Produced by Al Haines
SEEDS OF PINE
_By_
JANEY CANUCK
Author of
"Open Trails", etc.
"_A handful of pine-seeds will cover mountains
with the green majesty of the forest, and I, too,
will set my face to the wind and throw my
handful of seed on high._"
--_Fiona Macleod_
TORONTO
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY LIMITED
Copyright, Canada, 1922
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY, LTD.
PUBLISHERS
TORONTO
_Affectionately dedicated to
my four brothers;_
_Thomas R. Ferguson, K.C.
Gowan Ferguson, M.D.
Harcourt Ferguson, K.C.
Honourable Mr. Justice W. N. Ferguson_
CONTENTS
Chapter
I WESTWARD WITH THE GRAND TRUNK PACIFIC
II A FRONTIER POST
III TO THE BUILDERS
IV BEHIND THE HILLS
V THE END OF STEEL
VI BITTER WATERS
VII MOTORING TO ATHABASCA LANDING
VIII COUNTRY DELIGHTS
IX AT THE LANDING
X ON THE ATHABASCA RIVER
XI SOME NORTHERN PIONEERS
XII AT THE PARTING OF THE RIVERS
XIII ON THE PORTAGE
XIV ON THE LESSER SLAVE RIVER
XV THE BISHOP OF THE ARCTIC
XVI NORTHERN VISTAS
XVII A COUNTRY WOMAN AT THE CITY RACES
XVIII IN NORTHERN GARDENS
XIX COMMUNING WITH THE RUTHENIANS
XX THE SHADOW OF THE SCAFFOLD
XXI THE BABOUSHKA
XXII THE HERO PRIESTS OF THE NORTH
XXIII COAL-MINING IN ALBERTA
XXIV THE PLAYGROUNDS OF THE WEST
XXV THE OVERLAND TRAIL OF '98
XXVI A SONG OF THIS LAND
SEEDS OF PINE
CHAPTER I
WESTWARD WITH THE GRAND TRUNK PACIFIC
"'What went ye out into the wilderness to see?' They answered thus,
'So that we might not see the city.'"--SIR WILLIAM BUTLER.
The new steel trail the railway men are laying from Edmonton leads away
and away, I cannot say whither. For these many days I have had an
anxious desire to follow it and the glories thereof. I am tired of
this town and of the electrical devices that appear and re-appear in
the darkness like eyes that open and shut--wicked eyes that burn their
commercial message into my very soul. I am sick of these saucy,
swaggering streets and of sundry of the townspeople. Come you with me
and let us travel down the ways through the heart of the summer! We
shall have breeze and sun in our eyes, and breeze and sun in our
hearts. If you like not the prospect, pray, come no further, for we be
contrary the one to the other and no way-fellows.
As we climb on the train this morning, it seems as though our quest for
quiet is to be cheated by the wallowing wave of humanity that threatens
to submerge us. Who are these close-nudged folk and whither away?
She who runs may read them for hard-headed, white-handed men in search
of "prospects"; brown-throated homesteaders; real-estate agents out for
talking points and for snap fortunes; mining engineers with dunnage
bags--young fellows all in the full force of life--these, and "the
gang," who are ill-looking men and rather dirty. The gang fare forth
to work on the railway grades. They are always ganging--that is
going--for the words are strictly synonymous. The gang going to the
city meet the gang coming out. And so in everything they are
retroactive, and fight much, and swear, to give weight to their
differences of opinion. In one thing only is the gang agreed, no navvy
has yet been found who disputed the axiom that the Boss is a yellow
canine.
There is a sprinkling of women, too, and we talk to each other in the
friendly manner of the country. A couple of them are half-breed girls,
with drooping feathers and skirts that have a hiss. Surely their men
are industrious Indians. Both are cinched into their clothes like a
cayuse into its pack-saddle. Both have skin the colour of brown coffee
into which milk has been poured, and always they are fussing with their
pinned-on curls. "The judicious Hooker" once watched some women doing
this, and he said they were "a-dilling and burling their hair." No one
may ever hope to strike out a more apt expression. The younger of the
girls has an indiscreet mouth and desirous eyes. I should not be
surprised, if one of these times our little brown woman found these to
be a mortgage on her soul somewhat difficult of discharge. And the
usury, little woman, it troubles me, the usury!
The farmer's wife who shares my seat came to this province ten years
ago from the United States. Her husband made entry for a homestead and
she built the house, outbuildings, and fences on it, and bought the
implements with money she had saved from school-teaching. The first
year, their crop was frozen; the second, it was hailed out; and the
third, a spark from the threshing-machine burned their wheat stacks.
