Part 20 (1/2)
”I'll try and locate the husband,” said the agent.
”Yes, she'll get his address to-night, she says,” explained the wife; ”but no one knows when he will get here. Most likely he's twenty miles away from Brandon, and they will have to send out for him.”
Which eventually proved to be the case; and three days elapsed before the husband and father was able to reach the little border town where his wife and ample family had been installed as residents of the general waiting-room of a small, scantily-equipped station. No beds, no was.h.i.+ng conveniences, no table, no chairs; just the wall seats, with a roof above them and the pump water at the end of the platform to drink from and dabble in. The distressed man arrived, harra.s.sed and anxious, only to be met by a round-faced, laughing wife and nine round-faced, laughing children, who all made sport of their ”camping” experience, and a.s.sured him they could have ”stood it” a little longer, if need be.
But they slept in beds that night--glorious, feathery beds, that were in reality but solid hemp mattresses--in the cheapest lodging-house in town.
Then began the home-building. Henderson had secured a quarter section of land and made two payments on it when his wife and children arrived, with all their ”settlers' effects” in a freight car, which, truth to tell, were meagre enough. They had never really owned a home in the East, and when, with saving and selling, she managed to follow her husband into the promising world of Manitoba, she determined to possess a home, no matter how crude, how small, how remote. So Henderson hired horses and ”teamed” out sufficient lumber and tar-paper to erect a shack which measured exactly eighteen by twelve feet, then sodded the roof in true Manitoba style, and into this cramped abode Mrs. Henderson stowed her household goods and nine small children. With the stove, table, chairs, tubs and trunks, there was room for but one bed to be put up. Poor, unresourceful Henderson surveyed the crowded shack helplessly, but that round-faced, smiling wife of his was not a particle discouraged. ”We'll just build in two sets of bunks, on each end of the house,” she laughed. ”The children won't mind sleeping on 'shelves,' for the bread-winners must have the bed.”
So they economized s.p.a.ce with a dozen such little plans, and all through the unpacking and settling and arranging, she would say every hour or two, ”Oh, it's a little crowded and stuffy, but it's _ours_--it's _home_,” until Henderson and the children caught something of her inspiration, and the sod-roof shack became ”home”
in the sweetest sense of the word.
There are some people who ”make” time for everything, and this remarkable mother was one. That winter she baked bread for every English bachelor ranchman within ten miles. She did their was.h.i.+ng and ironing, and never neglected her own, either. She knitted socks for them, and made and sold quant.i.ties of Saskatoon berry jam. When spring came she had over fifty dollars of her own, with which she promptly bought a cow. Then late in March they made a small first payment of a team of horses, and ”broke land” for the first time, plowing and seeding a few acres of virgin prairie and getting a start.
But her quaintest invention to utilize every resource possible was a novel scheme for chicken-raising. One morning the children came in greatly excited over finding a wild duck's nest in the nearby ”slough.” Mrs. Henderson told them to be very careful not to frighten the bird, but to go back and search every foot of the gra.s.sy edges and try to discover other nests. They succeeded in finding three. That day a neighboring English rancher, driving past on his way to Brandon, twenty miles distant, called out, ”Want anything from town, Mrs. Henderson?”
”Eggs, just eggs, if you will bring them, like a good boy,” she answered, running out to the trail to meet him.
”Why, you _are_ luxurious to-day, and eggs at fifty cents a dozen,”
he exclaimed.
”Never mind,” she replied, ”they're not nearly so luxurious as chickens. You just bring me a dozen and a half. Pay _any_ price, but be sure they are fresh, new laid, right off the nest. Now just insist on that, or we shall quarrel.” And with a menacing shake of a forefinger and a customary laugh, she handed him a precious bank note to pay for the treasures.
The next day Mrs. Henderson adroitly subst.i.tuted hen's eggs for the wild ducks' own, and the shy, pretty water fowls, returning from their morning's swim, never discovered the fraud. [Fact.]
”Six eggs under three sitters--eighteen chicks, if we're lucky enough to have secured fertile eggs,” mused Mrs. Henderson. ”Oh, well, we'll see.” And they _did_ see. They saw exactly eighteen fluffy, peeping chicks, whose timid little mothers could not understand why their broods disappeared one by one from the long, wet gra.s.ses surrounding the nest. But in a warm canton flannel lined basket near the Henderson's stove the young arrivals chirped and picked at warm meal as st.u.r.dily as if hatched in a coop by a commonplace barnyard ”Biddy.” And every one of those chicks lived and grew and fattened into a splendid flock, and the following spring they began sitting on their own eggs. But the good-hearted woman, in relating the story, would always say that she felt like a thief and a robber whenever she thought of that shy, harmless little wild duck who never had the satisfaction of seeing her brood swim in the ”slough.”
All this happened more than twenty years ago, yet when I met Mrs.
Henderson last autumn, as she was journeying to Prince Albert to visit a married daughter, her wonderfully youthful face was as round and smiling as if she had never battled through the years in a hand-to-hand fight to secure a home in the pioneer days of Manitoba. She is well off now, and lives no more in the twelve-by-eighteen-foot bunk-house, but when I asked her how she accomplished so much, she replied, ”I just jollied things along, and laughed over the hard places. It makes them easier then.”
So perhaps the station agent's wife was really right, after all, when she remarked that ”some women were just born to laugh.”
The Tenas Klootchman
[In Chinook language ”Tenas Klootchman” means ”girl baby.”]
This story came to me from the lips of Maarda herself. It was hard to realize, while looking at her placid and happy face, that Maarda had ever been a mother of sorrows, but the healing of a wounded heart oftentimes leaves a light like that of a benediction on a receptive face, and Maarda's countenance held something greater than beauty, something more like lovableness, than any other quality.
We sat together on the deck of the little steamer throughout the long violet twilight, that seems loath to leave the channels and rocky of the Upper Pacific in June time. We had dropped easily into conversation, for nothing so readily helps one to an introduction as does the friendly atmosphere of the extreme West, and I had paved the way by greeting her in the Chinook, to which she responded with a sincere and friendly handclasp.
Dinner on the small coast-wise steamers is almost a function. It is the turning-point of the day, and is served English fas.h.i.+on, in the evening. The pa.s.sengers ”dress” a little for it, eat the meal leisurely and with relish. People who perhaps have exchanged no conversation during the day, now relax, and fraternize with their fellow men and women.
I purposely secured a seat at the dining-table beside Maarda.
Even she had gone through a simple ”dressing” for dinner, having smoothed her satiny black hair, knotted a brilliant silk handkerchief about her throat, and laid aside her large, heavy plaid shawl, revealing a fine delaine gown of green, bordered with two flat rows of black silk velvet ribbon. That silk velvet ribbon, and the fas.h.i.+on in which it was applied, would have bespoken her nationality, even had her dark copper-colored face failed to do so.
The average Indian woman adores silk and velvet, and will have none of cotton, and these decorations must be in symmetrical rows, not designs. She holds that the fabric is in itself excellent enough.
Why twist it and cut it into figures that would only make it less lovely?