Christmas Traditions and Gift Ideas

It’s several days before Christmas: a Sunday.

The sky is clear, clean blue. Sunlight sparks from a million points of light from the surface of the snow.

And the air - corny as it sounds - is like wine. Sharp, exciting, it makes you feel you could run, jump, gallop - or on second thoughts, walk pretty briskly.

Without willing it, your mind flashes back to similar and earlier days, and suddenly you remember the quality of brightness that brushed your face as you coasted down a hill on your sled, and the pure freshness of open-air skating - a freshness that became part of you so that when you went indoors you brought it with you, on your clothes, your cheeks, your breath. Wonderful days!

…For a moment, a fleeting moment, you wonder if even now you might not borrow a sled, skates - but only for a moment: too many days have come between.

Still, you think, I can go out into that glorious air, I can do something gay… or active… or different…

It’s at this point that inspiration strikes, like lightning: probably by association of ideas - outdoors, and the things that belong outdoors, like trees, and the consciousness that it’s nearly Christmas. Anyway, I’m thinking: why not fetch a Christmas tree? - find it, and cut it, and mark it with B, and bring it home for the family and me.

Well, the next thing is to sell the idea - after all, I can’t be expected to do all the fetching by myself, no. What’s called for is an enthusiastic - but not too frighteningly enthusiastic - bid for the interest of a husband who likes his Sundays unruffled by physical activity of any sort. In a very guarded way I allow the possibility of going off to look around for a Christmas tree fallen by the wayside, so to speak. But to my astonishment he slaps his knee, flings aside his Saturday Evening Post, and says, “Let’s go”. (It must be the effect of the wine-like air, even the small amount coming through the open window.) Next minute, he’s standing up, rubbing his hands, and saying, “Now where’re those old corduroy trousers of mine?”

With help, a husband can always find suitable clothes for any occasion, and mine does very well except he insists on wearing the expensive, handicraft gloves that his mother-in-law (my mother, that is) gave him last Christmas, which seems a little undiplomatic to me (people have a way of finding out what you do with the things they give you) but as he says, man-like, “They were given me to be worn, weren’t they?”

Not possessing the appropriate togs myself, I appeal to our teenage daughter who’s soon mucking up already untidy drawers and hauling out warm slacks and double-wool sweaters for a project which she regards with unconcealed skepticism.

“I don’t get it: what’re you getting dressed up like this for?” “To cut a tree.”

“To cut a tree?”

“Yes, Dad and I are going off to fetch a Christmas tree.” “Good night, Mom, you can buy a Christmas tree.” “Yes, but this time we don’t want to buy one.”

“Migosh, it doesn’t cost that much.”

“It isn’t the money, it’s the idea.”

“But you and Dad haven’t got to go wandering up to your knees in snow to get a Christmas tree. Why, Bill and I could get it for you if Bill could get the loan of his father’s car, only he can’t. .. If Dad would lend us the car, why I’m sure Bill and I wouldn’t mind -”

“That’s very thoughtful of you dear, but your father and I just thought we’d … ah - enjoy … going out into the country and cutting a tree.”

“But Mom -”

No, Mom’s just not going to be put off - not even by one of those looks with which teenagers convey that undoubtedly their parents are going soft in the head. But we’re not ready yet. There’s the little matter of an axe to cut the tree with and a length of rope to strap it to the car. And neither of them can be found, and of course a man always thinks his wife hides things on him deliberately.

“What in the world have you done with the axe?”

“I haven’t done anything with the axe,” I answer, trying to assure myself that I couldn’t have thrown out the axe with the other trash the last time I tidied up the basement.

“And where’s the piece of rope that was hanging on the nail near the door?”

Well, how was I to know the rope would ever be used, it’d been hanging there long enough, goodness knows?

In any case, when a plan is unrolling smoothly it’s silly to risk endangering it with an argument, so I suggest we borrow what we need from the nice man next door. Which we do.

