AT THE LANDING.
A city founded is no city built
Till faith becomes prolific by the fathering tale
Of good report and all-availing effort.--J. M. HARPER.
The sweet of life is something small,
A resting by a wayside wall
With God's good sunshine over all.--R. W. GILBERT.
This is the rainy season at Athabasca Landing, so that the streets are
very muddy. Long ago, it was like this in Edmonton, my continuing
city, but when we were come to a very considerable puddle our escorts
carried us. This is why big, fine-looking men were in high demand.
But, this day, by some strange providence, the glut of rain has abated
and the clemency of the sky fills me with an importunate inclination to
gad about and use my eyes. There are no moments to be lost, to-morrow
it is sure to be raining again. Never was land more golden; never one
more grey.
Here at the Landing, it makes no difference where one goes in search of
diversion, for it is to be found in all directions and every foot of
the way. This morning I preferably take to the hill back of the town,
for the water has drained off it to the river and the footing is good.
The hill is held by the Honourable the Hudson's Bay Company, who have
owned it time out of mind. It hurts the Company to sell land, for they
are the true lineal descendants of that classical tree which groaned
with torture when a limb was dissevered from its trunk. This being the
case, they may be expected to hold the hill until the municipality
taxes it away from them.
Ignorant people like the wheat-sellers of Winnipeg, speak of this
settlement as a new place, a mushroomic upstart of yesterday, whereas
it was an old post before Winnipeg was thought of. North of the
Landing, there are thirty thousand people who depend on the local
rivermen to bring down their year's supplies, so that this is a place
of no small concernment and it has seven streets, you might say. As
yet, its houses and public buildings do not run to paint or useless
ornamentations, and there is a stolid practicability about its front
doors.
But about the hill: Terry, who is in "the Mounted," tells me it is a
walk of three cigarettes to the top of it, but two if you step lively.
This Terry has a bold and busy fancy, and if he cared to write, he
would, like Xenophon, be "an author of wonderful consequence." Once,
he tried to set down a story, but it was like trying to make a fire
with a wet match.
Aha! Terry, Aha! you have said it exactly--defined it to a
hair's-breadth--the plight of the authors who would rise up on wings as
eagles but only they faint and are weary. A wet match! What greater
or more invincible deterrent could exist to the kindling of a fire? If
Terry's manners were less adroit and his hair less curly, I could
almost love him. I am half-purposed to anyway.
And now that we are on matters literary I wish to announce that some
day, when my thoughts have come to issue, I intend writing an article
on the evil taste of pen-handles. There are several million dollars in
store for the man who will manufacture handles that are toothsome--say
of licorice, cinnamon, or sassafras wood, or of some composition
agreeable to the palate. The connection between the tongue and the pen
is a much closer one than generally recognized.
We might even have pleasantly medicated pen-handles guaranteed to
stimulate our addled heads, or--Heigh, my hearts of the fourth
estate!--to fill us with an irresistible desire to work when there is
music and laughter downstairs, or a horse and sunshine out of doors.
The invention of such a pen could not fail to be imparted as
righteousness.... The roses are in full blast, and all the way along I
walk the earth in a fine rapture. On the hill-top, there is a spread
of blue hyacinths like a torn veil that has been thrown to the earth.
Here, in bewildering array, grow wild parsnips, feverfew, painter's
brush, mint-flowers, and lilies that flame riotously across the sheens
and greens of the open ways. I love the crimson glories of these
lilies; they seem to bring grist to life. Indeed, there is no question
but they do.
The poplars and cottonwoods are hanging out long tassels of woolly
silver. It is a pity these do not pledge fruit like the tassels of the
Indian corn. Mayhap, some day, a scientist will cause the black poplar
to produce something for the sustenance of the North. Even the honey
which the bees store in its cavities becomes bitter and acrid to the
taste. Or it may happen we shall discover a cordial substance which
will transmute the tassels of the poplar into something else--say into
mulberries. Long ago, the English orchardists believed such things to
be possible, for, in the fourteenth century, one wrote down that "a
peach-tree shall bring forth pomegranates if it be sprinkled with
goat's milk three days when it beginneth to flower."
It is good to be here this day enjoying the pleasant amity of the earth
and sky. One may draw physical and spiritual renovation from both. It
is very good to feel on one's face the soft-handed wind that is seldom
still. This is the kindly unrestricted breeze which brings gifts to
the North and West. It blesses the grain by swaying it to and fro, for
the word "bless" means literally to fructify. On some such day as this
I will come back here from the dead.
On this hill, the Hudson's Bay Company, the world's oldest trust, have
erected their storehouse and factor's residence. These are log
buildings, austerely square and ugly in the extreme. In the factor's
garden is an old sundial which adds the needed touch of romance to the
place; also, it connotes a fine leisureliness.
