Christmas Traditions and Gift Ideas

I spent my first Christmas on the prame in 1907, shortly after I had commenced homesteading [about 35 miles from
Duck Lake, Sask.] At that time I was full enough of enthusiasm to enjoy anything that had a spice of novelty about it. Christmas day I spent at the home of my friend Shepley with three other bachelor guests. It was different from any Christmas I had ever spent before, but not the least enjoyable by any means. We had very little of the usual paraphernalia of Christmas time. There was no Christmas tree, no holly, no mistletoe, and no girls to kiss under it if there had been.

But what really counts at Christmas is a spirit of good will, a good dinner and a good appetite to enjoy it. We had all of these. Shepley had been to town and might have stayed there over the festive season, but he would not disappoint the rest of us, and came back the night before with a pair of nice fat ducks and a plum pudding.

We all contributed something to the bill of fare, and took turns at cooking and sawing wood outside so that all should have appetites appropriate to the occasion. Chicken soup preceded the roast duck, and plum pudding and mince pies followed, and the feeling of sweet content that seemed to steal over us all when we drew around the stove after dinner, made us forget the homesickness which we all no doubt felt, but which no one spoke about.

The second Christmas was different. We had by this time extended our acquaintance considerably, and had discovered that there were some ladies living in the neighborhood after all. We started to celebrate on Christmas Eve, and with two teams and sleighs gathered up a merry party of nearly twenty. We first went to a Doukhobor village, and with one of the ladies of the party dressed as Santa Claus, beard and all, visited each house leaving toys for the children and having a great time generally. Then we went off to another village, where the Catholic members of the party attended service before we returned home in the early hours of the morning.

The festivities were renewed as soon as we had had a few hours’ sleep and had done our chores, and the whole neighborhood started on a round of visits which lasted till the New Year. Sometimes a bunch of a dozen or more of us would descend unannounced upon some unsuspecting bachelor just as he was preparing for bed and proceed to make ourselves at home in his shack. In case his pantry should not be well supplied, we always took some eatables along, as well as a few packs of cards and usually some kind of musical instrument.

When traveling on the prairie at night one is apt to get lost, so being careful people we generally waited for daylight and breakfast before dispersing. Those were good times, and no one who has not taken part in the social life of a prairie settlement can understand how enjoyable it can be made.

My Christmas reminiscences in the North-West for half a century!” laughingly exclaimed His Grace, the Archbishop of St. Boniface. “I should be delighted, but I’m not much more than half a century old myself, and I have only been in the North-West thirty-eight years. You can therefore see the inconvenience it would be to give you the reminiscences of fifty years.

“But you sit down and I will reply to such questions as you may ask. ”

My first Christmas in the North-West?

“Yes, it was in 1845. There were then about fifteen houses in what is the Winnipeg of today. Some of them were comfortable dwellings. The other priests here at that time, besides myself, were Father Aubert and Father Lafleche, later the Bishop of Three Rivers, Quebec. The [St. Boniface] cathedral had two stone towers, with a tin belfry. It was then in course of construction. There was nothing inside but the bare walls, and they were not even plastered.

“We held Midnight Mass; I remembered it well. It was a beautiful, bright, clear, regular Manitoba night, with the thermometer down to 30 below. There were no stoves in the church and very few in the country. 1 also remembered that some seven or eight panes of glass were broken, and there was no glass in the Great Lone Land to replace them. It was indeed a bitter, biting Christmas night, but notwithstanding this the church was crowded - yes, overcrowded.  I think there were almost as many Protestants present as Catholics.

“A large number of those present came in sleighs. I should think there were 200 of them. Several of them were drawn by oxen. The people were very thinly clad. It was a mystery to me then, and has been ever since, how they stood the cold. I could see that they suffered a good deal during the service, as they kept moving their feet. But there was very little liquor in the country then, and people could stand the cold better.

“The Mass of that Christmas midnight was celebrated by Bishop Provencher, with Father Aubert as assistant priest, Father Lafleche as deacon, and myself, being the youngest, as sub-deacon. There was no organ in the church, but previous to the commencement of the service, Fathers Aubert and Lafleche entertained the congregation to a species of amateur concert on two clarinets, assisted by two half-breeds on violins. They played well, the people were delighted, and that was the first time that the music of clarinets and violins was heard in a church in the Great Lone Land.

