CONSERVATION
There are certain words which have come into general circulation since
the war. One of the very best of these is "Conservation."
Conservation is a fine, rich-sounding, round word, agreeable to the
ear and eye, and much more aristocratic than the word "Reform," which
seems to carry with it the unpleasant suggestion of something that
needs to be changed. The dictionary, which knows everything, says that
"Conservation means the saving from destructive change the good we
already possess," which seems to be a perfectly worthy ambition for
any one to entertain.
For many people, changes have in them an element of wickedness and
danger. I once knew a little girl who wore a sunbonnet all summer and
a hood all winter, and cried one whole day each spring and fall when
she had to make the change; for changes to her were fearsome things.
This antagonism to change has delayed the progress of the world and
kept back many a needed reform, for people have grown to think that
whatever is must be right, and indeed have made a virtue of this
belief.
"It was good enough for my father and it is good enough for me," cries
many a good tory (small _t_, please), thinking that by this utterance
he convinces an admiring world that all his folks have been
exceedingly fine people for generations.
But changes are inevitable. What is true to-day may not be true
to-morrow. All our opinions should be marked, "Subject to change
without notice." We cannot all indulge ourselves in the complacency of
the maiden lady who gave her age year after year as twenty-seven,
because she said she was not one of these flighty things who say "one
thing to-day and something else to-morrow."
Life is change. Only dead things remain as they are. Every living
thing feels the winds of the world blowing over it, beating and
buffeting it, marking and bleaching it. Change is a characteristic of
life, and we must reckon on it! Progress is Life's first law! In order
to be as good as we were yesterday, we have to be better. Life is
built on a sliding scale; we have to keep moving to keep up. There are
no rest stations on Life's long road!
The principle of conservation is not at enmity with the spirit of
change. It is in thorough harmony with it.
Conservation becomes a timely topic in these days of hideous waste. In
fact it will not much longer remain among the optional subjects in
Life's curriculum. Even now the Moving Finger, invisible yet to the
thoughtless, is writing after it the stern word "Compulsory." Four
hundred thousand men have been taken away from the ranks of producers
here in Canada, and have gone into the ranks of destroyers, becoming a
drain upon our resources for all that they eat, wear, and use. Many
thousand other men are making munitions, whose end is destruction and
waste. We spend more in a day now to kill and hurt our fellow men than
we ever spent in a month to educate or help them. Great new ways of
wasting and destroying our resources are going on while the old leaks
are all running wide open. More children under five years old have
died since the war than there have been men killed in battle!--and
largely from preventable "dirt-diseases" and poverty. Rats, weeds,
extravagance, general shiftlessness are still doing business at the
old stand, unmolested.
But it is working in on us that something must be done. Now is the
time to set in force certain agencies to make good these losses in so
far as they can be repaired. Now is the time, when the excitement of
the war is still on us, when the frenzy is still in our blood, for the
time of reaction is surely to be reckoned with by and by. Now we are
sustained by the blare of the bands and the flourish of flags, but in
the cold, gray dawn of the morning after, we shall count our dead with
disillusioned eyes and wonder what was the use of all this bloodshed
and waste. Trade conditions are largely a matter of the condition of
the spirit, and ours will be drooping and drab when the tumult and
the shouting have died and the reign of reason has come back.
Personal thrift comes naturally to our minds when we begin to think of
the lessons that we should take to heart. Up to the time of the war
and since, we have been a prodigal people, confusing extravagance with
generosity, thrift with meanness. The Indians in the old days killed
off the buffalo for the sport of killing, and left the carcases to
rot, never thinking of a time of want; and so, too, the natives in the
North Country kill the caribou for the sake of their tongues, which
are considered a real "company dish," letting the remainder of the
animal go to waste.
This is a startling thought, and comes to one over and over again. You
will think of it when you order your twenty-five cents' worth of
cooked ham and see what you get! You will think of it again when you
come home and find that the butcher delivered your twenty-five cents'
worth of cooked ham in your absence, and, finding the door locked,
passed it through the keyhole. And yet the prodigality of the Indian
and the caribou-killer are infantile compared with the big
extravagances that go on without much comment. Economy is a broad term
used to express the many ways in which other people might save money.