The erstwhile typical regime of a Hudson's Bay fort is a phase of
existence which shortly will be sponged off human memory. It has never
been as fully explained to me as I could desire, but as nearly as I can
make out, the staff of a well-manned post consisted of the factor and
chief factor, the trader and chief trader, an accountant, a postmaster,
two or more clerks, a cooper, a carpenter, a blacksmith, and labourers,
the work of the last mentioned being to haul water, cut wood, and
secure meat. There were also as many cooks as required. Food was
sometimes scarce, so that the men were required to lick their platters
clean. Contrariwise, they drank not a little of heady beverages which
they are said to have "carried well."
The Indian's idea of a house is a different one to the trader's. It is
not a place to be lived in, but exists merely as a shield from the
weather. Accompanied by Goodfellow, a frowsy, stump-tailed dog from
the hotel, I visited the Indian houses hereabout. Goodfellow came with
me, not as a protector, but because he wouldn't be driven back. He is
a reprobate cur, forever spoiling for a fight; a natural born feudist
who lives in a state of violent excitement. Terry says he is "no
bloomin' lap-dog," but a four-legged incarnation of the devil himself.
Sometime soon, this dog's day will be over, for he is surely going to
die of lead poisoning.
All the way to the Indians, with a stupid malignity, and in defiance of
the plainest laws of fence, Goodfellow gave chase to every cat and
rabbit and bit every cow. It is not open for me to say what I thought
of him, except that his conduct was solidly wrong. It was,
accordingly, of high gratification to the rancour I hid in my heart
when the Indians' huskies made short shrift of him. Like Humpty
Dumpty, it will be hard to put him together again. They are no dealers
in sophistries, these wide-mouthed wolf-dogs, with their wicked teeth,
and would fight against the stars in their courses.
When the women have beaten them off and learn I am not offended
concerning Goodfellow's drubbing, they are pleasant to me. A thin,
pock-marked squaw invites me into a shack or, more properly speaking,
into a baby-warren which fairly bristles with a flock of semi-wild
children, for, as yet, the squaws have not deliberately ceased from
having children.
What I said awhile ago about the Indian's house applies equally to his
children's wearing apparel. It shelters rather than ornaments. Their
clothes seem to have no visible supports, but are held to their small
fat bodies by some inexplicable attraction. One may see the same
phenomenon on the apostolic figures on stained glass windows.
A chocolate-coloured baby with blackberry eyes is propped against the
wall in a moss bag, and looks for all the world like a cocoon that
might any moment push off its sheath and take to wings.
An unsavoury mess of entrails is stewing in a black pot and filling the
house with an unpleasant odour. I try not to show my repugnance lest
my hostesses consider the white woman to be proud-stomached with no
proper appetite for lowly faring. I tell them as I take down the
blanket from the door--not untruthfully you understand, but as a small
matter of immediate expediency--how it is light one desires rather than
fresh air, and that it is hard to see aright when one has been walking
in the sunlight.
This Hudson's Bay blanket is, next to _uskik_, the kettle, the one
indispensable thing in an Indian household. It serves as a door, a
coat, a carpet, a bed, and for other things which it boots not to
mention. It is, therefore, well to be explanatory when one removes it
from its place, just as it is wise to apologize when one pokes an
Englishman's fire of coals.
Mrs. Lo tells me the old woman who is making moccasins is _Naka_, which
word, she explains for my better understanding, is the Cree for "My
Mother." Naka is a very old woman and "can no English say." Neither
can she be considered as typical of Whistler's mother.
There are amusing things to be done in this shack. For instance, you
may by signs and smiles make Naka, my mother, to understand how you
greatly desire to sew upon the moccasins she holds, and Naka may, in
the amiability of her disposition, accede to your importunity.
As thread, deer sinew is not so easily manipulated as you might
imagine; indeed, I should say it is distinctly uncontrollable. The
audience, in spite of its manifest efforts at politeness, is
nevertheless widely diverted. Who would have thought a white woman
could be so droll in the woods, and so very stupid?
Huh! Huh! she may be so stupid that even old Naka, who is a proper
woman with her needle, has to scrub the air with her arms and show her
yellow gums in laughter.
Their always wakeful curiosity leads the maidens to enquire as to what
might be inside a white woman's hand-bag, and that they may
sufficiently know about this matter, the white woman empties it upon
her knees. Immediately, the articles are passed around for appraisal
and approval. Bank cheques! ... _Oui_! _Oui_! The men who work on
the boats get these. The girls know how it is talking [Transcriber's
note: taking?] paper to get money.