“The Christmas carols were very sweetly sung by two Sisters of Charity - Sisters Lagrave and Gladu. Both had remarkably sweet voices. Notwithstanding the extreme cold, the open windows, and the absence of stoves, the service lasted over two hours. The exemplary behavior of the thousand people assembled evidenced their deep piety.”

Hours past from this, the dear little ones below have been up and out of bed to ransack those stockings, puffed with comfits (declining, of course, the usual staple of breakfast, “just bread and butter.”) They are now in the full tide of wonder and mutual display of their hordes of toys. Novices upon that noble animal, the “Rocking Horse,” have ere this clasped wildly behind at his rigid tail, clutched madly in front at the flowing mane, and finally, with a yell of terror rolled from his back to look up and see the proud creature with his glass eyes blazing at nothing, continuing his untiring gallop as cool as his “Brummagen” stirrup iron. The creaking of ungreased wheels of barrows and wagons have resounded increasingly through the house, mingling with the blended din of mouth organs, cheap accordions, drums, whistles, trumpets, watchmen’s rattles and such like incentives to harmony. Flutes and violins for the youngsters, whose mothers insist “have a perfect passion for music and such an ear,” have been blown into, and scraped upon, until all the nervous dogs and cats in the neighborhood that haven’t “a passion for music” have fled distractedly from the sound, leaving the tied-up “Towsers” to howl in dolorous unison.

Five times in every five minutes, has the new watch been held to the ear and opened “to look at the wheels”; once in every ten seconds have harmless coxcombs shoved beneath their eyes that “first pair of boots” and through all their talk and running and shouts and playing, the one hand has been deployed to dive incessantly into a deep pocket and fish out for the “munchers” overhead anything to be thought of from a sugar almond to a bit of “citron” stuck in and ornamented with broken pieces of almond shell on the one side and a mashed raisin on the other. Now have the new books been rushed through for the pictures and how does the big chap decide between two little ones, who are quarrelling, as to which is Robinson Crusoe and which is man Friday.

Yes it is Christmas; it belongs to the children and sorrow lie at the door of him or her who would deprive them of their deep prerogative or darken with a word or look the sunshine in their bounding happy hearts.

I might almost begin my story by “once upon a time,” so long is it since my first Christmas in Alberta, forty-four years ago, [1865], at the little settlement of Victoria overlooking the Saskatchewan.

On Christmas Eve the snow had fallen covering the earth with a mantle of white, and the next morning when the sun broke forth, it shone brilliantly on the cluster of houses which formed the settlement, and on the mission house, and mission church on the outskirts, while across the river rose the fir clad banks of the Saskatchewan glistening in the sunshine. It seemed as if the world were singing for sheer joy, “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas” while over the prairies rang the mission bell with its glad tidings, “Peace on Earth, Goodwill to men.”

The mission church and schoolhouse combined was a log structure, whitewashed without, and boarded within, where everything was of the most primitive nature, though that day evergreens took away from the austerity of the room. Long wooden benches, without backs, seated the people, and at one end of the building a platform was erected from which the missionary looked down from the pulpit, built by the mission carpenter. It was a strange congregation that greeted him, Indians, half-breeds and whites. The year before a number of Red River half-breeds had followed him to settle down beside the mission that their children might be educated. They were there with their families. Among them sat a professor and his son, a squaw whose wrinkled face and drooping form told a story of deprivation and hardship, the prospector from the gold mine, an Indian brave in his war paint, and beside him his favorite wife and child, visitors from Hudson’s Bay forts, Plain Crees, Wood Crees, all listening to the old story of the Christ child. There were some who heard it for the first time, and to all, I think, it came with freshness and a new interest. Away out there on the prairies hundreds of miles from the nearest civilization, Christmas had not lost its old meaning.

The service over, “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas” was heard on every side, and with many a handshake and good wishes, each departed to his own home.

