Across The Prairie In A Motor Caravan Part 6

We took the train to Conquest, and then had to walk to Bounty, a very tiring six miles on the rough trail with the wind against us.

Unfortunately no car overtook us, for it is the invariable custom to give pedestrians a lift. We went at once to the place where we had left our tent, but no tent was to be seen. We inquired about it at a neighbouring house, and a nice old man told us that the storm of the previous night had smashed the pole and ripped up the canvas, whereupon he had rescued it, otherwise it would now have been miles and miles away across the prairie. We felt thankful that we had had a house over our heads when this happened.

We were now homeless, tent and caravan both _hors de combat_. Many kind people would have taken us in, but in a prairie shack, or even in most of the smaller houses, there is seldom any accommodation for visitors, especially women visitors. So I went round to beg an old broom-handle, and with this I spliced the tent-pole. Then Winifred and I set to work on the canvas, and managed to restore it to the semblance of a tent cover. Early next morning another storm came on. We got up hurriedly and took refuge in the church, for the tent showed signs of collapsing on top of us.

That day we had been invited out to the B.'s farm. One of the Bounty farmers drove us out there behind a spanking pair of horses which had taken first prize at a show. A heavy thunderstorm came on and we were asked to spend the night, an invitation which was gratefully accepted in our shelterless circ.u.mstances. Mr. B. was a most interesting man. In England he had been a coachman, and had come out about seventeen years before with 8 in his pocket. He worked his way West, and took up a half-section. When he had got a home together a girl from the Old Country came out and married him. Now he had a splendid farm; the house and farm-buildings were lit by electric-light. A feature of this farm, as of all others, was the enormous barn. This is always much larger than the house. The hay and grain are stored at the top and the stables are below. On most large farms they keep at least twenty horses, besides up-to-date and ingenious machinery.

This farmer felt very strongly on the subject of emigration. As he truly said, in the Old Country he would probably have remained a coachman all his life, and would have had nothing to leave his children. But it was useless to come out to the prairie, he added, unless you were prepared to work hard. He himself worked from 5 a.m. to 10 p.m. throughout the summer months. During the War he had been obliged to work his farm single-handed. Both he and all the other prairie farmers had given large gifts of wheat to England, and all the young farmers had enlisted in a body directly war was declared, often travelling miles to the nearest recruiting station.[5] In many cases their farms went to rack and ruin whilst they were away, as there was no one else to work them. Large numbers of them never returned.

The conversation at meal-time was most entertaining. Mr. B. used to inquire if things were still the same in the Old Country, and if folks still touched their hats and said "Sir"--this with a twinkle in his eye as he looked at us. Of course, there are no cla.s.s distinctions out West; the very word is unknown. We agreed with our host that the fairest measurement of mankind is to judge each one on his own merits. It is quite certain that no one should come out here unless he can become what is called "a good mixer." The following extract from one of Winifred's letters is descriptive of the country: "The people . . . must have pretty big minds to manage their own State, which is larger than the British Isles. There is, and must always be, a stretching out in this country, and it's a wide outlook for children . . . no appearances to keep up, a natural existence, hard work, but suitable, and prospects for children. . . . Canada is a leisurely place; no bustle. It is too large, I think."

When we got back to Bounty we found that the caravan was ready, and we joyfully fetched it from the garage and repacked it. Once again I felt glad that ours was a van rather than a roadster. Though more difficult to get along the trails it was a much more stable home. The wind is perhaps the greatest trial of prairie life. It sweeps with unbroken force over these wide s.p.a.ces. Sometimes we had to go all day without hot food or drink, as of course it was not safe to use a Primus stove in the caravan or tent. At times even a trench would not keep off the wind, but it usually dropped at night.

