold the attention of a prairie congregation, and I was told afterward that they wished I had gone on longer. It is indeed a preacher's paradise.
The vicar had to leave at once for his next service. He motored about eighty miles each Sunday and took four services. But the rest of us held a kind of social gathering outside the church, where we had opportunities of studying the prairie fashions. Most of these gorgeous garments are ordered by post from Timothy Eaton's store in Toronto. His enormous illustrated catalogue is sent yearly to every house, and is commonly called "The Prairie Bible." The children know it by heart, and amuse themselves on winter evenings by cutting out and colouring the fashion plates, with the embarrassing result that when they see a neighbour in her new spring costume they remark, "Oh, Mrs. So-and-So's new hat is on page 603, price so many dollars."
We had a washing-day on the Monday. When near a farm they allowed us to take our blouses, etc., and wash them with their apparatus, as the Chinks, who did our heavy washing, ruined the finer things.
On the Tuesday we went to Swanson by train (the trains only ran on certain days in the week). This had been one of the centres of the Railway Mission, and was worked with Birdview, but they had had no services for about a year, owing to the scarcity of clergy, and they felt the privation very much. The Railway Mission had now come to an end, and there were no clergy to supply these districts. We went to see the leading church people, with a view to taking Swanson on our return journey if it seemed possible to start a Sunday School there. We were told that there was no Sunday School of any kind thereabouts, and were advised to go to the day school and beat up recruits, which we did with great success. A farmer's wife promised to gather the people together for us when we came again, so that we could hold a demonstration school and a parents' meeting.
We wished to visit Birdview, but no train ran there thatday. Our friend Mrs. T., however, said that her son should drive us in a car. A terrible sandstorm blew up, and we were almost blinded in the open car. We realised once more the advantage of a caravan. Great drifts of sand lay on the trail, and the car skidded from side to side, but we got there. Mrs. T. had arranged by telephone that we were to stay the night with a storekeeper and his wife. There were not many church people in Birdview, so I wanted to go out to a little mission church in the centre of outlying farms which used to be worked by the Railway Mission. The only way to get there was by car, and the storekeeper thought that no hired car would face the storm. But, happily, the wind dropped and the sand subsided, and we found a car to take us. So the storekeeper's wife and I started off.
We were now in one of the "dried out" areas. There are certain belts of land in Saskatchewan which, when first taken up, nearly twenty years ago, proved very fertile. But over-cultivation, though advised by the Board of Agriculture in order to conserve the moisture, had rendered the soil so fine that most of it had blown away. It had been of no great depth to start with, and the sand below it had come to the surface, and now blew in great drifts. As the wheat came up, the flying clouds of sand cut it down, and even buried the scrub. Little vegetation was visible, and what wheat there was the grasshoppers devoured. They were enormous things, 3 inches long. They flew into the car with a great "plop," and even jumped down my clothes. The farmers hereabouts were ruined, and nobody would take their farms. They had not sufficient capital to start again. Yet with all this they kept up their courage and hoped for better days.
When we reached the little church we stuck fast in a big drift, but I took the wheel while the man pushed, and at last we got out. We went on to the leading farmer's, where they welcomed us warmly. They had had no services there for a very long time. I explained that we should like to visit the place on our way back if they would collect the people to meet us. The farmer's wife expressed great delight at the idea. They had been so long without a clergyman, and had so much appreciated services when they had them. She found it very difficult, she said, to keep Sunday when there was nothing to remind her of the day. They felt their spiritual privation, especially now that their material troubles were so great.
I noticed here, as in many other places, an almost conscience-stricken look on the parents' faces when I mentioned the necessity of religious instruction for the children. It was not that they did not wish their children to be taught religious truths, but that they themselves were so cruelly overworked that they had no time for the care and forethought which the preparation of a lesson entails. When you work all the week from 5 a.m. to 10 or 11 p.m. you are exceedingly tired on Sunday; and yet there is still some necessary work to be done if you live on a farm. But give these parents some idea of how and what to teach, with a suitable book to follow and pictures to illustrate the subjects, and they will do their very best, often making most excellent teachers. It is in places like this that the Sunday School by Post helps so greatly, especially in winter, when the children cannot attend a Sunday school at a distance.
We returned to Birdview that night (sticking again in the sand-drift on the way). Our kind host and hostess refused to let us pay for our entertainment. We were continually receiving most generous hospitality all the time we were on the prairie. We were never allowed to pay for our milk and eggs at a farm, and we were invited to many meals, which greatly helped our resources. We hardly liked to accept so much, knowing as we did how badly off the farmers sometimes were. But we knew how hurt they would have been had we refused. Their generosity was a great lesson in almsgiving. They always treat all missionaries in this way.