Our Christmas would have seemed strange to many people. No Christmas tree, for there was nothing to put on it; no Christmas gifts, for there were none to buy, and nothing to make them of. Even the Christmas turkey was missing. Indeed it was difficult to get up a dinner one thousand miles away from the nearest town, no butcher, no baker, no grocer, all the people depended upon coming from St. Paul, Minnesota, or London, England. A bag of flour cost thirty dollars, and we had only two for that year, all the missionary could buy at Fort Garry the previous summer. White flour, indeed, was a luxury, kept for sickness, holidays, or Sundays, barley flour being used in its stead.

Buffalo meat, turnips, potatoes, plum pudding and barley cake a novel Christmas dinner! But if the minds of the guests traveled back to more sumptuous feasts the simple meal in no way lost by the comparison. For there were good appetites and grateful hearts for what was really a royal repast in those days, and throughout all was infused that spirit which alone makes a “Merry Christmas.”

The mission house, like the church, was of logs, whitewashed without and boarded within, amply fortified against the severest winds. Down the centre of the dining-room was a long table, homemade, as were the chairs ranged around it. Bright pictures from magazines which had found their way across the continent from the Old Land decorated the walls, while buffalo robes strove to hide the bareness of the wooden floors. But best of all was the huge open fireplace with its blazing, crackling logs, the flames roaring up the wide chimney, defying Jack Frost, and crying “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas” to the bright faces around the board.

It was a merry party. At the head of the table sat the missionary, still in the prime of life, his genial face beaming with the hospitality he loved to exercise, and, opposite him, at the far end of the long table, his pretty wife who had left all the comforts of the East to share in his great work, the Christianizing of the North West. Besides their family of nine, four
Hudson’s Bay officers were spending the holidays with them, which was not only a welcome respite from the hardships of their lives, but which also added greatly to the enjoyment of the party.

After dinner came outdoor games, racing, throwing the hammer, tug-of-war, and football, not the football of today with its bitter rivalry, but governed by the spirit of good fellowship and played with all the zest of boys let loose from school, for life, a stern taskmaster to these men granted them but little recreation. For did not their necessities and comforts depend on their own exertions? A buffalo hunt on the plains no doubt was good sport fraught with the danger all men love, but it also meant food and warmth for their families. They built their own homes, made their own furniture, hauled the great logs that glazed on their hearths, often plowed their own fields, ground their own grain, and, at the same time, attended to their own particular line of work, that which had lured them from their Eastern homes.

Then came the sleigh drive. It was not a matter of going into a stable to harness a willing horse. Our drivers were in no one place, but scattered here and there round the mission, basking in the sunshine, playing at rough and tumble with one another, or barking at an occasional passerby. “Here Jumbo, here!” And Jumbo might obey. If not, then proceeded a chase and a scramble, and the unwilling dog was captured to be harnessed with his better behaved brothers.

When all was in readiness, the dogs were driven up to the door.

The driver of each team stood on the back of his cariole, from which he commanded his dogs by word, not using the reins to guide them, but to hold them back if they were going too fast, or in case of his cariole being upset to keep the dogs from getting away, and so leaving him destitute on the prairie. The carioles were very much like a long box, lying flat on the snow, with the front curled up toboggan-like, and capable of holding one person.

As we came out of the house carrying our robes, well warmed beside the fire, the dogs were growing restless. How eager they were for the run, moving to one side, then to the other, their beaded blankets sparkling in the sun! Wrapped in our robes, and tucked cozily into our carioles, away we flew over the prairies. Jingle, jingle, jingle, went the bells, ringing out their music across the snow. Oh! The exhilaration of those old drives! Bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and the merriest laughter, uphill, down dale, through a fairyland of frosted trees - oh! Those were the good old days!

A cry rang out, and turning we saw one of the carioles go over, the occupant an indiscriminate bundle of furs, and the driver, still holding the reins, being dragged through the snow. The dogs soon stopped, the cariole was righted, and the two unfortunates laughed out of all countenance. Then off we sped again on the home run, back to the welcome fireside, where fresh logs had been piled to greet our return.