By this time the day has worn on a bit, and to be quite frank, it’s worn out a bit too. The sky is no longer blue or the snow sun-sparked: a depressing grey quality seems to be creeping over everything. But this isn’t going to put us off either.

So armed with axe and rope, and looking very sporty I must say, we set out in the car toward the outskirts of the town where we often used to picnic with the children - children! And here they are, one gone off to college to become an engineer and the other in her last year at high school and with a boyfriend besides… We remind ourselves of clearings, quite near the road, and full of little clumps of fir trees. And we decide to make for a particular open meadow we feel will not have collected too much snow. And sure enough, a few miles on, and there it is! The only trouble is that the whole fronting length of it has been fenced in. And that’s not all. Someone has been inconsiderate enough to build a house right in the middle of our clearing, and not only that, but come to live in it, so that if for a single moment we’d have entertained the idea of climbing the fence and entering someone’s property, we haven’t the nerve to climb the fence and enter someone’s front garden with the whole family staring at us from one of those large, fashionable picture windows.

Well, there are numerous other clearings - or there used to be. But as we drive on we begin to realize that a great deal of building and fencing must have gone on the last few, perhaps not so few, years, because we pass more and more fences with hundreds of beautiful Christmas trees imprisoned behind them.

Our disappointment isn’t sweetened by the visitation of what the weather forecasters call ‘occasional snow flurries’, through which we peer for some sign of an accessible fir tree. At last I see one all by itself at the top of a gravel pit.

“Stop!” I yell. And we do, with a slither. And although we must be inches away from the ditch, I have to suffer the full impact of a glance which is supposed to make me feel guilty - as though I, and not somebody else was in charge of the car and responsible for the poor driving. But never mind that: what we do is to sit in the car for a while till the snow flurries stop and then get out.

It’s quite a little climb to get around the edges of the gravel pit, but we finally reach the top which is sloping, wind-swept and slippery. Our intrepid woodsman steadies himself as well as he can and swings his axe again and again. But the chips don’t fly, and the tree doesn’t topple. You see, this is a tenacious little fir, used to clinging to thin soil and bending to the wind, and each time the axe strikes it, it just keels over gracefully and swings back again. Trying to grip the trunk with one hand and chop with the other only minimizes the strength of the blows and achieves nothing but an accretion of sticky turpentine to the beautiful new gloves which should never have been worn in the first place.

“Maybe I could steady it while you chop.” “All right. Try.”

So I stand tiptoe to reach beyond the broader boughs which are scratching my face, but I miss my foothold, grab an arm outstretched to help me, and the next moment we both find ourselves at the bottom of the gravel pit, half buried in deep snow which is not only surprisingly heavy but wet - much wetter than it used to be, I’m sure. It weighs on our legs, and trickles inside our collars and up our sleeves. It even blurs our eyelashes - but not to the point where we can’t see an enormous truck rolling along the road toward town with its back piled high with fir trees, all of them no doubt for sale and any single one of them no doubt for sale to us if we wished it.

Daylight is beginning to fade as we get under way once more, and snow flakes are falling again. And I’m beginning to feel that perhaps it wouldn’t be inglorious to cry quits and make for home when, there on our left, right next to the highway, what should we see but a whole grove of fir trees - just standing there, unfettered and free!

It doesn’t take us long to choose a tree with evenly distributed branches, not too big and not too small, and with a slender upright tip for the star or the angel or whatever remains for the purpose in our box of saved-up Christmas ornaments. And we’d have chopped it down, and brought it home, and set it up in the living room and never have suspected that we’d committed a crime only that I’m curious about the sign nailed to a post nearby. I point to it.

“What do you suppose that says?” And nothing will do us but to turn our pocket flashlight on it and brush off the snow to see what it says and what it says is: Warning!Persons felling or mutilating trees in this area will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

We stand in the growing dark, the wet snow falling on us, and taste the bitter taste of failure.

There’s nothing for it but to turn back.

