Chapter 29.
Someone has said that, do as you will, you can never stick; on you must go, and circumstances agreeable or disagreeable are passed through. So it was with this weary winter. Spring came in due time and with spring came changes which made life easier for a time at least. The house we were living in was built upon Mr. Gilly’s homestead, but Major Boulton also had a homestead, and by the laws of homesteads you had to live six months of the year on the land you had taken up.
Major Boulton had a log house built on his land and now he decided that the family must go and occupy it for the summer. About the middle of March he went out to visit the locality, taking with him Willie Heath, a double cousin of his own and also a cousin of mine. Willie was a tall young fellow who had never made a success of books but was clever enough with his hands, and on him we depended to make furniture for the new house. The Major soon returned, leaving Willie alone at Shellmouth, as the new town site was called. As he passed the Hudson Bay store the Major went in and bought a large box of canned meat and fruit, which he sent by, as he thought, a reliable man to the poor carpenter in his solitude. The end of March and the beginning of April brought a succession of snowstorms and blizzards, and we often wondered how Willie was getting on. “Well, he has lots to eat anyway,” the Major would say, and we felt no great harm could come to him.
One of the latest arrivals in Russell was a Church of England minister, by name Ross. He was an English gentleman, and had a very nice wife and three children. The two eldest, Noel and Chetwynd, had purchased a yoke of oxen, and they undertook to carry our belongings to Shell-mouth. It was suggested that Graham should drive me out first with the ponies, the luggage coming on the same day, and Mrs. Boulton should follow in a day or two, in the big sleigh, driven by her husband. Mrs. Gilly utterly refused to go. Life was hard enough in Russell, she said, but to camp in a log house she would not. So very reluctantly we had to leave her.
It was, I think, the 13th of April when Graham and I and the two little boys set off. After the violent storms which had shut us in for so long the bright sunshine and pleasant spring air were a delightful change, and we set off in high spirits. Spring in Manitoba comes very quickly. The snow which may be two or three feet deep melts from the bottom, the upper crust looking unchanged, until something strikes it, when it cracks for yards and yards and then sinks down and the bare ground appears. This is what happened on that bright April day, and instead of making Shellmouth by early in the afternoon, darkness began to close in upon us and we were still miles away. “There is a man living near here,” Graham said at last, “who has a wife, and I daresay they could put you and the children up, and I will go on to the Irishmen’s house, which is about a mile farther on.” The Irishmen, I must explain, were six young men of that nationality who had come out not long before. They all lived together and everyone spoke of them as being very Irish.
My host and hostess were English—Huntley I believe the name was—and they lived in the very smallest house I ever saw. It contained a bed, a stove, a chair or two and two trunks. A shelf around the wall held their belongings. They welcomed me warmly. There are no welcomes now in the northwest like those old fashioned ones, when it was a real joy to see a stranger. Oh yes, they could put me up. I could sleep at the foot of the bed and Mr. Huntley and the bigger baby could lie on the two trunks. And so we passed a not too bad night, though the wind did whistle through the cracks and by way of helping things on Everard’s nose began to bleed in the night.
We had brought milk and bread and butter with us, so were able to help out with breakfast. It was a long time since these poor things had seen milk or butter and they enjoyed the treat. They were very kind and hospitable, and I was indeed grieved to hear that, owing to his determination not to wear anything but leather boots, the poor man had his feet badly frozen a year or so afterwards and died in the hospital from the effects.
Graham came for me early the following morning and told me he had found Willie Heath at the Irishmen’s house. He had taken advantage of the first fine day to escape from his isolation and was on his way back to Russell. The poor boy had been nearly starved as the box of supplies had never reached him, and he had nothing but flour and tea. “It was cold too,” he said, “and some days I stayed in bed to keep warm.” The snow had nearly gone from the hills and we went slowly, the ponies and oxen dragging their loads over bare ground, but it was a lovely morning and everyone was in good spirits.
I can fancy I feel the soft warm sunny air on my face now as we went slowly over the hills, and I got my first view of Shellmouth. It was a lovely spot and I do not wonder the Major was fascinated by it. The hills sloped gradually down in natural terraces to the great River Assiniboine. On the opposite side the banks went up abruptly and then came flat “park land”. It was beautiful when I first saw it and far more so afterwards when the banks were covered with wild roses of every shade, from the palest pink to the darkest crimson, and the river, now hard frozen, was running along peacefully between green banks. Trees were not wanting and there was a pretty little wood at one side of the house. At this spot Major Boulton hoped and expected the railway to cross the Assiniboine, and he intended to have a town on his homestead. Indeed town lots were already selling at $50 each.