When night fell, we found our way back to the little church, then lighted for a concert, which had been in preparation for several weeks, and in which the children, as well as the older members of the community, took part. Speeches were made, and songs were sung to the accompaniment of a little harmonium, the first musical instrument brought into the West, the West including Winnipeg, and bought by the missionary from Bishop Anderson, first Bishop of Rupert’s Land. Stories were told of past Christmas days, bright pictures of happy times, but none there would really have bartered the merriest of them for that one which was then drawing to a close, and I know there are those still living that would gladly live it over again.

At last the day was ended, and the people wended their way homeward, some to the little settlement, others to their tepees on the plain, and the missionary with his family and guests to the mission house.

Christmas in 1872 was not the day of days for us where comforts were concerned. There were neither glittering electric lights nor colored tinsels to sparkle and glisten on the Christmas trees. No, but we had lots of towering Christmas trees sparkling with myriad diamonds, placed there by Jack Frost, who reigned as gloriously and triumphantly then as he does today.

Instead of the wonderful choirs singing beautiful Christmas carols, we would lie still at night and hear the howl of the wolves or the shrill cry of the coyote as he answered the call of his mate. And over all was the “Peace of the Plain.” We seemed perhaps to understand better in those early days the true meaning of the words “Peace on Earth.”

Perhaps the howl of the wolves would not seem like music to the ears of many today, nor take the place of the Christmas carols, but to me it had more of a thrill. Ever since my early days spent in the hills of Scotland I had longed for the time when I could roam over the plains and perhaps shoot a buffalo, of which I had read so much. So leaving Fort Edmonton early in December 1872, with my rifle and horse, dragging a long flat sled with some provisions and ammunition and tent material, I set out traveling south. Two companions joined me, one a Virginian [Addison McPherson], the other a Norwegian, known as “Dutch Charlie,” [Charles Smith]. We traveled by easy stages, visiting with Indian tribes and pitching our tent when and where we felt like it.

After days of traveling, we reached some hills, I think now known as the Hand Hills. From the top of one of the hills we could see the prairie stretching for miles with hundreds of buffaloes feeding. What a thrill! Before we even had our lodge erected, I grabbed my rifle and started on the run. When I reached the place where I had seen the buffalo, there were plenty of tracks, but - no buffalo to be seen.

Next day, I said to my companions: “Is it true that tomorrow is Christmas day?”

“Sure thing, it’s the 25th of December. What you think of doing?

Hanging up your socks? Don’t bother. There isn’t no Santa Claus around here - no, nor turkey for dinner, neither.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m not looking for Santa Claus, but if I could only shoot a buffalo wouldn’t a roast of that make a grand Christmas dinner?” “Sure would,” said he, “but a greenhorn like you could never reach one. It takes the real Indians to do that.”

There and then I made up my mind to get a buffalo or perish in the attempt. So taking my rifle, I set out. I could see from the top of a hill hundreds of buffalo feeding. There was timber on the north side of this hill, and suddenly I heard a crashing sound and turned just in time to see a huge buffalo coming on the run toward the hill where I was. I dropped out of sight until it disappeared in the hollow between the hills. I then ran until I reached a pile of brush. As I crouched there with my rifle cocked, it was only a minute or two till he passed me on the run just a few steps away - he looked as big as an elephant.

I shot him just behind the shoulder. He ran to the brow of the hill, then pitched forward on his breast, and slid right down the hill to the bottom. Was I proud? That was hardly the name for it. I was fairly dancing to think that I had really shot a buffalo. I did shoot many after that but none that ever gave me the thrill that I got from shooting this one.

After bleeding him and walking round and round before I could make up my mind to leave him, I hurried to our camp to tell the others. They came back with me, and after skinning it, we cut off the hind quarter and the tongue. Into the remainder I placed half a bottle of strychnine for the benefit of the wolves, which always followed a buffalo herd.

Next morning I was up bright and early, and visited what was left of the buffalo. There I found two dead wolves which we skinned, and Charlie cut out the back fat, a wide strip of which extended the full length of the back. As the strychnine never leaves the stomach, this fat is considered a great delicacy and was eaten with great relish.