Members of Parliament have been known to tell many ways in which women
might economize; their tender hearts are cut to the quick as they
notice the fancy footwear and expensive millinery worn by women. Great
economy meetings have been held in London, to which the Cabinet
Ministers rode in expensive cars, and where they drank champagne,
enjoining women to abjure the use of veils and part with their pet
dogs as a war measure; but they said not a word about the continuance
of the liquor business which rears its head in every street and has
wasted three million tons of grain since the war began. What wonder is
it that these childish appeals to the women to economize fall on deaf
or indignant ears! Women have a nasty way of making comparisons. They
were so much easier to manage before they learned to read and write.
The war wears on its weary course. The high cost of living becomes
more and more of a nightmare to the people, yet the British Government
tolerates a system which wastes more sugar than would feed the army,
impairs the efficiency of the working-man one sixth, and wastes two
million dollars every day in what is at best a questionable
indulgence, and at worst a national menace. Speaking of economy,
personal thrift, conservation, and other "win-the-war" plans, how
would the elimination of the liquor traffic do for a start?
There are two ways of practicing economy: one is by refusing to spend
money, which is not always a virtue; and the other is by increasing
production, which is the greatest need of this critical time. The
farmers are doing all they can: they are producing as much as they
have means and labor for. But still in Canada much land is idle, and
many people sit around wondering what they can do. There will be women
sitting on verandas in the cities and towns in the summer, knitting
socks, or maybe crocheting edges on handkerchiefs, who would gladly be
raising potatoes and chickens if they knew how to begin; and a
corresponding number of chickens and potatoes will go unraised. But
the idea of coöperation is taking root, and here and there there is a
breaking away from the conventional mode of life. The best thing about
it is that people are thinking, and pretty soon the impact of public
opinion will be so strong that there will be a national movement to
bring together the idle people and the idle land. We are paying a high
price for our tuition, but we must admit that the war is a great
teacher.
There is a growing sentiment against the holding-up of tracts of land
by speculators waiting for the increase in value which comes by the
hard work of settlers. Every sod turned by the real, honest settler,
who comes to make his home, increases the value of the section of land
next him, probably held by a railway company, and the increase makes
it harder for some other settler to buy it. By his industry the
settler makes money for the railway company, but incidentally makes
his own chance of acquiring a neighbor more remote!
The wild-lands tax which prevails in the western provinces of the
Dominion, and which we hope will be increased, will make it
unprofitable to hold land idle, and will do much, if made heavy
enough, to liberate land for settlement.
As it is now, people who have no money to buy land have to go long
distances from the railroad to get homesteads, and there suffer all
the inconveniences and hardships and dangers of pioneer life, miles
from neighbors, many miles from a doctor, and without school or
church; while great tracts of splendid land lie idle and unimproved,
close beside the little towns, held in the tight clasp of a
hypothetical owner far away.
Western Canada has a land problem which war conditions have
intensified. But people are beginning to talk of these things, and the
next few years will see radical changes.
The coming of women into the political world should help. Women are
born conservationists. Their first game is housekeeping and
doll-mending. The doll, by preference, is a sick doll, and in need of
care. Their work is to care for, work for something, and if the
advent of women into politics does not mean that life is made easier
and safer for other women and for children, then we will have to
confess with shame and sorrow that politically we have failed! But we
are not going to fail! Already the angel has come down and has
troubled the water. Discussions are raging in women's societies and
wherever women meet together, and out of it something will come. Men
are always quite willing to be guided by women when their schemes are
sound and sane.
In New Zealand the first political activity of women was directed
toward lowering the death-rate among children, by sending out trained
nurses to care for them and give instruction to the mothers. Ours will
follow the same line, because the heart of woman is the same
everywhere. Dreams will soon begin to come true. Good dreams always
do--in time; and why not? There is nothing too good to be true! Here
is one that is coming!