Their horses died and they had to incur debt for others. All this
time, the woman supported the household with the returns from her
poultry yard and dairy. These last years have been fat ones, thus
enabling them to save sufficient money to send two of their sons to the
business college in Town. The eldest girl is walking with the young
man on the adjoining farm and a wedding is brewing.
To my thinking, this homely, ill-accoutred woman is something like a
heroine, and it is a pity the end of her troubles is not yet. Her
husband, who appears to be a flabby-spirited fellow, has always wanted
to, and has finally decided that he will sell the farm and go to the
town to keep a boarding-house. She is opposed to the move and has been
in the town endeavouring to protect her interests in the property, but
finds she is unable so to do. Because of this she has decided to buy
the farm from him and has the agreement ready for his signature. I am
astounded by her hardihood. She has the soul of a warrior. If the
recalcitrant spouse refuses to sell--no, I won't tell what she intends
doing, for I am willing to wager you, even to the half of my kingdom,
that he sells.
The woman is proud, I can see, and accordingly careful to enlarge on
her man's good qualities, but it takes no acuteness to read through her
assurances that he is a pessimist and one who always draws tails in the
toss of life.
The readers who have come with me thus far may here swing off key, but,
People Dear, you would be wrong; she is not chastising him; she is
mothering him. It is a remarkable trait in the make-up of a good woman
that she can, in critical junctures, not only be her own mother but may
also act in this capacity to the husband of her children. It is this
same office the Holy Ghost performs in the Trinity.
The newsy is giving the last call to breakfast. He is a full-lifed
young man, with a cock-o'-my-walk air. I would not be surprised if he
were hatched out of the egg of a pouter-pigeon. He serves meals as far
as Edson, from whence we will be transferred to a construction train
and trust to manna being rained down from heaven. His tables are
crowded with guests, and we sit close like kernels on an ear of corn.
For breakfast, there is tea; there is coffee; there are pork chops, and
other fat foods which are made palatable by the sprightly addition of
sour pickles. Indeed, you may credit me, this breakfast is not one to
be sniffed at. I drink pannikins of tea that is very strong and green,
and fearlessly ask for more. If there is a happier woman in the North
than myself, I have never heard of her. I quite agree with you; our
pouter-pigeon serves the public far more effectually than do the
cabineteers, or even the bishops.
We are yet in the wheat belt and the wheat is at flood-tide. When I
see a large stand of grain that is breast-high I say, "Well done, Good
Fellows!" and "Haste to the in-gathering!" The field hears my
salutation to the sowers and bows a million heads to me. And it says,
_shibboleth! shibboleth!_ (If you would pick up the talk of the fields
you must be still and listen.)
The Hebrews, with ears a-tilt, caught this whisper, and so their word
for an ear of wheat was "shibboleth." It was this word the Ephraimites
lisped and so betrayed themselves to Jephthah. The difference was only
one of an aspirate. What they said was sibboleth.
Now, while one can tell the sound of ripe wheat, no word is exactly
descriptive of the odour thereof. When I am not tired my pen almost
catches it. The odour is an intangible something between dryness and
colour, and the sign that expresses it can only be revealed.
It is the mental habit of people to think of wheat as only so many
bushels of inert matter that is bought and sold on margins by half-mad
men, whereas, in all the world, wheat is the thing most richly alive.
It won't die, not for thousands of years. We would put jars of wheat
in the corner-stones of our state buildings, even as the Egyptians
buried it in tombs of rock. It is the only food we could pass down the
centuries to posterity, and apart from its scientific value, there is
little doubt posterity would appreciate the gift infinitely more than
those stupid name-lists of still stupider people. The grain should be
of the highest grade, with the name of the grower and the exact
location of his farm added thereto.
Yes! let us tuck away these northern wheat grains till England becomes
a republic; the United States a kingdom; and until the yellow peril has
turned white. Let us lay them safely aside for that day when labour
and capital have become one, or till a still later epoch when instead
of sex in soul, there shall be soul in sex. Then take them out,
Posterity, and crush them into a sacramental wafer that all the world
may eat of it as a loving pledge from the twentieth century.
If you think this too long to wait, perhaps you will recall that while
the seven sleepers slept, Caesar was superseded by Christ. Now, the
time they slept was for the lives of three men.
In handling wheat, you have doubtless noticed that it is not only alive
but possesses a markedly developed will-power. It is ever resisting
conquest. They tell me that in the part of the exchange called the
pit, you cannot beat back wheat. Some men have succeeded for a while,
but always it has rolled in and smothered its erstwhile victors. Try
to hold a handful and the task is well-nigh impossible. It slides
through your fingers and causes your palm to open involuntarily. It
wearies a man to hold wheat tightly for long. Oats may be held and
other cereals, but not wheat. Its tendency is to fall to the ground
and reproduce. Thus, it is age-old but still eternally young. It is
the true Isis and no one has lifted its veil. I tell you men, there is
something uncanny and almost wicked about a thing that refuses to die,
and it so small as a grain of wheat.
