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The next day I took the van to the garage to have the electric starter repaired, but as it was a new pattern the spare parts were not in stock, and they could not promise them before Saturday. This was awkward, as we were due at Coleville on the Friday (the next day). We could not work the Coleville district without the caravan, so many of the schools being far from the track. We went up on Friday by train, and back on Saturday for the car, which was not ready till Sunday afternoon, however. But we arrived at Coleville during evensong, in time for Winifred to play and for me to give the address.
We had come to Coleville at the special invitation of Mr. H., the clergyman in charge of the district. It seemed strange to meet out here, he being the son of the late vicar of my parish at home. We had promised to spend a week in his district, and he had planned out a full programme for us. On the Monday we gave an address in Coleville school (during school hours), and then went on to Victory school. This school-house was a mile and a half from any other house, and many miles from a town. All around were wide stretches of unbroken prairie, with a few farms here and there. The prairie was covered with flowers of all colours—the wild, blue flax, flame-coloured mallows, many-hued vetches, and a lovely deep pink low growing wild rose with a very sweet perfume, and a small anousa of turquoise blue.
A Maple Leaf teacher was in charge of this little one-roomed school—a very pretty girl. She was delighted to see anyone out from England. After school was over the children brought round the teacher's horse, and then they all mounted and galloped away in a picturesque cavalcade. Most of them lived about four miles off.
We went on to Smilie in the evening, where I gave an address to parents and children. While I was buying gasolene next morning, a man came into the garage, and, seeing the name on the van, began a conversation with us. Hewasglad that someone was going round to teach the children, he said. He had been taught the Bible when he was young, but nowadays people knew nothing about it. Why, only the other day he had asked a workman if he knew what building it was which had been raised without sound of axe or hammer, and he actually didn't know! It wasquitetime the children were taught the Bible.
We had no housekeeping cares in this district, as Mr. H. had arranged for nearly all our meals to be provided. So generous, indeed, were the folk of this neighbourhood that all our gasolene was sold to us at half-price. On the Tuesday we went out to a prairie school where they were having holidays. But our visit had been announced, and the children drove in to have a Bible lesson, holiday time though it was. Moreover, after Winifred had given them an hour's lesson the class still refused to disperse.
Out here I saw the first flock of sheep which I had found on the prairie. We had dinner with the owner, an old Welsh farmer, and his wife. He remarked that he was very glad that we were going round to teach the children, and when I asked why, he replied that the young people now growing up hadn't been taught the Bible as he and his wife had been taught it at home in Wales, adding gloomily: "Half the motor cars you see in the town on a Saturday evening haven't been paid for. It's time somebody went round to teach them something."
He did not usually attend any meetings, it seemed, but we had evidently made a good impression, for, to everybody's surprise, he turned up in the evening at my address to parents. We had a special Welsh hymn in his honour. This meeting, as was often inevitable, was an hour late in beginning. Those who arrived first telephoned to the rest to know if they had started. It was rather like a Derby day, Mr. H., on the top of the caravan, announcing from time to time who was first in the field. While we were waiting, a good many young men were introduced with the usual formula, "Meet Mr. So-and-So, one of our bachelors," and etiquette obliged us to reply, "Pleased to meet you."
Next morning we went out to Travet Park school, miles away across the unbroken prairie. We should never have found our way had not Mr. H. accompanied us. It was pleasant to miss the telephone poles and see countless flowers instead. We never passed a farm all the way, and we could hardly see the trail. At Travet Park the teacher told us that she had started a Sunday School on Fridays after school hours, but very much wanted help with books. The children here listened with breathless attention to the lesson we gave them. It was most encouraging to find both teacher and children so keen. We had dinner at a farm, and afterwards I took the van to collect people for the parents' meeting—among others, a young mother with her tiny baby, and an old lady with a broad Cockney accent and a bonnet trimmed with black cherries, some of which were jolted off in the van and remained with us as trophies. It was a real cross-country run. We were actuallytoldto drive over the wheat. Then we came to a ditch which we crashed into and out again, and then over a large badger's hole. By the time we arrived at the school I felt that all ideas had been jerked out of my head. But the meeting began with a hymn, and then Winifred said a few words, and by that time I had collected my scattered wits.
Next day we had a puncture far out on the prairie—our first misadventure of the kind. I had no spare wheel, and this entailed a hot job in the broiling sun. At last we arrived at the farm where we were taking Mr. H. to baptize two children—a child of three and an infant in arms. The father was ploughing, but he left his horses and came in for the baptism.