We took the train to Conquest, and then had to walk to Bounty, a very tiring six miles on the rough trail with the wind against us. Unfortunately no car overtook us, for it is the invariable custom to give pedestrians a lift.We went at once to the place where we had left our tent, but no tent was to be seen. We inquired about it at a neighbouring house, and a nice old man told us that the storm of the previous night had smashed the pole and ripped up the canvas, whereupon he had rescued it, otherwise it would now have been miles and miles away across the prairie. We felt thankful that we had had a house over our heads when this happened.
We were now homeless, tent and caravan bothhors de combat. Many kind people would have taken us in, but in a prairie shack, or even in most of the smaller houses, there is seldom any accommodation for visitors, especially women visitors. So I went round to beg an old broom-handle, and with this I spliced the tent-pole. Then Winifred and I set to work on the canvas, and managed to restore it to the semblance of a tent cover. Early next morning another storm came on. We got up hurriedly and took refuge in the church, for the tent showed signs of collapsing on top of us.
That day we had been invited out to the B.'s farm. One of the Bounty farmers drove us out there behind a spanking pair of horses which had taken first prize at a show. A heavy thunderstorm came on and we were asked to spend the night, an invitation which was gratefully accepted in our shelterless circumstances. Mr. B. was a most interesting man. In England he had been a coachman, and had come out about seventeen years before with £8 in his pocket. He worked his way West, and took up a half-section. When he had got a home together a girl from the Old Country came out and married him. Now he had a splendid farm; the house and farm-buildings were lit by electric-light. A feature of this farm, as of all others, was the enormous barn. This is always much larger than the house. The hay and grain are stored at the top and the stables are below. On most large farms they keep at least twenty horses, besides up-to-date and ingenious machinery.
This farmer felt very strongly on the subject of emigration. As he truly said, in the Old Country he would probablyhave remained a coachman all his life, and would have had nothing to leave his children. But it was useless to come out to the prairie, he added, unless you were prepared to work hard. He himself worked from 5 a.m. to 10 p.m. throughout the summer months. During the War he had been obliged to work his farm single-handed. Both he and all the other prairie farmers had given large gifts of wheat to England, and all the young farmers had enlisted in a body directly war was declared, often travelling miles to the nearest recruiting station.[5]In many cases their farms went to rack and ruin whilst they were away, as there was no one else to work them. Large numbers of them never returned.
The conversation at meal-time was most entertaining. Mr. B. used to inquire if things were still the same in the Old Country, and if folks still touched their hats and said "Sir"—this with a twinkle in his eye as he looked at us. Of course, there are no class distinctions out West; the very word is unknown. We agreed with our host that the fairest measurement of mankind is to judge each one on his own merits. It is quite certain that no one should come out here unless he can become what is called "a good mixer." The following extract from one of Winifred's letters is descriptive of the country: "The people . . . must have pretty big minds to manage their own State, which is larger than the British Isles. There is, and must always be, a stretching out in this country, and it's a wide outlook for children . . . no appearances to keep up, a natural existence, hard work, but suitable, and prospects for children. . . . Canada is a leisurely place; no bustle. It is too large, I think."
When we got back to Bounty we found that the caravan was ready, and we joyfully fetched it from the garage and repacked it. Once again I felt glad that ours was a van rather than a roadster. Though more difficult to get along the trails it was a much more stable home. The wind isperhaps the greatest trial of prairie life. It sweeps with unbroken force over these wide spaces. Sometimes we had to go all day without hot food or drink, as of course it was not safe to use a Primus stove in the caravan or tent. At times even a trench would not keep off the wind, but it usually dropped at night.
We regretfully bade farewell to the kind people of Bounty, feeling that the town was well named, and went on to Rosetown. On the way we passed through another dried-out area; our car and several others stuck in a great sand-drift near a farmhouse, which was actually being submerged in sand. We went to the house to ask for the help of a team of horses. A young farmer and his sister lived there. The girl told us they were "going to beat it," as nothing would grow, and the sand was up to the lower windows of the house. She had just washed some clothes and hung them up inside the house, and yet they were covered with sand. I was much struck with her extraordinary cheerfulness in these trying circumstances. This fine quality is characteristic of all Westerners.
The farmer pulled us out with his team, and we had no further trouble that day.