We regretfully bade farewell to the kind people of Bounty, feeling that the town was well named, and went on to Rosetown. On the way we pa.s.sed through another dried-out area; our car and several others stuck in a great sand-drift near a farmhouse, which was actually being submerged in sand. We went to the house to ask for the help of a team of horses. A young farmer and his sister lived there. The girl told us they were "going to beat it," as nothing would grow, and the sand was up to the lower windows of the house. She had just washed some clothes and hung them up inside the house, and yet they were covered with sand. I was much struck with her extraordinary cheerfulness in these trying circ.u.mstances. This fine quality is characteristic of all Westerners.

The farmer pulled us out with his team, and we had no further trouble that day.

[Footnote 5: Canada raised an army of 450,000, and it is estimated that 60 per cent. were members of the Church of England. The Canadian casualties were 152,000.]

CHAPTER XII

MISSIONS AND MUD HOLES

When we arrived at Rosetown the vicar and his wife were out, as they did not know what time to expect us; but we found the vicarage door unlocked, as is the hospitable local custom, so we went in and read the letters from home which we knew were awaiting us there. Mr. and Mrs. M.

soon arrived, and gave us a very warm welcome. They insisted on our sleeping in the house instead of in the van, and having our meals with them. We said that in that case they must let us help with the ch.o.r.es.

Mrs. M. had a tiny baby and no domestic help. Here, as elsewhere, our host and hostess were delighted to meet anyone fresh from England. Mr.

M. had worked on the Railway Mission, and was now in charge of this district. A Canadian "parish" is often 2,000 or 3,000 square miles in extent. Mr. M. had a rural deanery of 6,000 square miles, and as many of his clergy were in deacon's orders, he had to perform all priestly duties for them. He used a Ford car in the summer, and in the winter took the tyres off a motor bicycle and fixed it up to run on the rail of the track. The prairie being so flat, he could see the trains in time to get out of the way.

When talking to men like this we realised that our summer adventures were as nothing compared with what they experienced in the winter, with the thermometer 50 degrees below zero and blinding blizzards in which it was impossible to find one's way. This life of hardship and self-sacrifice won the respect of their parishioners and developed their own manhood. The farmers looked upon them as personal friends, fellow-men, instead of the remote being a clergyman is sometimes a.s.sumed to be. They are all-round men of affairs, too, as Winifred put it: "Out here a parson has to know about seeds and weather and dollars, but he is respected also for his office, and valued very much for what he brings to the people."

For the most part the men out here are the pick of the junior clergy from Oxford and Cambridge, men who have sacrificed much in leaving England. The clergy depend upon voluntary contributions, there being no endowments, of course. It is reckoned that in the diocese of Qu'Appelle the average contribution for each man, woman, and child is 15s. per head. They use the envelope system, so that if prevented from attending church the money is set aside just the same. Besides this, the farmers give generously in kind. But, as a clergyman's wife remarked to me, b.u.t.ter and eggs, though very welcome, do not supply clothes for the children. The drawback to the voluntary system is that the clergyman's income is as uncertain as that of his parishioners; for when the harvest fails there is no money for anyone. The Railway Mission clergy received monetary support from the Fund, but this Mission was only a temporary arrangement until the various districts became self-supporting. There is, however, a diocesan fund to help the poorer parishes. Though the parishioners do their best it is obvious that they can never provide more than a scanty support for a clergyman who has a wife and family, and hence the great difficulty in filling the Canadian theological colleges.

The Rosetown Sunday School was in a flourishing condition, for the vicar was very keen. The children were taught to sing by a lady who had been accompanist to Clara b.u.t.t. On the Monday it had been arranged that I should take a Bible-cla.s.s of elder girls, but when Mr. M. took me down to the house where it was to be held, we found that none of the girls had come (owing to school examinations), so we went to the movies instead!

There is a splendid picture palace in every little prairie town, and some of the films shown are really good. The cinema provides the sole recreation for the entire populace. On Sat.u.r.day evenings there are long lines of cars all down the street, when the farmers and their wives come into town to shop and go to the pictures and meet each other.

