The Stream Runs Fast, by Nellie L. McClung (2024)

The Author, 1920

My OWN STORY

By

NELLIE L. McCLUNG

Author of Clearing in the West, Sowing Seeds in Danny, Painted Fires,Leaves from Lantern Lane, etc.

TORONTO

THOMAS ALLEN LIMITED

1945

COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1945
by
NELLIE L. McCLUNG

Printed in Canada.
Wrigley Printing Company Limited
578 Seymour Street, Vancouver, B. C.

To My Grandchildren

Robert and Maxine,
Nellie and John,
Jane Atkinson,
Marcia,
Barry.

INTRODUCTION

January first, 1943, was not just another day. It was not only the firstday of a new year to me, but it was the first day of a new era. The oldmoulds had suddenly broken and I knew that on the highway of life I hadcome to a wide place on the road.

Hitherto I had done certain things on each day of the week,circ*mstances driving. Now I was free. Nothing mattered. I could stopand stare, dawdle, dream or drift, do anything I wished or—nothing. Thebooks had closed. I could not comprehend it all at first. I felt asstripped and bare as the old horse with his harness gone!

I became acutely sensitive to my surroundings; the old familiar objectsbecame doubly dear. The sun, sea and sky were mine now to enjoy. Ilistened to the robins busy with the arbutus berries, and filling theair with excited conversation like women waiting for the store to openfor a bargain sale. They were getting ready for their long trek south,and were putting in one good meal before they started. . . . The sun wasrunning over the green fields playing strange tricks with the trees onthe headlands. The green fields here at the coast, fed by the winterrains, cheat the gloomiest day and make it impossible for anyone to feelsad. Everything that I saw that day as I looked out of my window had amerry look, even the washing on the line under the bare cherry treesmade a gay showing of color and graceful billowings. The yellow jasminethat had now reached the window sill smiled at me, with its daintygolden stars, and I smiled back.

What had I to be so glad about?

My world was at war. The doctors tell me I'm washed up and finished. Ican no longer drive a car, work in the garden or travel, must avoidcrowds, eat sparingly, observing one general rule: "If you like it,avoid it". What had I to be so glad about?

But I am glad and my heart sings. Having loved this present world, knownits joys and enjoyed its pleasures, I can now do a bit of free-wheeling,and besides, I have a great treasure bestowed upon me, one that wasnever mine before. Now I have Time, a full issue, as long as it lasts. Ifeel like Scrooge on that beautiful sparkling Christmas morning when he,too, found something very precious.

Time! Blue-misted, rainbow-hued Time, tanged by the salt Pacificbreeze—twenty-four hours a day to use as I wished. I have lost spaceand speed but won Time, and now I can actually summer-fallow my mind,and it needs just that after these long active years. Like the impatientprairie farmer, I have cropped it too steadily, forcing it to yield. NowI can construct a new life on a new pattern. For the first time in mylife I can disregard the clock and the calendar, and write as I please.

One dark memory assails me in this matter of writing. Hitherto I havedone my best work when I have had a few good, lively interruptions. WhenI began "Clearing in the West" I did the first third in my usualhit-and-miss manner, working at odd times, and running a house at thesame time. I remember I used to set the alarm clock to remind me to turnon the oven for the next meal, and always in the back of my mind Ipromised myself that some day I would have a real chance at writing,when I had nothing else in the world to do. I often indulged in thatpleasant dream and told myself that I had never really had a fairchance.

Later in that year, 1934, all the conditions were perfect. I had noconcern with meals. I took no outside engagements. I had a round tablein an upper room in another woman's house. The lighting was good, thewindows were too high for me to see out, I had piles of paper, a dozensharpened pencils and not a thing in the world to do but write. For twoterrible days I sat looking at the paper with my mind as dry as acovered bridge, not an idea stirring. It gave me a queer panickyfeeling. I wondered if this really could happen to me. Did I really haveto carry weight to be able to run at all? I kept thinking of a dozenthings I wanted to do, every one of which seemed far more important thanfinishing my book. I wondered what I could say by way of explanation.Would I really have to admit that it wasn't in me to write any more? Butmy mind warmed up at last and I finished the book. Now I am going tocontinue the same story, my own story. This time I write with a sense ofurgency, poignant but not unpleasant. In the back of my head I can hearthe old tune we sang at Sunday School: "Work for the Night isComing" . . .

It is strange about Time. One day I was no more conscious of it than Iwas of the air I breathed. There was plenty of time, days and days,running in and out, thousands of them. Then all at once some place therejangled a warning bell.

Writing is not like any other kind of work. There is a fervor in it thatovercomes fatigue or even pain. It is a fire in the blood, a shot in thearm. It holds us when life begins to ravel, just as all the earthgathers itself into the brief brightness of Indian Summer before thestillness of winter falls. I wonder if it is the desire to beremembered? Miss Millay spoke for all of us when she wrote:

This may not be a noble reason for writing. It may be just one cut abovethe people who carve their names on park benches but it is real anddominant in all of us. But this is not my only reason for writing thisbook.

I have seen my country emerge from obscurity into one of the truly greatnations of the world. I have seen strange things come to pass in theshort span of one lifetime, and I hasten to set it down while the lightholds. People must know the past to understand the present and to facethe future. The British people endured their trials because they havetheir roots in history.

In Canada we are developing a pattern of life and I know something aboutone block of that pattern. I know it for I helped to make it, and I cansay that now without any pretense of modesty, or danger of arrogance,for I know that we who make the patterns are not important, but thepattern is.

That night, when it seemed that I might be going out with the tide, Iknew I had no reason for feeling cheated, for I had had a good inningsand a long run. I had warmed both hands before the fires of life.

I had been paid my wages in the incorruptible coin of loyal friendshipand love, and the sense of life's continuity comforted me more than thedrugs the young doctor had administered for my relief. Even in theshaded light of the room, the drama of life was proceeding, clear anddecisive, and I knew that all was well with the world,—the nurse wasknitting a little shirt . . .

I thought, by some strange freak of memory, of the Tenmarq wheat theMennonites had brought to Kansas from Russia in 1873, the year I wasborn, and how it is now going back to Russia to seed its scorchedfields. There it is again, the great circle of life, nothing lost,nothing without meaning; sixteen gallons of wheat hand-picked by poorpeasants, whose names no one remembers, now going back in a great convoyof ships to feed a nation.

As my brain cleared, I had a great longing to live. There was goodmileage in me yet, and there were so many things that I wanted to do andhad always been so sure that I would do. I did not want to leave onegood word unwritten, one good story untold. I would have worked harderif I had have known that life could be so soon over. I always knew thatour spiritual forces were not keeping pace with our mechanicaldevelopment. It is so easy to destroy and so hard to build up. Thechallenge of the new world never lay so heavily upon me and never didtime seem so inexorable. There is a new world to be built and it mustcome in the hearts of the people. We have to see it before we can buildit. Armies can stop wars, but only the Truth can make men free. Miraclesare happening everywhere; new processes, new methods, new materials. Menwere never so clever and never so needy. The age of plenty is here, ifonly the heart of man can be prepared, and he can be made to see thatwhat hurts one nation hurts all. What a time to be alive! And what apoor time to die. So I lived.

"Without Regret" is the name I would like to have chosen for this book.There is something light and gallant about the phrase which appeals tome, reminiscent of that great passage in one of Walt Whitman's poems,where he speaks of his admiration for animals because they are not sorryor repentant for anything they have ever done, nor do they ever wearyone with their apologies or excuses. I have been reading over my diarieswhich I have kept since 1912, and my scrapbooks, and it has been ratheran overwhelming task, but I am glad that I have kept everything, and soin these I have an honest record of my activities with both the praiseand blame which came to me, but the reading of them has been a taskwhich leaves me shaken at times.

I have been accused, attacked and maligned. Once I was burned in effigy(which I had entirely forgotten until I read the Party's apologies inone of my scrapbooks). I have been caricatured, usually as a mosquito orother disagreeable insect, under the caption of "Calamity Nell". I haveengaged in hot controversies, been threatened with violence and withlibel suits, but on the other side of the ledger I have been stoutlydefended by many good friends, known and unknown. I have had songs andpoems written to me and I've had my name in lights. I have had and stillhave many loyal and faithful friends, who have known me long and stilllove me. I have always been rather proud of my enemies too, for I havenever desired the approval or even the tolerance of the people whoseinterests run contrary to the public good, the people who believe ifthey are happy and prosperous, all's well with the world. I have neverindulged in hating people and am glad to remember that I could attackopinions without feeling any bitterness toward the people who held them.But still I cannot look back without regret. I can see too many placeswhere I could have been more obedient to the heavenly vision, for avision I surely had for the creation of a better world.

But I hope I am leaving at least some small legacy of truth.

CONTENTS

THE STREAM RUNS FAST

CHAPTER I

Manitou—1896

When I wrote the last sentence of "Clearing in the West" in 1935, I hadevery intention of continuing the story, as soon as we were settled inour new home at Lantern Lane, six miles from Victoria. But the new life,in this quiet neighborhood, with its delights of field and flower, itsmellow climate, and the long season for sowing and reaping, its newtrees and flowers, and the easy pace of living fascinated me, so insteadof writing about the past, I wrote two books about this pleasanthabitation of the blessed. I knew I had a story to tell of other days, astory of Canada and its march of progress, but the days were golden withsunshine and full of lark song, and the drone of bees. The lotus flowerhad cast its spell upon me, and I was sure that there would always betime to write. I was like the beauty parlor operator, at whose hands Ionce received a check-over, lasting two or three hours, during whichtime we discussed many problems of this world and the next. She hadgiven me a fascinating picture of her matrimonial adventures, three alltold, with another one pending, with interesting pictures of the manyjobs she had held in between. When I was leaving she asked me if I wouldmind telling her how I made my living—if it was a fair question. Iconsidered it was a fair question and told her I was a writer. Sheexpressed an eager interest, and said she wished she had known, "for youknow", she said wistfully, "that's what I've always planned on doingmyself, when I am incapacitated for everything else".

"Clearing in the West" ended in the approved manner. The two youngpeople stood on the rear platform of a "mixed" train and saw the sunbreak through the dark shoulder of a rain-cloud and knew that "tomorrowwould be fine".

One hundred and one miles southwest from Winnipeg, Manitoba, lay thelittle town of Manitou, set in the hollow of the rolling grove-dottedprairie and there we lived for the first fifteen years of our marriedlife. It had first been called "Manitoba City", by some unimaginativeperson, but this was changed to "Manitou" long before our arrival. Fivegrain elevators, painted red, along the track, bore evidence to thefertility of the soil. The railway station, also painted red, stood atthe bottom of the long Front Street, whose slope was sufficient forsleigh riding when the street was covered with snow; but the youngstershad better and safer hills and so left Front Street to its legitimatesober traffic.

We had the one drug store in Manitou and our living quarters were fourrooms up the long stairway at the south side of the grim grey building.They were hot in summer and cold in winter, but we did not know that andit would not have mattered if we had known, for to us they wereeverything the heart could desire. The parlor and dining room, dividedby an archway, hung with golden brown chenille curtains on an oak polewere in front, and from their windows we looked down on the street, awide dirt road, with tying posts for the farmers' teams when they andtheir wives went into the store to do their "trading"; and that was notentirely a word left over from the posts of the Hudson's Bay, whereIndians traded skins for flour and blankets. Our people brought in eggsand butter, and sides of bacon home-cured, and sometimes dressedchickens to the butcher shop.

Immediately beside our store was the Farmer's Store, some sort of aloose co-operative, whose proprietor worked in his shirt sleeves,protected by brown paper cuffs, but on Sunday wore striped trousers, anda Prince Albert coat and took up the collection in the Methodist Church,with a flower in his button-hole all the year round; (geraniums coveredthe bleak stretch from November till May).

I bought my first set of "good" dishes from him, blue willow pattern. Webargained a bit first, according to custom, but on my third visit hewrote the price on a piece of paper, shading it with his hand, as hewould a match on a windy night, and let me see the magic figures. I hada feeling that this was a special price to me only, and for this momentonly, and that was surely good salesmanship. I thought of it today, whenwiping the last vegetable dish, complete with lid, the other fifty-fourpieces having taken the unreturning way.

The suave proprietor had many good stories to his credit. One of theseconcerned the mean woman of the district who sold him a four pound stonein the middle of a crock of butter, receiving twenty-five cents a poundfor it, and received it back the same day in a caddy of tea at sixtycents a pound. The story is a legend now and has been told in manyforms, and no doubt has happened in many places.

Wes and I had about four dollars between us when our trip was over, butthe rent was paid for the month and the down payment was made on thefurniture. The local furniture dealer charged us 2 per cent a monthinterest, just to make us hurry with the payments, and no doubt kept awatchful eye on the furniture. We felt rich and secure in our fourlittle square rooms above the drug store and have many happy memories oftheir kindly walls. I loved every dish and every pan and thoughtnothing could be more beautiful than the satin-striped wallpaper on theparlor and dining rooms, one stripe plain and one flowered. The centretable had a cover of Irish crochet, with raised pink roses, given to meby Minnie Smith, one of my pupils whom I taught in Treherne. The boysaround town had given us a parlor suite, upholstered in Turkish design,each piece a different color. A hanging lamp was suspended from the highceiling and was raised and lowered by manipulation of two chains endingin gold acorns; the shade, of frosted glass, was patterned in wild rosesand morning glories and was finished with glass fringe which jingledwhen Adam McBeth's dray passed below on the street.

We had two pictures framed in oak, lovely sepia pictures of farm housesset in hilly country that ran to the sea, with cows on the meadows andcurving roads leading to their rustic gates. We have them yet and theyare still beautiful. The long windows had Nottingham lace curtains in afern pattern, hanging from oak poles. We had two Brussels rugs and afine oak dining table and chairs, which are still serving at a cottageat Matlock on Lake Winnipeg. They may burn, but they will never wearout. In the kitchen we had a good, square, black stove (a grim-faced bitof furniture compared with the painted ladies of today), but it had agood deep firebox and a fine oven and gave us assurance, and so did thedrug store boxes and a good pile of wood in the back yard. Lumber wasplentiful and there was no such thing as fuel conservation, so we burnedthe boxes light-heartedly, just as the farmers burned their strawpiles—this was in 1896.

Some of my cooking experiments took queer turns, and on Wesley'ssuggestion I went to see Mrs. Cassin to find out how to cook an applepie so the lower paste would be as light as the upper. He had boardedat the hotel before we were married, and liked Mrs. Cassin's cooking;her instructions improved my technique, but there were stilllapses—such as lumpy gravy and the taste of soda in my biscuits.

One day a book agent came to see me about buying a cook book. The pricewas $3.00 and that was real money, but I must have been hitting anall-time low, for when Wes came in he cast his vote in favor of thepurchase and produced the money. I thought he was just a bit tooenthusiastic, but I did not analyze his motives too closely. I had nointention of being an apologetic cook so I welcomed the book and haveleaned heavily on it all these years. It is called "Breakfast, Dinnerand Supper" and now in its second binding is as good as ever, thoughsome of its pages show definite traces of struggle. The Preservingsection and the Home Made Candy are as full of history as an old tree.Cook books come and go; they are endorsed and guaranteed and "tested inour own laboratories", but when I want to know the whole truth onPickling or how to stuff a Hubbard squash, I go to my fine old book withits blue oil cloth binding. I have never found it wanting. In its pagesthere are many interesting annotations, and it has long served as aloose-leaf scrap book, revealing much of the intimate life of ourfamily. The first page bears an inscription in a widespread, wigglyhand, containing the information that this book was "presented to Mrs.R. W. McClung by her daughter, Florence McClung, in the year 1907"(which was the first year Miss McClung was at school). A yellowed sheettorn from a scribbler, bearing the nail mark where it was hung on thekitchen wall, contains the record of how the four eldest McClungchildren raised money for the Fresh Air Fund. Jack has fifty cents tohis credit for making the highest marks in Grade Seven; Paul evidentlycontributed the same amount, but earned in a different way. His was thegilded coin of worldliness, earned by carrying wires from the station tothe Cassin house, on the occasion of the Johnson-Jeffreys fight. Whetherthis contribution was made at the dictates of Paul's conscience or not Icannot remember; it may have been. For at that time Paul had the worthydesire to be a missionary. However, his zeal for the foreign fieldweakened after he had ridden around for a couple of days on AdamMcBeth's dray. He said missionaries might not always have horses, andbesides, they wouldn't be meeting trains every day. However, Paul camethrough with another contribution, which was good, honest,sweat-of-the-brow money, ten cents for weeding Willie Wyley's garden.Florence sacrificed ice-cream cones to the amount of twenty cents, andearned another five cents—so the record states—for going to theBaptist picnic. This item is a bit puzzling, for let no one think thatthe Baptist picnic was not a joyous affair. It is believed that therewas a denominational feud between Florence and her friend, MargaretChalmers, on the subject of sprinkling vs. immersion, and this fivecents was paid in an effort to heal the breach between these twomilitant defenders of the faith.

Now I see I am getting ahead of my story. That's what comes of lookingbackward. Memory telescopes the past. The distant hills are seemingnigh. My hope is that the readers of this book have the same finedisregard for chronology that I have, and will be content to go in andout and find pasture.

CHAPTER II

Humble Beginnings

A couple of weeks after our marriage a first-class salesman came to towncarrying an impressive attaché bag, in which reposed the prospectus of anew magazine. He was a pleasant, engaging young fellow who would havedone for a Charles Dana Gibson model. The new magazine about to breakover our quiet lives was called Town and Country, and it would carryeach month pictures and sketches of the leading people in one of themore important country towns. Manitou had been chosen for Volume 1,Number 1, and the young man had been advised to see me and enlist myservices; the company, he said, was anxious to use native writers. . . .

I liked the sound of that. I never had been called a native writerbefore. It had a patriotic appeal, and I even subscribed for themagazine. Someone must show faith in the venture. Five dollars was thesubscription price. The young man was apologetic about taking asubscription from me, though he told me everyone taking part mustsubscribe. It was a pure formality, he said. There would be expenses tobe met . . . He was glad I was willing to undertake theassignment—that's what he called it. He said writers were the greatinterpreters of a country. What Dickens did for London, and Scott forScotland, he believed I could do for southern Manitoba. "We want you tohold a mirror up to this country; or perhaps a microscope", he said,"and you must feel free to write as you please. No one wants bare facts;no one is satisfied with bare facts; we want to light candles ofimagination in the minds of our people". . . .

I did not tell all this to Wes. He had a blunt way of puncturing some ofmy beautiful balloons, and the worst of it was he was generally right.Very rarely have I had the satisfaction of saying to him: "I told youso". Many years after, Robert E. Knowles defined Wes in a briefsentence: "That man of yours", he said, "can do a lot of washing in avery few suds." So I held my peace but worked hard. I interviewedpeople, walked miles, dug into the newspaper files in the office of theManitou Mercury, making elaborate notes and dreaming great dreams ofwhat a native writer can do for a community.

I had no difficulty in getting the old-timers to talk. They blossomedout under my rapt listening, and I soon saw that every house had astory. I got the low-down on the family rows, hot off the griddle. Manyof the people in Manitou had come from the same part of Ontario, and Ifound out that they had long memories for old sins and old sorrows. Onething bothered me. I had to do indirect advertising for the businessfirms, for of course, like all up-to-date magazines, we had to depend onadvertising for our revenue. Our expenses would naturally be heavy, forwe were going to use the best of everything. We were going to make ourprovince known far beyond our boundaries.

It was not so easy, for example, to make the Ice Cream Parlor andConfectionery, sound attractive, where the fly-paper hung from theceiling far into the autumn, and the proprietor, big, fat, lazy BillSummers, had to be sent for by the Post Master to empty his box. Billhad an excellent excuse for this. He said he knew that all his letterswere bills, and he never did like bills, and besides he knew what heowed the wholesale as well as they did, and he knew when he could paythem a —— sight better, so they could save their stamps. Bill's ad inthe paper ran on and on from one season to the next. Behind the shop helived with his cat and dog and a boxful of paper-bound books, which heread over and over again. Dirty, happy, unmolested. He had what hewanted. Ease, romance, and his own thoughts.

Of course, that would not do for Town and Country, but I found a keenenjoyment in tracing the evolution of the indolent, leisure-lovingfellow who ate his own candies and let the world pass him by. He camefrom a family of hustlers, who worked the clock around, stark, prosaic,grim-faced, hard-handed people. Bill was the youngest of the family andthe others had no respect for him at all, and said he would die in thepoor house; but they were wrong about that. I quoted a verse of "TheLotus Eaters" when I went into his store once to buy canned salmon, andhe welcomed it like an old friend. Then he told me about his mother, whodied when he was four years old. He remembered how tired she always was,and how she longed for time to read. "The Summers were all slavedrivers", he said, "and drove her to death. Perhaps you've heard ofpeople being 'born tired'. Well, that's the way I was born, and when Igot the money left to my mother by an uncle, I bought this business andsettled down. In fact, I flopped down, and spread out my feet. I'm onlysorry Uncle Bill didn't peg out in time for my mother to use the money.She and I could have had a good time here. I suppose you've heard thatI'm lazy. I am. Lazy but happy".

The day I went to interview him he did not answer the store bell, but Icould see the back of his head over the top of his barrel-chair in theroom behind, so I went in. He was sound asleep and gently snoring withthe big black and white cat on his knee, and a brown spaniel asleep onhis feet, and in his hand a copy of Marie Corelli's Romance of TwoWorlds. I tip-toed out. I was afraid that Mr. Summer's story would notdo for Town and Country. Something told me that I was not on the righttrack, but the going was pleasant and I went on.

I got many a good story about the "younger sons" who were sent out ofEngland to be out of the way. One of these I wrote later under the title"Permission" in the volume of short stories called The Next of Kin,which was published during the First World War.

We were fortunate in having in that neighborhood many English and Scotchfamilies, whose resolute determination to succeed in this new countryagainst all the hardships of isolation and the severities of our winterclimate called forth our admiration. They brought a great contributionto our lives; something more beautiful than even their Chelsea potteriesand highboys, tapestries and crested silver. From them we heard much ofthe Royal family and their influence on the people of Britain. To us, sofar away, hard working and unromantic people as we were, the Royalfamily with its numerous dependents seemed like a heavy financial load,but in our British people, steeped in the traditions of the past, we sawsomething of the coherence and strength of the British form ofgovernment.

The new magazine never saw the light of day, and the young man with thebright vision faded away, and I did not see him again for many years.But I never regretted the time I had spent getting material for Townand Country, for I felt it was not wasted. I really did learn somethingabout the people of the community, and got a glimpse of their hopes andfears and their ambitions for their children. Being a young country,most of the people were young, even these tired farm-women who pleatedtheir aprons as they talked to me. Hope and ambition kept them on therails; the hope of a new house or even a pump in the kitchen, if onlythe rain would come at the right time and the frost keep off. I foundout that the women who were making a quilt or making a rug had abrighter outlook than the women who had no hobbies. Something that theycould work on from day to day, something that they could be proud of,lightened their burdens. I remember one good sentence which had a wholestory behind it. One woman told me quite frankly about a quarrel she hadwith her husband, which, fortunately, did not come to an open break. "Iwould have left him that time", she said, "but I had two hens settingand I knew he would never think to feed them!" Even though the young manwith the bright smile was gone and my five dollars gone with him, I keptwatching for stories and began keeping a record, not exactly a diary,but a book which I find very useful now. I began to pay more attentionto my reading, even trying to analyze short stories, in an attempt todiscover the technique. I remember how diligently I pored over BretHarte's Luck of Roaring Camp, trying to see how he produced the effecton his readers. I even dug out the books we used at the Collegiate. Istudied again an excellent book on English Composition. It gave examplesof good prose with explanatory notes; somewhat in the style of ArthurQuiller-Couch's Art of Writing. The book has disappeared long ago, butsome of these literary gems remain with me.

One, from The Mill on the Floss:

"The boat reappeared, but brother and sister had gone down in anembrace never to be parted, living over again in that briefmoment all their lives, since first they joined their littlehands in love, and roamed the daisy fields together."

That, and the oft-quoted and sometimes ridiculed passage from Dombeyand Son about the "golden water on the wall" carried me to Heaven'sgate. Neither of these passages would be accepted by a modern shortstory group, but their place in Literature is safe for all that.

CHAPTER III

Genesis

Manitou had three doctors in 1896, and they were very important to usfor a drug-store was really a drug-store then, whose chief reason forbeing was the making up of prescriptions. Our front windows containedshow bottles, green, red and blue, standing about three feet high, andbeautiful to behold, though prone to freeze when the weather turnedcold. I was somewhat disillusioned when I found the contents were madefrom Diamond dyes and water from the pump, but nevertheless they made adignified insigne of an ancient profession.

Dr. Moore was the old doctor, beloved of many, a genial, kindly man withmany degrees and great dignity. He signed his prescriptions with hisname and often quoted a Latin phrase and its translation: "In thismanner was a cure effected". Then there was the young doctor, a graduateof Manitoba Medical College, Harry Cook, whose father was an Anglicanmissionary, and the third doctor, who had recently arrived from CypressRiver on the Glenboro line, was Dr. R. W. MacCharles, a Dalhousie manfrom Cape Breton. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with greying hair.He had all the reserve of his Scotch ancestry, but when I met him in thestore and noticed his keen blue eyes and his finely-shaped capablehands, I declared that he would be the McClung family doctor, if andwhen a doctor were needed.

Wes and I agreed on the subject of raising a family. We were going tohave six. That is, of course, some time in the future. The future doesnot bother anyone until it begins to turn into the present, so I wasquite philosophical about the prospect.

But there came a morning in October when I was not sure that I wantedany breakfast, and I felt dizzy. A possibility not entirely pleasantsuggested itself: I had read of lovely ladies growing deadly pale, andfainting at inopportune times, and I knew what it meant in fiction, butit just couldn't be—I was bilious, that was all; and anyone could bebilious. I had been staying in too much. I must get out and walk more.

In about three weeks, after tramping the roads and drinking lemonade andtaking soda to settle my stomach, all to no effect, I was feeling prettylow in my mind. On October 20th, my birthday, I walked out the threemiles to my old district. I had often walked this road and knew everyfoot of it. I knew I would feel better if I could sit on the moss-grownstone in the coulee where I often sat when I was coming back from HazelSchool to my boarding house, and where I had dreams—such nobledreams—of being a writer. It was a bright, crisp day, with high, whiteclouds drifting against the ground wind. From one field I could hear athrasher at work, with its familiar shaking rhythm that made me ache forsomething that was gone. Perhaps it was my far off youth, I wastwenty-three that day, but the years are long to the young.

The day was so beautiful it hurt like an old tune. I could hear thegeese going south, with that keening cry that always tore at my hearteven when I was a child. Flocks of prairie chicken fed on the yellowstubble and then winged their way over to the straw piles, whirring thenfloating, then whirring again. Beside me a stunted rose bush waved itscrimson haws slowly as a curling wind went by. Little warm winds passedover my face, coming from nowhere. I had often met these welcome littlegusts as I was returning home from Hazel School, which stood on thewheat land above, and I had imagined them to be the contribution of somekindly hollow which absorbed in the daytime more sunshine than itneeded, but held it until nightfall and then released it to comfort sometired man or woman coming home from work. Everything was the same as itused to be, the sky, the clouds, the sounds, the tawny grass in thecoulee dripping and bending, and yet nothing was the same. For mystomach was sick, and I saw no beauty anywhere. I was lonely as a lostdog, and felt cheated, too, for Wes had gone to Winnipeg that daywithout me. We had counted on this trip to the city, on my birthday, andnow I could not go. How could anyone travel with a stomach like mine? Wehad planned to stay at the Leland Hotel, and go to the Bijou Theatre atnight to see a play. I loved to see a play and had seen but few . . .how I had looked forward to being in our seats early, not to miss thatdazzling moment when the lights go down in the pit, conversation ceases,and the crimson velvet portieres are folded back by invisible hands, andthen slowly and noiselessly the curtain rises on the scene ofenchantment!

And I had planned to wear my nice blue dress, trimmed with passem*nterieand have my hair done at a hairdressers. But here I was in a tweed skirtand jersey, my old coat and dusty shoes, sitting huddled in misery onthe shady side of a cold grey stone, sorrier for myself than I had everbeen before. Then I grew resentful, not because I was going to have ababy, and not because I was afraid of pain or minded the prospect oflosing my lead pencil figure either. I weighed an even hundred pounds.No one can raise a family without putting on some flesh, and anyway,older women looked better when plump. But why had not something beenfound to save women from this infernal nausea? What good was it? If ithad been a man's disease, it would have been made the subject ofscientific research and relieved long ago. But women could suffer; itkept them humble! I had heard about the curse of Eve, and here it was infull measure. But what useful purpose did it serve? Life at that momentlooked like a black conspiracy against women. If God ordained that therace was to be perpetuated this way, why had he thrown in this uglyextra, to spoil the occasion? I was not like God . . . who paints thewayside flower and lights the evening star, . . . who tempers the windto the shorn lamb and notices the fall of the sparrow.

That terrible description of a sick stomach as told by Mulvaney inSoldiers Three exactly described mine, but when I thought of it, Igrew sicker. . . . I was too miserable to go across the fields to see mygood friend Clara, who lived in the yellow farmhouse, not half a mileaway. I did not want to see anyone.

Women had endured too much and said nothing. I certainly was not goingto be meek and mild and resigned. Women should change conditions, notmerely endure them, and I was positive something should be done. Iremembered with particular bitterness hearing the men in ourneighborhood joke about Mrs. Jim Barnes who got her husband to move thestairs in their little log house every time another baby was coming. Shesaid it made her feel she had a new house, and it became a joke up anddown the neighborhood. I remember on my first visit to Brandon, when Iwas riding on a load of wheat, hearing Mrs. Barnes' brother-in-law shoutto the other men: "The stairs are on the move again!" And one of themshouted back in a great burst of laughter: "That's fine! I hope it'stwins!" When I thought of it now, it cut like a knife. I could see Mrs.Barnes, a pallid, overworked little Englishwoman, homesick, and old atthirty. They already had more children than their little house couldhold. Two little ones had died, but these husky brutes, strong as youngbulls and with a similar mentality, could laugh and actually find acause for merriment in the poor woman's pain. I cursed them now with ahorrible Irish curse, which came from some dark morass of memory. . . .Then suddenly I found myself crying, not for myself but for all theoverburdened inarticulate women of the world. . . .

That pulled me up with a start, and I wiped my eyes hastily. Tears werenot the remedy. Women had cried too much already. The sun was gettinglow, and the sunshine pale and cold when I started back. I was not in ahurry, no one was waiting for me, and that was a strange sensation.Mother had always been watching for me when I lived at home, and had anirritating way of welcoming me in by saying: "What kept you?" I thoughtof her now with a lump in my throat, and wished I could hear her say it.I was alone now, in a new and rather terrifying world. It seemed liketen years since I used to ride the sorrel horse into Manitou and tie himto the hitching post in front of the Farmer's store. Many yearsafterwards when I read D. H. Lawrence's gripping story entitled TheWoman Who Rode Away, it brought back this chill pale afternoon when myheart was troubled. It was a low moment in my life; surely aclimacteric, when the eyes that look out of the windows are darkened.Many bewildered women have gone down this same dark road.

When I reached Front Street I had no desire but to gain the longstairway and get under cover. Suddenly I saw Dr. MacCharles walkingtowards his office, and an impulse came to me. Here was one person Icould talk to, the logical person, the deep well in whom the secrets ofall hearts were safe. I was still in a raging mood and I wanted to get afew things said. All that I remember about his office was that the wallswere of new lumber, and there was a volume of Burns' poetry in a plaidsilk cover on his table.

I sat down in the patient's chair, and he sat across the table andlistened. He let me talk it out, showing no surprise, but I could feelhis interest. People were passing the window but they seemed to belongto another world. When I stopped, he began, unhurried and sure, yet nottoo sure. His tweedy, Scotch way of speaking was comforting. His wordswere not so much addressed to me as all womankind. He said women didbear the heavy burden of reproduction, and he had often wondered aboutit, too. Certainly it was not fair. No one could say it was fair, butthen there are many things in life which are not fair. Human justice issomething we have to work for. It does not come ready-made; women haveall the human diseases and then a few of their own, while they are notas strong physically as men, they are stronger to endure. Undoubtedly,women are better patients than men, and every doctor knows it. That therace has survived and is improving is proof of women's fidelity andfortitude. He said the nausea I was going through was due largely tonerves, for naturally the beginning of a new life make greatpsychological demands, but I would soon feel exceptionally vigorous.Medical science, he said, is only in its infancy. There will be greatdiscoveries; some diseases have been conquered, and others will be. Notonce did he tell me that I had a good man, and was young, strong andhealthy and really had no reason to be disturbed. His silence on thissubject was a compliment to my intelligence, and I certainly was in nomood to have platitudes flung at me.

I do not know exactly how he did it, but I know that once again I was amember in good standing in the human family, and more than that, he mademe feel that I was one of the standard-bearers of the race, pledged toits protection and continuance. Any little inconvenience suffered by mewould be small dues for me to pay for membership in this greatest of allsocieties.

There began one of the enriching friendships of my life, which, happily,has continued to this day.

When I came out of his office the sun had gone down, but its last raysmade violet and rose edges on the clouds above the town, mellowing thestern reality of the unpainted houses. There was a hint of winter in theair, bracing and cheering. I went up the covered stairway with onedriving desire. I wanted to eat. I'd had nothing since morning, lessthan nothing. I lighted a fire in the square, black stove and cookedmyself a good meal of bacon and eggs, and fried two slices of bread inthe bacon fat, with a gay disregard of the evils of fried food. I made agood brew of coffee too, with thick cream and opened a jar ofstrawberries.

Before I went to bed I went out on the back verandah to have a look atthe night. (This nightly observation came of being farm-bred, andaccustomed to that nightly round of the stables to see that all was wellwith the stock.) On that night I could only look up at the stars shiningbright in a chill October sky. Very pleased I was to see them smilingdown on me, with a new friendliness, and I knew what it was. The starsin their courses, were not more a part of God's great plan of creationthan I.

As I listened to the faint night sounds, the distant bark of dogs, therumble of wagons, women calling in their children, I could hear againover and above it all, the honking of wild geese, but their cry now wasnot one of longing or pain; it was a hymn of high adventure. They knewwhere they were going. They were travelling "on the beam". Then cameback to me Bryant's confident words:

We had a very good time that winter. My sister-in-law, Eleanor McClung,came out and stayed a month with us and we also had a visit fromFlorence McLean, the well-known Scottish singer, for whom our Florenceis named. By putting a stretcher in one corner of the kitchen we couldaccommodate a guest. I remember with great pleasure the nights we spentskating at the rink, and the miles I walked along the prairie roads. Iwas determined that I would do all I could to give the baby a good mindand a strong body.

The economic aspect of having a baby had no fears for us. Doctors weremodest in their fees—twenty-five dollars covered everything, and therewere no hospital fees, for no one went to a hospital for a little thinglike having a baby, and there was no fee for the anaesthetist, for noanaesthetic was used, except when something went wrong. The practicalnurse charged one dollar a day and had to be spoken for several monthsin advance. Then she wrote your name on the calendar above her kitchentable, and that was a solemn contract. She stayed with you for ninenights and then if everything was all right, came in the morning andwent home at night for another two weeks. It was all very simple andsatisfactory.

In my spare time I studied mathematics, especially geometry. EdgarBurgess, the Principal of the school, often brought over a fewdeductions and we spent many a happy hour working them. I also began todo puzzles from the Detroit Free Press, and won honorable mention andsubscriptions, and I read poetry.

The two boys who worked in the store, Herb, my young brother-in-law, andCharlie Hasselfield, one of my former pupils at Hazel School, had theirmeals with us, and how I combined literature and cooking is still brightin my memory and I hope in theirs. They had an early dinner and I readto them while they were eating. Herb said he liked to hear me read. Ittook his mind off my cooking, but Charlie was loyal to his old teacher,so it was two against one. In the drug-store we carried a good stock ofbooks and I remember particularly the pleasure we had in Bret Harte'sshort stories and poems. Sometimes to vary the exercise we did a bit ofmemorizing. One good one remains, immortal in its beauty. It is BretHarte's Tribute to Dickens—

There is enough beauty in that poem to carry anybody over a meat-piewith a tough crust.

The first time I went home after I was married I brought a box of drugsto my mother, having now a connection, by marriage, with the BritishPharmacopoeias, which I called familiarly the "B.P." I was somewhatashamed of the home-made remedies still used by my family, and felt itmy duty to lift them into higher realms of healing where there would befewer charms and more chemistry. My mother believed tea-leaves was thebest remedy for burns. But in my superior wisdom I produced a fine bigbottle of caron oil, explaining to her that while cool tea leaves wouldundoubtedly be soothing, and would keep out the air, they could notpossibly heal a burn. Mother listened to me and thanked me for the oil,and told me she knew that limewater and sweet oil shaken together wasgood for burns, but was glad to know the proper name. As long as shekept house the brown bowl remained for the tea leaves! And now tannicacid is recognized. So again the old remedy scores!

I brought resinol too, to replace the Balm of Gilead salve—which shemade each year out of the sticky buds in early spring, combined withmutton tallow and a few drops of carbolic acid. But that remedy was toofirmly established to be changed. She did express approval of the tubeof lanoline, but she held to her belief that the real wool off thesheep's back, lightly washed and kept wrapped is still the best remedyfor grass cuts—a few strands of it wrapped around the injured toe isnot only a salve but a bandage. Beef Iron and Wine for a spring tonicdid not get much of a welcome. It was too easy to take, and thereforewas not to be depended on like the one she made herself from aprescription given many years ago in the Medical Department of theFamily Herald.

No doubt each generation feels itself wiser than the one before, andremembering how I regarded my parents has made me charitable to the manyevidences of this in my own family. I have received much correction attheir hands and have taken it. I knew they too would learn. The sternold world has pounded many lessons into proud young hearts, and so theold play goes on. Only the players change!

I wish I might worthily portray the social life of our little town inthat remote day when no telephone or radio broke the stillness of ourlives. I remember how ceremoniously we called on each other, dulyobserving days and hours. Mrs. R. W. McClung was at home on the firstand second Tuesday, from three to five, and had cards engraved with thatinformation. So the first and second Tuesday was the time to have thefour rooms, including hall and stairway, as clean as mortal hands couldmake them. Although the calls were brief, I knew how sharp-eyed thecallers were, and if there was a cobweb on the ceiling, they would seeit, though they would not be so rude as to lift an eye in thatdirection.

I prepared for my first calling day with great thoroughness. I swept anddusted. I polished the black stove, legs and all. I put out fresh standcovers, removed the fur from under the bed, and put out the bestmarseilles bed spread—colored spreads were unheard of. I washed andironed the pillow shams, and carefully adjusted them on the wooden bar.The pillow shams were one of my prized possessions, and were one of mywedding presents. On one was embroidered a beautiful child asleep on apillow of roses, on the other the same child awake, still buttressedwith roses and the inscriptions read: "I slept and dreamed that life wasbeauty" on number one, and on number two—"I woke and found that lifewas duty!"

I washed the morning-glory lamp shade and polished the gold acorns. Iwashed door knobs, polished floors, straightened pictures, made thetable small, and put on a white linen cloth embroidered in violets. Thisembroidered table cloth was my own effort, and I hoped nobody would lookat it too closely.

To Mrs. Ruttan, who was my guide and friend, I went for finalinstructions. What should I give my callers to eat on this first day?She said a cup of tea and a piece of wedding cake was the correct thing,but that looked pretty skimpy to me, so I added some home-made candy,and still the table looked bare, but Mrs. Ruttan held firm. I mustremember that the ladies were only calling—it was not a party.

But having cooked for threshers, I had a fear of running short, and somade a loaf of sandwiches, cutting them so thin and so small they lookedfoolish. But I knew that a thick sandwich would constitute a socialerror. I balked at cutting off the crusts though—that was the McCurdystrain in me that "could'na thole the waste". I was very glad that I hadthe sandwiches, for the callers came that first day in such numbers thatif my good friend, Mrs. MacNamara, hadn't gone down the back stairs andacross lots to her own house to bring me a full-sized chocolate cake,the news might have gone abroad that the bride had failed to provideenough food.

Altogether I have happy memories of that first day. Even the mournfulremark of the dismal old lady who looked me up and down and said with asigh, "I'm glad to see that you are wearing your wedding dress. Wear itwhile you can." Poor old dear, she made her contribution to the gaietyof our little town too, by her sad forebodings. Her face should havebeen furrowed with care, for her mind ran continually on death andsorrowing. She saw warnings in the clouds, and heard wailing voices inthe winds. But her brow was calm and unwrinkled, and her cheeks assmooth as a calla lily. Sorrow was becoming to her, as moonlight to thelady in the beautiful song. She never missed a funeral and became anauthority on procedure. To end the picture and make it complete, shewrote obituary verses.

CHAPTER IV

The Family

Our first born arrived in the grey dawn of June 16th, when the scent ofwild roses came down the village street, carried on the dewy breeze ofmorning. It was at a time of great heat but there had been a coolingrain in the night, and so the hour of Jack's arrival bore that odorwhich is dear to every prairie dweller—that good earthy smell when therain has laid the dust. This bit about the scent of roses is all hearsayon my part. I was not noticing anything except the handsome youngstranger who had come with the dawn; his round pink head covered withsoft-silky brown hair, tight little ears and doubled up fists coveringhis eyes; his perfect finger nails, and his regular breathing—that wasthe sweetest sound I ever heard. He came with a cry of distress, butthat was soon hushed when he found he was among friends. There was awhite and blue-lined cradle ready for him, with white blankets and adown pillow. But I wanted him beside me in his white shawl; I think thatwas the most exquisite moment I have ever known!

Before the week was over his two grandmothers had arrived. Mymother-in-law was ecstatic in her praise of the baby's beauty. She saidshe had never seen such a beautiful child. My mother, who already hadten grandchildren, was more conservative. "The child", she said, "iswell enough. We should all be thankful that he appears normal andhealthy; looks do not matter, and children change greatly anyway. If heis as good as he looks he will do very well." But she was reallypleased when she knew the child was to be called John Wesley. Among herten grandchildren "John" had only been given as a second name, and Iknew it was her favorite name.

I have a vivid memory of the first night we were left alone with thebaby. I was all right until I heard Mrs. Law's footsteps going down thestairs. The baby was asleep in his cradle, and I assured Mrs. Law that Iwould get along all right. But when the darkness settled in, and thestreets grew quiet, I began to be afraid. What would I do if he shouldsuddenly take sick? He might have colic, or even a convulsion.

I pretended I was asleep. I did not want Wes to know I was frightened.Then suddenly we clutched each other's hands in the darkness. He wasworse than I was. We were almost afraid to breathe. The baby slept on.He might not have been so composed, if he had known he had twofraidy-cats to take care of him.

But he grew and thrived and every day absorbed us more. Talk about theinfluence parents have on children! It is nothing to the way childrenchange their parents! My heart was always tender towards children, and Iwould do anything for their pleasure and comfort. I was brought up inthe tradition that a mother who neglected her baby was the lowest formof sinner. One woman in our neighborhood was branded for life when itbecame known that she had made no preparation at all for the child whowas coming. She said she did not think it would live. She might betterhave robbed the collection plate or killed a policeman on duty. But anew responsibility came to me after Jack was born, as I thought abouthim and his future. All children now were my children. I remembered thestory in Uncle Tom's Cabin about the colored woman who was ordered byher cruel mistress to wean her own baby so she could nurse the whitechild, and how, when her own baby cried, she was compelled to leave itin the cabin, where its cries could not be heard in the house. It hadshocked me when I read it years before. Now it filled me with rage. Iwanted to do something about it.

Women must be made to feel their responsibility. All this protectivelove, this instinctive mother love, must be organized some way, and madeeffective. There was enough of it in the world to do away with all theevils which war upon childhood, undernourishment, slum conditions, childlabor, drunkenness. Women could abolish these if they wanted to.

I determined to join the W.C.T.U. It was the most progressiveorganization at that time, and I determined that I would stir the deepwaters of complacency. It could be done in one generation. These flashesof the crusading spirit often assailed me. I wanted to raise a familywho would be like the Booths, and scatter the darkness of humanity, andlight the candles of freedom in the dark places of the world. But a goodhard streak of Scotch caution told me my first job was to raise afamily, and give them sound bodies and sound minds and cheerfulmemories, not rolling the sins of the world on them at too early an age.Let them have all the fun in life that I could give them. I knew what aheritage a happy childhood can be. I had had one. I believe my devotionto the Dickens' stories saved me from a fatal error. I remembered thatawful woman, Mrs. Jellyby, who was intent on saving the population ofBallyaboolaga, while her own children had to shift for themselves.

In the course of time Florence was born, one cold January morning. Wehad moved out of the four rooms over the drug store to accommodate ourincreasing family, and rented a house opposite the Orange Hall. We putin two Klondike heaters downstairs and made grated openings in thefloors to let some heat come into the bedrooms, and there, as the risingsun was struggling to pierce the thick frost on an eastern window,Florence Letitia McClung lifted up her voice and wept. Outside it wasfifty-two degrees below zero. But the Klondike heaters were gorged withwood, and diligently tended by one Alice Foster, a fine looking girlfrom a farm, who knew all about stoves and their ways. I have norecollection of any discomfort, but I do remember how that child gavetongue. Jack, one year and eight months old, a good walker but not yettalking, stood still and listened, with a great wonder in his eyes. Thehouse, which was a poor old shell, carried every sound. Then he ran tohis clothes box where his own modest wardrobe was kept, and began topitch out his belongings like a badger digging a hole. When Alicebrought up the news, I was sure Jack, generous and provident, wasoffering his all on the altar of brotherly love, but Alice thought hewas preparing to leave.

For six weeks the thermometer stayed around forty degrees below zero,and the old house cracked with frost. But the good provider I hadmarried fulfilled his promise to feed me and keep me warm, me and myoffspring, many or few, and after all these years I must say theobligations have been faithfully met.

In less than another two years Paul joined our family; one snowyNovember morning at an early hour, Dr. MacCharles and Mrs. Law againseeing me safely through. With three children now, I remembered the oldrhyme which I had often heard, relative to this matter of familyincrease:

Jack, being the eldest, assumed responsibility early. He did his best toshepherd his sister when she was able to run about. He got into a fightone day with Alec Macnab, who lived across the street, and who had saidFlorence's face was dirty. When I went out to quiet the disturbance, andheard the cause, I ventured the opinion that Alec had not misstated thecase. Miss McClung's face was all he needed as evidence to prove hisstatement. Jack gave me a look of exasperation and said: "But that'snone of his business". I talked to him afterwards and he explained: "Icould tell her her face is dirty, or you could tell her, and that wouldbe all right. We would be telling her so she would wash her face. ButAlec flung it at her to make little of her."

Another day he was scolding a boy who had kicked our dog, and the boysaid in his own defence: "You stepped on Jim's tail one day and hurt himjust as bad as I did." Jack was indignant. "I stepped on his tail bymistake. You kicked him on purpose. A dog knows the difference. I didnot hurt his feelings, and you did." I began to think there was somevirtue in the hours I had spent in working mathematical problems beforehe was born. With three children under four years old, I did not spendmuch time studying world happenings, but I did read poetry to them,believing they would get the rhythm of it, even if they did notunderstand it. I loved to hear them repeating snatches of it before theywent to sleep. They loved Eugene Field's:

and, of course, "Winken, Blinken and Nod" and "Little Orphan Annie."

Another prime favorite was the story about the little boy who was sofond of sugar and ate so much of it that he melted and ran away at last.The tragedy of his latter end did not depress them at all.

The picture of Sam in his final dissolution was well-thumbed and worn.

I am convinced it is just as easy to bring up three children as one.They bring each other up, really. No one could be busier than I was,when I had only Jack. He was on my mind both night and day. Now that Ihad three to think of, it was really easier, and in all this I had theassistance of Alice Foster, who deserves to have a whole book writtenabout her alone. I had her for twelve years and depended on her as I didon my own right arm.

Alice was so patient with children and so wise in handling them I alwaysknew she would marry a widower with a family of small children.Character is destiny. And I could see Alice heading into some deadwoman's place and filling it nobly. Some man probably a minister,recovering from his loss and just beginning to take notice, would besure to see her as the answer to his prayers. Eight small children wasthe allotment I gave her!

Alice trained for a deaconess and went to the Gower Street Church in St.John's, Newfoundland, and there she met a Methodist minister.

"Please note", she wrote in announcing her engagement, "that Sidney hasonly three children. You said eight, but you were always a bitfree-handed". I knew the answer to that one too, but I did not say it. Isent a letter of sincere congratulations to Sidney, and told him hisjudgment was excellent, and I record with pride that Alice named herfirst boy "Paul" and her first girl "Florence", so it would seem thatshe, too, had pleasant memories of the years we spent together.

CHAPTER V

Town Hall Tonight

These are magic words which often changed the monotony of our lives intothe lilting rhythm of waltz-time. Manitou had the name of being a goodshow town, which means we all rallied to the call when the word wentforth that some concert party, dance, or magician was coming. Ourpopulation being then, as now, about nine hundred, we, the footloose andshow-minded, could fill the hall, so I think we got every attractionthat, in the early nineties, ever took to the road.

And how we enjoyed them! Harold Nelson, and his Shakespearean players,the Cosgroves, with Marietta LaDell, Jessie McLaughlin, Edith Miller,Edith Sutherland, Nanny Strachan and Gavin Spence, the Swiss BellRingers—the beautiful Palmatier sisters, the Jubilee Singers, theWebling sisters, and our own George Rutherford and Minnie Ruttan.

I can recapture the feeling of rapture as we walked to the hall,carrying our coats on a fine spring or summer evening. The fine weatherdid not mean the end of the concert season for us. Far from it. No doubtthe entertainers preferred warm weather and we were never too busy tocome.

The hall may have been a drab little place, with nothing but a raisedplatform and coal oil footlights, but when the blinds were drawn and allthe lamps lighted and the audience assembled, no opera house that I haveever been in gave out a greater feeling of high expectancy. We dressedin our best for these great occasions. We wore no hats. Brides woretheir wedding dresses. Mrs. Gordon Bradley, our best local singer,always wore a red flower in her black hair. There were opera wraps whichclosely resembled piano drapes but no remarks were made. We were toohappy to be catty. The opening hour was eight o'clock, and if theartists "obliged" with encores, the performance lasted well into thenight. Then there were refreshments for the performers, and thecommittee, and bouquets of garden flowers. Manitou was a good show town,and we were proud of our good name.

Let no one think that our entertainment was all made for us. We hadconcerts of our own; school concerts and flag drills and Indian clubswinging; plays and cantatas by young peoples' societies; Christmasconcerts with Santa Claus coming down from the loft on a rope, to theloud acclaim and gasping surprise of the believers. I still have a pangwhen I think of the night Bert Crane forgot to take his gloves up withhim, and the rope burned his hands, but he distributed the presents andmade pleasant remarks to the "Sixes and Under," who never knew theirkind benefactor had suffered an injury.

One of the real events was the visit of the poetess, E. Pauline Johnson,who for two nights filled the Methodist Church with an admiringaudience. Pauline was at the zenith of her power and beauty at that timehaving recently returned from her triumphal tour of England. The nightwas bitterly cold, but the Church was overflowing. Pauline's advertisinghad shown only the Indian girl in her beaded chamois costume and featherheaddress, so when a beautiful young woman in white satin evening dresscame out of the vestry door and walked to the platform, there was a gaspof surprise from the audience. Pauline smiled at us reassuringly,knowing what was in our minds.

"I am going to be a white woman first," she said in her deep voice, "theIndian part will follow." Then she told us about her home, "Chiefswood,"at Brantford on the Grand River, built by her father, of black walnutfrom his own land—land given by the British Crown to the Brotherhood ofthe Six Nations, founded over four hundred years ago by Hiawatha.

She told us about her recent visit to England, and her encounters withsome of the well-intentioned but clumsy efforts to smooth over the factof her Indian blood.

"My dear," said one short-sighted countess, raising her lorgnette, "yourskin is really very clear and white, and yet you say your father is anIndian." Pauline acknowledged the fact, and the countess blundered on:"Really," she said, "I would not have known it." But before theinterview was over, the Mohawk Princess scored. She blandly asked herinterrogator if it was true that she was of pure white blood, at whichthe countess snorted in indignation. "Of course I am," she said—towhich Pauline murmured politely:

"I would never have known it!"

I remember the rhythm and charm of her voice as she recited a poem aboutthe Grand River,

Languorous, picture-making poetry, not much meaning in it, but it wassurely pure music on her lips.

In the second part of the program the grand lady was gone and a litheIndian girl took her place, telling us stories of her people, and theirbattle for existence. I remember especially the story of Onesimo, whomade love to a white man, and then stabbed him to free her Indian lover.I think Pauline must have been an actress of great power, for I canstill recall the great moment in this story. So real was the coldduplicity of the heroine, that the mother of the young man who hadagreed to drive Pauline to her next engagement, frantically appealed tohim to have nothing to do with this treacherous woman, and Pauline, likethe good trouper she was, added that story to her repertoire.

On the day following her recital, my sister-in-law and I called on herat the hotel, but that calm, simple sentence tells nothing of our stateof mind. She was the first great personage we had met, and we knew itwas a time for white gloves and polished shoes. However, at her firstword, we felt at home with her and for an hour we sat entranced in thebest parlor of the Cassin house, with its old-gold plush chairs underus, and the enlarged photographs and deer heads looking down on us,oblivious of everything but this charming, friendly woman. She told usof her first efforts to sell her poems, and how proud she was when shefirst saw her verse in print.

