Customs through, we board our train in that massive station,
Fine buildings, spacious rest-rooms, truly no relation
To drab English counterpart; this great land
With the finest station buildings is spanned,
That which strikes the traveler when first seen
Is their bright and sturdy look and so clean.
But those trains! each coach to me appeared twice the size
Of its Old Country cousin - but it's wise.
One was planned for runs of thousands of miles,
Knock off the naught and it alters the styles.
Man requires a much more liberal sketch
When he's on the train a week at a stretch.
With time to spare we walked along, curious to see
Just how big a loco at the front would there be.
It was a grim monster, ugly and tall;
A giant of a moose when it comes to haul.
With a full quarter-mile of coaches primed,
It did hit sixty miles per hour when timed.
Comparisons are odious and that's quite true;
But I can't help comparing these iron monsters to
Those slick locomotives painted and fine
That zip along on that Old Country line,
But twenty odd years of change and progress
Has streamlined this country's main line express.
Comparatively the main driving wheels are small
For high speeds not intended but for a tough haul.
Yet, loaded with a full half mile of freight,
They career along at a steady rate
Of fifty miles per and often much more,
A mass of momentum, great swish and roar.
Stand by that track but not too close, for heaven's sake;
That terrific vacuum that's left in its wake;
That strong on-rush of air that closes in
Would spin a man dizzy - death nosing in;
Cars rocking, noise and clatter, it's making
Veritable bedlam, the ground quaking.
The men who drive them, with true spirit of the West,
Waved to us in passing - 'twas such a friendly gest.
We waved back with gusto, quietly musing
Such a little thing, but so enthusing.
These pleasant interludes to think on. Well,
Soon we would emerge from our homebound shell.
Time to leave was here, we ambled on - no hurry.
Trainmen here don't die of heart failure or worry.
"All aboard, " the conductor warns and so
(Some still eating, drinking and spending dough)
"Aboard, board," he shouts once or twice again.
He sounds pleasant but the meaning is plain.
So we step off the platform, this not two feet high,
Up three steps to the coach, since we have wondered why
Were they so fashioned with steps at each end,
Inside all open to stranger or friend;
The aisle down the centre, now don't you see?
Each coach joined up we could walk long and free.
At each division, that's four hundred miles or so,
Believe it or not, we're handed a fresh loco;
All steamed up, restive, standing on the side;
Relief valve popping steam bursting with pride,
Waiting for that HARVEST SPECIAL to show;
Important men on that train - don't you know!
There are no strangers on this trans-Canada stretch.
Everyone talks and mingles - except the odd wretch
Who is found amongst men in any land.
(He may have a past he keeps underhand.)
There is no need I'm sure to dwell on him.
We won't waste time with him in this rhythm.
Now pick out your seats, boys, you'll soon learn all the ways.
Fraternize well, boys, you'll be here for days and days.
Throw your stuff on top; lay it nice and straight.
Don't forget hours hence when it's getting late
One of you (sure: me) will be flat on top,
Trying hard to sleep if the train would stop.
This "thing" on top - just a board, hinged, let down on links
Is for baggage only; sometimes a fellow thinks
By some kink of imagination, he
Can climb up there, lie down and wearily
Close his optics, relax and slip away
To that land of nod, nestled in fragrant hay.
He dreams his backbone's broke, his head all bumps.
That Pacific flyer lurches, the baggage thumps
Him in the middle, now he half wakes up
Sore and stiff and still another wallop
Hits him there unfriendly on the knees.
A voice says and so gentle, "Tickets, please!"
He rummages in the pockets of his coat.
He explores his trousers - he's no idea remote.
The Inspector looks on - thinks him a sap.
Then somehow he remembers - where's his cap?
He hands the man his yard-long ticket.
The man ponders, reads and then he snips it.
The "victim" meditates and wonders why on earth
Of all the hours of daylight that have hand their birth,
Why this man in the middle of the night
Should come a'prowling for to get a sight
Of his ticket. All right if that's their rule
That's the last time he would be made a fool.
