SOME ASPECTS OF PRAIRIE LIFE
It was unfortunate that there was no Anglican Sunday School in this
place, where we had perforce to spend a week. There were very few
Anglicans there at all, but a great many Presbyterians and
Nonconformists, who united to form a Union church and Sunday School.
There was a very nice Anglican church, but most of the congregation
lived at farms some distance away, coming in for Sunday services, when
the vicar also came in from one of his other districts. He came to see
us on the Saturday night, and explained that on the morrow there would
be a United Family Service in the Anglican church, to which he was
inviting all the members of the Union church. He asked us to write out
and fix up notices about it. He also asked if we would give an address
after the service on the need for religious instruction for the
children.
Sunday was a very hot day, and with sinking hearts we realised that the
congregation would be arrayed in lovely summer clothes, and that it was
up to us not to discredit the Old Country. But it is difficult to look
one's best when caravanning, and even one of Paquin's frocks would lose
its bloom in a cotton bag, and the smartest hat would look dashed after
the three-gallon oil tin had collided with it. Personally, I felt that
my bravest efforts would be futile since Winifred's remark as we arose
that morning: "Let me look and see if you are as much a fright as you
were yesterday." When your nose and one eye have been entirely
remodelled by a mosquito bite you do not look your best, nor can you be
quite unselfconscious in public, and, alas! _I_ should have to give that
address, for Winifred had flatly refused.
Patience is required when attending prairie meetings. What with the
immense distances, varying clocks, and unexpected obstacles on the
trails it is difficult to get anywhere to time. In this case we waited
an hour for the organist, whose car had stuck in a mud hole. Winifred
rose to the occasion, and was just making her way to the organ when the
belated car was heard and the big bronzed young farmer hurried in.
The elders of the Union church preceded the vicar and his churchwardens
up the aisle. The service was a shortened form of evensong, interspersed
with many hymns. The sermon was a clear but non-controversial exposition
of the Apostles' Creed. It was remarkable to notice how the preacher
held the attention of all present, from the child of five to the old
lady with grey curls. One hoped that this united worship might pave the
way for union on Christian essentials, so that Christian teaching might
be agreed upon for the schools and a united stand made against
materialism and the many so-called Christian sects.
After service I was called upon to address the congregation. I had to
speak from before the altar rails, there being no other place from which
to command the congregation, except the pulpit, which I did not wish to
occupy. As there had been a fairly long service, and the church was very
full and very hot, I thought that a ten minutes' address would be
sufficient. So I spoke briefly on the importance of religious education,
leading up from the wonderful way in which Canadians had helped in the
War, to the need for their help in warfare against evil. Christian
soldiers must be trained, and a young country needs a Christian
foundation. It is extraordinarily easy to hold the attention of a
prairie congregation, and I was told afterward that they wished I had
gone on longer. It is indeed a preacher's paradise.
The vicar had to leave at once for his next service. He motored about
eighty miles each Sunday and took four services. But the rest of us held
a kind of social gathering outside the church, where we had
opportunities of studying the prairie fashions. Most of these gorgeous
garments are ordered by post from Timothy Eaton's store in Toronto. His
enormous illustrated catalogue is sent yearly to every house, and is
commonly called "The Prairie Bible." The children know it by heart, and
amuse themselves on winter evenings by cutting out and colouring the
fashion plates, with the embarrassing result that when they see a
neighbour in her new spring costume they remark, "Oh, Mrs. So-and-So's
new hat is on page 603, price so many dollars."
We had a washing-day on the Monday. When near a farm they allowed us to
take our blouses, etc., and wash them with their apparatus, as the
Chinks, who did our heavy washing, ruined the finer things.
On the Tuesday we went to Swanson by train (the trains only ran on
certain days in the week). This had been one of the centres of the
Railway Mission, and was worked with Birdview, but they had had no
services for about a year, owing to the scarcity of clergy, and they
felt the privation very much. The Railway Mission had now come to an
end, and there were no clergy to supply these districts. We went to see
the leading church people, with a view to taking Swanson on our return
journey if it seemed possible to start a Sunday School there. We were
told that there was no Sunday School of any kind thereabouts, and were
advised to go to the day school and beat up recruits, which we did with
great success. A farmer's wife promised to gather the people together
for us when we came again, so that we could hold a demonstration school
and a parents' meeting.
