LIFE IN OLD COUNTRY SETTLEMENTS.
COLONY LIFE.
This Sumner of ours was a self-contained little district, about four
miles long and three miles wide. To the north, south and east, stretches
of empty prairie divided us from similar little settlements, while, to the
west, tradition said that we could drive straight from our farm to the
Rocky Mountains without encountering another house. In those days,
too, there was a theory, even then, however, being upset, that wheat could
not be grown north of township twenty.
We were about a dozen families, all, it happened, from the old country
-English, Scotch, and Irish. Our centre of social life, our great gather-
ing-place, was the Post Office. This should, I think, be printed all in
capital letters, for it was the very heart of the settlement.
The mail, in those days, was a weekly affair, running, by trail of
course, from Whitewood, on the main line of the C. P. R., to Wallace,
some hundred miles to the northwest. It took a week for the round trip
in good weather, and, looking back, I wonder at the pluck and endurance
of those old-time mail drivers who, in the winter, had practically to break
their own trails all the way, and over the long journey, trusted to their
own strong sense of direction, their knowledge of the shapes of bluffs and
position of sloughs and lesser landmarks-no road-allowances, few fences,
hardly a house for miles at a stretch.
Friday night was our gathering time, when the mail was due from
Whitewood. Everyone who could manage it went down after supper,
and the Sumner kitchen and sitting-room were always full of visitors-
on the available chairs, on the floor, and, particularly, on the step which
led up from one room to the other.
No one who lived there in the old days will ever forget the Sumners.
Mr. Sumner, grey-bearded, already in his fifties, but taking the pioneer
life and its privations as a joke-Mrs. Sumner, second mother to all the
bachelors in the district, with a meal and a kind word for every caller,
and all the others of that fine family who made life brighter for so many
home-sick exiles. Although the house was the usual log one, it was most
home-like. It opened into a large farm-yard, forming one side of a square,
with stables, sheds, and a blacksmith shop on the other three sides, all
backed by a fine poplar bluff, and all kept in the most perfect order.
From the Sumner house through an avenue of high trees, we would
walk to The Hall-which also should have capital letters-for that log
building, put up by ourselves, was our general meeting place. Here we
had church, with Mr. Sumner and his fiddle for music, here we had dances,
with the same orchestra, here some of us were married, here we held
harvest-suppers, and our rare political meetings, and here we had our
"Social Evenings," where everyone did the stunt that was expected of
him. Mr. Sumner sang "Old Dan Tucker" and another ditty about an old
man Who was as cunning as a fox, and who always had tobacco in his
old tobacco-box." The choruses we all sung, and here I first heard
"Clementine," "My Bonnie" and "Wrap Me Up in My Tarpaulin Jacket"
-who introduced them is "shrouded in mystery" but we always sangthem!
We did quite a lot of visiting, although we generally either rode or
took the wagon and oxen. There was one buggy in the neighborhood, so
when any of us really wanted to go somewhere particular we would, first
of all, wonder if we could borrow Mrs. Gavin's buggy. We could, as a
rule, and so we went away in style.
That we said Mrs. Gavin's, was, perhaps, an unconscious tribute to
a strong personality, for there was also a "Mr. Gavin", a tall, quiet scholar-
1y old gentleman, transplanted too late in life from his loved Scotland
ever to take root in alien soil-the most absent-minded and respected of
men. You will bear in mind that in those far-off days our poverty was
so absolute that it was a condition of life, like breathing or sleeping.
One day he remarked-apropos of nothing that I can now remember-
"It seems to me, my dear, that Eau de Cologne has gone out of late
years "" Perfume! when we were probably wondering whether our old
moccasins would stand another patch!
Again one winter day he came into the house, sat down quietly and
said to his wife: "My dear, I fear I have had a stroke. I have abso-
lutely no feeling in my left foot!" He had five socks on one foot and
only one on the other. In a few minutes when he began to thaw out
he knew he had had no stroke!
Most of our early settlers were bachelors, and I have still a recollec-
tion of my first formal Sunday dinner at a bachelor house. It was a very
hot day, and we had roast pork, cooked in the same room in which we
ate, and the everlasting dried apples for dessert, which had, unfortu-
nately, been stewed in an iron pot by an unskilled cook and were a
strange dark grey colour. However, we all survived, and our welcome
had been quite as warm as was the shanty that sunny afternoon.