I was asked to give a missionary address next day to the junior branch of the Women's Auxiliary.[6] This particular branch proposed to call itself "The Busy Bees," because the members intended to work so hard. I talked to the children about the "Hope of the World" picture, which seemed suitable to this country of many nationalities. Winifred remarked that it was a splendid country from the missionary point of view as "they _see_ black and white and brown." Where this junior branch had been started the children were keen to join, just as every Canadian churchwoman seemed to belong to the Women's Auxiliary. From many years'

experience as a secretary for S.P.G. one longed to see the Church of England follow Canada's example by directing all her missionary effort into one channel, and one wished that missionary fervour were as universal.

Just at the time when we had planned to start from Rosetown a tremendous thunderstorm came on, making the trails quite impa.s.sable for several days. The water cart which brought the town's drinking water from five miles away could not get in for three days, so we had very short rations. On the Thursday I determined to leave for Kerrobert, in spite of Mr. M. saying that no one ought to go out on such trails. I knew that if we did not start at once we should not get to Kerrobert by Sunday.

The trails were indeed dreadful, about the worst we had ever seen. The half-dried mud was like putty. We had the Parsons' chains on, but even so we skidded from side to side and had to go on low gear all the time.

About a mile out of the town we came face to face with a large wagon and four horses, which refused to make way for us. The road was steeply graded, so that if you got off it you would slide down into the mud and water of the ditch. I pointed out that it was as awkward for us as it was for them, indeed worse, as they had horses. They replied that if we stuck they would pull us out, and making a dash for it I managed to get on the gradient and up again. But what was my horror to find, a little farther on, another great wagon left standing in the middle of the road.

It appeared that they had taken the horses from this to help on the other wagon. There was nothing for it but to drive round it, and this time my luck failed and we stuck fast in the mud. One of my Parsons'

chains had come off in the last place, we found.

I put on another chain with great difficulty, as the jack kept continually sinking in the thick mud. When I had finished I looked round for Winifred, and could not see her anywhere. I got the car out and waited. Still no Winifred. Feeling very anxious, I went off to a neighbouring farm and asked to be allowed to telephone. I then rang up Mrs. M. at Rosetown, but she had seen nothing of her. At last I saw her coming along the road. She had been to look for the lost chain, found it was broken and had got it mended in the town.

We then went on with great difficulty till we came to a most awkward place. It was a bridge over a creek, very narrow, and just as muddy as the rest of the trail, with a very rotten paling on either side. I knew that if the caravan skidded it would smash this paling and fall four or five feet into the little stream below. As there was no reason why we should both run the risk I asked Winifred to get out, and then managed to crawl over safely. Presently we came to a very bad bit, nothing but large holes of mud and water, but we ploughed through. Then came a tremendously steep hill up which I tried to rush, but I stuck half-way.

Even with the chains on the wheels could not grip in the sticky mud, and unloading failed to help us. I then sought a.s.sistance from a farm at the top of the hill, and the farmer, a Frenchman, brought a horse and pulled us up. The trail got worse farther on, and we camped at the next farm we came to. We were in a dreadful condition of dirt and hunger, our feet twice their normal size with clotted mud, the caravan full of lumps of mud, our hands and clothes all over mud. I did not feel much like cooking, so when I went to the farm house for water I asked if we might boil some eggs there. Whereupon the farmer's wife insisted on giving us the eggs as well as boiling them for us, and she also gave us boiling water for our coffee. We thankfully ate our supper and went to bed.

After sticking in several mud holes next day, we finally stuck fast in a very deep one, but a farmer ploughing near pulled us out. He told us that the trails got worse between here and Kerrobert, no cars had been through for several days, and he advised us to stop the night at his farm and go on by train next day. So we drove the van into his yard and received a kind welcome from his wife. I wanted to let the vicar of Kerrobert know that we were coming. They said that there was a telephone at the next farm a mile or so away, so I walked over there. On my return I found it exceedingly difficult to find my way in that featureless district, and I should probably have got lost had I not heard Winifred's hail.