When we arrived at Rosetown the vicar and his wife were out, as they did not know what time to expect us; but we found the vicarage door unlocked, as is the hospitable local custom, so we went in and read the letters from home which we knew were awaiting us there. Mr. and Mrs. M. soon arrived, and gave us a very warm welcome. They insisted on our sleeping in the house instead of in the van, and having our meals with them. We said that in that case they must let us help with the chores. Mrs. M. had a tiny baby and no domestic help. Here, as elsewhere, our hostand hostess were delighted to meet anyone fresh from England. Mr. M. had worked on the Railway Mission, and was now in charge of this district. A Canadian "parish" is often 2,000 or 3,000 square miles in extent. Mr. M. had a rural deanery of 6,000 square miles, and as many of his clergy were in deacon's orders, he had to perform all priestly duties for them. He used a Ford car in the summer, and in the winter took the tyres off a motor bicycle and fixed it up to run on the rail of the track. The prairie being so flat, he could see the trains in time to get out of the way.
When talking to men like this we realised that our summer adventures were as nothing compared with what they experienced in the winter, with the thermometer 50 degrees below zero and blinding blizzards in which it was impossible to find one's way. This life of hardship and self-sacrifice won the respect of their parishioners and developed their own manhood. The farmers looked upon them as personal friends, fellow-men, instead of the remote being a clergyman is sometimes assumed to be. They are all-round men of affairs, too, as Winifred put it: "Out here a parson has to know about seeds and weather and dollars, but he is respected also for his office, and valued very much for what he brings to the people."
For the most part the men out here are the pick of the junior clergy from Oxford and Cambridge, men who have sacrificed much in leaving England. The clergy depend upon voluntary contributions, there being no endowments, of course. It is reckoned that in the diocese of Qu'Appelle the average contribution for each man, woman, and child is 15s. per head. They use the envelope system, so that if prevented from attending church the money is set aside just the same. Besides this, the farmers give generously in kind. But, as a clergyman's wife remarked to me, butter and eggs, though very welcome, do not supply clothes for the children. The drawback to the voluntary system is that the clergyman's income is as uncertain as that of his parishioners; for when the harvest fails there is no money for anyone. The Railway Mission clergy received monetary support from the Fund, but this Mission was only a temporaryarrangement until the various districts became self-supporting. There is, however, a diocesan fund to help the poorer parishes. Though the parishioners do their best it is obvious that they can never provide more than a scanty support for a clergyman who has a wife and family, and hence the great difficulty in filling the Canadian theological colleges.
The Rosetown Sunday School was in a flourishing condition, for the vicar was very keen. The children were taught to sing by a lady who had been accompanist to Clara Butt. On the Monday it had been arranged that I should take a Bible-class of elder girls, but when Mr. M. took me down to the house where it was to be held, we found that none of the girls had come (owing to school examinations), so we went to the movies instead!
There is a splendid picture palace in every little prairie town, and some of the films shown are really good. The cinema provides the sole recreation for the entire populace. On Saturday evenings there are long lines of cars all down the street, when the farmers and their wives come into town to shop and go to the pictures and meet each other.
I was asked to give a missionary address next day to the junior branch of the Women's Auxiliary.[6]This particular branch proposed to call itself "The Busy Bees," because the members intended to work so hard. I talked to the children about the "Hope of the World" picture, which seemed suitable to this country of many nationalities. Winifred remarked that it was a splendid country from the missionary point of view as "theyseeblack and white and brown." Where this junior branch had been started the children were keen to join, just as every Canadian churchwoman seemed to belong to the Women's Auxiliary. From many years' experience as a secretary for S.P.G. one longed to see the Church of England follow Canada's example by directing all her missionary effort into one channel, and one wished that missionary fervour were as universal.
Just at the time when we had planned to start from Rosetown a tremendous thunderstorm came on, making the trails quite impassable for several days. The water cart which brought the town's drinking water from five miles away could not get in for three days, so we had very short rations. On the Thursday I determined to leave for Kerrobert, in spite of Mr. M. saying that no one ought to go out on such trails. I knew that if we did not start at once we should not get to Kerrobert by Sunday. The trails were indeed dreadful, about the worst we had ever seen. The half-dried mud was like putty. We had the Parsons' chains on, but even so we skidded from side to side and had to go on low gear all the time.
About a mile out of the town we came face to face with a large wagon and four horses, which refused to make way for us. The road was steeply graded, so that if you got off it you would slide down into the mud and water of the ditch. I pointed out that it was as awkward for us as it was for them, indeed worse, as they had horses. They replied that if we stuck they would pull us out, and making a dash for it I managed to get on the gradient and up again. But what was my horror to find, a little farther on, another great wagon left standing in the middle of the road. It appeared that they had taken the horses from this to help on the other wagon. There was nothing for it but to drive round it, and this time my luck failed and we stuck fast in the mud. One of my Parsons' chains had come off in the last place, we found.