We tried to remember our manners; we knew a call must not drag on into avisit. Then we asked her if she would come for dinner with us the nextday, which was Sunday. She would and did, and no one ever had a moregracious guest. She told us about the old Mohawk church, where sheworshipped when she was at home. It was the first church in Ontario andin it was the Bible which Queen Anne had given to the congregation in1701.

The afternoon went by on silken wings. Cold winds blew down Front Streetin Manitou; we were still living in the four rooms above the drug store,and the shutters creaked in the blast, but we were living in anotherworld, touching the hem of our own romantic past.

Unfortunately for me, I never saw Pauline again, though in her lastillness, which lasted for two years, it was my great privilege to writeto her and receive letters from her in reply. She died in Vancouver onMarch 7th, 1913, and was buried on her birthday, March 10th, from Christchurch.

From her friend, Jean Stevenson, I heard about her funeral, and thehonors paid her. Representatives were present from every organization inthe City. Lady Tupper led the Imperial Order of the Daughters of theEmpire, and on the casket, in purple drape, showing the royal blood ofthe deceased, was a pall worked by the Pauline Johnson Chapter of theI.O.D.E. The Capilano tribe, whose legends Pauline has immortalized, wasofficially represented by Chief Matthias, in full regalia, who followeddirectly behind the bier, while drawn up along Georgia Street a longline of silent Red men "stood immobile all through the service and untilthe funeral cortege had passed on the way to the cemetery." Flags on allpublic buildings hung at halfmast, and the following telegram wasreceived by Mayor Baxter from H.R.H. the Duke of Connaught, thenGovernor-General of Canada: "Kindly express to the friends of the latePauline Johnson my very deep regret at the news of her death."

Fortunately, Mrs. Stevenson has preserved many of her letters, whichreveal her strength and sweetness of character and her profound wisdom.Never once did Pauline falter in her loyalty and devotion to her ownpeople, even when she stood on London Bridge, and looked at the gloriesof the greatest city in the world, she saw it through the eyes of herpeople.

"It is a far cry from a wigwam to Westminster," she wrote. "And Londonseems a strange place to the Red Indian whose eyes still see the foresttrees, even as they gaze across the Strand, and whose feet still feelthe clinging moccasin even among the scores of clicking heels that hurryalong the thoroughfares of the pale faces."

She compares what she sees and hears in St. Paul's with the rites andceremonies of her own people. Instead of the altar lights, flared thecamp fires on the Onondega "long house," and the resinous scent of theburning pine drifted across the fetid London air. "I saw the tall,copper-skinned firekeeper of the Iroquois council enter, the circle oflight flung fitfully against the black surrounding wood. None so regal,so august, as he. His garb of fringed buckskin and ermine was no moregrotesque than the vestments worn by the white preachers in highplaces."

I wonder what will be the place assigned to her in Canadian literaturein the future. Will her melodious verse survive? She left only threeslim volumes of poems, but I do not believe we have any poem that singsmore sweetly than her "Paddle Song." I still remember the spell it putupon me when first I read it:

This poem, I am glad to note, is still in one of the School Readers,which augurs well for its immortality.

Now for a happy coincidence.

As I was writing these words, I interrupted the writing to listen to aschool broadcast, and was delighted to hear a soft-voiced teachertelling her class the legend of the young chief, who went forth into thewoods to expiate the sin of having begotten twin sons. She gave Paulinethe credit of having received the legend from old Chief Capilano, andpreserving it in beautiful words. The children loved the story and theteacher promised to tell them another legend the next day. I couldeasily believe that in some bright meadow in the Elysian fields, gaywith Indian paint-brush and shooting star, Pauline and her people werehappily listening, glad to know that their wisdom and their love oftruth was still revered and cherished upon earth.

I must take one other memory of the old Town Hall out of "Time'scareless keeping".

Its timbers will always be sacred to me for it was there that mydaughter Florence and I joined the Dickens' Fellowship. And it was not asimple initiation of paying a fee and signing a card and receiving theright hand of fellowship. We were initiated as the Indians conduct theirceremonials, by a test of hardihood, but I must begin at the beginning.

Across the road from our house stood a little weather-beaten dwellingwhose occupants came and went frequently. It seemed to harbour a strangecontagion of impermanency, though it was an honest enough little housewith its L-shaped walls and lean-to kitchen. At the time of which Iwrite its tenants were a Mr. and Mrs. Vander and their three children.The father was a meek little man with a Byronic face, who spokebeautiful English and read from the classics. The mother went outworking by the day, a tired draggled woman, who accepted her lot inlife without complaint. The family consisted of three handsome children,the eldest girl had a gift for music and art, which won for her anhonorable place in the local school. She had her father's gift forlanguage and one day defined her family in these words:

"Father gives us amusem*nt and instruction but mother feeds and clothesus. I like them equally well, according to my mood and my needs. Wecouldn't very well get on without them. I think I like father a littlebit better than mother, for I'm often sorry for mother and being sorryfor people does not make for loving."

There was a scarcity of teachers in the Manitou District at this time,and when I discovered that Mr. Vander had once taught in a boys' school,I thought we might be able to get a temporary certificate for him andget him installed in one of the country schools. I knew he could teachwell if he wanted to. His wife was more enthusiastic than he when I wentover and made the suggestion. When I mentioned the usual salary of fiftydollars a month, I could see that he was not impressed.

"We're doing very well as we are now," Mr. Vander began. "My time isquite well taken up teaching the children, supplementing the rathersketchy teaching they are receiving in your Canadian schools. Frankly Ibelieve in leaving well enough alone."

Mrs. Vander interrupted in her quiet way.

"I could employ my time, too, looking after their needs, but where isthe money to come from if I stopped working, Frederick? I do not reallyenjoy working in other people's houses."

"It's all a bit of a bore," said Frederick, "but if you can getpermission for me to teach and persuade the school to take me, I willsacrifice my own desires and take it." His brown eyes beamed on me then,fortified by his own high resolve.

We got the school and permission came from the Department and Mr. Vanderwas duly called for by one of the trustees and was taken out, the tenmiles to his school. Mr. Vander's term of employment was exactly twoweeks. The youngest girl came over to tell me. Her tone was one ofcomplete detachment; she was the perfect reporter who gave the facts,uncolored by her own opinions.

"My father has returned. He will not go back."

I went over to interview the unwelcome prodigal.

"I left your school," he said in his most melodious voice, "not withoutregret. My reasons were entirely psychological, and you, being aCanadian, may find them difficult to understand. The people in thatdistrict are too utterly ignorant. I could never hope to reach them."

"You went there to teach the children," I said. "And if their parentsare ignorant, that is all the more reason that their children should betaught. I know the people out there, and they are good decent,hard-working people. I'm sure they were kind to you and willing to giveyou the best they had."

He settled himself more comfortably in his chair and bowed his head.

"Mr. Vander," I went on, "you should try to grow up and assume someresponsibility. You left that school because you wanted to come back tothat easy chair where food and lodging are provided by your wife'sefforts. Have you no pride?"

"Pride!" He caught at the word eagerly. "Yes, madam, I have pride. Ihave pride of ancestry, nationality and tradition. I am proud of myheritage of English literature and if you and my wife will refrain frominterrupting me I will take you into my confidence. I have a plan tohelp my fellow men, an infinitely better plan than this teachingscheme, one into which I can put my whole heart."

He was off on his magic carpet, leaving the cares of the world behindhim, and strangely enough he was able to make us listen.

His plan was, in brief, to give readings from Dickens' "Christmas Carol"two days before Christmas. He would make his own tickets and send thechildren out to sell them:

An Evening with Dickens—The Christmas Carol
Interpreted by Frederick T. Vander,
late of Drury Lane, London
Manitou Town Hall
Admission by Ticket Only

That cold December night came down in the best Manitoba tradition, awindy night, with stars hanging low in a sky of cold steel. A cold nightnever held any of us in if we wanted to go out so the McClung family wasrepresented by three members—Jack, Florence and myself. The head of thehouse had a curling game at the rink and pleaded his case by saying thathe must have exercise. Jack would have gladly gone with his father, butI coaxed him to come with us with the argument that the literary artsmust be encouraged, and everyone should hear the Christmas Carol atleast once a year.

The hall was a draughty place, heated by one stove in the middle of theroom. A straggling audience occupied the zone around the stove and afair pile of firewood promised a continuance of heat. (The newspapersaid in its account of the gathering that "the intelligence of theaudience made up for the smallness of its numbers.")

Promptly at eight o'clock the Interpreter, Mr. Frederick T. Vander, inevening dress, came out from the back room with a copy of the"Christmas Carol" in his hand. He was in good voice and looked like aperfect Bob Cratchet. He even had the white scarf inside his coat withits fluttering white ends. I resolutely put aside the opinion I had ofhim as a husband and father and settled down to enjoy the performance.

"Marley was dead," he began, and we were off. Let the wind blow, let thetin roof crackle and buckle, we were listening to an immortal tale. Thelittle man knew how to present his story. He played all parts with equalfacility; he was Scrooge, tight-fisted and wizened, harsh of voice andhard of heart; he was the timid little clerk trying to warm himself atthe candle. He was the fog that came pouring into every chink, "makingthe houses across the street into mere phantoms." And how well he didthe nephew all in a glow of good fellowship who came in to wish oldScrooge a merry Christmas!—which he defined as—"A kind forgivingcharitable time . . . when men and women open their shut-up heartsfreely and think of the people below them as fellow passengers to thegrave, and not another race bound on other journeys!"

So intent were we on the story that no one noticed that the fire wasburning low and it was not until the knocker on the door changed toMarley's face that someone on the outer fringe of the audience cameforward and mended the fire noisily. The Interpreter glared at theinterruption but resumed the story. The caretaker of the hall, Mr.Miller, roused to his duty by this alien hand laid on his stove,reasserted his authority by piling in more wood and more wood, and soonthe crackling of the stove joined the rumbling of the tin roof. Theaudience stretched their chilly hands to the warmth and went adventuringon the high seas where grizzled men raised their voices in praise ofChristmas.

It was not until the Second Spirit entered that we began to feel suddendraughts across the floor as certain members of the audience driftedout. Each time the door opened a blast from the Arctic Circle smote us.Then, by sign language, we urged Mr. Miller to greater efforts.

About ten o'clock when Scrooge and the Spirit of Christmas Present wentthrough the streets and saw "The brightness of the roaring fires inkitchens where preparations for the Christmas dinner were going on andtantalizing smells of turkey and sage came through the doors as happychildren ran out to meet their cousins arriving"—it was then I missedmy first born who had noiselessly departed, but Florence stayed on. Shewas drawn as far into her coat as she could get and had gathered herfeet under her for warmth.

We lost another detachment when the Cratchets sat down to the goose, andthe young Cratchets crammed spoons into their mouths lest they shouldshriek for goose before their turn came to be helped.

By the time the last Spirit had taken Scrooge to see his grisly ending,the wind had risen to new heights, and not only the tin roof, but thetimbers of the hall creaked and groaned, and made strange andthreatening noises. The audience were all around the stove now and theSpeaker was with us too. He had put on his overcoat and mittens.

We looked in vain for Mr. Miller, but it appeared that he had gone, andevidently had taken the last of the firewood with him, so there we wereat the end of our resources, but not the end of the story.

We saw it out; we stayed until the end, which came about eleven; and inspite of the cold and the burned out fire, the crackling roof and thebitter wind that found out every crack in the old Orange Hall, in spiteof everything, we felt the thrill of the awakened soul of EbenezerScrooge, as the magic of Christmas ran in our veins, setting at naughtthe discomfort of the hour.

Since then, many many times we have heard the story told in the goldenvoices of John and Lionel Barrymore, heard it in warm rooms brightenedby wood fires, with plates of apples waiting for us, and the fragranceof coffee on the air. But it was on that cold night in the old OrangeHall in Manitou that Florence and I, numb to the knees, really enteredinto the magic circle of the Dickens' Fellowship, and we felt ever sincethat we have the right to gather with the faithful wherever they are.

Ad astra per aspera.

CHAPTER VI

Social Life

Collier's "History of England", studied by public school children in myday, was a fairly dull recital of wars, conspiracies and the misdeeds ofkings, but there were paragraphs—all too few—which bore the byline"Social Life of the People." I knew them by heart. They were emeraldislands in a dull grey sea. In these meagre records we learned that theearly Britons dyed their skins with a purple herb called woad. We werenot told why they did it, but it seemed a good idea, like paintingEaster eggs. They made clothes of the skins of animals. They put greasedpaper in their windows before they had glass, and there were some reallyexciting paragraphs which had to do with blood bonds and "shieldmaidens" who hurled the javelins, and brave hunters who took theirswords in their teeth and went into the sea to do battle with the walrusand sea lion. Not much was said about the women, but we were pretty surethat they were left to do all the uninteresting work. The men hunted,fished and fought, doing a little cattle rustling as opportunityoffered, while the women tanned the skins, made the clothes, and muckedaround on the earthen floors, raising the family in their spare time.Later they learned to weave and spin. The Spear and the Spindle divisionruns back into the grey shades of the ancient days.

Now I wonder if in one hundred years the people will be interested inthe social life of the people of my generation. When people are livingon food put up in pellets which can be carried in their vest pockets,and travelling through the air and communicating with each other at willwith distance annihilated, it may be that they will like to read of atime when the pace of life was slower and the struggle for existence aday to day matter, involving real effort and considerable ingenuity. Farbe it from me to wish that the hands of the clock should ever turnbackward, but one cannot help wondering in what direction the human soulwill develop, when it is free from the burdening cares which make up thebattle for existence.

Perhaps we have emphasized the importance of work too much, but we knewno other way of living, so we have made a virtue of it. We speak ofbasic industries and we know that what happens on the farms, in themines and in the lumber woods, happens to the race. There is not apublic man today that does not pay his tribute of praise to the worker.The "little people" we call them now, "who carry the load." Goldsmithsounded this note in his "Deserted Village," when he wrote:

On the farms before electricity and labor-saving devices lightened theirloads, women's work obsessed them. Their hours were endless, theirduties imperative. Many broke under the strain and died, and theirplaces were filled without undue delay. Some man's sister orsister-in-law came from Ontario to take the dead woman's place. Countrycemeteries bear grim witness to the high mortality rate in young women.

I wrote a story about one of these in 1914. I remember the date becausewe had just come to Edmonton and I had an attack of quinsey, which laidme up for a week. This gave me time to catch up on my reading. In acountry paper I read of the death of a farmer's wife, aged thirty-three,who left "six small children to mourn her loss." The obituary closedpiously with the words: "Thy will be done."

I did not believe that it was the will of God that had taken away thisyoung mother and decided I should write something about it and because Iwanted the story to be told many times, I wrote it in verse, knowingthat the beat of words, even ordinary words, carries far, like musicacross water. I have no illusions about my skill as a writer of poetry,but the story I wrote about Jane Brown certainly went far and wide, andwas recited at many Women's Institutes, socials and other gatherings,and was copied in hundreds of newspapers. It is nearly thirty yearssince I wrote about Jane, but even in the last year I have had severalrequests for copies.

The worst feature of life on the farm for women in that period was thelack of household help. Water was carried in and carried out. The womenhad access to no laundries, no bakeries, and I knew homes where therewas not even a sewing machine. I remember very well the first ready-madedress I saw. A daring woman, Mrs. Bill Johnston, sent to Montreal for itand sent the money, fifteen dollars, mind you, and the neighbourscheerfully prophesied that she would never see the money again or thedress either. But the dress came and even the doubters had to admit itwas a good-looking dress, and could be made to fit by "boning the body".The owner, declared that she had enough bones of her own, and she wasgoing to wear it just as it was. She liked a soft-fitting dress.

The first evidence of co-operation among the farmers that I remember wasthe inauguration of "beef-rings," and I regret that I am not able torecord its origin. It may have been sponsored by the Department ofa*griculture. The head of the beef-ring had a chart, showing how the meatcould be divided. One animal was killed each week, and the farmersshared the meat. The people who got a sirloin roast one week would getstewing beef off the neck the next week, and the whole scheme workedwithout a hitch. But the coming of the automobile changed all ourhabits. The farmer with a car drove into town for his meat, and hisgroceries, too, so the little store languished, not able to meet thecompetition which the city stores offered. Other changes came too. Theyoung people, having tasted the delights of driving into town withdinner at a hotel and a dance at the Masonic Hall, began to rebel at the"twenty-five hour day" on the farm, and dream of nice clean jobs intown. The trek from the farm began, with devastating effects onagriculture. But the stores in town, and particularly the banks,benefitted by the advent of good, smart, industrious country boys.

Looking back at it all now, I am convinced that the gloomy homeatmosphere drove out more young people than their distaste for the longhours and the endless chores. Many a farmer, finding his years of laborsitting heavily on him, sank into a bog of surliness. They felt theirlong years of heavy work had given them the right to be disagreeable.They seemed to resent youth with its gayety and love of fun. The coltsin the pastures, kicking up their heels, kittens playing over awood-pile; children shouting over a game of "pom-pom-pullaway" in theschool yard brought no smiles to these sour faces. Who was to blame?

The settlement of a new country takes a heavy toll, and one generationis bound to suffer. Education did not keep pace with the settlement, andchildren—especially the boys who were big enough to work—did notattend school even when the school came. Perhaps they went for a fewmonths in the winter, but they were shy and backward, ashamed of theirignorance and the teachers were not always wise or tactful. These biglads did not like school, naturally. No one likes to appear at adisadvantage. When they grew older they knew they had been cheated outof something. This frustration took different forms in different people.In some it blossomed into a wholesome concern for the education of theirown children. Others, not so fortunate, sank into a morass of resentmentagainst society in general. They were the sour-faced ones whose boysleft home as soon as they could.

In the first school in which I taught, one of the men of the districttried to keep his boys from going to the lake to skate, which surely wasan innocent and inexpensive form of entertainment. He was afraid theymight start to go into the little town, and there be tempted to spendmoney. I remember his words of complaint to me when I pleaded for theboys.

"When I was their age," he said bitterly, "I never left the farm, butthese two young scamps go out of the house three times for every oncethey come in!"

I met these big boys many places, and my heart was heavy for them, andheavier still when I learned later how the Finnish people had solvedthat problem with their Continuation Schools. We could have hadsomething of this nature if we had valued education as highly as theFinns value it, but in a new country everyone is in a hurry to getahead. Education, they believed, could wait, but in all human historynothing waits. The stream runs fast. We cannot help the past, but weneed not repeat its mistakes!

CHAPTER VII

The Winds of the World

The winds of the world began to blow as the nineteenth century came toan end, and they even found their way into our placid existence. I donot think our newspapers carried much world news, or if they did we werenot interested, so the South African war came on us unexpectedly. Therealways had been trouble with the Zulus, an indefinite term to us,signifying black men with earrings who carried spears. Hadn't we readand recited a poem about a surprise attack on our gallant men as theyslept their honest sleep on a mountain side in Africa? "While close onfront and either flank the live black crescent crept." In my firstacquaintance with this poem, I thought that the live black crescent wassome deadly tropical insect.

The South African war assumed a very serious aspect when our young menwere recruited, and went. To us there seemed to be no good reason forfighting the Boers, who had worked their own land and minded their ownbusiness, people much like ourselves who had battled with flood andstorms, stone bruises and chilblains. We had all read Olive Schreiner's"Story of a South African Farm." Paul Kreuger's picture in the newspapershowed him to be an honest, rugged old fellow, closely resembling, withhis square face and chin whisker, many of the faces in myfather-in-law's ordination picture. We certainly could not feel anyenmity to a man who looked like Dr. Morley Punshon.

We wondered what the war really was about. Was it the gold ofJohannesberg and the diamond mines of Kimberley that had kindled allthis flame of conquest? And in this uneasy suspicion we were not alone,for the news trickled through that one of the younger British statesmen,Mr. Lloyd George, a Welsh Baptist, had stoutly defended the Boers andbeen mobbed in Birmingham when he tried to speak.

I had been reading Prescott's History of Mexico, and I could not keepfrom wondering if we were not carrying on the same sort of conquest thatCortez carried on in the sixteenth century, when life was morebarbarous. He was set at his task with the full blessing of the Church,steeped in the belief that the end justifies the means and that good cancome from evil. The wholesale slaughter of the Aztecs was easilycondoned when their gold and precious jewels went back to Spain toenrich the Mother Church. At our Epworth League meetings we debatedthese questions freely.

Meanwhile in Canada the tide of patriotism rose. Everyone was singing anew song called "The Soldiers of the Queen", which fanned the flame ofImperialism, and Kipling's "The White Man's Burden" made the soaringclimax of many an address. It gave the whole business of war the highpurpose of a Crusade and threw a glamor around the fighting man. We werenot fighting for anything so cheap and corruptible as gold. We werepaying our debt to the underprivileged, though perhaps ungrateful peopleof the world.

There were other verses enlarging the theme of the white man's duty to"the lesser breeds without the Law," as he phrased it in his greatRecessional, written in 1897.

Looking back at it now I remember how much we depended on Kipling. Hiswords had a ring of Old Testament authority. We would have been happierabout the war in South Africa if we had known that ten years after theend of hostilities Great Britain would hand back the country to theSouth Africans, and that the Union of South Africa would become one ofour great allies.

Some glimpse of this settlement came to us in another one of Kipling'spoems called "Kitchener's School," in which he tells something of theBritish plan of colonization. It is addressed to the people of theSudan:

This poem is probably one of Kipling's greatest contributions to thework of Empire building, for it touches the vital spot which marks thedifference between the colonization done by Britain and that of someother countries that are much in our minds today.

But I must get back to my story and remember I am not writing a tract oncolonization, but a story of plain people.

January 22nd, 1901, was a dull cold day in Manitou, Manitoba, with icyflakes of snow riding in on the wind that came out of the north west. Asullen sky threatened that the night would come down early. Horsesh*tched to sleighs stamped impatiently as the cold settled down on them,and the women in the stores waiting for the men to complete theirbusiness saw the short afternoon dulling into night, and anxiouslywished to be on their homeward way.

Suddenly the news broke!

Thomas Atkinson, the C.P.R. operator, took the message from the wires.Mr. Atkinson had been listening to the talking wires all day and knewthat trouble was brewing. Four days before he had heard that all was notwell at Osborne House. But there were no magic air channels then tocarry the news to the men on the roads or the women in the farm houses,and so the blow fell in country places with tragic suddenness.

Mr. Atkinson swung around in his swivel chair and despatched a messengerto the Fire Hall, the School, and the Presbyterian Church. Then hewalked out into the small waiting room and lifted his hand for silenceand announced—"The Queen is dead." Instinctively the men removed theirhats.

In ten minutes the bells began to ring, hurriedly, noisily, their rustynotes jarring each other in their discordant passage, Andy Martinpulling the rope at the fire hall, John Logan at the school. But whenthe news reached the Presbyterian Church, August Henneberg with truePresbyterian forethought, knew what to do. August knew that tidings ofsorrow were not expressed with a loud jangling of bells. So from theChurch steeple came a measured tolling, solemn and dignified, and soonthe other bells steadied and grew calm.

The streets filled with people, the roads leading into Manitou weredotted with sleighs. Chores or no chores, the people came in to see ifit were really true.

When Blake Hewitt, late of Iowa, came in he went at once to the Farmers'Store, dropping his horse's halter shanks to make them believe they weretied. Mr. Robinson, the proprietor, who had removed his brown papercuffs, stood inside the door talking to a group of customers. "What'sall the excitement?" Mr. Hewitt asked. Mr. Robinson's voice was solemnand deep. "Queen Victoria is dead," he said. "The Queen is dead," Mr.Hewitt repeated, "so that's why the bells were ringing. I thoughtsomething was wrong."

Mr. Hewitt's listeners might not have noticed the words or seen anythingobjectionable in them, but unfortunately for Mr. Hewitt there was in theFarmers' Store at that moment, Mrs. John Farnicombe, whose mother hadbeen one of Queen Victoria's ladies-in-waiting. Mrs. Farnicombe stillhad the bonnet given by Her Majesty to her mother.

In telling of the incident Mrs. Farnicombe said her blood seemed to turnto water as she heard what he said; her head swam; her knees grew weak.She could not believe her ears. He thought something was wrong, and theterrible man was gone before she rallied. Gone like Judas, Mrs.Farnicombe said—gone into the night! Oh how she wished she had witheredhim with a look. He thought something was wrong, indeed!

Mrs. Farnicombe, torn with indignation, told the story to groups ofpeople in the store and on the street, and at last made her way to seeher friend Mrs. Bamford who lived in a little white house near thePresbyterian Manse. Mrs. Bamford was everybody's friend, a sweet facedold lady with white hair and brown eyes. It was believed that shebelonged to one of the titled families of England and had beendisinherited because she had eloped with her father's coachman. But asshe and her husband had never become confidential with the neighbors onthis point, the matter was not definitely known. If she ever regrettedher choice and longed for the marble halls she had left, she gave nosign, but continued to live happily and serenely. From her we heard manybeautiful stories of the Royal Family; their kindness and courtesy,their consideration for other people.

When the news of the Queen's death was borne out across the fields inthe rusty note of the bells, it fell upon our hearts with a stab ofpersonal bereavement. She was more than a ruler to us. She was a legend,a tradition—the embodiment of maternal affection, goodness and piety.My mother had seen her once when she came to Dundee, and "had beenalmost near enough to touch her mantle". As a child I firmly believedthat the Queen, in her generosity, had given us the twenty-fourth ofMay for a holiday at considerable inconvenience to herself, and that wemust ever keep it in grateful remembrance.

On that dark January day when the bells were tolling for her I felt thatI should do what I could to pass on my love for her to my children. Jackwas the only one big enough to understand so I took him out with me. Iwanted him to remember the solemn notes of the bells, the sad faces ofthe people, and he still remembers it—tho' he was not yet four yearsold.

On our way home we went in to see Mrs. Bamford. I told him the Queen hadbeen as sweet and kind and lovely, with the same shiny white hair andbeautiful hands. Mrs. Farnicombe came in while we were there, hot withraging anger because of a dreadful man who had made light of the deathof the Queen. She related the conversation dramatically. "He said it,Mrs. Bamford," she cried tearfully, "'I thought there was somethingwrong' were his very words, as if the death of our Queen were not thegreatest calamity we could suffer. . . . A wretched, ignorant foreigner,my dear, without hope or God in the world; with no reverence, nosanctities, and he would dare to speak of her thus, lying cold indeath."

"Hush dear," Mrs. Bamford said soothingly, "my daughter will serve us acup of tea and we will all feel better. Do not be so sure that Mr.Hewitt meant any disrespect. The Queen would be the first one to defendhim. She once defended a boy who pointed a pistol at her, and thedemented man who struck her on the head and crushed a lovely bonnet.When they were ordered to be flogged, it was the Queen herself who savedthem. She won respect by being worthy of it, my dear, not by demandingit."

Before we left Mrs. Bamford had an explanation to cover Mr. Hewitt'swords. "I think you have misjudged Mr. Hewitt," she said to her friend,"without meaning to do so. You were under the strain of deep emotion andread into his words a meaning of your own. Are you sure he didn'tsay—'I thought there was something wrong' meaning 'I knew there wassomething wrong'. That, my dear Mrs. Farnicombe, would make his wordsentirely innocent, and that is what I prefer to believe. That is whatHer Majesty would wish us to believe, and I think it would be wise tosay no more about it."

And there was no more said about it. The Queen's deputy had spoken.

CHAPTER VIII

Strong Women

The first time I felt the stirrings of ambition to be a public speakerwas at a W.C.T.U. Convention in Manitou in 1907. This was a great eventfor our little town—seventy-five delegates from all parts of theProvince, with morning, afternoon, and evening meetings was anundertaking to challenge all our resources. I do not remember how ithappened that the Convention came to Manitou. I had not been a delegateup to that time, but I had been a member of the organization, and I wassimply thrilled when I was asked to give the address of welcome onbehalf of the local unit. I began my preparations at once. I got a newdress, navy blue and white striped voile trimmed with narrow whiteValenciennes lace; a white leghorn hat with red velvet flowers. I wasdetermined to be as easy as possible on the eye. Years afterward I heardCarrie Chapman Catt say when she was not sure of her speech she alwaysgot a new dress, but if she knew she had a good speech, any dress woulddo.

In spite of the new dress I had some anxious moments when I contemplatedthe task of welcoming the delegates. What could I say that hadn't beensaid many times before? I had a clear idea of some of the things I wouldnot say. I would not run into statistics like some temperance speakers Ihad heard, nor would I tell them how many loaves of bread a man couldbuy if he never drank beer. I knew vaguely why people drank. It answeredsomething in their blood, some craving for excitement and change.Hadn't I turned round and round myself to enjoy a moment of dizziness, ablotting out of the old familiar landscape? I knew it was foolish, bad,and dangerous, and yet it had a charm.

I knew the lives of these country people, with their disappointments,long hours, and grey monotony; and I felt that we must give themsomething rather than take something away. We must be like the pack ratswho never steal but merely make an exchange.

Prohibition is a hard sounding word, worthless as a rallying cry, hardas a locked door or going to bed without your supper. It could neverfire the heather, and yet the heather must be fired. People had to havesomething which would take them out of themselves, the Church has givenmany a real vision of God and His plan for the world. But even theChurch often presents a dour face, with its locked door and mustysmells. I often thought of the Salvation Army when they came to Brandonin 1885, with their color, warmth and band music. How they drew thelonely country boys into their barracks and set them singing the Gospelhymns. They knew the drawing power of coffee and sandwiches and the beatof a drum, the compelling power of rhythm, and light and warmth andfriendliness. They knew how to fight the powers of evil, and we, thetemperance women, would have to make our cause attractive. We must fightfire with fire.

I never doubted for a moment that this could be done, for I knew we hadall the arguments. No one could deny that women and children were thesufferers from the liquor traffic; any fun that came from drinkingbelonged to men exclusively, and the men themselves would be the firstto admit that. I saw in my easily stirred imagination, that life forboth men and women could be made much more attractive with recreationgrounds, games, handicrafts, orchestras, folk dances, better houses,better farms; new hopes for a new world. I was well away on the wings offancy as I drafted out a speech of welcome for the delegates.

I was not the only person who prepared for the coming of theseventy-five. The two paper hangers were busy for a month preceding theevent, papering and painting spare rooms. House cleaning went on apace,curtain stretchers were borrowed and lent and lay on green lawns. Theair throbbed with the beating of carpets, and the dressmakers never hadthe pins out of their mouths. Manitou was going to show them how aconvention should be managed.

Even ladies must eat, so the Manitou hostesses prepared. They filledcrocks with lemon biscuits for they had a reputation for keeping well.In the drug store we knew that lemon biscuits were being produced forthe real heart of a lemon biscuit comes from the five cents worth of oilof lemon and the five cents worth of citrate of ammonia—(these providethe rising and the flavor, otherwise it is just a plain beaten biscuit.)To Mrs. August Henneberg belonged the credit of bringing in the recipefrom somewhere in the States, or maybe she made it up, for Mrs.Henneberg was a lady of original ideas; and I know she was the first tothink of splitting the squares and putting in wild strawberry jam.

The Convention met in June, just after the school term, the leafiest,greenest time of the year—with field crops rippling in the sun and wildroses in bloom on the roadsides. The opening meal was served at oneo'clock. The trains passed at Manitou at noon and the receptioncommittee, with white bows on their watch chains, lined the sidewalk anddelegates were shown to their billets. Then everyone went to the oldOrange Hall where the banquet was served. The Hall was scrubbed into astate of cleanliness not known before and the long tables were a sightto remember. Everything had been prepared in advance and the only hotdish was the scalloped potatoes. In that abundant time there was coldchicken, sliced or jellied; pink sugar cured hams stuck with cloves; andmoulds of head cheese on beds of lettuce garnished with hard boiledeggs; lemon pies whipped up in mounds of white meringue and stippledwith orange and brown—from the two minutes in a hot oven; ice cream infreezers; and cakes which make a mock of us now in this strictlyrationed time. Will I ever forget those dishes of creamed potatoes—madewith real cream and served with ripe cucumber pickles clear as amber andsweet as honey? Why do I write of these things on this day of 1943, whenI should be telling a sober and serious story of my country's past,revealing if I can, the mind of my people?

No doubt this hearty fare had something to do with the success of theaddress of welcome which followed the banquet. It is easy to talk topeople who have come together for a three-day holiday. It is quitelikely that there is no person else who remembers that speech, but Iremember it. I remember the effect it had on me. For the first tune Iknew I had the power of speech. I saw faces brighten, eyes glisten, andfelt the atmosphere crackle with a new power. I saw what could be donewith words, for I had the vision of a new world as I talked. I was likethe traveller who sees through the mist the towers of the great city. Itwas not ideas I was giving them exactly, but rather ferments—somethingwhich I hoped would work like yeast in their minds.

That was a long time ago as we reckon time, but it does not seem long. Istill remember that my head was lighter than my heart when it was allover, for I knew that I was committed to a long fight and a hard one.Still the vision has never faded. There is a land of pure delight aheadof us, a land of richer fruitage and brighter sunshine, even though theway may be long and hard and dangerous. That Better Country has firedman's imagination since time began.

War had no place in our thoughts then. We were too civilized for war wethought. We believed the enemies we had to fight were ignorance, greed,intolerance and boredom.

It is easy to see why we concentrated on the liquor traffic. It wascorporeal and always present; it walked our streets; it threw itschallenge in our faces! We were worried then about Jennie Gills who wasone of our members. Jennie was "expecting" again, and her husband hadcelebrated the last occasion by getting roaring drunk and coming homewith the avowed intention of killing Jennie and the new baby.

There were other homes too, across whose portal the shadow of the tradehad fallen. In a little town the currents run deeply and we knew eachothers sins and sorrows. We knew about the men who cashed their wheattickets and spent most of it over the bar, forgetting to bring home thechildren's shoes. Elsewhere I have written the story of the woman andher little girl who were disappointed in their trip to Ontario. Oh no,there was nothing fanciful about the evils of intemperance with itswaste of money as well as its moral hazards. It was ever before us. Andwe remembered Gladstone's words concerning the ease with which he couldpay the national debt if he had a sober England.

We believed we could shape the world nearer to our heart's desire if wehad a dry Canada and that, we felt would come, if and when women wereallowed to vote. We did not believe that women would ever becomedrinkers. We argued, subconsciously, that women have more resourceswithin themselves, more outlets for their energies, and so did not needthis false exhilaration. I remember the first time I saw an intoxicatedwoman—the daughter of one of Winnipeg's best known families, in a boxat the old Bijou Theatre. She interrupted the play and had to beremoved. Her lapse from sobriety rather upset my theory that peopledrink to relieve the monotony of a drab life. How could life be drab forthis girl, in a city, with a great house full of servants, plenty ofmoney, books, music, companions, youth and beauty? She had not found herplace in life surely. But when we achieved our ambition—the fullemancipation of women—there would be work for her, work which wouldlift her out of herself.

So ran my dream.

About this time, that is soon after the Convention, the powers ofdarkness showed their hand and the stock of the Women's ChristianTemperance Union soared to a new high. In Carman, a small town betweenManitou and Winnipeg, a vote on local option was coming and the liquorinterests were afraid they would be defeated, for at that time women whohad property in their own name could vote in municipal matters. And inCarman there were enough of these to swing the vote. The ConservativeGovernment of Manitoba was appealed to by the Interests—couldn't theythink of something? It would never do to let one town carry localoption. The Government had resourceful advisers and they had a plan.They would quietly and without any flourish of trumpets, disfranchisethe women.

When the voting day came and the women went out to vote they found theirnames were not on the list—no woman could vote—by Order in Council. Iwould like to have been there that day. There followed a reaction whichfrightened the powers, and from end to end of Manitoba a new movementbegan which ran like a prairie fire before a high wind. If the presentGovernment would not give us a vote there was just one thing left for usto do. We would change the Government, and that is what we did, thoughit took a little time.

It was a bonny fight—a knock-down and drag-out fight, but it united thewomen of Manitoba in a great cause. I never felt such unity of purposeand I look on these days with great satisfaction. We really believed wewere about to achieve a new world. Now we had the key to the treasurehouse of life for we could send our own representatives to Parliament.

I believe we might have reaped a great harvest if the blight of war hadnot blown its poisonous breath over the world.

It is just as well that we did not foresee the day when a woman memberof the Federal House would say, in her first interview after she hadbeen elected to the seat left vacant by her husband, that she had helpedto elect her husband in his campaigns—not by her speeches but by herability to shake up a good co*cktail. How indignant we were! Surely itwas not for this that we had struggled to get votes for women. We feltbetrayed and cast down. We felt that the House of Commons needed a lotof things more than it did another co*cktail shaker. Many were theletters that I wrote in imagination to the lady in question, but I wasalways glad that I had not sent them. Then one day in Ottawa I mether—a dainty, gentle woman, beautiful as a Dresden shepherdess. Toconnect her with any phase of the evils of intemperance became anabsurdity. I thought of James M. Barrie's tender words regarding thewoman who swore and so put herself outside the pale of respectability inThrums—"There was no wickedness in her words," wrote her historian,"she swore like a child who had been in ill company." Mrs. Black and Italked about the wild flowers of Canada and she gave me some of herexquisite drawings. When we parted she said, impulsively, "I've alwayswanted to know you. I knew you would improve on acquaintance." Igathered from that innocent remark that Mrs. Black had probably beenwriting letters to me too, in her mind, but the mellowing years haddulled our differences and we laughed together like two old friends.

I have a copy of her book "My Seventy Years" with a friendly inscriptionfrom her and her collaborator, Elizabeth Bailey Price. It is afascinating book, revealing the writer with frankness and sincerity,untainted by egotism, and showing in many an instance the mischievousdelight she took in shocking the complacent, which no doubt explains herfirst interview.

She tells the story in her book about a Missionary meeting she was askedto address in London in 1916. George Black, her husband, was thenCommissioner of the Yukon and also the commander of the Yukon Infantry,and while in London she was feted and honored and in great demand as aspeaker. She had confined her observation to the Yukon and its beauties,not venturing into the political or religious field. On arrival at theChurch house she was ushered to the platform where there were manyclergymen and Bishops who eyed her suspiciously. The Bishop of London,in his preliminary remarks, mentioned all the speakers but Mrs. Black.When at last her turn came to speak she received a few curt words fromHis Lordship who said, "I believe Mrs. Black is what is called asourdough, and she will speak a few words."

The lady from the Yukon was not accustomed to such oblique treatment, soshe began—"My Lord chairman. If this is the way you treat women who areasked to speak, I do not wonder that suffragettes go around with axesover here." Then she spoke of religion and the influence that marriagehas in deciding a women's religion. "I am an Anglican," she said,"because I married one. If I had married a Fiji Islander, I wouldprobably be eating a missionary today instead of talking tomissionaries."

This, to come from a sweet-tongued gentle little person with the face ofa Madonna, must have created a sensation at the Church House.

Before I leave this part of my story I must pay my tribute to the bravewomen of the W.C.T.U. Looking back at our life in the small town I seewe owed much to the activities of the W.C.T.U. and these initials, Ihasten to explain, stand for "Women's Christian Temperance Union", andnot "Women Continually Torment Us", as some have believed.

It was the W.C.T.U. who planned debates, and spelling matches, and ran areading room, wherein the Review of Reviews, and Scribners and McClure'smagazines could be read, along with the Family Herald, the Witnessand others.

They were a resolute band of women, these early Crusaders, and I amalways glad I met them and fell under their influence at an early age.

A composite picture of the leaders at that time would show a tall, thinwoman with her hair parted in the middle and waved back into a bun atthe back of her well-shaped head, a crisp white frill at her neckfastened with a cameo brooch, a hunting case watch pinned on her leftshoulder, secured by a gold chain around her neck; black henrietta clothdress, black stockings, and a white handkerchief, a white bow of ribbon,probably tied on the watch chain; clear eye, a light hand with cakes,and not afraid of anything!

The rank and file of the sisterhood sometimes had fears! For theW.C.T.U. was never in any danger of inheriting that "woe" which ispronounced against those "of whom all men speak well". Little Mrs.Durban found that out the day she joined, and went home wearing the bowof white ribbon. Mrs. Chisholm of Winnipeg had given an address in theMethodist Church, and under the spell of her eloquence, Mrs. Durban hadpaid her dollar, signed the pledge and had the bow pinned on her.

But when she got home, her husband, James Durban, being a man of theworld, engaged in the fuel business, saw danger in this innocent littlewhite bow. He knew it might endanger his trade with the Ellis House,licensed to sell malt and spirituous liquors. Once every week Mr. Durbandelivered fuel to the Ellis House, and got his money "right on thenail".

This being in the nineties when men were masters of their own house,James Durban commanded his wife to lay aside her white ribbon bow and gono more to the meetings of the W.C.T.U. and Mrs. Durban obeyed. But thatwas not the end. Mrs. Durban still paid her dues, still consideredherself a member of the society pledged to rid the world of the curse ofalcoholism, but she worked behind the lines. She made cakes for thesocials; made candy for the Band of Hope; minded Mrs. Brown's twochildren on Monday afternoons, when she led the singing at the LoyalTemperance Legion. There were other unseen members who worked quietlyfor peace sake, but were all part of the Maginot Line of defence againstthe invader. The W.C.T.U. had tact as well as courage.

The W.C.T.U. trained young orators and reciters, and gave medals for thewinners, and people travelled long distances to attend these gatherings.They also got permission to give temperance talks in the schools, andstudied charts, and diagrams to make their lessons "stick". Theyexplained the circulation of the blood, and the effect of alcohol on thestomach, and showed why athletes do not drink even mild intoxicants,and had the children figure out how many pairs of boots and little redsleighs a man could buy with the money he spends on a daily glass ofbeer. At the Band of Hope, they gave badges and pins, and taught thechildren a marching song of which the refrain was: "Tremble KingAlcohol! We will grow up!" They did grow up—these young people—and itlooked like victory, for there were definite signs that the evils ofintemperance were being curtailed.

Then came the war and the Band of Hope boys went out to fight fordemocracy and some did not return—and some of these who did wereshattered and disillusioned and embittered, and King Alcohol did nottremble any more! Not even when women received the vote! Other societiescame into being and the W.C.T.U. found its ranks thinning, though it hasnever rested from the conflict.

There are only two left of the Old Guard—Mrs. Ruttan who lives inWinnipeg and Mrs. Clendenan in London, Ontario. The others aregone—Mrs. Chisholm, Dr. Youmans, Mrs. Hislop, Mrs. Best, Mrs. Gordon,Mrs. Vrooman, Mrs. McClung (my mother-in-law), Mrs. Stewart, Mrs. Dolsenand many more. They are all gone. But their memory is still vivid inhearts made better by their presence.

CHAPTER IX

The Flavor of a Hymn

A writer in the "Canadian Author" this month (that is October, 1943),contributed a kindly biographical article dealing with my literary work,which he entitles "Nellie McClung—Crusader". In it he says that mydidactic enthusiasm has marred my art. "Some of her stories are sermonsin the guise of fiction. There is the flavor of the Sunday School hymnand the Foreign Mission Board in some of her work."

I hope I have been a crusader, and I would be very proud to think that Ihad even remotely approached the grandeur of a Sunday School hymn. Ihave never worried about my art. I have written as clearly as I could,never idly or dishonestly, and if some of my stories are, as Mr.Eggleston says, sermons in disguise, my earnest hope is that thedisguise did not obscure the sermon.

It has always seemed strange to me to find people speaking in a more orless condescending way of Sunday Schools, and Mr. Eggleston's remarkregarding Sunday School hymns has caused me to examine some of the hymnswhich live in my memory. Some of the greatest poets of our time havecontributed to the Children's section of the hymn book. I think of thathymn which begins:

I would be a very proud woman indeed if some line of mine should everappear in such good company.

I remember once in a discussion at a Canadian Authors' Convention when Ihad been asked to speak on "The Writers' Creed" I took the position thatno one should put pen to paper unless he or she had something to saythat would amuse, entertain, instruct, inform, comfort, or guide thereader. I was assailed with particular vehemence by one of my fellowmembers who is a writer of novels—she cried out in disgust: "Who wantsto write books for Sunday Schools? I certainly do not."

No doubt she was thinking of her art. I was able to assure her that herbooks were safe; I remember the fifty-five books which were sent toNorthfield School in the early '80's—a free gift from a country churchin Ontario because we had started a Sunday School. Among the number wasIvanhoe, The Talisman, Swiss Family Robinson, Children of the NewForest, and a Life of Livingstone. We all read all of them, andperhaps I got my predelictions toward Sunday School libraries from thiscirc*mstance. My friend the novelist could not know what they meant tous. She had no way of knowing. The Sunday School libraries supplied aneed long before the era of lending libraries.

There is no doubt that environment has much to do with our character andour outlook on life. I often think of the gamble our family and otherfamilies took when we left the security of Grey County, with its churchand school and friendly neighbors, and took our westward way to the widereaches of an unknown country. What would have been our fate had no onecared for our mental and spiritual well being? It was not the financialinterests of the country who cared for us. The machine companies wereinterested in us as customers only. They did not hesitate to sue thesettler if he could not make his payments on their tariff-protectedmachines. They even went so far as to seize his cattle and horses. Thehigher institutions of learning, the universities had no thought for us.Why should they? They had their own classes. Extension courses had notbeen considered. There were no correspondence courses. But the churchhad a care for the outposts and sent us missionaries to instruct us, andbooks—books that warmed our hearts, that brought us pictures of farplaces, that pushed back the walls of loneliness, that opened goldendoors, and created for us a sense of fellowship with the wide world, ofwhich we had seen so little.

No one knows what books can mean except those of us who have been hungryfor them.

I have often wondered at the scorn with which many excellent peoplespeak of the church and its work. It cannot all be ignorance. Have theyno sense of the dramatic? Can they not see the heroism of the men andwomen who give their lives to the spiritual needs of their fellow men?It is not an easy life the church offers, but it appeals to the best inhuman nature.

Just a few days ago two visitors come to see us—one a retired bankerand the other a minister. The banker introduced the minister with thesewords: "As a rule I do not think much of preachers, most of them seemlike sissies to me, being a hard-boiled business man, but I make anexception in the case of Mr. White. He's a real man, even if he is apreacher." We assured him he need not apologize for his friend or hisfriend's profession. We were honored by his presence.

The contrast between the two men was interesting. They were about thesame age and probably had started life under similar circ*mstances, buttheir ways had diverged. The banker had been apprenticed in a small townbank in his boyhood, had handled money, and kept a ledger and becameproficient in business procedure, and in time became the manager of abank in a prairie town, with power to make loans or refuse them—openedhis bank at ten, when the day was far spent on the farms, closed atthree while the ordinary man worked on; and so had acquired theunmistakably superior air of the man to whom other men must come, hat inhand, asking for favors.

Meanwhile the young minister had worked his way through college, servedon mission fields, done various things to raise money—sold books ormaybe Fuller brushes, done without many things which the bank boy had asa matter of course. Walked while the banker drove. But he had helped toshape society, and had changed lives for the better. He had helped tobuild Canada. He had never known, and never would know the materialsecurity of the banker, but he had something in the twinkle of his eyeand his friendly attitude towards all men, which showed his life hadacquired another dimension.

I wonder if we are not getting a new consciousness of human values inthis present struggle. I rather think we are, and I do not think thatthe church is going to be the loser.

In 1933 Hitler shared the opinion of the bank manager that mostpreachers were sissies and it would be an easy matter to destroy thechurch. He used even harsher words—"The church is hollow and rotten,"he said, "it's day is gone." But the Quisling press in Norway laterwrote sorrowfully: "The Christian front is the most difficult of all toconquer." And here is a statement by the great Albert Einstein, a Jew,who had no love for the Christian Church—"When National Socialism cameto Germany, I looked to the universities to defend freedom, knowing theyhad always boasted of their devotion to the cause of truth. But no—theuniversities were immediately silenced. Then I looked to the greateditors of the newspapers, whose flaming editorials in days gone by hadproclaimed their love of freedom. But they, like the universities, weresilenced in a few short weeks. Only the churches stood squarely acrossthe path of Hitler's campaign for suppressing truth. I never had anyspecial interest in the church before, but now I feel a great affectionand admiration, because the church alone has had the courage andpersistence to stand for intellectual truth and moral freedom. I amforced thus to confess that what once I despised I now praiseunreservedly."

It comforts me now to remember the part the churches have played in themaking of this country. How they have held together the neighborhoodswith their Christmas concerts, picnics, girls' and boys' camps in lateryears, and the weekly services, rain or shine!

No doubt they have looked insignificant to the "intellectuals". Theycould see only little groups of people meeting in unattractive buildingsto read words written hundreds of years ago and singing "like a mightyarmy moves the church of God". These little groups did not look muchlike an army, to the enlightened ones who believed God could be betterglorified by a round of golf on a lovely Sunday morning, than stickingaround teaching other peoples' children. But the remnant went on, quitehappily, services were held at the usual hour and children were taughtthe deathless stories of the Bible and New Testament, and they weretaught to sing, as the minister's wife played on the wheezy organ:

Pretty sombre stuff for children! What did they know of Death's darkvale?

Not much, not then, but in a few short years those children becamesoldiers, sailors and nurses, men and women in dangerous places, men onrubber rafts, in lifeboats, in the snows of Kiska, in the mud of Italy;they knew about Death's dark vale; and they knew fear, but again theysang the hymns they had learned in Sunday School, and found comfort asthe horrible darkness of night came down on them.

How proud I would be to know I had written one sentence, or taught alesson in Sunday School, which even for a moment comforted one of thesebrave people!

CHAPTER X

My First Story

The actual beginning of my serious writing began under the encouragementof Mrs. J. A. McClung, my husband's mother. It was in Manitou, soonafter the birth of Paul, when she came to visit us. One morning she cameout to the kitchen where Alice and I were at work on the weekly washing,with a magazine in her hand.

"Colliers has a short story contest particularly for unknown writers,"she said, "and I think you should send in one. You can write. . . . Itseems like a great chance."

Operations stopped while the announcement was read. But how could I everget a story done?

"Alice and I will look after the house if you will go right now and getat it."

"I could not do it today," I said—"there's the Church Tea—I have tosee about Florence's dress . . ."

My mother-in-law held firm.

"Trifles—all of them"—she said. "If you wait until you are ready towrite, you will never write. Don't you know that conditions are neverperfect? Life conspires to keep a woman tangled in trifles. Well nowAlice and I are in charge—so you are free. How long do you need?"

"If I could have one free day, I believe I could write a story," I said."I have been thinking of one."

So I went to the den. It was too cold upstairs. I think this was inNovember, 1902.

By night I had written the first Watson story—afterwards the firstchapter of Sowing Seeds in Danny.

The next day I re-wrote it in ink, on foolscap—the announcement saidwriting would be acceptable if plainly legible. The next day I mailedit, and as the months rolled on, nothing more was heard.

I began then to write short articles and stories for Dr. W. H. Withrowof the Methodist Sunday School Publications, and from him I receivedsome encouragement, and some small cheques.

In the following March, I got one day a letter from Colliers—and thistoo arrived on wash day—I remember hastily drying my hands on theroller towel before opening it.

It said my entry had not won a prize but it was held to the last, havingpassed all the preliminary readers. It was rather too juvenile for theirpurpose—but it was "a delightful story, with humor, and originality".

Then, acting on impulse, I sent the story to Dr. Withrow, and again thewaves of silence broke softly over it. In June, 1905, it again came tothe surface. This time a letter came from one "E.S.C." who told me hehad found the manuscript in a forgotten file—read it, and beenimpressed by it. He had shown it to two people (one was Jean Graham) andthey shared his opinion. It had "vitality, humor, and originality". TheWatson family were real people, and he would like to know more ofthem—"You should go ahead with this," he wrote, "and make it into abook".

I shall never forget the radiance that shone around me that day. I hadnot a doubt in the world about my ability. Of course I could writemore—now that I had this assurance. "E.S.C." was, I found, Mr. E. S.Caswell of the Wm. Briggs Publishing Company, and he became my patient,wise, encouraging counsellor. As I wrote I sent my chapters to him untilI became so absorbed in the story, I pushed on to the conclusion. Iwanted him to get the impact of the whole story.

It was finished in June, 1906, and Mr. Caswell was enthusiastic.However, I found out afterwards that the head of the publishingdepartment of the Briggs Company did not share in this opinion. He saidthe book was "a feeble imitation of Mrs. Wiggs", and would not take itunless an American publisher could be found.

Mr. Caswell, after some delays, caused by the loss of the manuscript,got the attention of Doubleday, Page & Company, who accepted the bookfor publication; and in 1908 Sowing Seeds in Danny appeared, andbecame the best seller of the year in Canada, and did very well in theU.S.A. too.

The success of Sowing Seeds in Danny led me into a new field ofadventure. I gave public readings from it. My mother-in-law was again toblame. She had a project in Winnipeg which needed money—the W.C.T.U.Home for Friendless Girls, called the Williard Home, and one day thepossibility that people might be induced to pay to hear me read from thenew book caused her to telephone me at Manitou. I told her it wouldnever do, no one would come—but I also knew from the first second thatI would do it. She had a way with her—that gentle, soft-spoken woman;she had the strength of the meek—the terrible meek, who win bysweetness and gentle persuasion and the brushing away of all argumentsas only the meek can.

I got a new dress, a soft blue; I had my hair done at a hairdressers,and a manicure and facial. My first excursion into the aromatic world ofApplied Beauty! I even had a little rouge to tone up my pale complexion.The operator put it on, without bothering to ask me, and I had to admitit was an improvement on the rose-leaf from a summer hat, hitherto usedby me for the purpose. I was learning.