We then went on to Kindersley, where Mr. W. was in charge. We had done 130 miles in Mr. H.'s parish. Mr. W. kindly gave us a special Celebration next morning, as Mr. H., who was still in deacon's orders, was never able to have one. He then returned to his district.
We spent a week at Kindersley. The Women's Auxiliary had arranged to give us dinner and supper every day in different people's houses throughout our visit, and others brought us milk and eggs for breakfast. We met many thoughtful and interesting people here, some of whom had been early settlers. While entertaining us, they told us stories of these early days. The settler and his wife used to trek fifty miles in an ox-wagon to the bit of land he had bought. There they lived in a tent until he could build a sod shack. The wife would perhaps have to go twenty miles to the nearest slough to wash her clothes, and sixty miles for stores, letters, etc. Probably there would not be another woman for miles around. In time a solid wooden shack replaced the sod building, and the farm slowly acquired all the latest modern appliances. Then motor-cars linked the isolated farms together, and with the coming of the railway little towns sprang up here and there. These tales of quiet heroism filled me with great admiration.
On the Saturday the president of the Women's Auxiliary invited us to meet all the members at a tea-party, and asked me to give a description of our aims and objects. They seemed interested, and thought it was a work which the W.A. might support. On the Sunday we had an early Celebration, and, after breakfast, started off for Avonhill, some sixteen miles away in Mr. H.'s district, which we had been unable to visit on the previous Sunday. We went along a road with sloughs on either side until we found a slough right across the trail. So I had to reverse on this narrow road for about a quarter of a mile, and then had to cut across the prairie; this made us an hour late in arriving. We held a service for parents and teachers and children, and left them some books. Although we were invited to dinner, there was no time to stop for any, and we got back to Kindersley just in time for the Sunday School at 2.30.
On the Tuesday I held a study circle in the church for adults (by request). It was on "Prayer and the Prayer Book." Among the members was a "Dunkard," a sect which combines the tenets of the Quaker and the Plymouth Brother. This woman had a most spiritual and beautifulface. She wore a sort of uniform with a dark bonnet much like a Salvation Army girl's. There were some Presbyterians in the class, too. We ended with a discussion on the respective value of forms of prayer and of extempore prayer, those not in communion with us showing great sympathy and breadth of mind.
Next day we went out on the prairie with the vicar, to visit the parents and children who lived far away. There had been some rain, which added to the glory of the flowers—masses of wild mustard and purple vetch and luxuriant gaillardias.
On Friday, July 9, we started for Alsask, fifty miles off. We arrived by supper-time, though we did not start till 4 p.m. We had a terrific thunderstorm on the way. It was a wonderful and terrible sight, great zig-zags of forked lightning against inky black clouds. We tried to keep pace with the storm, expecting a torrential rain at every moment, which would render the trails impassable. I set my teeth, and got every possible ounce of speed out of the caravan. We could actually feel the heat of the lightning. (They are called out here "electrical storms.") Just as we thankfully caught sight of the Alsask elevators, the storm increased. A terrific wind got up, and we saw a great grey cloud of dust swirling towards us, mingling with the black storm-clouds above. As we entered Alsask, the clouds burst and the rain came down in torrents. I tore down the main street looking for a garage, to get the van under cover as soon as possible. Fortunately, I soon found one. When the storm had partially subsided, we made our way to the vicarage, and from under cover watched the lightning and tried to take photos of it. Later on, when it had cleared a little, we brought the caravan up to the vicarage and slept in it.
The vicar and his wife were not long out from Southwark Diocese. He had been secretary for his diocese for the A.W.C.F., and, like me, had got keen in this way. The vicar's wife was a trained educationist, and ran a splendid Sunday School, but, like all who know the most about a subject, she was eager for fresh suggestions. Here, also, we received much hospitality, and so got to know the people, and when we were not at other folks' houses the children were with us. On the Sunday we held a demonstration Sunday School.