We wished to visit Birdview, but no train ran there that day. Our
friend Mrs. T., however, said that her son should drive us in a car. A
terrible sandstorm blew up, and we were almost blinded in the open car.
We realised once more the advantage of a caravan. Great drifts of sand
lay on the trail, and the car skidded from side to side, but we got
there. Mrs. T. had arranged by telephone that we were to stay the night
with a storekeeper and his wife. There were not many church people in
Birdview, so I wanted to go out to a little mission church in the centre
of outlying farms which used to be worked by the Railway Mission. The
only way to get there was by car, and the storekeeper thought that no
hired car would face the storm. But, happily, the wind dropped and the
sand subsided, and we found a car to take us. So the storekeeper's wife
and I started off.
We were now in one of the "dried out" areas. There are certain belts of
land in Saskatchewan which, when first taken up, nearly twenty years
ago, proved very fertile. But over-cultivation, though advised by the
Board of Agriculture in order to conserve the moisture, had rendered the
soil so fine that most of it had blown away. It had been of no great
depth to start with, and the sand below it had come to the surface, and
now blew in great drifts. As the wheat came up, the flying clouds of
sand cut it down, and even buried the scrub. Little vegetation was
visible, and what wheat there was the grasshoppers devoured. They were
enormous things, 3 inches long. They flew into the car with a great
"plop," and even jumped down my clothes. The farmers hereabouts were
ruined, and nobody would take their farms. They had not sufficient
capital to start again. Yet with all this they kept up their courage and
hoped for better days.
When we reached the little church we stuck fast in a big drift, but I
took the wheel while the man pushed, and at last we got out. We went on
to the leading farmer's, where they welcomed us warmly. They had had no
services there for a very long time. I explained that we should like to
visit the place on our way back if they would collect the people to meet
us. The farmer's wife expressed great delight at the idea. They had
been so long without a clergyman, and had so much appreciated services
when they had them. She found it very difficult, she said, to keep
Sunday when there was nothing to remind her of the day. They felt their
spiritual privation, especially now that their material troubles were so
great.
I noticed here, as in many other places, an almost conscience-stricken
look on the parents' faces when I mentioned the necessity of religious
instruction for the children. It was not that they did not wish their
children to be taught religious truths, but that they themselves were so
cruelly overworked that they had no time for the care and forethought
which the preparation of a lesson entails. When you work all the week
from 5 a.m. to 10 or 11 p.m. you are exceedingly tired on Sunday; and
yet there is still some necessary work to be done if you live on a farm.
But give these parents some idea of how and what to teach, with a
suitable book to follow and pictures to illustrate the subjects, and
they will do their very best, often making most excellent teachers. It
is in places like this that the Sunday School by Post helps so greatly,
especially in winter, when the children cannot attend a Sunday school at
a distance.
We returned to Birdview that night (sticking again in the sand-drift on
the way). Our kind host and hostess refused to let us pay for our
entertainment. We were continually receiving most generous hospitality
all the time we were on the prairie. We were never allowed to pay for
our milk and eggs at a farm, and we were invited to many meals, which
greatly helped our resources. We hardly liked to accept so much, knowing
as we did how badly off the farmers sometimes were. But we knew how hurt
they would have been had we refused. Their generosity was a great lesson
in almsgiving. They always treat all missionaries in this way.
We took the train to Conquest, and then had to walk to Bounty, a very
tiring six miles on the rough trail with the wind against us.
Unfortunately no car overtook us, for it is the invariable custom to
give pedestrians a lift. We went at once to the place where we had left
our tent, but no tent was to be seen. We inquired about it at a
neighbouring house, and a nice old man told us that the storm of the
previous night had smashed the pole and ripped up the canvas, whereupon
he had rescued it, otherwise it would now have been miles and miles away
across the prairie. We felt thankful that we had had a house over our
heads when this happened.
