Seeds Of Pine - free ebook by Emily F. (Emily Ferguson) Murphy

Author of "Open Trails", etc.

" A handful of pine-seeds will cover mountains with the green majesty of the forest, and I, too, will set my face to the wind and throw my handful of seed on high. " — Fiona Macleod...

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CHAPTER I

"'What went ye out into the wilderness to see?' They answered thus, 'So that we might not see the city.'"—SIR WILLIAM BUTLER. The new steel trail the railway men are laying from Edmonton leads away and away, I cannot say whither. For these many days I have had an anxious desire to follow it and the glories thereof. I am tired of this town and of the electrical devices that appear and re-appear in the darkness like eyes that open and shut—wicked eyes that burn their commercial message into my ver

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CHAPTER II

The new world which is the old.—TENNYSON. Have I told you about Edson and its prospects? No! ah, well, never mind, I shall do so by and by, when I have talked to the citizens. While biding my time for a seat at the lunch-counter, I will walk up and down the station platform. Every minute men are arriving to await the out-going train to the city. They come and come, apparently from nowhere, till there are quite a hundred of them. Of course, they really come from up the street (I should have said

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CHAPTER III

To the builders of the highway, that skirt the canyon's brink, To the men that bind the roadbed fast, To the high, the low, the first and last, I raise my glass and drink!—EVELYN GUNNE. As yet, there is no passenger service from Edson to the End of Steel. Several day coaches are run, but they are chiefly for the use of the engineers and workmen. This is how I happen to be the only woman aboard pulling out for the mountains across this newly-made trail. Do not misunderstand me; it is the railroad

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CHAPTER IV

"Behind the hills, that's where the fairies are, Behind the hills, that's where the sun goes down." I fell asleep in the cupola of the caboose and dreamed that my head was a rubber band holding too many notes, and that it was going to snap any second. "Hit's the bloomin' haltitude in your 'ead, Ma'am," explained a Cockney later, and I expect he was right, for we have made an ascent of over one thousand feet since leaving Edmonton. When I awake the train is standing stock-still. Here is the troub

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CHAPTER V

I love the hills and the hills love me As mates love one another.—MACCATHMHAOIL. It is over a year since, in the last chapter, I was turned back from the End of Steel because of a wash-out on construction, and now I am come back, but this time, through the kindness of the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway, on a through service, electric-lighted, fast-scheduled, no-fare excursion. And on this occasion, I am not the only woman on the train but merely one among a hundred, for this, you must know, is the

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CHAPTER VI

They could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.— The Pentateuch . "Tweet, my little plover! Thy lips are like unto the bleeding strawberry." Wasi, the father, smiled indulgently on this child-play, cooing chatter, and sweet-flavoured words of his girl-wife as she fondled their wonder-eyed baby. And in truth, it was a round dimpled baby—a cunning, cuddling papoose that looked for all the world like a live bronze. Wasi did well to smile. The older Braves had sneered at Wasi, "th

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CHAPTER VII

"I'll tell the tale of a northern trail, And so help me God, it's true." I dreamed three times that I was taking this trip, and here it has come to pass. Our party consists of an editor from Vancouver; an editor from Edmonton; a Member of Parliament, a chauffeur, and myself. I feel guiltily feminine. The road is one hundred miles long and connects Edmonton with the North. Over it are hauled all the supplies for the settlements and trading posts clear down to the Arctic. Once arrived at Athabasca

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CHAPTER VIII

Sometimes, I go a-fishing and shooting, and even then I carry a note-book, that if I lose game, I may at least bring home my pleasant thoughts!—PLINY. I am fishing for graylings, but so far have caught none, my case being similar to that of one Chang Chi-Ho, who in the eighth century, "spent his time angling but used no bait, his object not being to catch fish." And truth to tell, I have not even the grace of an object, unless it be to talk to the men folk who are lading the big flat scows calle

