AMONG THE PRAIRIE FARMS
Our host and hostess were charming, cultured people. He and his
brothers, 'Varsity men, were farming in a little colony of their own. He
was a member of the Provincial Parliament, or Senate. Our hostess was a
trained nurse from St. Bartholomew's. She had been matron at a hospital
in Rosetown, and she still helped in cases of illness whenever she had
time. She told us how badly nurses were needed on the prairie. She was
also President of the local Grain Growers' Association, which is similar
to the Home-Makers' Club and the Women's Institutes--we got the latter
idea from Canada. The chief aim of these associations is the selling of
farm produce and the general betterment of home and rural life. Our
hostess was one of those who saw the need for a higher moral standard in
the country, and her Association had appealed to the Senate to that
effect.
They were most kind and hospitable, and insisted on our having meals
with them. The farm hands sat at the same table--in this democratic
country no longer below the salt. On several evenings I went with our
host and his children to play cricket at other farms, and I noticed that
the farm-hands and everyone else joined in the game.
It was very interesting to go round the farm and see all the wonderful
labour-saving devices. They had cut the hay and were getting it in. The
term "wild and woolly West" is said to have originated from the "prairie
wool," or natural hay, which is specially luxuriant on dried-up sloughs.
It is a grass with a fluffy, golden-brown plume. But this natural hay
can only be cut every other year, hence many farmers are sowing hay
seeds as well. The wagon which they use for carting hay and wheat has
enormously high rack-like sides. On this farm, when carting hay, an
immense canvas sheet with rings at the corners is put in the wagon and
the hay piled up on it. When a wagon-load reaches the barn, a rope
attached to a pulley in the barn roof is put through the four rings of
the sheet, the horses are taken out of the shafts and harnessed to the
pulley-rope, and the whole load is swung up into the barn, along a rod,
and on to the rick. The whole operation only takes three minutes. There
was a blacksmith's shop on this farm, and as some of the metal on my
shock-absorber had broken, our host cut me a piece of metal, and I
mended it with his assistance--a job which entailed lying under the car
for an hour with earth falling into one's eyes. The vicar was famous as
a "fixer" of broken-down Fords, and one day he came to the farm with his
children to gather Saskatoon berries.[7] Whilst he was waiting for the
party to start, he and our host took out my steering-rod and
straightened it at the forge. As he put it back he eyed me solemnly and
remarked: "I suppose you know that your two lives depend on this rod."
One very hot night we were sleeping in the van with all the doors wide
open for the sake of coolness. I woke up suddenly to a tremendous clap
of thunder with terrific forked lightning and a hurricane of wind, and
hailstones the size of a hen's egg. I sprang up and pulled the
wind-screen to and shut the side doors, and then woke up Winifred and
told her that we must hold on to the back doors for dear life. If once
the wind got in it would certainly overturn the van. How we got through
the next half-hour I cannot tell. There was no catch inside the back
doors, as we always bolted them from the outside, but so sudden and
terrific was the storm that there was no time to run round and bolt
them. The wind would have swept you off your feet, and you might have
been struck by the lightning. For the same reasons it was impossible to
make a dash for the farmhouse, and even if we had got there safely by
any chance, the caravan would have been smashed to atoms as soon as an
open door gave entrance to the wind. The only thing to do was to hold
the back doors with our fingers in the chinks, though how we managed it
I do not know. The alternative was to abandon the caravan and lie flat
on the ground, as one was advised to do in cyclones, but in this case we
might have been killed by lightning. All through that half-hour the van
quivered like a live thing, and we expected every minute that it would
be blown away or broken in. I have never felt so near death. The storm
lessened after a time, and then I bolted the back doors. In the morning
we found that the farmhouse had been nearly flooded by the torrential
rain, a stream of water having poured through the house. They had looked
out at us anxiously from time to time, but could no more reach us than
we could get to them when the storm was at its worst. Two great
hay-wagons had been blown several yards into a fence, and we heard that
a shack eight miles off had been blown over, and the settler had had all
his limbs broken. We had often heard of these storms before. On one
occasion such a storm burst upon a prairie school, smashing in the
windows. The young teacher gathered the children into the porch, where
they escaped injury. But when they returned to their homes most of them
found the shacks blown over and their parents killed. A neighbouring
school was entirely wrecked and the teacher and children killed.
On the Saturday, when the trails had dried up, we started for Birdview.
We were now entering the dried-out area again, but the sand-drifts had
sunk a good deal and become more compact, so we managed to get the
caravan through, though she skidded a bit. We camped by the little
prairie church, built miles away from any farm so that it might be in
the most central spot for each. Beside it stood the vicarage, a
one-roomed shack with a cellar beneath. There was also a good-sized
parish hall and a stable for the parishioners' horses. This complete
isolation has its perils. During the influenza epidemic in 1918 one of
the clergy lay here helpless for three days before anyone knew that he
was ill.
We stayed here for a week, having the place all to ourselves. We cleaned
out the shack and had our meals in it, sleeping in the van. It was
intensely hot, and we found the cellar a great boon for our butter, etc.
These cellars are a necessity on the prairie, keeping your food cool in
summer and your house warm in winter. Mrs. M., the farmer's wife who had
arranged for our visit here, used to bring us water and milk and eggs
from her farm two miles away. The well at the shack was now very low.
