We returned to Birdview that night (sticking again in the sand-drift on the way). Our kind host and hostess refused to let us pay for our entertainment. We were continually receiving most generous hospitality all the time we were on the prairie. We were never allowed to pay for our milk and eggs at a farm, and we were invited to many meals, which greatly helped our resources. We hardly liked to accept so much, knowing as we did how badly off the farmers sometimes were. But we knew how hurt they would have been had we refused. Their generosity was a great lesson in almsgiving. They always treat all missionaries in this way.
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 circumstances. 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 class 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 spaces. 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 passed 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 circumstances. This fine quality is characteristic of all Westerners.
The farmer pulled us out with his team, and we had no further trouble that day.