Some of the care-free bachelor habits have passed; the shower-bath
in the "altogether" on a rainy summer day, for instance. The animals
had often to be trained when the bachelor intended to get a wife, and
I have seen a tall man gravely stalking around with an old blanket
buckled skirt-wise about his middle, milking cows and hitching up his
oxen, to accustom them to feminine garments. A single man's ox team
has more than once bolted at the sight of a woman, and as a rule his
cows utterly refused to have anything to do with a milk-maid.
doubt if we realise how much the settlement of the prairie owes to
its oxen. No matter how green the ploughman, given a good furrow-ox,
nothing particular could go wrong. That gentleman knew his business,
and was there to do it. If anything went wrong he stopped; at the
proper place he turned; when he had done a day's work he was through;
and he and his mate would keep a trail in any weather, and hold back a
load down any ungraded hill, or ford any possible river, with calm cer-
tainty, and an apparent contempt for the futile human intelligence of
his owner. Also, he was eminently able to look after himself-give him
reasonable time to eat and sleep, and the summer long he would find his
own food, while, in the winter, hay alone would bring him through in
good condition. He, also, was no roamer, and as a rule would be found
resting pretty near home when he was wanted for work, although I have
known wise old oxen who would sleep in a bluff, and keep their bells
quiet when time came for the after-dinner work.
Our great summer holiday was the "Show". Before I left England
I had heard of the "North-East Assiniboia Agricultural Association"
and I imagined it a small edition of the "Royal" it was! It was held
at Kinbrae, some eight miles or so to the north of Sumner, and on that
day you met every acquaintance within driving distance, which might
be as much ~s forty miles. There was the usual array of horses, cattle
and pigs, but I think the great attraction to everybody was the meeting
with friends.
Even then, however, thirty or more years ago, the idea of the im-
provement of stock was in the air, and that old Agricultural Society had
a very fine roan shorthorn bull for the use of its members.
The barrel-churn was replacing the old dash churn (my first churn,
by the way, was made from a powder-keg) and good butter was made
and shown, but I do not think that any particular display or vegetables
was attempted. The possibilities of the kitchen-garden in this climate
had not been discovered; whereas now I grow asparagus and straw-
berries. At that time rhubarb was our only achievement, and wild berries
our only expectation of fruit.
We grew wheat for grist and sale, and a few acres of oats for feed.
The self-binder had just been introduced, and with regard to binding,
was as cranky as most inventions in their early stages. Mr. Sumner
had one of the first in the district, and it cut practically all the crop in
the colony-no great task when forty acres in crop was extensive farm-
ing. We all turned out to stook, and, as a rule, several farmers stacked
their grain at one place, for no one man would have a setting for the
threshing machine, and threshing from the stook had not been thought of.
All grain w~~s carried in bags from the thresher to the granary and
was again bagged when taken to market. Those grain bags! They haunt-
ed the dreams of many a farmer's wife each fall. To gather them up,
to mend until they fell to pieces, to mark for identification, to borrow
(for no one ever had enough), and to return them at the proper time!
~o great a waste of time, but no genius had then thought of pouring grain
loose into a wagon-box.
After threshing came gristing. The nearest mill at first was an old-
fashioned stone mill at Assessippi on the Assiniboine, a weeks' round
trip with oxen. Several farmers made the trip together, sleeping at
"stopping-houses" on the way. I never went a trip, so I do not know
much about the journey, but when the farmer returned he always called
for soap, towels and clean clothes, and had a bath and change in the
stable before going into the house, so I conclude that conditions must
have been primitive. Indeed, there was one well-known stopping-house
in the Qu'Appelle Valley that had, finally, to be abandoned to its insect
population.
Some regretted the passing of the stone mill when a modern rolling-
mill was built at Millwood, only thirty miles from Sumner, but I had
to use the flour, and proper bolting machinery makes for cleanliness.
I have seen bread quite grey from smut when the wheat was gristed with
the old-time stones.
Any grain left after seed and grist were set aside, had to be taken
to Whitewood for sale, another of our thirty-mile trips, crossing the
Qu'Appelle River. Once we had a good crop and realized nearly a dollar
a bushel. We bought a cheese and a whole barrel of apples that winter
and felt rich!