I knew I could make myself heard and I knew I would not forget my piece.Anyway, being my piece I could carry on, but Grace Church, Winnipeg, isa large auditorium to fill and I feared the forbidding prospect of emptyseats. Mrs. Chisholm, President of the W.C.T.U., introduced me. Therewere three solos by Winona Lightcap, always a favorite, so the audiencecould not feel cheated. I remember too that Sir Daniel and Lady McMillansent me two dozen red roses from Government House and that the women whosponsored it were pleased. I was glad when it was over. My part wasn'tvery good and I knew it. It sounded like Friday afternoon in a countryschool.

In a week I had a letter from Will J. Green, Secretary of the Y.M.C.A.in Brandon, asking me to repeat the program in Brandon, and please namemy fee. I wrote back asking twenty dollars—I was sure that would closethe correspondence. No one would pay me twenty dollars. But Mr. Greenwrote back that the fee was a modest one, and he named the night.

To reach Brandon, I passed through Wawanesa, and the prospect of a fewdays there on my return lightened my gloom. It went off fairly well. Ifelt more at home. Again that Fall I was invited to perform. This timeit was at Roland, Manitoba, and that was a memorable visit, for there Imet Virginia, and Virginia was worth an effort on any one's part.

Virginia and her mother, who lived on a farm a few miles from Roland,entertained me, and as my train did not leave until afternoon the nextday there was no need for us to cut short our visit that night. And sothe three of us had a long evening. I loved to look atVirginia—eighteen years old, with dark curly hair, eyes the color ofdamson plums, dimples and a set of teeth that would be the delight ofthe toothpaste advertisers. Virginia's mother had the bewildered look ofa hen that has brought forth a duckling, and sees it sail away leavingher behind frantic with anxiety.

While Virginia built up the fire in the kitchen, her mother had a chanceto talk to me, about her, which she did in a whisper. "I wish you wouldadvise Virginia, she is so strong-minded, and outspoken. I'm worriedabout her. Men do not like strong-minded women, and Virginia says suchplain things. She's not one bit ladylike. I don't know what will becomeof her. Marriage is woman's only safety, and Virginia will not have mealways. I am sixty, and a woman's life is pretty well over by sixty. . .. Virginia took over when her father died, and she has run the farm—myboy wouldn't stay—he went to the city. . . . She'll be all alone herewhen I'm through. . . . I just have the two, and Virginia is sooutspoken I'm afraid people will talk about her. A young girl has to becareful, especially one who has no father."

Virginia and her mother were as far apart as two women could be. Themother, a frail looking little shell, made an appeal to one's pity. Herhands fluttered as she talked and her thin lips quivered. I wonderedwhat had sapped her courage.

After Virginia had fed us on jellied chicken, home-made biscuits, wildcranberry jelly, and coffee, the family conference began.

"Mother and I wanted to have you stay here, because we need some one'sadvice. We have a problem—or at least mother thinks it is a problem."

Virginia presented the case with precision. "Mother thinks I should getmarried, and I think so too, but I am more careful than mother and thinkahead. There's a young man who lives a mile from here, who wants tomarry me. He's a good fellow, tall, blonde, the right age, and goodlooking. In fact I liked him real well. But I certainly will not live inhis house. It is built on the high bank of a creek, beautiful forscenery, but no place for children."

Her mother threw me a glance which plainly said—"What did I tell you?"

Virginia went on. "I told him I was not going to take the chance. Hecould be careless with his children if he liked, but he couldn't becareless with mine—"

"Has he children?" I asked, slightly bewildered.

"No," said Virginia, unruffled, "not yet. But he will have if I marryhim—and he is hesitating. Says his mother chose this place and it isfull of childhood memories and all that. . . ."

"Don't you think," her mother said to me, "that all discussions ofchildren should be left until after marriage? It isn't quite delicate. Iwas married very young, and I knew nothing. I was a very innocent younggirl. Girls were innocent then."

Virginia reached over and patted her mother's thin hand. Her own wasstrong and brown. The two hands told volumes.

"You learned everything the hard way mother," Virginia said soothingly,"I look ahead and Mrs. McClung will tell you I am right. I wouldn't getmarried at all if I did not want children, and I am not going to fret myheart out with anxiety. I know what those kids of mine would do—they'dclimb fences, or crawl through—they wouldn't know danger and I couldn'twatch them. I'd be busy in the house with most likely a new baby, or onecoming."

"Oh Virginia, what will Mrs. McClung think of you! I cannot bear to hearsuch talk," her mother cried in real distress.

I did what I could to allay her mother's fears. Virginia was aforeshadowing to me of what women could be—strong, independent,courageous, outspoken, never confusing innocence and ignorance. Shelooked out at life and met its challenge. And where did she get this?Certainly not from her mother, I thought, but maybe it was. Life has away of keeping the balance.

Years passed. I wondered about Virginia and the house on the creek'sbank. One night after a lecture in Grace Church, I saw some people nearthe door waiting to speak to me. Then coming down the aisle I recognizedVirginia. No mistaking the sparkling dark eyes and flashing smile.Virginia, a little older, even more lovely—Virginia carrying ared-cheeked baby with the same radiant vitality.

I greeted her warmly—and hurriedly asked her if the creek had dried upor changed its course.

She shook her head—"A new house," she said, and motioned to someonebehind. Another red-cheeked, dark-eyed baby was carried up the aisle bya tall blonde young man with a well tanned face.

"You may as well meet the whole family at once," said Virginia. "We camein to Winnipeg to show you how we are prospering. You know it's fiveyears since we saw you, but twins count up fast."

"Virginia," I said, looking at the bright-eyed babies—"they would takefirst prize in any baby show."

"They did," she said proudly—"and just hold on a minute." She snappedher fingers over her shoulder, and I felt I was in a dream when I sawcoming down the aisle, dressed alike, in Red River overcoats, two littleboys—with blonde curie showing under their blue caps.

"Meet the troops," Virginia said, and the two blue caps were removedfrom the blonde heads as if by one motion. "George and Dan are three,and the little girls are six months old—all sound in wind and limb."

"Four beautiful children—so soon," I said, "Why, Virginia, you're only23 or 24 now—you have your family!"

"That's what you think," said Virginia!

If I were writing fiction, I would end this pleasant story right here;with its further development merely indicated. But this is not reallythe end of the story.

The first time I returned to Winnipeg after we moved to Edmonton, Ispoke at a Sunday night service in Grace Church, and as I greeted thefriends who came to speak to me I wondered about Virginia. She would bethe first person in the neighborhood to have a car, and drive it, and adrive to Winnipeg would be nothing to her. So I was not surprised to seeher, and her husband coming down the aisle, each with a little boy aboutthree years old by the hand. Then I was confused.

When the first words were over I raised the question which was in mymind. "I thought the babies were girls, Virginia," I said, "I must havebeen mistaken."

"What babies do you mean?" she asked. "We are right out of babies now.We have two girls."

There was a flurry from behind, and two miniature Virginias, wearing RedRiver coats and white woollen caps stood before me, and one of themsaid, "She means us".

"But how did you get so big all at once?" I asked them, as we shookhands.

"We're only five," they said. I couldn't tell them apart, but that didnot matter. They seemed to speak in unison. "But we're not big," theysaid, "George and Dan are big." And then I saw coming to speak to me,two tall boys—George and Dan, in long pants and lumbermen'sjackets—blue-eyed and handsome—straight as young trees.

"Six children," I said, looking in admiration at this remarkable group."Virginia, you knew what you were talking about."

Then I heard about the new house and the silo, and the new farmmachinery, and Virginia's aunt from Ontario who had come out to livewith her mother; and their plans for the boys—they were getting moreland for the boys who would go to the Agricultural College when theywere old enough.

Virginia and her family belonged to that abundant rolling prairie ofsouth-western Manitoba, with its poplar groves, and great wheat fields;its fine farm buildings, and intelligent people. Already the good workof the Manitoba Agricultural College was showing, and the ExperimentalFarm at Morden had demonstrated that roses and flowering shrubs, andeven fruit trees will grow, with proper care.

No one can write about this part of the country without paying tributeto the foresight of Sandy Stevenson of Nelson, north of Morden, who grewthe first apples in Manitoba.

He planted a shelter belt of trees, leaving only the south side open tothe sun, and there he experimented with hardy apples and succeeded. Thatis in itself a thrilling story of one man's triumph.

I remember the first box of home grown apples I saw, exhibited on therailway station platform at Morden, for the travelling public to view.We looked on their shining faces with reverence. To us, it was ahistoric event.

Of course the Manitoba winters are cold, but they are honest winters,and on an honest winter one can depend. They will not deceive you inFebruary by false signs of Spring which bring up the sap from the rootsof a tree before its time, or stir the hens to thoughts of maternity. Sothe apple trees can be strewn with straw to catch the snow and thechances are good that the snow will shelter the roots from frost untilit is time for all the processes of Spring to begin.

Then comes the first notes of the meadow lark, and the blue anemonescarpet the pastures and headlands, and the whole countryside comes alivealmost overnight. The umber furrows steam—the willows redden—the hensbreak out of their winter silence and the cattle leave the straw stacksto search for grass. Bright sunshine reveals the ravages of winter, thedustiness of the curtains, the window smears, the smoke blackenedceiling, and house-cleaning comes up like thunder.

"We'll hurry with the house," the women say—"so we'll be ready to plantwhen the fields are dry."

It makes me homesick to think of it. I want to go back. That was, andalways will be, my country. I was one of the children who found thepuss* willows, and listened for the first meadow lark, and made littlechannels with a hoe to let the spring water find its way to the creek,and ran swift as rabbits when the word went round that the ice was goingout of the Souris, and cried if we missed it!

I lay on the grassy banks in summer, and saw castles in the clouds, anddreamed great dreams of the future. I built my own raft to carry me downthe creek—a raft which sometimes held, and sometimes sank—I never knewwhy, but it was all fun. These I remember.

I walked the dusty roads to school in summer, and faced the wintry windsin winter, and I knew the sting of frost, and the horror of being lostin a blizzard—these are but vagrant memories which gave to life therichness of contrast. No one can enjoy warmth who has not known cold,nor companionship who has not known loneliness.

It is a hard country, these prairie provinces, which called tothemselves the sturdy of many lands. A land of quick growth, incrediblegrowth, in its rich black soil, sudden changes of weather and killingfrosts, when the gardens and fields are at their shining best. Over asmiling blue sky can roll a storm cloud edged with silver, from whichcan fall hailstones that batter the crops back into the earth. Afarmer's financial status can be reversed in twenty minutes.

But we who grew up with the prairie remember her purple twilights, herphantom breezes, the smell of burning leaves, the ripe tints of autumn,the slanting snow. When I want to recall that feeling of security whichthen was mine, I think of the times I watched the snow falling gently ina criss-cross pattern between our house and the Methodist Church, as Istood at the den window, knowing that the children were all safely in,and doing their homework on the dining room table. I could see themthrough the open door, Jack, Paul and Florence. Jack was there, in anadvisory capacity. Homework was no burden to him, but he stayed to helpthe young seekers after truth. The snowy nights were the occasions ofreading aloud too, and while we never denied them the delight ofsleigh-riding or skating on the fine nights, we loved the comfort of thestorm, which held them at home. I knew what the Psalmist meant when hewrote "She is not afraid of the snow for her household!"

CHAPTER XI

The First House

The year 1900 was a most important one for the McClung family, for itwas then that we bought a house. It was a house with a history too, andwhen we apply that phrase we know it means human heartburnings. Happy isthe house and happy the family that has no history.

The house was built by two young English brothers who lived in Canada afew years, and then went home to England and married two sisters fromtheir own village. The two young women were typical English girls withclear skins, bright brown eyes full of wonder, pink cheeks and softvoices. The young men had told them great tales of prosperity in Canadaand no doubt, the two girls thus wooed and won by the romantic youngranchers with wide hats and high boots, had been envied by all the girlsin their village. So no matter what came after, the sisters had hadtheir hour of romance.

Their disillusionment began soon after their arrival. The "horse ranch"turned out to be a livery stable which was not paying great dividends.However their shock was not as bitter as that of Katrina in SallySalimen's great story of the Aaland Islands, for these brides really hada house to live in. But it was a shock when they found that there wereno servants and but little money for household needs and that the twomen were not concerned about their complaints. However, the two littlebrides struggled on bravely with wood fires and hard water and tried tolearn Canadian ways, assisted by the neighbors who knew that their lotwas not going to be an easy one. The two brothers were of thatwell-known Old Country type who expect a women to be so overpoweringlyglad that she had found a husband she will never ask for more. Perhapsthe fault is not in the individual but in their long line of ancestors,male and female, who have believed without question in the dominance ofone sex.

Soon the pink cheeks began to fade and the pretty dresses grew shabbyand the bright eyes were often dimmed with tears. The women were seldomseen outside their own home. Evidently the two young men thought thatwoman's place was the home, but they managed to have a good timethemselves, dressed well, never missed a horse race and could alwaysfind enough money for their own pleasures. The families increased as theyears rolled on and to the credit of the two young mothers the childrenwere always well cared for.

After one of the big harvests the children began to talk about a tripthat they were going to have to England. It was going to be the mostwonderful trip that anyone had ever had, and in the best boat that eversailed the seas, and everybody was going to have new dresses and newhats. It was during this period of high hopes that I first made theacquaintance of the families. New life seemed to come into the faces ofthe two women and the children wore their old clothes without complaintthinking of the new dresses and coats that would be theirs when theywent home to see their grandparents.

The trip was always placed one season ahead. In the spring they decidedto go in the fall when the fruit would be ripe and they could all getroasted chestnuts. In the fall the spring would be a better time—thechildren must see the hedges white with May—daffodils and gilly-flowersin bloom. When this had gone on for two or three years the womenstopped talking about it and one day the house was for sale. Thefamilies divided and moved away.

(I have lived long enough now to know the end of the stories I havetouched upon in these pages—if stories can ever be said to end. So Iwill cut into the future here to give additional information concerningthe two families. Better days came to them, for the two women developedinto good managers and good citizens and the second generation has donevery well. Some of them now are filling important places in the teachingprofession. The friend who brought me up-to-date on these matters had anexplanation. "You see," she said, "the virtues of the mothers aresometimes visited upon the children, too . . .")

The house had a fine square of ground, which we proceeded to plant inpotatoes to break up the grassy sod. And what a crop we had of EarlyRose and Wee Macgregors! Then we planted a hedge of caragana to dividethe lawn from the vegetable garden, and by the generosity of theneighbors who supplied the slips, we put in a lilac hedge on the eastand north of the house.

In 1925 I visited Manitou and the lilacs were in bloom and in fullfragrance, and I thought I had never seen lilacs so beautiful. They gaveme the exalted feeling of the man who dug a well beside the road, eventhough he knew he would not return that way.

That was the first house we owned and it will always have a place in ouraffections. It had high ceilings and large rooms, a fine big farmer'skitchen, no conveniences and many architectural flaws, including a trapdoor to the basem*nt. But we were not critical. It was ours.

The great day came when we got a carpet for the living room and diningroom—a Brussels carpet made in Toronto and sent out to measurement.When we saw the great bulk as big as a sea serpent arrive on AdamMcBeth's dray and laid down on the floor, we wondered would we ever getit spread out and fitted into the corners. Strangely enough, it did fit,perfectly, and its beauty made us glad. The ground color was a beautifulgolden tan with great wreaths of flowers and scrolls dominated by onebright brown and orange speckled lily, exotic and wonderful like nothingany of us had ever seen. But I know now that it was a trigidia, thatstrange blossom that blooms but for a day. It's just as well I didn'tknow that this was "the mystic flower that dies in an hour" for beingIrish and superstitious it might have darkened the great pleasure Ifelt, and made me apprehensive of disaster. I am not blaming thetrigidia for what happened to the carpet but disaster overtook it in thefirst month of its life.

Fortunately we had one Epworth League social at our house, when thecarpet was laid, and the two rooms were resplendent in their newcurtains, wallpaper and paint.

But there came a night at the end of June, a heavy, thunderous nightwith racing clouds edged with white, when even the dog and cat wereuneasy. It had been a blistering day of heat, but after sundown theseominous clouds rolled over the sky, and at 10 o'clock, the cyclonestruck us.

We put out all the lights, and waited in the kitchen, which was on theeast and south of the house, away from the storm. The roar wasdeafening, and the lightning was continuous. When I opened the door intothe dining room the wind slammed it back. But I saw the blinds standingstraight out from the window frames—window glass in splinters on thefloor and torrents of water pouring in, pictures dangling on theirhooks, chairs overturned. When the storm was over there was a foot ofwater on the carpet, and our best books riding on it!

Wes was the most philosophical of all of us. "I never did like thatspotted lily!" he said. The next day Manitou wandered about looking atthe wreckage. Old Mr. Ross, who having reached the years of retirement,and still being strong and active, accepted the mission of looking forlost articles, and spent the whole summer at it. One of the teacherswhose trunk had been blown away with the summer kitchen of her boardinghouse, was considerably embarrassed more than once, when the old man mether, and presented some article of underwear on his stick—and she, poorgirl, walking out with her beau. It was painful to have to admitownership! People were more easily embarrassed in the early ninetiesthan they are now.

The day after the cyclone hot winds blew, and a bright sun shone and thewaters dried, the glass was restored to the windows, and the carpetsurvived and lived out its days; every lily gleaming bright.

In this house Horace was born, in the early hours of a June afternoon.Paul, aged five, had been sent to school with Jack and Florence to havehim out of the way and came back at four bursting with the news. Someonehad told him on his way home. He raced upstairs, had a look at his youngbrother, expressed satisfaction, and took to the street. He rang all thedoorbells in our neighborhood, and gave out the bulletin:

"It bin a boy. If it bin a girl, we would a called her Lizzie!"

Mrs. Sharpe, Mrs. Dales, Mrs. Chalmers, Mrs. MacTavish, Mrs. McNamara,Mrs. Turnbull, Mrs. Jones and Father Duffy were all responsive, andexpressed their pleasure, but I fear the announcement brought noanswering gladness from a couple who lived around the corner. They hadno children and were annoyed by the children's shouts as they played inthe long summer evenings. They had told us that they could not enjoytheir evenings until the children were called in for the night, and sohad to stay up late to get their reading done and then slept late. Theirtheme song, if they had had one would be: "Young Fry—Stay Away from OurDoor". Paul knew this too, but in his overflowing gladness, wanted everyone to rejoice with him. So that doorbell was rung too. I would haveliked to see my young son make his announcement at that house. Paul hada head of thick brown curls, and was wearing a badly crumpled BusterBrown suit and was no doubt fairly grimy, it being late in theafternoon. But it was a great moment and he still remembers it. And whenI asked him about it he said: "Everyone was glad. Mrs. Sharpe kissed me,and Mrs. Dales gave me a candy. Father Duffy said a prayer but Mrs. ——just rolled her head like this—I knew she was sorry she has no littleboy!"

The house had four bedrooms, all upstairs with but one register in thehall to supply the heat. Here the children dressed in winter, one at atime for peace sake. At least that was the rule, but rules are hard tokeep, and nine o'clock comes soon. When the three were getting dressedat one time the sound effects would have done for a Mexican Revolution.

But we managed to get them fed and clothed and off to school,comfortably dressed in their "Red River" coats, red scarves tied aroundtheir waists, knitted toques and "cardigans" which were thick stockingswith rubber feet and were pulled on over their boots; the most populartype of shoe was buttoned, and had bright plaid cloth tops, introducedinto Manitou by George Sharpe, son of Senator Sharpe. This eye-catchingbit of footgear became every child's ambition and the ordinaryleather-topped shoe seemed a poor thing by comparison.

We got a set of Dickens when the children were small and read aloud tothem in the evenings. David Copperfield was, I believe, the greatestfavorite. I remember how terribly we all felt over that awful scenewhere David was whipped by his cruel stepfather. I could see it wascutting too deeply into their young hearts, and so "tempered the wind tothe shorn lamb" by doing some improvising as I read. Soon after this,Wes had an attack of bronchitis, and Dr. MacCharles was in to see himwhen Jack came in from school. He didn't go out to play as usual andwaited until the doctor had gone, and then came to me deeply agitated.

"Will Dad die?" he asked me. I quieted him as best I could. There was nodanger, I told him. His Dad was young and strong, and bronchitis was notserious. "But could it kill him?" Jack persisted. "Did it ever killanyone?"

I had to admit it had.

"Well then," he cried, "tell me this. If Dad died, would you get marriedagain, ever?"

I was not prepared for this so I must have hesitated.

"You wouldn't, would you?" he said, shaking me, his eyes full of fear,"you surely wouldn't. You know what stepfathers are like, and I've hadenough of them!"

Then I knew what was in his mind and I gave him my solemn promise therewould be no Murdstones in our family. I took him downstairs with me andexplained to him that his Dad had put on more insurance for each childand that we owned the house and the drug store, and besides I could earnmoney teaching, so we would always have a home—this home, and therewould certainly be no stepfather. But the best of it all was that hisdear Dad was not going to leave us. He would soon be well again.

And that, by the mercy of God, was the way it was.

I got a vision that day of a child's need for security and the depth ofmisery which comes to the child of a broken home. Surely if parentsknew what trouble and anguish they bring to the tender hearts of theirchildren they would not let their homes break up for any trivial cause.

I have known women and men too who have borne insult and cruelty to holdtheir home together, and in the ignorance of my untutored heart I haveoften looked with something like contempt at the people who endured toomuch, but now as I look back, I regret the blindness of my eyes.Belatedly I pay tribute to some of these heroic ones, who "in time ofstorm held the ridgepole up and spiked again the rafters of the house".

CHAPTER XII

The First Move

I find it hard to leave the happy life we led in Manitou. I remember howoften I heard my mother say that the happiest days a mother has are theyears when her children are small and she knows where they are at night,when she makes her rounds and listens to their quiet breathing. I didn'tbelieve it then, of course. Nobody does. It's hard to see the truth atclose range.

But now, seen through the light of setting suns, I know that the quietyears in Manitou is the part of my life I would like to live over. Theywere abundant days, with plenty of everything. Plenty of work and play,laughter and joy; the great joy of seeing the children develop and grow,and acquire distinctive personalities. Then there were the smallexcitements of getting ready for company and planning a child's party,getting ready for Miss Govier, who came spring and fall to do thesewing, attendance at Friday afternoon entertainments at the school, andfor me the occasional call to substitute for a teacher who was ill orgoing away.

We had major excitements, too. There was the time we entertained theEpworth League Convention, with delegates from all over the province,and attended by the veteran founder, Dr. Francis E. Clark. I stillremember how delighted I was when the Free Press of Winnipeg asked meto report the convention for them.

One of the real thrillers for the people of our community came when theoil well blew in, in the Pembina Valley eight miles away. For a year orso the Pembina Valley Oil and Gas Company had been drilling quietly andwith fluctuating hopes. Mr. R. N. Lea, who first saw the prismatic colorof oil seeping out of the bank of the river, never wavered in his beliefthat the precious fluid was there in abundance. A few chosen ones wereallowed to contribute. Two hundred and fifty dollars was the price ofone share, and secretly we all cherished hopes of future riches. Theshowings grew better and better and we loved to drive to the valley tosee the progress of the well. It was a beautiful spot, which might wellbe the setting of something great and mysterious. The Pembina River,clear and cold, rippled over multicolored stones, and although thestream in its normal flow was small, it had made a wide valley of greatbeauty between softly moulded hills, feathered with poplars. Scarletlilies grew in the meadows. Silver willows gave evidence of the land'sfertility, and in the season of their blossoming made the air heavy withtheir fragrance. It was the place for picnics and drives andneighborhood gatherings—a photographer's delight. The hills had acharacter all their own and seemed to follow a precise pattern, withtheir grassy sides dented by small gulleys where young poplars andbirches ran down to the water. I have seen it at every season, at allhours of the day and in all weathers, but I always got from it a feelingof peace and plenty. The houses on the hills and on the river's bankswith the smoke from their kitchens climbing through the trees, thesharply-gabled church, small but dignified and secure in its traditionof aspostolic succession, these all combined to make the valley a placefor dreams. I think I can safely say that that particular part of thePembina Valley had charm. Any good thing might come out of it, and wewere confident that this spirit of well-being was a promise of somethingthat would cheer the farmer and lift his load. We believed that herewas a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, which would bring comfortfor the cold of winter and lights for the darkest nights, a reward forthe patient men and women who had labored long and often with meagrereturns.

I remember the hot summer morning the news broke. We were havingbreakfast in the kitchen, and I was admonishing my daughter Florence onthe general subject of being careless about her possessions, for she hadleft her sandals at the sand pile the night before. The sand pile was acommon playground, near a new house which was being built. I was tellingher that she must go and find them at once. Just at that moment, AlfGarrett, one of the shareholders, came running in at the side door ofthe kitchen, shouting:

"Wes! We've got it! The well has blown in! Oil and stones came crackingup over the derrick with a roar like thunder! We've struck oil, Wes!George Lea rode in on horseback to tell us! Come on, let's go! It's afortune!"

We were all excited and the youngsters joined in the general jubilation.Then up spoke the adaptable Miss McClung, she of the lost sandals, andwith great satisfaction in her voice announced:

"Now I won't need to hunt for my sandals. I'll just get a new pair, nowwe're rich."

People came from miles around to see the flowing well. They broughtbottles and cans to carry away the heavy black substance, which rolleddown the bank. The management said we must now have more scientificdrilling; we could afford to hire an expert now—sure we could. Even thedoubters now wanted shares. We would hire the best man we could find andno doubt many wells would be sunk, and we decided at once that thisgreatest of oil wells would be called "Lea" for the discoverer.

Lea, Manitoba, would be a shining place on the maps of the future. Weliked the neatness of the name. The balance of the story is quicklytold. We got the expert, who was highly recommended by a certain oilcompany. He had had great success in Texas. He would know what to do.Perhaps he did. Troubles began. Machinery broke, tools were lost. Everymisfortune that could happen to a well, happened to ours. The expert wassympathetic and tried to temper our impatience by telling us that oildrilling has always been a heart-breaking business, and at last gave ushis opinion reluctantly, that our showing of oil was just a freak ofnature.

The valley is still there and still beautiful. Orange lilies still bloomfor the twelfth of July, and the fringed blue gentian still comes inSeptember; the river still carries patches of oil. Mr. R. N. Lea, whoheld his hopes to the last, has lain now for many years in the littlechurchyard beside the weather-beaten church, and not many of the firstshareholders are left.

Once every decade or so there is a revival of interest in the PembinaValley Oil project, and once, in a flurry of enthusiasm, a new companywas formed and a well sunk, but in a different part of the valley, forsome unknown reason. But all through these long years the first well,day and night, summer and winter burns its beacon of hope, a sturdyflame, standing straight when the air is still, or veering with the windas it blows. The people who go to the valley now for picnics can boiltheir coffee on its flame. But in this year of war, 1943, there are fewyoung people left in the valley.

There came a day when we suddenly made up our minds that we would make achange. The drug store was prosperous. Wes had built a new brickbuilding across the street with a hall above where the Foresters andMasons met, and sometimes socials were held. We had not only a good drugbusiness, but a good book business too. No, no sandwiches or coffee.Drug stores, in the early years of 1900, stuck to their own channels ofcommerce.

But the hours were long, and Wes had a primitive Methodist conscience,and had to be sure that every prescription was right. He had two goodassistants, but he was the only licensed pharmacist, and he was alwaysafraid that there might be a mistake.

There was a mistake once, in one of Dr. McGillivary's prescriptions—Dr.McGillivary was the veterinary surgeon. One of the boys put boiled oilinto a horse drench instead of raw oil, and, of course, that would havebeen fatal.

There were no telephones then, no way of stopping the bottle fromreaching its destination, only to overtake the farmer with a liveryteam. Wes did this, and all was well. But it left him more anxious thanbefore.

He developed an over-cautiousness—such as getting up at night to godown to the store to see if the doors were locked, and I could see theresponsibilities were getting too heavy for him. His usual gooddisposition began to cloud over. I kept telling the children about hismany cares, and they did their best not to add to them.

One day when there was some unpleasantness about a misplaced hammer,Jack wrote a rhyming explanation of the episode which he left beside hisfather's plate at dinner. I remember the summary:

And that seemed to be the situation, and I could see something had to bedone, even if we had to live on less. I could not stand by and see Wesdrift into a state of nervous exhaustion, and his fresh complexion dulldown to the drug-store bleach.

So we sold the store and bought two farms, both of which were rented.Wes built telephone lines, with his friend George Ullyot, for oneseason, and the years fell away from him, and the whole family washappy.

There was a great movement toward outdoor sleeping then, and we bought alarge tent which was put up on the lawn, and here the McClungs sleptuntil well into November, a hale and happy family.

But one day, an insurance man, hearing that Wes had sold his drug storecame out to offer him an agency, and Wes became an agent for theManufacturers' Life Insurance Company.

In 1911 we moved to Winnipeg, bought a house on Chestnut Street, and thewhole tide of life changed. I remember the day we left Manitou. I lookedback from the window of the train as it made its labored way up thegrade past Luke Armstrong's buildings and Elijah Harmer's big barn. Wehad the whole family with us, except Jack, who stayed behind to writehis examinations. It was a bright June day, full of greenness andbeauty, the air full of the scent of pea vines and wolf willow blossom.The hush of noon-day lay on the fields for the workers had gone in fortheir mid-day meal. Peace and plenty lay over all and every building,grove of trees, every winding trail seemed like an old friend from whomwe were parting. I knew one pleasant chapter of our lives was ending anda sudden fear gripped my heart—fear of the market place; fear of highplaces; fear of the strange country. If I could have gone back to thesafety of the known ways at that moment, I would have gone. Tears rolleddown my cheeks, which, fortunately, the children did not notice. Theywere too full of joy at the great adventure, and too full of plans forthe beach, for we were going to spend two months at Lake Winnipeg wherewe had bought a cottage. I kept my face pressed to the window, trying tosubdue this flood of emotion which was really downright homesickness,premature but nonetheless real. You can't go back, I kept saying tomyself; no one ever gets the chance to try the other way.

CHAPTER XIII

A Gentleman of the Old School

The big city gathered us in when the pleasant summer at the beach wasover. Mark, our youngest child, was born on October of that year, andquickly became the idol of the family, with his blonde curls, blue eyesand quaint wisdom. The other children were all at school and Jack hadstarted at Wesley College. Every day was full of interest. I enjoyed myassociation with the Canadian Women's Press Club, when we met once aweek for tea in our own comfortable quarters. There great problems werediscussed and the seed germ of the suffrage association was planted. Itwas not enough for us to meet and talk and eat chicken sandwiches andolives. We felt we should organize and create a public sentiment infavor of women's suffrage.

The visit of Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst and of Miss Barbara Wiley, also oneof the British Militant Suffragettes, created a profound impression. Theimmediate cause of our desire to organize was the plight of womenworkers in small factories. Some of our members had visited these and wewere greatly stirred over the question of long hours, small wages anddistressing working conditions.

Mrs. Claude Nash spoke one day on this subject at a Local Councilmeeting, and as a result of this meeting she and I were deputed to bringpressure to bear on the government for the appointment of a womanfactory inspector. We decided to go to see Sir Rodmond Roblin, thePremier, and if possible, get him to come with us to see some of thefactories. She knew him quite well and I had often listened to him inthe Legislative Assembly from the visitors' gallery. He was a florid,rather good-looking man in his early sixties, somewhat pompous in mannerbut very popular with his party and firmly seated on the politicalthrone by what was known as the "Machine". He believed in the patronagesystem and distributed governmental favors to the faithful in eachriding. However, even in all the exposures which followed his defeat in1914, there was no proof that he had ever enriched himself at thecountry's expense.

Mrs. Nash must have had some political standing, for I certainly hadnot, and we got an interview. We found Sir Rodmond in a very genialmood, and he expressed his delight at our coming. Mrs. Nash was a veryhandsome young woman, dressed that day in a grey lamb coat and crimsonvelvet hat. I wasn't looking so poorly myself for I, too, had youth onmy side, and we could see that the old man was impressed favorably. Itold him I had just come to live in the City from Manitou and Imentioned the name of W. H. Sharpe (afterwards Senator Sharpe) and Ithink that Sir Rodmond took it for granted that I, too, was a goodConservative, or, as he expressed it, was of the "household of faith".Sir Rodmond had once been a lay preacher in the Methodist Church, andscriptual references came natural to him. He balked a bit when we askedhim if he would come with us to see some of the factories and tried toget us to be satisfied with one of his deputies, but Mrs. Nash and Iheld firm, and much to our surprise, he consented. He called his car andwe set out. He looked very well in his beaver coat, and his car was themost pretentious I had ever ridden in. The cut glass vase filled withreal carnations impressed my country eyes.

On the way to the first factory, the Premier, who sat between us, withhis plump hands resting on a gold-headed cane, gave us his views onwomen working in factories. He believed in work, especially for youngwomen. There was too much idleness now, with electricity and short cutsin labor. As a boy he had worked from sunrise, and before, until theshadows of evening fell, and enjoyed it. Happiest days of his life . . .running barefoot under the apple trees. Perhaps we were over-sentimentalabout factory conditions. . . . Women's hearts were often too kind . . .but he liked kind women—and hoped they would never change. And theseyoung girls in the factories whom we thought were underpaid, no doubtthey lived at home, and really worked because they wanted pin-money.Anyway, working wouldn't hurt them, it would keep them off thestreets . . .

Knowing what we did, we let the monologue go on. He advised us not toallow our kind hearts to run away with us. Most of the women in thefactories, he understood, were from foreign countries, where life wasstrenuous (that word was in the first flush of its popularity them).They did not expect to be carried to the skies on a flowery bed of ease!It doesn't do women any harm to learn how money comes. . . . Extravagantwomen are the curse of this age.

We conducted the Premier down dark, slippery stairs to an airlessbasem*nt where light in mid-day came from gaunt light bulbs, hangingfrom smoky ceilings. The floor was littered with refuse of applepeelings and discarded clothing. There was no ventilation and no heat.The room was full of untidy women, operating sewing machines and equallyunattractive men cutting out garments on long tables. We urged SirRodmond to speak to some of the workers, but he was willing to call it aday at the first glance. He was shocked at the filth of the place, andasked one of the women if anybody ever swept the floor? He had to shoutto drown the sound of the machines. The woman shook her head and kept onworking. Then we reminded him that all these people were on piece work.

We led the Premier through a side door into the foul passage where aqueue had formed before a door marked "Toilet". We could see that SirRodmond was deeply shocked that we should know about such things butMrs. Nash led the way, and I pushed him along from behind. We drew hisattention to the fact that there was no separate accommodation for thewomen, and we did not need to mention that the plumbing had evidentlygone wrong. We knew that he was soon going to bolt away from us, so wedidn't spare him anything.

"For God's sake, let me out of here," he cried at last. "I'm choking! Inever knew such hell holes existed!"

"These people work from 8:30 to 6:00, Sir Rodmond. Six days a week,"Mrs. Nash told him sweetly. "But no doubt they get used to it." I amafraid her sarcasm was lost on Sir Rodmond.

When we got him up on the street again, he remembered an importantinterview he had promised, but we coaxed him to come to one more factorywhere men's shirts were being made, and all the workers were youngwomen, and by promising him that this would be the last one, he camewith us. This workroom was in rather a better building and some daylightcame in from the windows. We wanted him particularly to see these younggirls who were being "kept off the streets". At one machine a girlworked with a bandaged hand, a badly hurt hand and a very dirty bandage.At another one a girl coughed almost continuously. I asked her how longshe had had her cold and she said she had no cold, it was just a bit ofbronchitis she had every winter, but she daren't stop work for therewere plenty more to take her place, and someone had to earn some moneyin their family, as their father was out of work. She said she had beenlucky to get the job. The manager came over to speak to us, anxious toshow us the fine product they were turning out. Mrs. Nash asked him howoften the factory inspector came around, but he didn't seem to knowanything about factory inspectors. "In fact," he said, "we hardly needone. All the girls are glad of the work. I have no trouble with them."

"How about the girl who coughs so much?" I asked. "Couldn't she be givena few days off with pay to get built up a bit?"

The manager regarded me sternly.

"The company is not a charitable institution," he said, "and makes noprovision for anything like that. If the girl is sick, she can alwaysquit!" He threw out his hands expressively in a fine gesture of freedom.

Sir Rodmond was moving towards the door, and we followed. When we gotback into the car we could see that the fine old gentleman of the oldschool was really shocked at what he had seen.

"Now, Sir Rodmond," we said, "do you still think that these women arepleasurably employed in this rich land of wide spaces and greatopportunities?"

Sir Rodmond let down one of the windows of the car and said:

"I still can't see why two women like you should ferret out such utterlydisgusting things."

"Your factory inspector knows about these places," we told him. "Wemailed him a list of them and described them, but he has done nothing.He takes your attitude: Why should women interfere with what does notconcern them? But we are not discouraged and have no intention ofallowing these conditions to continue. We would like you to appoint awoman factory inspector, a real, trained social worker."

Sir Rodmond grew impatient at that. "I tell you it's no job for a woman.I have too much respect for women to give any of them a job likethis. . . . But I don't mind admitting that I'm greatly disturbed overall this, greatly disturbed," he repeated. "I'll admit I didn't knowthat such places existed and I promise you that I will speak to Fletcherabout it."

With this understanding we parted, thanking Sir Rodmond for giving us somuch of his time.

Our investigations went on. We were only amateurs but we did find out afew things about how the "other half" lived. We made some otherdiscoveries too. We found out that the Local Council of Women could notbe our medium. There were too many women in it who were afraid to beassociated with any controversial subject. Their husbands would not letthem "go active". It might imperil their jobs. The long tentacles of thepolitical octopus reached far. So one night at Jane Hample's house onWolsley Avenue we organized the Political Equality League, with amembership of about fifteen. We believed that fifteen good women whowere not afraid to challenge public opinion could lay the foundationsbetter than a thousand. Some good work had been already done by theIcelandic women of the city, who had organized the first suffragesociety many years before, and the W.C.T.U. women could always becounted on and the same was true of the Labor women.

We wanted to get first-hand information on the status of women inManitoba, and, of course, the whole Dominion. Then it was our purpose totrain public speakers and proceed to arouse public sentiment. We wouldbe ready for the next election and hoped to make our influence felt. Wehad all the courage of youth and inexperience with a fine underpinningof simplicity that bordered on ignorance, but anything we lacked inknowledge we made up in enthusiasm.

On a sudden impulse one day I phoned to the Premier's office when theHouse was in session and asked for an interview with Sir Rodmond Roblin,and to my surprise I found myself speaking to the gentleman himself, whoin his most gracious manner assured me he would be pleased to see me andI could come at once, which I did. There in his private office with itsred plush hangings and heavy leather furniture, I told the head of thegovernment what we were doing and what we hoped to do. He listened withamused tolerance, but I was grateful to him for listening.

"Sir Rodmond," I said, "the women of Manitoba are going to be given thevote, either by you or someone else, and as you are the present Premier,it can be your proud privilege to have this piece of progressivelegislation to your credit. I know what you're thinking; you're notimpressed with the importance of this matter but that's because younever thought of it and you really should begin to think about it. Youcan no longer afford to take this attitude of indifference, and that'swhy I came to see you."

He looked up at me then and said:

"What in the world do women want to vote for? Why do women want to mixin the hurly-burly of politics? My mother was the best woman in theworld, and she certainly never wanted to vote! I respect women," he wenton, "I honor and reverence women, I lift my hat when I meet a woman."

"That's all very nice to hear," I said, "but unfortunately that's notenough. The women of Manitoba believe that the time has come to make aneffort to obtain political equality. The laws are very unfair to women.I would like to tell you about some of them, for I don't believe youknow, and what I would really like to do this afternoon is to have achance to talk to you and your cabinet. It wouldn't take me long; Ithink fifteen minutes would be enough, and if you and the cabinet couldbe convinced that it is the right thing to do, it would certainly beeasier, more dignified and less disturbing than if we are compelled tomake a fight for it. But that is what we are prepared to do, if that isthe way you want it. I wish you would call them in, Sir Rodmond, there'splenty of room here in your office."

Sir Rodmond removed the dead cigar from his mouth and his eyes hardened.

"The cabinet wouldn't listen to you," he said.

"You'd be surprised," I answered. "I'm really not hard to listen to, andI don't believe the cabinet would mind at all. In fact," I saidbrazenly, "I think they'd like it. It would be a welcome change in themiddle of a dull day."

He could scarcely find words to express his astonishment anddisapproval.

"You surprise me," he said slowly. "Now who do you think you are?"

"At this moment," I said, "I'm one of the best advisers you ever had inall your life. I'm not asking you for a favor, I'm really offering youhelp."

"What if I tell you that I don't need your help?" he said severely. "Andthat I think you're rather a conceited young woman, who has perhaps hadsome success at Friday afternoon entertainments at country schoolhouses, and so are laboring under the delusion that you have the gift oforatory. What would you say to that?"

"I wouldn't mind," I answered. "I wouldn't even resent it. But I wish totell you again, Sir Rodmond, as clearly as I can make it, that we aregoing to create public sentiment in this province, which will workagainst you at the next election. Did you ever hear that quotation aboutthere being a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood leadson to fortune?"

We looked at each other across the wide space of his mahogany desk andthe silence was eloquent. Then Sir Rodmond's mood changed. His selfconfidence came back; for a moment a doubt had assailed him. But theabsurdity of the situation gave him courage. After all, what had he tobe afraid of? His party was firmly entrenched, having 29 of the 42members. He grew jocular.

"It would never do to let you speak to the cabinet," he said in the tonethat one uses to a naughty child. "Even if they listened to you, which Idoubt, you would only upset them, and I don't want that to happen. Theyare good fellows—they do what they are told to do, now. Everygovernment has to have a head, and I'm the head of this one; and I don'twant dissension and arguments. I believe in leaving well enough alone.Take the Indians, for example, they were far happier eating muskrats andthe bark of trees before the white man came with education anddisturbing ideas. Now they've lost all their good old-fashioned ways.No, you can't come in here and make trouble with my boys, just when Ihave them trotting easy and eating out of my hand. Now you forget allthis nonsense about women voting," he went on in his suavest tones."You're a fine, smart young woman, I can see that. And take it from me,nice women don't want the vote."

His voice dripped fatness.

"By nice women," I said, "you probably mean selfish women who have nomore thought for the underpaid, overworked women than a puss*cat in asunny window has for the starving kitten on the street. Now in thatsense I am not a nice woman, for I do care. I care about those factorywomen, working in ill-smelling holes, and we intend to do somethingabout it, and when I say 'we' I'm talking for a great many women, ofwhom you will hear more as the days go on."

I stood to go. Then he smiled good-humoredly at me and said:

"Now don't go away mad. You know you amuse me. Come any time, I'llalways be glad to see you." My smile was just as good-natured as hiswhen I said:

"I'll not be back, Sir Rodmond; not in your time. I hadn't much hope ofdoing any good by coming, but I thought it only fair to give you thechance. I'll not be back, but it's just possible that you will hear fromme, not directly, but still you'll hear; and you may not like what youhear, either."

"Is this a threat?" he laughed.

"No," I said. "It's a prophecy."

CHAPTER XIV

"The Women's Parliament"

Events moved quickly after that. The Liberal opposition, led by thatgracious, kindly gentleman, T. C. Norris, invited us to attend theirconvention and present the case of Women Suffrage, which we did andreceived respectful attention. The government newspaper sneeringlycommented that the opposition would adopt any platform which would bringthem votes, but we had no reason, then or later, to doubt Mr. Norris'good faith. He felt that the time was ripe for us to press our claim forthe next year would be election year.

We determined to inform ourselves on the whole broad question of women'sposition before the law. We would present our arguments with logic andwould be careful about our information. Our society was growing inmembership and we had many excellent speakers. Most of the newspaperwomen of the city were with us, so it was easy for us to get publicity.Sometimes it even slipped into the Telegram, which was the governmentpaper. Life was pleasantly exciting for all of us. We were a close knitorganization, alert, and keen, confident and unafraid.

As we studied the position of women in the eyes of the law, we wereappalled at the inequalities. I remember one day when I was leaving fora ten-day lecture tour I bought an Accident Insurance Policy for fivethousand dollars at the railway wicket, paying two dollars and a halffor ten days' insurance. I had often done this before but had neverreally read the blue slip which I had received. But on this day I wentover it carefully. It contained some excellent clause's, all beginning:"If the insured be a male." It told how much he would be paid in case oftotal disability, partial disability, the loss of a hand or a foot or aneye, but always the sentence began in that ominous way: "If the insuredbe a male." I wondered what the company had for me. On the other side ofthe slip I found it. In a little enclosure, fenced off in black, as ifsomeone were already dead, appeared this inscription:

"Females are insured against death only."

When I went back to the office I sought out the man who had sold me thepolicy and laid the matter before him.

"Why is it," I asked, "that you take a woman's money and give her lowerprotection than you give men?"

He said he didn't know anything about it, but he would find somebody whomight know. The next man assured me that he didn't know that women everbought accident policies. He didn't know that they could buy them, buthe would take me in to see Mr. Brown; Mr. Brown would know. Mr. Browndid know. Mr. Brown knew so well he was rather impatient with me forasking.

"Don't you know," said Mr. Brown severely, taking off his glasses, as ifto let his brain cool, "that women are much more highly sensitized thanmen, and would be more easily hurt in an accident, they would be avictim of pure nerves, and many a woman, particularly not a wage-earningwoman, would like nothing better than to lie in bed for a week or two,and draw her seven-fifty a week. They would think they were hurt whenthey really were not, and there would be no end of trouble."

"But, Mr. Brown," I said, "what about the clause relating to the loss ofhand or foot? You would not be altogether dependent on the woman'stestimony in that, would you? You could check them up—if they werepretending, could you not?"

Mr. Brown's face indicated that he couldn't be bothered answering anymore foolish questions. He put on his glasses, and I knew I was beingdismissed. I thanked Mr. Brown for his information and told him that Ihoped to have an opportunity of bringing the matter before the nextconvention of insurance men.

Mr. Brown looked up then quickly.

"Have the insurance men invited you to speak to them?" he asked sharply.

"No," I answered truthfully. "They haven't. But they will."

We began to get invitations to send speakers to the small towns and sowere confronted with the need for money and it was then that a brilliantplan unfolded. To Lillian Beynon Thomas belongs the honor of bringing inthe idea, which really swept us into victory. She had been in Vancouver,and heard about a skit put on by the University Women's Club there,wherein women assumed the places held now by men and men were thevoteless sex, dependent on the chivalry of women, and not liking it anytoo well. It had caused much merriment and discussion and when Mrs.Thomas told the committee about it, at once they saw its possibilities,and proceeded to work on it. In an incredibly short time they had theirplans laid. I did not know anything about it, for I had been out of thecity for two weeks, and when I returned every detail had been workedout.

The plan of campaign was as follows: We would send a delegation of womento the Legislative Assembly then in session asking for the vote. SirRodmond Roblin, we felt sure, would refuse. He already sneered at theLiberals for putting a suffrage plank in their platform, saying it wassupported only by "short-haired women and long-haired men".

The delegation would go on Tuesday afternoon, January 27th, 1914; thenon Wednesday evening we would put on our play at the Walker Theatre. Wecalled it "The Women's Parliament" and there on the stage we wouldpresent a replica of the Legislative Assembly of Manitoba, made upentirely of women, for in this land of fancy which we were presenting,only women voted and only women sat in Parliament. Our Madam Speaker,Mrs. Frances Graham, would be magnificent in a purple gown with high hatof gold laden with white plumes, and we had two little girl pages incorrect costume, Ruth Walker and Florence McClung, who would carryglasses of water to the speakers, distribute bills and call the membersto the telephone. I do not think one detail was forgotten. There wouldbe a Government and an Opposition, bills would be introduced, memberswould read newspapers when the opposition members were speaking, and theheckling would be constant and clever. The climax of the session wouldcome when a delegation of men would be received, men who humbly askedfor the vote, pleading their cause with real eloquence, as they askedfor joint guardianship of their children, and a right to their ownearnings.

The committee had decided that I was to take the part of Sir RodmondRoblin, so it would be my duty to receive the delegation and reply tothem. I also had to make the closing appeal on the real sure-enoughdelegation, which would take place on Tuesday afternoon, so when Iarrived in the city on Saturday, January 24th, I was told to come to theWalker Theatre for the rehearsal of the play, I could see that there wasa busy time ahead of me.

That day of fate, Tuesday, January 27th, brought a heavy snowstorm butthe Legislative Assembly was packed to the roof to hear the womenpresent their case to Sir Rodmond and his followers. They received us atthree o'clock and the members were in "Committee of the Whole" with thePremier in the chair.

Those of us who were presenting the case were seated at a table in themiddle of the room and when we spoke we arose and bowed to the chairman,and then to the members on both sides of the House. We had rehearsed ourspeeches carefully and covered the question very well, we thought, andwhen we were through Sir Rodmond did us the honor of rising from hischair to answer us. I shall never forget the strain of that moment. Whatwould be the fate of our play if Sir Rodmond were wise enough to give usa favorable reply? If he had only known it, he could have pricked ourbeautiful balloon, and taken the flavor out of every bit of our humor. Isat there in a nervous panic, but I need not have feared. The orator ofthe old school ran true. He was at his foamy best, and full of theeloquence which Anatole France once described as "that which glides butnever penetrates". I wanted to make notes. I did not want to forget hisexact phrases, but I know I must not write a word, so I just sat withevery fibre of my brain stretched to absorb his diction and the exacttones of his voice. He was making the speech that I would make in theplay in less than thirty-six hours. O, the delight of that moment! Hewasn't spoiling our play. He was making it!

He told us how he loved his mother, and for her sweet sake, reverencedall women. The present status of women was highly satisfactory. Noblecharacters had been produced. "Any civilization," he said, "which hasproduced the noble women I see before me is good enough for me. . . .Gentle woman, queen of the home . . . set apart, by her great functionof motherhood. . . . And you say women are the equal of men." He pausedhere dramatically, blowing himself up like a balloon and shouted at us:"I tell you you are wrong. You do your sex an injustice which I shallnot allow to pass unchallenged. Women are superior to men, now andalways!"

He never had a closer listener in all his life. I observed everygesture, the attitude he struck when he caught his thumbs in thearmholes of his coat, twiddling his little fingers and teetering on hisheels. That denoted a jocular mood. When he wanted to be coldlyreasonable though fair withal, he held his elbows close to his body withthe palms of his hands outspread. I tried to absorb every tone of hisvoice, from the ingratiating friendly voice, calculated to set everyoneat their ease, even though they were in the presence of a great man, tothe loud masterful commanding voice which brooked no opposition.

I could hardly wait to get home and practice it all before a mirror.Every sentence was precious and lent itself to caricature. I had had twogood observers in the audience, Wes and Jack, who was then seventeen,and so I tried my speech on them and received their contributionsgladly. Before I slept that night I had Sir Rodmond's speech all writtendown, and the next day worked it over to meet our needs. I was wellsatisfied with the result, and if I ever had any feeling of irritationtowards the Premier of the province, all was forgiven, for I knew he hadgiven me a wonderful speech.

The play exceeded all our expectations. It was certainly a greatcommunity effort, and its phenomenal success was brought about by manyfactors. It was preceded on the program by a clever and witty sketchwhich put the audience in the mood to laugh, and the fact that thepeople of Winnipeg were keenly interested in the political situation atthis time and well acquainted with Sir Rodmond's type of oratory made iteasy for us to put over our burlesque. Many of the people in ouraudience had been at the delegation the day before, and those who werenot, had read Sir Rodmond's speech which was reported at length in thegovernment newspaper. So when I welcomed the delegation of men who cameto us seeking the vote, in Sir Rodmond's own words slightly overdone,the audience began to laugh. I praised the delegation for their manlybeauty, singling out the leader, Robert Skinner, as a type of manhoodunexcelled, and said that any civilization which could produce such aperfect specimen of manhood was good enough for me, and then I grewstern and swept the audience with the beetling brow expression of SirRodmond and pompously added: "If it is good enough for me it is goodenough for anybody." And then I drew myself up and by my attitude daredanyone to contradict me. It was interesting to notice how the laughsbegan running over the galleries, into the pit and back again, and wewere well away.

Elsewhere I have written a full account of this evening. In 1921 I wrotePurple Springs, a novel, in which the struggle for the vote inManitoba became the background for this, the third and last of myPearlie Watson stories. It is a work of fiction, but the part relatingto the Women's Parliament is substantially a matter of history, althoughthe characters are imaginary, of course. We gave the play twice inWinnipeg and once in Brandon, and had crowded houses on all occasions.We made enough out of the play to finance our campaign in the province,and there is no doubt that it was a great factor in turning publicsentiment in favor of the enfranchisem*nt of women. It is stillremembered in Manitoba as a great burlesque and over and above itseducational value, a great piece of entertainment. Because it was such afactor in the advancement of women and attracted notice all overCanada, I am going to include the two newspaper reports.

We were particularly pleased that the government paper, The WinnipegTelegram, gave us such an enthusiastic report. The writer there refersto the "Premier's reply" to the delegation as "a piece of sarcasm," but"burlesque" would describe it more accurately. Sarcasm is an ugly wordwhich means, literally, the tearing of flesh, and our play was notintended to tear anybody's flesh. We had one desire: to make theattitude of the government ridiculous and set the whole provincelaughing at the old conception of chivalry, when it takes the form ofhat lifting, giving up seats in street cars, opening doors and pickingup handkerchiefs, pretending that this can ever be a substitute forcommon, old-fashioned justice!