While we were here a Sunday-school picnic was arranged. There were about thirty to forty children, most of whom went with their parents, but we took some in the van and the vicar took some in his car. Shrieks of laughter arose from our passengers when the van skidded badly in the sand. Our destination was a big slough, which was almost a small lake. There was a crazy boat on it, in which the children rowed about, keeping it afloat by vigorous bailing. I unwillingly adventured in this craft in response to a pressing invitation, feeling certain that my weight would send it to the bottom. A further diversion was paddling, in which we also joined the children. It was very hot and quite shadeless: 104 degrees in the shade and 126 degrees in the sun is quite usual during the Canadian summer, hence the national welcome accorded to ice-cream. On this occasion the vicar brought a barrelful, which he doled out into cone biscuits all through the afternoon. Each child ate about six, but they paid for what they had. These ice-creams are most delicious and wholesome, being made of pure cream from the Co-operative Creameries. These are established in all large towns. They buy up the farmers' cream, making it into butter or ice-cream, the latter being sent all over the country in barrels. Co-operation is one of the great secrets of success out here. Even this picnic tea was co-operative. Everybody brought their own, and then shared it with others. Thus the speciality of some clever housewife was enjoyed by many; and Mrs. X.'s iced layer cake or Mrs. Y.'s salad was greatly in demand. Everybody wished to have his or her "picture" taken, and it was very difficult to get them all in, so we perched some on the top of the caravan.
On the Thursday we had another expedition. The vicar had just returned from camping with his scouts at Laverna Lake, some thirty miles off, and he happened to mention that he had left all his equipment there and did not know how to get it back, so I suggested that we should fetch it in the caravan. We got there in good time, though the trails were rough, and I had a delicious swim before lunch.
It is a beautiful lake, surrounded by low hills. All around the margin were lovely wild tiger-lilies. Mr. H., from Coleville, was in camp there with his scouts. It is an ideal place for a camp.
We got back to Alsask in time to give a Bible picture talk to the children around the caravan. Then we went on to a social evening, at which we were asked to speak. All present seemed to realise the great importance of work amongst the children.
On Friday morning the vicar kindly gave us an early Celebration as we were going on to Youngstown, eighty miles away, where there was no Anglican clergyman. It was a very hot day, and the trails were extremely rough. When running one felt a little air, but when one stopped for meals the heat was intense. The tyres got so hot that I had to keep them covered or they would have burst.
Alsask is on the borders of Saskatchewan and Alberta, and we were now in Alberta. We had written in advance to a Mr. and Mrs. S., some of the leading laity of Youngstown, and Mrs. S. had replied that it would be useless for us to attempt anything there this week because a Chautauqua would be going on. Therefore, as Youngstown was the most westerly point of the diocese which we were to visit, we thought it best to go on and make arrangements for our work when the Chautauqua should be over, meanwhile going on to Banff to see the Rockies. We did not arrive at Youngstown till 8 p.m., and had to wait for some time before we could see Mrs. S. as she was out. We then arranged meetings for the Saturday and Sunday of the following week, thus giving her time to let all the people know.
While I was visiting Mrs. S., Winifred had found a garage where we could leave the caravan. She had also inquired about the trains for Banff, and found that one left about 5 a.m. next morning. Mrs. S. gave me the vicarage key, so that we might store our things there. This we did overnight. We got up very early in the morning, collected our sleeping-bags, the tent, the tea-basket and a little food, with a small saucepan and a spirit lamp, and a "grip" apiece, and drove these things to the station in the van. We then left the van outside the garage (as previously arranged), because it did not open till 7 a.m., and just managed to catch the train. We had a few hours' wait at Calgary, and arrived at Banff about twelve o'clock at night. We had not the least idea where to go, and there was nobody about except an old man with a lorry. I asked him where the camping-ground was, and he replied that it was too far to go that night, but he would take us to a place where we could camp for the present, and he would come and fetch us in the morning; so we put our things on the lorry and climbed up after them, and he whipped up his horses and drove off at a gallop into the darkness.
Presently we stopped suddenly where a wood loomed up against a star-strewn sky. "Here's the place," our charioteer said briefly, and we pulled our things off the lorry and were speedily left alone. It was pitch dark under the pines, so we could not see to put the tent up. We groped for the rope which confined the tent and sleeping-bags, and after some fumbling undid the knots and got out the bags and waterproof sheets and mosquito-nets. Thenwe undressed with great difficulty in the heavy dew, and somehow or other crawled into the bags and rolled ourselves up in the waterproofs and pulled the mosquito-nets right over our heads. The latter pests were awful. They even bit us through the nets, and made such a noise in the early morning that we could stand it no longer, and got up, whereupon they fell upon us with renewed zest.
We now saw the exquisite beauty of the place. The sun shone down through the tall pine-trees and glittering dew-drops spangled every blade of grass. We came out of the wood, and there were the Rockies in full view—lovely pointed peaks, with snow on their summits. Near at hand flowed a beautiful clear river. Trees and water were an intense delight after the bare stretches of prairie.