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CHAPTER IX

A city founded is no city built Till faith becomes prolific by the fathering tale Of good report and all-availing effort.—J. M. HARPER. The sweet of life is something small, A resting by a wayside wall With God's good sunshine over all.—R. W. GILBERT. This is the rainy season at Athabasca Landing, so that the streets are very muddy. Long ago, it was like this in Edmonton, my continuing city, but when we were come to a very considerable puddle our escorts carried us. This is why big, fine-looking

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CHAPTER X

I am but mad north-northwest: when the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.— Hamlet . All the world is a deluge of rain when we leave Athabasca Landing, and we wait at the hotel till the last minute, hoping the storm may abate in order that we may reach our steamer without losing too much starch. But the horn is making the asthmatic lamentations, meaning thereby that everybody should be aboard, so we say good-bye to all at the hotel; promise to be good; to take care of ourselves; and

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CHAPTER XI

Through these shores amid the shadows, with the apparitions pressing, Pioneers! O Pioneers!—WHITMAN. In the morning, soon after sunup, we continue our joyous journey on the Athabasca, but the birds are out and about before us. An occasional duck rises off the water sharply with a whir of wet wings, but generally they are self-complacent and play at last across the road with the ship, just as if they sought trouble and despised it. The young ducklings, who have only taken to water these few days

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CHAPTER XII

"Think o' the stories round the camp, the yarns along the track O' Lesser Slave an' Herschel's Isle an' Flynn at Fond du Lac; Of fur and gun, an' ranch, an' run, an' moose an' caribou, An' bulldogs eatin' us to death! Good-bye—Good-luck to you!" Mirror Landing, where we leave the boat to make the portage to Soto Landing, is on the Lesser Slave River, at its confluence with the Athabasca. Its name has been well chosen, for the Lesser Slave River is a clear stream, and shows a kindly portrait to a

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CHAPTER XIII.

We sing the open road, good friends, But here's a health to you.—WILLIAM GRIFFITH. As one watches the efforts of the wagoners to store away the valises and rolls of blankets without ejecting the passengers, one remembers that Cæsar's word for baggage was impedimenta. But Prosper, our wagoner, is the best packer on the trail, also he can sing, "I've got rings on my fingers." "It is strange there are so many dingy half-breeds in the world," says the person by my side who objects to her blankets be

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CHAPTER XIV

Gitchie Manito, the Mighty, Mitchie Manito, the bad; In the breast of every Redman, In the dust of every dead man, There's a tiny heap of Gitchie— And a mighty mound of Mitchie— There's the good and there's the bad.—CY WARMAN. From Soto Landing, the Lesser Slave River bends its course to the north and west till it empties into Lesser Slave Lake at Sawridge. It is a small river, being about a hundred and fifty feet wide and about thirty deep. Owing to its sharp curving banks much care is required

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CHAPTER XV

The trail hath no languorous longing; It leads to no Lotus land; On its way dead Hopes come thronging To take you by the hand; He who treads the trail undaunted, thereafter shall command. —KATE SIMPSON HAYES. Half a century ago Bishop Taché wrote a letter to France, in which he asked for some missionaries. In response to this appeal a certain young Grouard was sent to Fort Garry. When Bishop Taché looked over the slender stripling he said: "I asked for a man; they sent me a boy." But a year late

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CHAPTER XVI

My name is Ojib-Charlie, I like to sing and dance.—CY WARMAN. The reader will excuse my chronicling the Jubilee before telling about Grouard. I have no excuse other than caprice, nor any precedent other than the fact that Chinese authors write their stories backward. To resume then: You will remember the medical doctor on the boat was telling me how, one day, Grouard would be a large city. I wish to go further and declare it one now in spite of its small population, that is if you will accept wi

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CHAPTER XVII

Still do our jaded pulses bound Remembering that eager race.—R. W. GILBERT. This favour would never have come to me if I had not found a two-eyed peacock feather in the paddock. It isn't reasonable to suppose that a simple, country-bred person from back Alberta-way could have such story-book luck on her first wager. La-la-la! All the way down I kept praying, "Lead not Janey into temptation," knowing right well I would slay any one who kept me out. I take off my hat to myself. "Dear me!" says Joh