The Winnipeg Telegram, Thursday, January 29th, 1914

WOMAN SUFFRAGISTS GAMBOL AT WALKER THEATRE

Judging from the aggregation of femininity at the Walker Theatrelast night, Winnipeg homes must have been masculine manned foronce in their existence during the evening. The big theatre waspacked to the roof with all ages and types of "the female of thespecies", undoubtedly as a demonstration of sympathy with thewomen who sought in vain the other day for the extension of thefranchise to women in Manitoba.

From the standpoint of an entertainment, it was excellent andfew burlesques or light comedy productions have ever met with aheartier response than last night's burlesque on the system ofgovernment as it exists today. The performers may have beenamateurs, but they were only amateur in name. As a matter offact they were the real thing so far as woman suffrage isconcerned so they were naturally quite at home in their roles,even if they were a wee bit nervous at first. But the spirit ofthe thing seemed to catch them all and consequently theperformance was an entire success, from both the point of viewof artists and the audience. The women who portrayed thecharacters of politicians both in and out of office appeared totake quite naturally to their parts; in fact, it might be saidthat they actually revelled in their pretence of holding officeand that secret ambition they all shared is undoubtedlyaccountable for the great success of the entire program.

Highly Enjoyable

It was an evening on "Woman Suffrage", held under the auspicesof the Winnipeg Political Equality League, and if last night'sproduction is any indication and the campaign in future meetswith as much success, the cause of woman may not be so hopelessafter all and the vote may not be so far away as one might beinclined to fear. It must have given the leaders encouragement,that is if they could pierce beyond that veil of burlesque thatcovered every move that was made and every word that wasuttered. From the standpoint of the anti-suffragist, theentertainment was highly enjoyable, the satire and sarcasm ofthe whole business being too good to miss.

This was especially the case in the burlesque entitled "AWoman's Parliament" in which the actual leaders in the localsuffrage organizations filled the leading roles in the skitwhich, for sarcasm and satire of the deepest kind would bedifficult to beat. In it was given an idea of a Parliament runby women, with men disfranchised, and an effort was made topicture what might exist if women held the upper hand in affairsof state, and made the laws. As nearly as possible the "rules ofthe House" were followed and the routine proceedings adhered toas much as could be expected under the circ*mstances. Petitionswere presented; motions were offered; questions were asked andbills were read. One was to confer dower rights on married menand was presented by Mrs. W. C. Perry, while Miss Kennethe Haigreplied for the government. The bill was presented by Mrs. Perryin a brilliant speech which, if one might be permitted to remarkunder the circ*mstances was meritorious for its common-sense. Onthe other hand, Miss Haig's reply in opposition to the bill wasequally good for its absurdity.

Equal Rights for Fathers

Mrs. A. V. Thomas, also on the opposition, presented a measureto confer upon fathers equal guardianship rights with mothers,which was also supported and opposed by speeches bordering onthe ridiculous yet productive of mirth of the greatest degree.

The feature of the session, however, was the delegation of menwho waited upon the government with a bill for "Votes for Men".R. C. Skinner led this delegation and presented the case for themen, while the Premier, Mrs. Nellie McClung, replied. Mrs.McClung's reply was the choicest piece of sarcasm that has everbeen heard locally and was purely and simply a burlesque of arecent speech made in reply to the bill of the women. It wassomewhat overdone, perhaps, but for the purposes of theentertainment, was entirely suitable.

Mrs. Francis Graham acted the role of Speaker of the House andwas attired in a handsome cloak of lavender hue trimmed heavilywith ermine, while her hat was a stunning affair, also lavenderand surmounted by a huge ostrich plume. It was also notable thatin the Woman's Parliament, the mace was decorated with yellowand purple ribbons and several bouquets of flowers.

Characters in Burlesque

The characters in the burlesque were:

Speaker: Mrs. Francis Graham.

Premier: Hon. Mrs. Nellie McClung.

Leader of the Opposition: Hon. Mrs. W. C. Perry.

Minister of Public Health and Education: Hon. Dr. Mary Crawford.

Minister of Economy and Agriculture: Hon. Mrs. Lipsett-Skinner.

Minister of Public Works: Hon. Mrs. C. P. Walker.

Whips: Miss Mildred Kelly and Miss Ducker.

Attorney-General: Miss Kennethe Haig.

Usher of the Black Rod: Mrs. Crossley Greenwood.

Clerk: Miss Alma Graham.

Pages: Miss Ruth Walker and Miss Florence McClung.

The first part of the evening was taken up with a satiricalcomedy in on act entitled: "How the Vote Was Won", by CicelyHamilton and Christopher St. John. The sketch gave anopportunity to various types of women to demonstrate theirattitude and consisted for the most part of bold speeches abouthow they would make the men toe the mark. It dealt with ageneral strike called by the women, who threw themselves upontheir nearest male relatives for support until the franchise wasextended to women. It had many weaknesses and most absurdsituations but it was wonderfully well acted, especially theroles filled by Frank Keall, Betty Cubitt, Mrs. Skinner and MissPhyllis Cameron King. The sketch was directed by Mrs. C. P.Walker and Mr. Keall was stage manager.

A somewhat humorous touch was given the proceedings by therendition of suffragette songs "specially typed" by theAssiniboine Quartette consisting of George Best, R. C. Skinner,Russell Hawes and Howard Richardson. H. E. Davey rendered twoenjoyable violin solos.

During the evening, an opportunity was presented the audience tosign a petition calling upon the government to extend thefranchise to women and pamphlets dealing with the variousaspects of woman suffrage were sold.

Winnipeg Free Press, Thursday, January 29th, 1914

WOMEN SCORE IN DRAMA AND DEBATE

Clever Satire on Provincial Events in Mock Parliament—BrightSketch Presented

A sold-out house at the Walker Theatre last night testified tothe keen interest taken in the activities of the PoliticalEquality League.

The Assiniboine Quartette opened the proceedings with somesuffragette songs and then the curtain rose for "How They Wonthe Vote". Originally the locale was London but the names ofstreets and so forth were cleverly changed to Winnipeg. It onlytook about half an hour of determined action on the part of hiswomen relatives to convert Horace Cole, a clerk, to rabidsuffragist sentiments. By a concerted movement among the women,the thing was simple enough. They simply struck work. Each womanleft her employment and went to live with her nearest malerelative until such time as the state should recognize herrights. When Horace arrives home, he finds the maid has left andhis wife is conjuring with the steak for supper. The worst isyet to come, however. Before he was able to appreciate the forceof the first blow, his sister-in-law turned up and announced herintention of staying. Mollie, his niece, also arrives. AlsoMaudie Sparks, his first cousin, and Miss Wilkins, his aunt, andMadame Christine, a very distant relative. All were firm in theintention of staying until men foreswore that pious fraud aboutwoman's place in the world. Under the circ*mstances, it was notsurprising to find Horace ready to enlist among the "Votes forWomen" band nor even to see him mounted on a chair full ofenthusiasm for anything which would once again ensure him thepeaceful enjoyment of his home.

Miss Betty Cubitt made a dandy wife and Frank Keall a veryforceful husband. Mrs. Lipsett Skinner played the part of thesister-in-law, Miss Phyllis Cameron King was amusing in a doublerole, first as a woe-begone slavey and then as the niece. Otherparts were genially played by Misses Eileen Fallon, M. E.Corwin, Ethel Hayes and John Logan. Staged by Mrs. C. P.Walker, there was no danger of anything but "efficient business".During the ensuing entertainment, H. E. Davey gave a couple ofviolin solos which were enthusiastically applauded.

The piece de resistance was, of course, the Mock Parliament. TheSpeaker, Mrs. Francis Graham, was gorgeous in purple and ermine.Miss Alma Graham made a charming Clerk, and Misses Ruth Walkerand Florence McClung were natty little Pages. Mrs. McClung askedthe audience to remember that the conditions for the next houror so were to be reversed. The women enjoyed the suffrage andallied political rights. The men were entirely without them.

Facetious Papers

Petitions were first in order, and some facetious papers wereread. One by the Society for the Prevention of Ugliness prayedthat men wearing scarlet neckties, six-inch collars and squeakyshoes be not allowed to enter any public building whatsoever.Mrs. W. C. Perry, Leader of the Opposition, then read a bill toconfer dower rights on married men. In a clear, sympatheticvoice, she made a strong appeal for poor, downtrodden men. Butthe government was adamant. The Attorney-General, Miss KennetheHaig, with a composure and elegance which might be envied bymany a real statesman and with the necessary leaven of humor,said she was keen on men.

Miss Frances Beynon on the Opposition side asked when theperambulating university site was to become stationary. Dr. MaryCrawford said that only five sites had hitherto been used and aletter from the Real Estate Association was in her handsrequesting that the site continue to perambulate until everyreal estate interest had benefitted.

Truancy Officers

Asked if she intended to introduce compulsory education in theAgricultural College, the Minister of Agriculture (Mrs. Skinner)said no, but she had something just as good. She proposed tochange the label of the bottle and introduce the best system oftruancy officers this country ever saw. The truancy officerswould be appointed by the government and responsible only to thegovernment. They would patrol the back lanes and the roads, shecontinued, "I venture to presume, my friends on the Oppositionbenches, that my truancy officers will capture every man in theProvince of Manitoba who is over twenty years of age and put himin the Agricultural College in St. Vital for a course of twoyears in economics".

Mrs. A. V. Thomas, a speaker of well known earnestness andpower, wanted for the second time a bill to confer upon fathersthe rights of equal guardianship with mothers.

The climax of interest was reached when a delegation of men,headed by R. C. Skinner, arrived at the Legislature to petitionfor suffrage privileges for their sex. Their slogan was, "Wehave the brains. Why not let us vote?"

Plenty of Satire

The Premier, Mrs. McClung, compared the gentlemanly conduct ofthe members of the delegation with the rabid courses ofsuffragists overseas. If all men were as intelligent as theleader of the delegation, she would have no hesitation inaccording them the suffrage. But such was unfortunately not thecase. Mr. Skinner, with the customary hotheadedness of thereformer, had not stopped to think of that. Down to the southwhere men had the vote, it had been shown that seven-eights ofPolice Court offenders were men and only one-third of churchmembers were men. "Another trouble is that if men start to vote,they will vote too much. Politics unsettles men, and unsettledmen mean unsettled bills—broken furniture, broken vowsand—divorce. . . . It has been charged that politics iscorrupt. I do not know how this report got out but I do mostemphatically deny it. I have been in politics for a long timeand I never knew of any division of public money among theMembers of the House, and you may be sure, if anything of thatkind had been going on, I should have been in on it. Ladies andgentlemen, what I mean is that I would have known about it." Atthe end of her splendid address, Mrs. McClung was presented witha bouquet of red roses.

It is reported that two members of the Manitoba Opposition haddeserted the civic dinner and secreted themselves among theaudience.

CHAPTER XV

The Campaign

We knew that one success was not enough, so we continued our campaignwith increasing enthusiasm. I wish I could remember all the good storiesthat were told about the suffrage meetings all over the country. Wereally had a great group of women and I have an uneasy feeling that Imay be overlooking some of the best of our workers.

There were two sisters, tall, handsome businesswomen, Lynn and WinonaFlett, who contributed largely to the success of our cause. A good storywas told of Lynn's repartee at a meeting in northern Manitoba, where theSmart Aleck of the little town was her chief heckler. He was a big,hulking fellow who had fortified himself with a few drinks to give himcourage. Lynn had answered his questions good humoredly at first, for asa matter of fact our speakers welcomed hecklers. They added to theenjoyment of the meeting. Then the big fellow, growing bolder said

"Miss Flett, you're all wrong about women. They're too scared to ever doanything by themselves. Why, my wife is afraid of a mouse."

Lynn stepped over to the edge of the platform and took a long look athim, while the whole room grew still.

"That's queer," she said, with wonder in her voice, "I would havethought that the woman who married you wouldn't be afraid of anything.Certainly not a mouse—or even a larger rodent!"

And that seemed to meet with the approval of the audience.

I had some exciting times of my own. I remember one night at Ninga,Manitoba, when in the course of my address I told the story of thewell-off farmer, who had left his three sons his three farms in hiswill. To Martha, the eldest of the family, who had worked like a slaveto give the boys a chance to go to school, and received very littleeducation herself, he left a feather bed and a cow, and for thesixty-five-year-old mother who had worked harder than he to acquire thesubstantial estate he made provision in his will that she would have her"keep" with the youngest son. Not a cent of money, just her keep. Justexactly what you would leave to a faithful old horse who had served youwell.

It was a good example of the barbaric attitude of the law towardswomen's work, and I told the story well, if I do say so, and the peoplewere moved. That night the story acquired an interesting footnote. WhenI threw the meeting open for questions, as I always did, a good-looking,well-dressed man arose and said, with some sarcasm:

"Mrs. McClung is undoubtedly a great weaver of tales, and she certainlyknows how to stir people's emotions, but," he went on, "we must be onour guard against these sob stories and retain our sense of balance."

I asked him to go on and be specific. What story had I thrown out ofbalance? Then he explained.

"That story about the sixty-five-year-old woman," he replied. "You saidshe was left her keep with one of her sons; no doubt the one whoinherited the old homestead. She would go on living in her familiarsurroundings, happy and willing to help her son's wife and family. Shewould sit in her own rocking chair and look at her own flowers bloomingin the window. Your big complaint was that she was not left any money.Now tell me what need has a sixty-five-year-old woman for money?"

He sat down then and I let a few seconds pass in silence just to letthat last sentence "jell" in the minds of my audience. Then I said tohim:

"I thank you sir, more than I can tell you. You have completed the storybetter than I could ever have done it. What does a woman of sixty-fiveneed of money? Say it over, all of you."

I picked out a group of elderly women who sat at my right hand, and Isaid to them:

"Do you ever feel the need of money? Do you ever want to subscribe to amagazine, or give a donation to the Missionary Society, or send presentsat Christmas without asking any one's permission?"

They answered me with a resounding affirmative.

"You wouldn't like to have to go to your own son and say: 'Please,Johnny, give me a dollar and a half. I want to buy Lucy's baby apresent!'"

Then I addressed the gentleman:

"With your kind permission," I said, "when I speak at Boissevaintomorrow night, I will add your contribution, giving due credit ofcourse. You are a better weaver of tales than I am, for I never wouldhave dreamed that any person in their right mind would dare to say thata woman of sixty-five should be deprived of her financial independence."

Usually I travelled in the day coach when I was moving about the countrybecause I would be sure to meet some of our local workers there, but onone particular day near the end of the campaign, I went into the chaircar so I could have a sleep. I was coming into the city from Broadview,and I had a meeting in Winnipeg that night, so I settled down gladly ina comfortable plush chair with my face to the window, glad to have a fewfree hours ahead of me.

The campaign was going well and my heart was warm with the evidences ofan awakened electorate. I was glad to be living and having a part in agreat movement. Never had I seen such loyalty and such close communionof spirit. I was grateful above all, for the loyalty of my own family,from Wes with his generous endorsem*nt of all that I did, down to thefascinating sweetness of three-year-old Mark; Jack and Florence, agedseventeen and fifteen, and Paul, thirteen, Horace, eight, were all atschool, doing well, and interested in all my activities. The householdran smoothly under the capable guidance of two good Irish girls,Elizabeth Armitage and Maggie Galway.

Usually I telephoned home each night just before I went to the meeting,and often began my address by saying:

"Settle down now and don't worry about my children. They are all welland happy, clothed and fed. The baby is in bed and all is well" . . .

I knew, of course, that my family affairs were the subject of muchdiscussion. I was vulnerable in five places and I tried to guard againstany grounds for criticism. The children entered into the spirit of theadventure too, and I still have a picture of Horace leading home hisyoung brother, much spattered with mud, and one stocking at half mast,hurrying him along the lane and in through the secret entrance in theback fence, saying:

"Quick, now! It's a good thing I got you before the Telegram got apicture of you—Nellie McClung's neglected child!"—this with bitterscorn.

With all this background of loyalty, I was able to speak and write,catch trains at any hour, answer criticism, with a minimum of fatigue,for my mind was at ease and my heart was light, and I often quoted thewords from the Psalmist:

"The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places!"

It was in this mood that I sought the comfort of the luxurious chair carthat lovely June day, 1914. It was one of those green gold days in lateJune, when the wheat is in the shot blade, high enough to ripple in thewind, a day to remember, a day to warm your heart when the tides of liferun low, the sort of day that Tennyson had in mind when he wrote:

When I wakened I heard my name mentioned, evidently I was the subject ofdiscussion across the aisle, but that was nothing. People who expresstheir opinions in print or from the platform must expect criticism, andthese people behind me were just the usual run of critics . . . and Iwould get along with my sleep. We were just leaving Brandon.

A man's voice boomed out above the vibration of the rails.

"Oh, you're from the east," he said, "and you don't know her as well aswe do in Manitoba. Nellie McClung is nothing but a joke here and I cantell you that the Government is not worrying about her or her meetings.T. C. Norris is the fellow who should worry. He is the leader of theOpposition, and believe me his candidates lose votes every time shespeaks."

I couldn't hear what the woman said, but evidently she was asking formore details, and he proceeded to develop the theme.

"She's a big woman," he said, "badly dressed, with a high-pitched andstrident voice, a regular rabble-rouser, the rough and tumble type.Irish, you know; Shanty Irish, with big hands and feet."

He nearly got me there! I thought of my dear old dad's pride in the"sparrow shins of the Mooneys" which all his girls had inherited, but Ikept my feet on the foot stool and my head between the sheltering wingsof the plush chair.

Another woman interrupted him at that point and said sharply:

"She must have something, all the same. Do you really know her? Have youactually heard her?"

"I certainly have not," he answered. "I wouldn't go across the road tohear her. I know all about that woman that I want to know. The way shetreats her children is enough for me. She has a whole raft of them,seven or eight I should say, and she just lets them run wild! All thepolicemen know them, I can tell you that. My sister lives near her andshe often takes them in, feeds and washes them, just sorry for thekids."

"What about her husband? What sort of a fellow is he?" the same womanasked.

"Quite a decent chap from all I hear," he said. "I think more of himsince I heard he's getting a divorce. No one blames him either. I guesshe got tired of being pointed out as 'Nellie McClung's husband'."

"Well, of course, that wouldn't constitute grounds for a divorce," oneof the women said rather dryly, and I could feel that she wasn't muchimpressed with the narration of my shortcomings. "But you certainly haveme interested, and I'm going to stay over in Winnipeg just to hear her.She's speaking there tonight; I saw it in yesterday's paper; I think Ihave it right here, and there's a picture of her too."

I could feel that she shoved the picture in front of him.

"She looks very neat and tailored to me. I wonder if you're not a littlebit prejudiced. There's nothing wrong with her clothes, or her faceeither."

My first impulse was to turn around and "down-face" the gabby one andcall upon him to name the sister who fed and washed my neglectedchildren, but something held me back. I had let the conversation go toofar for that. After all he was only repeating the gossip which I knewmany people hoped was true. I knew if I turned around the women wouldrecognize me and the situation would be a bit painful for the narrator.So I slipped on a pair of colored glasses which would make a gooddisguise. I could take all the chatter he could produce about myself, myclothes and the "impending divorce". I could take all that and laugh atit. But the matter of my children I could not allow to pass. I would notlet him get away with that. But I wouldn't embarrass him before thewomen.

When they went away to freshen up before we arrived in Winnipeg, I had aword with the gentleman across the aisle. I took off the dark glassesand swung my chair around. Then I recognized him. He was one of thecivil servants from the Public Works Department, a party heeler and heknew me too.

"You said your piece very well, Mr. M.," I said cheerfully. "But it's apoor piece!"

The color went from his face. "What are you going to do?" he stammered.He looked around helplessly wondering if anyone were listening. "Mytongue ran away with me, and I certainly feel cheap."

"Don't worry," I said. He was a pathetic sight as he wiped his forehead."Just tell me one thing. Who is your sister, this good Samaritan whofeeds my needy children?"

"I have no sister," he said miserably. "I heard a fellow say that,that's all. You sure have me over a barrel. You caught me red-handed."

"Oh, it's not serious," I said. "And I can afford to laugh at it. Youknow it's only the truth that hurts, and your conversation did not showa trace of truth. It didn't even impress the women you were talking to.You've got to do better than that if you're going to earn your expensemoney. I know you used to live at Alexander, and you have been sent outto oil the machine."

We sat in silence for a few minutes, and then he said:

"Are you going to tell this in one of your speeches? I know you can makeme look like thirty cents."

"No," I said. "I'll give you my promise. I'll never tell it, thoughperhaps when I'm old and grey and have time to sit down and write mymemoirs I may give it a place, for you know it has some good dramaticfeatures, but by that time I'll be too old to remember your name. Infact I have forgotten it now. So cheer up and look out at the pleasantcountry we're travelling through, bright with sunshine. The Irish peoplesay: 'It's a pity that a fine day could ever do any harm,' and that'sthe way I feel about you. You're like a smear on the window, so I'vebrushed you off. When it comes to fighting fair and honest, you couldlearn something from the Irish, even the Shanty-Irish!"

I found out that hecklers at a political meeting are a real asset, andnothing pleased me more than to hear that I was going to have oppositionat my meeting. I tried to make sure that the opposers would not weakenby announcing before I began my address that there would be time forquestions and comment at the end of my address, and that I hoped therewould be frank criticism. One night I noticed an infuriated little manin my audience, who kept on snapping the case of his watch, andsquirming in his seat. I did not allow his impatience to divert myattention from what I was saying, but I felt that a storm was rising.

When the question period came, he was the first one on his feet, anddelivered himself of a strong tirade against women who desert the sacredprecincts of home. When the audience showed signs of disapproval, Iasked them to give a respectful hearing. He had been invited to speakand must have every chance to state his opinions.

I knew there was a fight on in this town, led by the local women, tosecure the use of the school grounds in the holidays for supervisedplay, and opposed by some members of the School Board, and it occurredto me that he was probably one of them. His pompous manner, his use ofbig words, and the usual stock phrases convinced me that he took greatpride in his public speaking.

He ended his tirade by telling me that I would be better employed, athome, looking after my children, for after all that was a woman'shighest duty. I was always careful to reply courteously, and pleasantly,and so I thanked him for his thought for my children and assured himthey were all well, and had good care and were not deprived of theprivileges of childhood, shelter, food and clothing and the right to behappy.

Then I walked close to the edge of the platform, and paused long enoughto get the strained attention of the audience, and said:

"You're quite right in saying that our children are our greatest assets.You and I are in perfect agreement there, and while it is true that youcannot do anything for my children, there is something you can do forthe children of this community. Help the women who are trying to makethe School Board see the necessity of a safe playground for the littleones. I hear that some tight-fisted, short-sighted, mean-souled membersof the board are holding out against it saying there may be windowsbroken and to pay for supervision is a waste of money. Of course I knowsuch sentiments are foreign to you—for you evidently are a lover ofchildren, even taking thought for mine."

Then the audience broke loose. The little man was the leader of theopposition, and happened to be the Chairman of the School Board!

It was one of the lucky chances which come to speakers.

Lillian Thomas and I were the guests of the Board of Trade in a westerncity one night at a supper after a suffrage rally in the theatre. We sataround the table when the meal was over and the discussion was informaland friendly. But there was one discordant voice, the Secretary of theBoard, a young man, a violent anti-suffragist. I kept wondering what wasback of his bitterness. Sometimes it seemed he was merely drawing usout, but as the wordy battle proceeded, he became more and morevituperative, even insulting.

"Women voters would be too corrupt," he said, "too dishonest. They wouldsell their votes and then under cover of our secret ballot, double-crossthe buyer. Men would, in the main, remain bought."

That, of course, brought a laugh and some of the other men joined in,partly to cover up for the irate young man, who happened to be one ofour hosts.

But again he took the bit in his teeth, and launched into an attack onwomen, reminiscent of the avalanche of abuse which John Knox had pouredon Mary Queen of Scots.

"When the devil plans a particularly evil fate for man," he said, "hesends a woman . . . the only place women are safe is in a harem."

I wondered what his wife was thinking. She was a sweet-faced littleviolet of a woman, in a sheath dress of silver cloth, as meek and mildas a spring day. Perhaps she understood him and did not mind. Certainlyher face showed no emotion.

But we had no intention of allowing this glib-tongued dissenter todisrupt the discussion by turning it into a bit of vaudeville chatterand I was getting ready to strike him out when I noticed that Mrs.Thomas' face had a rising flush and I knew I could lean on my oars andrelax. Lillian was about to take over. Lillian's voice was alwayssoothing but now it had a therapeutic quality as she said:

"I don't believe this is a time for argument. Mr. —— speaks out of asombre background, and arguments will not avail. The heart knows its ownbitterness. This case calls for a psychiatrist, and as this is not evena court of domestic relations, I think we will have to pass on."

There was a sudden silence and I knew Lillian had exploded a mine. Iwatched the face of the little violet but she was calm as the night andlooked as innocent as the white carnations on the table.

Before we left on the train that night we heard the story. The Violetwas not a violet at all except in appearance. She was a bit of poisonivy. She could faint, she could scream, she could dissolve in tears butshe always got her own way and she could be beautiful through it alllike the movie actresses who can suffer shipwreck, hurricane or tidalwave without the loss of a single curl. There was a tragic story back ofthe marriage which explained the young man's distrust of women. He wasthe son of a rich mother and had become engaged to his secretary, muchto his mother's dismay, so the mother in haste invited the violet tocome out for a visit to save her son from the wiles of the workingclass. Violet was the daughter of her dearest friend in Toronto and shearrived, with six trunks, and proceeded to break up the young man'sromance and engagement, and married him in a blaze of glory. Then shesettled down to spending the family fortune, with complete disregard foranyone, including her mother-in-law.

CHAPTER XVI

The War

That summer of 1914 ran like a torrent. Each day was full ofexcitement—meetings, interviews, statements, contradictions, andthrough it all the consuming conviction that we were actually makinghistory. I do not think that any of us ever felt either tired ordiscouraged. Every day felt like the day before Christmas.

Trying to reduce all this human emotion to cold words on a page fills myheart with both joy and sorrow. I knew life had reached a pinnacle andwe were standing on a high place, a place easier to achieve than tomaintain. We were in sight of the promised land, a land of richersunshine and brighter fruitage, and our heads and hearts were light.Whatever else can be said about us, one fact remains: We were in deadlyearnest and our one desire was to bring about a better world foreveryone. We were not men-haters as our opponents loved to picture us.Some of our most faithful helpers were men. We were not like the angrywoman who cleans her house and beats her carpets to work off her rage.Ours was not a rage, it was a passion.

We saw ahead of us a world of beauty and abundance, here in Canada, thecountry which had no enemies, no ancient grudges, no hymns of hate. Wewere not a nation by any act of aggression, but by Act of Parliament.The whole world was wishing us well. Surely we were meant to lead theway to a better pattern of life, for to whom much is given much isexpected.

Each Saturday night the inner group met for a conference and thesemeetings had some great moments, when wonderful plans were laid for ourcountry's welfare. We were young and vigorous and full of ambition. Wewould re-write our history. We would copy no other country. We would beourselves, and proud of it. How we scorned the dull brown Primer fromwhich we had learned Canadian history! Written as it was from the topdown with no intimate glimpses of the people at all. British history wasa fairy story in comparison. At least it had action and color anddramatic intensity, with its Magna Charta and the Spanish Armada. Wecould still recall how thrilled we were as we read of the beacon firesthat burned along the coast to warn the people that the dreadedSpaniards were coming, and then how the winds of heaven blew upon ourproud enemies and drove them from their course. That was surely greatreading, full of readers' satisfaction, right down to the lastsentence—"Sixty-seven battered hulks reached Spain". That was historywell told.

We had something to write about too. Surely the fight against ignorance,isolation, loneliness, and ugliness could be made more thrilling thanquarrels between human beings. I had often thought of this as Itravelled through the country and saw from the windows of trains theuntidy little towns with their old cans and piles of discardedmachinery, broken verandahs, crooked blinds and unkempt streets.Emancipated women could remedy all this. It was not caused by lack oftime nor lack of money. Its root cause was the absence of an idea.Nobody cared. Nothing had been done to stir the civic pride of thesepeople and the burden of making a living was ever present, heavy andconstant. Work should not be a burden, and is not a burden when peoplelearn to work together. God had made ample provision for everyone inthis country. There was coal in the ground, electricity in the air andevery turning windmill proclaimed the power in the wind. All these wouldsome day lift the burdens from peoples' backs. We had not heard the word"chemurgy" but we were dreaming of it.

The election held on July 10th, which we had hoped to win for theLiberals, gave us an unpleasant surprise. Sir Rodmond's hold on thecountry was greatly lessened, but he did retain a small majority of theseats. Our discouragement quickly passed. We knew the powers of reactionhad been dealt a mortal blow and would crumble under the pressure ofpublic opinion, and in ten months this came to pass.

Our family had moved to the cottage at Matlock Beach on Lake Winnipeg,forty-five miles from the city, and there, in the pleasant environmentof a long, sunny verandah overlooking the dimpling waters of the lake, Irested body and brain and came as near to perfect contentment as I haveever been. This was the fourth year we had spent the summer at Matlock,and surely the Lord was good to us to let us have these long holidays,with all our children happily at play in this interesting place. Thecottage which we called "Kee-am" was a roomy one with five bedrooms. Wealso had a smaller one for additional sleeping quarters, known as the"Royal Suite". Our relatives, Percy and Eleanor Anderson were with usand their two boys, with our children explored and fished, swam andhiked, sailed boats and built rafts, ate and argued and grew brown withthe sun and the wind. My sister, Elizabeth Rae, and her two daughters,had a cottage near ours called "Raveloe". The girls were near Florence'sage and they had happy times together.

Looking back at it now, I do not think we had a care in the world. In myold cook book, mentioned in an earlier chapter, I still have "Work andWages" program which was tacked on the wall, wherein each boy exceptMark who was still under five, and therefore honorably exempt frommanual labor, could find his chores for the day. I baked the bread and Ithink every woman enjoys bread making. We had a fine big black stovewith a huge oven, which could turn out eight loaves at a time. I alsomade many individual loaves in baking powder tins for the enjoyment ofthe junior congregation. These were called "lighthouses".

On August 3rd the newspapers carried the flaming headlines: "Englanddeclares War on Germany." Grandfather McClung was with us then, and tohim we turned for information. He was our best authority oninternational affairs. "What did this mean? Could it be possible that wewere going to war? Who was the Grand Duke Ferdinand? Was there anyreason that we should go to war over a Grand Duke? Couldn't we let themfight out their own battles?" Even Grandfather McClung did not know. Hedid not know any more than did Mary, the Polish woman, who brought usvegetables and eggs three times a week. Poor Mary cried bitter tearsthat day as she counted out the eggs.

"It will be bad times for Poland," she wailed. "Always it comes toPoland, the wars, the bloody wars, and I'll never see my mother now.Saving my money I have been for three years to bring her out."

We tried to cheer Mary by telling her that this war must be somemistake; it would be cleared up. "People are too civilized to go to warnow."

When the men came home on the 6:20 train that night they had no furthernews. They told of the crowds around the bulletin boards, and thethreatened stock crash.

Strange days followed. The crowds at the dancing pavilion grew less andless. A shadow had fallen, even on the children, who now made forts inthe sand and asked us questions we could not answer. Cottages werebeing closed every day. We closed ours on August 24th and on that day Iwrote:

"All Nature conspires to make us feel sorry that we are leaving. Agentle breeze blows over the lake and rasps its surface into dancingripples that glitter in the sun. Blueberry Island stands out clear andbold and beckoning. The more tender varieties of the trees show a traceof autumn coloring, just a hint and a promise of the ripened beauty ofthe fall."

Before the turn in the road hid it from sight we stopped and looked backat the "Kee-am Cottage". My last recollection of it is of the boardedwindows, which gave it the blinded look of a dead thing, and of theferns which grandma had brought from the big woods beyond the railwaytrack and planted all round it, and which had grown so quickly and sorank that they seemed to fill in all the space under the cottage, andwith their pale-green, feathery fringe, to be trying to lift it up intothe sunshine above the trees. Instinctively we felt that we had come tothe end of a very pleasant chapter in our life as a family; somethinghad disturbed the peaceful quiet of our lives; somewhere a drum wasbeating and a fife was calling!

Not a word of this was spoken, but Jack suddenly put it all into words,for he turned to me as we walked together to the station and askedquickly, "Mother, when will I be eighteen?"

It was a fine warm day, but I still remember that the blood ran cold inmy veins. Dear Jack!

CHAPTER XVII

Westward We Go!

The fall of 1914 blurs in my memory like a troubled dream. The wardominated everything. Some of my friends were pacificists and resentedCanada's participation in a war of which we knew so little. Why shouldwe step into the age-old feuds of Europe? No one profited by wars exceptthe munition makers. . . . British peers held stocks in the Krupp Worksin Germany. . . . One of the first guns captured from the Germans andset up on a village green in England with appropriate ceremonies wasfound to have been made in England. Was this good enough to fight for?War was a game, a plot against humanity and would go on as long as thecommon people could be depended on to do the fighting.

These bold utterances did not go unchallenged. Chief among the Empire'sdefenders among the women was Miss Cora Hind. Her views were clear cutand definite. We were British and must follow the tradition of ourfathers. She would have gone herself if women were accepted. Miss Hindsaw only one side of the question and there were times when I enviedher, though I resented her denunciations of those who thought otherwise.

The old crowd began to break up, and our good times were over. Trooptrains were leaving the stations every week. Bands played in thestreets. The heart of the people was heavy and sad. I saw one man sayinggood-bye to his wife and eight children, a pitiable, shabby group on theplatform. His wife watched him go through her tears and put her griefinto words:

"'E's that pleased," she said, "you wouldn't believe it. It's all rightfor him, 'e loves a fight. 'Any war is better than no war,' he says, butI say there should be a lawr to stop a man from going who has eightchildren. But what can a woman do but just take what comes. 'E'll be a'ero and I'll be a drudge with bunions on my feet."

I tried to comfort her. I told her I'd much rather have her job than hisand that she and her family would not want for anything. The wholeCanadian people were pledged to look after the soldiers' families.

She shook her head.

"It isn't that," she said brokenly. "I've always had the burden, but Idid hope that Bill would settle down and behave himself. . . . I like tosee him coming down the street, swingin' along as if someone had lefthim a fortune. Did you notice how fine he looks in his uniform? . . .And now he's gone, and he'll be in the front line, I can tell you, and Iam proud of him in a way, but I know him, and I know he's glad to getaway from us, and that's what hurts."

What could I say to that?

When the train passed and all the women were waving and throwing kissesto their men, Bill was not at the window. His liberty had begun.

Unemployment grew steadily. The government had foolishly shut down thePublic Works, making more people jobless. Sir Rodmond and his followerscould do a fairly good job in normal times, but in this emergency theyseemed to be helpless. They were out of their depth.

Excitement, unrest, anxiety filled the bars and excessive drinking addedto the ills which the people vainly sought to cure. Drinking gave them abrief respite, but it took its cruel toll as always.

We decided to ask the government to open the Public Works and stop thesale of intoxicants, substituting coffee, milk and soft drinks in thebars. Sir Rodmond agreed to receive a delegation and one morning at teno'clock we arrived, about a hundred strong. Ralph Connor (Rev. C. W.Gordon) and I were to present the case, and we filed into theLegislative Assembly where all the members were gathered except SirRodmond. A strange hush hung over the Chamber and we wondered what wascausing this long delay. Messengers came in, whispered to the Cabinetmembers and tip-toed out again. The Assembly room had the air of ahospital corridor when an operation is proceeding down the hall.

At last the spell was broken by the appearance of the Premier, somewhatflushed and disturbed. I had often watched the sessions from thegallery, and knew by his appearance that the First Minister was about tobreak forth into a denunciation of someone.

He did not even observe the formalities of the occasion, but bluntlyannounced to Mr. Norris, the leader of the Opposition:

"I'm not going to listen to these people, Norris. They can't tell meanything that I want to hear. I tell you they're here for no good. Youcan stay and listen to them, they're your friends, not ours. Come on,"he shouted, waving to the Cabinet and members. "We'll leave Norris toentertain his friends."

The Cabinet and members rose as one man and followed him out of the roomlike a flock of sheep. One of them, as he passed me, jauntily threw me akiss, saying:

"See you later."

I had an umbrella in my hand and I'll never know why I didn't break itover his head. I was glad I hadn't, for it was a pretty one, but itwould have given me great satisfaction to wipe that insolence off hisface. However, the next time I saw him, the insolence had gone. It wasin the courtroom in less than a year when the Cabinet ministers were ontrial for misappropriation of funds in connection with the ParliamentBuildings.

In the fall of 1914 we moved to Edmonton. Wes had a chance to go toeither Vancouver or Edmonton to manage the branch for his company, andwe decided on Edmonton after much discussion. My brother Will and hisfamily lived in Edmonton, and that was one reason for our decision.Besides that, we believed that Alberta, with its mines, prairies andmountains, its newness, its incoming settlers would suit us better thanthe seaport city. It was a wrench for me to leave Manitoba where theother members of my own family lived, and where I had spent all my lifesince I was six years old. My sister, Elizabeth Rae, had just moved toWinnipeg, Hannah had lived there for some years, and George and Jacklived on the old farms at Wawanesa. Paul had spent his holidays at hisUncle Jack's each year with Harry, his cousin, and had such a good timethat it was hard to get him back to the city when school opened. Morethan once I had to go for him.

It seemed a pity to move away from all this pleasant association andfrom our comfortable home on Chestnut Street and yet there were somecompensations. I would get a chance to go back to my writing in a newprovince, I thought. I would shed all my political alliances, and goback to the work I liked best. I knew, of course, that the Liberal partyin Manitoba would soon be in power, and I knew too, that the women wouldbe given the vote and that I could be elected quite easily to theLegislative Assembly. There had been predictions that I would be invitedinto the Cabinet, and probably be made Minister of Education, all ofwhich was very exciting, and in my moments of exaltation I had greatdreams of what I could do for rural education, especially among theforeign born.

But when the McCurdy strain in my blood dominated I grew cautiousbecause of my inexperience and the fear of high places held me down toearth. "I charge thee Caesar, fling away ambition" I quoted to myselfsternly. I knew I could make a good speech. I knew I could persuadepeople, and I knew I had a real hold on the people of Manitoba,especially the women, but I also knew that the whole situation wasfraught with danger for if I, as the first woman to hold a Cabinetposition failed, it would be a blow to women everywhere. I could easilyundo all I had done for I knew the world would be critical of women fora long time. If a woman succeeded, her success would belong to her as anindividual. People would say she was an exceptional woman. She had a"masculine" mind. Her success belonged to her alone, but if she failed,she failed for all women everywhere. With this in mind, I hadn't thenerve to go on to the sixty-four dollar question. I said nothing toanyone, but it reconciled me to the move. I felt I was being let downover the wall in a basket.

However on the night we left on the Grand Trunk Pacific all my highthinking deserted me. All I could see was that group of kindred souls,men and women, the people I loved and have always loved. I was leavingthem and my heart was desolate. I said good-bye to each of them and toldthem not to wait until the train left, and then I walked away withoutlooking back.

The children each had their own group to see them off, exceptthree-year-old Mark whose social life was still limited. AliceFitzsimmons, our Irish housekeeper, had taken him ahead to the baggagecar to see where Philip the dog was lodged for the journey. When thelast "All Aboard!" had sounded the children came in, with boxes ofcandy, flowers and games and jackknives, parting tokens from their youngfriends. Florence was the only sad one and her sadness was for Manitouand Irene McNamara, her friend, and Olive and Clara Rae, and PearlSweet, her cousins in Winnipeg. The others faced the future likeseasoned travellers, full of the joy of adventure. Jack, who alwaysseemed to read my mind, knew I was feeling low, so he sat with me at theend of the car while the berths were being made up.

"Cheer up, good wench," he said, laying his firm young hand on mine,"fair stands the wind for Edmonton. Who knows what fortune waits usthere. Let us be merry as we travel. To travel hopefully is better thanto arrive!"

He had been studying Shakespeare and Ivanhoe, and he and I often carriedon our conversations in the fine old English phrases.

Two years afterwards when I wrote a book of short stories called TheNext of Kin I ended it with a prayer which I hoped might comfort otherpeople like myself whose hearts were torn with anxiety and fear. Itended with this verse:

I look back now and see that this prayer was abundantly answered in mycase. Too well! In my next re-incarnation my prayers will be all be forlight!

CHAPTER XVIII

We Take the Bitter With the Sweet

If I seem to the reader too introspective and disposed to spend too muchtime analyzing and examining and reporting on my own feelings andreactions, let my good friend Laura Goodman Salverson take theresponsibility. When she wrote me, after reading Clearing in the West,she said I had not revealed myself in that book. I was too objective,too concerned with events, conditions and developments. Autobiographyshould have in it the mind and soul of the writer. "Be more personal inyour new book," she said. "Break down and tell all! We want to see youand know how your mind was working."

So far as I can see the truth, and I do try to see it, there was a queerstreak of cheerful imbecility in me up to a certain period in my life. Ibelieved easily, I trusted people: I grew sophisticated at last, but itcame the hard way. I used to say, when speaking of the ultra sensitivefolk, who spend precious strength in the indulgence of hurt feelings,that if anyone wanted to hurt my feelings they would have to submittheir case in writing. I would not take hints, I was always ready tobelieve no harm was intended. Naturally, I drew criticism. I broke newfurrows, and attacked old prejudices. I was bound to step on someone'stoes, and so did not resent criticism. I tried to follow ElbertHubbard's wise slogan: "Get the thing done, and let them howl."

Shortly after going to Edmonton, something I said gave offense to theEditor of the Vegreville Observer, Mr. A. L. Horton, and he made methe subject of a scathing editorial in his paper. A friend of mine inManville defended me and sent me the papers. Among other things Mr.Horton had said: "People pay too much attention to Mrs. McClung. In myopinion she is a much-over-estimated person . . ."

I wrote him a note, telling him I had often thought so, too. (I did notadd Bernard Shaw's rider: "But who are we among so many!") Mr. Hortongave me another editorial, saying he liked my spirit, and inviting me touse his columns any time I wished—and I often did, but all my newspapercontroversies did not end so happily.

I got my hardest blow from a group of women in an eastern city. Theytaught me the bitter lesson that there are people who slap you on theback apparently in great good fellowship, but in reality they arelooking for a soft place to drive in the knife. I had gone to Ontario ontheir invitation to lecture in the fall of 1915 and had had a verysuccessful tour of many of the Ontario cities. Before I left for home,the executive of this group approached me on the subject of giving onemore lecture, and they proposed the terms. We would each pay half of theexpenses, and take half the profits, if there were profits. They wouldengage a large auditorium and work hard and make it a great success.They were full of enthusiasm, and our meeting went off well. We hadevery seat full, and they all seemed to be very pleased. I left the citythe day after the meeting, feeling that my eastern trip had been verypleasant and all was well.

Then a bit of trouble arose. The proceeds of the meeting had been sogood that one woman decided that she would make me take a fee, aboutone-third of what my share would have been under the terms of theoriginal agreement. I knew nothing of this until I got an unsignedletter telling me that some of the women felt that my share was toomuch, and under the circ*mstances, seeing that the project was apatriotic one, wouldn't I accept a fee?

I was not sure that this letter had the sanction of the executive, andconsidered it for a day or so before replying. Then I got an anonymousletter threatening me that if I did not accept the fee the society "willmake your name stink in the nostrils of the Ontario people". It was hardto believe that such language as this could emanate from the kindfriends who had flattered me more than I had ever been flattered before.But I remembered one woman in the group with whom I had had an argumentone day; she had shown the white of her eye like a broncho about tokick. I felt pretty sure she was back of the trouble, and I should havetaken warning, for though I did not know her, I knew bronchos and theirways. However, I still thought I was dealing with honorable women, so Iwrote back telling them that the success of the meeting was a poorreason for repudiating their own agreement.

Then the fat was in the fire. The broncho woman went to the newspapersand gave them an entirely false statement saying I had demanded morethan my share. This statement came out in newspapers all across Canada.I wired the president asking her to make a statement, and she wrote agood letter to the papers, stating the facts clearly. But the letter wastoo long for the average reader, and the damage was done. Anonymousletters poured in on me, the liquor interests rejoiced and thenewspapers they controlled revelled in what they called "The SuffrageMeeting Scandal". If I had robbed a collection plate, or rifled a baby'sbank, they could not have said more. Most of the western papers ignoredthe whole affair. The Calgary Albertan, the Winnipeg Free Pressdefended me. Mr. E. S. Caswell of the Toronto Library wrote to thepapers there appealing to their readers to look at the facts. The moneywas paid in full and I received many letters from members of thesociety, expressing their regret.

Trouble is a sieve to test our friends; the small ones fall through. Ilearned something from this thoroughly unpleasant experience, but thecost was heavy. I lost something, too. I was never quite so sure ofpeople after that.

In spite of this regrettable interlude I enjoyed my visit to Ontario. Icould understand better than ever how bleak and bare the western plainsmust have looked to my mother when I saw the rich fruitfulness of theOntario countryside with its apple trees bending over and the gloriouscoloring of the copper beeches and the hard maples. I had looked forwardto my trip to Owen Sound, the port from which we sailed in 1880 andespecially Chatsworth on the Garafraxa Road, where I was born.

I had been away thirty-five years, but when we drove the ten miles toChatsworth, I could recall some of the places. Inglis' Falls was therejust as I remembered it. So were many of the old rail fences, making aborder of fancy stitching around the fields. There were the stonefences, laboriously built in the fond but false hope that now the fieldswere cleared of stones forever; there was the old Hamilton house on thebank of a creek, and Chatsworth itself with its one long street.

It had been arranged that I should speak in the Methodist Church at 3o'clock in the afternoon, but before that, I was to be taken to the homeof the Hemstock family, old and dear friends of my parents. I rememberedthat before we left Chatsworth in 1880 I had been taken by my mother tosay good-bye to the Hemstocks and had been given full permission to eatall the blue grapes I wanted. They grew on a stone fence beside thehouse and were sweet on my tongue. I had often thought of them in thosefirst fruitless years on the prairie. I hoped they would be ripe nowwhen I was returning to these green pastures and the kind friends wholived there.

On our way from Owen Sound our car broke down and so the time alottedfor the visit was taken up with repairs and there was no way of lettingthe Hemstock family know for they had no telephone and it was with afeeling of real guilt that I pictured the family waiting. None of themwould be at the church for the meeting for according to the driver ofthe car, all of the family were hard of hearing. The meeting was a bigone and I would have enjoyed it very much if it hadn't been for thedisappointment I knew I had caused the Hemstocks. It was about fiveo'clock, two and a half hours behind schedule when we went to theHemstock home—a fine big old farmhouse, with a covered well in front ofthe kitchen door, the stone fence purple with grapes, crocheted curtainson the windows, tidiness prevailing inside and out and everything as Iimagined it would be. The Hemstock farm and family had not been witheredby the years.

First to greet me was Mary, the deaf mute and my mother's particularfriend. I knew about Mary. I knew that Mary could mend what other peoplewould throw away. She could take away headaches by her gentle massage,set broken bones, charm away warts, take motes out of eyes and cureeczema with her herbs and would have been a leader among women—anotherHelen Keller, if she had been educated. When I was a lonely child on theprairie I had often begged my mother to tell me about Mary Hemstock andher grapevine quilt of which she had made not only the quilt but thepattern, and her hair wreaths and seed wreaths, her skill in bringingchildren out of convulsions and how she saved the frightened youngheifer that had "slipped her calf" and wouldn't let down her milk andwould have had milk fever and died only for Mary, who was able to quiether.

And now on this bright fall day in 1915 I was standing on thewell-scoured doorstep of the Hemstock home and face to face with Mary.And strange as it sounds, Mary knew me. She could not have known I wascoming. She could not read or hear, but Mary knew me, and her littlewithered face glowed with an inner light. She made me understand thatshe not only knew I was a Mooney but she knew I was the youngest Mooneyby making a stairway in the air with her hand, and when she came to thelowest of the six steps, she beat the air again and again to show methat was where I came in the family group which was in her mind.

She told me too, I don't know how, that my mother was the best friendshe ever had and that my mother always understood her, which I knew wastrue.

She told me about the war and that she knew my boy was in it and thatshe was praying for him night and morning. She pointed to the east andthen to the west and lifted her work worn hands to the sky and I knewwhat she was saying to me as surely as if she had used words.

Fanny, the other sister, told me that Mary sensed things without beingtold and could always tell what the weather was going to be and when oneof the family was sick, even "as far away as the Soble" Mary knew it andsometimes they had to hitch up and take her to the ailing one for shecould not bear to know that anyone was in pain.

Fanny apologized for her father who was not on hand to welcome me.

"He put on his blacks," said Fanny, "at two o'clock and kept them ontill half past three and then we knew you couldn't come until after themeeting. He's down at the barn now feeding the pigs. He does all thechores, and you know what chores are like. Visitors or no visitors theyhave to be done."

Fanny shouted all this at me and I shouted back that I did know aboutchores and I roared out all the story about the broken car which hadprevented me from coming at two o'clock as planned. Then I went down thepath to find "Father". I knew he must be a very old man now. The Mr.Hemstock I remembered was a big man with side whiskers, the leading manof the neighborhood who pulled teeth with a real forceps and settleddisputes. He had been a strong objector to our leaving the neighborhoodthirty-five years ago. Mr. Hemstock had not believed Michael Lowery'senthusiastic reports of the Red River Country.

"Green fields are far away," Mr. Hemstock had said. "And the fartheraway the greener the fields." It had been hard for my mother to goagainst Mr. Hemstock's opinion.

And now here he was, a thin little man in overalls, no side whiskers,just a little sliver of a man, but smart as a boy with a face like awrinkled yellow Newton apple, but with bright eyes that almost twinkled.

With Fanny's shouts ringing in my ears, I roared at the old man andapologized for my failure to appear and told him how tenderly all myfamily remembered him.

The old man regarded me quizzically and I thought he was searching myface to find some likeness to my parents. He had put down the two pailsand leaned against the fence surrounding the pigpen. We had shaken handsbut he had not spoken a word.

"No doubt he hasn't heard a word I've said," I thought. So I redoubledmy efforts and lifted my voice to a new high. I used sign language andgesticulated. Then in a final vocal effort I roared:

"Can you hear me, Mr. Hemstock?" To which the little man in the overallsreplied quietly:

"My hearing is perfect." And at that I leaned against the fence too, andwondered if I would ever learn anything. When I looked up the old manwas laughing heartily.

"I am accustomed to being shouted at," he said. "And I would have letyou go on only I think perhaps you had better save your voice."

CHAPTER XIX

New Places and People

We went to Alberta in December, 1914. The first winter seemed toobeautiful to be true, blue-eyed skies with soft white clouds, no wind,clear sunshine, children sleigh riding and tobogganing on the steepSaskatchewan banks, hockey games on vacant lots. I did not wear my furcoat once that winter. I was greatly interested to know that cattle andhorses ran out all winter, finding their living in the straw stacks orpawing the snow to reach the prairie grass.

In my enthusiasm for the wonders of this mild climate I wrote to Miss E.Cora Hind, Agricultural Editor of the Free Press, and was soundlyreprimanded by her for daring to think that Alberta had a better winterclimate than Manitoba. Manitoba cattle and horses could do the same,Miss Hind wrote, but it was not humane or economically sound to let themrun wild all winter. Manitoba farmers made provision for their stock,being wiser and more provident than the people of Alberta, and Miss Hindreminded me it was not well to judge any climate by one winter.

But I still think "Wintering Hills" has a pleasant sound, and I haveseen cattle and horses coming in from the range in the spring lookinghearty and well, their coats thick as plush. Oldtimers assured me thatthe only thing that bothers the stock in running out is fences. Theylike to know they are free.

Edmonton to us in 1914 was a city of glamor. To the north lay the greatwhite world of mystery, the land of dog teams, northern lights andundiscovered treasures. I met a woman that winter who had come from thenorth with her sixteen-year-old daughter, who had not seen a street carnor worn shoes and who was now homesick for the quiet of her northernhome.

"There are too many people here," she said sorrowfully. "How can youknow them all?"

I liked to linger in the hardware departments of the stores and see theprospectors buying their supplies; stately Indians in moccasins andbeaded coats walked the streets. Prospectors were panning gold along theriver. Farmers backed their wagons up to the banks of the Saskatchewanand dug coal without money and without price. One part of the oldSaskatchewan Trail was paved with tar sands from Fort Norman. Surely wehad come to an abundant land! The people of Edmonton interested me, too."Janey Canuck", Mrs. Arthur Murphy, one of the best known of Canadianwriters, was one of my first callers. Robert Service, the poet, had onceworked in an Edmonton bank and his mother and brother Stanley were stillliving here; it was also the home of many missionaries, voyageurs andtrappers and the whole atmosphere of the city was young, hopeful andfull of surprises; expectancy was in the air. It may have been the highaltitude which stimulated me, but I never felt better or more keenlyalive. I could work all day and all night, and in addition to the dutiesof a home and a family of five I wrote the book called In Times LikeThese and several short stories that first winter.

Still, below the surface of my thoughts and forever dulling the pleasureof my many activities lay the blight of war and the dread of Jack'senlistment. The call was sounding; every day it drew nearer. I will notdwell on it here. In my book called The Next of Kin I have told aboutthat fateful day when the boys left for Montreal, the 5th Company of thePrincess Pats. Young and beautiful they were, boyish and yet serious;Freeman Kelly, Reginald Boyce, Clyde Smith, Victor Horner. We knew theywere leaving their childhood and youth behind them and that even if theydid come back they would be changed, so it was more than good-bye wewere saying to our boys. It was good-bye—forever!