We drive in silence. No car meets or passes us: by now everyone is enjoying the brightness and coziness of home - probably sipping a nice hot cup of tea, or decorating the tree they were sensible enough to buy yesterday.

I’m grudgingly admitting to myself that anyway the snow is no longer falling (what’s the good of that now?) when the car comes to a sudden stop.

“You see what I see?”

I peer into the light from our headlamps at something bulky lying, dark under the thin covering of snow, in the centre of the road. Is it a man - an animal -?

It’s a tree. A fir tree, just lying there, having presumably fallen from the truck we saw earlier (unless an army of leprechauns have dragged it here especially for us, which seems unlikely). Anyway, there it is, a lovely, lovely tree, cut and lying on its side, ready to be hauled up and pushed and strapped into the trunk of the car, which, let me tell you, is done in the time it takes to say ‘Merry Christmas’.

Before we know it we are driving up the curving path to our house with a great swish of the wheels and a blaring of the horn to announce our arrival. Effortlessly, like two athletes, we jump out, lift the tree from the car into the light pouring from the front door and stand it up to be admired by our teenager and her boyfriend - and the neighbors too, if they’ve heard us, and they certainly should have.

“Have much trouble getting it?” our teenager calls out. In triumph we call back. “Nothing to it!”

The snow glistens in the artificial light, and the night air - wintry, exhilarating - is like wine.

Wednesday, December 23rd - After household duties I start off about 11:30 a.m. on my motor-cycle along a main road, partly good and clear, partly rough and icy, to Simpson, seven and a half miles. Dinner with a good friend and borrow his horse. Ride across country another seven miles to a country schoolhouse to take part in a Christmas entertainment and to act Father Christmas. Start back about 5 p.m. to Simpson. Leave horse and start off again on motor-cycle. Arrive at 8 p.m., at which hour the Christmas tree entertainment starts. As I have to act in the cantata there, I have to change my clothes pretty quickly. Rush across and arrive just five minutes before my call. Affair went off well. Get supper and have a chat with some friends. By the way, on the Christmas tree was a silk scarf and pair of hair brushes from my congregation.

Christmas Day - Up and light the fire in the church. Tidy up self and house. Christmas Communion 9:30 a.m. - twenty present. Put on innumerable wraps while one of the ladies gets me a small breakfast. Off on bike to Simpson, seven and a half miles. Arrive 11:30 a.m. Warden has got the fire going and the Communion vessels ready. Christmas Communion. Dinner with some good friends of mine and play with their children. Then some music, supper, and card games. A quiet but most enjoyable Christmas. 10 p.m. begin to say I must go to bed, but we get talking on religion and it is 12:30 before I get off to my shack. Bed at 1:15 a.m.

Saturday, 26th - Innumerable odds and ends and a feeling of slackness and a wish that Sunday did not come so soon. Motor-bike back to Imperial. Get mail, letters, etc. Light fire, draw water out of my tank under the cellar floor and fetch my fruit out of the paper-padded box down there, which keeps it from frost when I am away. If I left them in the room the fruit would go rotten and the water freeze solid and burst the bucket or tank. Work out sermon between the visits of two men who are great friends.