And we did have such a merry Christmas dinner! We cooked the buffalo roast and ate it with bannocks made of flour and water and baked over hot stones - a feast fit for a king. After our dinner, we gathered around the camp fire, and Dutch Charlie told us stories of Christmas days and customs in Norway when he was a boy. The Virginian told us how they celebrated Christmas in Virginia, while I told of Christmas in Auld Scotland.

Since then I have spent many Christmas days in Alberta and watched the buffalo trails give way to ribbons of steel and highways filled with automobiles, and have seen the buffalo slowly but surely disappear from the prairie, but never have I spent a Christmas day so full of happiness and the joy of achievement as that first Christmas day so long ago, for had I not at last realized the joy of accomplishment and the fulfillment of one of my childhood dreams.

How Riel’s Prisoners Spent Christmas

When the morning of the 25th of December, 1869, came round in Red River, it found 63 prisoners in the hands of the Provisional Government of Assiniboia, of which Louis Riel was president.

They came to be there because when they were asked by a representative of Governor Macdougall to take up arms for their country they complied, but they soon found themselves deserted, and Riel finding them with arms in their hands, lodged them in jail.

He fed them with pemmican. It so happened that the Canadian Government owned some dozen or two quarters of beef. The writer, on applying for the use of this supply of meat, was allowed to use it as food for the prisoners. It could not be served raw and the only hotel in the place refused to cook it.

Fortunately, the representative referred to left behind him in the village a cooking stove, a man servant, a horse, and a leased house. The services of all were put in requisition and the wife of Brian Devlin, the only baker in the place, undertook for a consideration of five shillings, to bake a sack of flour, the flour being bought in the place.

In this way, it came about that every morning there was sent up to the prisoners two boilers full of hot tea and several loaves of bread, and every afternoon at about one o’clock, a mess of boiled beef and bread.

On the day before Christmas, the writer spoke to a few friends as to whether anything extra could be added to the very plain bill of fare on Christmas day.

All that could be done in the leased house would be the boiling of an extra quantity of meat and tea. Outside aid must be sought for the rest. George Emmerling, the owner of the hotel, professed himself willing to do what he could, but on referring to his better half was told that the dinner for their own guests would tax all their capacity.

At last, a promise of aid was cordially given by some ladies. In one house it was resolved a plum pudding should be made; a young lady, later the wife of a North-West magistrate, undertook the mysterious operation. Mrs. James Stewart lent a willing hand in the manufacture of pastry, and two o’clock the following day was fixed upon as the time at which all should be ready for dispatch to the fort, nearly three-quarters of a mile distant.

The latter part of the repast came near being spoiled by the absence of dried fruit, which at last was obtained at eight o’clock in the evening at the store of Henry McKenney.

On account of the pressure of work at the leased house, it was found necessary to dispense with the usual breakfast. As no communication had been had with the prisoners as to the intentions of those outside, they unfortunately knew no reason for the absence of breakfast, and as the whole dinner was not ready until four in the afternoon, they had all come to the conclusion that for some unknown reason they were going to go without any outside food that day. Indeed, I believe many of them stayed their appetites with pemmican before our dinner reached them.

At four o’clock, however, Joseph Crowson, with his faithful black nag, was on his way with the beef, tea, pudding and pastry and, just as the darkness was settling down, he delivered his supplies to the starving prisoners.

It looked strange to see the sled on which the tea boiler was carried to the fort. The cover was not a good fit and the jolting of the sled caused the tea to run over the edge of the boiler, and in a few days a small mound of ice tea formed on the sled and daily received additions to its height.

The thanks of the prisoners were duly returned through Mr.

Crowson to the ladies who had so kindly assisted to give relief to their otherwise monotonous fare.

This was the way, then, that they got their Christmas dinner.

Christmas is very properly considered a time when a little more license than usual should be given. If a certain number of people believe that they can extract more enjoyment from a state of hilarious intoxication than in any other way, let them do it, as long as they do not interfere with others who may think differently. If some people can squeeze amusement out of chewing one another’s ears off, by all means let them chew, and gouge and bite and scratch. So long as they only kill one or two among themselves in this way, no one would grieve very much. No one would care to interfere with such pleasant little pastimes as those indicated above.

But we do draw the line at shooting.