With deliberation his ticket he'd pin
To his shirt, to his vest but no - not to his skin!
He lay down again easy on the board
Making sure his rail-pass pointed toward
Any snooping guy who was coming round
To inspect, while he was a'sleeping sound.
Now, we were traveling "colonist" not tourist class.
We were the wards of the Government on a cheap pass,
Accommodation raw - no clean white sheets.
We slept alternate, on top, on the seats.
Yes, for sure it was a good in-breaking
For those Western tough jobs we'd be taking.
We'd rise in the morn feeling like the night before,
Which meant we just stepped out, our clothes we always wore;
Then at next stop, twenty minutes allowed
Jump off ravenous and follow the crowd;
Imbibe much coffee and cakes in the time,
The all aboard would sound, then on we'd climb.
One dark night there, we halted deep down in the bush.
Some fire-rangers stepped off to fight in the brush.
We jumped off too, just longing for some "tay."
Hadn't any idea how long that train would stay.
We soon found out, that old engine tootered.
We swallowed that "tay" damned hot and scootered!
Those engines, it seemed strange to me, were all equipped
With a single bell on top, swinging, and this was tripped
By a long wire leading back to the crew.
Before stopping and starting, all they would do
Pull on the wire, the bell would flip half round,
Clang, clang, like a school bell would come the sound.
Enveloping this with four blasts, two long, two short,
Would come somewhat melodious, the powerful snort
Of the loco's steam whistle in lower tone.
How strange, the bell's tinkle and the other's moan.
How incongruous, the bell speaking peace,
The other for power, the power of the beast.
The train was moving, gaining speed, coughing up smoke
In the dead of the night. Was this the time to joke?
Farewell to our lunch, oh boy, what a sprint!
That conductor, he could have given a hint.
"Twas nothing to him if we should delay.
Why should he worry? We had paid our way.
So back to our seats after this unholy scare;
Those seats just looked lovely — we might not have been there.
Ah, me! the commonplace soon intervenes
when stresses lessen, whatever that means,
Fellows there sleeping, the jolts of the train,
This is our niche, we are back to the plain.
For a thousand miles or more, round curves, on the straight
A quarter mile of coaches sways at steady rate
Through all bush and scrub, interspersed with lakes,
Through pine, spruce, poplar its winding course takes,
Then out in the open - mountains in view,
Impressive - stunned by the distance thereto.
The train like a snake sped along that winding track
Sometimes I could see the front and also the back,
Both at the same time then that winding train
Unwinds. I see those gleaming drivers plain.
Now the tail I see just swinging along
A repetition of windows - to me a song.
A happy experience just to sit and stare
And watch those different changes unfolding there,
To see that huge loco throwing up smoke,
To see it drift over us like a cloak,
The fireman a'stoking for all he's worth,
That engine all primed to swallow the earth.
A train to some people is but a rattly bunch of wheels,
A pile of wood and dead metal which never feels.
To me that winding train of years long dead
Spoke of music and much happiness shed.
Each wheel as it passed a rail sang, "S'long,
S'long," sunshine streamed in, around, among.
This Country, like its climate, does nothing by halves.
The distances so very great, a portion starves
Whenever that rainfall, ever a chance,
Just misses one section by but a glance.
One year everything is good and plenty,
The next maybe (don't we know it!) empty.
This money business was monkey business to us.
Some rare arguments came up — were we in a muss?
A dollar's four bob, but what is a dime?
Not a tanner nor a bit-just don't rhyme.
Two bits is a shilling that's a quarter.
What's a nickel? don't know, but we oughta!
Through hard experience we soon found out - you bet!
Although for counting up, we weren't quite on it yet.
We'd figure our change in English money
Then back again, really it was funny,
To figure in dollars, 'twas just nonsense.
It had to be changed to shillings and pence.
Just once, that's right, just once, we planned a long long stroll
From one end to the other was to be our goal.
We stumbled, lurched, held on - how that train did jar!
We paused on the vestibule joining each car.