Little Mary Wood set out bravely to do the chores; for it was
Christmas Eve, and even in the remoteness of the Abilene Valley, some
of the old-time festivity of Christmas was felt. Mary's mother had had
good times at Christmas when she was a little girl, and Mary's
imagination did the rest. Mary started out singing.
It was a mean wind that came through the valley that night; a wind
that took no notice of Christmas, or Sunday, or even of the brave
little girl doing the chores, so that her father might not have them
to do when he came home. It was so mean that it would not even go
round Mary Wood, aged eleven, and small for her age--it went straight
through her and chattered her teeth and blued her hands, and would
have frozen her nose if she had not at intervals put her little hand
over it.
But in spite of the wind, the chores were done at last, and Mary came
back to the house. Mary's mother was always waiting to open the door
and shut it quick again, but to-night, when Mary reached the door she
had to open it herself, for her mother had gone to bed.
Mary was surprised at this, and hastened to the bedroom to see what
was wrong.
Mary's mother replied to her questions quite cheerfully. She was not
sick. She was only tired. She would be all right in the morning. But
Mary Wood, aged eleven, had grown wise in her short years, and she
knew there was something wrong. Never mind; she would ask father. He
always knew everything and what to do about it.
Going back to the kitchen she saw the writing-pad on which her mother
had been writing. Her mother did not often write letters; certainly
did not often tear them up after writing them; and here in the
home-made waste-paper basket was a torn and crumpled sheet. Mary did
not know that it was not the square thing to read other people's
letters, and, besides, she wanted to know. She spread the letter on
the table and pieced it together. Laboriously she spelled it out:--
"I don't know why I am so frightened this time, Lizzie, but I am black
afraid. I suppose it is because I lost the other two. I hate this
lonely, God-forsaken country. I am afraid of it to-night--it's so big
and white and far away, and it seems as if nobody cares. Mary does
not know, and I cannot tell her; but I know I should, for she may be
left with the care of Bobbie. To-night I am glad the other two are
safe. It is just awful to be a woman, Lizzie; women get it going and
coming, and the worst of it is, no one cares!"
Mary read the letter over and over, before she grasped its meaning.
Then the terrible truth rolled over her, and her heart seemed to stop
beating. Mary had not lived her eleven years without finding out some
of the grim facts of life. She knew that the angels brought babies at
very awkward times, and to places where they were not wanted a bit,
and she also knew that sometimes, when they brought a baby, they had
been known to take the mother away. Mary had her own opinion of the
angels who did that, but it had been done. There was only one hope:
her father always knew what to do.
She thawed a hole in the frosted window and tried to see down the
trail, but the moon was foggy and it was impossible to see more than a
few yards.
Filled with a sense of fear and dread, she built up a good fire and
filled the kettle with water; she vigorously swept the floor and
tidied the few books on their home-made shelf.
It was ten o'clock when her father came in, pale and worried. Mary saw
that he knew, too.
He went past her into the bedroom and spoke hurriedly to his wife; but
Mary did not hear what they said.
Suddenly she heard her mother cry and instinctively she ran into the
room.
Her father stood beside the bed holding his head, as if in pain.
Mary's mother had turned her face into the pillow, and cried; and even
little Bobbie, who had been awakened by the unusual commotion, sat up,
rubbing his eyes, and cried softly to himself.
Mary's father explained it to Mary.
"Mrs. Roberts has gone away," he said. "I went over to see her to-day.
We were depending on her to come over and take care of your
mother--for a while--and now she has gone, and there is not another
woman between here and the Landing."
"It's no use trying, Robert," Mrs. Wood said between her sobs; "I
can't stay--I am so frightened. I am beginning to see things--and I
know what it means. There are black things in every corner--trying to
tell me something, grinning, jabbering things--that are waiting for
me; I see them everywhere I look."
Mr. Wood sat down beside her, and patted her hand.