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CHAPTER XVIII

Away from the beaten tracks there are still by-paths where hyacinths grow in the springtime.—ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE. Far off in the Southland, it is in the habit of Spring to come lagging over the land. She is a princess. You can tell it by her manner of moving, and her fine lady ways. Often, she is greatly bored. Under the north star it is different. Spring is a wilding horsewoman, sweet and graceless, pirouetting a-tiptoe and waving to us kisses. Hush! and hold you still, my merry Gentlemen. You

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CHAPTER XIX

I hear the tale of the divine life and the bloody death of the beautiful God, the Christ.—WALT WHITMAN. This is my first visit to Mundare, on the Canadian Northern Railway, and to the Ruthenian Church—the church with glittering domes, the foundation stone of which was laid by the great Laurier himself. "Who is this Sir Laurier?" I ask. "Ach! I cannot tell you. He a great man is," says Michael Veranki, "his hair is like to the wild cotton in August, and his face is beautiful, even like the face o

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CHAPTER XX

It was my harassing duty to act as death-watch to the man who wrote the appended diary. On the day before his execution he made no entry, although he opened the book several times and once asked me to sharpen his pencil. I was not present at his execution, but was informed that he bore himself with dignity and calmness. The crime which he expiated with his life was the murder of his wife who had left him to live with another man. He had still one year to complete before obtaining his degree as a

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CHAPTER XXI

There is a woman and she was wise, Wofully wise was she.—ROBERT SERVICE. Now Judea was a Province too, only smaller than Canada, and it was subject to Rome. In Judea, there was a town called Bethlehem, which means a house of bread. It must have been that wheat was plentiful. But this Bethlehem was a small, small place, and the Romans cared not so much as one finger's fillip that a strange white star waited there for a little while to light up a birth-bed. I do not know if the star did wait, but

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CHAPTER XXII

This they all with a joyful mind Bear thro' life like a torch in flame, And falling, fling to the host behind, 'Play up! Play up! and play the game!'—NEWBOLT. "For long years," said a Toronto editor the other day, "this country has produced few outstanding personalities except politicians." Here spoke the little Canadian. By this country he meant the provinces to the south of the Great Lakes. Think of that! Think of that! Why, man dear, north of the lakes we have outstanding personalities to bur

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CHAPTER XXIII

Till dazzled by the drowsy glare, I shut my eyes to heat and light; And saw, in sudden night, Crouched in the dripping dark, With steaming shoulders stark The man who hews the coal to feed my fire. —WILFRED WILSON GIBSON. Solon once told Croesus that whoever had the iron would possess all the gold, but here Solon was taking coal for granted. Iron-mines are of comparatively little value unless coal-mines are within easy access. I think of this as I view the underground workings of a coal-mine, to

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CHAPTER XXIV

Come, my love, and let us wander Cross the hills and over yonder.—CY WARMAN. Banff, in the Rocky Mountains, has been so often called the playgrounds of the West, that the words have become trite and fail to carry their true significance. This fact is inevitably borne in on the Canadian who visits the place, and he wonders to himself why he has failed to understand it before. Assuredly this is my experience as I ride around Tunnel Mountain this beautiful August day. The road is seven miles long,

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CHAPTER XXV

Out of the North there rang a cry of Gold!—TOM McINNES. Only this spring, a widow near Edmonton sold her quarter-section to a real-estate syndicate for eighty thousand dollars. She was one of the women who "stayed at home with the stuff" while her husband fared forth in search of gold at the time of the Klondike stampede in 1897-8. He died on the trail, and ever since the woman has ploughed the lone furrow both literally and metaphorically. The handsome reward of her industry and pertinacity cal

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CHAPTER XXVI

Out of the North comes tumult, say they who are poets, and clangorous challenge to battle. True, O Poets! And out of the North come men of robust mood who will keep our nation's honour, for this is a country where courage and truth are inborn; a land which sways the souls of its citizens unto high endeavour. From this country where, of old, dwelt the bow-bearers who were eaters of strong meat, will come high-hearted men of loyal temper, for this is the world's House of Youth. This shall be its n

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