I collected sticks and boiled coffee in the little saucepan, and we had the most delicious breakfast. By the time we had finished the old man had come for us. He drove us a few miles beyond the town to a large pine-wood. The Spray River ran through this wood—a swift clear stream, opalescent with melting snow. The wood was full of tents, but we found a nice spot near the river for our camp, not too near anyone else. I then went off into the town to look for an Anglican church, as it was Sunday morning. The way into the town was through a beautiful avenue of tall pines, an avenue over two miles long. By dint of asking the way I found a lovely little church. It had the prettiest natural decoration—moss growing on the window-sills. It was just 11 a.m. when I arrived, and I found there would be both Matins and Holy Communion. I was well rewarded for my efforts. In the evening we both went into the town for evensong, and had supper at a restaurant.
We had heard of the beauty of Lake Louise, so on Monday we made a trip thither. The last part of the way was by a funicular railway. Lake Louise was hardly known before 1890. It is a small jewel of a lake, just over a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide. It lies 5,670 feet above sea-level, and Mount George at the head of the lake is 11,355 feet high. This mountain is covered with glaciers and perpetual snow. I live in the Lake District, and also know the lakes of Scotland, Switzerland, and Italy, but I have never seen such exquisite colouring as that of Lake Louise. It flashes on you suddenly as you emerge from the pine woods, a mirror of gleaming turquoise, framed on either side by dark pine-clad slopes, with glistening white peaks between them, these being reflected in the clear waters. On the lower slopes of the mountains and at the foot of the lake there is vivid emerald green grass. Facing this loveliness the C.P.R. has built an artistic hotel, chalet fashion, which does not spoil the landscape. From the windows of this hotel the whole enchanting picture is seen as in a frame.
In the afternoon Winifred went in a motor char-à-banc to see other lakes and mountains, and I walked up through the pine woods on the right of Lake Louise to Lake Agnes, a climb of 1,200 feet. A little above this I saw a tiny lake called Mirror Lake. These two are sometimes called the Lakes in the Clouds. By this time a thunderstorm had come on, which greatly enhanced the grandeur of the scene.
On the Tuesday I went to the famous sulphur baths at Banff. The water comes out at 98 degrees in one spring and 112 degrees in the other. There are open-air swimming baths with glass all round them, so that you can see the mountains all the time. The next day we went down the river in a motor-boat, seeing a most wonderful panorama of woods and mountains, which a thunderstorm made more beautiful. The lightning seemed to strike a waterfall and glance off again. That same night there was another tremendous storm, the thunder echoing and re-echoing in the mountains, sounding as if two storms had met and burst above us. I distinctly felt the heat of the lightning and could not help wondering how soon it would be before we were struck, being under trees. But although the rain was terrific it never came through the tent.
Another day we motored to Lake Minawaake, passing several canyons. We came back by Banff Park, where we saw moose and other tame wild animals, the most interesting of all being the buffalo, one of which was wallowing with his legs in the air. I took a photo of him, but was not allowed to get out of the car to do so as they said he would probably charge. This is the only herd now in existence, and they once covered the prairie. Another very interesting sight was the lumber being floated down the Bow River to Banff, where it is sawn up and sent by train all over the prairie. The flowers here were very luxuriant. The most striking one was the Red Indian's Paint Brush.
To face p. 80
On the Friday we returned to Youngstown. We had a very exciting journey as there were sixty wash-outs on the track. It was very sandy, and had given way in the recent big storms. You wondered all the time what was going to happen next, especially after it grew dark and they kept shunting us from one line to another. Then a madman got in, and insisted on conversing with us when he was not fighting, until removed by the conductor. We arrived at Youngstown at 1.30 a.m., but as the tent had not arrived, and the caravan was garaged, we had nowhere to sleep, and so finished the night on a very hard wooden bench in the waiting-room.
The Chautauqua at Youngstown was now over, but we heard all about it from Mrs. S. It consists of meetings, with lectures on all sorts of international and intellectual subjects, interspersed with concerts and social gatherings. It seems a very good plan for places far from large centres of human life and thought. By this means they are brought into touch with modern movements. Speakers from all over the world lecture at these Chautauquas. Mrs. Pankhurst was speaking at this one.
That night we gave our promised picture talk around the caravan. We had a mixed congregation of Anglicans, Roman Catholics, and Lutherans. The children seemedmost interested, and would hardly go away. The Anglicans were without a clergyman at present, and they felt this privation very keenly. They had had one of the Railway Mission clergy, who had lived here and worked the surrounding district. The four missioners who had served this district at different times had all been killed in the War. Now no one was forthcoming owing to the distressing dearth of clergy. Everything was ready should anyone be sent. Monetary support was guaranteed. The vicarage was a nice little two-roomed shack with a garage and Ford car all complete. The church was dusty from long disuse, and Winifred spent all Saturday cleaning it. The furniture had been made by one of the congregation. It was of some dark wood and of very original design. The asphalt path from the church to the vicarage had been laid by a Roman Catholic neighbour. This same spirit of goodwill was shown when I went to buy gasolene and oil from a Youngstown Roman Catholic. He refused to take any money for it, saying that he was glad to help on religious work amongst the children.