In my diary I wrote that day, December 4th, 1915:

"This morning we said good-bye to our dear son Jack at the C.N.R.station where new snow lay fresh and white on the roofs and on thestreets, white, and soft, and pure as a young heart. When we came home Ifelt strangely tired and old though I am only forty-two. But I know thatmy youth has departed from me. It has gone with Jack, our beloved, ourfirst born, the pride of our hearts. Strange fate surely for a boy whonever has had a gun in his hands, whose ways are gentle, and full ofpeace; who loves his fellow men, pities their sorrows, and would gladlyhelp them to solve their problems. What have I done to you, in lettingyou go into this inferno of war? And how could I hold you back withoutbreaking your heart?"

So I wrote that snowy morning when we came back from the station.Through the windows in the den of the Victoria Avenue house, I could seethe wind whipping up the snow as it fell in the street, into raggedribbons, opaquely white and beautiful; with the chill beauty of whitecrepe!

During that first year in Edmonton it was my privilege to move aroundand meet many of the people in the province. The Red Cross was in needof speakers and I gladly volunteered to do all I could. I liked thiswork, this going out among the people. The city people have too muchdone for them; they have too many choices and opportunities, but therural people are often left to their own devices. No one knows this asdeeply as those of us who have felt the shades of evening come downheavily and the long darkness of winter close around us like the wallsof a prison. There were no radios then to pierce the veil of isolation.I was writing for the Edmonton Bulletin at that time and for some ofthe women's magazines in the east and from these I have refreshed mymemory.

There were four of us in the party which toured the country north ofEdmonton: Miss Isobel Sutherland, the owner of the Dodge car in which wetravelled, Rev. R. N. Matheson of Namao who drove the car, Pte. JamesStockman, invalided home from France with a bad heart, and myself. Wehad a list of places where meetings had been arranged and with a map ofthe country and a tankful of gas we went out on faith. None of us knewwhere we were going but it was a bright September day and we were fullof hope and enthusiasm.

We were hopelessly lost one day in the Pine Creek area, and were glad tosee a man, an Indian, approaching. He was a plain, overalled,blue-smocked fellow with piercing black eyes and high cheekbones andwhen he turned to answer our inquiry as to the road we saw that the darkcolor on his face was not all due to ancestry. He spoke with a hesitantmanner of a man who is not accustomed to answering questions, and hetold us he couldn't very well tell us where to go but he would show us,as he was going out to the "Trail" himself. Here we had evidently a newsort of guide; hitherto we had not met anyone who admitted there was theslightest difficulty in finding the road.

"You can't miss it," they all had told us, but we showed them up, for wecertainly missed it nearly every time. We gladly accepted our brownfriend's kind offer to show us how to get to the trail for the autumnevening was closing in and we were due at the Mission at eight o'clock.

He stood on the running board of the car and directed operations. As webumped over the beaver-meadow road, he told us many things, with hissoft Indian accent slightly tinged with Aberdeen.

"I am going a matter of seven miles," he said, "and I am glad of thislift, for it is the first time I ever was in an automobile. I've seenthem—but I never rode in one—till now. I am going to get my bread—Iam no good at the bread-making whatever, and I have had none in my housefor a week. It is lonesome to be without bread."

"Are you alone?" we asked, although we knew he must be. Surely no mancould be so neglected, if he had people living with him.

"I am alone since—awhile," he said. "My woman died a year ago—and thenmy boy enlisted."

"You have a boy—over there?" we exclaimed.

"Yes, ma'am, since a year—he has gone—he is all we have—and he neversaid a word while his mother was sick, but I knew he was thinking, forwe got the papers every week, and he read it to his mother and me—hehad more learning than we had—and I could see, and so could his mother.The last night she said: 'It won't be long now, Steve, and you waitedwell.'

"She always was thinking about me, for she knew I wasn't smart to cookor wash, and she sent word to this woman, would she bake for me. She gotSteve to go—he told me, after she had gone. . . . And the last thingshe said was 'We've had a long time together, Ed, you and me and Steve,and now we're scattering out a bit, but we'll all come back togethersometime—when the war is over. It's lonesome, just here, where thetrail splits up into three, but it's all right—they all come togetheragain, Ed, like the trails around the marsh.' She was a good woman andlearned lots at the Mission, and she passed out like that . . .cheerful. . . . Then Steve, when we had buried her, got the ministerfrom the Mission to tell me he wanted to enlist, and I said it was allright. . . . He came back in his uniform to see me before he went, andwe fenced her grave, and Steve writes back often. . . . He's a goodboy—like his mother."

Then suddenly it occurred to the whole four of us that the running boardof a car was not the place where this man should be riding. We stoppedthe car, and we found room for him in the back seat by putting one bigvalise on the front. He was no longer a plain Indian with torn clothesand a dirty face. He was one of us—and one who had made a bigcontribution. We were all citizens of the British Empire; we were all ofthe great family of the Next-of-Kin, and, after all, what is a dirtyface and a torn coat?

When we came to the place where he was going to leave us, we couldn'tthink of letting him strike out on the three-mile walk for his bread,when we could take him so quickly. So, in spite of his protests, weturned off the trail, and brought him to the house of bread, where agreat barking of dogs and scurrying of children indicated that a car wasa real surprise.

It did not seem so important that we should reach our next appointmentin time to change our clothes, as that we should show a kindness toSteve's father and the husband of the woman who had gone fearlessly outon the lonely trail, strong in the faith that all trails meetagain—somewhere beyond the marsh!

I'll never forget the sudden warming of my heart as the new tide offriendliness swept over me. I saw this Indian man for the first timeand I knew that our changed attitude contained something precious andvital, the one thing that can take away the sin of the world, which isselfishness and pride and complacency. I saw the heroism of his lonelylife, and blessed the Mission for the hope it had given to a dying womanand the two men she loved.

These moments of illumination do not last. Perhaps we could not beartheir radiance if they did. We lost ours when we made our next stop andfound a bitter feud going on between the people who lived on the twosides of the creek. They could not agree where the meeting should beheld. So we had two small meetings instead of one big one.

The people "across the crik" were a bad lot and that was firmly believedon both sides. The stories were almost identical. Mrs. —— was toobossy, she ran everything, she wouldn't take anyone's advice. We met thetwo leaders and saw the conflict; it was not religious or racial; it wasjust plain human nature. Miss Sutherland, who had lived long in countryplaces believed these quarrels were undertaken as a substitute forentertainment. Mr. Matheson quoted from the classics to prove that anatural barrier breeds discord:

"Lands intercepted by a narrow strait, abhor each other.Mountains, interposed, make enemies of men."

But I refused to believe that the gently flowing Pine Creek could beblamed for the trouble. Hardly stirring the rushes that lined its lowbanks and with scarcely a ripple on its surface, this placid stream thatobligingly twisted around every obstacle could bring only thoughts ofpeace. Jimmy Stockman, the 20-year-old veteran, with his tragic memoriesof the war could only shake his head and say:

"They don't know they're alive. I wish they could see some of thevillages in Belgium."

Before we returned to the city, we had widened our own horizons, whetherwe did anything for our audiences or not. We did raise money for thePrisoners of War Fund, and the Red Cross, and we hoped we hadstrengthened the ties of Empire, which is a fine elastic phrase, meaningmuch or little.

At one meeting, when we appealed on behalf of the prisoners of war,urging the adoption of a prisoner by individuals, the first "taker" wasan Indian farmer in the Andrew district, who walked up, laying his sevendollars and fifty cents on the table. Five white men followed hisexample. When we made the same appeal at Pakan, one of the adopters wasa little Scotch girl who worked at the hospital, receiving twentydollars a month. She said she could manage very well on what was left.

Pakan is one of the oldest settlements in northern Alberta and it washere that that intrepid man of God, Rev. George Macdougall, lived forseveral years, and it is here that two of his daughters, Mary andGeorgina, lie buried; small white stones bearing their names and ages,and the dates of their deaths, stand on the river bank, leaning alittle, as if the weight of the long years has been too much for them.It is forty-seven years since the earth was fresh on these graves.

Owned by the Methodist Church, the Pakan Hospital was financed in itsbeginnings by the Campbellford and Brighton districts in Ontario. Itperformed a great service for the people of a wide district and manytired feet went over its welcoming threshold. Christianity took on a newmeaning, interpreted by the skilful hands of Dr. Lawford, theSuperintendent, and his able assistant, Miss Ellen Berry.

The houses around Pakan, and there were many good houses even then, wereplastered with mud and then white-washed. The earliest settlers werealmost all Bukowinians and Galicians. The work of white-washing seemedto be done by the women. We saw one woman at work on a house near theroad and we waved to her as we did to all the people we passed, but shedid not respond. She was too busy to be picking up with strangers. Shehad put laths on her house first and was plastering in between the lathsand doing it with such skill and speed that we forgave her for her lackof cordiality. Great artists can afford to be temperamental.

Into one of these mud-plastered, white-washed houses we were taken byDr. Lawford. There was a splendid garden of cabbage, red and green,neatly fenced by twisted willows, and a well kept farmyard, where ducksand turkeys swaggered about as if they had read the market page and knewwhat aristocrats they were.

Mrs. Natchsan was sewing a very modern looking article on a Singermachine when we went in, and although she could not speak much Englishshe gave us a graceful welcome. She had been very sick, she told us, bygestures, and now her general feeling she described as "No Dobra!" ButAnnie, her daughter, sixteen years old, could talk well, and after ahurried conversation with her mother told us we could come in and see"The Room". She seemed to know we would like to see her mother'sbeautiful tapestries. The room was hung with the most gorgeously coloredrugs, such brilliant blues and greens and purples, in strikinglybeautiful and bold designs. There were more too, in a trunk, which wasopened, and they were shown to us. Some old-country tapestries Anniesaid they were. We praised their beauty, but Mrs. Natchsan shook herhead sadly. The no-dobra feeling was on her. What were all thesetrappings to one who had not her health? Mrs. Natchsan had pitched toomany sheaves and raised too many children to enjoy life.

Pakan has a picturesque situation, on the high bank of the Saskatchewan,which in the fall of the year flows clear and zinc-coloured, but swiftas ever. The last of the golden leaves were on the trees and made brightspots on the sombre grayness of the valley. Below the hospital and closeto the water stands a gristmill, where the wheat is ground into flourand this gave a welcome air of activity to this remote little outpost.

I was glad to have an opportunity to visit the Ukrainians in their ownhomes. Because the Government had not yet provided sufficient schoolsfor the people of the district, the Methodist Church had three boardingschools in this area, and it was not long until the education given bythe missionaries had an effect on living conditions. The boys and girlslearned about fresh air, and tooth brushes, board floors and morewindows and improvements came naturally.

The people belonged to the Greek Orthodox Church, and had their ownbulbous-towered churches scattered over the wide areas, but therelations between the Methodist missionaries and the priests was one ofneighborliness. The mission schools were careful not to interfere withany child's religious life, and the priests found that Dr. Lawford was afriend in need.

The Ukrainians had come to Canada to find freedom and a chance for theirchildren, and they were appreciative of what the boarding schools weredoing. The Church was fortunate in its choice of missionaries, teachersand nurses, men and women more concerned with human welfare than withcreeds.

One day in winter, Dr. Lawford was passing one of the churches where anumber of men was standing at the door. They hailed him to stop and he,thinking someone was in need of medical aid, came in with his satchel,but their needs were not physical. For some reason their priest had notbeen able to come and so they had decided to press the Doctor intoservice. Would the Doctor say a few words, read a bit out of the NewTestament and say a prayer, maybe? It would be too bad to go homewithout even a word of prayer. The Doctor was only too glad to comply.

Another time when Dr. Lawford was ordering a supply of Testaments fromThe Book Room in Toronto one of the priests ordered one for each of hisfamilies. Under the stress of pioneer conditions there is no room forthe petty differences which loom so large when people become morecomfortable.

One of the nurses in the hospital told me a beautiful story concerning apoor woman who had been fatally injured in a run away, and had beenbrought in to the hospital in great pain. She was made as comfortable aswas possible and a merciful drug was administered to wear off the sharpedges of her agony, but as the night wore on she grew more and morerestless and distressed in her mind. It was a bitterly stormy night andit was not possible to get the priest but Dr. Lawford knew enough of herlanguage to read the prayers for the dying. The only candles in thehospital were red Christmas candles but a row of these were lighted andplaced at the head and foot of her bed and poor Mary Ragowsky grew calmand comforted when the darkness around her was lighted by theirflickering gleams and she heard the strong words which had comforted hermother and her grandmother in the far away Ukraine, when they too, wereembarking on their long journey.

The missionary workers had their discouragements, of course. Childrenwere sometimes taken out of school as soon as they were able to work andit was especially hard to persuade the fathers that education was a goodthing for a girl. Early marriages were the rule of the community andwere planned almost entirely by the parents. Many a promising pupil hadher education cut short when some grizzled old widower thought a goodstrong red-cheeked young girl would be right handy around the house andit would be cheaper to marry her than to have to pay her wages. Thefather of the girl could usually be persuaded by a few loads of hay, orin extreme cases, a yoke of oxen. Women and children did not count formuch in the grim battle for existence.

One of our missionaries told me of having to make a survey for theMissionary Board to ascertain the infant mortality rate. At one house,where only the father could speak English, he asked him how manychildren he had and found that there was some confusion in the father'smind.

"We only got seven now," he said. "But we sure have lost plenty. I don'texactly know how many. Seems for a while we lost them all. Pretty hardon a man to have all the time sickness in his house. Years now shecannot do much outside to help. And bygosh, even the kids get sick!"

"Have you ever had a doctor?" the investigator asked.

"Oh, no," the father answered. "We've had a lot of sickness one way andanother, but thank goodness we've never needed a doctor."

That was the condition before the coming of the schools and thehospitals. But the Ukrainian and the Russian people as a rule were keento give their children a chance and many a man and woman who went intothat north country in their sheepskin coats to drain the marshes andsubdue the wilderness lived to see the day that their children graduatedfrom the University of Alberta, and I am happy to think and proud torecord that the missionaries, teachers and doctors sent to them by theChristian churches were the great factor in helping these sturdy peopleto a better way of life.

I remember once, at a neighborhood meeting in the Kolakreeka School,hearing one of the Ukrainian young men make a prayer at the opening ofthe meeting. As a young lad he had been hired by Dr. Lawford to drivehim on his rounds, and had caught the spirit of this pioneer Christianas he saw his labours of love, and surprised the Doctor one day bytelling him that he was going to go to Edmonton, to work his way throughcollege and would be a minister of the Church some day, and that isexactly what happened. He is now and has been for many years an ordainedman in the United Church.

But when I heard his prayer he was a boy of perhaps eighteen, a finesquare-faced lad with broad shoulders and keen gray eyes, and this wasthe burden of his prayer:

"Lord, send us more Christians, real Christians to let my people see theright way to live and have a good time, too. The teachers are good andthe ministers, and the doctors. They're always good to us, not soft, butgood. But Lord, send us Christian storekeepers and machine agents andgovernment men. The missionaries and the doctors can't do it all."

I wished then that that prayer could have been heard all over Canada. Istill wish it, for it touches the need of today just as it did then.More Christians, "not soft, but good" are the need of the world. Peoplewho let their lights so shine that others, seeing their good works, willcatch their spirit. I like that phrase, "seeing their good works", thereis nothing like actually seeing to bring conviction.

The hospital at Lament, Alberta, which was part of the missionary effortof the Methodist Church, gave many a demonstration of Christianbrotherhood and far-sightedness. One of these I recall with pride.

There were two Chinese girls of Victoria, who applied for admission inthe coast hospitals for training as nurses and were refused. They triedin Calgary and in Edmonton, but with the same result. But they weregladly accepted at the Lament Hospital. Dr. Archer, who was, and stillis, the Superintendent, had no race prejudice and the two girls werereceived and in due time graduated with honours and became valuedmembers of the nursing profession.

Since 1925 the Lament Hospital has had at least one Oriental girl intraining each year and their work has been uniformly of high standard.This is what Dr. Archer has to say regarding the Oriental question:

"We have never had any reason to regret the policy which was initiatedyears ago. The sooner, we in Canada, can come to the point where wespeak and think of all as Canadian citizens and Canadians, disregardingor minimizing racial origin, the better it will be for Canada. OurAmerican friends have done better than we have in this respect. In mymind, it is partly because they magnify the American citizenship. I donot know what the outcome would be, and I would be among the last tominimize the importance of our British conventions, but it would appearto me to be very useful, if when people become naturalized that theybecome full Canadian citizens, and by virtue of that Canadiancitizenship, British subjects. I think that all the diverse elementswhich come to make up Canada are enthusiastic about Canada. Can we notmake it a point to get closer together, instead of tending to form theNationalistic groups, somewhat separated by their origin and itsculture?"

I thought of these two girls the other day when a young probationer atthe Jubilee Hospital here in Victoria told me that she had drawn aChinese girl for her room-mate.

"I think I'm lucky," she said. "I feel I'll learn a lot and if I'd hadmy choice of all the girls in the room I certainly would have chosenher. She is so bright and intelligent looking. I think we're going to begreat friends."

And so it seems Tennyson was right when he said:

"The thoughts of men are widened by the process of the suns."

The leaven of kindness has never lost its power and all through thatvast north country it was working, in ever-widening waves of influence.The vibration even penetrated to an overworked, unhappy little girl,twelve-year-old Susie, whose widowed mother had unfortunately married ahard old curmudgeon. Susie's life became unbearable and her mother wasunable to help her. There was no use sending Susie to one of the missionschools for her step-father would bring her back. The neighbours werepowerless to help for they were frightened of old Mike's rages, butSusie and her mother had heard that there was a place in Edmonton wherea little girl would be made welcome and have a chance to go to schooland be well-dressed and well-fed. But neither Susie nor her mother knewjust where Edmonton was. They only knew it was far away and it was agreat city, for someone had told them that the bright lights could beseen for a long distance, shining in the sky. They did know thedirection. It was over there!

There was no one they could ask, for Mike had forbidden his womenfolk totalk with the neighbours and Mike had evil ways of enforcing obedience.Susie and her mother decided that Susie would run away. A pitiful littlebundle of clothes, a tin pail full of cracked wheat bread and a tin cupmade up her luggage and Susie departed one night when old Mike was soundasleep, so she had many hours start before he missed her. It was inharvest time anyway, and he was too busy to hunt for her. The poormother was afraid to tell him she had encouraged Susie in her flight andwith good psychology begged him to go and look for Susie. Mikeprophesied cheerfully that the wolves would eat her. But he was wrong.

Hiding in the straw stacks by day and travelling by night, milking afriendly cow into her tin cup and digging a turnip out of a farmer'sfield, and above all, avoiding being seen by anyone likely to send herback, Susie made her way without misfortune. Susie did her best to keepher hands and face clean by washing at creeks and in the cow troughs inthe pastures and once she made bold to go to the back door of a farmhouse and was given not only a good meal but clean clothes by a kindwoman. Susie was afraid to tell her she had run away, but being a childof some imagination, she made up a good story about being on her way toher Aunt's. The woman persuaded her to go to bed and have a good sleepand that was the only time that Susie slept in a bed. Susie was neverquite sure of how many days she spent on her trip. Twice she got a ride,but the last time the man asked her so many questions that she gotfrightened. However, there came in the sky one night that warm glow oflight which gave her courage to go on.

She was dirty, tired and ragged, but undaunted. In the grey light ofmorning she crept cautiously into the city. She came in on Namao Avenueglad to find the streets deserted for little Susie was not afraid ofanything but human beings. The smell of bacon frying brought her to astop and her feet led her through an open door, and so it happened thatSusie had her first meal, in a Chinese restaurant. Sam Lung waspreparing to go off for the night when this queer little apparitionappeared at his elbow. Sam took one look at her and then produced aslice of bread with a fried egg on it, hot from the pan. He took herout to the kitchen and put her in the rocking chair and said:

"Kid, you're lost."

But Susie shook her head and went on eating. Sam was accustomed tofeeding all kinds of waifs and strays at his back door; this was thefirst time that a child had come in; Sam's pensioners had been cats anddogs. So he looked at her with another wrinkle in his already wrinkledforehead. He was wondering what to do with her. Susie herself solvedthat problem. For she suddenly felt that here was a man she could trust,so she told him that she was looking for the home where kind ladies tookcare of little girls and let them go to school.

That afternoon with a new dress, new shoes and stockings, a clean faceand a neat head of bobbed hair, a little girl accompanied by a kindfriend, a Chinese gentleman in his best clothes, arrived at the frontdoor of the Ruthenian Home on Third Street and a new name was added tothe roll of the pupils. This story has a happy ending, for Susie provedto be an outstanding pupil, and the hard life that she had led seemed tofall away from her. Word was sent to her mother through one of theschools. The last I heard of Susie was that she had obtained a teacher'scertificate, had gone to the Normal School, and was teaching in aRuthenian School.

CHAPTER XX

Alberta Politics

The war dragged out its dreary length. War maps hung on kitchen wallsand were dotted with black-headed pins as we followed the course ofbattle. We raised money for the Red Cross and the Patriotic Fund inevery conceivable way from autographed quilts at ten cents a name topersonal subscriptions which sometimes ran into high figures. Thenewspapers printed many extras, and hardly a night went by without oneat least. The boys sold them all over the city. When the first cry of"Extra! Extra!" punctured the night, lights appeared in upstairswindows, and front doors were hastily opened as we rushed out forcopies. We were avid for news! We get it more easily now by turning adial, but the news is the same—dark testimony to man's failure to liveat peace with his neighbour!

Women worked then as now, but not in the well-paid jobs. In the absenceof price control, the cost of living soared beyond all reason. We haveonly to look back at 1917 and '18 to see how thankful we should be forthe measure of government control we have now. Farmers were urged toproduce more and more, and with the mounting prices, they certainlyresponded. Sloughs were drained, pastures were broken up, groves oftrees were cut down and every bit of land that could be put undercultivation was plowed and harrowed. Nobody warned the farmers that theywere lowering the water levels and destroying the natural protection oftheir land from drought, and so, unwittingly, the way was prepared forthe soil erosion and crop failures which came all too soon.

But during the war years the rainfall was abundant and the farmers'dream of $2.00 wheat was reached. So at last the farmer could bepatriotic and prosperous at the same time.

There were a few warning voices in the wind. I remember letters to thepaper by someone whose nom-de-plume was "Economist", and these letterswarned the farmers that "the high color of prosperity on the cheek ofa*griculture, was not the glow of health, but the flush of fever". Iremember that sentence because of the aptness of its phrases, but no onelistened to a croaker like that when the crops were abundant and pricesrising.

Then came the end of the war, the 1918 epidemic of 'flu, 1921—tradebarriers with the United States caused by the expiration of the tenyears of reciprocity, which began in 1911 and the dark clouds ofdepression settled firmly down on western Canada.

Wiser people than I have written about this heartbreaking period and itscauses and to them I will leave its economic aspects. None of us wholived through it will ever forget the tired rebellious faces of thebewildered farm boys who drifted from place to place, not wantedanywhere. Their hands were full of strength, they were willing to doanything, but it seemed there was no place for them; no wonder they grewhard and bitter.

Kind-hearted people did all they could, in supplying meals and bedtickets and clean socks, but that long depression and its destruction ofyouth was a sadder experience than the war.

We know now that there could have been great projects of housing, roadbuilding, reforestation, the making of parks and the conservation ofwater supply which would have taken up the slack of our manpower andenriched and beautified our country, but to all our entreaties that thisshould be undertaken we were met with the cry:

"We haven't the money!"

Professor Morgan of Toronto University has just written a startlinglittle book called "The Morgan Plan for Perpetual War" in which headvocates that a nice quiet little war, played according to all therules, would bring a remedy for the spectres of hunger and unemploymentwhich stalked the country during these tragic years of peace. It is asatire, of course, but a clever one, with so much truth in it, it cannotbe laughed off!

In 1921 I was elected to the Legislative Assembly of Alberta on theLiberal ticket, and in my support my brother, Will, cast his firstLiberal vote. I was surprised when he told me he was going to vote forme and I took advantage of Will's lapse from his old loyalty and toldhim he might as well vote for the whole five Liberals, to which my dearbrother replied sadly:

"I know I shouldn't—but no doubt I will. When a man begins to godownhill all nature is greased for the occasion!"

The five Liberals were elected in Edmonton but the party was defeated bythe United Farmers of Alberta. The opposition numbered thirteen, out ofthe total number of sixty-two.

I was not a good party woman, and I'm sure there were times when I waslooked upon with disfavor. I could not vote against some of thegovernment measures, which seemed to me to be right and proper, and Itried to persuade my fellow members that this was the right course topursue. I believed that we were the executive of the people and shouldbring our best judgment to bear on every question, irrespective of partyties. The Hon. John R. Boyle was the leader of the Opposition and Igrew to have a great respect for Mr. Boyle's judgment and politicalforesight.

It was a matter of deep regret to me that Mrs. Louise McKinney was notre-elected. I had hoped to have her companionship in the House. Mrs.McKinney was elected in 1917 and thereby became the first woman memberof any Legislative Assembly in the British Empire. A portrait of Mrs.McKinney by J. W. L. Forster of Toronto now hangs in the main corridorof the provincial buildings in Edmonton.

Mr. Forster's fee for painting a portrait was $2,000, but because Mrs.McKinney's portrait was to be presented to the Province by the women ofthe Province, Mr. Forster generously agreed to do it for half thisamount. The money was raised by the societies all over the Province andI like to remember how quickly the response was made. We had a refusalfrom only one society and the excuse that they gave was rather aninteresting one. The president wrote that in view of Mrs. McKinney'stemperance activities, a society which was made up of all shades ofopinion, could not ask their members to make a contribution. I was thechairman of the Portrait Committee, so I called the president on thetelephone and reminded her that no matter what they thought of Mrs.McKinney's temperance activities, as first woman member in the BritishEmpire she was entitled to this honor, but that under the circ*mstancesI was glad they had not made a contribution, for we were determined thatevery cent paid into the Portrait Fund should be freely and gladlygiven. The society decided later they would make a contribution but thejudgment of our Committee was that we would return it—with thanks.

The Portrait Project was begun in 1932 and while in Toronto, Mrs.McKinney had two sittings. She expected to return in the fall, and Mr.Forster hoped to finish the portrait while she was there. The weatherwas very hot that summer and when she came home after a speaking tourshe was worn out with the heat and the constant strain of travelling andlecturing. The day after her return she was taken ill and was dead in aweek, leaving the forces of progress bereft and sorrowful, for LouiseMcKinney was a great woman and a great leader. She bound her followersto her by her strong sincerity, her unselfish love, her utter devotionto truth. She certainly never flattered anyone, but her love for all ofus was deep enough for her to tell us the truth, even if the truth wasunpleasant.

I remember once I had prepared a reply to a group of some obstreperouswomen who were giving us trouble during the war, and I showed it toLouise, fully expecting that she would be pleased with it. I thought Ihad done a neat piece of business. She read it through carefully andsaid:

"You've certainly demolished their arguments, but you have made themridiculous and there is no need to do this. These women are sincere,though mistaken. It is never wise to kill your enemy, even if you can doit and get away with it. It's better to kill his enmity, and then youhave acquired a friend."

I knew in a flash she was right. Louise had a way of being right and Idid not forget her gentle rebuke.

Mr. Forster finished the picture from photographs, Mrs. W. T. Ash,formerly of Edmonton and then living in Toronto, gave him herassistance. She was one of Mrs. McKinney's intimate friends. When thepicture was finished Mr. Forster returned $800 of his reduced fee to beused for Temperance work in Alberta. This was his graceful and generoustribute to Mrs. McKinney's work. Visitors to the Parliament Buildingsin Edmonton will look long at the face of Louise Crummy McKinney withher lustrous brown eyes and strong, sweet face and we who knew her welland loved her, venture to hope that her sweet influence is still feltand will ever be felt in the life of that great Province.

I enjoyed the five years I served as a member of the LegislativeAssembly, but looking back at it now I cannot see that much remains ofall our strivings. Mrs. Irene Parlby, of Alix, was a member of theCabinet and I was in the Opposition, but we united our forces whenquestions relating to women were under discussion. One member in theHouse was determined to have all married women dismissed from theirpositions to make way for the single, unemployed women, but Mrs. Parlbyand I were able to head off this piece of sex-prejudice. We contendedthat whether or not a woman was married was her own business, and thatno woman should be penalized because of marriage.

Dr. J. S. State, who sat for a small constituency in the north was myleft-hand neighbour in the seating arrangement. He was one of the oldestmembers in the House and had served the scattered population of hisconstituency for many years. He was not a believer in having women inpublic offices, and I found out that he was very angry at having beenplaced beside me; to have to sit beside a woman was something he thoughthe would never be called upon to do so he had gone to the AssistantClerk of the House demanding that his seat be changed. Mr. Andisonpersuaded him to try it out for a day or two; someone had to sit besideme, and I might not be so bad. Then the tactful Mr. Andison told me manythings about the old Doctor, his devotion to his people, and mentionedcasually that he was a masterhand at puzzles. I did not know anythingabout his objections to sitting beside me, but I wondered why Mr.Andison spent so much time building him up. I acted upon the suggestionregarding the puzzles and the old man and I became friends over aproblem of making squares with matches. When he found out that I wasinterested in puzzles the whole problem was solved, and I was carefulnot to work the puzzles too quickly for I knew he would like me betterif I were slightly dumb and honesty compels me to add that I did notneed to do much pretending for the old man had some tough ones.

Another gentleman of the old school, who feared women's entry intopublic life, had a rougher passage than my good old Doctor. This onelived in one of the small towns east of Edmonton and had been on theSchool Board for years. After the women were given the vote in 1917, awoman trustee was elected, much to this gentleman's disgust. He declaredhe would not remain on the Board with a woman member, and at the firstmeeting arose with dignity and in a carefully prepared speech said thathe believed that he could now retire honourably for he felt he was nolonger needed now that women were prepared to take over the duties ofmen.

He expected, of course, that the whole Board would coax him to say andsomething of this sort might have happened, but the new member was alsoprepared and she asked leave of the Chairman to speak. She was full ofpraise for the excellent work that the retiring member had done and gavea summary of his achievements—somewhat colored by a brightimagination—and moved that his resignation be accepted with regret butcomplete understanding and it was carried forthwith. The old trusteewent out so surprised he did not even slam the door; he had never beenpraised so much in his life and was half way home before he realizedwhat had happened to him, and then it was too late.

I have spoken elsewhere of the Hon. George Hoadley and his excellentwork for human welfare in the province of Alberta. He had been a memberof the Legislative Assembly for many years and had been a Conservative.But seeing the tide of opinion flowing towards a farmers' government in1921, he quickly changed his political label and was elected as usual,and in the new government was made minister of Agriculture and Health.He was perhaps the ablest man in the new government next to the Premier,John E. Brownlee, and in matters of strategy Mr. Hoadley was second tonone. He always managed to get the business of his Department off to agood start. His reports were the first to be received and accepted.

Thanks to the foresight and courage of Mr. Hoadley, Alberta had thefirst Act authorizing the sterilization of the unfit in the BritishEmpire.

Mental deficiency in the schools had increased from one to three percent, and this seemed to be one measure of prevention. There wasfanatical opposition from certain religious bodies, but, I am glad tosay that our Opposition Party gave it our support. I saw the working outof this measure soon after it became law when a poor distracted motherfrom southern Alberta came to see me, bringing her eighteen-year-olddaughter who was not quite normal. She was, unfortunately for herself,rather an attractive girl and eager for life at all costs. She had neverbeen able to get past Grade Three in school, but she was strong as ahorse and as good as a man in the harvest field. Her mother wasnaturally fearful for her safety. In the neighborhood where they livedthe young people had played cruel tricks, taking advantage of hercredulity and someone had written her a letter, purporting to be from ayoung man, asking her to come out for a sleigh ride, naming the place ofmeeting, some distance from her home. She made her escape from the housewearing the best clothes she had—her summer clothes as it happened, andwhen she had reached the place there was no one there and she had spentthe night in the barn afraid of her father's rage. From this adventureshe had caught cold and nearly died of pneumonia.

"I could manage her when she was younger," the mother said. "But now shegoes into great rages and I'm afraid of what will happen to her. Herfather has no patience with her and still thinks he can beat sense intoher, but I know that she is torn by feelings and desires that she cannotcontrol. And now there is another complication. There is a man ten yearsolder than Katie, and he's not quite right either and he has beenhanging around, and my husband seems to think it would be all right tolet Katie marry him, but I know it would be awful, and I will neverconsent. I would rather see her dead. I think Katie has the mind of asix-year-old child, but no more and surely she deserves our protection.Things can't go on this way. She's on my mind night and day andsometimes I'm afraid I'll go crazy."

I got in touch with one of the Doctors in the Department of Health and ameeting was arranged the next day. We got the father there, too. Themother was quite willing to have the operation performed and Katie giveninstitutional care until she had fully recovered, but the father, apowerfully-built Scandinavian, resented the whole matter and was angryat his wife for going outside the family to find help. It touched hispride and he declared that he was well able to look after his own child.We reasoned with him and pointed out that the mother's health wassuffering and the whole atmosphere of the home was one of tension andanxiety. The mother had told me about the unmerciful beatings that thepoor girl had received from her father, but I had not mentioned this tothe Doctor. The father seemed to have preserved just enough of thereligion of his forefathers to believe that everyone had a right topropagate their kind, no matter how debased or marred the offspringmight be.

"And besides," he said, "I cannot bear to think of Katie being hurt."

I wanted to break in there, but I was afraid he would take it out on thedefenceless and distracted mother so I held my peace. The Doctor assuredhim that Katie would be given the best medical care and would feel nopain.

"But it's against Nature," Katie's father protested.

Katie was not in the room during this discussion. She and the mother hadgone out while the Doctor and I were working on the father, but at thisplace in the conversation, Katie came in quietly. Her father had hisback to the door so he didn't know that she had entered. I saw herunfastening her blouse, then she pulled one arm out, exposing hershoulder. She moved across the room and stood in front of the Doctor.Across her shoulder lay an angry welt like a burn.

Her father stared at her with eyes full of guilt and shame and for sometime no one spoke. The Doctor looked from the daughter to the father andhis eyes were full of pity for both of them.

"I think this settles it," he said slowly.

Then he laid a paper on the table and handed the father his fountainpen.

"Sign here," he said. "Your wife has already signed."

Then he reached out his hand and shook hands with Katie's father.

"I give you my word," he said, "we will not hurt Katie."

I saw Katie and her mother a year later. The mother looked younger andhappier. Katie was well and neatly dressed. Her mother told me that shewas taking full charge of the chickens now, and in the evenings wasdoing Norwegian knitting which had a ready sale in the neighborhood. Thehome was happy again.

CHAPTER XXI

Singing Up the Hill

It is not my intention to weight these pages with political happenings.Nothing is duller to the average reader than a blow by blow descriptionof other people's battles. Even the battle for woman's emancipation,with its delegations, petitions, amendments, conventions. These havetaken years of my life and other women's lives but the centre of gravityhas shifted since then, and while I will not give way to regret that Ispent so many years working for the equality of women, I cannot refrainfrom saying that the sight of women lined up in front of the GovernmentLiquor Stores fills me with a withering sense of disappointment.

Of course I know women have as much right to drink as men. But I wishthey wouldn't! It is not in keeping with their character. Children mayget along with a father who drinks but when both parents are given toperiods of indulgence it makes tough going for the children.

Almost every day the newspapers reveal the tragedies which result fromthis equality of indulgence: the little two-year-old found dead from ahead injury after a party in his home, neither parent knowing anythingabout it; the nineteen-year-old girl who came to this city to visit herfiance spent the evening in the beer parlour and ended the night and herlife by falling through a hotel window; the carload of people who droveinto the harbour after a night of celebration and the innumerableaccidents, quarrels and broken homes and broken hearts—how can anyperson be calm and unconcerned who has any love for humanity?

Women could have sobered this country if they had willed it so; that isa sore and withering thought. Why do we hold life so lightly? We, thewomen who pay for it with sweat, blood and tears? How can we beindifferent to the evils which mar our creation.

But these bitter observations had no part in our thoughts while we werewaging the battle for what we called the emancipation of women. We wereso sure that better home conditions, the extension of education andequality of opportunity would develop a happy race of people who wouldnot be dependent on spurious pleasures.

We believed that with all our hearts as we went singing up the hill.

The rural women of Alberta were the white hope of the progressivemovement in that province. The Women's Institutes and United Farm Womenwere not afraid to tackle social problems and their reading courses anddiscussions showed serious purpose. The women of the cities were morelikely to be entangled in social affairs and in danger of wasting theirtime in matters of constitution and procedure, such as "Who should sitat the head table at their annual banquet?" but there was real stuff inthe countrywomen. I can see them yet, coming across the fields to themeeting, to the bare school house, carrying their sandwiches in one handand a plant in bloom in the other; and it was not long until the schoolhouses ceased to be bare, for the children were encouraged to raiseflowers and shrubs by contests and prizes, and in many of the schools,too, the women put in equipment so that hot lunches could be served inthe winter time.

Alberta led all the provinces, too, in the matter of public health. Thefirst four health nurses were appointed in 1917. Alberta also had thefirst municipal hospitals and free dental and medical care for schoolchildren.

A new province, such as Alberta was then, naturally attracted theadventurous people of the older parts of Canada. People who were notafraid to go out like Abraham, not knowing whither. The critics of thisprovince had described Alberta as the laboratory guinea pig on whichsocial experiments had been tried for the whole continent. But in theseexperiments great ideas have come to life.

William Aberhart, one of Calgary's high school principals, (and one ofthe best in the province,) while marking examination papers in Edmonton,asked one of his fellow examiners to give him a book to read one nightas they parted. The book happened to be one on Social Credit by MauriceColborne, the actor. Mr. Aberhart was a radio commentator, and naturallywas looking for interesting material for his listening audience. As heexplained Social Credit to them he convinced himself.

The eager-minded Albertans took to the plan and the promise of $25.00 amonth for everyone sounded like the golden promise of a fairy godmother.It just couldn't be! But, after all, who knows? There might be somethingin it. Social Credit associations were formed all over the province, andput a candidate in every field. A good story was told during thiselection—not however good enough to stem the Social Credit flood. Aprospector once approached the heavenly kingdom, footsore and weary,but was refused admittance. St. Peter said they were simply swamped withprospectors and simply could not admit any more for at least an eon. Theold prospector was naturally disappointed but he was not the sort of manwho would give up easily and he knew the mentality of prospectors. So heasked permission to put up a sign on the celestial wall—a small,insignificant sign, which read: "Great Gold Strike on Nehanni River."

That was all. Then he sat down outside by the gate and waited. The newsspread like wildfire and soon there came pouring out of the gate astream of prospectors, complete with tools, earthward bound.

St. Peter beckoned to the old man and told him the glad news. He couldgo in. But the old man hesitated, he seemed somewhat uneasy as he lookedafter the disappearing line of prospectors. He suddenly picked up hispick and set off in haste to join the exodus. As he passed down theairway he was heard to murmur: "You never know—there may be somethingin this."

Always in Alberta there is a fresh wind blowing. It began to blow whenthe farmers organized during the first war and swept away the Liberalgovernment in 1921. They were an eager, earnest group of people, thatfirst farmers' government, burning with zeal to banish forever the taintof party politics. They had convinced each other there was no health ineither of the old parties. They knew there must be dark scandals to beuncovered in the Big House under the hill. So their first act was toconduct an audit of the books at a cost of $40,000, only to find thatall was in order. It was a blow to the young crusaders but they settleddown to give much the same service as their predecessors had given.

The women of Alberta have always been tireless in their pursuit ofknowledge and human betterment. One of the newspaper women, Mrs.McCorqudale of High River, in the Calgary Herald once wrote that shewould be able to tell the Alberta women when she goes to Heaven; theywill be there in little groups with pencil and notebooks, by the side ofthe river of life giving the finishing touches to resolution B. 72894urging that more rural children be taken into the Heavenly Choirs.

To the province of Alberta belongs the credit for clearing up the vexedquestion of whether or not women are persons, according to the laws ofthe British Empire.

The legal gentleman who started the agitation of whether or not womenare persons must not be blamed for his part in it. He had not intendedto further the cause of women. Not at all. He was convinced that womenhad already gone too far. He was a very angry young man who had lost acase in the Women's Court in Edmonton, and in his indignation haddenounced the Magistrate, the first woman Magistrate in Canada, bytelling her that her appointment was illegal, for women are not personsin the eyes of the law, and never have been.

Magistrate Emily Murphy took this without blinking an eye but was toowise a woman to make the mistake of underestimating an opponent'sargument. So she looked into the matter carefully, and sure enough thereit was in the common law of England, enacted in 1876 and not yetrescinded.

That is how it all began. The displacement of a small stone on the sideof a mountain can start an avalanche. The enactment of 1876 had comeabout by the action of one person, too. A woman, in England this time.She knew that certain women once had the privilege of voting, but it hadbeen taken away from them when they weren't looking, so she decided thatshe would vote and would see what would happen. She went out onelection day, beguiled the poll clerk into giving her a ballot, andvoted!

She was arrested for this misdemeanour and tried, and out of thiscase—Charlton vs. Ling—came a ruling on the matter in dispute, andthis is the ruling: "Women are persons in matters of pains andpenalties, but are not persons in matters of rights and privileges."

There was no doubt that this law was still valid though public opinionhad rendered it obsolete. Mrs. Murphy, as well as others of us, hadinterviewed honourable gentlemen at Ottawa from time to time on thematter of appointing women to the Senate, and we had received the samereply. The gentlemen would like nothing better than to have women in theSenate but the British North American Act made no provision for womenand the members feared that women could not be appointed to the Senateuntil this great foundation of our liberties was amended and that wouldtake time and careful thought.

On one occasion Madame Marchand and I went to see the Hon. ArthurMeighan and when he brought out this same answer the witty Frenchwomanflashed at him:

"And for what are we paying you, and the other gentlemen, if it is notto keep our laws up-to-date?"

But still time went on and nothing happened. One day, near the end ofAugust in 1927, Mrs. Murphy called in four of us: Mrs. Irene Parlby, amember of the Alberta Cabinet; Mrs. Louise McKinney, ex-M.L.A.; Mrs.Henrietta Edwards, author of a book entitled "Laws Relating to Women";and myself. We gathered at Mrs. Murphy's home in South Edmonton. It wasa perfect day in harvest time. Blue haze lay on the horizon, and the airwas filled with the smell of ripening grain. Bees droned in thedelphiniums and roses in her garden as we sat on the verandah anddiscussed many things.

Mrs. Murphy had a plan to lay before us. She told us that any fivepeople, British subjects, can ask for an interpretation of any Act, andshe had decided that we would petition Parliament to give us theirinterpretation of the clause in the B.N.A. Act which deals with Senateappointments, reading, "From time to time properly qualified persons maybe summoned to the Senate." We put our names to the petition and it wassent to Ottawa.

I wish I had a copy of the letter which accompanied the petition, forMrs. Murphy was a master craftsman in the handling of a pen. She had nodifficulty in finding the apt word.

The Prime Minister to whom the petition was sent referred it to theMinister of Justice, and his Department referred the matter to theSupreme Court of Canada, and time went on. The Supreme Court of Canadadid not render a decision until April 24th, 1928, and then in thenewspaper we read that in the opinion of the Supreme Court of Canada,women are not persons.

Four out of the five judges based their judgment on the Common LawDisability of Women to hold public office. The other one believed theword "person" in the B.N.A. Act meant male person because the framers ofthe Act had only men in mind when the clause was written.

We met again and contemplated our defeat. Mrs. Murphy was stillundaunted. We would appeal from the Supreme Court's decision. We wouldsend our petition to the Privy Council. We asked what we would use formoney for we knew that lawyer's fees, particularly when they take a caseto the Supreme Court, are staggering. When a lawyer is writing his feefor a service of this kind, his hand often slips. Mrs. Murphy said shewould write to the Prime Minister, and perhaps he could devise a way.This was every woman's concern and she believed that Mr. King would beglad to have it settled. The letter was written and we had a promptreply.

Newton Wesley Rowell was going before the Privy Council in October andhe would be glad to take our petition. The petition should have been inMrs. Murphy's name, but it seems that names are arranged alphabeticallyso our petition appears on the record in the name of "Edwards andothers."

On the morning of October 18th, 1929, newspapers all over the BritishEmpire carried black headlines: "Privy Council Declares That Women ArePersons!" It came as a surprise to many women in Canada at least who hadnot known that they were not persons until they heard it stated thatthey were.

The Lord Chancellor had given a decision and it was so simple and soplain that we wondered now why we didn't think of it ourselves. LordSankey, after listening to the case for and against (our petition wasopposed by two lawyers from the Province of Quebec) found the solutionin the British North America Act itself. There are clauses where theword "person" is used which would lead one to believe that where theword "person" is used it must mean "male and female person," and inaddition to this there is one clause where the word "person" must mean"male and female." In Clause 133, provision is made that either theFrench or the English language may be used by any person in any Courtestablished under this Act. The word "person" must include women for itis inconceivable that this privilege is intended for men only.

When we read this in its clear simplicity, we thought about the Judgesof the Supreme Court of Canada, and wondered if their faces were red!

It was a matter of regret for all of us that Mrs. Murphy was notappointed the First Senator, and that is no reflection on the excellentappointment that was made in the person of the Hon. Cairine Wilson, andlater the appointment of the Hon. Iva Fallis.

The circle was completed when the Business and Professional Women ofCanada placed a memorial plaque in the lobby of the Senate, House ofParliament, Ottawa, to celebrate the victory. It was a memorableoccasion when the plaque was unveiled, June 11th, 1938, but tinged withsadness too, for of the original five signers, there were only two of usleft, Mrs. Parlby and myself. Mrs. Murphy had died in 1933, but all thewomen of Canada, and of the British Empire too, will ever be indebted toher for this definite victory which has clarified the position of womenfor all time.

CHAPTER XXII

The Glad Day

The year 1919 broke in gladness over our family. The Armistice wassigned. Demobilization was under way, and Jack was coming home, aLieutenant now, having won his commission on the field.

For the joyous homecoming, the house on 123rd Street was getting agoing-over that it would remember, if houses have memories. It was agood, big, square, honest house, built for a big family, with a fineattic the full size of the house, and a basem*nt to match, so there wasroom for everyone's possessions—sleighs, skates, hockey sticks, onetoboggan, numerous baseball bats, though I am not saying they werealways to be found in their rightful places. Having been built in thetime when sleeping porches were in fashion, we had one at the back ofthe house and one at the front, where fresh air seekers could fill theirlungs with northern ozone.

Jack had not seen this house, so we felt we must present it in its bestlight. There is something about hard physical labour that satisfies theheart when emotion is running high and even at this distance I canrecapture the joy of that season of house-cleaning and curtain making.My sister-in-law Eleanor Anderson, from Winnipeg, came to visit us, andtogether we manicured that house, lifted her face and made a lady ofher, with scraped floors and new stairs carpet and new chintz for theliving room.

Listening to a radio speaker today I hear that in the art of sculptureonly the principal lines must be shown, so that a sculptured figurewill have the detachment which only simplicity can bring. All minorfolds and wrinkles must be smoothed out. Perhaps this applies toliterature also, but who is able to choose and say: "This is a primaryfold and therefore must be left in, but this is a secondary wrinkle andtherefore we will rub it out"? What I am writing now may well be a minorfold in Life's drapery, but it came flooding in upon me, sweet as theperfume of an old bouquet, the other day, when I found a piece of theliving room chintz in an old scrap bag. When I saw what it was I ironedit out for old times sake, and loved every blossom of the bluedelphiniums, with their background of pale pink daisies. Anything thatcan bring back the feeling of that happy time will never get a lowrating from me.

The great morning came at last, a misty, beautiful morning in March,when we drove to the C.P.R. station to meet the troop train. Just as wewere about to leave the house, the youngest member of the familysuddenly decided he did not want to go. He said he would rather watch atthe window and see us driving in. Then we found out the cause of thissudden gloom.

"I won't see anything," he said, "but the backs of legs. You big oneswill all be seeing Jack before I do. He'll never see me, so I won't go."

We knew he wanted to go, with all the love of his loyal little heart, sohis Dad came to the rescue by telling him he would carry him high on hisshoulder and no doubt he would be the first to see Jack coming down thesteps.

Happiness was thus restored and the reception committee made its joyousway to the station, down Jasper Avenue, under the subway, around to theparking place and then to the platform, which was packed with people.

We saw the train crossing the long bridge, then it disappeared as itcame through the cutaway, but its silvery plume of smoke rose straightinto the bright air, and the big black engine pulled panting into thestation as car after car passed us. The doors opened and uniformed menbegan to come quickly down the steps.

"I see him!" Mark called in a voice as shrill as a siren. "It's Jack!"

The days that followed are confused in my mind like a happy dream. Jackwas so glad to be back, so pleased with everything and took the greatestinterest in getting back into civilian clothes. His tin hat waspresented to Mark, who wore it all day and had to be forcibly separatedfrom it at night. We thought his craze for wearing it would wear out ina day or two, for it was a heavy weight on his young head, but hedeclared he couldn't feel its weight at all. When we insisted that itwas too heavy for him, he carried it on his arm like a shield.

We felt that life had dealt bountifully with us, in letting us have ourboy back from the inferno of war. From December 1915 to March 1919 hehad been away from us, spending three birthdays in the trenches, and nowhe was back and had come through without a day's illness or even ascratch.

He had changed, of course, grown taller and filled out, and in many wayshe seemed older than either of us.

Another incident of which the blue delphiniums reminded me was that themother of Jack's friend, Freeman Kelley sent me roses for Jack'shomecoming. Her beloved Freeman, her only boy, the gentle, dark-eyedFreeman, was not coming back. He had come through the war safely untilNovember the 11th and then in the last minutes of the last hour had beenshot down.

And yet his mother, with her own heart breaking, could think of flowersfor me and mine in our hour of rejoicing! I have received flowers manytimes and on many occasions, joyous and sorrowful, but never flowerslike these!

Jack was anxious to get back to the University, and settled down to hiswork, gallantly fighting back the restlessness which engulfed some ofthe other boys. He was soon established in the activities of his class.We had many happy gatherings of the students during this period and westill laugh over their clever impersonations and debates and "Gateway"editorials. They were a gay and happy company. Jim Nicol, Bobby Cameron,Marjorie Bradford, Helen Kerby, Victor Horner, Clyde Smith, HelenArmstrong, George Ferguson. . . .

Jack never spoke of his war experiences. He gave me his war diaries andtold me he never wanted to see them again. The other boys could tell usincidents of their experiences in the trenches and happenings on theirbrief leaves, but Jack, the best story-teller of them all, had nothingto say. He sat silent, with a strange tension in his young face.

He had times of depression, too, when he was sharp and irritable withPaul and Horace. Their exuberance and lack of discipline irritated him.He thought I was too easy with them. Behind his back they called him the"Iron Duke," but they were ever ready to please him if they could, andnever wavered in their devotion to him and their admiration. With thelittle fellow and with Florence he was always the adored Big Brother.

We had a big grey cat called the "Jeopard" (so called because, when akitten, he was found in a place of jeopardy on the street car tracks),and he attached himself to Jack at once, slept on the foot of his bed,and followed him around like a dog.

One day, when Jack had come with me to a Board of Trade luncheon, thespeaker, a typical solid business man, full of bubbling optimism,greeted Jack with a resounding slap on the back and asked:

"Well, young fellow, how does it feel to win a war?"

"I did not know that wars were ever won," Jack said quietly. "Certainlynot by the people who do the fighting." His voice cut like a sharp paperedge and his face had gone suddenly old. Word had come that day of thedeath of one of his friends in an English hospital.

Looking back now I can see our whole way of life bothered him. We weretoo complacent, too much concerned with trifles. He had seen thenegation of everything he had been taught, and now here we were goingahead, almost as if nothing had happened.

Alfred Noyes, in his great poem, "The Victory Dance," interpreted thespirit of the returned men more faithfully than anyone of that time, buthis poem was too sad for our spirit of jubilation, and we were not wiseenough to heed its warning. He pictured the spirits of young soldierscoming back after the Armistice to find the whole population celebratingvictory in a wild exaltation of mad joy. The spirits stood on thesidelines watching the revels, amazed, shocked, saddened. One of thespirits pleaded with his companions not to judge the dancers tooharshly.

"They are young you see." "Aye," said the dead man, "so were we."
"What did you think we would find?" asked a shade.
"When the last shot was fired and the last peace made?"
"Christ!" said the fleshless jaws of his friend,
"I thought they'd be looking for worlds to mend."

Jack tried hard to adapt himself. He worked long hours and made a namefor himself as a student. There were times when he wanted to leave theUniversity and get a job, but we coaxed him to stay and get his degreein Law, and this he did with distinction. He was honoured by his fellowstudents in many ways, and won a scholarship which took him to Oxford.

But I knew there was a wound in his heart—a sore place. That hurt lookin his clear blue eyes tore at my heart strings and I did not know whatto do. When a boy who has never had a gun in his hands, never desiredanything but the good of his fellow men, is sent out to kill other boyslike himself, even at the call of his country, something snaps in him,something which may not mend.

A wound in a young heart is like a wound in a young tree. It does notgrow out. It grows in.

The boys who came back from this war have a better chance. Wise men andwomen are giving deep thought to their problems, and in every waypossible are showing the soldier's family how to cushion the shock ofhis return. I wish we had known more, but all I could see then was themiracle of Jack's safe return, and to us he was a glorified being,clothed in the shining raiment of one who has come back from the dead.