There the air was cool and we spied the tracks
The rails singing to the wheel's rhythmic slaps.
Of the weather so far there has not been a sound.
Have an idea, though, he was hanging around.
August is the month of bright sunny days.
Still he lives up to his reputed ways.
He shone down on us from skies blue and wide,
Never a cloud did his cheery face hide.
Triple windows there are on those great western trains
To keep out that intense cold that grips firm the plains.
These can be raised in the Summer, of course.
The sun beaming through, they become the source
Of stifling heat pouring all around.
A man feels that he is by heat being drowned.
The bush behind us was thinning, before us the plain,
Where somehow, strangely the speed of the train
Seemed to drop sharply - the answer not hard.
The trees now passed formed a shady green sward.
Now we were speeding right out in the clear
No landmark to judge by, nothing was near.
For all the World it could have been the sea.
For just a mass of land it was, hardly a tree.
Dead flat and huge it looked as we sped through.
A sea of earth it stretched beyond the blue,
Limitless horizons, ever before
The train, a thread on eternity's floor.
Golden fields of wheat, some cut, some not yet begun;
Nature's bounteous harvest triumph of rain and sun,
Millions of stooks standing, grain black land
In pattern just by chance, sequence unplanned.
Homesteads near and far with fine trees around,
Planted to break the wind, improve the ground.
A thousand miles or so this prairie land extends.
Wide rivers meander through, lakes abound, it ends
At the foothills of the Rockies. It's not
All flat, the best land is, but quite a lot
Is up and down and rolling, many a hill
Grows grain and gives up to the farmer's will.
Winnipeg was journey's end. We were getting near
And by this country's standard it would appear
To be two hundred miles, that's just a trip.
What is two hundred miles, 'tis but a nip
Compared to those two thousand strung behind.
Thinking in these figures improves the mind.
At Winnipeg it seems we would be sorted out.
The wheat and the tares, so I thought, without a doubt.
I couldn't quite, somehow, just figure why.
Like colts unworked, sure, we could always try.
But the truth was, from this point on, you ken,
Those who traveled on had to book again.
Some of us bought tickets to Moose Jaw, that city
Four hundred miles, half a cent a mile was pretty
Cheap, two dollars, that's about eight shilling.
We jumped on keen as mustard and quite willing,
Threw our stuff on top, real happy and said:
"Just one more night on a rickety bed."
We pulled into that city aboard the C.N.
In the middle of that August day just when
The sun was at its hottest: now it's done.
"Twas the end of that trans-Canada run.
Here's good-bye to our last main line fast train.
The next one, by gee, sure gave us a pain!
So into that fair city many of us went;
By Officials in authority were we sent
To locate that land office, enter in
And inquire of the clerk right there within
If farmers were asking for right good men,
Inquire how far out and, if needed, when?
But it wasn't quite so simple as that we found.
The place was packed with fellows like us who were bound
With the selfsame idea - jobs to locate,
We were bored stiff with that tedious wait,
Feeling sorry for that poor farmer who
Would be so unlucky to hire us two!
Yes, Bill and I made acquaintance, a mutual pact,
When old Canada sailed, as a matter of fact.
Some fate it seems had thrown us together
Our fortunes (mostly "miss") would we tether.
Fate is, like the throw of the dice, pure chance,
Like lives converging they "click" at a glance.
We were both of us short, but Bill was more burly,
More used to the rough and tough, the late and early.
I had been reared in steadier fashion.
For tough hard going I had no passion.
At home I had been more or less ailing
Hence my ambition to cure that failing.
So there we were somewhat drowsy amid that heat,
Our legs shaky from misuse, a'feeling our feet
Missing that train, we were fond of it still.
A man can't explain his contrary will.
Now we were stalled, plum stalled by this impasse.
Don't talk to me about things done en masse.
At last we stood before the clerk at his table.
Sure he had two jobs for men willing and able.
Well, we were willing - please give us the name.
Able? oh, sure! certainly the words came.
He could see our bluff was just a pretend.