My penknife, pencil, note-book, purse, and handkerchief are duly
examined and quietly commented upon, but a package of tablets packed in
a silver paper, and small tube of cold cream, cause no small flutter in
our circle. When I am through demonstrating their use, every one's
breath is laden with the odour of mint, and their hands with that of
roses. Um--m--m--mh!
The women feel my arms, try on my bracelet and rings, and ask me to
take off my hat that they may see my hair, which, alas! is devoid of
all waywardness and coquetry. I can see they are disappointed in this
and think me what Artemus Ward calls "a he-looking female."
In one shack to which the girls accompany me, an emaciated, coughing
boy is bed-ridden and near to death. Lili Abi has him in her arms, and
he may not go free.
Who this Lili Abi, or Lilith, is does not certainly appear, but,
according to the Rabbis who wrote of old time, she is the first wife of
Adam and queen of the succubi. Some there are who declare this to be
an ill-framed story, and a conceit of the fancy, but others hold it as
a creed that she lives by sucking the blood of children till they fade
away and die. It is from Lili Abi that we get our word lullaby. The
malific lullaby she sings has come nigh to breaking the heart of
humanity, but, one day, it shall happen that a sure and strong-handed
scientist will get a strangle hold on Lili Abi and pierce her to death
with his slender but omnipotent needle.
Amil, who is the lad's father, says, "I am mooch scare' 'bout leetle
boy, for sure. I ees pray all tam to de holy mother. Mabbe he ees get
well... la bonne chance ... mabbe non! Leetle boy sing all de tam when
he ees well."
Amil has never been to the south, or over the mountains, but he has
heard much about these countries. He has been told how, in the United
States, they do not believe in the pope and get married many times. He
has also heard that the Yankees mean to conquer Canada and pull down
the tricolor.
Michele Daubeny, who once went across the mountains to where the
fish-eaters are, told him that the ocean never freezes. But this
Michele has a tongue which is not straight, also he has been known to
steal fur out of the traps, so that Amil does not know what to believe.
"I have mak rip'ly," says Amil, "dat mabbe by'me by, I ees tak de trail
dem queeck an' see _kickekume_, de great sea water, to myse'f."
And when I leave the shacks and go back towards the village, I fall in
with some swart broodlings, who are shooting with arrows. At first,
they will have none of me until I make the mortifying confession and
concession that I cannot shoot and desire greatly to be taught. After
this, nothing could exceed their pedagogic enthusiasm. Apollo, prince
of archers, could do no better.
In the pale face, the hunting instinct, while never entirely lost, is
still greatly modified. In the red man it is a passion. Watch this
little lean-bellied Indian as he stalks his game. The bird rises and
settles again a few yards away. The boy trails it up closer and closer
with a feline softness of tread, a queer slurring movement that belongs
only to animals of prey, and then, standing taut and tense as a
finely-bred setter making game, he concentrates the whole energy of his
body on one piercing point and sends his arrow home.
The bow-and-arrow stage through which these Indian lads are passing
corresponds in the white boy to that inevitable condition of
development known as gun fever. In our city, at a highly immoral
price, we dress up in khaki the boys of the lower classes, give them
guns, and call them scouts. I like the Indian way better. Of course,
there is this to be said for our method, that it instils a martial
spirit into the youngsters so that when they are grown larger we shall
have no lack of soldiers. This is a statement so obvious and axiomatic
that it hardly needs writing down.
Well, so be it! How else are our bonds to be protected? And may not
the lower classes be relied upon to constantly produce batches of boys
to step into the ranks? Yes! I believe in Boys' Brigades and in war.
I have some bonds myself.
In the village, several homesteaders who are trending northward to the
Peace River country, have drawn up to the hotel. Their wagons are
piled high with farm implements and household stuff which they
purchased at Edmonton.
All of these people are topful of enthusiasm, being of wise and gallant
mind. Indeed, the whole country seems surcharged with it and even the
poplars clap their hands. The settlers will tell you the only knocker
here is Opportunity. There is always a mirage in the pioneer's sky
which, God be praised, he manages to haul down bit by bit and pin to
the solid earth. "The pins!" you ask. Ah yes! I may as well tell
you; they are surveyors' stakes and tamarack fence-poles.