Sunday, 27th - Up at 7:45 a.m. Telephone out to Rouse country district to ask if I am to come. It is a cold, windy morning, with probably between thirty and forty degrees of frost. I am ready to go if the people will turn out. Someone offers to light the fire in the schoolhouse there and have things ready. All right. I start at 9:20 a.m. after a light breakfast and motor-cycle along a main road for six miles. In a sleigh five and a half miles more over snow. No fire, no one there. Must feed the horses. I light a fire in the stove. It is frightfully cold in this cold room, at least ten degrees below zero. Suddenly up come two men and the wife of one of them, a communicant, who has never been able to get to Communion since I began to have Holy Communion there twelve months ago. Also she brought her baby to be baptized. So after it seemed that we should have no service at all, we have had a baptism, which would have been almost impossible to manage for the next three months, and our Christmas Communion with six present. The drive back is not so cold, the wind having dropped. Reach Lucas’ farm at 2:40 p.m. Five minutes to swallow some lunch and start off down to Imperial for Evensong. About twenty-four present. Wrap up and set off again before it gets late. Arrive 6:30 p.m. at my neighbor’s house at Simpson, where they have a lovely hot supper waiting. Hurry across to church to take Evensong there. Congregation of twenty-four. A group of us adjourn to the shack, where I have not had time to light the fire. Two wardens are in from the country for service, so we get some important cheques signed and business done. Bat my ink has frozen solid and the fountain pen ink freezes as it reaches the nib. I borrow ink from a neighbor and it too freezes as we write. So we have to dip the pen into the ink and hold the pen over the lamp and write quickly. Then to the house of a member of the congregation for coffee and cake and a glorious smoke.

The Governor descended the steps of the Capitol slowly and with pauses. lifting a list frequently to his eye. He had intermittently penciled it between stages of the forenoon’s public business, and his gait grew absent as he recurred now to his jottings in their accumulation with a slight pain at their number and the definite fear that they would be more in seasons to come. They were the names of his friends’ children to whom his excellent heart moved him to give Christmas presents. He had put off this re-generating evil until the latest day, as was his custom, and now he was setting forth to do the whole thing at a blow, entirely planless among the guns and rocking-horses that would presently surround him. As he reached the highway he heard himself familiarly addressed from a distance, and, turning, saw four sons of the alkali jogging into town from the plain. One who had shouted to him galloped out from the others, rounded the Capitol’s enclosure, and, approaching with radiant countenance, leaned to reach the hand of the Governor, and once again greeted him with a hilarious “Hello, Doc!” Governor Barker, M.D., seeing Mr. McLean unexpectedly after several years, hailed the horseman with frank and lively pleasure, and, inquiring who might be the other riders behind, was told that they were Shorty, Chalkeye, and Dollar Bill, come for Christmas.

“And dandies to hit town with,” Mr. McLean added. “Redhot.”

“I am acquainted with them,” assented his Excellency.

“We’ve been ridin’ trail for twelve weeks,” the cow - puncher continued, “and the money in our pants is talkin’ joy to us right out loud!”

Then Mr. McLean overflowed with talk and pungent confidences, for the holidays already rioted in his spirit, and his ~ tongue was loosed over their coming rites.

“We’ve soured on scenery,” he finished, in his drastic idiom. “We’re heeled for a big time!”

“Can on me,” remarked the Governor, cheerily, “when you’re ready for bromides and selphates,”

“I ain’t box-headed no more:’ protested Mr. McLean; “I’ve got maturity, Doc, since I seen yu’ at the rain-making, and I’m a heap older than them hospital days when I bust my leg on yu’, Three or four glasses and quit. That’s my rule.”

“That your rule, too?” inquired the Governor of Shorty, Chalkeye, and Dollar Bill These gentlemen of the saddle were sitting quite expressionless upon their horses.

“We ain’t talkin’, we’re waitin’,” observed Chalkeye; and the three cynics smiled amiably.

“Well, Doc. see yu’ again:” said Mr. McLean. He turned to accompany his brother cow-punchers, but in that particular moment Fate descended, or came up, from whatever place she dwells in, and entered the body of the unsuspecting Governor.

“What’s your hurry?” said Fate, speaking in the official’s hearty manner. “Come along with me:”

“Can’t do it. Where’re yu’ goin’?”

“Christmasing,” replied Fate.

“Well. I’ve got to feed my horse. Christrnasing, yu’ say?”