We arrived at last, bag and baggage, at the solitary log cabin. A paper was pinned on the door which Graham quickly read aloud and I am afraid we thoughtless youngsters made much fun of poor Willie, though he took it all in good part. It was as follows: “Tea and Bannock make me not feel very well. I am going home. I have asked the Irishmen to keep an eye for you.” I do not know exactly why we found this so funny, but I know it caused us great amusement and was a standing joke against poor Willie for months. There are times when one feels in a humor to be amused, after being shut up so long we were like birds out of a cage and we laughed and joked and had a high time all day, while unpacking and settling down in the house.
Next day Mrs. Boulton came and we soon established ourselves. The house only had two rooms. The “women folk” slept upstairs and the Major and Graham—when there —had shake downs in the general kitchen and living room. Willie stayed a week or two longer and did what he could to make us comfortable. Also he put up a swing from the beams in the kitchen, where I used to sit and swing little George to sleep.
The spring came on very fast; by the end of April the snow was nearly all gone, and I remember it was warm enough on Everard’s seventh birthday for us to have a little picnic, and we picked large bunches of the blue crocus —the first spring flower. I think it was April 27th As the Major and Graham had soon to leave us and it was really a very lonely place, we had a protector assigned to us, a Mr. Beggs, one of the Irishmen. He was a big, good-natured, gentlemanly fellow, as lazy as could be, and offended my sense of propriety by wearing trousers with holes in them.
For the first month we saw no one. Then excitement began when one evening in May the children rushed in to say, “A man is coming.” He was a short man in trousers of a black and white plaid. He name he told us was Burden, and we said to one another afterwards that he was well named. He had come to look for land across the river and had to spend the night with us. The next day the Major, who was there, rowed him across in our small punt. At night he returned, saying he could not decide on a homestead; he would go back and fetch his son. We found afterwards this was a boy of six, but he brought him back and many times he was paddled back and forth before he finally settled on where he would locate.
He was the first of a number of emigrants. A few camped where we were and the Major felt they were the nucleus of a town, and a Mr. Perrin and Mr. Gerrard set up a store in a large tent. The goods for this were brought from Winnipeg by steamer. The captain said it took three weeks and he likened the journey to sailing round and round an island, the river was so winding. I do not think they repeated the trip. I felt very inclined to jump on board and go home but Mrs. Boulton begged me so hard to stay on, as she would need me particularly during the coming months, that I consented and settled down for another year.
The emigrants continued to flock in and Major Boulton had a ferry built, run by a cable I think. It was much easier than conveying oxen, wagons and household goods across in a small punt. The wheels were taken off the wagon and it was floated across, the oxen had to swim and the small things went in the punt. It often took nearly a day to get a family across.
Mrs. Boulton and I had a fine holiday for about six weeks, only doing just what we had to, and having no extra meals, but by the 1st of June Mrs. Gilly was weary of living alone and joined us. After that life became more strenuous, but I arranged to have my tea with the children, and then after they were in bed I had a quiet half hour while the rest of the family had their “high tea”. That half hour meant so much to me.
When we first came the wild creatures were so fearless they would come into the house. A sort of rabbit used to run in and out. I remember picking two out of the boiler, which held the bread, and carrying them out, one under each arm. They were as big as cats and so soft. But as the emigrants came along they disappeared. Another wonderful sight was the breaking up of the ice. It jammed up in front of the house but we had no flood, and for two or three days it rushed wildly down the river.
As the days got warm my heart turned to Sunday School work. Every Saturday some party of emigrants would camp near to us and it seemed such a wonderful opportunity to put the Gospel before the children who usually accompanied them. Besides this we had two families settled in tents close to our house. One was a man named Jackson, who had a large family all snuggled into the tent in some fashion. The other family hailed from London, where the man had been a barber. He left his family near us and went north farming, but before the first month was over he had cut his legs terribly attempting to cut hay with a scythe, so the farming was given up for the present.
Mrs. Boulton entered heartily into the plan, and the following Sunday morning Lawrence and Everard went round to all the tents and invited the children to Sunday School at three o’clock. They turned out in full force. Our own four and six or seven Jacksons always made a nucleus, and the rest of the audience was changed weekly, though the little Burdens often came over from their new home across the river.