I have some little talk with a woman who is resting on the balcony
while her horses are being fed. She comes from the United States and,
until her marriage three months ago, practised her profession as a
trained nurse. Her husband is going to make entry for a homestead, and
when, in three years, he has "proven up," they will open a store in one
of the villages. By that time, the railway will have reached their
district. Here is a woman of varied interests and many pursuits; one
with more than an arm up her sleeve. I am doubly sure of her
practicability now that she has told me of the stuff she has packed in
the corners of the wagon, and in the narrow spaces between the
household utensils. She has seeds for her kitchen garden, also sweet
peas, mignonette, sunflowers, hollyhocks, and pansies. The firebox of
her stove contains a hand sewing-machine, while the oven is the
receptacle for a guitar, some music a surgical case, a box of
medicines, a small looking-glass, two metal candlesticks, a roll of
coloured pictures for her walls, a few thin paper classics, stationery,
fishing-tackle, and a well-stored work-bag. The matches she carries in
a case with a close top, while the groceries are packed in tin bread
boxes which will serve the same end in her new home. Besides their
cooking utensils, toilet articles, clothing, blankets, and tent, this
couple carry a rifle, a shot-gun, ammunition, and other small but
useful things like a map, a compass, and an almanac. The wagon has a
canvas top.
One man who is also heading for the far north tells me he has sold
everything from painkiller to mining stock. Of late, he has been
selling real-estate, but the bottom has dropped out of this business.
For the future, he intends raising potatoes on the land instead of
prices. He has "cleaned up" eight thousand dollars in real-estate, but
he wishes me to understand he made this honestly by taking options on
property and selling before the options came due.
With remarkable precision of language, he explains how the slump in
real-estate is chiefly due to those large, didactic gentlemen of slow
conscience and insulting superior manner who come here by the trainload
and tell the North she is still a flapper, and that it is unbecoming of
her to do up her hair and lengthen her skirts, after which cheap and
unsolicited advice, they take themselves and their pestiferous money
homewards.
Their opinions are quoted from the Atlantic to the Pacific, which I
must know takes in Spruceville, till the bankers are seized with the
complaint known as cold feet--pest take them!--and "get orders from
headquarters" to close up all outstanding accounts. These banker
fellows, my informant says, lose their beauty sleep, but as far as he
can see, lose nothing else. A business man may be potentially rich and
yet be put into bankruptcy by a corporation, the spoils going to the
corporation, or its manager. There should be a law against elderly
wide-jawed financiers who prophesy hard times because, with them, the
wish is father to the thought. There is nothing in all the world they
desire so much in order that they may, by their phenomenal rates of
interest, pillage the country to their heart's satisfaction. So
gainful is their pursuit, my friend will not be at all surprised if, at
the last day, it is found that these tongue-lolling financiers have a
lien on heaven; indeed, he believes this to be inevitable. Owing to
the fact that we are unaccustomed to it, the process of thinking is a
somewhat painful one to us of Alberta, but it is wonderful what flashes
of illumination come to us sometimes.
To-day, the first train of cars has entered this place. It belongs to
the Canadian Northern Railway Company. For many years Edmonton was
known as the last house in the world. This, of course, was not
literally true, and it would be hard to state where or which is the
ultimate hearth-stone in this very good land of Canada, but assuredly
Edmonton was the last post-office and, until this year, the End of
Steel. To-day, this road is born. When will it die? We fall into a
way of thinking it is here for eternity, but railways vanish like
everything else. Even the great Appian Way, which lasted for over two
thousand years, has, in these last centuries, become little more than a
name.
To build even one of our railways, a hundred forests are sacrificed,
and, in the uncanny gloom of the dead country which lies in the heart
of the earth, thousands of bowed, grim workers toil, Vulcan-like, for
the iron to make its spikes and nails.
The railroad seems like a huge centipede with rails for the body, ties
for the limbs and smoke for the breath. The men who stand by her side
are the waiters who feed her with coal and slake her thirst with water.
Sometimes, when she is weary of the freightage these men lay upon her,
she rises and crushes it to atoms. Men call this happening "a broken
rail" or "an open switch," but we know better.
Or we may think of the railroad as a streak of light through desolate
places telling the pioneer to be strong and of good courage with the
hope of better days.
Or, again, it is a belt which binds the lustrous provinces of the East
and West into the eager land of Canada. What odds that the belt,
partaking of its environment, is rocky here or sandy there, so long as
it be really a belt?
No one can truly say when this road will die. It may be--if one may
hazard so saucy a suggestion--that the airships will kill her by taking
her traffic in men and merchandise. And maybe the great-grandchildren
of the "Coming Canadians" who arrived this year from Scandinavia or
Austria, will plough long furrows on her right-of-way and haul off her
bridge timbers for firewood. Guesswork all!
I might have gone on musing about this railway until now, and computing
what its advent means to the North, the country which has hitherto been
the land of the dog and the canoe, had not a commanding voice bade me
come and "drape" myself with the crowd beside the first train in order
to have my picture taken.
"I won't go! not a toe," said I, but I went, for no woman who is even
fairly normal can successfully resist having her photograph taken. She
always hopes it will turn out better than the last one, and I hoped so
too.