I put on another chain with great difficulty, as the jack kept continually sinking in the thick mud. When I had finished I looked round for Winifred, and could not see her anywhere. I got the car out and waited. Still no Winifred. Feeling very anxious, I went off to a neighbouring farm and asked to be allowed to telephone. I then rang up Mrs. M. at Rosetown, but she had seen nothing of her. At last I saw her coming along the road. She had been to look for the lost chain, found it was broken and had got it mended in the town.
We then went on with great difficulty till we came to a most awkward place. It was a bridge over a creek, very narrow, and just as muddy as the rest of the trail, with a very rotten paling on either side. I knew that if thecaravan skidded it would smash this paling and fall four or five feet into the little stream below. As there was no reason why we should both run the risk I asked Winifred to get out, and then managed to crawl over safely. Presently we came to a very bad bit, nothing but large holes of mud and water, but we ploughed through. Then came a tremendously steep hill up which I tried to rush, but I stuck half-way. Even with the chains on the wheels could not grip in the sticky mud, and unloading failed to help us. I then sought assistance from a farm at the top of the hill, and the farmer, a Frenchman, brought a horse and pulled us up. The trail got worse farther on, and we camped at the next farm we came to. We were in a dreadful condition of dirt and hunger, our feet twice their normal size with clotted mud, the caravan full of lumps of mud, our hands and clothes all over mud. I did not feel much like cooking, so when I went to the farm house for water I asked if we might boil some eggs there. Whereupon the farmer's wife insisted on giving us the eggs as well as boiling them for us, and she also gave us boiling water for our coffee. We thankfully ate our supper and went to bed.
After sticking in several mud holes next day, we finally stuck fast in a very deep one, but a farmer ploughing near pulled us out. He told us that the trails got worse between here and Kerrobert, no cars had been through for several days, and he advised us to stop the night at his farm and go on by train next day. So we drove the van into his yard and received a kind welcome from his wife. I wanted to let the vicar of Kerrobert know that we were coming. They said that there was a telephone at the next farm a mile or so away, so I walked over there. On my return I found it exceedingly difficult to find my way in that featureless district, and I should probably have got lost had I not heard Winifred's hail.
We tried to make some return for the kind hospitality we received here by helping with the chores, but zeal without knowledge is a dangerous thing, and one of us, washing up the separator, dissected it so thoroughly that the farmer's wife gazed in consternation at the result.
On the Saturday the farmer drove us into Rosetown when he went in for his weekly shopping. He promised to look after the caravan for us while we were away. We got to Kerrobert in good time that night, and were able to carry out all our Sunday engagements. But we missed the caravan very much, as we could not take all our apparatus without it, and we had to put up at an hotel as the vicarage was very small. These little hotels are expensive and not at all comfortable. We hoped great things when we caught sight of a bath, and promised ourselves a real treat, but on inspection it proved to be full of dust, with no water laid on.
There had been a Sunday School at Kerrobert, but the teachers had left the district. The vicar was too busy to take it, and his wife had her hands full with two small children. But for several Sundays in succession the children had come as usual, waiting and hoping against hope that the school would be held. Two little boys of six and seven years old had driven three miles in a buggy by themselves. The joy of these children made our struggles to get to them well worth while. There were about twenty of them in all. It grieved me that, though the Union Sunday school had plenty of teachers, no one could be found to teach the Church of England children.
We visited some very fine day schools and gave Bible lessons there, and also gave an address to parents in the church. The vicar arranged a children's service for the next day, so Winifred stayed to give the address while I went to fetch the caravan. Mr. M. drove me out to the farm, but I did not get started with the van till about 3.30 p.m. The trails had dried up a good deal, but the ruts were perfectly awful, as they always are after these heavy rains.
I had great difficulty in finding the way without Winifred to hold the map and direct me. Presently I came to a little town and stopped at the garage to refill my gasolene tank, but the petrol pump was empty. I had plenty in the side tanks but it took so long to siphon it out, so I determined to run on with what I had left. But beyond the town was asteep hill, and as I could get no run at it, and my gasolene being so low, I stuck half-way up. Again I missed Winifred badly. I could not get out to unload because the brakes were not strong enough to hold the loaded van, so I had to back to the bottom of the hill, unload, drive the van up, and then load again. This wasted a lot of time, though I got some help from a passer-by. Then I came to a "wash-out"—i.e., a conduit that has fallen in. This one was a large hole right across the trail about five feet deep. As there was a large slough on either side I had to go back four or five miles to find another trail. I could not turn between the sloughs and so had to reverse for some way.