On Sunday we held a Sunday school at 3 p.m. The children were most eager for instruction; they knew almost nothing, poor little things. In the evening we had a service for adults in the church. A man took the collection in his hat because they could find nothing else. He carried it up the aisle and gave it to me, and as I laid it on the altar I felt that it was a more acceptable offering than many a laden alms dish offered that night in some rich cathedral. Here, as in many places, we were asked who paid us. When we explained that we were not paid, it seemed to give the people a better grasp of spiritual things. In this country of growing materialism, in which the monetary value of a thing is of first importance, it was difficult for them to understand anyone doing honorary work. They began to think religious education must be of real importance when they saw that we considered the work its own reward. The congregation asked us to keep the collection money for our work, so we thanked them and promised to use it towards paying for the pictures which we left at each place.
In all the parishes which we visited we left a dozen Nelson pictures backed on linen, with wooden slips top and bottom so that they could be hung up in the church, and also some small Nelson pictures for use in class, as well as lesson books of different grades. Where the Canadian Sunday School magazine was in use the teachers found these additional books useful to supplement it both in matter and method.
We discovered that there were several outlying missions which had been worked from Youngstown, so we decided to visit the nearer ones, and take the others on our way back to Regina. On the Monday we went to Ryson and looked up the children at the farms and got them to join the Sunday School by Post. At one farm we were thankful to take shelter as a thunderstorm was raging. The farmer's wife was away, but he and two of his brothers were at home. The farmer was a great student of the Bible, so he and I had a theological discussion under cover of the piano where Winifred and the brothers made music.
After another day or two's visiting we started for Cereal, but lost our way and did not arrive until 10 p.m. Here, also, we took the names of several children for the Sunday School by Post. The next day we went to Stimson, over a very bad trail. We addressed the children in the afternoon, had supper at a farm, and then held a service in the school, with prayers, hymns, and address. The latter was given under difficulties. Several small children came with their parents, and several dogs accompanied their masters. Presently one baby fell down and began to cry, whereupon all the other babies howled in sympathy and all the dogs began to bark. I tried to make my voice heard above the din, but Winifred came to the rescue by collecting children and dogs and taking them all outside. Afterwards we discussed the best way to start a Sunday School, and took names for the Sunday School by Post in case it proved impossible.
We started about 8 a.m. next morning for Alsask and Kindersley. We meant to go over a hundred miles that day. The trails were awful, however, and presently wecame to a graded place which was all loose earth, and the car skidded badly, running off the grade and sticking at an angle of 45 degrees. We unloaded, and when I got in again to drive it I had to hold fast to the wheel in order to keep my seat, the slope was so great. But I managed to get back to the trail. We reached Alsask about 2 p.m. and found Mr. H. there, who wanted to be taken on to Kindersley. After five miles the car stopped dead. On examination I found that the hub of a back wheel was broken in half. Just then two men came along in a car and said they were going to Alsask, so they took me and the wheel. While it was being mended I bought some food to take back with me to the others, but had to wait an hour or so till the men were ready to return. They took me back to the caravan, and I put the wheel on again and we started once more. But the car still went badly. Then we came to a steep hill newly graded, which we could hardly get up. At last I found that I must put in new sparking plugs, a difficult job in the dark. Whilst I was doing this Winifred had a splendid view of a distant electrical storm. It was a magnificent sight to see the lightning flashes playing on a vast expanse of sky.
Then we came to a nightmare of a road, very steeply graded and with loose hard clods about 3 feet deep on the top. These nearly knocked the bottom out of the engine, so I had to drive on the side at an incredible angle, expecting every moment to be overturned, though my companions were steadying the van with might and main, the one hanging on to one side, and the other propping up on the other. Every now and then we had to stop and unload, or else we must have capsised. We arrived at Kindersley about 2.30 a.m., and found Mr. and Mrs. W. still waiting up for us with a splendid supper prepared, to which we did full justice. About four in the morning a tremendous thunderstorm came on. I woke up with a start and suddenly remembered that I hadn't covered up the engine, so I scurried out to do so, otherwise my sparking plugs would have been ruined and the whole of the engine flooded. The difficulty was to keep the tarpaulin on, as there was always a big wind. I made up my mind that another year the engineshould have a proper mackintosh cover to clip on.