“Yes; I’m buying toys:’

“Toys! You? What for?” “Oh, some kids:”

“Yourn?” screeched Lin, precipitately. His Excellency the jovial Governor opened his teeth in pleasure at this, for he was a bachelor, and there were fifteen upon his list, which he held tip for the edification of the hasty
McLean. “Not mine, I’m happy to say. My friends keep marrying and settling, and their kids call me uncle, and climb around and bother, and I forget their names, and think it’s a girl, and the mother gets mad. Why, if I didn’t remember these little folks at Christmas they’d be wondering - not the kids, they just break your toys and don’t notice; but the mother would wonder - ‘What’s the matter with Dr. Barker? Has Governor Barker gone back on us?’ - that’s where the strain comes!” he broke off, facing Mr. McLean with another spacious laugh.

But the cow-puncher had ceased to smile, and now, while Barker ran on exuberantly
McLean’s wide-open eyes rested upon him, singular and intent, and in their hazel depths the last gleam of jocularity went out.

“That’s where the strain comes, you see. Two sets of acquaintances - grateful patients and loyal voters-and I’ve got to keep solid with both outfits, especially the wives and mothers. They’re the people. So it’s drums, and dolls, and sheep on wheels, and games, and monkeys on a stick, and the saleslady shows you a mechanical bear, and it costs too much, I and you forget whether the Judge’s second girl is Nellie or Susie, and-well, I’m just in for my annual circus this afternoon! You’re in luck. Christmas don’t trouble a chap fixed like you.”

Lin McLean prolonged the sentence like a distant echo.

“A chap fixed like you!” The cowpuncher said it slowly to himself. “No, sore,” He seemed to be watching Shorty, and Chalkeye, and Dollar Bill going down the road. “That’s a new idea - Christmas:” he murmured, for it was one of his oldest, and he was recalling the Christmas when he wore his first long trousers.

“Comes once a year pretty regular,” remarked the prosperous Governor. “Seems often when you pay the bill,”

“I haven’t made a Christmas gift,” pursued the cow-puncher, dreamily, “not for-for-Lord! It’s a hundred years, I guess. I don’t know anybody that has any right to look for such a thing from me.” This was indeed a new idea, and it did not stop the chill that was spreading in his heart.

“Gee whiz!” said Barker, briskly, “there goes twelve o’clock. I’ve got to make a start. Sorry you can’t come and help me. Good-bye!”

His Excellency left the rider sitting motionless, and forgot him at once in his own preoccupation. He hastened upon his journey to the shops with the list, not in his pocket, but held firmly, like a plank in the imminence of shipwreck. The Nellies and Susies pervaded his mind, and he struggled with the presentiment that in a day or two he would recall some omitted and wretchedly important child. Quick hoof-beats made him look up, and Mr. McLean passed like a wind. The Governor absently watched him go, and saw the pony hunch and stiffen in the check of his speed when Lin overtook his companions. Down there in the distance they took a side street, and Barker rejoicingly remembered one more name and wrote it as he walked. In a few minutes he had come to the shops, and met face to face with Mr. McLean.

“The boys are seein’ after my horse,” Lin rapidly began, “and I’ve got to meet ‘em sharp at one. We’re twelve weeks shy on a square meal, yu’ see, and this first has been a date from ‘way back. I’d like to- rr Here Mr. McLean cleared his throat, and his speech went less smoothly. “Doc, r d like just for a while to watch yu’ gettin’ - them monkeys, yu’ know.”

The Governor expressed his agreeable surprise at this change of mind, and was glad of McLean’s company and judgment, during the impending selections. A picture of a cow-puncher and himself discussing a couple of dolls rose nimbly in Barker’s mental eye, and it was with an imperfect honesty that he said, “You’ll help me a heap!”

And Lin, quite sincere, replied, “Thank yu’.”

So together these two went Christmasing in the throng. Wyoming’s Chief Executive knocked elbows with the spurred and jingling waif, one man as good as another in that raw, hopeful, full-blooded cattle era which now the sobered West remembers as the days of its fond youth. For one man has been as good as another in three places - Paradise before the Fall; the
Rocky Mountains before the wire fence; and the Declaration of Independence. And then this Governor, besides being young, almost as young as Lin McLean or the Chief-Justice (who lately had celebrated his thirty-second birthday), had in his doctoring days at Drybone known the cow-puncher with that familiarity which lasts a lifetime without breeding contempt; accordingly, he now laid a hand on Lin’s tall shoulder and drew him among the petticoats and toys.