We, in Sumner, had a link with the Hungarian colony (now Esterhazy)
to the south of us, in the person of the Rev. T. A. Teitelbaum, called,
irreverently, but affectionately, "Titey" by all his friends. The son of
an exiled Hungarian patriot, who had settled in London and married an
Englishwoman, he came out to the colony on taking Orders, and had a
parish that extended some thirty miles east, west and south, and as
far as he liked in the direction of the north pole. Being young, like
the majority of us in those days, he took life very much as a joke. In-
deed, the first time I heard of him was before I came to Canada, when
my husband-to-be wrote home that he had been shot in the nose by the
parson while out after ducks but not seriously hurt.
Being bi-lingual, Mr. Teitelbaum taught the first school amongst the
Hungarians during the week, and preached at various settlements on
Sunday. He also had a license to perform marriages and took many jour-
neys for that purpose, sometimes being rewarded, and quite as often
only thanked. On one occasion he had to drive a round trip of two hun-
dred miles, this time to conduct a funeral service at a foreign settle-
ment. When he returned he displayed his fee, which he was forced to
take or hurt the feelings of the widow. It consisted of one pair of slip-
pers, two night-shirts, one dressing-gown, one pair of brass candlesticks,
three small china vases, one pair of candle snuffers, all the property of
the deceased.
There was no man better known for many miles than the Parson-
like all men of decided character, he had enemies as well as friends,
but his kindness of heart and self-sacrifice were never doubted, and he
added much to the pleasure and happiness of our life.
One Easter Monday half a dozen of us, including the Parson, went by
invitation to a Hungarian house to share the holiday festivities. During
the earlier part of the day-say for about two hours-all the guests
were wedged into a room set with tables and chairs close together,
while a continuous meal was cooked and served. As the great idea was
to have tea or coffee with everybody who invited you, and as hospitality
apparently insisted that each cup should be filled to overflowing, things
were rather sloppy. After all had eaten dancing began, but the room
was so crowded that a sort of Red River jig was all th~ was possible.
Each visiting Englishwoman hopped up and down a few times with the
most prominent of the hosts, and then became a spectator.
There must have been a keg of beer somewhere, although those were
prohibition days, for towards the end of the afternoon things became rath-
er noisy. Word was passed to the Englishmen to be on watch, and in a
few minutes an uproar arose. Our men formed back to back between
us and the row, and at last the Parson, finding it impossible to clear
a way to the door, hauled us through the window and advised us to go
down to the stable until the men could hitch up the teams. However our
hosts were too busy to bother with us, and we waited in safety outside
the house until our men banged their way through. There was a little
delay because a Hungarian woman, whose husband was fighting, had
dropped her small baby into the Parson's arms and fled, but even that
was disposed of somehow. As we drove off we saw one of the fighters
running across the prairie, pursued by his enemies armed with chunks
of fire-wood. The Mounted Police rounded them up and fined them a
few days later and cracked heads were all the damage. It looked dan-
gerous for a few minutes, when some of the hot-heads reached for the
knives they carried in their top-boots.
All who knew Mr. Teitelbaum knew also Timmins, who came out
with him, and is still farming in the district. The son of an English
farmer, he always insisted that in the Old Country he had been by pro-
fession a poacher. One day when, with a rough stick, he, in a minute,
yanked out a dead rabbit from a hole at which we had been digging for
half an hour, I quite believed his assertion. He was the Parson's shadow
and factotum, and equally with him, was at the call of anyone in trouble.
In the first "flu" epidemic the Parson and his man spent their days
going from house to house, tending the sick and looking after the stock,
for all the settlers appeared to go down at the same time.
Early in the nineties a vicarage was built in Sumner, and the younger
brother and sister of the Parson joined him. Louise Teitelbaum, with
her white skin and her wavy auburn hair, was a joy to us all, getting
up picnics, riding binders, trying out strange horses, everything, to her
was new and charming. Also she brought us one of our romances, for
a visiting young Englishman, Harry Carey, fell in love with her. As he
was barely of age and Louise was even younger, his parents, while not
objecting to the engagement, wished that he should return to England.
So amidst tears, he started. A few days later, on the weekly mail, a letter
from the parents arrived for him. The general opinion was that it should
be opened, and, behold, it gave permission for the wedding to take place
in Canada, and a draft to cover the expenses of the journey home. No
telegraph, no telephone, no motor cars! Mr. Teitelbaum drove the thirty
miles to Whitewood and sent a wire from there which caught Harry
Carey on board the ship. Return of the happy bridegroom, a wedding at
the Hall (I made the cake), Romance and thrills!