Soon after his return from Oxford he was appointed to the position ofProsecuting Attorney in the City Police Court, and his success there ledto his appointment as one of the lawyers in the Attorney-General'soffice. No trouble was too great for him to take to ascertain all thetruth in every case he handled, for there was always a fear in his heartthat some innocent person might suffer if he were negligent. I rememberonce there was a case pending which had to do with the guardianship of afamily whose parents had separated. The case looked favorable for thefather, who told a plausible story in court, and had made a betterimpression than the mother. But Jack was not satisfied, and decided togo himself to see the children, who were on a farm in the Peace Rivercountry, left in the charge of the eldest boy, who was only fifteenyears of age. It was winter weather, bitterly cold, a few days beforeChristmas. I remember this case because I helped him to fill a valisewith things for the children. He borrowed his Dad's coon coat andgauntlets and made the trip, the last thirty miles from the station witha livery team. But he found out what he wanted to know and the childrennot only had a Christmas tree, with presents for everybody, but soon hadtheir mother restored to them. The fifteen-year-old boy gave thedeciding vote. He told Jack that his mother had always been good to themand if they could only get her back they could do fine without thefather.

I wonder if that boy still remembers.

When he was in the City Police Court a case came up one day of a man whohad killed a dog on a street crossing and did not even stop. He wasquite arrogant about it when summoned into court, and said the dog hadno right to be crossing the street, and if people didn't want their dogshurt they had better keep them in their own yards. But when theproceedings were over he was chastened in spirit and had his knowledgeenlarged, and the Humane Society were delighted with Jack's handling ofthe case. He brought the fact to light that a dog properly licensed asthis one was, has the same right to cross the street as any otherpedestrian.

When he was appointed Prosecutor in the Supreme Court of Alberta hewrote me about it. He was pleased with the promotion but used thissentence: "I enjoy this battling of wits and could be happy if I couldforget its grim significance."

One of the judges whom I knew well often spoke of Jack's ability to getthe truth from the witnesses. "He has something which makes people wantto tell the truth," Thomas Tweedie said. "Some way he gets the idea overthat the truth must be told, and strangely enough even the people whor*ceive sentences respect him and like him. He builds up theirself-respect by his understanding and never in his life did hedeliberately try to confuse a witness. He is always kind, patient andhuman."

CHAPTER XXIII

The Prairie Pilgrim

When the Mooney family made the journey from Winnipeg to the SourisRiver in 1880, the journey took two weeks, and my mother walked all theway. It was a rough road, with pitch holes and rivers to cross, but herheart was light and strong. She was looking ahead to the great new landfor her sons. There they could all farm together and help each other onthe rich prairie, free from stones, from weeds, and from insects. Surelyno effort was too great to achieve such a family triumph.

Mother walked to lighten the load, and besides, it was best for her tobe where she could keep her eye on the caravan, which consisted of twoox-wagons, one pony cart in formation, and one cow, two small children,one small dog, on the loose!

It was a long two weeks, no doubt, for the adults, but to me, aged sixgoing on seven, it was a time of great adventure. We were on our way toa new country and a new life and we were all together, all exceptGeorge, eighteen-year-old George, who stayed behind on the homesteadnear Millford to look after the stuff.

Forty years later, in 1920, again the Mooney family made that samejourney and again we were all together, except one, and this time it wasmy father, who had left us twenty-seven years before. The distance wasthe same but this time it required only four hours in the train. Mymother was not walking this time, but she was with us—dominating everythought, as we sat there hushed and silent—her three sons and threedaughters, all in sober dark clothes just as she would want us to be,for she loved decorum. It was strange for us to be silent for we were afamily of talkers.

We did not talk because we were too busy remembering, as we looked outon the familiar landscape, shivering that day in a blustering Marchwind. Cattle were huddled in straw stacks and smoke was veering fromwell stoked furnaces and stoves. Forty years had marched over all of us,but her death had rolled them back, and that day we were all herchildren again. She had been the tie that bound us all together and nowwe were like a broken string of beads, in danger of becoming separated.

I was thinking of the bannocks that she made on that first journey, inthe mouth of the flour sack. The process was simple, but there was artin it too. Lard was mixed with the flour into which baking powder hadbeen added with salt, and then this was made into a soft dough withmilk, and pressed down into a sizzling hot pan where bacon had beenfried. The pan was covered to keep off the ashes, the bannock turnedjust once and cooked through and then eaten hot with "Golden Drop" syruppoured over it. Nothing can ever taste like that. My mother had the giftof making simple food romantic.

The Minister, Rev. S. E. Caldwell, who had conducted the funeral serviceat Hannah's home in Winnipeg, had spoken about the light in the windowwhich mother had always burned on stormy winter nights to guide thetraveller on his way if there should happen to be one abroad. It was aninvitation, too. It said, "Here is shelter and food!" The light was aritual with her, and symbolic of her life. Coal oil might be running lowand the source of supply far away, but that lamp burned without fail,even if we had to carry on with tallow candles.

I wonder if every family has regrets when the day comes to bury theirmother. Do we all fail and come short of our filial duty? I do notthink Lizzie or Hannah could have had regrets, they had done much morefor her than I had and had been more patient. She had lived the lastthree years of her life with Hannah in Winnipeg and before that hadlived a year with Lizzie in Holland, and both had spent their days andnights at her command.

A year before her death she had suffered a fractured thigh bone by afall one dark morning. She had sprung out of bed without turning on thelight, under the delusion that the thrashers were driving into the yardand there was nothing to eat in the house! The habits of years are hardto break. All her active life she had been concerned with the feeding ofhungry men coming in off the land, and so even in the days of herretirement, when the task of feeding the hungry men had been taken overby younger hands, her mind went on planning for their needs.

I went to see her as soon as I heard about the fall, wondering how shewould take it. It had always been her greatest fear that she mightbecome a care to her children.

"Anything but that!" she often said. "Surely God won't leave me towither away, as I've seen some old people do, tiring out their family.People should be like bank notes, called in by the bank when they becomeworn and faded. . . . I can stand pain as well as anybody, but I don'tbelieve I could be patient and resigned to a long period of waiting."

It shook my faith, too, that this could happen to her. She had asked solittle for herself. Surely God could have answered that oneprayer. . . . After all she had done. . . . I thought of how unselfishshe had been. Bought all our clothes, before she even thought ofherself—and then would say, "I do not need as much as the others, Iwill not be going out, and you youngsters must go." On the trip fromWinnipeg . . . sleeping out at night . . . making camp in the rain . . .her problem was to keep father from catching cold . . . for once he hadhad a serious attack of bronchitis . . . his stockings had to be keptdry, and that was not easy . . . I thought of these things and manymore, and rebelled at the thought that this valiant soul would befettered in a broken body, perhaps for years. I thought of how shekindled to those lines from the Rubaiyat:

I had bought her a copy once, not knowing how she would like it, but sheread it.

"It's a heathenish thing, Nellie," she said. "But there's truth in it."

She was too old to have her leg set, so the doctor put her in a cast toease the pain as well as he could. When I went to see her I got asurprise and a rebuke for my lack of faith. Her God had answered herprayer. Not as she expected, but nevertheless she was spared what shedreaded, for during the year that she was confined to bed, she did notknow that she was bedfast, nor did she suffer. By a merciful delusionher mind went pleasantly back to the years of her strength. She was backin Ontario with her sister Ellen and Mrs. Edward Lowery. She was gettingready to move to Manitoba, weaving blankets and getting clothes made forthe children, or it was harvest time in Manitoba and she was walking outwith my father to look at the wheat. It was the best crop we had everhad, and there would be money enough to buy all the supplies this year;it was time for the children to be coming home from school and shewondered what was keeping them; the cows were coming up to the bars andshe would have to get out and get the milking done before supper.

Her mind had become a sun dial which recorded only the sunny hours. Sheslept for long periods and enjoyed her meals. Sometimes in the morningshe would waken up in a panic, loudly demanding her clothes and to knowwhere she was, and where everyone else was, and why no one had calledher. She knew it was late by the sun on the wall, but she had not heardthe clock strike, and couldn't understand that for she had neverforgotten to wind the clock!

That mood quickly passed as the kindly curtain fell again between herand reality and her spirit wandered in the green pastures and beside thestill waters. The doctor thought it wonderful that she was free fromdiscomfort and pain.

But now her eighty-five years were accomplished, and we were on our wayto the Millford cemetery.

We stayed overnight at the Prince Arthur Hotel in Brandon. Many of theold friends came to see us there. They all had something to tell of hergoodness and her overflowing hospitality. They told us death was just asmuch a part of life as birth and that Heaven lies at the end of awellspent life, and I knew it was all true, but even that could not makeme forget that something had gone out of the world forever, somethingdependable and satisfying. I had lost my sense of being young, for theonly person to whom I was young, had gone.

We left for Wawanesa on the morning train, called the "Cannon Ball," andmother was buried from the Union Church by the Methodist minister, andalthough the day was cold and stormy the old friends were there fromnear and far, many of whom I had not seen for years. A weatherbeatencompany the older ones were, for they had faced many a cold wind, andhad endured the vicissitudes of hail and frost. But their spirits hadnever faltered. They were a gallant company. The minister's wife hadchosen the hymns and sang a solo which was one of my mother's favorites:"The City Four Square." One hymn seemed to me to be exactly the rightword, and when I hear it sung now it takes me back to that little churchwhere again I see that company of old friends and feel the fellowship oftheir presence, lightening our bereavement as the sunshine struggledthrough the frosted windows.

We laid her away on the high field overlooking the Souris Valley, thatcold March day, while the horses under their blankets stampedimpatiently, blowing out their frosty breath in clouds, and there theylie, John Mooney and Letitia McCurdy Mooney, two people who played theirpart well, standing up to life while life lasted, two members in goodstanding of that innumerable host which no man can number called thePeople, the Common People, who carry on from day to day, without benefitof applause, unconsciously keeping alive the best traditions ofhumanity.

We stayed that day and night in Wawanesa and many of the old friendscame in to my brother Jack's house. George lives three miles out in thecountry, and we had a family reunion there too before we separated. Wehad a feeling that we might not all be together again and we wereanxious to see our nieces and nephews. I was glad to know that therewere still Mooney children attending Northfield School.

In the first volume of this autobiography, "Clearing In the West," Imentioned the name of Fred Vigfuson, who worked for our family for manyyears, working in the summer and travelling in the winter, believingthat money was made for spending, not saving. Fred travelled with us toBrandon and to Wawanesa, and he was one of the pallbearers with Will,George and Jack. Fred had been on one of his trips when he heard of mymother's death, but managed to arrive in Winnipeg in time for thefuneral. He brought with him a huge wreath of flowers made of glass,much like those I saw afterwards in Normandy.

The real flowers were frozen, of course, before they reached the grave,but Fred's offering gleamed bright and indestructible, defying theelements. I agreed to write to all the people who had sent flowers, butwe all thanked Fred for his. I remember saying to him that his wreathwas a symbol of something enduring and everlasting, the very thing shecarried in her own heart.

"If she were here," I said to Fred, "—and maybe she is—she would tellyou she liked it."

We were sitting around the table at my brother George's and suddenly, toall our surprise, Fred covered his face with his hands.

"She was the only mother I ever knew," he said when he could speak. "Shewas the only person who ever thought enough of me to scold me like amother . . . One day at the table in the kitchen in the old house, I wasmad about something. I guess you all remember that I was often mad, andI swore. No one ever swore before the Old Lady, because she wouldn'tstand for it. This day it just slipped out, and I said that something orsomebody was as slow as the second coming of Christ, and she reached outher hand and stopped me, as you would stop a child who was getting tooclose to a hot stove and she said—

"'Fred, don't speak like that of the Best Friend any of us ever had. TheMan who died for us all. I don't know whether He will come again out ofthe clouds as He went away—I hope He will. But I know He does come tous when we are in sore need. He came to me, when my little boy died, andI knew the doctor could have saved him, only he was too drunk to see howsick the child was, and told me I was making a fuss about a simple colic. . . When the little boy died I cursed that doctor. Fred, I could havechoked him with my own hands, but Some One came to me with hands softand comforting and said, "Your little boy is safe with me, safe forever.He will never know sorrow or pain or temptation. Don't tear your heartin sorrow and anger. Death is not the thing you fear . . . I haveovercome death." He wasn't slow that time in coming and He is never slowwhen we call . . . Many a time I've called on Him in sore need and Hehas never been slow.

"'So don't say it, Fred—I cannot bear to hear my best Friendcriticized. My Friend and yours and everybody's . . . who came to showus how to live.'

"And I walked out like a chump, and never even thanked her or apologizedto her. That's what seems so terrible now, I never even said I wassorry!"

We comforted Fred as well as we could, telling him we all had beenchumps at one time or another and taken all her goodness for granted. Wesat late that night, remembering, and I hope she was listening. Mybrother, Will, remarked that it is too bad people have to die to havetheir good deeds remembered, and he spoke of how he had found outsomething that mother did on the two weeks' journey which we should nothave allowed her to do, admitting at the same time that he wouldn't haveknown how he would have stopped her for mother was not easily turnedaside from her purpose. He said that one of her big problems on the tripwas to be sure that father had dry stockings, for since he had had thelong bout with bronchitis she feared a recurrence of the trouble, sowhen there was any doubt of having a pair of thoroughly dry stockingsfor the morning, she put a pair on her own feet at night to make sure,and when Will had remonstrated with her and wanted to take over thisduty, she would have none of it and told him to never mention it. Shewas always sure that nothing could happen to her.

Long after midnight we sat talking and then Lizzie spoke up and said:

"I know what's the matter with the Mooney family. There's no one now totell us to go to bed."

I lay awake a long time that night, listening to the snow that lispedagainst the windows—a soft spring snow that deadened every sound. Itcomforted me to think of its falling on that jagged wound on the highbenchland above the Souris River, turning it into a soft white mound.She loved the snow and it was right that it should wrap her grave in awhite mantle on this first night.

CHAPTER XXIV

Family Matters

The next day we separated. Lizzie and Hannah returned to their homes inWinnipeg. George and Jack settled back into their routine on the farmsand Will and I went back to Edmonton.

In our generation the line which separated men and women was sharplymarked, even in families. As families go, we got along very well, thesix of us. There was always a strong family loyalty and no doubt wewould have gone gladly to each other's help if help had been needed, butas individuals we lived our lives behind invisible mountains in whichthere were deep ravines where no path of communication ran. It alwaysseemed easier to keep our deepest thoughts to ourselves, but on thattrain journey Will and I seemed to draw closer together. I always had adeep affection for my brother Will, and a great respect for hisjudgment.

"We are the older generation now, Nellie," he said, "and pretty soonwe'll be the old folks. The wheel of life has made a complete revolutionfor us!"

"We are the old folks now," I said. "I got the first cold blast of it acouple of weeks ago when Jack and Florence were having a party.Refreshments had been served. Twelve o'clock had come and gone and itreally was time that the guests were going home. I had always been ablebefore to draw attention to the flight of time without actually saying aword, but this time I suddenly felt I was nothing but a spoil-fun. Iremembered being at a party as "Bosky Dell," the home of the Turnbullfamily in Millford, many yeares before, and just when we were having awonderful time Mr. Turnbull appeared pacing up and down, wrinkling hisforehead, until the top of his bald head ran into billows. I wanted himto go away, anywhere, to fall downstairs, break a leg, anything just sohe would leave us alone. I know now how he felt, but I know, too, howthe youngsters felt and so I just couldn't break up the party. I wentmeekly to bed and knew I had lost control."

"It is strange about family ties," Will said after awhile. "When you areyoung they simply choke you. Parents are really an impediment and quiteoften an embarrassment to children. When I left the County of Grey atthe age of nineteen, I wanted to shake the dust of home off my feet, notthat I had anything against either my father or mother. It was just thenatural urge of youth to break a new path, but as we grow older we longfor the old pattern of life and grow misty-eyed and tender when we thinkof it. You and I are the rovers of the family, Nellie, and perhaps weare more sentimental about the old home than any of the others for wehave been farther away from it. To us its hard outlines are softened bydistance. . . . When I heard the old clock strike in Jack's house, itfairly twisted my heart. I could just see mother standing on a chairwinding it up at night. I hated that clock as a kid for its iron voicemeant I had to get up in the cold dark winter mornings. But now itopened every pore in my heart. I had forgotten how it cleared its throatbefore it struck and then bustled into the new hour faster than ever asif it had to make up for lost time. It's good for another lifetime andwill go on, measuring off the time impartially, while the people itserved will wear out and die."

"It's strange about time," I said. "We all get our quota, the samenumber of hours, while they last and at the same rate, we pay for themwhether we use them or not."

"You certainly make a queer use of some of your hours," said my brother,suddenly coming out of the misty past into the present. Then I knew Iwas in for it, but I was always ready to take Will's criticism. Therewas thirteen years between us in age and I always knew there was akindly import in anything he said.

"The world isn't ready to accept advice from women," he said. "Mennaturally resent women's interference in public matters . . . I know theliberation of women will come, but it's bound to be hard on the advanceguard, and there are so many other things for you to do, Nellie. Youhave a good home, Wes is one of the finest men I have ever known. Youhave five lovely children. Can't you pipe down and live like otherpeople? I get tired telling people that you and Wes get on well, and youhave no personal reasons for raising such a dust about the liquortraffic and the burdens of women. The world has gone on for a long time,Nellie, and you can't change it!"

"That's the old Conservative doctrine coming out in you, Will," I said."'Leave things alone.' If you're all right yourself, why bother?—SirRodmond Roblin talked like that, but don't you see that the fact that Ihave a good man and a good family lays a responsibility on me. Thebroken-hearted, embittered woman cannot do anything to help anyone else.You need not worry about Wes either. His mother, God bless her, educatedhim. She was interested in exactly the same things that I am and so Wesis not the sort of a man who thinks his wife should always be standingbehind his chair ready to spring to attention. Don't ever forget that Imarried carefully. I was only sixteen when I got my eye on Wes, but Iknew what I was doing."

We were travelling through Manitoba, west of Brandon, and the smallfarmhouses looked gray and lonely in the gloom of that March day. Cattleforaged in the straw stacks. Children were on the roads going home fromschool, and cheerful columns of smoke rose from the chimneys of thelittle houses.

"Look at these little houses, Will," I said. "Where any recent buildinghas been done you'll notice, it's a new barn. A small house and a bigbarn means that the man of the family has had his way. These littlehouses are places where people have the minimum of comfort. They go inand out, eat and sleep, but everything's done the hard way. The womenare tired and overworked and sometimes very cross. They battle againsthard water and chapped hands, and chapped hands would lower the moraleof an arch-angel. The houses are cold, the floors full of splinters.Some of these houses have not one book, except Eaton's catalogue. Whenthere is a good crop the men buy more land or more machinery forthemselves. I'm not begrudging them their machines, but the women coulddo with some help, too, and in addition to all their hard work and theirstrivings to keep clean and make a decent living for themselves andtheir families the women have still to bear the additional burden ofchild-bearing. No one can blame them if they do not welcome the comingof another child under these conditions. It isn't good enough to saythat things have always been this way and always will. This is a richcountry, and there should be enough to go around of the good things oflife. I want to see these people have some pleasure in their work.

"The first part of life here, the pioneer period, is closing, and a newera is about to break. Some day, before long, there will be electriclight in all these houses and new machines to lift the burden ofdrudgery. Co-operative movements are coming too, but to bring all thisabout the people must develop a new mentality. The people of mother'sgeneration were great people in their own way. They took great pride intheir endurance. You remember the old man in our neighborhood who tookgreat pride in the fact that he never owned a pair of mittens in hislife, and I knew a woman at Manitou, who had the distinction of havingnever lain in bed for more than twenty-four hours after her childrenwere born. But these feats of endurance sound foolish now, for the angleof life is changing. Machines have come and just ordinary animalstrength has had its day."

"That's all very true," Will said. "And no one is gladder than I am tosee machines lifting the burden from human beings, but I still don't seewhy you should appoint yourself a sort of an unofficial guardian anddefender of women's rights."

"I know these people, Will," I said, "and they listen to me when I talkto them. I've had meetings in nearly every one of these little towns andin some of the schoolhouses, too. The women bring their babies to themeetings, Will, and that means they are determined to come. Womenthemselves are largely to blame for conditions. They are too muchinclined to suffer in silence. They will not speak up on their ownbehalf and develop a martyr complex which is hard to break, but I canget closer to them than a stranger, for they know that I know what I'mtalking about for I, too, have travelled the cold road and had my hairfrozen to the bed clothes at night. I have warmed my bare feet in theplace where a cow has been lying on a sharp October morning, and when Itell them these things I see their faces brighten and their eyesglisten, and they accept me. I have opened doors in their imaginations,I have made them see that life need not be all trials and tribulations.Canada is destined to be one of the great nations of the world andCanadian women must be ready for citizenship. No nation ever riseshigher than its women and that's why I must go on."

"I know they like to hear you," Will said. "I like to hear you, too. ButI can see that you are in a fair way of being hurt, and I don't like it,and I don't like the way some people talk about you. Why can't you letsome of these bright maiden ladies carry the Fiery Cross over thecountry?"

"Well, I suppose I could settle down into a state of apathy," I said,"and have teas for other idle women and listen to their chatter abouttheir dressmakers and their maids. This could be called 'making socialcontacts for my husband's business,' but really, Will, my husbanddoesn't need any such help. Wes is a successful insurance manager on hisown merits. People like to do business with him because he's honest andfair-minded and knows his work, and that is a better foundation forbusiness than having a wife who can throw a good party. It's moreenduring and more dignified. Wes can run his own department very wellindeed. He needs no bolstering from me. When I hear people say they'reinsured in "Wes McClung's company" I feel proud of him. He is pullinghis own weight and certainly I do not want to pull through life like athread that has no knot. I want to leave something behind when I go;some small legacy of truth, some word that will shine in a dark place. Inever could believe that minding one's own business was much of avirtue; but it's a fine excuse for doing nothing. You remember oldScrooge made a great point of minding his own business."

"You will certainly never get into the hall of fame because you mindedyour own business" Will said rather severely.

"I'm not worried about the hall of fame," I said, "but I do want to seesome of the old prejudices which have bound women fall like the leavesin autumn when a wind shakes them down and blows them into fencecorners. And I want to do more than that, too! I want to see our peopleget something to take the place of the old prejudices, because they didgive people something to talk about and be proud of.

"There's a woman living near Alexander who has not spoken to her son andhis wife for twenty years and she's proud of it. It is the high spot inher drab life, and has brought her through several attacks ofgallstones. She just wouldn't die for fear her son's wife would get herfur coat, but you can't say that that's a healthy frame of mind. Allthat determination could be put to a better use."

"What burns me up," Will said after a pause, "is that women are harderon you than men. How do you account for that?"

"Oh, that's easy," I said, "and it is exactly in keeping with what I'vebeen saying. Women have but few interests and live on a narrow canvas. Ido not resent their criticism. It's just talk and not so malicious as itsounds. I do not mind."

"Well I do," Will said, "and I wish you'd get out of the upliftingbusiness."

"I'm sorry to cause you embarrassment, Will," I said, "but don't forgetthat I have some good friends, even among the women."

Then I told him what happened one night in a little town on the GooseLake line, when I drove in, during a bad winter storm and went into theone hotel. I was expecting to leave on a train which went through earlyin the morning but was anxious to get a few hours sleep and asked for aroom.

The night clerk took one look at the name on my suitcase and told me hehad no room for me.

I knew they had, but for a moment did not grasp the significance of hisrefusal.

"How does it happen you have no room?" I asked. "This is a big hotel, ina very small town."

"We have no room," the little man intoned like a curate. Then I knewwhat he meant.

"You can't refuse to give me a room," I said. "This is a public house."

"We just don't like you," said the little man, bristling like a badger,"and we don't want you. Better go and stay with some of your piousfriends around town—the Nosey Parkers who want to take the bread out ofhonest men's mouths!"

"I am going to stay here," I said, "and you can't do anything about it!It's a bad night and it's nearly midnight, too late to disturb anyone.So whether you like it or not I am staying until train time tomorrowmorning and I want a room! Where is the proprietor?"

"That need not concern you," he growled. "I'm in charge here, and we donot want you."

I noticed a bell on his desk and I knew I could rouse the house. But Idid not want to do that.

Just then some one came down the stairs, a big woman in a red satindressing-gown.

"What goes on here?" she demanded brusquely.

The little man sat low in his chair.

"This lady wants a room," he said meekly.

"Well, what's the delay? We have plenty of rooms," she said. "Take herbags to Number Three."

Then she turned and put out her hand.

"I'm glad to see you again, Mrs. McClung. When I attended the NormalSchool in Edmonton, I often heard you speak . . . I knew your voice,too. I hadn't been asleep yet and could hear the voices down here atthe desk and wondered if Harry might be a bit difficult. It's the wrongtime of the moon for Harry."

Harry was disappearing up the stairs with my bags, looking like a littlebow-legged gnome.

"The moon must have changed just when you appeared," I said. "I wasbeginning to think all the signs were against me, too."

"Harry's just recovering from a protracted spree," she said later as shefilled the water-pitcher and brought me towels, "and is ready to fightwith his own shadow. He knows what you stand for, and in his presentstate of mind he thinks of you as a mortal enemy, but believe me I'll beglad when we get rid of the bar. I've seen too much misery come from it,and it has certainly left its mark on our family.

"My mother ran a boarding house right here in this little town, and madeenough to educate us all, but when my brother grew up he wanted a hotelwith a bar—a boarding house was beneath his dignity . . . and sometimewhen you want to write a modern 'Ten Nights In a Bar Room', come backand I'll give you the dope on it. But now you need sleep; don't worryabout the train, it will probably be hours late. I'll get you up intime."

The train was a day late, and not only did I get the story, but found areal friend. She is still there, running a good hotel, without a bar.

"What would you have done if she had not come down?" Will asked. "Wouldyou have had to sit in a chair all night?"

"No," I said. "I'd have gone upstairs and found a room—I've done that,too. The first unlocked door, then cautious investigation with a flashlight. It's easy—I might have to try two or three before I found anempty one. Often there is a couch in the hall. I can sleep any place."

"I still cannot understand why you do it," Will said. But I did notbelieve him and I said so.

"You, too, went ahead when you were only nineteen, because you sawsomething better than the things you were leaving behind and you werenot thinking of yourself only. Were you ever sorry? Wouldn't you do itagain, even if you knew that it meant fatigue and frostbites and hoursof doubt and distress. No one wants a fiddling job . . . when FrankKinley carried on the Sunday School at Northfield School long agosomeone asked him why he stuck to it, in the heat of summer and the coldof winter, pointing out that the parents of the children wereindifferent, and the youngsters themselves often trying, noisy andinattentive. Frank made a reply which I have never forgotten. He said:'I knew what the Sunday School has done for me, as boy and man. I know,and I want other people to have it. I cannot eat my bread alone.' Withthat phrase 'I cannot eat my bread alone,' I joined Frank Kinley'slodge. You called me an uplifter a few minutes ago, which is, of course,a term of disdain. But that's what I am and I'm not ashamed of it. Anddon't forget that I'm having a good time at it. No one need feel sorryfor me. It is the greatest adventure in the world, and I would notchange places with anyone. You see I understand why people sneer atuplifters. It's a form of defence mechanism. It's a cover forselfishness but no one need ever envy a selfish person, for no selfishperson is happy."

There was a long silence between us, then as we watched the flyinglandscape. Then Will spoke:

"You'll never change," he said. "And you will have a good time, as yousay. You'll have plenty of friends and many enemies. You'll probablymake mistakes and know both joy and sorrow, but at least you'll have thesatisfaction of having lived . . . and you know how I feel about you."

I knew.

We lived in the same city until our family moved to Calgary in 1923, butthat was the last serious conversation we had, although we often saweach other.

In 1926, I remember spending a very pleasant time with him and mysister-in-law in their home on 100th Avenue, which had been remodelledand decorated and was complete in every last detail. I spoke of this aswe sat before a cheerful fire in his den. "You're very comfortable now,Will," I said, "and I hope you'll have long and happy years here."

There was a quizzical smile on his face as he answered:

"Not likely. No one stays long when everything is exactly right. Nothingto complain of? It cannot last!"

We laughed about it then, but he was speaking truly.

He died the next year.

CHAPTER XXV

Up to London

When in May, 1920, I read in a brief news item that a General Council ofthe Methodist Church of Canada had appointed me as one of their twelvedelegates to the Ecumenical Conference to be held in London, England thefollowing year, my first desire was to know what this imposing wordmeant. I found it meant "world wide in extent", and I felt that a greathonour had been given to me; in fact I was somewhat frightened at theprospect, for the news report said it was the first time the CanadianCouncil had appointed a women to this gathering which took place everyten years. I did not know until two years later how my name came to beplaced on the list. Mr. T. W. Duggan, manager of the Dale Greenhouses inBrampton, Ont., had ventured to suggest in the Council that a womanshould be appointed, and in the silence that followed that remark heventured to say that he knew a woman who would at least bring back agood report, and bless his kind heart, he was thinking of me. And so itcame to pass that I went to London in 1921.

My housekeeper, Mrs. Fuller, was concerned for my social success inLondon and did her best to prepare me for this, my first visit. She wasvery tactful about it, but I discovered that she was somewhat fearful ofmy table manners. I did not always hold my fork correctly, and my way ofbreaking an egg in a glass egg-cup was just not done. She found mewilling and anxious for guidance, and so I learned not only about how toeat an egg, but to eat a peach with a spoon and fork delicately heldand I learned too that the eating of peanuts constitutes a social errorinto which I must not fall, remembering that in the eyes of the Britishthey are "monkey nuts" and have no place on a lady's menu. I learned,too, that I must have a case for my night-gown—preferably one with amonogram, and the night garment should be of linen at least. Mrs. Fullersaid that accessories were significant. Fortunately another Englishfriend of mine was like-minded and presented me with a fine linennight-dress and case, embroidered and monogrammed, and Mrs. Fuller feltthat my star of social success might be about to rise.

It was just as well she did not know what happened in Troon where I hadgone after the Council meeting was over, to speak for the "Women's Guildof Empire". Mrs. Flora Drummond and I were travelling companions and atTroon we were entertained in a beautiful mansion. I slept in a high,four-poster bed with curtains, and a bell rope as thick as a ferrycable.

When we arrived and were received by her Ladyship, she said to me whenthe greetings were over:

"Wilkins will unpack for you." I wanted to tell her that I wastravelling light and would much prefer to do my own unpacking, butremembering what Mrs. Fuller had told me I tried to look as if I hadnever unpacked a valise in my life and so watched my modest black bagdisappearing up the crimson stairway in Wilkins' firm grip, without aflicker! It contained by way of clothing, one afternoon dress, oneevening dress, and two blouses and I knew they would look pitifullyinadequate when hung in the log high wardrobe. But the thought of thenightdress case with its beautiful and yet unworn garment sustained me.Wilkins would see, I hoped, that I was a lady of quality. At the verybottom of my bag was the garment I really wore, a good, honestlong-sleeved "L" sized white flannelette gown from the second floor ofthe T. Eaton Company in Winnipeg, and very glad I was to have a supplyof these for the draughty spare rooms I had occupied.

I felt quite secure and at my ease all evening, but when I ascended thestairs and reached the spacious room allotted to me I found I wasdiscovered! Wilkins had probed deep into my slender belongings and laidout not only the embroidered garment in its well pressed folds, butbeside it the other one, the long-sleeved flannelette. Never had itspale blue machine-made embroidery looked so crude and I shrivelled underher gaze.

"Which garment, madam, do you prefer?" she asked me coldly.

I wanted to talk to Wilkins. If there had been the slightest twinkle inher eye, we might have become good friends then and there, but her facewas as unpersonal as the marble-topped washstand, and Mrs. Fuller hadwarned me I must not show any interest in the servants. They would notunderstand and might resent it.

The meetings of the Council were full of surprises, some pleasant andothers depressing. At the opening banquet in the Cecil Hotel, I saw thegreat Methodist Church in evening clothes and I wrote in my diary thatnight: "The brightest spot of the evening was Lady Pearkes' diamonds."To Sir Robert Pearkes was given the honour of moving an address to thePresident of the United States from which I remember one sentence. ThePresident was reminded by Sir Robert that it had been the policy of thechurch from the day of Wesley not to be a mere platonic preacher ofphilosophic sophistries or idealistic nostrums, but to translate theplain truths of the Christian faith into the activities of every daylife! In other words Wesley had sought to translate Methodism into"Christianity in earnest". I find I made a note of this, on myprogramme, with the addition:

"Sir R. knows some crackling big words."

I also have notes of another happening at this dinner. We had among thedelegates many colored people—Bishop Carey, Dr. Phillips, BishopCaldwell of the African Methodist Church and many others. Mr. OscarAdams was one of the Secretaries of the Conference, and I was intenselyinterested in these people, and glad to hear their resonant voices. Butat the dinner some of the southern delegates objected to sitting withthem. We all drew our table partners by chance, and my partner was a manfrom Witchita, Kansas. We were seated near the malcontents, and quicklychanged seats with them, wondering if they would carry their raceprejudices to Heaven, if and when. It was a sore shock to me to findthat Christian people could be so cruel and ill-mannered. The coloredpeople conducted themselves with great dignity, but my soul was scorchedwith shame for my race.

When the President of the Conference lit his cigar as soon as the toastto the King was concluded, my partner was ready to go back to Witchitaon the first boat. I tried to tell him this was the custom of thecountry and I reminded him that the Americans and the Canadians havesome habits which are objectionable to the British people—gum chewing,for example.

"But we do not chew gum at a church banquet!" he said indignantly."These people are followers of John Wesley. They have a tradition ofself-denial and should avoid the very appearance of evil."

I didn't like it any more than he did, but I was still so shocked at thedisplay of race prejudice that smoking seemed insignificant. The nextday we ran into another rough place and the offender this time was oneof the American bishops. He was telling us somewhat boastfully of thesignificance of the stars and stripes in civilization's forward marchand of the great part the Methodist Church had played in the war andthen he made this astonishing statement:

"In this last great conflict the Methodist Church has sent more soldiersto the front, more nurses to camps and hospitals and more prayers toHeaven than any other Christian community." That was too much for atleast one of his compatriots, who mildly rebuked his brother for makingstatistics a basis for spiritual pride.

"Let not the Methodist Episcopal Church degenerate into the MethodistStatistical," he said.

The first few sessions left me cold and disappointed. The speakers wereeloquent, easy to listen to, polished and prepared. The programmesrolled off the assembly line according to plan. It was a greatgathering, well-planned and executed, but my heart was not warmed.

Then came the Sunday morning service in Wesley's Chapel on the CityRoad. From where I sat I could see the gallery and its row after row ofwidows, not merry widows, but not sad ones either. I would say proudwidows, wearing their white-edged bonnets, as old soldiers wear theirmedals. And the hymn which opened a door in my mind, and sent a warmingflood through my veins was one I had sung many times:

I was looking at the faces of the widows in the gallery as we sang thelast verse and it was from the glow in their eyes that I received thegreatest sense of triumph. They knew what it meant to carry the bannerof love and sacrifice. They knew that the promises were not given invain and that in spite of human frailties and human mistakes the greatwork of regeneration goes on. It is always hard to express a spiritualexperience in words but it seemed to me that in a flash I saw thehistory of the church revealed. Past, present and future met here andwere blended. Outside in the churchyard John Wesley had been laid torest and here in this place, this very place, his words had vibrated theether and now after all these years people from all over the world hadgathered here for one purpose, one thought, one desire, and I wasprivileged to see it and feel it and be a part of it. Even now so manyyears after as I write these words the glory of its comes back to me andfuses my soul again in its burning heat.

That night we walked back to Bedford Place and that is a pleasantmemory. I had for my companion Miss Riley, who had been a missionary tothe Indians at Norway House, and her Indian protege, Frances Nikawa.

"Don't worry about the bewildering London streets," Miss Riley had said,when we were discussing whether or not we would take a bus. "Franceswill find the way. Civilization has not dimmed that blessed nativeinstinct." And so Frances brought us safely back without having toenquire from any person and there was something about that whichcomforted me as the unerring instinct of the wild fowl confirmed thepoet's faith in God's overruling providence. I mentioned this to Francesand as we walked along through the crowded streets she recited the poemto us in her deep voice:

When I read these words over now I can hear the soft voice of the Indiangirl, mingling with the London traffic, sweet as the chiming of bells.

The high spot of the Conference speeches came the day that the RightHonourable Walter Runciman addressed us, for he, of all the speakers,seemed to have the clearest grasp of world conditions. He was the firstspeaker who impressed me as being an internationalist.

"The brotherhood of man," he said, "is a reality whether we like it ornot. The law of the jungle must give way to the law of the family. Weare all one, whether we are white or black, brown or yellow. No countrycan self-contain its sin. Opium grown in China slays young women inLondon flats. Alcohol distilled in Scotland curses West Africa, anddecimates tribe after tribe. The misfortunes of the low wage Japanesehave an influence on wages paid in Britain and America.

"The old standards fall. The heart of man must be fired with a newaffection. The New Testament must supersede the Old."

When the Conference was over I stayed another month, enjoying thesights, sounds and smells of this greatest city in the world. I loved tosee the great flood of humanity pouring down the grey canyons of itsnarrow streets. I saw the good-natured queues waiting to buy theatretickets, sitting on their camp stools and happily eating hot chestnuts,reading the News of the World, or knitting, or watching the streetartists bring sunsets, or cataracts to their canvasses.

I read the News of the World, too. It was the first periodical towelcome me to London. (Mrs. Fuller told me afterwards I had better notmention that). At that time it seemed to specialize on the finding ofskeletons in attics and under park benches. The Londoners certainly didleave their skeletons in strange places.

I went to see the Guard change at Buckingham Palace. I visited theEditor of the Children's Newspaper, the energetic and charming ArthurMee. I was even allowed to sit in the Distinguished Strangers' Galleryin the House of Lords, and looked down at the nineteen noble Lords andthe many empty seats. Lord Lonsdale was speaking on the rehabilitationof Germany, but no one listened—none of the Lords, I mean. Thereporters took it down, and I read it in The Times the next day. LordLonsdale was advocating a fairly sound principle too, when he said—"wecannot be prosperous in a bankrupt world, so let us try to put Germanyback on her economic legs".

Some of my happiest hours in London were spent with Mabel Durham, whom Ihad known when she edited the "Women's Page" on the Vancouver DailyProvince; in 1921 she was working for the Canadian National Railway,and from her I learned much, not only about London, but about ruralEngland, for Mabel has a sharp eye and the gift of impartinginformation. Each Sunday evening we went to the Guild Hall Fellowship tohear Maude Royden, who in our opinion was one of London's bestpreachers. She had been denied ordination in her own church, theAnglican, and so carried on independently and very successfully. We hadto go early to get a seat.

Miss Royden was a scholarly speaker, but in her aftermeetings when sheleft the pulpit and answered questions ranging from British foreignpolicy to advice to the lovelorn, she captivated her audience with herradiant good humor. She was very impressive, too, in her blue gown andblue cap, but when I met her once at a luncheon and had the honour ofsitting beside her we had hardly a word to say to each other. All herlights seemed to have gone out or perhaps the fault was in me.

I could write much about the hospitality of the British. Two Scotswomencontributed greatly to my happiness, Miss Jean C. Watt of Glasgow andthe beloved Jenny Morris of 34 Bedford Place. They were friends of ourson, Jack, and received me with generous affection. Many a lonelysoldier in the last war and in this one, too, was cheered and cared forby these two noble women.

There came a day in London when I decided that I must have a warmerroom. The little plaintive fireplace with its tiny wigwam of sticks wasineffectual in its efforts to lift the damp chill of the London climate,so I approached the manageress. She was a fluttering little thing fullof apologies for her country and her establishment.

"But surely you do not feel the cold," she said in mild reproof. "Youhave such terrible temperatures in Canada. I never dreamed you would becold. I thought this would seem like summer weather to you."

I tried to explain about outside and inside temperatures and what goodfacilities we had in our houses for keeping warm.

"It is all very puzzling," said Miss Crowe. "I never will understand thecolonials."

I had with me a delightful young Englishwoman whom I had met on theboat. She had lived in Saskatchewan, but was going back to England tostay with her family, her husband having been killed in France at theend of the war. She and I had stayed together at Miss Crowe'sestablishment, and when we decided to make a change she found very goodaccommodation at one of the Carleton Mansions, where we could share alarge room which had a good old-fashioned coal stove and by paying extrafor the service we could have a fire all the time. Many theatricalpeople were staying in the same house and we learned much of life behindthe footlights from them. They were a queer, temperamental,good-hearted, improvident lot who would do the kindest and yet themeanest things to each other.

At the end of September we went to France, all arrangements having beenmade for us by one of the Travel Agencies. Mrs. Leonard, the young warwidow, wanted to visit her husband's grave in the cemetery of Louez, andso we went by train from Boulogne to Arras. According to my diary wewere in Arras on September 26th, staying at the Hotel de la Univers,arriving there in the early evening. A dance was going on in thecourtyard below our window, which we were able to watch, and soondiscovered it was a wedding. The cobblestones in the courtyard must havebeen hard on the feet, but no person seemed to mind that. One lovelygirl in a pink dress had a graceful black cape over her shoulders, whichswung gracefully as she danced. The men of the party wore white glovesand many of the people taking part were quite old. At one end of thecourtyard the cab drivers sat on the floor of their cabs as soundlyasleep as their horses who stood with hanging heads. A priest walked upand down in deep thought and a quiet group of children playedhop-scotch. Three violinists supplied the music and they played "TheFlowers of the Forest". There was no hilarity about it and yet nosadness.

Less than three years ago Arras lay in ruins, with one thousand of herpeople dead in the debris and her soldiers facing the German guns. TheHotel de la Univers had all been rebuilt, but her people now, young andold, could still dance at a wedding, howbeit a little more gently thanthey would have done before the war. I was very thrilled to be actuallyin Arras to see the labyrinth of narrow alleys, the bridge across theCrinchon River and the court house where Father Madelein proclaimed tothe world that he was Jean Valjean the convict. Then I remembered thatthe Court House was under repairs that year, according to the story, andit was in the great hall of the Bishop's palace that the trial was held.

We went out early the next morning and we found the Court House, andagain it was under repairs, for a German bomb had taken off the roof andthe same fate had befallen the Hotel de la Poste, where Father Madeleinhad arrived that night a hundred years ago. The whole place wasfamiliar to me for I had read the story again and again and each timewas gripped with its magnificence and splendor. Not even the attritionof the years could wear away one atom of its power. The story of JeanValjean is more than a story—it's a life in which we live, we breatheand feel. I found myself thinking of the story in Victor Hugo's ownwords, not my own. My friend, Mrs. Leonard, was as keen about it as Iwas and together as we stood outside the Bishop's Palace we recalled itbit by bit. We remembered how the brass knob of the door of the courtroom gleamed like a horrible star, as Father Madelein waited without,struggling with the great decision.

He could so easily have gone back to his beloved people at M sur M.Surely he owed something to them, but at last he turned the knob of thedoor and walked in and saw himself in the tragic figure of the poorwretch on trial and heard him tell his story.

It was a sad story of cold, hunger and disappointment. Surely life meantnothing to him; he had never known any happiness. He might as well go tothe galleys. Father Madelein saw his old companions from the galleys whohad been brought as witnesses and each of them declared this wretchedman to be Jean Valjean. All Father Madelein needed to do was to donothing.

Then suddenly the Court Room rang with the cry so lamentable that allwho heard it were chilled to the heart. Father Madelein, who sat amongthe privileged spectators, had risen to his feet and stood in the middleof the hall. He held his hat in his hand. His hair, which had beentouched with grey when he arrived in Arras that night, had turned snowwhite in the hour he had sat there fighting his great battle.

He was so calm, so composed, no one thought the terrible cry they hadheard had come from his lips.

"Gentlemen of the Jury," he said, and his voice was sweet and gentle,"order the prisoner released and have me arrested. I am Jean Valjean."

Consternation sat upon the faces of the Judges. Father Madelein, thebeloved mayor of M sur M was known to all of them. He had gone mad,surely.

"Is there a physician in the audience?" cried the Judge. Then followedthe great words that can still restore one's faltering faith in thenobility of humanity.

"God, who is on high," said he, "sees what I am doing and that suffices.I have done my best. I concealed myself under another name and tried tore-enter the ranks of the honest, but it seems it can't be done. A manwho has been so greatly humbled as I have has no remonstrances to makewith Providence and no advice to society. Before going to the galleys Iwas a poor peasant, stupid, perhaps; they made me vicious. I was a blockof wood; I became a firebrand. Later on kindness saved me as cruelty haddestroyed me, but you would not understand. Now take me. Here I am, andlet that man go free."

And no man there dared to arrest him for in that chamber there were nolonger judges, accusers, gendarmes, nothing but staring eyes andsympathizing hearts. No one could have told how he felt. All wereinwardly dazzled. They had witnessed the magnificent act of a man whofreely delivered himself up that another man might go free.

I think it was the France of Victor Hugo I had come to see.

That year, 1921, brought many of the next-of-kin to see where their deadwere buried and the French women made wreaths for the graves of greatvariety and beauty. The forget-me-nots made with blue beads could hardlybe told from the real flowers. Mrs. Leonard bought a big cross ofviolets at a little flower shop, and a spray of beautiful roses, realones, and then we went back to the Hotel to wait for the car to take usto the cemetery, two or three miles from Arras. The town looked batteredand grim in the bright light of morning. Soap sudsy water was runningover the cobble stones as if many housekeepers had already finishedtheir washing and turned the suds loose in the open drains.

When the car came we started with Mr. Morrell, our driver and guide, onthe way to the cemetery. It lies on a northern slope facing red-roofedfarm buildings in the lowlands across the road and on this day it wasbathed in the hazy amber sunshine. An edge of young oaks ran around itinside the fence and on the hill above, outlined against the sky werebeautiful trees of uniform height standing close together, so even, sosymmetrical, and dark against the sky, they looked like an elaboratemourning border for the field of crosses below.

At the east of the field were the French graves where, Michel, Jean,Peter, Paul and Francois lie. Then come the Scottish and English heroes.At the west were the Canadians, many of them C.M.R.'s.

The grass was growing green on their graves, and yellow and whitepoppies were blooming as well as snapdragons and sweet clover. Many ofthem had fresh wreaths of flowers, showing that their friends hadlovingly remembered them.

Mrs. Leonard had no trouble in finding the grave she was looking for.Its number and row was stamped on her mind. She tied on the beautifulcross of violets and lovingly laid the roses below. We did not speak andwalked away, leaving her alone with her dead though I think she knew ourhearts were mourning with her.

Many of the French graves had not even grass growing on them. Only thepale, yellow lumpy clay, and nothing on the cross but the tin rosettesbearing the tri-colour for France, faded now by the wind and rain,loosened too and rattling as the wind passed over them, making a weirdsinging in this quiet street of the dead.

I had not known that there were acres and acres and acres of these whitecrosses and as I looked at them my heart was swept with a feeling ofdesolation and horror at the enormity of war. Surely it was not for thisthat these brave young fellows were born. I tried to think of them aslying at peace in the land they fought to save; I tried to pray that itmight lie lightly to their bones and that God's richest treasures inheaven might be their inheritance, but I knew it was all wrong and myheart was hot with rebellion.

We climbed Vimy Ridge one day and there were many like us who had cometo see this tragic place. Great rolls of rusting barbed wire, wheels,shafts and other bits of wreckage of what once had been machines ofdeath littered the grass. Below us, and not far away, men in blue smocksploughed their fields, one man leading the horse and another man guidingthe plow. Farther away we could see cattle grazing. Below our feet smallyellow and pink flowers bloomed in calm assurance that Nature still hasa way of hiding her scars.

There was something about all this placidity and composure which seemedwrong. I don't know what I expected to find, but certainly it seemedthat we had forgotten too soon the wanton destruction of human life. Howcheaply blood had flowed into this unheeding soil!

Once I stooped and dug into the soil with my hand, wondering what Imight find. A button met my touch; a button attached to a piece of greycloth. I put it back hastily for I was not hunting for souvenirs.

When we reached the top of Vimy Ridge a beautiful panorama met our eyes;the land fell away in a gentle slope for miles and miles and it seemedas if we were looking into the very heart of the enemy country. To ourright lay the village of Lens, and we remember how often this name hasappeared in the news. It was a desolate sight, shelled and broken.

CHAPTER XXVI

On the Writing of Books

The matter of church union came before the Legislative Assembly in 1925,in all its fury and bitterness. We who were Methodists orCongregationalists knew very little of the trials our Presbyterianfriends were enduring. As a matter of history, the subject of the unionof the three churches was first thought of by the Presbyterians. Manyyears before. So no matter what happened afterwards, to thePresbyterians belongs the honour of instituting the first move.

The Methodists and Congregationalists went into union without adissenting voice, but in many places the Presbyterians suffered all theheart scaldings of a family quarrel.

To some of the older people the Act of Union tore at their hearts likethe burning of the peasants' cottages when the landlords in theHighlands of Scotland wanted room for their hunting. If they had beenasked to burn their Bibles and deny their Lord they could not have beenmore fiercely rebellious.

I did not know this until a delegation came before the LegislativeAssembly to present the case against Union. We all knew, of course, thatsome of the Presbyterians thought the prestige of their church wouldsuffer if they united with the Methodists. One dear old lady said it was"just as if the son of a nobleman forgot his station and married theservant girl." But after we listened to one of the speakers of thedelegation we knew that it was not only from the aged that thebitterness emanated. The last speaker on the delegation was a ministerfrom Central Alberta, a man I knew very well and respected highly. Hewas an able fellow, pastor of a missionary church, known for his wiseleadership in social problems and a fine brotherly spirit ofco-operation with all the other churches in his town. I had heard he wasopposed to Union but found it hard to believe. Surely, I thought, hecannot be blind to the advantages of Union, especially here in this newpart of Canada, where the little towns have three and four churches andmany wide areas have no preaching service at all.

I will never forget that man's appeal to us. It lacked all sense ofbalance, but its sincerity was shattering. I knew it came from hisheart. He pleaded with us not to do this iniquitous thing. His eyesflashed like lightning in a dark night, and his face was white withrage. He ended with a declaration of undying defiance: "Give my roof tothe flame, and my flesh to the eagles." Then he walked out with theproud bearing of a man of God on his way to the stake.

No, it was not melodramatic. It was something far worse. It was anexhibition of spiritual strabismus, the like of which I had never seenbefore. There was something terrible in it.

I had been born and bred in the tradition of the Covenanters and hadthrilled to their brave words of defiance and the courage of the peoplewho gathered in caves to sing their psalms and worship God as freemen intheir own way, unhampered by a proscribed form of worship. But that dayI saw another side of this whole matter of religious tradition, and whata deadly thing it can be when divorced from the saving grace of commonsense. No wonder Christ warned his followers to "try the spirits and seewhether they be of God."

I spent many pleasant hours in the Library of Parliament Buildings inEdmonton, during the five sessions I served as a member there. The Housesat from three to six Monday to Friday, and this allowed us ample timefor other activities. In one corner of the reading room I often saw areserved little man in a grey lustre coat, poring over reports andrecords. I knew he was Sir Cecil Denny, who was writing the history ofthe Royal Northwest Mounted Police. I tried to talk to Sir Cecil but Idid not get far. He was not to be beguiled into conversation. It mayhave been because he was intent on his writing, just as I should beintent on mine now, knowing the days are evil. He certainly had the"work-for-the-night-is-coming" look upon his face.

Sir Cecil Denny died in 1928, with his work uncompleted, but he madeprovision in his will for its revision and publication and this wasfaithfully done by W. B. Cameron, author of a valuable book called "WhenFur Was King." Sir Cecil also provided that 350 copies should be givenfree to the schools of Alberta.

I wanted to know Sir Cecil because I had heard about him from his friendand mine, E. N. Higinbotham, who had homesteaded beside him on WillowCreek, near Lethbridge, in 1885.

I know him now through his book, "The Law Marches West," a copy of whichI have on my desk, a gift from our mutual friend. It is an authentic andcarefully written account of the "Riders of the Plains" in theirearliest years, a real contribution to our history and a fitting tributeto the brave men who brought law and order to the great unknown landwhich lay west of the Red River. The Royal Northwest Mounted Police cameinto being the year I was born, and, like all other Western Canadians, Iwas brought up on that great and proud tradition of incorruptible menwho knew no fear, a "terror to evildoers and a praise to them that dowell." Many novelists have written about them, Sir Gilbert Parker,James Oliver Curwood, Agnes Laut, to mention only a few, but no one hada greater first-hand knowledge of their early struggles and strivingsand triumphs than the dignified little man in the grey lustre coatporing over yellowing manuscripts and letters in the Provincial Libraryat Edmonton, insulated from the world by the urgency of his task.

It may have been Sir Cecil's industry which drove me to do some seriousreading while I had the Provincial Library at my elbow. For years I hadwanted to write an immigration story in the form of a novel. I wanted toportray the struggles of a young girl who found herself in Canadadependent upon her own resources with everything to learn, including thelanguage.

I thought first of taking a Ukrainian girl as my heroine for it was easyto get books on the Ukrainian background, but I had been greatlyattracted to Finland because of its advanced attitude to women. Finnishwomen received the vote and sat in parliament long before any otherwomen, and I wondered about this and what quality of mind had brought itabout. I knew, too, about the Continuation Schools in Finland, whereboys and girls whose education had been neglected were sent afterworking hours at their employer's expense, with the result thatilliteracy in Finland was being entirely overcome.

I had a Finnish girl in my kitchen at this time, a fine looking blondewith reddish hair, high cheekbones, even white teeth and a passion forcleanliness, dating back to a long line of steam-bathing ancestors. Iknew about their soft-soap scourings and beatings of birch branchesfollowed by rollings in the snow if the time happened to be in winter,and there is a long winter in Finland, and I reasoned that people whotake their bodily cleanliness so seriously must be a great people, andI still think so.

