Songs of the Prairie Part 5

Then His Lordship drove across it, and it seemed to catch his eye, And he whispered to the driver, "That's the section I will buy;"

So in town they found the owner, who was very loath to sell, But he finally consented, if His Lordship wouldn't tell That the price was forty dollars by the acre; this agreed, A lawyer drew the papers and His Lordship got the deed, And he sailed across the ocean with the satisfying thought That he'd followed his own judgment in the bargain he had bought.

The winter snows had vanished and the spring was growing late, When Lord Landseeker came again to view his real estate, And he drove out in a buggy to where his section lay, And his heart was very happy as he smoked along the way Till the section burst upon them, and he scarce believed his sight, For the land lay in the sunshine, flashing back a snowy white . . . . .

And His Lordship stooped and felt it, and he heaved a little sigh, As the knowledge dawned upon him that his land was--_alkali!_

His Lordship did some thinking as they journeyed back to town, And his wonted happy features were o'ershadowed with a frown; But he neither crawled nor bl.u.s.tered, neither bluffed nor swore nor kicked, (For the men from little England never know when they are licked), But he advertised for tenders for construction on the land, And the buildings he erected were the best he could command; With a hundred rooms for students, and quarters for the staff, And the workmen often wondered what made His Lordship laugh!

In the papers of Old England there appeared a little ad, For the benefit of parents whose sons were going bad; "Teach your boys the art of farming in the great Canadian West; Our instruction is unrivalled, our curriculum the best; There's a grate in every chamber and a bath in every hall, And a full dress-suited dinner every ev'ning, free to all; There is tennis, polo, marksmanship, and half the day in bed, And we make them into farmers for a hundred pounds a head."

His Lordship's college prospers and is crowded to the doors With "students" playing poker while the "servants" do the ch.o.r.es; What they do not know of farming they make up in other lines They are judges of tobacco and connoisseurs of wines; They are experts at the races and at sundry other games-- Though they couldn't tell the breeching of the harness from the hames-- Though they're far from home and kindred they occasion no alarm, _That was what their parents wanted when they sent them out to farm_.

PRAIRIE BORN

We have heard the night wind howling as we lay alone in bed; We have heard the grey goose honking as he journeyed overhead; We have smelt the smoke-wraith flying in the hot October wind, And have fought the fiery demon that came roaring down behind; We have seen the spent snow sifting through the key-hole of the door, And the frost-line crawling, crawling, like a snake, along the floor; We have felt the storm-fiend wrestle with the rafters in his might, And the baffled blizzard shrieking through the turmoil of the night.

We have felt the April breezes warm along the plashy plains; We have mind-marked to the cadence of the falling April rains; We have heard the crash of water where the snow-fed rivers run, Seen a thousand silver lakelets lying shining in the sun; We have known the resurrection of the Springtime in the land, Heard the voice of Nature calling and the words of her command, Felt the thrill of springtime twilight and the vague, unfashioned thought That the season's birthday musters from the hopes we had forgot.

We have heard the cattle lowing in the silent summer nights; We have smelt the smudge-fire fragrance--we have seen the smudge-fire lights-- We have heard the wild duck grumbling to his mate along the bank; Heard the thirsty horses snorting in the stream from which they drank; Heard the voice of Youth and Laughter in the long, slow-gloaming night; Seen the arched electric, splendor of the Great North's livid light; Read the reason of existence--felt the touch that was divine-- And in eyes that glowed responsive saw the End of G.o.d's design.

We have smelt the curing wheat fields and the scent of new-mown hay; We have heard the binders clatter through the dusty autumn day; We have seen the golden stubble gleaming through the misty rain; We have seen the plow-streaks widen as they turned it down again; We have heard the threshers humming in the cool September night; We have seen their dark procession by the straw-piles' eerie light; We have heard the freight trains groaning, slipping, grinding, on the rail, And the idle trace chains jingle as they jogged along the trail.

We have felt the cold of winter--cursed by those who know it not-- We have braved the blizzard's vengeance, dared its most deceptive plot; We have learned that hardy races grow from hardy circ.u.mstance, And we face a dozen dangers to attend a country dance; Though our means are nothing lavish we have always time for play, And our social life commences at the closing of the day; We have time for thought and culture, time for friendliness and friend, And we catch a broader vision as our aspirations blend.

We have hopes to others foreign, aims they cannot understand, We, the "heirs of all the ages," we, the first-fruits of the land; Though we think with fond affection of the sh.o.r.es our fathers knew, And we honor all our brothers--for a brother's heart is true-- Though we stand with them for progress, peace, and unity, and power, Though we die with them, if need be, in our nation's darkest hour-- Still the prairies call us, call us, when all other voices fail, And the call we knew in childhood is the call that must prevail.

"A COLONIAL"

(_In some circles the term "colonial" is still allowed to imply inferiority and dependence._)

Only a Colonial!

