A SONG OF THIS LAND
Out of the North comes tumult, say they who are poets, and clangorous
challenge to battle.
True, O Poets! And out of the North come men of robust mood who will
keep our nation's honour, for this is a country where courage and truth
are inborn; a land which sways the souls of its citizens unto high
endeavour. From this country where, of old, dwelt the bow-bearers who
were eaters of strong meat, will come high-hearted men of loyal temper,
for this is the world's House of Youth. This shall be its nurse of
heroes.
Money-flingers and careless, are these Northmen, says another, and
wasters of wealth.
True, O Sir Time Lock, but when the gods would be thrifty they give
their money away. The Gods are master-spenders and have learned the
wide wisdom of being foolish. Do you follow me aright?
And this is the wisdom of our Northmen who have well tamed Dame Fortune
and have set their sure brand upon her.
But, if money sticks not in their purses, and if they haggle not over
coins, yet are these men businessful with a purpose for large
enterprise. In these latitudes, we have deep-counselled companies of
traders who, while they love the sweet power of money, have ever
bartered fairly, and know that 'mine' and 'thine' are different words
which rhyme well in all reckonings. I have sure grounds for knowing
this, and am minded to say, "Hail! and all hail!"
The North is a numbed and haggard land of and snow, say many voices.
In its vast voids lives a dark spirit which lures men on and tricks
them so that they come, in time, to love that which punishes them. And
if by some fair hap they are led into other and softer climes, then do
they fret and fever for the wolf-lands of the Yukon or the Mackenzie,
as though some secret and unforbidden magic had entered their blood
forever.
I will not speak contrariwise to these men, for it is meet that I
should speak fairly. The love of the North, like the fiery kiss of
genius, is a sorrowful gift, and none can say whether it is greater in
joy or pain. She is an exacting mistress, this white-bodied,
rude-muscled North, and, of times, she breaks and hurts a man till he
drags his brokenness away to die. Yet, is she beautiful and
passionately human; full of vigour and drunken with life, and her house
stretches from the dawn to dayfall.
And why should men complain of the stabbing cold and of the
unrestricted range of the young winds? Why do they wish to regulate
God's snow and rain? What could be more hateful to men than
unfaltering sunshine and ever-flowering fields?
In the winter of the fortressed North, animals turn white as do the
birds and the very earth itself. All were pallid and colourless but
for the yellow belt of the setting sun and the black-green tree shadows
that fall toward the pole. The rivers cease their singing; the birds
are silent, and all is stilled to the bounds of the world save only the
sonorous wind which is the breath of Claeg, the Bound One, who is the
earth. Here, the north-east wind is Lord Paramount, and the Crees and
Chipewyans have long known that Death comes from his direction.
Listen! I made an error, to say that all is stilled, for, of occasion,
there is the mewl of the lynx; the yap of the timber wolf as he gives
tongue in pursuit of _ah-pe-shee moos-oos_, the jumping deer; the
howling infamy of the huskies seeking their meat from God; the raucous
roar of the hulking moose blind with rage of love.
Listen! I made an error to speak of an all-whiteness, for, where the
Aurora pins her colours to the sky, it is like unto an angry opal.
This is Beauty Absolute. Her swinging swords of flame none have
measured: who shall tell the measure of this land?
But listen! It is not beyond our understanding that men should feel
the urge of this Northland and its strange enticement. Some there are
who speak of it as the lure of the North; the fret of spring, or the
call of red gods. Surely we may understand aright if we do but watch
the birds flock hither of spring-time, and how the fish fight up
against the streams though it be to suffer and to die. These cannot
resist the drag of the magnetic pole, any more than you and I who have
souls and are feeling folk!
But it is not always frigid here, for we have springtide and the season
of seven sweet suns. "Good morrow!" shouts the tired Winter in the
time of melting snows. "Good morrow!" shouts back the nimble Spring as
he throws a mist of green over the young aspens. "Come fly with me and
touch the sun," pleads the eagle to his sweetheart. "Come with me and
be my love," woos Kiya, boatman of the Athabasca; "already the young
birds are in their nests and soon they will fly away. Soon will the
time of mating be past."
Aye! but the summer winds are honey-mouthed.
Aye! but the skies are star-enchanted, and there are fair stories I
might tell about yellow grain fields and of red lilies like blown
flame, but none save those who are prairie rangers would understand
aright.
Besides, there are woolly-mouthed men and chattering daws who say
secretly that we of the North are boasters, and that we tell ill tales.
But though we are impeached, yet will we say that our song is tinged
with no lie. We are young men, and sowers of grain, and it is pleasant
to glorify the largess of our harvest.
We are boasters, they tell, and full-mouthed, but why should we keep
hidden and unshared the all-golden treasures of our fields? We will
not hide this thing in our hearts, but, with fair speech, will sing it
in a million-voiced canticle of praise. There is no need that we sing
restrainedly of our goodly dower, or in measured words, for we are no
servile race of hirelings, but free men and proclaimers of this land.
Because we are witnesses that the talent of our country is folded in
the fecund earth, we will speak aloud to our neighbouring Saxons of
friendly mind, and to the brotherhood of the soil throughout the
universe. We will speak with them concerning our gold, and vineyards,
and fine flour; of our forests, and fisheries, and apple orchards, till
their veins stir as with the tang of old wine. These folk have need to
know that in the North prosperity groweth widely; that here the
unbelievable is achieved. This is the true fairy-land where swineherds
and barbers, and much labouring men are raised to riches and power.
Here is a dining-hall whose friendly feast is spread for all. Here
every man may come and eat of our cakes and melons, of our honey and
fat things.
The North has no need of an interpreter: it has need of heralds. Then
ho! for our fierce and beautiful country; our strong and fertile
country.
