This was not very encouraging, but I did not hazard any further remarks, and was soon ready to follow my Job’s comforter. I began to think that life on a Canadian farm was not all couleur de rose. When we reached the kitchen, he lit a couple of lanterns, and we stepped out into the yard, nearly up to our waists in snow. That fellow Thomson, who sang of the sluggard and enlarged upon the advantages of early rising, never put his theories into practice. If he had tried getting up at four A. M. in picturesque Canada, in the depth of winter, he would have tuned his lyre to a different strain.
We then went into the stable, and Jim (my partner) gave me a bucket to fetch some water for the horses, also a shovel with which I was to find the pump. This was not an unnecessary precaution. The pump was situated somewhere about one hundred yards from the barn. The wind had been very boisterous during the night, and the snow had drifted in deep reefs over a mile long, and the pump was completely buried. Finding that I was not very successful in my search, Jim joined me, and by our united efforts we at last discovered it. I am certain that no old-time Californian miner was ever more delighted at striking gold than I was when we found that pump. I thought I should lose my ears before we uncovered it.
On returning from this voyage of discovery we were met by Mr. Wiman, who told me to follow him and “milk.” The cow-barn was at the far end of the yard, and housed over fifty head of cattle. Another tramp through the snow! I noticed that this place was far warmer even than the house, which I rightly attributed to the animal life within its walls. This “milking” was a practical test of my abilities which I had not been looking forward to with any great eagerness. I will pass over this experience, which even after this lapse of time makes a cold sweat start out upon my brow. Suffice it to say, that after one hour of pulling and tugging, with great beads of perspiration rolling down my cheeks, to the utter disgust of the cow, and at great personal risk, I succeeded in obtaining sufficient lacteal fluid for, at least, one cup of tea. By this time breakfast was ready for me; I was ready for breakfast, and the meeting was adjourned.
The pièce de résistance was the hash of the previous evening, re-hashed; but farm work does not foster one’s epicureanism, and I ate like an alderman. When I had finished my meal I drew my chair up to the stove and produced a pipe, thinking that an hour was allowed for each meal. I was soon informed to the contrary, however, by Mr. Wiman, who burst into a hearty laugh.
“Ah, that’s English, don’t cher know? It won’t wash out ’ere. I’d advise you to follow Jim, and larn ’ow to ’itch on a team for drawing bark. We don’t di-gest our food in this country, yer know. It’s got ter take its chance.”
The next thing to be done was to water the cattle, which was no easy task. The spring, or watering-place, was in the centre of the field adjoining the yard, at a distance of half a mile, and was only distinguishable by a tree which stood close to it. We procured a shovel and hatchet, and after a great deal of shoveling we came upon the trough, which was filled with solid ice at least a foot in thickness. I suggested that a little dynamite kept upon the premises would be a handy article in winter, at which witticism Jim surrendered all the smile that was left in him after a protracted spell of farm-labor. At last we broke the ice sufficiently for two cows to drink at once, and Jim told me to run up as fast as my legs would carry me and turn out six cows, as otherwise the water would freeze again. The reader may think that this verges upon exaggeration, but I can assure him, or her, that on more than one subsequent occasion I had to break the ice a second time within the space of a quarter of an hour.
When all the cows had been watered, there was “clearing-out” to be done. This was not a particularly clean occupation, but it was, at all events, far warmer. Then came feeding, which with our careful management took a great deal of time and a surprising amount of hay. Jim was always thinking of his master’s best interests. He explained this carelessness by confiding to me that he had worked for twelve months for “glory,” that is, without remuneration, beyond bed and board. He said that this was the only way in which he could get a portion of his arrears from his respected employer. I had also agreed to come upon the same terms during my novitiate, and had indeed paid a small premium, but I had not anticipated such a lengthy term of apprenticeship.
Wiman now entered and announced dinner, a call to which we quickly responded. Mrs. Wiman appeared to have quite a genius for making hashes; indeed, she was a rustic Soyer. As I had by this time learned to expect, the chief dish was a resurrection of the morning’s meal, with sundry vegetable additions. I was very hungry, but I must confess indulged in irritants (i. e., pepper and salt) to an extent which would have put to shame an Anglo-Indian with a cast-iron interior. Pastry was a sybaritic innovation which had not then found its way into this part of the Dominion.
We passed the afternoon in much the same way as the morning, and worked until 7.30 P. M., when we supped on bread and cheese and went to bed.
The next day was Sunday, a day which in the dear “old country” is usually kept holy, with an exemption from all toil not absolutely necessary. My first Sabbath on the farm had almost slipped away before I remembered what the day was. Thinking that the farmer had also made a mistake, I mentioned the matter to him. He seemed quite surprised at my religious scruples, which he regarded as another evidence of British insular retrogression, and remarked that all days were alike to him. And so it proved, for we spent the whole of that afternoon ploughing snow, which drifted again almost as quickly as it was furrowed.