THE tempests that rattle and kill off the cattle and freeze up the combs
of the roosters and hens, that worry the granger, whose stock is in
danger—the mules in their stables, the pigs in their pens—the loud winds
that frolic like sprites with the colic and carry despair to the
workingman’s flat, the wild raging blizzard that chills a man’s gizzard,
they all come a-whooping from Medicine Hat. When men get together and
note that the weather is fixing for ructions, preparing a storm, they
cry: “Julius Caesar! The square-headed geezer who’s running the climate
should try to reform! The winter’s extensive and coal’s so expensive
that none can keep warm but the blamed plutocrat! It’s time that the
public should some weather dub lick! It’s time for a lynching at
Medicine Hat!” And when the sun’s shining we still are repining. “This
weather,” we murmur, “is too good to last; just when we’re haw-hawing
because we are thawing there’ll come from the Arctic a stemwinding
blast; just when we are dancing and singing and prancing, there’ll come
down a wind that would freeze a stone cat; just when we are hoping that
winter’s eloping, they’ll send us a package from Medicine Hat!”
[Illustration]
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