Both on Christmas Eve and on Christmas night, peaceful citizens were aroused from their sleep by the howling of a drunken mob. This was not all. Shot followed shot in rapid succession, and the fusillade was kept up until morning. The shots were not harmless ones either, but were ball cartridges, fired from forty-five calibers revolvers. On Xmas night, the precaution of firing into the air was not even taken, but the shots were fired right down the main street. And even if they were fired into the air, the danger from a falling ball is just as great as direct from the pistol.

We have not the least hesitation in saying that such a method of enjoyment (?) is disgraceful in the extreme, worthy only of the lowest class of the western desperado, who makes a big noise to give people the impression that he is real bad. It matters not to such men that some of those shots might kill some one on the street, or even penetrate a dwelling house, and perhaps kill a woman or a child. What care such men for women or children? They must appear bad no matter whether school keeps or not. Steps will be taken to see that the performance of last Thursday and Friday nights is not repeated, and sure and speedy punishment will be meted out to those who cannot use a privilege without seriously abusing it. Verbum sap.

I’d like to visit Santa Claus and play with all the toys

I’m sure I’d find just heaps of things to make a lot of noise.

I’d like to play with all the dolls and games, and Teddy bears,

And dolly carriages, and beds, and little rocking chairs.

But since he lives too far away for me to go, I fear,

I’m thankful, that at least he comes to visit me, each year.

Jellied Cabbage Salad

This appeared in the Farm and Ranch Review just before Christmas, 1909.

Soften half a package (one ounce) of gelatin in half a cup of cold water and dissolve in a cup and a half of boiling water; let cool a little, then add three cups of chopped cabbage, two green peppers, chopped fine, a teaspoonful of salt, half a cup of sugar, one-fourth of a cup of lemon juice and half a cup of vinegar. Mix together thoroughly and turn into a quart brick mould or a bread pan. When cold and firm cut into cubes about two inches in diameter. Set on lettuce leaves.

Christmas Fruit Cake

Also from the Farm and Ranch Review, this appeared in December of 1911.

Two cups butter, two cups brown sugar, one cup molasses, five eggs, one cup milk, four and one half cups flour, two cups chopped raisins, two cups currants, one cup dates, one cup chopped figs, one cup dried apples, one teaspoon cinnamon, one teaspoon nutmeg, half teaspoon cloves, one teaspoon salt, a pound of lemon, orange and citron combined in any proportion to suit the taste, one cup walnuts, one cup almonds, one teaspoon soda, two teaspoons cream of tartar.

Chop up dried apples and stew them in the molasses until they are clear and tender, adding water if necessary to keep from scorching. Chop fruits, peels and nuts, combine, and sprinkle generously with flour. Sift the spices, soda and cream of tartar with the flour. Cream the butter, add sugar, gradually; break the eggs in and beat thoroughly, and add the milk, then the molasses and apples, which have been allowed to cool; next the flour gradually. When nearly all the flour is in add a cup full of fruits, etc., alternately with a little flour until all is used up. Line cake tins with buttered paper, fill two-thirds full and bake in a moderate oven, until done when tested with a broom corn.

This is the season of the year, Christmas coming on and so forth, when we most envy the folk with nice cozy little homes of their own. You who have your own fireside do not realize what you possess. You do not know what it is to go without having anyone to say to you, “Goodbye, will you be gone long?” or to come back without anyone to welcome you and say, “Oh, how late you are!” Think at this time of the year of the many young men far from their own homes back east, living in Calgary with no place to go of an evening, moping in their $8 a month rooms reading Frenzied Finance or hanging around hotels hitting up the booze. Give them a thought.

It needs only a little friendly interest to make better and happy the solitary individual who lives near you, who is abandoned to himself and to the inspiration of his unutterable ennui. The solitary youths, far from their paternal hearths, have a rocky old time struggling with the discouragements of their existence here, exposed to the temptations of the booze shops. There are evenings upon evenings that they make bad use of for want of a better. Perhaps they are nothing to you and you are under no obligation to them, but - put yourself in their place.

Bob Edwards’ Plum Pudding

This appeared in the Calgary Eye Opener, in December of 1909.