The great difficulty now was to know where to go. I had been following main trails, but now I had to take any side trail in the desired direction which seemed passable. I went mostly by the sun, as I knew my way lay north and west. When it was growing dusk I was going down a steep hill, when I noticed a bit of wood lying across the trail. I thought it was merely a broken piece of wagon rack. At the same time I experienced the most curious sensation, a strong warning not to go any farther, the like of which I have never felt before or since. I stopped the van, and getting out walked along the trail a few paces and found a great wash-out right across the road. It was much worse than the former one, with quite as deep a drop and a much wider chasm. Had I gone on I could not have escaped it, and must have been badly hurt if not killed. I heard afterwards that there had recently been two bad accidents here. One man had broken three ribs and had had to be nursed at a neighbouring farm, there being no hospital near.
To the side of the wash-out there was an equally bad hole, but it had not such a sudden drop. It was evident that cars had been through this, so I tried it. Remembering the sprung frame, I went rather too slowly and stopped dead just on the opposite incline, at an acute angle. My gasolene being so low contributed to this misfortune, so I filled up my tank by siphoning from the side tank and tried to crank the car, as the electric starter had gone wrong that morning. At this angle it is almost impossible to crank any car, and this handle was stiff, so I blistered my hands in vain. As it was late I made up my mind to go to bed and tackle it in the morning. I was hungry, however, and had had no food since I started, so seeing a farm about half a mile off I went to get milk and water. The farmer's wife said she was sick of this hole, so many accidents happened there. She promised that her husband should come and help me in the morning, and said that she would telephone to the Secretary of the Municipal Council to see if they could not get the road mended.
I had my supper and was just going to bed, when I saw the headlights of an approaching car. I hurried out to stop them before they reached the wash-out. It was an enormous caravan on its way to Kerrobert sports. They were very grateful, and said they would tow me out in the morning, before they went on, if 4 a.m. was not too early. It was very difficult going to bed at this angle, but I managed to sleep. The prairie air is so wonderful that you can sleep anywhere and anyhow. Next morning the other van crawled round me and tried to pull me out, but my rope broke, and I told them not to stop for me. The farmer came later on, and between us we managed to get the engine going by priming the sparking plug, and then I got out of the hole all right.
The farmer directed me along the main trails. But, unknown to him, there had been a cloud-burst in this district during the recent thunderstorm, and this had washed away conduits and formed great sloughs within the space of three hours. Consequently I spent the day retracing my path and trying to find passable trails.
On one occasion I stuck fast in a very bad mud-hole, and so went to a farm for help. The farmer sent his man with two horses, and he pulled me out. While he was unhitching the horses, he became embarrassingly confidential. Beginning with the usual query "Are you married?" and the inevitable "Why not?" he intimated that now was the opportunity. I gathered he was "baching it" as many do, which meant that he had to do all his own domestic chores as well as his farmwork. I could imagine what his shack looked like, having seen some when asking the way with their unwashed crockery and general disorder, and I guessed that he was wanting a housekeeper and thought that I looked strong and useful. The man would take no money for his service, and when I refused to let him come and sit beside me in the caravan he called me ungrateful. It was an awkward situation, and I saw that the only thing to do was to get away at once. But as the caravan was not quite out of the mud the engine had stopped as soon as the horses ceased pulling. Fortunately they now became so restive that they took all the man's attention, so I cranked the car like lightning, jumped in and got away.
Farther on I stuck again in alkaline mud, which sucks you down, but a farmer lent me boards and I managed to run along them. Presently I reached a farm with a telephone, and sent a message to Winifred lest she should be anxious. The farmer's wife kindly offered me food, which I gladly accepted, as I had had none since early morning. On other occasions, when we could not stop to cook, Winifred fed me with biscuits and chocolate, as on these rough trails I had to keep both hands on the wheel. When I tried to start the car again it would not crank. But there was a small hill near the farm, so I pushed the car to the brow of it by turning the wheels by the spokes. Then came the exciting moment when the van began to run down the hill and I had to jump in with all speed.
At a place called Dodsland I was advised to cut across the prairie, as the main trail was impassable. I had an exciting time bumping over the hillocks, and felt sure that everything in the van was being smashed to pieces. Finally, by asking the way at isolated farms, I got in sight of Kerrobert, and then found yet another slough half across my path, in which two side wheels stuck fast as I tried to get by. My efforts to dig the car out proved futile, so I went to a near-by farm for help. I found numbers of horses, but no men. Everyone had gone to Kerrobert sports. I was sorely tempted to take some horses and pull the car out myself. Then a car came along from Kerrobert, and most kindly turned round and hauled me out. I got into the town about 9.30 p.m. and went straight to the vicarage, where I found Winifred.