The factor assigned me a room with one of his workmen, William Borwick, a man of approximately my own age but who had been in service with the Company for several years, mostly at
Edmonton.

We were approaching the Christmas holidays and there was a growing excitement noticeable among the inmates of the fort. Bill and others spent their spare time making ready their best clothes. The preparations the week before Christmas took on a new tempo of activity. Every dog driver and team was rushing supplies of fish to the fort for the dog trains of the expected visitors. The factor engaged two of the Indians who had buffalo-running horses to go with me after fresh meat, with orders to bring nothing but the best. We returned in four days with our pack horses loaded with two fine cows.

It was the custom of Hudson’s Bay officials to meet at Fort Edmonton during Christmas week, staying for New Year’s Day. They discussed business concerned with the trade, and prepared their orders for the following year. The conference had developed into a week of social activities commemorating the Christmas period.

Fort Pitt, Slave Lake, Chipewyan, Fort Assiniboine, Jasper House, Rocky Mountain House, and Lac La Biche were all represented. The two days before Christmas was a bedlam of noise as each new dog team arrived. Every arrival was a signal for all the dogs of the fort and those of the Crees camped nearby to raise their voices in a deafening uproar of welcome or defiance as their tempers dictated.

The noise was terrific, yet none of the regular inmates paid any attention or made any effort to silence any dog within reach. The drivers of the dog teams and the factors were assigned quarters as quickly as they arrived; the arrangements for the guests were a wonderful example of organized planning.

On Christmas Eve, Father Lacombe drove in to conduct Midnight Mass. I was somewhat surprised that the priest and my employer were on such friendly and cordial terms. Woolsey went out to meet him and immediately invited him to his room, where they spent several hours of congenial conversation. Of course I was on hand to take care of his dogs, as the man drove his own team.

Knowing the Rev. Woolsey’s strong views against dancing, I was reluctant to ask permission to attend the celebrations, but I was burning to go. It was getting late when the priest finally departed for his duties with Catholic members of his church, and I finally screwed up enough courage to face the man.

Mr. Woolsey was seated reading his Bible when I entered his small room. I was in such a hurry to have his verdict that I had prepared no opening speech, although he looked slightly surprised at my late visit. He asked me to be seated, then as if reading my mind or perhaps noticing my flustered condition, said, “So you are fond of dancing.”

It was my turn to look surprised as I answered too quickly in a tone of voice much too loud for that small room, “Yes I am, and that is what I came to see you about. I want your permission to attend.”

Slightly smiling, he answered, “I surmised as much from this late visit. I have given the matter some thought, for you know my principles over dancing. However, you’re a young man and need some recreation; your own conscience must be your guide. I have no objections, provided you conduct yourself as a gentleman. Drinking will be quite conspicuous in tomorrow’s festivities and as my associate I will not permit your indulgence in this miserable business.”

“I can promise you that I’ll do no drinking whatever as I’ve cultivated no taste for liquor. You have my promise on both counts.”

“Thank you, I accept both promises,” and in an amused tone he added, “I hope you don’t find them too heavy an obligation.”

Wishing him the Season’s Greetings, I bade him goodnight.

Delighted with the interview I ran back to our room to tell Bill the happy news. I was greatly relieved. Had he refused, I would have been in a difficult position. Bill was still up awaiting my return and I asked him what would be the order of the day.

“Well, many will be quite jolly as it is the custom for each of the employees to receive a ration of rum the day before Christmas, but by a rule of the Company no-one is to touch it before the next day. There will also be a dance at night; most of the women will come from the two settlements, Lac Ste. Anne and St. Albert. Let me assure you that some of the best-looking women in the West, and for that matter anywhere else, will be at that dance tomorrow night.”