Take one quart of brandy, two handfuls of plums and raisins, and a chunk of suet, some salt and a lot of flour. Knead the last three ingredients well together, pouring into yourself sufficient brandy to keep from getting tired.

When of sufficient consistency hang it on clothes line and beat smartly with a Yule log. Roll into a round ball, try and raise it slowly above your head with one hand to see if it is heavy enough and then saturate plentifully with brandy. Set fire to the mess and serve quickly. Return to kitchen and put balance of brandy out of pain.

Christmas in the West

And while to you I drain a health Of “Johnny’s” wholesome beer, I’ll wish you happiness enough to fill the coming year.

As for myself I’ve but to say, Let empires rise or fall,

For any bluff that Fate may give I’ll have the nerve to call,

I’ll play the limit come what will and back the hands I draw

If Heaven will grant me appetite when’re I go to draw?

Yours cheerfully McArthur, P.

Dear Friends,

According to promise I am going to do my best to give you, to the best of my ability, a graphic account of how we spent our first Christmas in Lloyd Minster. I think as Christmas approached we all rather dreaded it knowing how this special season brings with it so forcibly the memory of all the home gatherings in the Old Country. Fortunately, we personally, are far too busy in our surrounding to brood over vain regrets and Christmas Day was upon us almost before we could realize the fact. There was service at 11:00 o’clock a.m. and at 5:00 p.m. the “Festivities” started.

Thanks to the generosity of Messers. Hall Scott and Co. who has just completed a very large building for General Stores, the Gathering of the Colonists took place there and it is certainly owing to their great kindness that our Christmas and New Year was spent so pleasantly and happily. The first item on the programme was a big feed followed by a capital concert divided into two parts. After the first half had been successfully carried through came a large Christmas tree very prettily decorated, the little gifts being distributed by an ideal “Santa Claus”. I need scarcely say how delighted the little ones were. The whole proceedings were brought to a close about 11:30 p.m. after a most enjoyable social gathering and the first Christmas in Lloyd Minster is a thing of the past but nevertheless it will be remembered by all who were present as a bright and happy one, the more so as it was unexpected and so well carried out. The effect it had upon us was that we all felt cheered by this little excitement after all we had previously passed through and somehow “longed for more”.

Thanks again to Messrs. Hall Scott and Co. another happy gathering was arranged for New Years Eve and yet another on New Years Day. They not only gave the use of their splendid building for a dance but undertook all arrangements and issued a general invitation and welcome to all. The room was very prettily decorated and the floor well waxed. The band consisted of several violins, two coronets, and harmonium. We started dancing at 8:30 p.m. and after a most enjoyable evening broke up at about 4:30 a.m. We all felt years younger. We wound up with Sir Roger and Auld Lang Syne and walked back to Doris Court in brilliant moonlight, arriving home as the clock struck 5:00 a.m. The next evening (Saturday) there was an excellent concert at the conclusion of which there was an impromptu dance, this being the last in Messrs. Hall Scott and Co’s. spacious building. You will see that our Christmas and New Year was by no means dull or miserable, nor were our dear absent ones forgotten.

Here in this land of the Wild West

Away from sweethearts and lovers, Distant from the scenes of our childhood, Away from our old-fashioned mothers, removed from the storm beaten cottage where the ivy still tenderly clings;

Our absence makes a broken circle, whilst we are like birds, on the wing.

Here in this land of the sunset,

Years have gone since we said adieu; Yet Christmas recalls to our memories the old faces and friends still true.

And tonight there’s a depth of feeling, which unbidden thrills each breast, whilst we sing of the now broken circle, gathered in the old home nest.

They speak of our wild life on the plains; how we laugh while storms are high, while sharing our lot with the kin, with our watchword to do or die, they call us the wild daring cowboys, forgetting that ‘neath the rough vest the heart may beat tender as a woman’s, although with her charms unblessed.

Away then with dull care and sorrow; the years are hastening away,

Why should we think of the morrow, Why not drink and be merry today.

Then here’s health to our dear old folks, to the friends still loving and true; here’s health to the land of our fathers, And, Wild West, here’s health to you.