We could not start for another twelve hours because the trails were so heavy after the storm. The Chautauqua had reached Kindersley now. The big brown tent was pitched just opposite the vicarage and I heard the singing, but had no time to go to any of the lectures, unfortunately. We did not leave for Rosetown till 4 p.m., but we arrived there at 9 p.m., a seventy mile run.
The next day (Sunday) we went on to Dinsmore, where the vicar lived whom we had met before at Bounty. We had not been able to hear from him, but knew he expected us to take a Sunday School and address parents somewhere in his district that afternoon. We started about noon, but lost our way, and when we inquired at a farm were wrongly directed, so we did not get to Dinsmore till 2.30. Just as we were entering the town we got on to a rough trail with a lot of big clods. A front wheel struck one of these and badly bent the steering-rod, which made it very difficult to steer the van, as it kept veering towards the left of the trail all the time. When we reached the vicarage we found the vicar had gone, but I knew that he had a service at Surbiton on Sunday afternoons and so asked the way there. The caravan got more and more difficult to steer. I tried to straighten the steering-rod with a tyre iron, but it was not strong enough. Then we came to a creek where there had been a bad wash-out, and a board up across the trail said "No road." But I noticed that cars had been going over the creek a little to the right, which meant going down a hill like the side of a house, over the stream, and up an equally steep hill on the other side. One needs to steer particularly well on these occasions, but I had to risk it and got across somehow.
At last we arrived at the school-house at Surbiton, and singing told us that service was going on. We crept in and found the room full; some of the congregation were even sitting in the porch. The Sunday School was over, but I was asked to give an address to the people.
The vicar had to go on immediately to another service,but he had a puncture and no spare tube, so I lent him one of mine. He introduced us to the Sunday School superintendent and her husband. She was most anxious to learn anything about methods. All the children of every denomination attended her school. She invited us to stop to supper, and it finally ended in our camping in their yard for nearly a week. We wanted to teach the children, so our host and hostess suggested that they should be invited to a cricket match, and have a picture talk afterwards in the evening. They complained of the lack of organised games for the children, a thing we had already noticed. Here and there a teacher would organise a base-ball team, and that was all. One felt how invaluable it would be to have more Boy Scouts and Girl Guides. The difficulty here lies in the lack of people for Guiders and Scout-masters.
The cricket match could not take place till after school, then the children arrived in cars and buggies, and we had a splendid game. We played till it was too dark to see, and then had the Bible picture talk by the light of the moon and the headlights of the cars. The day-school master and the parents standing behind the children seemed just as interested as the latter were.
Our host and hostess were charming, cultured people. He and his brothers, 'Varsity men, were farming in a little colony of their own. He was a member of the Provincial Parliament, or Senate. Our hostess was a trained nurse from St. Bartholomew's. She had been matron at a hospital in Rosetown, and she still helped in cases of illness whenever she had time. She told us how badly nurses were needed on the prairie. She was also President of the local Grain Growers' Association, which is similar to the Home-Makers' Club and the Women's Institutes—we gotthe latter idea from Canada. The chief aim of these associations is the selling of farm produce and the general betterment of home and rural life. Our hostess was one of those who saw the need for a higher moral standard in the country, and her Association had appealed to the Senate to that effect.
They were most kind and hospitable, and insisted on our having meals with them. The farm hands sat at the same table—in this democratic country no longer below the salt. On several evenings I went with our host and his children to play cricket at other farms, and I noticed that the farm-hands and everyone else joined in the game.
It was very interesting to go round the farm and see all the wonderful labour-saving devices. They had cut the hay and were getting it in. The term "wild and woolly West" is said to have originated from the "prairie wool," or natural hay, which is specially luxuriant on dried-up sloughs. It is a grass with a fluffy, golden-brown plume. But this natural hay can only be cut every other year, hence many farmers are sowing hay seeds as well. The wagon which they use for carting hay and wheat has enormously high rack-like sides. On this farm, when carting hay, an immense canvas sheet with rings at the corners is put in the wagon and the hay piled up on it. When a wagon-load reaches the barn, a rope attached to a pulley in the barn roof is put through the four rings of the sheet, the horses are taken out of the shafts and harnessed to the pulley-rope, and the whole load is swung up into the barn, along a rod, and on to the rick. The whole operation only takes three minutes. There was a blacksmith's shop on this farm, and as some of the metal on my shock-absorber had broken, our host cut me a piece of metal, and I mended it with his assistance—a job which entailed lying under the car for an hour with earth falling into one's eyes. The vicar was famous as a "fixer" of broken-down Fords, and one day he came to the farm with his children to gather Saskatoon berries.[7]Whilst he was waiting for the party to start, he and our host took out my steering-rod and straightened it at the forge. As he put it back he eyedme solemnly and remarked: "I suppose you know that your two lives depend on this rod."