Only a man of nerve and heart Who has spurned the ease of the life "at home,"

Only a man who would play his part In a new breed-birth on a distant loam; Only a man of sense and worth Who is not afraid of the ends of earth.

Only a Colonial!

Only a man who has cornered Fate And matched his strength with the Unattained; Only the guard at the Outer Gate, Who holds for you what he has gained, That your children, seized of a better sense, May share with him Toil's recompense.

Only a Colonial!

Only a man who has bridged the deep, And stained the map a British hue, Who builds an Empire while ye sleep And deeds the ownership to you.

'Tis the Viking blood which gave you birth That has driven him to the ends of earth.

Only a Colonial!

Wherever the flag that ye think is great Is flown to the farthest winds that blow, Wherever the colonists ye berate In their blind faith-vision onward go, Ye may find ye hearts that are British still-- In your self-conceit do ye count them nil?

Only a Colonial!

Rough as the bark of his forest tree His ways may seem to the fat and sleek, But ye owe your Empire to such as he, Though the h.o.a.r-frost glisten on his cheek; He has carried your flag where ye dared not go, And little ye reck of the debt ye owe.

Only a Colonial!

No doubt he is raw on your social laws And grates on your sense of caste and creed, But he lives too near to Facts and Cause To study heraldry and breed; And, knowing man in his primal state, He scorns the claims of the social great.

Only a Colonial!

The name in cheap contempt ye fling, Is not the whim of birth or chance, We well ignore the flippant sting, Or charge it to your ignorance; The colonist, and sons of his, Have made the Empire what it is.

LITTLE TIM TROTTER

Little Tim Trotter was born in the West, Where the prairie lies sunny and brown; Never was, surely, so welcome a guest In the stateliest halls of the town; For Little Tim Trotter was thoughtful and brave, And a lover of summer and shower, And Little Tim Trotter took less than he gave To the hearts that were under his power.

Little Tim Trotter would play in the sun, Or lie in the buffalo gra.s.s, And in fancy he saw the wild buffalo run And the brave-riding Indians pa.s.s; And with eyes that were deep as the infinite blue He would picture himself at their head, For no one so young as this hunter-man knew That the herds and the riders were dead.

Little Tim Trotter would lie in his bed While the fire-light played low on the floor, And strange were the thought that in Little Tim's head Played low like the fire at the door; The hopes that were his, and the wonders he knew, And the yearning he had in his heart, With the glimmering light of the future in view, And Little Tim just at the start!

Little Tim Trotter has heard the long call And has answered with joy and surprise, And the thoughts and the things that are hid from us all To-day are revealed to his eyes; And he rides in the van of his buffalo herd, Or in camp with his Indians brave; But Little Tim Trotter speaks never a word Through the mound of a little green grave.

THE VORTEX

He farmed his own half-section and was doing fairly well; There were seasons when the yield was rather small, But he always had his living and had always stuff to sell, And a little to his credit in the fall; But he wearied of his labor and he turned a wistful eye Where the City flashed its glamour on the stranger pa.s.sing by; He was sick of hogs and cattle--he was sick of barn and sty, And the City sucked him in.

He was doing homestead duties--he was in his second year, And his quarter was the finest out-of-doors; He'd a neighbor in the township--and they called that pretty near, And he only had to eat and do the ch.o.r.es; Now he should have been contented with a kingdom of his own; He'd a fiddle and a rifle and a "bally gramophone" . . .

He was sick of isolation, sick of living there alone, And the City sucked him in.

He owned a little country store and traded goods for eggs; He was salesman, buyer, manager and clerk; And the farmers gathered in his shop and sat around on kegs While they smoked and wished they didn't have to work; He was tired of tasting b.u.t.ter that he didn't dare condemn, He was tired of narrow farmers, he was tired of serving them, And he thought him of the City, where they close at six P. M., And the City sucked him in.

He ran a country paper in the town of Easy-go, And he hustled news and helped to "dis" the "dead"; He was editor and devil, he was master of the show, And the Union had no halter on his head; But he couldn't raise his circulation over twenty quires, He was tired of washing rollers, he was tired of building fires, He was tired of eulogizing men he knew were mostly liars, And the City sucked him in.

He practised law and real estate and owned a house and lot; He'd a client every once-awhile or so; He drove into the country when the summer days were hot, Or in winter for a sleigh-ride in the snow; He'd enough to live in comfort and he always paid his bills, But he tired of country customs and he wanted Fashion's frills; He was sick of fire insurance, he was sick of drawing wills, And the City sucked him in.

He'd a loyal congregation and his views were orthodox Though his salary was less than he was worth, He'd a personal regard for the future of his flocks, And he shared with them their sorrow and their mirth; But he longed for larger service and for bright companionship, And a stipend that would justify his wife to take a trip; And he read his resignation and he packed his little grip, And the City sucked him in.