We will send these tidings Europeward and the far-delivered message
shall not fall to the ground. It is a blithe young tune we shall sing,
with a resonant chorus of "Canada, O Canada."
Fitting is it that we should sing to the Isles of Britain, for from
them is the birth of this breed and theirs is the royal stamp we bear
upon our fighting arm. We are the wide-ruling seed of the Saxons and
ever shall we answer to the rally of the race. All hands around! We
will pledge the homeland of Britain!
And who will sing this song of the North? Sit you here till we talk of
this thing. I pray you prompt my pen as it forgets.
They have come hither to sing it from Ottawa, which is the Place of
Councils, and the sovereign city in this fair house of Canada.
Hither have they come from the tobacco plantations of Essex; the yellow
cornfields of Lambton; the luscious peach groves of Kent, and the
vineyards of Welland. These are lusty fellows and of fine fibre.
Here are men of consideration from the thick-leaved apple orchards of
Nova Scotia and from the dairy steadings of Oxford. Have you never
heard concerning the round towers of Oxford which are stacks of grain,
and of the herds of black bulls which feed fatly on her meadowlands?
Then it is small knowledge you have of this Dominion and the bright
fortunes of its people.
Others have joined our chorus who are from mailed Quebec, which is the
eye of Canada; from Montreal, whose traffickers are among the
honourable of the earth, and from Niagara, where, with subtle cunning,
men have bridled Neptune, the Lord of Waters, and have made his trident
into one of fire.
These courtly and free-handed fellows have hailed from Toronto.
Beautiful Toronto! The city of work and play. I like well its stately
homes and its women with honey-throated voices. And, here where I
write at Edmonton under the aurora, these men of the Southern Provinces
have assembled with our lads of the North and West who are
leather-fleshed and hard-sinewed, but withal, comely. This is Edmonton
on the Saskatchewan, which the bow-bearers call by another name,
meaning the great river of the plains. This is the stranger-thronged
city of the North; the city that has merited a cheer. It is here our
glorious Lady of Alberta has placed her throne whereunto all her sons
come up that they may pay her tribute of honour.
To this place come the farmer-folk from the wheatlands of the queenly
Peace, and the priests and trappers from the Athabasca, which the
bow-bearers call by another name, meaning the great river of the woods.
And hither come the traders and road builders from the pass between the
cleft mountains where, of old, dwelt Jasper of the yellow head; these,
and the horse-taming men from young Calgary. We who love games and the
glory of them, stand at salute.
These are the men from Winnipeg, the Mother City of the North. Honour
upon honour be to her!
Right pleasant is it to present the likely-looking lads of Regina and
of the deep soiled plains of Saskatchewan. On the plains, the
straight-blowing wind is scented from the grassed headlands dappled
with flowers. On the plains, dwell strong, glad men in the joy of
their youth. On the plains there lives some common mother of the
common weal, who is the ancestress of our kings to be.
These others whom I have held back until now that your attention might
not falter, are the dauntless, high-adventuring men who crossed the
mountains to where the land lieth soft to the sea. These are the men
of the new appointed city of Prince Rupert; the men of the fortunate,
fair-built city of Victoria, and those of sure-seated Vancouver. May
they build strongly and well. It is seemly that the forefront of our
royal House of Canada should be of far-shining splendour.
We have high delight in this Province of British Columbia; in its
unshorn hills that are furrowed with rifts of roses, in its
fair-watered fruitlands, and in the rice and silk ships that come
reeling down its bays. This is a new-peopled land of fostered folk
and, of times, men's hearts fail them lest these stranger-guests march
not in step with the genius of the race. We who are your sister
provinces, O Columbia by the Sea, stretch forth our hands to you and
pray you as sentinels to keep our portals straitly, but,
notwithstanding, that you be wise in love to all things living....
And, now, to the hither side of the mountains have come these western
men of erect spirit to sing with us the song of the North and of Canada.
I wish my pen might tell you of our song, but this were a hard task,
for while our voices are tuned to one chord our themes are manifold.
Whatsoever things a man may desire, these may he find in his Mother
Canada. Some men sing of her ample skies and the incorruptible glory
of them; of her changing climes, limitless fields, and law-loving
spirit. Others have pleasant cause of song in the rivers that give
water to the people; in far-strung wires and clear highways to the sea;
and in her great institutions of beneficence which conserve the moral
energies of the citizens.
Some, in voice which sounds like supplication, sing that a sense of
safety may be preserved in our homes, and that sweet tranquility may be
the lot of our aged folk.
Others would have it that our ballot-strips fall from clean hands, and
that no man thinks only of his own Province but of the well-being and
good health of all.
May our children, O Canada! have strong bodies and souls above the
lusts of gain, urges one, and let the women of our Dominion be skilled
in mother-craft, but with their house windows open to the intellectual
breezes of the world.... And I, of myself, am stirred to do tribute of
praise. I am thy child, O Canada, dear Mother! How shall I have
wisdom to order my words aright? O my lips sing this song! Sweet, my
pen, tell this tale, for the fullness of my heart has made heavy my
hand.
I will make a crown of maple leaves for you, and will twist them with
flowers of the lily. See! I bring you native flowers; mint and roses
and clover blooms. I bring you golden-rod and marigolds, and berries
that are red. Take these from my hands, Good Mother! My heart is awed
and I cannot speak aright.
Listen! All of us who sing to you have joined hands--Northmen and
Southerners and men of the coast-line. It is our wish to tell your
glory aloud that all may hear. It is wiser still to leave a part
untold that the world may the better know it.
Hail to thee, O Canada, and hail to the flag! We who are thy children
salute thee!
THE END
T. H. BEST PRINTING CO. LIMITED, TORONTO