One very hot night we were sleeping in the van with all the doors wide open for the sake of coolness. I woke up suddenly to a tremendous clap of thunder with terrific forked lightning and a hurricane of wind, and hailstones the size of a hen's egg. I sprang up and pulled the wind-screen to and shut the side doors, and then woke up Winifred and told her that we must hold on to the back doors for dear life. If once the wind got in it would certainly overturn the van. How we got through the next half-hour I cannot tell. There was no catch inside the back doors, as we always bolted them from the outside, but so sudden and terrific was the storm that there was no time to run round and bolt them. The wind would have swept you off your feet, and you might have been struck by the lightning. For the same reasons it was impossible to make a dash for the farmhouse, and even if we had got there safely by any chance, the caravan would have been smashed to atoms as soon as an open door gave entrance to the wind. The only thing to do was to hold the back doors with our fingers in the chinks, though how we managed it I do not know. The alternative was to abandon the caravan and lie flat on the ground, as one was advised to do in cyclones, but in this case we might have been killed by lightning. All through that half-hour the van quivered like a live thing, and we expected every minute that it would be blown away or broken in. I have never felt so near death. The storm lessened after a time, and then I bolted the back doors. In the morning we found that the farmhouse had been nearly flooded by the torrential rain, a stream of water having poured through the house. They had looked out at us anxiously from time to time, but could no more reach us than we could get to them when the storm was at its worst. Two great hay-wagons had been blown several yards into a fence, and we heard that a shack eight miles off had been blown over, and the settler had had all his limbs broken. We had often heard of these storms before. On oneoccasion such a storm burst upon a prairie school, smashing in the windows. The young teacher gathered the children into the porch, where they escaped injury. But when they returned to their homes most of them found the shacks blown over and their parents killed. A neighbouring school was entirely wrecked and the teacher and children killed.
On the Saturday, when the trails had dried up, we started for Birdview. We were now entering the dried-out area again, but the sand-drifts had sunk a good deal and become more compact, so we managed to get the caravan through, though she skidded a bit. We camped by the little prairie church, built miles away from any farm so that it might be in the most central spot for each. Beside it stood the vicarage, a one-roomed shack with a cellar beneath. There was also a good-sized parish hall and a stable for the parishioners' horses. This complete isolation has its perils. During the influenza epidemic in 1918 one of the clergy lay here helpless for three days before anyone knew that he was ill.
We stayed here for a week, having the place all to ourselves. We cleaned out the shack and had our meals in it, sleeping in the van. It was intensely hot, and we found the cellar a great boon for our butter, etc. These cellars are a necessity on the prairie, keeping your food cool in summer and your house warm in winter. Mrs. M., the farmer's wife who had arranged for our visit here, used to bring us water and milk and eggs from her farm two miles away. The well at the shack was now very low. She also drove us to visit a day-school teacher who had promised to carry on the Sunday School if we started it. We held the school on Sunday, and two prospective teachers listened. After school there was a most excellent tea in the parish hall, provided by the parents who had brought the children. Delightfulal frescomeals are a feature of prairie life. After tea we held a service in the church. We had made it as beautiful as possible, with golden rod in the altar vases. Members of the Women's Auxiliary had cleaned it thoroughly for us. This service will always remain in my memory. There were people of all ages present, and alarge number of men, both middle-aged and young. Winifred played, and I read the service and gave the address. We had a shortened form of evensong. For the lessons I selected passages from the Gospels about our Lord and the children. I also used some of the beautiful prayers written for the Forward Movement—in particular, the one for a parish left without a clergyman. We chose well-loved hymns, such as "Rock of Ages," from the Canadian hymn-book, which is beautifully called "The Book of Common Praise." It is the best collection of hymns which I have ever seen, including suitable ones for both children and adults. There is also a Canadian prayer-book, some of the prayers being for the special needs of the country, such as the prayer in time of drought. We used this one at the service on behalf of this dried-out area.