Then I told him of the wonderful news of receiving Woolsey’s permission to attend. I danced a few steps for his benefit. Of course I did not tell him about the promise to abstain from drinking. I wanted all the credit to myself about being a gentleman. That always comes natural to a sober man for I have noticed that some of the most polished gentlemen lose some of their color under the influence of drink.

It was some time before I was able to get to sleep, then suddenly it was morning. I was aroused from a deep sleep by a tremendous bloodcurdling noise that actually seemed to vibrate the room. For a moment I was shocked motionless, then the notes of music sounded into my senses. I was out of bed and scrambled for my clothes. Bill was already half dressed.

John Graham, a Scottish employee, burst into the room, almost incoherent with excitement and fairly dancing in his joy. Finally he shouted at the top of his voice, “The Pibroch! The Pibroch!” Tears coursed down his cheeks as he motioned for Bill and me to come. We dressed in seconds that morning and followed him out as he turned and dashed for the door.

Striding back and forth on the walk that surrounded three sides of the factor’s three-storied building was a man by the name of Colin Fraser playing a set of bagpipes. The long droning notes that precede the actual music were what awakened me so suddenly. He made a striking figure, dressed in all the gay regalia of tartan and kilt, his knees exposed to the elements. He seemed quite indifferent to the weather that was at least thirty degrees below zero. The deep notes of his instrument echoed back from the high hills of the ice-covered Saskatchewan River. It was beautiful even to my unfamiliar ear; never till then had I heard the bagpipes played.

I turned to watch to face of our old friend [Graham] and felt some of the deep loneliness that marked the features of this old man, whose life ambition had been to return to his native land; he now realized he was too late ever to attain it. He stood with his hand on Borwick’s shoulder; unashamed tears flowed down his cheeks. That night Bill and I carried him to his room, too inebriated to manage his own way.

Shortly after breakfast a horn was sounded, a sign that the factor was ready to receive the salutations of the men at the fort.

I accompanied Borwick in this customary courtesy. After greeting each man in turn the chief clerk, who stood at the factor’s elbow for this purpose, handed each man a drink of rum. I watched Bill out of the corner of my eyes as I took my turn to shake hands and offer the factor the happy returns of the day. When I refused my offer of a drink, I could see consternation and anger on Bill’s face. We were scarcely out of the room when he gave me a sound going over for refusing the drink.

“Look here, Peter! You have been guilty of a grave discourtesy in refusing a drink. This has been the custom of the Company since the memory of the oldest man in the service.”

“My dear sir, I’m not an employee of your grand Company; my first duty is to my employer. The matter of the minister’s man refusing a drink of rum will, I hope, not create a revolution in the service. Perhaps you’d better interview Mr. Woolsey before the situation gets too serious.”

He gave me a disgusted look but said no more. However, I noticed that he made a great fuss and ceremony when it came time to open his own ration in our room and never offered me a courtesy drink that he had so strongly advocated early that morning. Up to this time and for several years afterwards, I had no desire for strong drink nor had occasion to test its possibilities, but regret to say that at this late date, I’m afraid I could not claim that boast.

Christmas day was spent in visiting among those gathered at the fort. Woolsey held a service in English which everybody attended, regardless of affiliation. I was not called up to interpret but sat with his audience.

I had heard stories of unrestricted convivial times at these Christmas gatherings but there was no evidence of excess that day, other than our friend Graham who appeared to be under no obligation to share his portion with any other of the workmen. He gave Bill a drink but when I refused mine, he took an extra for himself, first holding the glass high in the air in my direction, smacking his lips in anticipation, then sipping with evident relish, nodding his head towards me with an air of admiring approval as if my refusal was a personal act of kindness to himself.