We always had our class out of doors, generally in the little wood. I had a netted hammock given me by my grandmother. This we put between two trees. Some sat in it and the rest round me on the ground. What happy Sunday afternoons they were; I never had children who so enjoyed it. “Do go on,” they would say when I suggested closing, and though I said, “Well, let anyone who is tired go home,” not even the smallest would stir. They learned many verses and heard Bible stories and went home to their tents with their little hands full of tracts. Many were English children and it was like a little oasis in the rough long journey to these unknown parts to once more be in a Sunday School, even such a primitive one.
One day as I was teaching them, one or two on my knee and others cuddled into me, I looked up and there was a man trying to hide behind a tree. I do not know how long he had been there or who he was, but it may have been Mr. Jackson. He had a longing after the things of God I believe. Sometime afterwards, when I had gone home, he came to the Major saying, “I am very ill and my time is short, and I am not ready to die, can you help me?” The Major found some of the tracts I had used that summer, still in the house, and gave them to him. He died very happily about six weeks afterwards. So many tracts are given away and one wonders if they are any use sometimes, but this was one case in which they were used of God.
Besides Sunday afternoons, my hammock often went with us on little excursions which I took with the children. Sometimes we took our tea and made a little picnic. The woods were very pretty and the flowers fascinating. Other days we would go for long walks on the hills, Mrs. Boulton carrying little George, while I conveyed Heather on my back. I remember one morning we climbed to one of the upper terraces and it was simply carpeted with bluebells, gently swaying in a soft wind. It was so beautiful.
One day Mrs. Gilly and the elder children and I went to visit one of the bachelor neighbors, perhaps two miles away. He lived in a tent and he told us how it had been overthrown by bears a few days before, and how they had eaten nearly all his pork and knocked over his stove. On another occasion we all went out to gather the wild hops of which Mrs. Gilly made her famous yeast, but this of course was at the end of the summer.
One day, perhaps in July, the Major said to the children, “Now you shall go for plenty of trips; I have bought a shandredan”. “Oh Papa, what is a shandredan?” cried the children, and Mrs. Boulton and I repeated the question. But he would not satisfy our curiosity. Soon it appeared—a very old double democrat. To this the horses, Johnson and Thomson, were hitched and we had (I think) two drives. Then the shandredan came to an unexpected end. Major Boulton, having a long distance to go, took the old democrat and the horses. On his way back he fell in with my brother, who was riding his black pony. Not wishing for some reason to take the pony any further, he asked the Major to take it back to Shellmouth. He tied it behind his vehicle and went on his way. It was a hot afternoon and he was tired and thirsty. Coming to a house where he knew he would be welcome to a cup of tea, he stopped and ran in. Before the tea was even made, glancing out of the door, he saw his horses starting off at a gentle trot. The pony had somehow become untied and he was loping round and round the team and shandredan. The Major, standing on no ceremony, raced after them, but they were far too fleet for him and after following them for a long way he at last saw them disappear down a steep hill into a wooded gully. He now had to make the best of his way home on foot seven or eight miles, and very weary and overheated he looked when he arrived. No news could be obtained of the horses, but after several days they appeared, still keeping together, but without one scrap of harness. As to the shandredan, it had utterly disappeared. The pony had lost his bridle, but still had on the saddle—upside down. A long time afterwards, in a wood miles away, the shandredan was found, a wheel here and a board there, and the shafts somewhere else. So ended our drives for the summer!
At the risk of being thought childish, I will here tell the story of “Heather’s Pie”, which used to delight my own children years afterwards. One Sunday morning the Major begged his wife to go with him for a long drive. A friend was to take them in a comfortable buggy and he was sure she would enjoy it. “Do go,” I said, “I can quite well take care of the children.” The Major insisted this was so, but Heather refused to be left behind. She was nearly four years old, but had been delicate and was rather spoiled and petted by her mother. However, after much persuasion she agreed to stay if she might make a pie. This we readily promised and they started early in the afternoon. Then I provided Heather with flour and water, raisins and currants, sugar and various other things, sat her in her high chair at the same table where we cooked, and sitting down in the one chair, I took little George on my knee and proceeded to tell the elder children a Bible story. Alas it was never finished, in fact hardly begun, for Heather for some unknown reason elected to climb out of her chair and went headlong into a very large, full tub of water. This tub was filled from the river and was what we always used. Of course I had her out in a moment, but very wet and very frightened. Nellie and little George both joined her in cries, and I was at my wit’s end. People at home with cupboards and bureaus to keep their clothes in can hardly imagine what it meant to keep all the belongings of five children in one or two trunks and several suitcases. I hunted through all the possessions for dry garments and at last got enough to clothe her, but I as well as the children was a good deal shaken up, and not sorry when the parents arrived home. I was thankful that they both looked upon it as rather a joke.