I spoke on the importance of religious education, building up my theme from the Gospel readings of the lessons. I tried to show how juvenile crime had increased in countries which neglected the spiritual welfare of the children. I ended by reminding them that, just as they had chosen a font for their War Memorial, so the children, properly trained, would be a living memorial of those who had laid down their lives for Christian ideals. It was very easy to draw analogies between the spiritual life of the child and the growth of the wheat, which is so easily prevented by storms and drought from coming to its full perfection.
At the close of the service we went to the door to say good-bye to the people. I was very touched to see that some of them were crying, no doubt from memories which the old familiar hymns and prayers had brought to mind.
The next day we were invited to supper at a farm five miles off. On the way we had a feast of beauty from the flowers, which were especially glorious now. This is the native land of golden rod and Michaelmas daisies. I have never seen such a variety of the latter—little white ones growing low on the ground, little pale mauve ones, and great bushes of deep mauve and yellow ones. There were also perennial sunflowers with beautiful dark centres, and fine erigerons. At last we arrived at the farm. It wasa melancholy sight, almost buried in sand, and the farmer was leaving it. In spite of being very badly off they gave us a most delicious supper—roast chicken and layer cake and fruit and tea. It was especially welcome just then as I had been doing a lot of cooking that week, so a meal which I had not prepared was a great treat. (This may be taken in two ways.)
The next day we taught in the day school and enrolled some children for the Sunday School by Post. Then we went on and paid several visits, finishing up at Mrs. M.'s farm, where we had supper. It was wonderful to see her small son, aged three or four, rounding up cattle mounted on a tall steed. This infant had already made our acquaintance, driving over to our shack all by himself to bring us eggs.
On Thursday we left for Swanson, nearly sticking in the sand more than once. At last the sub-radius rod broke with our continual skidding, but I was able to get another at a hardware store on the way. We reached Swanson that night and camped by the church. Next day we went to see the farmer's wife who had promised to get the people together to meet us. The family consisted of Mrs. Z., a widow, her daughter, and two sons. As we drove up we saw that the wheat was being cut. Some of the binders were drawn by motor tractors and others by horses. After the tea-supper, which is the last meal of the day, Winifred went to the piano to play songs for the girl. I noticed that the two brothers looked very tired after their day's work, and guessed that they were waiting up for us as I had seen that our room led through another. At last in desperation they went to bed, and we found them fast asleep when we went through. This shack was in advance of many, as it had a door between the rooms instead of a curtain, but the girl ingenuously suggested that as it was a hot night we should leave the door open.
The next day we went out to help them stook the wheat. It was a beautiful sight, the sky so very blue and the wheat so very golden. I felt quite at home at this job, though one had to stook from a quarter to half a mile before turning, and the sheaves in the stooks were placed in a circle instead of in our English way. Their aim is to keep out the sun and wind, which would dry the wheat too much, whereas ours, of course, is to let them in. They told us that a stooking machine had been invented, but it was not very satisfactory as yet. The wheat usually stands only a week in stook, and is then threshed on the field. The rack (i.e., wagon) is accompanied by a loader (elevator) which shoots up the sheaves into the rack. When this is full it is driven to the thresher. This differs from our English threshing machine. Instead of coming out in bundles, the straw is cut fine and blown out of a funnel, accumulating in a heap on the ground. It is left there all winter, being used either as fodder or as fuel. The grain pours down a great pipe into a wagon, instead of being put into bags as with us. The wagon is then driven off to the nearest "depot," where there is always an elevator, as the tall buildings used for storing the wheat are called out here. The wagon drives into the building, where it is weighed with its freight. Then the wheat is tipped out and taken up to the store rooms above. From there it is shot down a pipe into railway trucks, and sent by train to Fort William on the Great Lakes. There it is cleaned and again stored in elevators, and then poured down a great pipe into the grain boats which carry it down the Great Lakes. Then it goes by train to Montreal and Quebec, where there are even greater elevators, whence it is sent all over the world.
We were told that this was the first good harvest in that district for five years, which shows what a gamble prairie farming is. What with drought and late frosts in spring, and hail and rain when the wheat is ripe, the result must always be uncertain. The farmers are obliged to put all their eggs into one basket, as they cannot store a root crop in winter owing to the intense frost. A daily paper, dated September, 1921, has the following news from Montreal: "Two feet of snow fell in the district of Saskatchewan, causing much damage to crops and bringing the snow-ploughs out. Drenching rains throughout the remainder of the province suspended harvesting and threshing. Thestorm is the worst for 25 years."
Of course I had put on my landworker's clothes to stook in, and to my surprise this caused a great sensation. They had never seen a landworker in real life, only pictures of them in theSketchand theDaily Mirror. They said the kindest things about British women war-workers.