Hope that farmer won't catch us when we bend!
A man reaches a time in his life which persists
Like a point or fulcrum on which his life lists
His past weighed up, balanced in the scale.
Would it still be worthwhile telling the tale?
I felt this was the time, the crucial time,
Turn the past over - commence a new rhyme.
For a minute he stood checking things closely.
Farmers, he said, who inquire in here, mostly
Want one; one green man round the place, they say,
Can lose a farmer much money a day.
(I've an idea he's thinking of temper.)
Our conduct couldn't be more exempler!
But the crop was heavy, an urgent need for men.
Lawson was the place, he said, so we asked him when
Would the train leave for this our fatal spot?
Should leave at two but won't be on the dot,
Sixty-six miles Northwest of this city
On the C.N. — we were doing pretty.
So, once again on board, this time on a local.
Every eight miles we halted, 'twas a real slowpoke-al.
At each stop we shed at least one green un.
Miles were dwindling - we could see the meaning.
Then at last we reached our journey's end.
No band to meet us - what did that portend?
This sleepy place - no street cars here - was this the spot?
Were we, live city boys to languish here and rot?
There couldn't be here half a hundred folk,
A few buildings, one street, oh, what a joke!
My, my, what an end to a perfect day!
Suddenly someone shouted to us, "HEY!"
A man walked over, short build and quietly spoken.
That unfair line of thought definitely broken.
"Are you fellows looking for a berth?"
We could perceive here a farmer of worth.
"Bring your duds, boys, and follow me," he said.
We were glad to follow, glad to be led.
A "Chev" touring car, cover up, stood by the curb.
The cases in, we sat down and didn't say a word.
Our boss slid in, switch on, the engine sputtered,
"The roads are slippery," I think he uttered.
There had been a shower, I can believe.
He eased back on the clutch, we took our leave.
The roads were slippery we found out, just like he said.
He needed us alive - what use if we were dead!
We never were used to this, that skating keg
Did everything else but sit up and beg.
Two wavy lines were strung out in the rear,
We slithered crosswise and saw them quite clear.
We hung on like two leeches while that darting Chev
Dove for the ditch, balked, got mad and went rev,
Straight for the other, slid part way down
Skidded sideways for fifty yards the clown
Climbed out, got her wind then zoomed on the straight,
Threw mud, made passes - went in nice through the gate!
We tumbled out, grabbed our cases and entered in;
His wife nice and friendly having bade us, "Come in!"
Then up those wide stairs she showed us each bed.
We were always looked after, always well fed.
Is this the way they treated hired men,
In every way looked on as two of them?
We didn't sleep much, I mind, that very first night;
That dead stillness - that intense and awful quiet
Hemmed us in like a shroud - seemed like nowhere;
Lost in space, only so can I compare
That feeling that mastered us as we lay,
A knock — we came to - it's always the way.
"Twas six o'clock of that now memorable day,
August the twenty-third if I'm allowed to say.
I never had such an ocular feast
As seeing old Sol rise up in the East.
His ruddy streamers came first then the rim
Then blood red and huge came the rest of him.
He lingers a moment there, just hanging in space,
Diffused and slanting light fair oozing from his face.
In those first few minutes he rises fast.
His face slowly assumes a paler cast
Then, apparently slipping farther away,
He appears to shrink, increasing his ray.
We sat down to breakfast, just the four of us
That little job of stooking we would not discuss.
We concentrated instead on porridge.
'Tis said a man needs plenty of forage
Or is it roughage? It's never my wish
To see again that porridge, dish by dish!
I remember that fine array of plants she had.
They were lovely to look at, yet I felt quite sad,
A tender reminder, homelike and green,
Of many an intimate English scene,
But say - that porridge - when I think it o'er,
How did I eat so much then ask for more!
Time was passing, that one moment must come, you know
When of necessity we must do: not go.
When ambition stirs and says - get moving.
we need reminders - we need reproving.
So when Jack, our boss, says, "Are you ready?"
We answer appropriate, "Aye and steady."
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