As a whole, this country is not beautiful, but now and then, there come
striking pictures. Here are pleasing lakelets a-flush with ducks; tall
cotton-woods which I name the maidens because of their fluffy
hair--these, and lush meadows, over which range regiments of asters,
sunflowers, and yarrow. It is a magic lantern fantasia with an
occasional muskeg to represent the waits between views. On the muskegs
the trees are so thin and straight they fairly scratch your eyes.
Oh! but it is hot this day, and every leaf seems a green tongue thrust
out with thirst. The sun is making amends for his insulting reticence
of last winter. The Indians call him Great Grandfather Sun, but why, I
do not know.
The houses of the homesteaders are built of poplar lumber,
weather-stained and ugly. Others are of logs chinsed with mud and
moss. All are small and favourable neither for hospitality nor
reproduction. Some day, when a large acreage is under crop, pretty
bungalows with brave red paint, will edit the scene as in the older and
more settled districts of the north.
At every station, land seekers get out and disappear into the trees as
if the country ate them up, and, indeed, I am not so sure but it does.
A baby gets off too--a new baby that has come from the city hospital is
being brought home. You would fancy a baby was a miracle the way the
men look at it and ask questions. Her name is Annette. She was born
on duck-day. Her father works in a saw-mill. We crowd to the window
to watch him meet Annette, for we would see the gladness on his face.
He is an admirably strong man, with the hard sinews of a wolf. He has
surely gone through the mill to some effect. I think he likes Annette,
but he looks most at the small mother and he has the mate tone in his
voice.
The women ask me concerning my husband, and I say, "Oh yes! I have a
husband up here, somewhere--a big, fair man--I wonder if you have seen
him."
They are discreetly silent, but I can see they are hoping I'll catch
him. This is not a case of duplicity on my part but rather of
kindness. It is one's stoutest duty to convey colour and snippets of
gossip of women, who, for the long winter months to come, are to remain
in these wilds. You must understand that gossip is not wicked up
North. Besides, this word actually means a sponsor at baptism--an
office recognized by all the world as one of unimpeachable
respectability.
At Wabamun there is a great sweep of forest, but, a year ago, a great
fire raged here and large patches of burnt trees assault the eyes.
Hitherto, the homesteaders have had a two-handed harvest, one from
their lovely lake and the other from the land, but, nowadays, their
richest harvest comes from the summer tourists, who are building up a
popular resort at this point. Summer girls are trespassing on the
berry-patches, once the sole preserve of Indian maidens, and Ole
Larsen's fishing grounds are full open to sailing yachts and electric
launches. Such fish as Ole could catch, and such fish as his Frau
could cook! Always, I bowed my head over my plate and said the Indian
grace, "Spirit, partake." Ole can tell where the fish are to be found
in certain seasons by the movements of the birds. The fish feed on
flies and rise to the surface for them, whereupon a t gull or duck will
fall with plummet-like pounce. White-fish bite in the autumn.
"Yumping yiminy, dey yust do."
The remains of the railway construction camps have almost disappeared,
and only the bleached bones of horses mark out the long trail of the
grading gangs.
Here are the grades I descended a couple of years ago while prospecting
over this ground. What slopes these are to put a horse down. They are
like those described at St. Helena, upon which you might break your
heart going up or your neck coming down, with the additional risk of
being arrested as a trespasser. On this place where we once ranged for
coal-rights, the real-estate agents have sub-divided the surface into
desirable building lots, that sell from three to five hundred dollars
the lot.
One day, this lake shore will be a hive of industry, for deep in her
loins Mother Earth had hutched her riches of coal and fire-clay, and,
mayhap, more minerals that are precious. Once, in drilling here, our
men came upon black sand with a showing of gold, but it petered out,
after a couple of inches. It was with great difficulty they were
persuaded to go on with the drilling instead of going to town to file
on claims.
Already there are several towns along this lakefront--that is to say,
towns consisting of three or four tents or houses. In the earlier days
of the North each settlement was commenced with a fort, now it is begun
with a railway station. The next building to be erected is the station
agent's house, which is quickly followed by a restaurant, and a general
store with a post-office. This is the axis from which the homesteaders
radiate into the surrounding country, and, presto! before you know it,
there is a bank, an implement shop, a church, a hotel, and the other
conveniences of modern civilization including mortgages.