We had no school in Sumner, for we had no children of school age.
We had no taxes! We could not have paid them if they had existed, so
the burden was adjusted to the back. We had no form of local govern-
ment, and the law in general was represented by the N. W. M. P. (It
had no Royal title at that time.) The chief police duty in our district
was to look after prairie fires, which, in a bluffy country, with much
long grass and no open road-allowances to act as fire-breaks, were really
dangerous, particularly in the fall. Every night the horizon would be
ringed with the glow of distant fires, and a sharp watch had to be kept
lest, unnoticed in the smoke, the flame should steal through the bluffs
and catch us unawares. As all grain in those days was stacked in the
nearest field to the house, and hay was also kept as near as possible to
the stable, it was a dangerous thing to let a fire start, and many a settler
was burnt out without warning by fire travelling through the tops of
the trees, before he realized that it was near enough to be
dangerous.
Prairie trails, winding and picturesque, were both smoother and
pleasanter to ride upon than made roads, but the opening up of the road-
allowances, straight and unlovely as they may be, stopped the ever-present
fear of a great prairie-fire, sweeping unhindered over hundreds of miles
of country, destroying the woods, and burning down into the very
ground, destroying the grass roots.
Of politics we knew little. We discovered that our English Free Trade
ideas, which were so much a matter of course with us that they seemed
a law of nature, were considered desperately radical, and that an old
country Conservative was rated a dangerous liberal in the West. Thus
we were so much out of touch that we took but little interest, and beyond
a political meeting, of which I now remember only that Mr. John Hawkes
was the speaker, and the Dewdney-Turriff election, at which my hus-
band cast one of the two votes recorded at that poll for Mr. Turriff, I
remember nothing.
We had profiteers even in those days! One fall, when threshing was
delayed, we all ran out of flour. A man who kept a little store a few
miles north, having a corner, put up the price to five dollars a bag. It was,
I suppose, worth about three. We started a boycott (oh, yes, the word
had been invented years before that), borrowed and lent flour, added
rice, potatoes, and oatmeal to our baking, and at last, rather than pay,
sent Mr. Teitelbaum and his team to Whitewood to buy flour. It prob-
ably cost us the five dollars, but a principle was vindicated!
In looking back over those years I think that the spirit of adventure,
that made even hardships a lark, was what carried us through. Every-
thing was so different, even in the small details of everyday life. To cook
with wood, when coal or gas had always seemed the only possible way,
to draw water from a well instead of from a tap, to use oil lamps in-
stead of gas, to take a tin boiler to heat water instead of the great built-in
copper of the English scullery, these and a hundred other little things
were of account, even mosquitoes and frost-bites were at any rate a dif-
ferent experience.
We considered it fun to jolt over the prairie for twenty miles to a
dance, and to drive back, half dead for want of sleep, at sunrise. We
went a long way to a wedding one winter day, taking turns to tell each
other when nose or cheek showed white from frost-bite, and, at the mar-
riage feast, we ate ice-cream for style, wrapped in our sleigh-robes for
comfort; a blizzard had come up and the log-house could not be kept warm.
We borrowed and lent newspapers and magazines, and next to a wantof tea or
tobacco, the cry of "nothing to read!" was one of our distress
signals.
I made. two great discoveries myself in these years, of which I have
always been proud. One day, at Mrs. Gavin's house, I read a short story
in one of those peculiarly Victorian periodicals, a Sunday magazine-
either "Good Words" or the "Sunday at Home", I forget which-but the
story was "A Tillyloss Scandal", and I had found Barrie! Then one
winter day I brought back from the mail a slim paper-bound book, poorly
printed and of awkward foolscap size, given as a premium by some fly-
by-night American newspaper. Behold, new horizons appeared, a magic
casement opened, for the title of that pirated edition was "Forty Tales
from the Hills", and I knew, and even now praise myself for discerning
that ~ "prophet had arisen in Israel" whose name was Rudyard
Kipling!
The old settlers are nearly all gone, the old trails are ploughed up, the
old hardships are forgotten, but the laughter, the fun and the friendship
of those lost days have been with me again in these writings of remem-
brance.
Bibliography follows:
Next Page