She also drove us to visit a day-school teacher who had promised to
carry on the Sunday School if we started it. We held the school on
Sunday, and two prospective teachers listened. After school there was a
most excellent tea in the parish hall, provided by the parents who had
brought the children. Delightful _al fresco_ meals are a feature of
prairie life. After tea we held a service in the church. We had made it
as beautiful as possible, with golden rod in the altar vases. Members of
the Women's Auxiliary had cleaned it thoroughly for us. This service
will always remain in my memory. There were people of all ages present,
and a large number of men, both middle-aged and young. Winifred played,
and I read the service and gave the address. We had a shortened form of
evensong. For the lessons I selected passages from the Gospels about our
Lord and the children. I also used some of the beautiful prayers written
for the Forward Movement--in particular, the one for a parish left
without a clergyman. We chose well-loved hymns, such as "Rock of Ages,"
from the Canadian hymn-book, which is beautifully called "The Book of
Common Praise." It is the best collection of hymns which I have ever
seen, including suitable ones for both children and adults. There is
also a Canadian prayer-book, some of the prayers being for the special
needs of the country, such as the prayer in time of drought. We used
this one at the service on behalf of this dried-out area.
I spoke on the importance of religious education, building up my theme
from the Gospel readings of the lessons. I tried to show how juvenile
crime had increased in countries which neglected the spiritual welfare
of the children. I ended by reminding them that, just as they had chosen
a font for their War Memorial, so the children, properly trained, would
be a living memorial of those who had laid down their lives for
Christian ideals. It was very easy to draw analogies between the
spiritual life of the child and the growth of the wheat, which is so
easily prevented by storms and drought from coming to its full
perfection.
At the close of the service we went to the door to say good-bye to the
people. I was very touched to see that some of them were crying, no
doubt from memories which the old familiar hymns and prayers had brought
to mind.
The next day we were invited to supper at a farm five miles off. On the
way we had a feast of beauty from the flowers, which were especially
glorious now. This is the native land of golden rod and Michaelmas
daisies. I have never seen such a variety of the latter--little white
ones growing low on the ground, little pale mauve ones, and great bushes
of deep mauve and yellow ones. There were also perennial sunflowers with
beautiful dark centres, and fine erigerons. At last we arrived at the
farm. It was a melancholy sight, almost buried in sand, and the farmer
was leaving it. In spite of being very badly off they gave us a most
delicious supper--roast chicken and layer cake and fruit and tea. It was
especially welcome just then as I had been doing a lot of cooking that
week, so a meal which I had not prepared was a great treat. (This may be
taken in two ways.)
The next day we taught in the day school and enrolled some children for
the Sunday School by Post. Then we went on and paid several visits,
finishing up at Mrs. M.'s farm, where we had supper. It was wonderful to
see her small son, aged three or four, rounding up cattle mounted on a
tall steed. This infant had already made our acquaintance, driving over
to our shack all by himself to bring us eggs.
On Thursday we left for Swanson, nearly sticking in the sand more than
once. At last the sub-radius rod broke with our continual skidding, but
I was able to get another at a hardware store on the way. We reached
Swanson that night and camped by the church. Next day we went to see the
farmer's wife who had promised to get the people together to meet us.
The family consisted of Mrs. Z., a widow, her daughter, and two sons. As
we drove up we saw that the wheat was being cut. Some of the binders
were drawn by motor tractors and others by horses. After the tea-supper,
which is the last meal of the day, Winifred went to the piano to play
songs for the girl. I noticed that the two brothers looked very tired
after their day's work, and guessed that they were waiting up for us as
I had seen that our room led through another. At last in desperation
they went to bed, and we found them fast asleep when we went through.
This shack was in advance of many, as it had a door between the rooms
instead of a curtain, but the girl ingenuously suggested that as it was
a hot night we should leave the door open.
The next day we went out to help them stook the wheat. It was a
beautiful sight, the sky so very blue and the wheat so very golden. I
felt quite at home at this job, though one had to stook from a quarter
to half a mile before turning, and the sheaves in the stooks were
placed in a circle instead of in our English way. Their aim is to keep
out the sun and wind, which would dry the wheat too much, whereas ours,
of course, is to let them in. They told us that a stooking machine had
been invented, but it was not very satisfactory as yet. The wheat
usually stands only a week in stook, and is then threshed on the field.
The rack (_i.e._, wagon) is accompanied by a loader (elevator) which
shoots up the sheaves into the rack. When this is full it is driven to
the thresher. This differs from our English threshing machine. Instead
of coming out in bundles, the straw is cut fine and blown out of a
funnel, accumulating in a heap on the ground. It is left there all
winter, being used either as fodder or as fuel. The grain pours down a
great pipe into a wagon, instead of being put into bags as with us. The
wagon is then driven off to the nearest "depot," where there is always
an elevator, as the tall buildings used for storing the wheat are called
out here. The wagon drives into the building, where it is weighed with
its freight. Then the wheat is tipped out and taken up to the store
rooms above. From there it is shot down a pipe into railway trucks, and
sent by train to Fort William on the Great Lakes. There it is cleaned
and again stored in elevators, and then poured down a great pipe into
the grain boats which carry it down the Great Lakes. Then it goes by
train to Montreal and Quebec, where there are even greater elevators,
whence it is sent all over the world.
We were told that this was the first good harvest in that district for
five years, which shows what a gamble prairie farming is. What with
drought and late frosts in spring, and hail and rain when the wheat is
ripe, the result must always be uncertain. The farmers are obliged to
put all their eggs into one basket, as they cannot store a root crop in
winter owing to the intense frost. A daily paper, dated September, 1921,
has the following news from Montreal: "Two feet of snow fell in the
district of Saskatchewan, causing much damage to crops and bringing the
snow-ploughs out. Drenching rains throughout the remainder of the
province suspended harvesting and threshing. The storm is the worst for
25 years."
Of course I had put on my landworker's clothes to stook in, and to my
surprise this caused a great sensation. They had never seen a landworker
in real life, only pictures of them in the _Sketch_ and the _Daily
Mirror_. They said the kindest things about British women war-workers.
[Footnote 7: Something like wortleberries.]