Already you may see trails like long black welts across the
land--trails that appear to fare forth without any preconceived plan
and to hold a lure in their far reaches for happy-go-idlers like you
and me. There is no telling what we might find on them a goodish way
off. The only straight trails made in this North land are made by the
engineers, and as you look down the lines you may readily see that they
lead into the sky. I like greatly the unthanked, unknown engineers who
beat out these paths for the people who are to come after. No trumpets
herald their coming, or announce the leagues they have herded behind,
but I tell you these fellows are a commonwealth of kings, and we may as
well stop here for a moment and stand at salute.
And after the engineers came the builders with their sinews of steel to
bind the trail. It is this steel strength that makes the land to bud
and blossom. It is creative. Well and truly has a builder said that
the land without population is a wilderness, and the population without
land is a mob. Yes! it is a steel idol we worship in this country and
not one of gold, and we do refuse to grind it to powder and drink
thereof, no matter what any Moses or Aaron may say.
This last hour I have been in mind-to-mind talk with a young Englishman
who does not think much of Canada. He speaks of our dismal
respectability, our tombstone virtues, and our provincial
small-mindedness. We call our gardens yards, and have no manners to
speak of. Indeed, nothing but a major operation could remedy our
boorishness.
Now, all he says is quite true _but I don't believe it_; besides, his
English-sure way of summing us up is irritating to my sense of
patriotism.
In some places up here he has had to sleep in puppy's parlours, which
means with his clothes on. This must have been uncomfortable in that
he still wears leather puttees which are the true hall-mark of men from
the British Isles. He talked about our cold winters and how unbearable
they were, just as if the cold were not the sepia the North shoots
forth to protect herself from joyous loafers. I did not say this, for
one cannot be polite and patriotic at the same time, and it is well to
be polite ... only I remarked that one of these cold days we will shut
off the Gulf Stream instead of sending it out to heat up England.
I have no doubt he has private means, for he has travelled widely and
is a well-educated man. He came here to have a go at homesteading.
"Have you succeeded?" I ask. He does not reply except to ejaculate,
"Farming--my hat!" whereupon we both laugh, he at the Canadians and I
at the English.
The average youth from England finds it trying to be stripped of
precedent, and there is nothing approximating Canadian homestead life
in London. We too often forget this and so fail to make allowances for
his prejudices and lack of adaptability. Our government mounts him and
puts his foot in the saddle, but he must set the pace himself. One can
hardly expect the government to do more, but yet, it seems a pity so
much excellent material is annually lost to the Dominion because we
have not the time or means to work it up. It will take some years to
manipulate the crude European immigrants into the mental and physical
trim of this Britisher and to inculcate them with equally high
political standards. We do not recognize this, or maintain an easy
passivity to it, until at some election crises our hearts fail us for
fear because of the preponderance of the foreign vote in educational
and moral matters.
And the Englishman and I speak of subjects of grave import, and of how
it is not seemly that we trade too freely with foreign peoples
(especially with the States of the American Union), neither is it loyal
to our most Christian King, George V. "Wealth at the expense of
loyalty is not a thing to be desired," says the Englishman, "and
Colonials do well to preserve the integrity of the Empire," to which
dictum I make no reply, not being able to gainsay him. I could wish
though that he tell me how we are to avoid so doing.
This dear lad would go into literary work if we read anything in Canada
besides statistics, sporting news, and crop forecasts. In the
contemplation of our sordid practicability, he is lost in astonishment.
"No, madam, I shall not do it, and I shall tell you my reason," says
he. "If you write with a sense of life or colour along will come some
weighty, grim fellows whose business it is to write stock
quotations--leaden creatures, believe me--and they will distinctly
sniff and sneeze out the word 'impressionistic,' by which they mean
fanciful. Sons of bats! If once they tried to frame an impression in
black and white they might have some proper comprehension of the word.
Any uncouth man can state facts, but it is the telling what the facts
stand for that hurts. A coarse man cannot take impressions except from
a closed fist, which impression he would probably describe as a 'dint
in the pro-file.' Such an one hears no farther than his ears,
although, in not a few cases, this might be no inconsiderable distance."
"No, I will not become the local _litterateur_," continues the lad, "to
be received by the community with a mingling of pride and sarcasm. I
tell you what I will do: it is better to be a real-estate broker, in
that all conditions tend to what you Colonials call 'a dead sure
thing.' It is the only business in which a man reaps where he does not
sow. I will surely be a real-estate man. This I will be."
We are come to Edson now--the terminus of the passenger route--but I am
going to describe it in another chapter, for it would be ungrateful to
bulk it with other events because of the sense of adventure I enjoyed
from my visit thereto.