We tried to make some return for the kind hospitality we received here by helping with the ch.o.r.es, but zeal without knowledge is a dangerous thing, and one of us, washing up the separator, dissected it so thoroughly that the farmer's wife gazed in consternation at the result.

On the Sat.u.r.day the farmer drove us into Rosetown when he went in for his weekly shopping. He promised to look after the caravan for us while we were away. We got to Kerrobert in good time that night, and were able to carry out all our Sunday engagements. But we missed the caravan very much, as we could not take all our apparatus without it, and we had to put up at an hotel as the vicarage was very small. These little hotels are expensive and not at all comfortable. We hoped great things when we caught sight of a bath, and promised ourselves a real treat, but on inspection it proved to be full of dust, with no water laid on.

There had been a Sunday School at Kerrobert, but the teachers had left the district. The vicar was too busy to take it, and his wife had her hands full with two small children. But for several Sundays in succession the children had come as usual, waiting and hoping against hope that the school would be held. Two little boys of six and seven years old had driven three miles in a buggy by themselves. The joy of these children made our struggles to get to them well worth while. There were about twenty of them in all. It grieved me that, though the Union Sunday school had plenty of teachers, no one could be found to teach the Church of England children.

We visited some very fine day schools and gave Bible lessons there, and also gave an address to parents in the church. The vicar arranged a children's service for the next day, so Winifred stayed to give the address while I went to fetch the caravan. Mr. M. drove me out to the farm, but I did not get started with the van till about 3.30 p.m. The trails had dried up a good deal, but the ruts were perfectly awful, as they always are after these heavy rains.

I had great difficulty in finding the way without Winifred to hold the map and direct me. Presently I came to a little town and stopped at the garage to refill my gasolene tank, but the petrol pump was empty. I had plenty in the side tanks but it took so long to siphon it out, so I determined to run on with what I had left. But beyond the town was a steep hill, and as I could get no run at it, and my gasolene being so low, I stuck half-way up. Again I missed Winifred badly. I could not get out to unload because the brakes were not strong enough to hold the loaded van, so I had to back to the bottom of the hill, unload, drive the van up, and then load again. This wasted a lot of time, though I got some help from a pa.s.ser-by. Then I came to a "wash-out"--_i.e._, a conduit that has fallen in. This one was a large hole right across the trail about five feet deep. As there was a large slough on either side I had to go back four or five miles to find another trail. I could not turn between the sloughs and so had to reverse for some way.

The great difficulty now was to know where to go. I had been following main trails, but now I had to take any side trail in the desired direction which seemed pa.s.sable. I went mostly by the sun, as I knew my way lay north and west. When it was growing dusk I was going down a steep hill, when I noticed a bit of wood lying across the trail. I thought it was merely a broken piece of wagon rack. At the same time I experienced the most curious sensation, a strong warning not to go any farther, the like of which I have never felt before or since. I stopped the van, and getting out walked along the trail a few paces and found a great wash-out right across the road. It was much worse than the former one, with quite as deep a drop and a much wider chasm. Had I gone on I could not have escaped it, and must have been badly hurt if not killed.

I heard afterwards that there had recently been two bad accidents here.

One man had broken three ribs and had had to be nursed at a neighbouring farm, there being no hospital near.

To the side of the wash-out there was an equally bad hole, but it had not such a sudden drop. It was evident that cars had been through this, so I tried it. Remembering the sprung frame, I went rather too slowly and stopped dead just on the opposite incline, at an acute angle. My gasolene being so low contributed to this misfortune, so I filled up my tank by siphoning from the side tank and tried to crank the car, as the electric starter had gone wrong that morning. At this angle it is almost impossible to crank any car, and this handle was stiff, so I blistered my hands in vain. As it was late I made up my mind to go to bed and tackle it in the morning. I was hungry, however, and had had no food since I started, so seeing a farm about half a mile off I went to get milk and water. The farmer's wife said she was sick of this hole, so many accidents happened there. She promised that her husband should come and help me in the morning, and said that she would telephone to the Secretary of the Munic.i.p.al Council to see if they could not get the road mended.