One day my Finnish maid had a visitor, a man of perhaps forty years ofa*ge, with a rugged, weather-beaten face and the dress of a lumbermancome to town, who has just had a shave and a haircut and is a bituncomfortable in a starched collar. I thought, of course, that he wasone of Hanna's admirers, for she had many, but he told me that he hadcome to see what sort of people we were and to find out how hiscountrywoman was faring at our hands.

I was somewhat doubtful of this fine-looking gentleman in the blue suit.I knew from past experiences that foreign girls have often been bitterlydeceived by their own countrymen in Canada who shamelessly takeadvantage of the girls' ignorance of our laws. I knew one girl whobelieved she was legally married because her countryman had shown her a"paper" and told her that was all that was needed in Canada. The paperturned out to be an overdue tax notice. So I scrutinized Mr. EmilMilander carefully and I wished that the head of the house were at homefor his judgment of men was much better than mine.

But I need not have doubted. Mr. Milander was all that he appeared. Hehad been in Canada for five years; had a farm on the Athabaska, livedalone, and gave himself a holiday each winter in the city, visiting hisFinnish friends. He told me that he was older than many of the Finns whohad come to Alberta and he tried to give them good advice, which wasmuch needed, for, he said, there are black sheep Finns, too, many ofthem, who in this new country often forget the good religious trainingthey had from their fathers and mothers.

I asked him to come back again for I wanted him to meet the wholefamily, and we enjoyed many visits with him. His English waspicturesque but adequate and he carried a dictionary to be used in caseof a deadlock.

He gave me the first book on Finland that I had seen, "Through Finlandin Carts," by Mrs. Alec Tweedie, and from it I got a fascinating pictureof the Finns with their songs and sports and their heroic struggle forexistence as a nation. The book was written in 1913 and it is stillinteresting reading. I wonder if the countrywomen still wash theirclothes in the streams and if they still think it queer to see peopleeat jam with their bread?

In Mrs. Tweedie's book I got my first taste of their epic poem, the"Kalevala," which was published in 1835, but was centuries in themaking. I scoured the libraries for further information on it and foundit had been gathered up bit by bit by a Doctor Lonnrat as he went on hisrounds picking up bits of folklore, and it became a great factor inpreserving their native language against the inroads of Swedish. For thenative authors had discovered that the well-to-do people, theintelligentsia who could afford to buy books, spoke Swedish and theirbooks would have more buyers if written in the more genteel language,and for that reason the native tongue was neglected by native writers.

The "Kalevala," unlike many other antique epics, is characteristicallygentle and domestic, delighting in situations of moral beauty. Dr.Lonnrat was successful in collecting twelve thousand lines. These hearranged into thirty-two runes. A more complete text was published in1887 by A. V. Forsman and the importance of this poem was at oncerecognized in Europe, and translations were made. It was translated intoEnglish by J. M. Crawford in 1888. An idea of its style may be obtainedfrom Longfellow's "Hiawatha," which was written in imitation of theFinnish poem. I cannot refrain from quoting a few lines to show itsbeauty and also the interesting bit of information that in those dayswhen the trees were burned down to clear the land, the ashes were usedas a fertilizer:

I read many books about Finland, some sent to me by Erick Korte, theFinnish consul at Port Arthur, and I began to get the feeling of thecountry, their intense nationalism, their delight in communal singing.Music and verse filled their very souls and kept their spirits aliveduring the long dreary winter nights as they sat in their small houses,prisoners of darkness.

No wonder the coming of the spring intoxicates them with happiness andsends them singing with delight, dancing through the woods, released atlast from the spell of the ghosts and goblins that dominated their soulsin the long black hours.

I tried to put myself into the character of Helmi, who came from Finlandto her Aunt in St. Paul, Minnesota, only to find that her Aunt had beenstricken with a fatal disease. Her Aunt implored the little girl toreturn to the safe shelter of her homeland, but Helmi had a mind of herown and had no intention of retracing her steps. She was in the land offreedom, romance and easy money and here she would stay. I called herHelmi Milander in compliment to Emil Milander, who had really introducedme to his country and countrymen.

"Painted Fires" was the name I chose for the book, lifting these wordsfrom the fragment of a poem which stuck in my mind; I do not know fromwhat source:

I called the book by this name for I wanted to lay down a hardfoundation of truth as to conditions in Canada. As a Canadian I blushwith shame when I think of the false flattery which has been given toour country by immigration agencies in Europe, anxious to bring outsettlers for the profit of steamship and railway companies. It's allfantastic now and seems long ago and far away, but there was darktragedy in it for the deceived ones and Canada got a black eye, which inthe minds of some people has lasted even until this time.

"Painted Fires" was published in 1925 and has gone through manyeditions, been serialized many times and is still in print. The yearafter its publication in Canada it was translated into Finnish andpublished in Helsinki and I think all the Finnish papers on thiscontinent ran it as a serial.

It brought me into pleasant contact with many Finnish people and I wasparticularly pleased to receive letters written in Finnish, telling methat although I had not a Finnish name, they felt sure that I must haveFinnish blood to be able to enter into their spirit. Could any authorask for more than that?

In addition to the help and encouragement I received from Erick Korte ofPort Arthur, I am also indebted to other Finnish editors and writers:John E. Rantamaki of Hancox, Michigan, Rev. W. Rautarien of Warren,Ohio, J. T. Ruolsslainen, Editor of the Canadian Finnish paper at PortArthur, and Consul Carl H. Salminen, Duluth, Michigan, all of whom wrotereviews, and in many ways brought the book to the attention of theircountrymen.

From Finland I had a long and delightful correspondence from thepublisher, Dr. Eino Railo, and as a result of the publication I tookpayment of royalties in two oil paintings by one of their artists,Arthur Heickell, and these beautiful pictures are among my treasures. Ihave not, during my earthly pilgrimage, gathered about me muchimpedimenta. I have endeavoured to travel light. But I do treasure thesetwo beautiful paintings and my file of Finnish letters, as well as abook about Finland published by the Government and sent to me "with thebest wishes of all Helmi's countrymen." I count it a great privilege tohave had this pleasant contact with the indomitable Finns.

Speaking of travelling light through life, I recall a story of BobEdwards, the founder and editor of the Calgary Eye-Opener. He wastelling about a boy who had gone from Alberta to make his fortune in NewYork and came back with "fifty-two pieces of matched luggage," which,however, turned out to be a deck of cards.

CHAPTER XXVII

The Middle Years

The middle years of life come on like thunder. In 1923 we moved toCalgary. And Wes had a long and painful illness. Paul had gone to Texasthe year before and Florence was married and now lived in Regina. Jackwas at Queen's College, Oxford. So the family had scattered.

But we knew the inevitability of change and rejoiced to know they wereall well and happy, following their own ambitions and desires.

While the House was in session I spent five days each week in Edmonton,with only Saturdays and Sundays at home, two crowded days, but happyones, too, beginning with the black dog's welcome. Pal, our blackretriever, sat on the top step watching for me as I walked the shortdistance from the street-car. He sat with his head between his paws likea dog of stone, giving no sign of recognition. This was our game. BeforeI stepped off the sidewalk to our own walk I stopped and said:

"Good morning, Pal." Still he made no sign, but when I stepped down toour own walk he came bounding to me, a huge black weight, full ofgladness. Each Saturday morning we went through this ritual and Ibelieve he looked forward to it all week. One Saturday I did not comeuntil the afternoon train and Pal sat all day on the step.

I must not, in these days of paper shortage, indulge in the blessedmemories of this clever and devoted dog, who not only understood humanspeech, but was actually a mind reader.

I was defeated in the Provincial Election of 1926, but that was a minormatter compared with the loss of our dog the same year, who was struckby an automobile whose driver did not even stop.

While we lived in Edmonton I enjoyed my membership in the LegislativeAssembly, but after we went to Calgary to live it took me away from hometoo much, so my defeat had many compensations, and I know my feelingswere not much hurt because the next week I wrote an article entitled:"How It Feels to be a Defeated Candidate," and I know from experiencethat the grief that can be turned into words soon heals.

Two days before the election an official of the Hotelkeepers'Association had come to see me and asked me if I couldn't put the softpedal on my antagonism to the liquor business.

"Government control has been carried and the hotels have beer bars andso for the present, at least, you can't do a thing about it. It's hereand it's going to stay. You did all you could to defeat both of these.Everyone knows how you feel about it, but if you will lay off now, we'llvote for you, for you're a good straight-shooter and we like you. Weeven like to listen to you—on any other subject. We think you are agood member in the House, and with the exception of one or two in ourorganization, we all feel the same way. You have some good friends amongthe hotelkeepers."

I was touched by his words and I told him I would always appreciate hiscoming.

"My quarrel has never been with the hotel people," I said. "I know thatmost of you do your best to run good houses. But the evil is in thestuff itself, no matter who handles it. Alcohol no doubt has a place inmedicine, but as a beverage it is a racial poison. It lowers a man'sstandard of conduct and makes the user pay a heavy price. Every one ofyou hotel men could run your houses without it, and make money, too, andyou would be happier in your heart. Some day humanity will outlaw itjust as slavery was wiped out. That took a long time, and this will too,but I cannot promise that I will ever 'lay off.' I thank you for comingand I hope you will tell the other men how I feel."

We shook hands and parted with mutual good will.

From the angle of human interest, defeat is more attractive thansuccess, inasmuch as it is a more common experience. The average readercan contemplate with considerable fortitude the sorrows anddisappointments of someone else. I have refreshed my memory of that timeby re-reading what I wrote about it when it was fresh in my mind. I cansee that the meeting in the committee rooms after the polls were closedand the returns were coming in was not exactly a cheerful one, althoughwe tried hard to keep up our spirits, and told each other gamely that itwas anybody's election. We had proportional representation, and that, ofcourse, took a lot of counting. I did very well on the Number One votesand stood third, but did not get enough of the second and third choices.

By ten o'clock we knew that one of our party was elected, one wasdefeated, and I was hovering between life and death. By eleven o'clock Idecided to call it a day and leave my political fate in the hands of thescrutineers. So I came home and went to bed and to sleep.

I slept until I heard the clip-clop of the milkman's horses. Then I gotup and stood at the window to see the sunbeams slanting low across thelawn. It was a comforting scene with the big trees throwing long shadowson the grass.

Then I turned on the radio and got the final score. I was down by sixtyvotes, and that account was closed. Just for a moment, I had a queer,detached sensation, a feeling of bewilderment, and then I knew I neverreally believed I would be defeated, but that moment passed and Ithought of the two boys. They were at the age when it is slightlyembarrassing to have a mother, and especially one who goes out and getsherself defeated. We all made a fine show of cheerfulness at breakfast.After all, it's just as well to admit the presence of a stone wall. Thetwo lads played up well and said they were glad I was going to be athome now, and that it had been no fun to have me away so much, and Iappreciated that, but there must have been some root of bitterness in mefor I was seized with a desire to cook, and I wanted the kitchen all tomyself.

No woman can be utterly cast down who has a nice bright kitchen facingthe west, with a good gas range and a blue and white checked linoleum onthe floor, a cook book, oil cloth covered and dropsical with looseleafeditions. I set off at once on a perfect debauch of cooking. I gratedcheese, stoned dates, whipped cream and made salad dressing and I letthe phone ring. It could tear itself out by the roots for all I cared. Iwas in another world—the pleasant, landlocked, stormless haven ofdouble boilers, jelly moulds, flour sifters. The old stone sugar crockwith the cracked and handleless cup in it seemed glad to see me and eventhe marmalade tins with their typed labels, sitting in a prim row,welcomed me back and asked no questions. I patted their honest flatheads and admitted that the years had been long; reminding them, too,that I had seen a lot more wear and tear than they had.

I'm ashamed to have to tell it but I got more comfort that day out of mycooking spree than I did from either my philosophy or my religion, but Iknow now, when the smoke of battle has cleared away that I was thebeneficiary of that great promise which assures us "that the rivers ofsorrow shall not overflow." We often get blessings that we do notrecognize at all, much less acknowledge, but God is not so insistent aswe are about having all gifts acknowledged.

I do not think I could have endured it that day if my cooking had gonewrong, but nothing failed me and no woman can turn out an ovenfull ofgood flaky pies with well-cooked undercrusts and not find peace for hertroubled soul.

The next day I wanted to get out. I wanted to look away to themountains, blue in the distance, with ice caps on their heads, so I wentto Earl Grey Golf Course and played all morning. The game was notentirely successful. I was too conscious of the Elbow Park houses belowme, some of them vaguely resentful, others leering at me with theirdrawn blinds, like half-closed Conservative eyes. I got on better anddid some splendid driving by naming the balls and was able by that meansto deliver some pretty powerful pokes.

When one door shuts, another one opens. I remembered what Basil Kingsaid when he spoke to us at the Arts and Crafts Club in Toronto in 1921.He had been an Anglican clergyman, but suffered a physical misfortunewhich made it impossible for him to continue his work.

"On the day I learned the bitter truth that I could no longer continuemy work as a pastor," he said, "I bought a typewriter."

I remember the next few years with great satisfaction, for I returned inearnest to my writing. I wrote a short story a week for a syndicate aswell as magazine articles, and found no difficulty in finding material.It was all around me. It walked the streets, it came to my door, iteven came in with the letters. My difficulty was in choosing, notfinding.

The published stories made two volumes, "Be Good to Yourself" and"Flowers for the Living." The unwritten stories would have filledanother two. Some of the most poignant I could not write.

A woman came to me one day, with a tale of neglect and cruelty which washard to believe. She was a Ukrainian woman with six children, four atschool, and her man was a mechanic in the C.P.R. shops at Ogden. Her manwas anxious to get rid of her and the family. He had another youngerwoman ready to take over, and decided he would starve out the family.The mother was afraid to let the neighbours know for he might kill her.He wouldn't pay the light bill so there had been no light in the housefor two months, and very little food. Her boys were beginning to stealbread from the baker's wagon. She was afraid the police would get afterthem and take them from her. She was a pitiful creature, nervouslyexhausted.

I gave her a hot meal and got some warmer clothes for her, then droveher home to the North Hill and went to see some of the neighbours. Iwanted to be sure that she had told me the truth. Some of the neighbourswould not talk at all, the selfish ones, who told me they believed inminding their own business. (They belong in all strata of society.) Butthere were others more courageous, who corroborated her story. One womantold me the children had been coming to her house to do their homeworkand she said they were good children if they had half a chance. All thisI set down on paper, and decided I would see the Chief of Police. I hadheard the Chief speak at a child welfare meeting, and liked his voiceand his manner. David Ritchie was a Scotsman from Glasgow and I couldsee that he was much more than the head of a Police Force. Or, rather,I should say he was the ideal head for these guardians of the law. So Ilaid the matter before him without delay. He listened carefully andassured me the case would have his attention.

In a week I had two visitors from the North Hill, two women withdomestic troubles, seeking a solution.

"Why do you come to me?" I asked in surprise.

"Oh, missus, you fix Mrs. Korski's man so good! He get light in houseright away—so kwick! Bring home meat, clothes and boots for kids, getnew coat for his wife. She say you do it all!"

I knew who had wrought the miracle, but I kept that to myself. I thoughtit better for Mr. Korski's morale if the truth concerning hisreformation were not known in the neighbourhood.

When I submitted the new cases to the Chief he told me the story of Mr.Korski's return to good behaviour.

"I sent one of my men in uniform to the Ogden shops. He interviewed theforeman first, who had the mechanic brought into his office. Then thesergeant brought him here, and by that time he was thoroughlyfrightened. They are all frightened of the law. To them a policeman isan enemy. He sat there where you're sitting, white as chalk, and I toldhim how we deal with men like him in this country, and I told him what Iwanted him to do. He was ready to promise anything. One of my men willmake a visit there every week, and I don't think we'll have any moretrouble. He is a good mechanic and gets a big salary, so he's well ableto support his wife and family, and we'll see that he does it. There isa great satisfaction in dealing with wrongdoing before it happens."

That was the beginning of a series of cases (not all from the foreignquarter), where family problems told to me were unsnarled by the wiseintervention of Chief Ritchie.

Life reveals whole stories sometimes in a flash, perhaps a sentenceheard in a telephone booth, or a chance meeting in a railway stationwhere the tide of humanity comes and goes. The "stuff" of life is allaround us.

I remember seeing once in the Railway Station in Calgary a quiet littlepalefaced woman in rusty black, sitting beside a battered valise andeating out of a paper bag. Her skirt was too long, her shoes wererunover at the heel, and her gloves did not match. As she ate hersandwiches she was reading a small book with a red and black cover, andwhat attracted me to her was that she was not only reading it, she wasstudying it with intense interest, moving her lips as she read. No doubtshe was getting some little crumb of romance from its cheap pages. Mycuriosity was so great that I moved over to see just what was absorbingher, and I read, over her shoulder, the caption:

"Directions for Swallowing a Sword."

I wanted to talk to her. There was surely a story here, butunfortunately I had to go out on the platform to meet someone. I lookedback at her before going out through the big doors and I noticed thatthe front of her battered felt hat held a strange device made of silverwire, some sort of ornament. I had to come back to get a closer look andI found it was letters about three inches high and the word they madewas "Whoopee."

I couldn't write the story of these years without mentioning thebeautiful young Hungarian girl who came to us not knowing one word ofEnglish. I shall call her Elsa, though that was not her name. I taughther to read and I know she toils through everything I write, and shemight be shocked to see her name in a book. Elsa deserves to have awhole book written about her, for her courage and her uprightness andher desire for knowledge. Her brother, who had come to Canada threeyears before, had sent her the money for her ticket, but sent no moneyfor expenses, so she arrived in Montreal and boarded the train forCalgary without a cent in her pocket, and without a word of English onher tongue. Stricken with hunger and huddled in misery, she sat in thecorner of her seat, afraid to make any outcry. She knew that sometimespeople were sent back to the Old Country. When her train left Winnipeg,a kindly conductor noticed her. She was crying then from hunger, and hequickly brought relief from the diner and saw to it that she was takencare of for the rest of her journey. When she learned enough English shetold me this and told me, too, that some of her fellow passengers hadgiven her three dollars and she knew then that Canada was a goodcountry.

It was my good fortune to be in touch with the Employment Bureau a dayor two after Elsa had arrived. I mentioned to the manager that I wouldbe needing help at the end of the month and had no objection to taking agirl who knew no English. Then he told me about the lovely girl that hehad in the office, and how anxious he was to get a good position forher. He said she was as bright as a dollar and as pretty as a picture,and that described her, and so it happened that Elsa and I began thestudy of Basic English that very day, and a friendship began which hasnever grown dim. When she found that we had no objection to Hungariancooking she decided to show us the culinary art of her people. She oftenassembled a dish of chopped meat, onions and peppers rolled in cabbageleaves and fastened with skewers and baked in the oven and served withboiled rice which became a great favorite. I never could say the name ofthe dish or even spell it. Her apple pies and chicken goulash are epicmemories as were the buns and biscuits and pickled fish which she seemedto always keep on hand.

At first she suffered from loneliness, but one day she came in with anew light on her face. She had found a nice Hungarian family, goodfamily, complete with boarder. Our medium of exchange was very limitedat this time, but with the use of the English-Hungarian dictionary sheshowed me that "boarder" worked in a restaurant and had produced icecream from box at friend's house.

In a week he appeared and took Elsa for a walk. He was a good looking,tall young man and could speak some English. He brought her back in avery short time and it was two weeks before we saw him again, and againhe took her for a walk, time consumed about thirty minutes. There was nolingering and no visit; he said he had to get back to the restaurant.This went on for a couple of months, and then Elsa showed me herdictionary and pointed to the word which meant "marriage," but this wasaccompanied by much shaking of the head. I gathered, he had notmentioned marriage and Elsa, accustomed to the direct ways of hercountrymen, was wondering why. I searched through the dictionary andfound the word which meant "wait." Meanwhile, of course, our lessonswent on every day and Elsa was able to tell me more. Not a kiss, noteven a squeeze of the hand,—no sweet word. When Christmas came hepresented her with a small chain and locket, but still no talk ofmarriage.

Several months went on and then another factor entered which I thoughtwould quicken the pace of this slow-moving courtship or perhaps end italtogether. The new factor was called Rosie, who had been three years inCanada and who knew the tall young man. Rosie was beautiful, with redlips and high heels, and, by her own testimony, "could spik Inglisparfek" and had never gone to night school. Elsa went to night schooltwo nights a week and was doing very well, but Rosie recommended lighterjoys than night school. Night school was the bunk. Never got a girlnowhere. Come to dance to meet fella, said Rosie. Rosie had so manyfella she could give Elsa one. All Elsa would need was silk dress,slippers, parfume; fella not care about girls spik Inglis. Laugh anddance and be good sport!

One visit from Rosie was as upsetting to my pupil as a Rodeo is to theIndians, but I had Mike, the young man who took her walking every secondSunday, on my side. Stick to night school, said Mike, and night schoolit was. And so the battle for the guardianship of Elsa went on.

Every time Rosie came she left Elsa disturbed, and I wished I knew someway of getting rid of her. We called her "the bit of bad news."

One night she came in so radiant I knew she had something to tell Elsa,something particularly unpleasant. She had a bristling air of importanceand she had brought one of her numerous young men with her, and he, too,was in the secret, I could see.

I took them into the den and called Elsa. I had a feeling that I hadbetter stay, for I suspected that Rosie knew something that I hadlearned a few hours before. Something which I had been deputed by Miketo tell Elsa, but I had not had time yet to decide just how I was goingto do it. Mike had called me from the restaurant that afternoon,speaking so low over the telephone I could hardly hear him. He must seeme, he said. And he could not come to my house. Would I come to MapleLeaf where he worked? Soon, right away, quick.

Having put my hand to the plow I could not turn back now. So I went tothe Maple Leaf Cafe and it was all very mysterious. Mike gave me atelegraphic glance which meant: "Hold everything," and he brought me adish of ice cream and the noon paper. I knew I would have to wait untilthe other customers had gone.

At last he was free and handed me an envelope, unsealed and addressed"To Whom It May Concern." It contained a testimonial to the character ofone Jose Michael Bellagi who had faithfully discharged his duty for thespace of three years in a restaurant in Winnipeg. He watched me as Iread it, then handed me another one. His method of presenting thesetestimonials was unique. They came with a circular motion of the armwhich was impressive but puzzling. Surely he's about to ask for Elsa'shand in honourable marriage, I thought.

Then Mike spoke.

"It is about Elsa. She is a nice girl. Good girl. Sometime I take herfor walk. Just walk. Never did I speak of love. No kiss, even. I lift myhand to God. Do you believe me?"

"I do," I said.

Mike grasped my hand eagerly.

"I did not fool her. I am an honest man. Do you believe me?"

I did, and then again we shook hands.

"Will you tell her no more I come. She must not feel bad. I cannot tellher. You do better. Make her understand. Tell her nice."

"I'll tell her," I said, wondering what had happened. No doubt anothergirl, and my first thought was of Rosie, but I asked no questions. I didnot get a chance to tell Elsa and now here before me were the messengersof gloom, ready to shout it at her. So I stayed in the room. I knewRosie couldn't hold it long.

"Oh, Elsa," she began, "I got big news. Telegram came yesterday forMike, Maple Leaf Cafe. Mike's girl from Winnipeg is coming tomorrow onthe train and they are going to be married tomorrow night, in church.Ain't that nice, yes? Hungarian boy read telegram and told me."

Her face beamed as she said it. It was a big moment in her life. Iwanted to choke her; she was so glad to see Elsa hurt.

Then I got a surprise. Elsa's face showed no emotion and I thought shehadn't yet taken it in.

"Oh, sure," she said in a voice that deceived me completely. Therewasn't a trace of sorrow in it, or even surprise. "I'm very glad forMike. He is a good fella. Friendly to me when I come here strange. Iwill get nice present tomorrow. Very kind of you to come and tell me,Rosie. I did not know she come so soon!"

Rosie's big shell had not exploded after all, so she and her young mandeparted somewhat crestfallen.

When they were safely off the premises I told Elsa how proud I was ofher, and then I told her what Mike had told me that afternoon, but shewasn't listening. Her face had gone small and white, and I could see thelips quivering. I tried to comfort her. I told her that Mike had notdeceived her.

"But why did he come?" she kept saying. "Why did he give me present? Hemust have like me a little bit. I liked him so good!"

Her teeth were chattering and her whole body shook. I tried to explainthat boys and girls could like each other very much and still not wantto marry. Mike would always like her and be her friend.

"No," said she bitterly. "I don't want him for my friend if I can't havehim for my man."

For two weeks Elsa went around with a dead face. She did her workmechanically, but grew thinner and paler. She could not eat or sleep andI was afraid I was really seeing what old-fashioned novelists delightedin portraying—the broken-hearted maiden dying for love.

One morning when I was having a late breakfast she came in and told meit was all over now, she was all better in her mind and would neverthink of Mike again, and thanked me for not scolding her when she burnedthe potatoes. We shook hands on that, drank a cup of coffee and feltthat a crisis had been safely passed.

Elsa lived with us for five years and was married in our living room toa railway mechanic who had "master papers" from Buda Pest. She had awhite satin dress with veil and orange blossoms, a diamond ring and aseal coat and outsize photographs to send back to Hungary. The mastermechanic had money in the bank, but Elsa persuaded him to buy a bighouse so she could keep roomers. I think that was the cleanest roominghouse in Calgary. Following the depression she and her husband bought abeautiful house in Mount Royal, but after six months' trial of living onthe "right side of town," they sold the big house with the circulardriveway and went back to the neighbourhood they had left and boughtanother rooming house.

"Feeling better now," she told us, when Wes and I were having dinnerwith her the last time we were in Calgary. (And what a dinner that was,with chicken goulash and raspberry pie!) "More like home for us amongworking people and I like keeping rooms clean and nice for people sothey can rest when they come home and not have to sweep and washdish-towels, and we like having them come down sometimes for real gooddinner. People who cook on two rings like good meal. Up on Mount Royalevery person had lots of time. They had plenty good stuff in theirhomes, good clothes, good pictures, books, pianos, everything. No oneneeded me, and that's all right, too. Nobody's fault."

I looked at Elsa with admiration. How wise she was to know that she washappier with her own kind and to arrive at that conclusion without anyresentment or bitterness.

Elsa was one of the five girls to whom I taught English when they livedwith us. Teaching them was no labour and they paid me back a hundredfold in devoted service, the service that cannot be bought with money,but even apart from that, I had great pleasure in seeing their mindsunfold, with that spark of illumination which every teacher craves.After Elsa had learned to read English quite well I gave her a copy ofSara Teasdale's poem:

I was delighted to see how it affected her. She saw herself in it andshe saw more than that. She saw she was not alone. Other people had hadto stand up to the ordeal of false friends. She committed the poem tomemory and in trying to explain to me how much she liked it, she said:

"These words fit me like this," locking her hands together.

Women as a rule are not good employers; indeed they are notoriously pooremployers, but I believe this current shortage of domestic help ishaving an influence. People are learning to know each other. I hope thateven now some haughty dames are learning wisdom in the sweat of theirbrows and in the smarting of their chapped hands. Wisdom is often costlybut it is always worth the price.

Housework is not in itself dull and disagreeable and it would appeal tothe average girl who has an aptitude for it but for the cold stupidityof the mistress of the average home. They are the people who have pushedhousework down to the bottom of the list and have driven out of theranks of homemakers many bright girls who would have served them well.The average woman has been afraid to break the pattern—the patternwhich says that the maid must wear a cap, use the back door, cheerfullygive up her afternoon and evening, if necessary, and efface herselfexcept when she is needed. She must be diligent, capable, amiable andserene at all times and know her place! What this programme lacks is arecognition that the maid is a human being, not a robot and hasambitions, desires and sensibilities of her own and must be allowed acertain amount of liberty so that she can have a life of her own. Sheneeds friends and relaxation.

I always liked to know how my girls were spending their leisure time andso made their friends welcome and did not expect that the friends shouldbe entertained in the kitchen either. It is good for a girl's morale tohave the use of a den or some other pleasant room where she can forgetthe washing of dishes or the peeling of potatoes; and I would not expectmy girls to go around by the back door when a young man brought themhome. They had their own key to the front door and there was always averandah light burning for them when they were out and they knew theywere always welcome to bring their friend in for a cup of coffee. Littleprivileges like this help a girl to know that she is a person ofimportance with the protection and dignity of a family and a home.

My girls had a party at least once a year when their friends wereinvited and the living room rugs could be taken up for dancing. I liketo remember how glad and gay they were with their own dances, folksongs and games. I remember particularly the Swedish parties, when AnnaSwanson, Elsa's successor, presided over our culinary arrangements. Annasang in the Swedish choir and many of her friends were excellentmusicians. How the house rang with laughter and song and the dining roomtable was replete with braided cardamon bread, pineapple cake, pickledfish, which was eaten with rye bread. They referred to theirrefreshments as "smorgasbord", which seemed to cover everything, eventhe coffee. Wes and I were on hand to welcome the guests, but when thatduty was performed we faded away and left them to their fun. And neveronce was this privilege abused.

My association with the girls from Europe gave me a chance to knowsomething of the minds of their employers and some of this knowledge waspainful, but revealing. No wonder girls prefer to work anyplace, ratherthan in the kitchen. One of Anna's friends told me her mistress said shecould not allow her to use the bathtub. Mary would have to have her bathat the "Y", which was about a mile distant, Mary took the news quitecheerfully, saying she would like that very well. It would be a lovelywalk, but would it not take too much time every day? The lady exclaimedin horror:

"Not every day. One bath a week is plenty for you, and you can take iton your day out."

But Mary politely declined to use her precious time every Thursday inthis way, and besides wanted a bath every day. She stuck to it, too. Nobath, no work. She won, and I hoped she splashed and sang in the tub!

The mistress in this case was the wife of a University professor and thefirst time I saw her after hearing this story, she was reading a paperto a Woman's Club on the subject of Canadian Unity.

The matter of money and prompt payment of wages was another pressurepoint, and that brings up the story of Mareska, who decided to leave herplace in Elbow Park. There was a matter of forty dollars coming to herwhen she left, for which her mistress urged her to take an old fur coatin payment. Mareska did not want the fur coat. She came to stay withElsa for a week's rest before she went to another place, and that is howI came to know about her difficulty in collecting her money.

I felt sure I could collect the money from the lady who lived at ElbowPark, and whom I knew. I could not believe that she would do anythingmean, so I phoned her and found her very apologetic. She said Mareskahad gone away so suddenly she didn't know where she was. She would bringit over the very next day.

She did not come the next day. Several days passed and I phoned againbut there was no answer. Then I phoned her neighbour and asked her totell Mrs. W. to phone me on a matter of importance, and still there wasno response. Then I went over and met her coming out of her house. Shetold me she had been sick and was just now going to the bank to get themoney. A few days after this I decided I would get in touch with herhusband who worked in one of the departmental stores. But before I didthat the collection of Mareska's debt came about in another way.

Mareska had told her troubles to another Hungarian girl, who had a roomin the home of a fiery Scotswoman from the Clyde. Mrs. Jean McCalmon waswell-known and feared by the aldermen of the city, for she was afrequent visitor at their meetings, and always a dissenter. She wroteletters to the paper on many subjects, for Jean had the gift of words,not always pretty ones. To Jean McCalmon any fight was better than nofight.

When my phone rang I hoped the delinquent employer had decided to paythe money, but the voice on the phone was not her voice.

"Is that you, Nellamaclung?" came in Jean's unmistakable contralto. Shealways called me this, spoken as one word. "And do you ken whosespeaking?"

"Aye, I ken," I said. "I never could mistake the voice of Jean McCalmon.There's no anither like it this side o' the Clyde."

She laughed in high good humour, and I knew she had won her fight withsomeone.

"You're quite a smart woman in your own way, Nellamaclung, but you'dbetter stick to your writing. For from all I can hear you're a——poorcollector. I have ye beat there."

"How did you do it?" I asked.

"That's what I want to tell you. You ken Charlie, Charlie is a policemanwho has a room here in my house; so when Charlie came in this evening, Isays 'Charlie, I want a favor. Drive me over to Elba Park. There's a bitof unfinished business over there.' I often take Charlie wi' me when Ineed a bit of scenery behind me, like a man in uniform. So we drove overand Charlie came up the steps wi' me, and we rang the bell wi' a goodloud clatter . . . Now mind ye, I didn't get rough wi' her. I rememberedI was a lady, even if she wasn't, and when she opens the door and seesme and Charlie, she looked like a sick cat. But I spoke low and sweet,just as nice as you would yoursel' and all I said was:

"'You dirty hell-cat, do you no intend to pay that decent girl hermoney?'—And she turns and runs up the stairs like something that wasshot out of a gun and she comes back with four ten dollars bills in herhand. So will you just tell Mareska to come over tonight and get hermoney."

CHAPTER XXVIII

Travellers' Joy

When the war is over, and we begin to pick up the pieces, I hope thatevery facility for easy travel will be accorded us. Our relations withour neighbors are bettered as we go out among them. Visits keepfriendship in repair. Many of the happiest memories of my life have fortheir background, the open road. No wonder the song "Don't Fence Me In"rings a bell in many a heart.

The joy of the traveller cannot all be captured in words. It is elusiveas the perfume of violets wet with dew and as hard to describe as theelation of soul which comes when the sunshine suddenly fills a room. Oneof the very happy memories of my life goes back to a day in January,1938, when Wes and I sat in a Greyhound bus in Vancouver Bus Depot withreturn tickets for San Antonio in our pockets. Twice we had driven ourown car on long trips with great enjoyment, but this time ouranticipation was even keener with no responsibility, no parkingproblems, nothing to do but sit and ride. Wes and I have diverse tastesin many directions. He has always been a lover of sport, but has foughtshy of grand opera, political meetings, and courses of lectures in whichmy heart delighted, but in the matter of travelling and seeing newplaces we have certainly been good companions. Travellers' joy—thefreedom from routine, the liberating sense of being foot-loose, notknowing what the turn in the road will disclose, lifted our souls thatday.

There are the sudden little scenes of beauty which flash out of the greycommonplace. On a busy crossing in Seattle we saw an old man feedingpigeons, while the traffic divided and circled around him and his flock;a sign over an auto camp "These Cabins are Either Clean or Closed"; awaitress in Portland who was able to serve a whole circle of customers,wiping away the debris with one hand, making out a bill with the other,watching the toast, frying eggs, and carrying on a conversation all atthe one time. Only once did she stop, and that was when her wise-crackelicited no comment. Holding everything, she reproved her public with:

"Folks, I'm talking to you!"

And when we had made a suitable apology the wheels of commerce turnedonce more.

In Oregon we passed chicken houses ablaze with light at night to deceivethe hens into believing that this was another day, to the end that moreeggs might be produced, and that we felt was an infringement on theprivate life of the hens, who as a class have never shirked their publicduties.

There are critics of our present day tendencies who say thatstandardization will catch up to all of us sooner or later and lay itsicy hand on our individuality. We could see evidences of this in our ownway of travelling; here we were contented to let the big motor bus carryus, instead of being independent with our own car, but it was all sopleasant that we refused to be disturbed over anything. We saw Mt.Shasta white with snow, winding and unwinding a scarf of mist around herhead and Black Butte standing out clear and majestic and close at hand.When we asked the people of Dunsmuir, where we spent the night, how faraway Black Butte really is, we found in their answers much the samespread as there is in the opinions of the Gordon Head people on thequestion of how far it is across the straits to the island of San Juan.

Certainly there were no signs of dull standardization in the people wemet. There was the man from Alaska who complained of the cold when westopped at Redding, California. He shivered in his big coat as we walkedup and down on the platform and said this dampness might be all rightfor people who were used to it.

When we travelled through the California country that had just comethrough one of the worst floods in its history we heard a story thatbore no traces of any weakening of the endurance of the people undertrial.

The woman who told the story sat behind me and fortunately had apenetrating voice which carried her words easily above the sound of thewheels. She was sitting with a man who thought he knew something offloods and their evil workings, but she convinced him that he, with histrifling report of a ruined crop, was not even qualified to sit on theplatform when real flood stories were being told. "Now listen to me,stranger!" I heard her say, and I was glad she talked him down for hewas one of these stuffy, low-voiced people, who cannot be heard even oneseat away!

"My folks," began the lady narrator, "were the Violses." She pausedthere dramatically and I knew that a good story was on its way to us. "Iguess if any of you listen to your radios you know that name. Youshould. All that night, December the eleventh, when the water was at itsheight, the radio was hollering it—'Won't someone put out in a boat andfind the Violses? The Violses are adrift in their house. Won't someonego out and get them? They are somewhere in the flood. We can't let theViolses drown, folks!'"

She had a good listening audience then, up and down the aisle, and shetold her story with the eloquence of simplicity.

"Mother and Jim were alone. Jim said it never would come over the knoll,but Jim was wrong. It came over the knoll, with a lick and a swish andlifted the house as if it had been a match box and that was right aboutnine o'clock on Saturday morning. The house is strongly built and itrode the waters pretty good. It is a new house and it only has a canvasroof. It caught on a ridge at last, and that was all that saved them,but they knew if the waters got higher it would float off the ridge andgo down the canyon. Mother said the night wasn't so bad at first, forthe moon was bright and there was great big stars looking down at themand Mother said the moon was awful pretty, but before morning the moonclouded over and the stars went out and the cold water was harder tobear in the dark. The water was so deep they couldn't sit down. It wasright up to their armpits. Overhead they could hear the planes huntin'for them, but they had no way of signalling . . . At two o'clock onSunday afternoon a man got in his rowboat and rowed right over an almondorchard to get them and took them off. Mother said she was so stiff shedidn't feel she'd be able to bend again and she was afraid all thisstanding in the water might bring on a cold. Mother is seventy-fouryours old, and she was thirty-two hours in the water. After they got herout of the water it was four hours before she got any attention. It surewas funny to see mother lying in bed, for a full week, mind you. Butshe's thankful they're all alive and she doesn't complain. Course theylost their cows and the chickens and all their stuff, but they'll getback on the land and get it planted this spring, and this'll probablynever happen again."

I walked up the aisle to get a good look at the speaker. She was hermother's daughter all right, fearless and resolute. She, too, had theproud look of a survivor.

"This country is safe," I said to myself, "as long as it has a goodpercentage of these imperishable ones." Long live the Violses, long livethe spirit of the old lady of seventy-four, who standing in cold waterup to her armpits could still think that the moon looked "awful pretty."

We went into Mexico as far as Cuernavaca and had a wonderful eight daysin this country where for the most part, time seems to have stood still.Changing money at Laredo and receiving three pesos for every dollargives the purse a fine bulging appearance and the owner a feeling ofwealth, false, but flattering. "Lettuce money" is the name given tothese green bills which look like money and feel like money, but lackthe full authority of money when they reach the market place. However,the prices asked for food and lodging were not excessive.

One of the most comfortable places we stayed was at Lenares, betweenLaredo and Monterey, where the words "Canada Court" drew us like abeckoning finger. There we had an auto cabin with tiled floor, manywindows, easy chairs, Durango pine wood-work—shining like satin, areading light over the bed, plenty of hot water, sandalwood soap, and ahome-cooked supper of roast beef, sweet potatoes, frijoles, andcauliflower, with lemon pie and the best coffee we had in Mexico, andall this for nine pesos per person. The cabins have orange trees at thefront door, orange trees in bloom and in fruit, and we crossed a clear,swiftly running stream on our way to the dining-room; a wide cool roomwith a concrete floor, and adobe walls a foot thick, where the coolbreeze from the open windows was comforting after a hot afternoon ofdriving.

"Canada Courts" are owned and run by a Winnipeg man and his wife, whoare the only English-speaking people in the town of Lenares. Their threechildren can speak Spanish now fluently, though they have been inMexico only a year and a half. I asked the twelve-year-old girl if shewere lonely when she first went to school, and she said the Mexicanchildren showed her how to play their games, and the language was easy.Isn't it great to be young and adaptable?

The cabins are named for the provinces of Canada and we were tornbetween Manitoba, Alberta and British Columbia, but it was no time tohesitate, for other cars were driving in. After supper we talked withour hosts about the Collegiate Institute on Kate Street, E. Cora Hind,Dr. W. A. McIntyre, Neepawa and Minnesota, and after we had gone back toour cabin the little girl brought us copies of the Free Press, whichwe read from the editorials to the obituary notices!

Mexico is not only a strange country, but it seems to belong to anothercentury. Men plow the fields with oxen, long-horned and the plow is madeof wood. Patient women with Old Testament faces walk the highways,wrapped in black mantilloes with sandals on their feet or nothing atall. Even the long-horned cows have sorrowful faces and the same agelessexpression.

The highway from Laredo to Mexico City had been open twenty months whenwe drove over it. When the road was opened I remember reading a storywritten by a newspaper man and his wife who made the trip, and theirchief difficulty on the high places in the mountains was to get theburros to move off the road. We encountered the same problem, perhapsthis stubbornness is the burros' only form of exaltation, for he iscertainly a poor, burdened little creature in Mexico. He carrieseverything that can be piled on him—wood, straw, charcoal, ore. Andeven when the driver sits behind the load the little burro trudges onwithout complaint. Perhaps his fortitude is explained in Chesterton'sfine fancy—that every donkey remembers that great hour of hisancestors: "When there were shouts about his ears and palms beneath hisfeet."

In Mexico everyone carries something. We saw groups of women carryingpottery in baskets, and one had a green parrot riding on her head. InMexico City we saw one man carrying a chest of drawers and four chairson his back, and a woman with live chickens swung around her neck andwaist, and even strapped on her forehead. She came through the trafficsafely, a moving mound of feathers, heads and claws, advancing on twobare feet.

In Cuernavaca, forty-seven miles south of Mexico City, we stayed at theBorda Hotel which was once the Royal Palace of Emperor Maximillian andhis wife, Carlotta. Cuernavaca is the place where the elite of MexicoCity have their homes, and it was a dream of loveliness that spring dayin 1938, with its glowing bougan-villea in purple and crimson, bermudjain fiery red, bridal bells in white, and many other blossoms never seenby us before. We were delighted to see many geraniums and even thehumble nasturtium.

In the palace we ate on the wide piazza, looking into the garden withits fountain and great swimming pool now dry and cracked. In ahigh-ceilinged drawing room behind us, we saw Carlotta's grand piano,inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl, now closed and silent, and heardagain the story of the hapless man and woman who had been sent to Mexicoby Napoleon to defeat the efforts of the Mexicans to set up their owngovernment. Carlotta had died shortly after the great war, mercifullyoblivious to all her troubles and believing to the last that she wasstill the Empress of Mexico.

Now her palace is thronged day by day with tourists like ourselves, whobuy postcards and eat enchalatos and tortillos on her wide verandahs,and look out into the garden where the amber Mexican sunlight falls onthe neglected walks and broken statuary. Though the grand piano issilent, a lovely song called "Annitzia" sung by Seniorita Ruis came inon the radio and following the song came the newscast telling of anuprising in San Luis County, led by General Cedillo in which twentypeople had been killed. So the old Mexican drama was going on just thesame, with its music and beauty, its hatreds and sorrows—the old dramain which only the actors change.

There are two pictures seen in Mexico which will ever live with me,though I know that no outsider can understand their significance noradequately describe them in words, for in both of them the past beatsthrough the present, and the future stands, an unknown actor in thewings, ready to make entry. The first one is the whole wide picture ofthe countryside, with the fertile valleys which lie between themountains, far below the highway, with their tiny cultivated fields,which not only cover the valley, but run up the mountainside, in squaresof greens and browns in great variety of shade, according to the crop.Corn, beans and coffee are the staple crops and surely no one but anative could do this perpendicular work. The people dress in a whitecotton cloth, which they make themselves and it must take a lot ofwashing to keep it clean. The Mexicans are not concerned about thefuture. Their needs are simple. A coffee dealer told us that the nativeswho raise coffee bring down only enough to buy what they need and letthe balance of their crop rot in the fields. Every third day in Mexicois a feast day and then the people walk on the highway to the markettowns, carrying their wares on their heads with the pride of creation.Some places we saw them spinning the fibre of the manguey as theywalked. Out of this they make ropes and baskets. They answer everysalute with a smile and a wave of the hand. They are not burdened witha sense of poverty. They are not obsessed with any feverish desire toimprove their condition.

Is this too primitive an existence? It would be for us. But I believethey are happier than many people you and I know, dogged by a fear ofthe future, and bitter because someone else has more. The Indians havetheir handicraft, their love of mystery, the joy of planting andreaping, great sweeping valley-floors, green and abundant below them,mountain peaks shouldering the sky above them. There are sweet fish inthe rivers, berries on the bushes, guajolotes (wild turkeys) in thewoods, wild orchids and blossoming shrubs everywhere; color in thefields and color in the rocks; no one has any more than another. Theirwork is their pleasure. The Indian demands nothing of life, but he hasmany of the things we break our hearts to acquire!

There is another picture, the Shrine of Guadaloupe, which is a few milesnortheast of Mexico City, built on the spot where it is reputed the HolyVirgin appeared more than three centuries ago to an Indian, Juan Diego.This was the Virgin's first appearance in the New World; and she lefther picture, by a miracle, on the robe the Indian was wearing.

The Virgin's picture, framed in gold, hangs high above the beautifulaltar, and to bow before it came the faithful from all over Mexico everytwelfth day of December. The Lady of Guadaloupe is the Protector ofMexico. We went to see the shrine the first day we spent in Mexico City.The church, one of the largest we saw, is open at all hours, and manypilgrims were there that day. Some of the little groups had walked manykilometres, to bring their sick to the Virgin's attention. The pilgrimsmade their way to the altar on their knees, carrying silver trays oforanges, and tomatoes, lighted candles, and one little girl had acharcoal burner sending up a cloud of smoke. A poor woman, with a tiredand pitifully sick baby tried to get her little son of five or six tokneel with her as the procession slowly crawled down the aisle, but hebroke away, and ran down to the front of the church, thereby endangeringher chances of getting relief for her sick child. Her distress at hisaction was pitiful to see. However, the little prodigal returned andknelt beside her, and the procession crept on. A blind boy played on hisviolin, as weird and terrible a tune as I ever heard; one, the guidesaid, which had never been written, but was known to every Indian of thetribe. The procession stopped at a shrine half way to the altar, andfervently prayed; the violinist redoubled his efforts, an old lady withtattered grey locks took the charcoal burner from the little girl andswung it in front of the Virgin, and the mother held up her sufferingchild, oblivious of everything but her child's sore need. Ahead of themgleamed the altar, set with many a jewel and gleaming with gold. Thealabaster candlesticks, man-high, were lighted from within and glowed inthe semi-darkness. The magnificence of the altar and the poverty of thesupplicants in their tattered rags made a terrible picture.

The guide hurried us on to see another altar whose railing was of solidsilver, and told us proudly how many tons of silver had been used in theChurch. Then he took us upstairs to the sacristy and showed us the tablewhere the treaty was signed between Mexico and the United States."Without hard feeling" the guide said. He asked us as we were going upthe stairs to observe the picture gallery on the wall, of home-madedrawings, each recording a miracle. Here was an auto, just escaping atrain, a woman undergoing a Caesarian operation. The pictures were crudeand seemed to show the same hand but there was a passionate reality inthem.

Outside, on the steps of this great cathedral, dozens of vendors wereselling charms and tokens, forcing them into our hands or trying to pinthem on our coats; deer's eyes on scarlet strings, holy sweetcakes,rosaries of carved wood, glass or silver medallions with the Virgin'spicture. An old woman, with the toes out of her shoes, tried to sell uslottery tickets, telling us it was all for charity, and to buy from herwould bring us luck, for she was blind in one eye. Troops ofshrill-voiced children pursued us to our car and made us very glad toget away from the cathedral, even though the guide told us it was therichest church in North America and the religious centre of the world.

One of the most distressing details of this picture was the face of thewoman who brought her sick baby to the foot of the Virgin. She was sopoor and wretched and yet believing. I hope her prayers ascended farbeyond the cherub-sprinkled roof and were recorded some place. Out offaith like hers surely will come a regenerated church in Mexico,dominated by the true spirit of Him who said: "I came not to beministered unto, but to minister".

Very different in character was the next religious institution wevisited. On our way home we spent a few days in Los Angeles and I wentto the Hollywood Temple.

I first saw Aimee Semple McPherson when she was twenty-eight years old.She had come to Winnipeg to hold services in the old Wesley Church. Thatwas in 1920. Every night people were turned away, and then as always,there was a wide difference of opinion about her. I liked her the firsttime I saw her, and felt the impact of a great personality. Surely nowoman ever received more admiration and loyalty on the one hand,derision and persecution on the other. If Aimee had been a homely womandressed in rusty black, with her hair pulled tightly back unbecomingly,and carried on her missionary work down a back street in unattractivesurroundings she would have passed into history as a great saint. ButAimee was beautiful and knew how to dress and did not let the passing ofthe years destroy her beauty; she was also a great showman and a greatfinancier and so the world in general found it hard to forgive hersuccess.

I regret to have to record that she was bitterly criticized by many ofthe "good" people who failed to see that she used all her talents andall her powers to spread the Gospel of the Lord. She educatedmissionaries and supported them in India and China. It is true sheattracted people to the Temple by her dramatic and spectacular methods,but she never disappointed them when they came, nor did she ever cheapenor soft-pedal her message. She preached to her congregation the words oflife.

The last time I heard her speak she read the story of the Pentecost, forthe scripture lesson and took her text from it.

"There was the sound of a rushing wind." When she read these words shestopped and smiled at her congregation. Then she leaned over the deskand said confidentially:

"I like sound. I'm not one bit afraid of sound, even in a churchservice. It is a good thing to make a joyful noise unto the Lord."

We had good seats in the front row of the gallery, and so had thepleasure of seeing the congregation arriving. The galleries filledfirst, and I was a bit disturbed at all the empty seats on the groundfloor, but at five minutes before the hour of opening the regulars beganto come down the sloping runways in formation, eight hundred youngpeople, the students of her Bible school, with jaunty little boat-likecaps of different colors. They had gone upstairs first to make thisspectacular entry from the front and sides of the auditorium. Meanwhilethe surpliced choir filed into the two choir lofts, one on each side ofthe pulpit. The orchestra, in the pit below the pulpit, strikingly robedin Russian blouses of bright blue with sashes of yellow, were playingone of Sousa's marches under the direction of a slim young person with ahead of curly blonde hair.

When Aimee came in the great congregation broke into applause. She wasdressed in white, with a rippling cape of blue lined with white. Hergolden hair shone with the sheen of ripe wheat and her whole personalityradiated health and happiness. She carried a sheaf of crimson roseswhich she laid on the pulpit. The morning sunshine poured in from eightstained-glass windows, four on each side of the pulpit. A crucifixstands high above the pulpit, with three women in postures of grief atthe foot of the cross. Above that is a beautiful mural of the Sower whowent forth to Sow.

The service lasted from 10:30 to 12:30, and held everyone's attentionevery minute. No one seemed to know what was coming next. The choirsang; the orchestra played; an Episcopal minister visiting the city sang"The Lord's Prayer". The sermon lasted for forty minutes and it revealedAimee at her shining best. She was defending the Four Square Gospelagainst the criticism of some Church which had issued a pamphlet warningits people not to attend Angelus Temple on pain of expulsion. The pointof disagreement seemed to be a matter of timing: Did the gift of theHoly Ghost come with conversion or at a later period? The churchpamphlet was strong in its belief that God's children got all thatthere was for them at conversion. Aimee said "No". Conversion camefirst, then sanctification, and the fruits of the spirit. She ranthrough the Gospels to prove it, with the speed of a race horse. Heraudience laughed and exulted with her and loved her as she covered thechurch's criticism at every point. There was no malice in her words.Everything she said glowed with good humor. She closed the serviceexactly at twelve thirty, leading the congregation in the old hymn,"Revive Us Again", and surely the Temple was filled with the sound of arushing wind.

Aimee was a conductor of great ability. She understood the effect ofsound and movement upon people. She knew that when people clapped theirhands, when they sang, it loosened something in their hearts.

The woman who sat beside me was a staunch Presbyterian whom I had knownin Manitoba. She told me she had been a member of Aimee's Temple foreight years. When I asked her what had led her away from John Knox shesaid she had been attracted to Aimee because of the great work she wasdoing for the young people of Hollywood.

"This Temple," she said, "is not only a great church auditorium. It is aBible school, a college, a settlement house and a relief centre. It isopen every night of the week and no needy person is ever turned awayfrom its door. The young people come here because they have good fun andwholesome recreation mixed with instruction. Times change you know. JohnKnox's methods would not do for Los Angeles in this year of 1938.Churches here have to meet the competition of moving picture shows anddance halls. Aimee inspires people, gives us a vision, and makes us allfeel important. She makes us work, but she works harder herself thananybody else. Aimee has Power"—and I knew by the way she said it ithad to be spelt with a capital.

My memory of that service will ever be the rapt and worshipping faces ofthe young people to whom Aimee Semple McPherson was guide, friend andhigh priestess!

CHAPTER XXIX

Nova Scotia

Some years in our lives stand out like mountain peaks. Life can go on atthe same level for long periods of time, then suddenly the chart shootsup to a high level of activity. 1938 was such a year for me.

In July I was invited to attend the Silver Jubilee of the Women'sInstitute in Nova Scotia, and had the great privilege of visiting manyparts of the province, due to the kindness of my good friends, MissAnnie M. Stuart, of Grand Pré, and Miss Helen Macdougall, Superintendentof Women's Institute. The Department of Agriculture in sending me theinvitation to become the Convention speaker told me that they would makea visit of the whole peninsula part of my program. That was a generousinvitation which no one could refuse.