We were now homeless, tent and caravan both _hors de combat_. Many kind
people would have taken us in, but in a prairie shack, or even in most
of the smaller houses, there is seldom any accommodation for visitors,
especially women visitors. So I went round to beg an old broom-handle,
and with this I spliced the tent-pole. Then Winifred and I set to work
on the canvas, and managed to restore it to the semblance of a tent
cover. Early next morning another storm came on. We got up hurriedly and
took refuge in the church, for the tent showed signs of collapsing on
top of us.
That day we had been invited out to the B.'s farm. One of the Bounty
farmers drove us out there behind a spanking pair of horses which had
taken first prize at a show. A heavy thunderstorm came on and we were
asked to spend the night, an invitation which was gratefully accepted in
our shelterless circumstances. Mr. B. was a most interesting man. In
England he had been a coachman, and had come out about seventeen years
before with L8 in his pocket. He worked his way West, and took up a
half-section. When he had got a home together a girl from the Old
Country came out and married him. Now he had a splendid farm; the house
and farm-buildings were lit by electric-light. A feature of this farm,
as of all others, was the enormous barn. This is always much larger than
the house. The hay and grain are stored at the top and the stables are
below. On most large farms they keep at least twenty horses, besides
up-to-date and ingenious machinery.
This farmer felt very strongly on the subject of emigration. As he truly
said, in the Old Country he would probably have remained a coachman all
his life, and would have had nothing to leave his children. But it was
useless to come out to the prairie, he added, unless you were prepared
to work hard. He himself worked from 5 a.m. to 10 p.m. throughout the
summer months. During the War he had been obliged to work his farm
single-handed. Both he and all the other prairie farmers had given large
gifts of wheat to England, and all the young farmers had enlisted in a
body directly war was declared, often travelling miles to the nearest
recruiting station.[5] In many cases their farms went to rack and ruin
whilst they were away, as there was no one else to work them. Large
numbers of them never returned.
The conversation at meal-time was most entertaining. Mr. B. used to
inquire if things were still the same in the Old Country, and if folks
still touched their hats and said "Sir"--this with a twinkle in his eye
as he looked at us. Of course, there are no class distinctions out West;
the very word is unknown. We agreed with our host that the fairest
measurement of mankind is to judge each one on his own merits. It is
quite certain that no one should come out here unless he can become what
is called "a good mixer." The following extract from one of Winifred's
letters is descriptive of the country: "The people . . . must have
pretty big minds to manage their own State, which is larger than the
British Isles. There is, and must always be, a stretching out in this
country, and it's a wide outlook for children . . . no appearances to
keep up, a natural existence, hard work, but suitable, and prospects for
children. . . . Canada is a leisurely place; no bustle. It is too large,
I think."
When we got back to Bounty we found that the caravan was ready, and we
joyfully fetched it from the garage and repacked it. Once again I felt
glad that ours was a van rather than a roadster. Though more difficult
to get along the trails it was a much more stable home. The wind is
perhaps the greatest trial of prairie life. It sweeps with unbroken
force over these wide spaces. Sometimes we had to go all day without hot
food or drink, as of course it was not safe to use a Primus stove in the
caravan or tent. At times even a trench would not keep off the wind, but
it usually dropped at night.
We regretfully bade farewell to the kind people of Bounty, feeling that
the town was well named, and went on to Rosetown. On the way we passed
through another dried-out area; our car and several others stuck in a
great sand-drift near a farmhouse, which was actually being submerged in
sand. We went to the house to ask for the help of a team of horses. A
young farmer and his sister lived there. The girl told us they were
"going to beat it," as nothing would grow, and the sand was up to the
lower windows of the house. She had just washed some clothes and hung
them up inside the house, and yet they were covered with sand. I was
much struck with her extraordinary cheerfulness in these trying
circumstances. This fine quality is characteristic of all Westerners.
The farmer pulled us out with his team, and we had no further trouble
that day.
[Footnote 5: Canada raised an army of 450,000, and it is estimated that
60 per cent. were members of the Church of England. The Canadian
casualties were 152,000.]