I had my supper and was just going to bed, when I saw the headlights of an approaching car. I hurried out to stop them before they reached the wash-out. It was an enormous caravan on its way to Kerrobert sports.

They were very grateful, and said they would tow me out in the morning, before they went on, if 4 a.m. was not too early. It was very difficult going to bed at this angle, but I managed to sleep. The prairie air is so wonderful that you can sleep anywhere and anyhow. Next morning the other van crawled round me and tried to pull me out, but my rope broke, and I told them not to stop for me. The farmer came later on, and between us we managed to get the engine going by priming the sparking plug, and then I got out of the hole all right.

The farmer directed me along the main trails. But, unknown to him, there had been a cloud-burst in this district during the recent thunderstorm, and this had washed away conduits and formed great sloughs within the s.p.a.ce of three hours. Consequently I spent the day retracing my path and trying to find pa.s.sable trails.

On one occasion I stuck fast in a very bad mud-hole, and so went to a farm for help. The farmer sent his man with two horses, and he pulled me out. While he was unhitching the horses, he became embarra.s.singly confidential. Beginning with the usual query "Are you married?" and the inevitable "Why not?" he intimated that now was the opportunity. I gathered he was "baching it" as many do, which meant that he had to do all his own domestic ch.o.r.es as well as his farmwork. I could imagine what his shack looked like, having seen some when asking the way with their unwashed crockery and general disorder, and I guessed that he was wanting a housekeeper and thought that I looked strong and useful. The man would take no money for his service, and when I refused to let him come and sit beside me in the caravan he called me ungrateful. It was an awkward situation, and I saw that the only thing to do was to get away at once. But as the caravan was not quite out of the mud the engine had stopped as soon as the horses ceased pulling. Fortunately they now became so restive that they took all the man's attention, so I cranked the car like lightning, jumped in and got away.

Farther on I stuck again in alkaline mud, which sucks you down, but a farmer lent me boards and I managed to run along them. Presently I reached a farm with a telephone, and sent a message to Winifred lest she should be anxious. The farmer's wife kindly offered me food, which I gladly accepted, as I had had none since early morning. On other occasions, when we could not stop to cook, Winifred fed me with biscuits and chocolate, as on these rough trails I had to keep both hands on the wheel. When I tried to start the car again it would not crank. But there was a small hill near the farm, so I pushed the car to the brow of it by turning the wheels by the spokes. Then came the exciting moment when the van began to run down the hill and I had to jump in with all speed.

At a place called Dodsland I was advised to cut across the prairie, as the main trail was impa.s.sable. I had an exciting time b.u.mping over the hillocks, and felt sure that everything in the van was being smashed to pieces. Finally, by asking the way at isolated farms, I got in sight of Kerrobert, and then found yet another slough half across my path, in which two side wheels stuck fast as I tried to get by. My efforts to dig the car out proved futile, so I went to a near-by farm for help. I found numbers of horses, but no men. Everyone had gone to Kerrobert sports. I was sorely tempted to take some horses and pull the car out myself. Then a car came along from Kerrobert, and most kindly turned round and hauled me out. I got into the town about 9.30 p.m. and went straight to the vicarage, where I found Winifred.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PRAIRIE SCHOLARS]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A YOUNG HERDSMAN (see page 91)]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A PRAIRIE SCHOOL]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A MAPLE LEAF TEACHER AND HER PUPILS

_To face p. 71_]

The next day I took the van to the garage to have the electric starter repaired, but as it was a new pattern the spare parts were not in stock, and they could not promise them before Sat.u.r.day. This was awkward, as we were due at Coleville on the Friday (the next day). We could not work the Coleville district without the caravan, so many of the schools being far from the track. We went up on Friday by train, and back on Sat.u.r.day for the car, which was not ready till Sunday afternoon, however. But we arrived at Coleville during evensong, in time for Winifred to play and for me to give the address.

[Footnote 6: See Appendix III.]