"I know, dear," he said; "it's hell, this lonely life. It's too much
for any woman, and I'll give it all up. Better to live on two meals a
day in a city than face things like this. We wanted a home of our own,
Millie,--you remember how we used to talk,--and we thought we had
found it here--good land and a running stream. We have worked hard and
it is just beginning to pay, but we'll have to quit--and I'll have to
work for some one else all my life. It was too good to be true,
Millie."
He spoke without any bitterness in his voice, just a settled sadness,
and a great disappointment.
Suddenly the old dog began to bark with strong conviction in every
bark, which indicated that he had really found something at last that
was worth mentioning. There was a sudden jangle of sleighbells in the
yard, and Mary's father went hastily to the door and called to the dog
to be quiet. A woman walked into the square of light thrown on the
snow from the open door, and asked if this was the place where a nurse
was needed.
Mr. Wood reached out and took her big valise and brought her into the
house, too astonished to speak. He was afraid she might vanish.
She threw off her heavy coat before she spoke, and then, as she wiped
the frost from her eyebrows, she explained:--
"I am what is called a pioneer nurse, and I am sent to take care of
your wife, as long as she needs me. You see the women in Alberta have
the vote now, and they have a little more to say about things than
they used to have, and one of the things they are keen on is to help
pioneer women over their rough places. Your neighbor, Mrs. Roberts, on
her way East, reported your wife's case, and so I am here. The
Mounted Police brought me out, and I have everything that is needed."
"But I don't understand!" Mr. Wood began.
"No!" said the nurse; "it is a little queer, isn't it? People have
spent money on pigs and cattle and horses, and have bonused railways
and elevator companies, or anything that seemed to help the country,
while the people who were doing the most for the country, the
settlers' wives, were left to live or die as seemed best to them.
Woman's most sacred function is to bring children into the world, and
if all goes well, why, God bless her!--but when things go wrong--God
help her! No one else was concerned at all. But, as I told you, women
vote now in Alberta, and what they say goes. Men are always ready to
help women in any good cause, but, naturally enough, they don't see
the tragedy of the lonely woman, as women see it. They are just as
sympathetic, but they do not know what to do. Some time ago, before
the war, there was an agitation to build a monument to the pioneer
women, a great affair of marble and stone. The women did not warm up
to it at all. They pointed out that it was poor policy to build
monuments to brave women who had died, while other equally brave women
in similar circumstances were being let die! So they sort of frowned
down the marble monument idea, and began to talk of nurses instead.
"So here I am," concluded Mrs. Sanderson, as she hung up her coat and
cap. "I am a monument to those who are gone, and the free gift of the
people of Alberta to you and your wife, in slight appreciation of the
work you are doing in settling the country and making all the land in
this district more valuable. They are a little late in acknowledging
what they owe the settler, but it took the women a few years to get
the vote, and then a little while longer to get the woman's point of
view before the public."
Mary Wood stood at her father's side while the nurse spoke, drinking
in every word.
"But who pays?" asked Mary's father--"who pays for this?"
"It is all simple enough," said the nurse. "There are many millions
of acres in Alberta held by companies, and by private owners, who live
in New York, London, and other places, who hold this land idle,
waiting for the prices to go up. The prices advance with the coming-in
of settlers like yourself, and these owners get the benefit. The
Government thinks these landowners should be made to pay something
toward helping the settlers, so they have put on a wild-lands tax of
one per cent of the value of the land; they have also put a telephone
tax on each unoccupied section, which will make it as easy for you to
get a telephone as if every section was settled; and they have also a
hospital tax, and will put up a hospital next year, where free
treatment will be given to every one who belongs to the municipality.
"The idea is to tax the wild land so heavily that it will not be
profitable for speculators to hold it, and it will be released for
real, sure-enough settlers. The Government holds to the view that it
is better to make homes for many people than to make fortunes for a
few people."
Mary's father sat down with a great sigh that seemed half a laugh and
half a sob.
"What is it you said the women have now?" asked Mary.
The nurse explained carefully to her small but interested audience.
When she was done, Mary Wood, aged eleven, had chosen her life-work.
"Now I know what I'll be when I grow big," she said; "I intended to be
a missionary, but I've changed my mind--I am going to be a Voter!"