Man looks a poor little thing in a forest. But, while incidentally unafraid of grizzly bears, he exercises over the trees a dominion as absolute as it is tyrannical. Far in the land of shadows and moss I came upon two specimens of my species—mere dots of creatures less than six feet high—who were assaulting a Douglas fir which, with a girth of three yards, rose to an altitude of over a hundred feet. This is what was happening: Standing on spring boards lodged in the trunk some four feet from the ground, they were working their saw towards a V-shaped cut previously chopped on the other side. I was encouraged by example to stand a few yards from the toilers, and facing the back of the saw. The tree, for all that it leaned slightly in our direction, was destined to fall—everybody was positive—on the other side.
A few years ago some men were felling a tall tree in a London suburb, and they worked for many hours with saws, axes and spades, likewise employing an elaborate tackle of ropes; but in the end that tree came down in an unintended direction, doing mischief to a cab horse. My brain was busy with this memory as, with head thrown back, I watched the top of the Douglas fir. It was at least some comfort to reflect that, if human judgment proved at fault, one would see the thing coming, and there should be time to dodge the danger. “She is moving,” someone said. I watched intently. Yes, she was—but how gently, slowly, and silently. No one spoke. Without a tremor, that one tufted tree top went on moving softly towards the other tufted tree tops that were motionless, and the direction of the fall was fulfilling prophecy. In the lapse of seconds, slowness became speed, and silence gave place to thunder. Creaking and groaning, the murdered monarch went crashing through the crowded company of his fellows, who seemed to yell with pain as their limbs were bruised and torn by the helpless falling form, which struck the ground with the report of cannon. Under the soles of my feet I felt the earth heave, and then came the gentle patter of a shower of branches.
FRUIT-PICKING IN BRITISH COLUMBIA
Perspiration was streaming down the hairy chests of the woodmen. They told me why they waste so long a stump. The base of the tree is charged with resin, which proves an obstacle to the saw. They also told me that they can “throw” a tree in any direction with precision. Man’s mastery over these wooden giants is, indeed, complete. Elsewhere in the forest we saw a felled tree of formidable dimensions girt about with steel wire, which extended through the undergrowth to a raised platform beside a railway line. Presently from that platform there came the hullabaloo of escaping steam and revolving wheels, the steel wire tightened, and the huge bulk was hauled with contemptuous ease through the wilderness of ferns and shrubs. At an incline of stout logs some show of resistance was made, but the engine gave a vicious snort, and the poor old tree, jerked out of his momentary anchorage, was dragged without ceremony on to the platform. Anon we saw noble firs subjected to further indignities, they being either towed or shoved by a locomotive along a timbered track. Still later we beheld them drawn from the water into a saw-mill, whence they emerged as clean yellow planks, which were loaded into a steamer soon to depart for Liverpool.
There are growing communities of luxurious families who—in both senses of the phrase—live on fruit ranches in British Columbia. They dwell in paradise, and find it pays. But I have qualms about advertising their felicity. The existence seems to be altogether too restful and romantic to be deserved by mortal man. Instinctively I find myself recommending to my friends the prairie homestead rather than the British Columbia orchard.
Life on the plains is delightful enough in all conscience. It is good to wander in the sunny prairie, looking at the flowers, birds, and insects. Swallows and blackbirds occur in clouds. Pairs of milk-white doves float amorously by. There are rooks far in excess of the farmers’ wishes. You will occasionally see a robin that is larger and lankier than the English kind, suggesting a tiny eagle. In Eastern Canada I saw many sparrows, and Professor George Bryce, of Winnipeg College, told me these adventurous little immigrants have spread across the continent within his memory. They were introduced from England by ladies who, in 1880, made pets of them on Boston Common. Around Portage la Prairie I saw humming birds—sprightly scraps of gorgeousness. Prairie chickens and pin-tailed grouse are never far to seek. On almost every stretch of water you see cosy companies of wild duck among the lilies and rushes; while geese, swans, pelicans, herons and snipe may there be seen.
In sheltered places the little garter snake makes his home. When Winnipeg Penitentiary was being built, the workmen discovered thousands of these harmless reptiles in a neighbouring cave. Minks, weasels, squirrels, badgers and gophers are common enough. The gopher is a grey little creature something like a rat and more like a squirrel. He has the queerest way of squatting bolt upright upon his haunches, and staring defiance at passing carriages and trains. Often he holds a stalk of bearded grass in his mouth, and this gives him a comical whiskered appearance.
Frequently in the great grain district one sees the “French weed” (Thlaspi arvense), which seeds in silver discs. It is the farmer’s chief pest, being highly prolific and difficult to eradicate. In France, its native land, this innocent-looking member of the mustard family grows within decorous bounds, giving no trouble to agriculturists, so that French visitors to Canada resent the ill-will it there excites. The wild mustard, accidentally introduced in wheat imported years ago for cultivation, is another agricultural nuisance, though it works less havoc than the native thistle—a bright-hued offender. A while ago the Russian thistle filled farmers with fear, but stern measures were taken, and it has been exterminated. Many a flowery stretch of land owes part of its beauty to the wild oat, a frail, fluffy growth whose seed sails for miles at the impulse of the gentlest breeze.