Part 3 (1/2)
CHAPTER IV
PICTURES
Nothing is lost that our memories hold, Nothing forgotten that once we knew; And to-day a boy with curls of gold Is running my fond heart through and through-- In and out and round and round-- And I find myself laughing without a sound At the funny things he said that time When life was one glad nursery rhyme.
It should not be so hard for mothers to give up their children. We should grow accustomed to it, for we are always losing them. I once had a curly-haired baby with eyes like blue forget-me-nots, who had a sweet way of saying his words, and who coined many phrases which are still in use in my family. Who is there who cannot see that ”a-ging-a-wah” has a much more refres.h.i.+ng sound than ”a drink of water”? And I am sure that n.o.body could think of a nicer name for the hammer and nails than a ”num and a peedaw.” At an incredibly early age this baby could tell you how the birdies fly and what the kitty says.
All mothers who have had really wonderful children--and this takes us all in--will understand how hard it is to set these things down in cold print or even to tell them; for even our best friends are sometimes dull of heart and slow of understanding when we tell them perfectly wonderful things that our children did or said. We all know that horrible moment of suspense when we have told something real funny that our baby said, and our friends look at us with a dull is-that-all expression in their faces, and we are forced to supplement our recital by saying that it was not so much what he said as the way he said it!
Soon I lost the blue-eyed baby, and there came in his place a st.u.r.dy little freckle-faced chap, with a distinct dislike for water as a cleansing agent, who stoutly declared that was.h.i.+ng his hands was a great waste of time, for they were sure to get dirty again; which seems to be reasonable, and it is a wonder that people have not taken this fact into account more when dealing with the griminess of youth.
Who objected to going to church twice a day on the ground that he ”might get too fond of it.” Who, having once received five cents as recompense for finding his wayward sister, who had a certain proclivity for getting lost, afterwards deliberately mislaid the same sister and claimed the usual rates for finding her, and in this manner did a thriving ”Lost and Found” business for days, until his unsuspecting parent overheard him giving his sister full directions for losing herself--he had grown tired of having to go with her each time, and claimed that as she always got half of the treat she should do her share of the work. Who once thrashed a boy who said that his sister had a dirty face,--which was quite true, but people do not need to say everything they know, do they? Who went swimming in the gravel pit long before the 24th of May, which marks the beginning of swimming and barefoot time in all proper families, and would have got away with it, too, only, in his haste to get a ride home, he and his friend changed s.h.i.+rts by mistake, and it all came to light at bedtime.
Then I lost him, too. There came in his place a tall youth with a distinct fondness for fine clothes, stiff collars, tan boots, and bright ties; a dignified young man who was pained and shocked at the disreputable appearance of a younger brother who was at that time pa.s.sing through the wash-never period of his life and who insisted upon claiming relations.h.i.+p even in public places. Who hung his room with flags and pennants and photographs. Who had for his friends many young fellows with high pompadours, whom he called by their surnames and disputed with noisily and abusively, but, unlike the famous quarrel of Fox and Burke, ”with no loss of friends.h.i.+p.” Who went in his holidays as ”mule-skinner” on a construction gang in the North Country, and helped to build the railway into ”The Crossing,” and came home all brown and tanned, with muscles as hard as iron and a luscious growth of whiskers. Who then went back to college and really began to work, for he had learned a few things about the value of an education as he drove the mules over the dump, which can be learned only when the muscles ache and the hands have blisters.
Then came the call! And again I lost him! But there is a private in the ”Princess Pats” who carries my picture in his cap and who reads my letter over again just before ”going in.”
CHAPTER V
SAVING OUR SOULS
O work--thrice blessed of the G.o.ds-- Abundant may you be!
To hold us steady, when our hearts Grow cold and panicky!
I cannot fret--and drive the plough,-- Nor weep--and ply the spade; O blessed work--I need you now To keep me unafraid!
No terrors can invade the place Where honest green things thrive; Come blisters--backache--sunburnt face-- And save my soul alive!
No wonder that increased production has become a popular cry. Every one wants to work in a garden--a garden is so comforting and rea.s.suring. Everything else has changed, but seedtime and harvest still remain. Rain still falls, seeds sprout, buds break into leaves, and blossoms are replaced by fruit.
We are forced back to the elemental things. Horses and cattle look better to me every day. Read the war news--which to-day tells of the destruction of French villages--and then look at the cattle grazing peacefully on the gra.s.s which clothes the hillside, and see how good they look! They look like sanctified Christians to me!
Ever since the war I have envied them. They are not suspicious or jealous; they are not worried, hurried, troubled, or afraid; they are oblivious of public opinion; they have no debts to pay; they do not weary you with explanations; they are not sorry for anything they have ever done; they are not blaming G.o.d for anything! On every count the cattle seem to have the best of us!
It is a quiet evening here in northern Alberta, and the evening light is glinting on the frozen ponds. I can see far up the valley as I write, and one by one the lights begin to glimmer in the farmhouses; and I like to think that supper is being prepared there for hungry children. The thought of supper appeals to me because there is no dining-car on the train, and every minute I am growing hungrier. The western sky burns red with the sunset, and throws a sullen glow on the banks of clouds in the east. It is a quiet, peaceful evening, and I find it hard to believe that somewhere men are killing each other and whole villages are burning.... The light on the ponds grows dimmer, with less of rose and more of a luminous gray.... I grow hungrier still, and I know it is just because I cannot get anything. I eat apples and nut-bars, but they do not satisfy me; it is roast beef, brown gravy, potatoes, and turnips that I want. Is it possible that I refused lemon pie--last night--at Carmangay? Well--well--let this be a lesson to you!
The sunset is gone now, and there is only a brightness in the western sky, and a big staring moon stands above the valley, s.h.i.+ning down on the patches of snow which seem to run together like the wolves we used to see on the prairies of Manitoba long ago. The farmhouses we pa.s.s are bright with lights, and I know the children are gathered around the table to ”do” their lessons. The North Country, with its long, snowy winters, develops the love of home in the hearts of our people, and drives the children indoors to find their comfort around the fire.
Solomon knew this when he said that the perfect woman ”is not afraid of the snow for her household.” Indeed, no; she knows that the snow is a home-developing agency, and that no one knows the joy and comfort of home like those of us who have battled with cold and storm and drifted roads all day, and at nightfall come safely to this blessed place where warmth and companions.h.i.+p await us! Life has its compensations.
Across the aisle from me two women are knitting--not in a neighborly, gossipy way, chatting meanwhile, but silently, swiftly, nervously.
There is a psychological reason for women knitting just now, beyond the need of socks. I know how these women feel! I, even I, have begun to crochet! I do it for the same reason that the old toper in time of stress takes to his gla.s.s. It keeps me from thinking; it atrophies the brain; and now I know why the women of the East are so slow about getting the franchise. They crochet and work in wool instead of thinking. You can't do both! When the casualty lists are long, and letters from the Front far apart--I crochet.
Once, when I was in great pain, the doctor gave me chloroform, and it seemed to me that a great black wall arose between me and pain! The pain was there all right, but it could not get to me on account of the friendly wall which held it back--and I was grateful! Now I am grateful to have a crochet-needle and a ball of silcotton. It is a sort of mental chloroform. This is for the real dark moments, when the waves go over our heads.... We all have them, but of course they do not last.
More and more am I impressed with the wonderful comeback of the human soul. We are like those Chinese toys, which, no matter how they are buffeted, will come back to an upright position. It takes a little longer with us--that is all; but given half a chance--or less--people will rise victorious over sin and sorrow, defeat and failure, and prove thereby the divinity which is in all of us!