No part of Nova Scotia holds more interest for the tourist than thelittle village of Grand Pré with its tragic memory of the Expulsion of1755. I first made the acquaintance of Longfellow's Evangeline atNorthfield School in Manitoba, when this narrative poem was part of thecourse of studies. Evidently there was no fear in the heart of "ourbetters" then that this story would undermine our love for the BritishEmpire, even though our hearts burned with indignation when we read ofthe peaceful Acadians and the sorrows which came to them. Longfellow,who never saw Grand Pré or the Gaspereau River, told his story well. Hetook seven years to think about it, and must have had a clear picture ofthat beautiful country in his mind. The long metre he used seemsexactly right for this abundant scene, with its rolling hills andundulating valleys.

One of the questions on a teacher's examination when I was a studentwas: "To what do you attribute the charm of 'Evangeline'?" and a ladfrom the prairie, who has since become a writer wrote in reply:

"The charm of this poem lies in the long, lingering melancholy sweetnessbetween the subject and the predicate."

I hope the examiner recognized the glimmer of genius.

On my first Sunday in Grand Pré we attended the United Church service inthe Old Covenanters' Church, built in 1804 of hand-sawn boards andhand-made nails. It has the high pulpit and sounding board, and the boxpews, each with its own door. We sat in the Stuart family pew, with itsold footstool, which has served the family for 100 years. In the lastgeneration Sunday School began at 9:30 and the preaching servicefollowed. Two o'clock was the time for dismissal. So the people of thatday took their devotions in heavy proportions.

But on this Sunday the service lasted one hour. The church was gay withflowers, the choir was made up of young people, and after the servicelaughter was heard around the tombstones. A Chicago car drove up as westood around in groups and the driver asked if he might photograph us,and had it done before we had even begun to look pleasant. He said hewas getting pictures of the places of interest. He had the Dionnesisters, Niagara Falls, the Reversing Falls, and Evangeline's Monument.He told us he had just two weeks for his holiday, but he was covering alot of ground. Then wiping his beaded brow—for the day was hot—hevanished down the road.

But no one else in Grand Pré was hurrying. A Sabbath peace rested on thewoods and down the shady roads and paths where the people wanderedleisurely homeward to their Sunday dinner of baked shad, from the RiverAvon, green peas and cherry pie. At least, that is what we had, servedon lovely old china taken from a corner cupboard.

Evangeline's monument stands in a park just north of the railwaystation. Beautiful French marigolds circle around it, and the clover sodwas, that day, damp with the recent rains. Evangeline clasps herdistaff, and turns her head toward the river. I asked about this but noone seemed to know. She should, we thought, be looking up the hilltoward the home she was leaving forever.

The old church, which was built on the site of the one where theAcadians worshipped, and where the proclamation was read to them on thatfateful Sunday morning, is now a museum where we saw a series ofpictures, which tell the story of the expulsion. The scene at theseashore is full of misery, where the people sit with their patheticl*ttle treasures in their hands, waiting for the boats to take themaway.

At the gate we saw Evangeline's willows, grey with age, and listing toleeward, gnarled and twisted old warriors that have bent before many abitter blast from the Atlantic, but have somehow survived the buffetingsof time. Still they stand and put forth their leaves each spring.Somehow they moved me more deeply than any of the treasures of theAcadians, or the pictures men have drawn of their sorrow, for in theirbattered trunks and twisted branches they seem to hold the unconquerablespirit of the men and women of that tragic time.

The visitor to Nova Scotia is always advised to see the South Shore.President Roosevelt had spoken of the "unhurried ways of thefisherfolk". Ramsay MacDonald had called it "the land of heart's desire"wondering why he had missed it for so long.

A woman, to whom I had been speaking on the train, a Lunenburg woman,looked at me enviously, when I said I was on my way to Nova Scotia—formy first visit.

"I wish I could see Lunenburg harbor for the first time," she said,"when the ships return and the masts stand up like a forest."

She told me something about the coastline, with its indentations, andits coves, and creeks, and the ways of its people.

"The paved road has done a lot for the people," she said. "I am not onethat wants to keep the fisherfolk as primitive as they are in someplaces, just to make the tourists stare and rave about them. I want themto have some comforts, too, and now they are getting them, even radiosand tablecloths."

"There are places along the South Shore where the people once lived onfish and potatoes," she went on, "never bothering with any othervegetable, but with tourists coming and wanting meals, they began tomake gardens, and live better, in every way. The women work in the hayfields with the men. Mary, my maid, whose home is on the South Shore,says she won't take her holidays until the haying is over. Her twosisters work in Boston, and have learned American ways, but when theycome home they do what father says. When father says 'We'll make hay',they make hay, and they daren't talk back to him. The heavy father whocan rule his household may have gone from other parts of Canada, but hestill rules in some of the fishing villages on the South Shore."

We motored from Windsor to Chester, through upper Falmouth, followingthe Avon river, until we saw where it had its source. The streams here,no longer subject to the tide, are clear, but dark, as if the color ofthe trout had dyed the water. The road we travelled is winding andnarrow in places, but in good condition, and well made. Drinkingtroughs along the way reminded us that much of the transportation hasbeen done by ox-teams, though we saw only two or three of these bringingout loads of hay.

We passed some beautiful orchards before we reached the heavily woodedcountry, and was interested to see that the space between the rows oftrees was planted with buckwheat, now in bloom. This will be cut andleft on the ground for a mulch. I wondered why the ground was notcultivated, but the cover-crop is in favor now, and appears to besuccessful, for the trees are well set with fruit.

At Chester we went to the Lovatt House, where travellers have been fedand sheltered for more than one hundred years. In the low ceilingeddining room, with its brown walls, and floor and great carvedsideboards, we had a good meal of liver and onions (at least that's whatI had). I knew I should eat fish in Chester, but I could not resist mytwo old friends.

The pictures on the walls are of royalty: King Edward the Seventh withQueen Alexandra and their eldest child, King Edward the Eighth in hisyoung boyhood, and the present King and Queen. The lights above ourheads came from lanterns. Under our feet were hooked mats whose patternswere growing dim with the heavy-footed years. We met people, at the nexttable, who were going over to an island near by, which they own now andhave planted with potatoes, making an experiment of growing a red potatomuch favored in Jamaica.

We hurried through the meal to get out to see the bay, while thedaylight held. It was all I had hoped, and more. Peace lay on the water,and on the islands which lead the eye step by step to the open sea. Itwas all so sweet and calm, it was hard to believe that this haven ofrest had been the scene of robbery, pillage and murder. I wonderedabout the Payzant Island, where poor Marie had seen her husband fallacross the doorstep, shot by the Indians who carried her and her fourchildren away nearly 200 years ago. One of her descendants in Wolfvillehad told me the story, and given me Dr. MacMechan's book—I thought ofMarie Payzant, too, as we passed through Upper Falmouth, where she hadfound sanctuary after her tribulations and where members of the familystill live.

The island of mystery, four miles from Chester, Oak Island, drawseveryone's interest. Here it is supposed that Captain Kidd buried hisill-gotten treasure. We heard the story of the dying sailor whoconfessed that he had been one of Captain Kidd's crew, who buried twomillions of money on a "secluded island east of Boston". A queer pit hasbeen found on Oak Island, and many attempts have been made to recapturethe treasure, but the pit fills with water, and nothing has been foundyet. I was interested to hear the story of Captain Kidd who began hiscareer as a recognized English trader, but chose the career of a pirate,robbing any ship he met, English or French. This was in 1696. In 1698 hearrived in New York, loaded with spoil which he buried on Gardner'sIsland. He was arrested by the order of the Governor of Massachusetts,sent back to England, tried, and hanged in 1701. The loot of Gardner'sIsland was found and amounted to something like sixty thousand dollars.

But the people who live on the South Shore today are more interesting towrite about, than the pirates who roved its waters years ago, robbingand killing.

After leaving Mahone Bay we saw many berry-pickers, offering baskets ofblueberries for sale. There were stands beside the road where lovelywaterlilies in crocks could be bought. Signs told us that hand-made rugsand quilts were ready for us, and in support of this, we saw samples onfences and verandahs, and about this time we began to notice that wewere crossing the railway track very often. That is true of the wholeSouth Shore. The highway and the railway track cross and recross,seeming to vie with each other in showing the traveller everything thatis to be seen. No one can see it all, but we drove slowly and did ourbest.

Little sheltered coves, with canoes at anchor, beaches of pure red sand,where people lay in the sun; a party of picknickers, opening theirbaskets; a woman on the verandah of a lovely white house, shelling peas;two women driving by with a horse and covered buggy. (I am sure they hada laprobe embroidered in chain stitch); a white house, with rain barrelsat each side, painted white, too; fish drying on the shore in front ofFrolic school; cobblestone houses at Dublin Shore; and always the seawith its fishing boats, steamers, fuel barges, and at least one lovelyyacht with gleaming sails, a stranger, a painted lady, among thehard-working craft!

At Liverpool, we stopped for supper at a neat little restaurant wheretourists with bandanna handkerchiefs on their heads sat at the nexttable. We wanted to reach Lockport for the night, but a fog settled infrom the sea, and we stayed at White Point Beach, where the greatrollers of the Atlantic threw spray on the rocks, and filled the airwith a sound so much like a heavy rain that every time I wakened I hadto resist the impulse to get up and shut windows all over the house.

We agreed that the Pubnico villages should be seen—there are so many ofthem, all in a row, on both shores of Pubnico harbor. There is LowerWest, Middle West, and West Pubnico, and the same number of EastPubnicos, and at the head of the harbor Pubnico itself. They are on themap. In reality there are Mids and Centrals as well. We had a goodlobster salad with the Amiraults there, I think it was at Mid EastPubnico in a neat little restaurant which displayed a sign that "nointoxicating liquor would be tolerated in the premises". The dark-eyedproprietor told us liquor "makes plenty trouble", and we agreed withher. The highway department is with her, too.

We went to the little shop which advertises Acadian Handicrafts, andthere we learned about Pubnico.

Seignior Philip d'Entremont, first Baron Pubnico, settled there in 1651,with his tenants. In 1755 the people of this settlement were deportedwith the rest of the Acadians, but they were allowed to return in elevenyears, the only Acadians who were thus favored. Their holding contains1,500 square miles, and is now the oldest Acadian settlement in theworld.

The folder, given to us, tells that the "d'Entremont family, descendedfrom the highest nobility of France and Savoy, are related to the royalfamily, and this nobleness has been transmitted by marriage to most ofthe Acadian families of Digby and Yarmouth, as well as many of NewBrunswick and Quebec."

The window of the little handicraft shop is made into a winter scene,with salt for snow, and little houses made of bark, and ox-teams carvedfrom wood, drawing loads of logs. Inside the shop there are picturesmade by a needle instead of a brush, with wools instead of paint, andwith carved frames. We saw two of the Amirault family here, who told usthese handicrafts are carried on by the women in the winter, the designshanded down from mother to daughter.

On the road from Sidney to Glace Bay there is a small mining town calledReserve Mines, made up largely of Company houses. These houses are dulllittle dwellings on rutted streets. They have no trees or flowers andthe outlook is sombre. The floors of the houses are laid on the ground,and the earth works up through the cracks in the boards, making acontinual dust in dry weather and dampness when it rains.

Great things have happened in this little town since then, for FatherTompkins, the priest of the parish, had a vision of better things forhis people and he brought his people together in groups to study thewhole question of co-operative housing. According to Father Tompkins'philosophy "ideas have hands and feet". So no wonder something happened.

It was our great privilege to see the first of the co-operatively-builthouses. There were eleven of them built in a long semi-circle, and eachhad an acre of ground. Each contained six rooms and was fully modern.

Miss Mary Arnold, who had been for eighteen years connected withco-operative enterprises in New York, came to Nova Scotia to spend theholiday, and fortunately for Nova Scotia and the co-operative movementthere, she decided to stay.

On the Sunday afternoon we spent at Reserve Mines, we met many of thepeople who will live in these houses when they were finished and heardfrom them how the idea had grown and what it was going to mean to themto have their own vegetables and flowers and a decent place to live. Allthe pride of ownership was shining in their faces, and with it the joywhich comes to the builder, for these men and women had done almost allthe work on their houses, under the direction of one experiencedcarpenter. They told us that in addition to the initial payment of onehundred dollars they were paying a rental slightly less than the tendollars they had been paying for the dull little company houses, andbest of all, in twenty-five years the house would be clear. The monthlyrental covered insurance too.

The story of the co-operative movement in Nova Scotia and how it hasspread all across Canada is well known now. It has brought joy and hopeto many who saw no way out of their financial difficulties. It hasnothing to offer to the speculator who hopes to get rich quick by somelucky chance, but it does make a great appeal to men and women who havethe will to work together. To them it is a great demonstration of howman can help his fellow man and himself at the same time. St. FrancisXavier University at Antigonish will always be held in grateful memoryfor the great assistance its staff has given to the working people, notonly of Nova Scotia but of all Canada. Father Tompkins gave me a bookwhen I visited him at Reserve Mines, and the name of the book is TheLord Helps Those Who Helps Themselves. It contains the history of thismovement and the title takes on new meaning as the tale unfolds. It goesback to the good father's philosophy "that ideas have hands and feet",and might well have had as its foreword that dynamic poem of EllaWheeler Wilcox:

CHAPTER XXX

The League of Nations, 1938

On my way home from Nova Scotia in August I received a wire from thePrime Minister, informing me that I had been appointed one of theCanadian delegates to attend the League of Nations to be held inSeptember, and asking for an immediate acceptance. I received the wirejust before we got into Blue River and hastily wrote my acceptance. ThenI began to wonder what I would say to my family. They had put up with alot from me, and I had already been away from home five weeks.

I did not break the news the first day, and when I did I found they wereall ready to accept it with good grace. I had about a week to get ready.There were so many things to think of, but I had good helpers and atlast I was ready to leave, my suits were cleaned, my trunk packed, and Ihad a new evening dress. I had one great regret and that is that I hadnot followed the meetings of the League of Nations more closely, thoughI had always been a member of the League of Nations Society. I felt soignorant and inadequate.

However, the Government had thought of that, and I was given a portfoliowith the full history of the League in it, and I did put in some hourson the sea voyage acquainting myself with its contents. When, after avery pleasant voyage and train journey, we reached Geneva, I found manyother delegates who were also there for the first time, and who werestruggling like myself to grasp its significance.

The League of Nations was a world within a world and no doubt will godown in history as a great stride forward in humanity's long and painfuljourney. It grew more amazing to me all the time I was there. Much timewas spent in the first few days in getting the committees set up.Setting up committees seemed to be a complicated business, accompaniedby much formality. The chairman is proposed by someone who dilates onthe choice he is making. Someone "seconds the motion", and tells of hispleasure in so doing. Then the senior delegate of the country from whichthe chairman has been selected, gives tongue at some length thanking allthose who have spoken for the honour they are about to bestow on hiscountry by making Monsieur —— their chairman, and finally the proposedchairman voices his appreciation and deep humility in accepting thishonorable office, and knows the compliment is one to his country and notto himself, but will endeavour to carry out his duties as well as hislimitations will permit. If there are no objections (and there werenone), and after everything had been translated and duly applauded, thechairman of the committee is declared elected. And time wore on!

The league had forty-seven countries in its membership in 1938, and itsincome was derived from its members. This was the first year that allthe meetings were held in the beautiful new building overlooking LakeGeneva. It has a commanding position with a view of Mt. Blanc, andgleams white on a terraced slope, flower beds in strange combination ofcolors heighten the sheen of the green lawns. The building is of stoneand many of the floors are of marble and the corridors are wide. Theglass doors are so clear and flawless that a secretary walked throughone, absent-mindedly. This was told to us the first day as a warning.The Assembly Room has a system of lighting which makes a perpetualdaylight. The rostrum has three levels. The seats are of walnut,upholstered in cream cloth. There are deep galleries on three sides ofthe Assembly Hall, giving a seating capacity for perhaps a thousandpeople. One of the most astonishing things about the League was theskill of the translators. When a speech was being made in some languageother than English, by a device on our desks we were able to hear it inEnglish by the use of earphones. Each speech had to be submitted inmanuscript beforehand, to give the translators the opportunity tofamiliarize themselves with it. We could watch the speaker, but thevoice that we heard was the voice of the translator. After the speechwas concluded the English or French version was given from the platformfor the benefit of the galleries.

We soon found out that it makes a great difference to a speaker whetherhe has something to say, or has to say something. This was particularlytrue in the first few days when the Chief Delegates of each country, whowere not willing to put sanctions against the aggressor countries,presented their reports. The reasons were all in the same vein. Nolonger have we universality in the League. We have suffered manywithdrawals. In order to be effective sanctions would need to be imposedby all nations. No country wants to offend its neighbor. We are peacefulpeople. We cannot take the risk of another war.

Lord de la Warr speaking for the United Kingdom, used these arguments,and I do not think he enjoyed the position in which he found himself,but he had to say something.

There were three men who had something to say and they rent our heartsas we listened. The Spanish delegate, Alvarez del Vayo, scored theLeague for its callous indifference to the fate of his country, anddeplored the disappearance of Austria as an independent state. "Onelooks in vain," he said, "in the Secretary-General's report for one wordof condolence or farewell to our sister nation which has been swallowedby an aggressor. The aggressors know now that they can do this withimpunity, as far as this League is concerned. But the Spanish delegationwould like to direct to the spot once occupied by the Austriandelegation a glance of indignant protest."

The General Assembly observed a moment of embarrassed silence. Then theSpanish delegate went on, pleading with the League to take action now!it was still strong enough to impose sanctions if it would. "Are thewestern democracies going to wait until half the nations representedhere have disappeared, before they take action? Do we not still believein collective security? Nothing that has happened has weakened Spain'sdetermination to fight on for a vigilant, strong and self-assured Leagueof Nations."

The day that Dr. Wellington Koo spoke to the Assembly, many Chinesepeople gathered in the galleries. Beautiful women in their slim straightgowns with lovely furs, and what a speech they heard from their giftedcountryman! He made us all hang our heads in shame and bitter repentancefor our share in his country's griefs. He reminded us that China hadbeen a member of the League from its beginning, and that the League haddeclared Japan to be the aggressor nation, and although the League hadthe machinery in its framework to deal with aggressor nations, throughSection 16 which deals with the whole question of sanctions, yet not onemember of the League had put an embargo on Japan. Japan has been able tobuy as much war material as she wants. Dr. Koo spoke without bitterness,but with a stark simplicity that stripped away every excuse.

The other speaker who had something to say was Mr. Litvinoff who spokefor the Soviet Union. His country, he said, had not been a member of theLeague at first, and had come in after long doubts and hesitations, buthaving entered the League, it had been unfailingly loyal to the League,and was ready to perform all the decisions of the League, which weredirected to conserving peace, and combatting the aggressors,irrespective of whether those decisions coincided with Russia'simmediate interest as a state. He compared Article 16 to a fire brigadewhich was evidently set up in the innocent hope that by some luckychance there would be no fires. Unfortunately fires have broken out,very bad fires, and the action of the League seemed to be that we mustat once dissolve the fire brigade—of course, not forever, he addedsarcastically, but merely temporarily. Directly the danger of firedisappears, we shall re-assemble the fire brigade without a moment'sdelay.

So the nineteenth assembly of the League of Nations began, in a spiritof fear and distrust, regret and recrimination.

I thoroughly enjoyed having a seat on the Fifth Committee, which dealtwith social legislation of all kinds. There was something here to beproud of—the work among refugees, the great efforts that were beingsuccessfully made to stem the evils of narcotics and bring to nought thedesigns of evil men, the work of health organizations, nutrition andhousing, and securing better labor conditions, the prevention ofepidemics by international co-operation. I learned much about these andcould see that in these and in kindred matters, the League hadabundantly justified its existence. The League may have failed as apolice court, but as a research bureau and a clearing house of ideas itwas succeeding.

But even in the Fifth Committee the movement was slow, and I thoughtthey wasted much time in paying compliments to each other, and beingtediously careful that all due credit be given. Arguments would run onfor half an hour at a time about trivialities. One day I made bold totell them that I thought that if nobody cared who got the credit, muchmore could be accomplished, and for this I was reprimanded, privately,by one member of the Canadian contingent, who told me I did notunderstand how important it was not to offend any of the delegates. Isaid I could not understand grown up people being so sensitive. I knewthere were people here who had worked long and earnestly, but thatsurely was no reason for them to act like the young mothers at a babyshow!

Three women on our committee were outstanding, Irene Ward, M.P., of theUnited Kingdom; Madam Alexandra Kellontay of Russia; and a Scandinavianwoman, Madam Kesselgren. Madam Kellontay was then and is now the Sovietminister in Sweden, and I was attracted to her the first day ourCommittee met. From her I learned much about the Soviet Union, and thegreat pride they have in their young people, and the great plans theyhave for their development. She convinced me, if I needed anyconvincing, that the Soviet Union wants nothing but peace and good will,and a chance to develop their own resources.

She told me something of the conditions in Russia before the Revolution,and what a struggle it had been to bring education to the people afterthe long dark days of misrule under the Czars.

The tension in the League grew as the political situation in Europe grewmore threatening. Even in our Committee the speeches deteriorated. Theycrackled up and down the tables like conversations at a funeral. Wecould not give our whole mind to "an international signalling at lowlevel crossings" or consideration of "stateless persons released fromprison" when we knew we might all be stateless persons unless the signswere changed.

It was a long stretch from Monday to Friday in the last week inSeptember, measuring time by heart beats. On Monday night we heardHitler speak from Berlin. His fiery words were punctuated by the hoarsecheers of his listeners, as he screamed his intention of marching intoCzechoslovakia on October the First if his demands were not met. OnTuesday night we had a blackout, when every blind was drawn, and everylight in the street extinguished. We had supper that night at arestaurant, two blocks from the Hotel de la Paix where we stayed. Thetwo Swiss girls in the party said their worst fear was that Frenchtroops would march across Switzerland, and the Swiss would have toresist them. "And France is our friend, but in war there is no sense orreason." The Hon. Ernest Lapointe, who was the leader of our delegation,was recalled by a cable to Canada, and called us in to say good-bye. Iremember we were comforted by his words when he said: "There will not bewar, I think, at least for a year. But we must be ready for anything.Hitler means business!"

Every day there were less people at the League as the delegates werecalled home, and from the Swiss people I gathered there was a feelingthat Hitler would begin his offence by bombing the League of Nations'buildings to show his disrespect for law and order. The day we travelledto Paris the train was crowded to overflowing. Baggage was piled in thecorridors and every available inch was taken in the train. There werenot seats for everyone so we took our turns at standing up, and holdingon to the rail we looked out at the flying Savoy landscape, beautifulwith the sunshine of a perfect day. The blue Rhone ran below, cattlefed on the meadows, blue-smocked men were at work in their fields, oneman holding the plow and one man leading the horse, just as theirancestors did in 1870.

Civilians, with rifles, guarded the stations, and we passed companies ofcavalrymen, trains tore by at frequent intervals, crowded with people,and we read in the papers that two million people were being evacuatedfrom Paris.

We stayed at a small hotel, the Burgundy, just off the Rue de Madeleinein Paris and all night there were sounds of feet on the street below andthe beat of horses' hoofs, for mobilization was carried on at night. Igot up to watch the street activities and could see below me, men withbundles hurrying, women saying good-bye. It was a weird scene at threein the morning in the dimly lighted street.

The next day came the news that the men at Munich had arrived at asettlement, and Paris relaxed. We were sitting outside the Cafe de laPaix when we heard it. An American woman who had lived in Paris since1907 came over to our table and told us. "I was here on the night warwas declared in 1914, and last night I stayed until everyone was gone. Iam the only one left of the old crowd, and the boys wanted me to stay."

That afternoon we stood in the crowd which lined the streets to see thetriumphant arrival of Daladier, who had flown back from Munich. Thesteps of the Madeleine were filled with people. Every window, everydoorway, every balcony above the street. Policemen with white batonsdirected the traffic, and the big trucks and busses shoved the peopleout of their way like snow-plows. But there was no confusion, orshouting. Everyone smiled and chatted. Children with candy sticks, heldon "papa's" shoulders to see; old and young, rich and poor, mingledhappily. A French woman, leaning on a cane, complained of herankles—then laughed, and said, "I should not think of them. I am happyenough now to forget my pain . . . We are grateful to your Chamberlain,and to the King of Italy. Did you know he refused to sign the order formobilization? Yes! Mussolini ordered it, but Victor Emmanuel said no—hewould not send Italian soldiers to fight against their good friends—hewould abdicate first. So you see, sometimes it is good to have a king."

A half hour grew into an hour, and still the crowds gathered. Still morecrowds came in quickly from side streets, policemen on motorcyclescleared a narrow path, and in a flash an open car sped by heavilyguarded on all sides. Everyone waved and a few cheered. Daladier smiledand bowed and in a flash was gone.

The French woman said: "Now I can think about my ankles. Maybe this is agreat moment in the history of Europe. Anyway, I can say my prayers nowand go to bed. The last few nights have not been good for sleeping, evenfor a tired old woman, who lost everything in the last war."

I shall always be glad I saw the League of Nations, that gleaming whitepalace, built by many nations, and made beautiful by their arts andcrafts. I feel I was privileged to see the actual working of that greatexperiment to bring peace by discussion and arbitration—that greatexperiment which almost succeeded.

If the first act of aggression, Japan's invasion of Manchuria, had comeearlier, when the dread of war was fresher in men's minds, and if theUnited States had been there in full power, the history of the Leaguemight have been entirely different, and the history of mankind, too.

In 1938, the beautiful white palace, with all its facilities, itsfar-reaching communication system, its clever and efficient people,experts, advisors, diplomats, its great Library of 240,000 books, itswealth of knowledge, its reports and surveys, everything in order andavailable, and the personnel in every department, down to the lastfiling clerk, filled with a sincere desire to serve . . . It was a sightto make the angels weep. It was so beautiful, so efficient, and yet sotragic!

It was like a magnificent house, furnished with exquisite taste andfitted with every device known to man for his comfort, pleasure andsafety, air-conditioned and insulated, beautifully designed lightingsystem, with all modern improvements for cooking and cleaning, elevatorsfrom every room, nothing over-looked or forgotten—except one thing.There was no electricity.

The League lacked power and I am not now referring to an armed force tocarry out its will, I mean the compelling constraining power which comesinto men's hearts when they love their neighbors as themselves, and knowthat what concerns one concerns all. Dr. Wellington Koo struck this notewhen he said to the Assembly, in pleading for sanctions to be putagainst Japan:

"Perhaps you think it does not matter what is happening in China, whichis far away from the homes of many of you. I tell you, cruel, unprovokedaggression is like blood poison, and the human family is like the humanbody. If there is poison in the foot, the hand is not safe."

The sterility of the League smote my heart with a sense of helplessness,as these words fell on the Assembly. Listening to them wererepresentatives of at least three-quarters of the world's population andevery one of us wanted peace. Surely some way must be found to releaseall this potential good will.

I knew there was a way and I have no doubt many people in that Assemblyknew it too. Before going to Geneva, I had been for ten days atInterlaken, attending a world conference of the Oxford Group. Therewere people there from forty-five countries, rich and poor, bishops andcommunists, coal miners and university professors, all united in onepurpose—to know the will of God and do it.

I heard strange stories, some of which sounded like Saul's conversion onthe road to Damascus, told calmly and convincingly. I heard a Britishleather manufacturer tell how he had hated his rival in business untilone day this new Way of Life came to him. Then he saw in a flash howsmall and miserable he had been in his outlook on life, and in the lightof that experience all the satisfaction he had had in outwitting hiscompetitor was gone, and in its place came a great desire to set theback-stakes of his life straight. He sought an interview with the otherman, expecting to be thoroughly rebuffed, but to his surprise he foundthe other man was ready to take his share of the blame. As a result bothfirms benefitted and were able to make better shoes and sell them at alower price to the public, at the same time paying better wages to theiremployees. Then he told us what had moved him to make this change in hismental outlook. He said his secretary had given him the challenge oneday, when she came in to tell him about a mistake she had made. He wasstruck by the girl's honesty, and asked her why she had told him. Thenshe told him that she was living by a new standard and had to be honestin everything, even if she lost her job.

I heard many stories like this and saw for myself that these people hadan illumination in their souls which was irresistible. They werereleased and happy, free from self-consciousness and afraid of nothing.They had evidently received that strange "warming of the heart" whichJohn Wesley experienced at Aldersgate.

I had heard much criticism of the Oxford Group and their house parties,the angle of criticism being that they put up at the best hotels,dressed for dinner, and had a very good time generally. It is quite truethat they have a good time, but it is not the jollity of idleness. It isthe high fellowship of a great crusade.

They have other points of resemblance with the Wesleyans. They haveclass meetings, too, but they call them "quiet times", and they telltheir spiritual experiences, but they call that "sharing", and they carenothing about money. They believe, like the Wesleyans, that if they doGod's will, God will provide for their needs. The leader, Dr. FrankBuchman, is of Swiss origin, and was a Lutheran pastor in an Americancity. No man in modern times has been more slandered than Dr. Buchman,yet he goes his way with nothing but love in his heart for all mankind.He is a simple man in his tastes and commands the devoted loyalty andaffection of people in every country of the world.

Much of the misunderstanding and criticism of the Group comes from thefact that they do work with people in high places, not exclusively ofcourse, but the majority of their contacts are with labor leaders,employers of labor, manufacturers, statesmen and other people of wideinfluence and there is a good sound reason back of this policy. A manwho controls the destiny of hundreds of his fellow men can make theirlives happy or miserable. Moral decay of the leaders in any countrybrings swift destruction as we have already seen. But we can understandthis criticism for there are still many people who believe that God'schildren should ever be poor and humble and somewhat apologetic.

There is nothing apologetic about the Oxford Group. They believe thepromises, and they know that the power of God is as real in thespiritual world as electricity is in the physical world, but likeelectricity it has to be "piped" into human hearts. God's power flowsthrough the humble and the contrite heart. The Oxford Group is not adenomination, nor does it enter into competition with any other form ofreligion. It is a permeation, a warming of the heart, a quickening ofthe soul.

It was my privilege to work with the Press Committee which sent reportsfrom this great ten-day gathering, this unofficial league of nations,and I certainly found myself in good company. One of the newspapercorrespondents was Fredrik Ramm of Norway. I had heard of him inconnection with Amundsen's flight over the North Pole. He hadaccompanied the intrepid explorer. When the Oxford Group visited Norwayin 1934, Mr. Ramm was changed and wielded a mighty influence in theScandinavian countries.

In July, 1940, he was arrested by the Germans and thrown into jail.Knowing his great influence with the Norwegians, the Quislings wereafraid to keep him a prisoner and presented him with a document whichwould have won for him his liberty. They asked him to declare that hewould carry on no religious or political activity. Fredrik Ramm tore upthe document, but so great was his influence that he was released for atime. But the next year he was arrested again and sentenced to lifeimprisonment as a leader in the Oxford Group, which the Germans haddisbanded, declaring that it was an "arm of the British Secret Service".Quisling, the arch-traitor of Norway, declared that the Group had"poisoned the soul of Norway".

Fredrik Ramm was locked in solitary confinement in Hamburg's worstconcentration camp because he refused to make armaments for the Nazis.As a result of his ill-treatment he died in November, 1943.

The story of his life lives on in a play, written by some of the friendswho knew and worked with him. The name of the play is "And Still TheyFight".

I hope the League of Nations has contributed something to the great SanFrancisco meeting, which will have taken place when these words areprinted. D-Day had to have its Dieppe, costly and heartbreaking, butmilitary experts say the price was not too high for the lessons learned.The League went down to defeat because each nation was trying to saveitself at all costs. In spite of all its formalities, its eloquentpreambles and graceful compliments, its secret slogan was "Me-First" andwe know now, or we should know, that that policy is not only wrong, butself-destructive.

When the United Nations build a permanent home, and we in Canada arehoping that some part of our country will be honored as their place ofresidence, I would like to see these words, which are the soul andessence of our Christian philosophy, carved above the portal of thisHouse of Hope:

"He that seeketh to save his life shall lose it; and he that loseth hislife for My sake, shall find it."

CHAPTER XXXI

The Way of Words

"Words are the only things that live forever." So spoke WinstonChurchill thirty-seven years ago at a writers' dinner in London. Lookingback, as I am doing now, trying to untangle the threads of life, andweave them into a pattern, I see how true this is.

People utter words without knowing their full power. When the barons atRunnymede put the pen in King John's grubby hand and forced him to signthe Magna Charta, they thought they were speaking only for themselves inthat great document in which these words are written:

"To no one will we deny; to no one will we delay; to no one will we selljustice."

But as the years rolled on, and the barons and King John returned todust, these words gathered strength and power far beyond the meaning thegentlemen of Runnymede intended.

Prior to the first Great War we thought we were firmly set on our way topeace and prosperity. Everything was coming our way. If our souls arelike the boles of trees, that period will show a thick smooth ring, goodto behold. We were a simple-minded, hopeful people, and Alfred, LordTennyson, was our poet. We believed there was an inherent quality in theCause of Right which would give it the victory and that was a pleasantdoctrine which went well with chenille hangings, Axminster carpets,plumes in our hats, interlined skirts and good crops.

But let no one accuse us of sitting back in rocking-chairs waiting forthe Golden Hour. We dreamed great dreams, but strove mightily. It was aclean new country we were living in then. We had no weeds, no rats, nofifth column, no unemployment and no Jew-haters.

I remember vividly the first time I was brought face to face with thehorror of Anti-Semitism. It was in the pages of a book called LittleCitizens by Myra Kelly. Miss Kelly was a young teacher in New York'sEastside, and she wrote about her pupils, many of whom were Jewish. Onefamily was expecting a little cousin to arrive from Russia, and greatwere the plans made for her arrival. The whole school was aglow withexpectancy. There was some jealousy, too, in the children who had nolittle cousin coming on a big ship. One day the little cousin arrived,but no one could see her. She was too sick. Then the story came out, bitby bit. Told to teacher with bitter tears. The little cousin was allthat was left of her family, her papa and mama and baby brother sixmonths' old had been killed in a pogrom . . . Even on her little bodywas still the open wound where a cross had been cut by a "Christian".

Myra Kelly died young but her words live on. Since then we have heardand seen much of Anti-Semitism and know that it is a sure sign of moraldecay.

I wonder why the whole Christian world has not risen against it, butsomehow it did not seem to penetrate our optimistic souls. It seemedfantastic, unbelievable and far away. It couldn't happen here. We"somehow hoped" with Tennyson, "that good would be the final goal ofill."

Words again!

Hitler knew the power of words, and so wrote down for all men to read,if they would, his whole plan of attack on humanity. In it he said thatpeople would believe anything if they were told over and over again, andthe bigger the lie, the better. He began his work of degeneration byteaching very young children to hate and despise the children of otherraces. Nursery rhymes breathed death and desolation. He tried to stampout Christianity and destroyed whole libraries in his plan for darkeningthe souls of the German people, and the deluded young Nazis screamedwith joy, and danced "in the light of burning encyclopedias". It was thedance of death but they did not know it.

It has taken us a long time to understand that all this concerned us,and there are still among us many people who have not grasped its fullsignificance. We are all proud of Canada's war effort, but our greatconcern now is how are we going to match it in our efforts for peace? Itis much easier to make a great effort as a nation than to perform evensmall acts of sacrifice as individuals. It is easy to get co-operationwhen we are under the threat of aggression. I have heard people sayquite frankly: "It is better to give generously now than let our enemiescome in and take everything." Without this driving force of necessitymixed with fear there is a grave danger that as soon as the fear isremoved we will revert to our former selfishness.

We see this in attitude to those stricken, desolate people who have beentorn out by the roots by the cruelties of war. We are very sorry forthem, of course, but they need more than sympathy and they have a rightto expect something from us, the people of Canada, with our abundance ofland and wealth of resources. In making an appeal on behalf of thesehomeless people we get a more sympathetic audience if our appeal isbased on the level of profits.

Already in Canada we have seen what refugees can do. They have broughtto us new skills, and instead of taking away jobs from our people, theyhave given them profitable employment. New industries have come toCanada, potteries, glove-making, new methods in agriculture andlumbering, and the record is growing. But my heart is heavy for mycountry, if it is true that we can be moved to generosity only by thehope of material reward.

Have we lost the spirit of our fathers? Are we afraid to ventureanything for righteousness sake?

The First Methodist Church in Ontario, now the magnificent Metropolitanin Toronto, was built by the faith of a man who mortgaged his farm tomake the initial payment! Have we really to see the balance sheet andthe gilt-edged guarantee before we will risk our money?

I do not mean to insinuate that there is anything inherently wicked inprosperity. Christ wanted everyone to have the abundant life. Poverty,which some religions have vainly tried to glorify, is, I believe, acursed thing in this world of abundance. God intended us to have lightand heat, comfort and beauty. It is only in the denial of these goodgifts to others that the sin lies.

Canada, blessed among nations, must not close her gates to the homelessand desolate! We will impoverish our own souls if we do!

There is a great opportunity at this time, when the destiny of mankindis hanging in the balance, for inspired writers and speakers, people whoknow the power of words. We will never know what we owe to WinstonChurchill for the fighting words he has put into our hearts. In the lastwar, David Lloyd George threw us many a life line in his mighty phrases.Let us be thankful, too, that the President of the United States has theapt word at his command. We are an articulate people, who delight inclarity of thought. No leader would dare to tell us "to think with ourblood" which is a dark mysterious phrase, according well with whatMatthew Halton calls "the muddy depths of the German soul".

Let us rejoice that we are rich in the treasury of great words, spokenby great men on great occasions, words made to be carved above doorwaysand on mantels, in schoolrooms, and colleges, in railway waiting roomsand on the archways of great bridges.

Speaking of bridges, someone surely blundered when an inscription waschosen for the new Burrard Bridge in Vancouver. It is a magnificentstructure, and beautiful in design. No one can approach it without athrob of pleasure. Proudly it spans an arm of the Pacific Ocean. Aboveit the lions keep perpetual guard, and the sleeping Beauty dreams thecenturies away. There are ships in the harbor, and the famous skyline isetched in ivory on the blue horizon. Over its broad trafficways go thepeople of many nations, but on its middle-span is carved thesemeaningless words, with nothing in them but a prideful boast:

"On land and sea and in the air we prosper."

There is nothing in that to inspire, guide or comfort, nothing to bindthe hearts of men in fellowship. Not even a word of gratitude.

Some Babbit did this!

There is something about words carved in stone which makes them morethan words. Their permanence seems to give them authority. I noticedthis many years ago in a simple sentence above the entrance of HarrietIsland, a delightful spot where the people of St. Paul enjoy theirsummer evenings. These are the words:

"The health of the people is the wealth of the nation." Some day I hopesomeone will compile a book of Canadian inscriptions suitable for allour buildings. There is a beautiful poem entitled "The Song of theWheat" by Knox Munson, which would look well inscribed on a grainelevator at the head of the Lakes, or in the corridor of some publicbuilding in Regina. Wheat has made Saskatchewan the richest province inthe Dominion according to the 1944 revenue, and the Saskatchewan peoplewould do well to honor it in enduring stone. Here are the words of Mr.Munson's song:

I was glad to see that the Saskatchewan Co-operative Producers, whentendering a complimentary dinner to the Canadian Federation ofa*griculture, paid tribute to one of our poets by using a verse on themenu card; under the picture of a grain elevator were these words byEdna Jaques:

Over the Research Building in Ottawa there is an inscription which hasalways seemed to be very beautiful and appropriate, and when I inquiredabout its origin I found it was taken from the First and Second Book ofEsdras in the Apocrypha, and reads as follows:

"Great is truth and mighty above all things. It endureth and is alwaysstrong. It liveth and conquereth forever more. The more thou searchestthe more thou shalt marvel."

To the present Prime Minister of Canada, Mr. Mackenzie King, belongs thehonor or having chosen these strong words and caused them to be gravenon a lintel where everyone can see.

CHAPTER XXXII

Conclusion

It is now two years since I wrote the introduction to this book, whichis a long time to have a book on the loom. The whole face of the worldhas changed since then, and is still changing. Even today will not holdstill long enough to have its picture taken.

In sharp contrast to this perplexing world, I can see from my window alovely spring day, and a peaceful countryside. English meadowlarks aresinging over Mr. Edward's green fields, though Mr. Edwards himself withhis boyish step no longer drives the horses up and down the furrow. Ared tractor does the work there now, and the crop has been changed fromdaffodils to cabbages and cauliflower, but the beautiful arbutus treestill stands out in the middle of the field, as perfect in outline asthe tree which once stood in all its beauty on Page One of the FirstManitoba Reader, over the unadorned sentence: "This is a tree". Thecabbages and cauliflower in their ivory white perfection are satisfyingto the eye, and if we could forget their predecessors, the dancingdaffodils, which in other years made a golden carpet down to the sea, wemight go the whole length and say with Selina Peake that "cabbages arebeautiful".

Under the mellowing influence of this warm April sun, the physical worldthat lies before me is bursting with gladness. Brown bulbs have turnedto blossoms of every hue, and the bare branches which groaned andrattled in the winds of winter are now frilled with pink rosettes. Thebuds on the lilac are swelling and the peach tree outside the kitchenwindow shows little points of pink against the stucco.

The birds are agitated over the housing problem. There are not nearlyenough bird houses, they are crying, as they bitterly complain that noone appreciates what they are doing for the war-effort. Birds arenotoriously bad tenants, as we all know. They would rather move thanclean house. I do not believe that the birds have as much fun as theyhad before the planes usurped their domain. They had enough enemiesbefore, the natural enemies, whose plan of attack is known—hawks,crows, stray cats—without these huge monsters in the skies. And yetthey survive, these little helpless balls of feathers, by sheer weightof numbers they survive, and still they sing as if their little heartswould burst if they could not lift that song of ecstasy.

In the two years since I began this book, I have done much sitting in asunny corner, sheltered by a hedge, with the pleasant heat of the sun onthe back of my neck. Often I have seen older people sitting, as I amnow, and I have been sorry for them, but there really is no need forsorrow. Every season of life has its compensations, and there is amental activity which does not depend on motion. It is often true thatthose who sit in the wings can see more than the players. I know manypeople with whom I would like to share this peace and quiet. I wish Icould hand over some of it to the women who are doing two jobs, and whocome home tired at night, yet have to do another day's work before theycan sleep, the women who have to face dirty dishes in the sink, no firein the stove, and hungry children waiting to be fed. If we have anysympathy to spare, let us feel it for the young people of these brittledays, whose young lives are spent in anxiety and fear.

They need our prayers and our loving sympathy. They are the brave youngships laboring through life's heavy seas, in danger from above andbelow. Let us give them our loving thought, but let us not waste even ashred of sympathy on the battered old ships, safely anchored in apeaceful haven.

Speaking as one of the old craft, riding at anchor in a safe harbor, Iam glad to record that even these hard years bring certainsatisfactions. I am proud of the way women have taken their places inmany departments of public service, and of how the attitude towardswomen has changed for the better. Many women have broken new trails andhold their positions with dignity, asking no favors and receiving none,remaining good humored and dignified at all times. These are the womenwho dress modestly, keep their hair neat and their voices low, and nevertry to win approval by lowering their standards of conduct, I like toremember the "seniors" among the women workers—Miriam Green Ellis,whose agricultural writing is unsurpassed; Claire Wallace in radio, tomention only two.

We are proud of the young ones too. A few days ago I listened to aninterview on the radio with a young entertainer named Peggy Anderson,who had been singing and dancing for the American troops in Italy andelsewhere. She was interviewed by Mrs. Barlow, who asked Peggy how shecould do so much travelling and dancing and still remain in perfecthealth. Peggy replied: "We are all trained well before we start out, yousee, and we never drink. The boys would not like us if we did, for theywant to respect us, as well as admire us."

I wish every teen-age girl could have heard that!

When I wrote in the Introduction to this book that I was about to"summer fallow" my mind, the figure of speech was more apt than I knew.Surely the whole world has undergone a ploughing and a harrowing whichno mortal mind can fully grasp. The skies of the world are darkened bythe black wings of sorrow, and no country and very few homes haveescaped their sinister shadow. Nationally we have had sore losses—theArchbishop of Canterbury, Wendell Wilkie, and now President Roosevelt.These great men have been taken from us, leaving us bewildered and lost.We think of Lincoln, who was taken before he had achieved his purpose,and of Wilson, who planned, but was not permitted to fulfil his mission.Is it possible that we depend too much on our leaders?

In our own family we suffered the first break in 1944. For forty-sixyears we had an unbroken family circle. Then came the reeling blow andour eldest son, our beloved Jack, was gone—gone like a great tree fromthe mountain top, leaving a lonesome place against the sky.

The first few days of shock bring a merciful anaesthesia, when timestands still and the world seems to have ended. You know then why peoplestop the clock and draw the blinds, and you have a better understandingof why Miss Haversham ordered the wedding feast to be left on the tablewhen her world broke down. It is a pathetically futile, but human,attempt to hold back the desolation which has come upon you.

But that passes, and you know that life goes on, and you must stand upto it. Besides, there is the family, drawn closer in the community ofsorrow. Thank God for the family!

Wes and I were like the two sad disciples who travelled the road toEmmaus, sorrowing for the One whom they loved. They had seen Him die,and their hopes had died with Him. Suddenly they were joined by a thirdtraveller, a stranger, whose sympathy brought out the whole story. Itcomforted them to tell him their sorrow, and when they came to theirhouse, they begged him to stay with them and be their guest for thenight. As they sat down to eat there was something about their newfriend's way of breaking bread which opened their eyes. The record sayssimply: "They knew Him in the breaking of bread."

This is an old, old story, but no one ever really knows its meaninguntil they walk that sorrowful road, and find their hearts suddenlycomforted as the Great Truth breaks over them in light and hope.

Death is not the end. It is but the portal to a brighter, fairer world.Life is a circle. We see only a small jagged segment of it here, andeven that small part, we see through a glass darkly. The part we seewith our mortal eyes does not make sense; it is like the fragment of astory you read in a torn magazine—you know there must be more of it. W.M. Letts' beautiful sonnet has comfort in it:

The overflowing kindness of friends bring vibrations of comfort andstrength. There are letters from friends and some from strangers. "Hewas good to me when I needed a friend" . . . "He helped me to regain myself-respect" . . . "It did me good just to see him" . . . "a nod fromJack brightened my day" . . . "He was filled with the joy of living, andhad a way of imparting it" . . . "I never knew anyone who had so manyfriends" . . . "Man and boy he served his country well" . . . "He willbe long remembered for his compassionate heart."

As the days went on I found myself holding on to that simple sentence:"They knew Him in the breaking of bread." It throws a gleam of lightacross the desolation of this troubled world, where the whole creationis groaning under intolerable burdens. The breaking of bread suggestssomething we can all do; something we all must do. Work is more thanmere activity—there is healing in it!

From this sheltered spot I see people working on the land; there aregirls in bright overalls and sweaters, with gay handkerchiefs on theirheads, picking flowers; there are men putting fertilizer on the cabbageswhich are being raised for seed. I wonder if it sweetens their labor toknow they are contributing to the needs of their fellow men? Who knowshow far this seed may travel? Or what bit of scorched earth it mayrestore? I like to think that the men who were spreading on thefertilizer have this in mind.

On the other side of Mount Douglas there lives a Manitoba friend of ourswho has now arrived at the age when people usually develop high bloodpressure and cease from their labors. But this man did nothing of thekind. He came out here, bought some raw land, put it under cultivationand began to raise vegetable seeds. He went at it scientifically, withthe help and blessing of our Agricultural Department, and has achievedsuccess. Last winter, when his farm duties were over for a month or so,he worked for a seed house in Vancouver, lived in a boarding house,carried a lunch, worked long hours, travelling both ways in darkness,but was happy because he was weighing and packing seeds for Europe. Hewas helping to rebuild the waste places. He saw his work in the seedhouse, not as work which makes an old man's muscles tired, but as achance to do a bit of world building. This man has the vision. He seeshis Lord in the breaking of bread. He did not tell me this. I saw it inhis face.

If I were young again—and I wish I could go back—I would spend my lifeas a teacher of young children, doing all in my power to give them avision of the dignity and glory of being builders and planters, makersand menders. Children are great idealists, until the stupidity of theirelders puts out the fires of their aspirations. We have seen, to oursorrow, how the heart of Nazi youth was betrayed and turned to evil.Surely we should put our energies into the battle for man's redemptionwith equal fervor.

In the next few years Canada, as one of the most fortunate nations inthe world, will be called on to give, and I have faith in my countrythat we will give generously, and I hope we will give gladly. It is notenough to give of our abundance and then sit back and wait to bethanked. Charity has always been given. Good works and alms deeds havebeen faithfully performed for the poor and the needy, and the poor haveremained poor and often bitter. This time we must give in a differentspirit. We must remember that man cannot live by bread alone. We mustgive ourselves with the gift. The breaking of bread has in it thesuggestion of many kindly gracious deeds which we can all perform. Wehave here in Canada people of many races, but unfortunately, some ofthem are smarting under our rebuffs, our lack of courtesy andunderstanding.

It does not take much to make people happy, and by the same token, itdoes not take much to make them bitter; a few insults, and the damage isdone. The fourteen hundred Hindus who live in this province, BritishColumbia, are intelligent, law-abiding people, and they are Britishsubjects, and yet they were denied the rights of citizens by a vote ofour elected representatives just the other day. Surely this is a greatblunder, and all the greater because it comes at a time when the freepeople of the world are making a mighty effort to unite against thepowers of barbarism. As a people we lack imagination. I have no doubtthat Christ was referring to imagination when he said: "I came that theymight have Life, and that they might have it more abundantly." I am surethat the "more abundant life" referred to the quickening of all oursenses, and until that quickening comes in the hearts of people, theywill continue to make costly mistakes. Without any mental effort on ourpart, we can see that the German people lack imagination, and that isone cause which has lead to their downfall. But strangely enough we failto apply the lesson.

When we look back over our lives we can see most of our mistakes havecome by not entering fully into the minds of other people. Sometimesthis happened because of diffidence, sometimes from lack of interest,and sometimes it was plain, ordinary stupidity. I believe it is thislack of imagination on the part of good people which has given thechurch a black eye and a reputation for being "stuffy". Sometimes theirgood works are done grudgingly, and so cease to be good works.

I remember one time a woman gave me a pair of pillow covers that she hadembroidered herself. They were beautifully done and wrapped in whitetissue paper with silver ribbon. But this is what she said: "Now I dohope you will appreciate this gift, for I spent many an hour on thisembroidery when I really should have been sleeping." I did not knowwhat to say. I wanted to tell her I was sorry she had ever thought ofthem. They were certainly no joy to her in the giving, and no joy to mein the receiving. She made me feel that I was accepting the product ofsweated labor. This was a gift with a sting!

As this is the last chapter in the book I find it hard to end it. I amone of these irritating people, who hang on to the door-knob after theysay good-bye, and will neither come back nor go, always rememberingsomething else which must be said, and here it is:

Do not look for safety in this world. There is no safety here. There isonly balance. This is what Christ meant when he said: "As a man thinkethin his heart—so is he". We have not much choice in the mechanics of ourlives—the house we live in—the family or race we belong to—the colorof our eyes or skin. But in one respect we have liberty and that is inour attitude to life. Many a busy woman has truthfully said that herlife is a never-ending round, a steady grind, but if she has in herheart this spiritual balance, she can make her life a spiral round, bygiving it that Other Dimension, which is the greatest thing in theworld.

The End.

Transcriber's Notes:
hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the original
Chapter headers XX-XXXII missing word 'CHAPTER'
Page 7, he said. there would ==> he said. There would
Page 11, how dilligently I pored ==> how diligently I pored
Page 15, have by hair done ==> have my hair done
Page 20, fee for the anaesthesist ==> fee for the anaesthetist
Page 41, of its numbers." ==> of its numbers.")
Page 79, has no father. ==> has no father."
Page 105, told him. We mailed ==> told him. "We mailed
Page 106, house on Wolsley Avene ==> house on Wolsley Avenue
Page 120, entitled ::How the Vote ==> entitled: "How the Vote
Page 121, but efficient business" ==> but "efficient business"
Page 121, two years in enonomics ==> two years in economics
Page 148, old rail fence ==> old rail fences
Page 167, all though that vast ==> all through that vast
Page 170, XV Alberta Politics ==> XX Alberta Politics
Page 178, be awful ,and I ==> be awful, and I
Page 178, Things can's go on ==> Things can't go on
Page 185, their purusit of knowledge ==> their pursuit of knowledge
Page 189, June llth, 1933 ==> June 11th, 1938
Page 201, valiant sould would ==> valiant soul would
Page 219, Troon were were entertained ==> Troon we were entertained
Page 219, I know they would ==> I knew they would
Page 220, white flannellette gown ==> white flannelette gown
Page 228, the labryinth of narrow ==> the labyrinth of narrow
Page 254, had faithfuly discharged ==> had faithfully discharged
Page 258, dishes of the peeling ==> dishes or the peeling
Page 260, Clyde, Mrs. Jean McCalmon ==> Clyde. Mrs. Jean McCalmon
Page 264, Violses drown, folks!' ==> Violses drown, folks!'"
Page 266, imperishable ones. Long live ==> imperishable ones." Long live
Page 275, first, then santification ==> first, then sanctification
Page 279, people wandered lesiurely ==> people wandered leisurely
Page 311, a merciful anesthesia ==> a merciful anaesthesia
Page 313, imparting it" ' ' ' ==> imparting it" . . .
Page 316, giving ,and no joy ==> giving, and no joy

[End of The Stream Runs Fast, by Nellie L. McClung]