The dance that night I thought upheld Bill’s claims; in fact he had slightly underrated it. Borwick, being an old-timer in the area, seemed to know every person there and soon made me acquainted with a number of his friends. They were friendly and cordial and called me by my first name without the formal use of surname. When Bill introduced me as Peter, I drew him aside and pointed out his omission.

“Heck, everyone around here knows you as Erasmus, the minister’s man, so why waste time? It’s the custom around here to use first names or nicknames. They would think you were trying to put on airs if I called you Mr. Erasmus. Only factors, ministers of the church, and priests have a handle to their names.”

Colors in clothes were quite in evidence but nothing as startling as in later years. The Hudson’s Bay stores at that time were more conservative in their choices of colors and they were the only source of supply. Therefore dress in those days gave more attention to utility than fashion. Neatness of apparel was of primary importance and the winsome maids of the prairie were quite as adept at adjusting the means at hand as their sisters a quarter of a century later.

A big lunch was served at midnight in the homes of the married couples, where the guests had previously left their contributions of food at the homes of their friends and acquaintances. Young bachelor residents of the post were pressed into service as chore boys, regardless of their wishes in the matter. I presumed that usage had established a precedent; at any rate I found that single men were mere appendages of the wives’ organization for entertaining their guests; we were errand boys. Bill’s apparent enjoyment of my hesitant and clumsy handling of the job was plain to see. Wherever there was a shortage of any particular food, we were sent to a neighboring house for supplies and we were both too busy to share in the talk and pleasantry going on wherever we went.

I was getting quite rebellious and said so in a low tone to Bill, who just laughed and told me to have a little more patience. At last the guests were all served and started drifting back to the dance floor. Most of the crowd had taken their food standing up around the tables. Not us; we were seated at a table with our hostess and the husband who from some hidden secret place brought out a sadly depleted bottle. Bill’s malicious grin and wink was a determining factor in stiffening my weakened resistance.

Three attractive young ladies kept us supplied with food and talk; I refused the drink but needed no second invitation to start on the food. Under these circumstances I regained my good humor and for revenge on Bill, entered into a gay conversation with our attentive and pretty waitresses. Bill’s devotion to the bottle left him badly handicapped in that competition.

There was very little rest for the musicians between dances, and there were plenty of fiddlers among the French Metis people from Lac Ste. Anne. Having too good a time dancing I did not offer my services that night, but later on I happened to mention to Bill that I liked playing the fiddle, and thereafter on Borwick’s insistence I had to do my share.

The settlement guests all left for their homes at broad daylight.

After dancing all night they had to run behind dogs for another forty miles before they would have any rest or sleep. The men were tough athletes to stand a grind like that and I did not envy their trip under those conditions.

The more serious business of the post leaders was of course not neglected for any of the social events at the fort or at the settlements. The conference was brought to a final grand finish with New Year’s Day sports. There were foot races, toboggan slides on the North Saskatchewan River hill, some competitions for the women, and the big dog-train race of three miles on the river. Every team from each post competed in this race. Each factor contributed a share to this prize; the winner took all, which was a choice of any clothes in stock to the amount of approximately twenty-five dollars.

The employed dog drivers for the Company at Edmonton asked the factor if they could allow me to drive one of their two dog teams. He consented, provided the other leaders agreed. They readily consented as they considered me poor competition against their own hardened and skillful drivers.

Bill heard about the arrangement and came to me with the intention of talking me out of it. “Man, you haven’t a chance in the world against these men from Jasper House and Athabasca; fifty miles a day is a regular run for them. They would be ashamed if they were caught riding. They are tough, strong young men. Heck, man! That’s all they know, just running behind dogs all winter.”

“Bill, I’m going to beat every last one of them; I’ll tell you how I aim to do it. Every driver has been idle, eating and drinking to the limit of his capacity all week. Their dogs are the same, and will be in no fit condition for a short fast race like this will be. Our dogs are in work shape. The team I drive has made a trip to Lac Ste. Anne this week; they are not overfed and they are rested enough to be keen in tomorrow’s run. Bet your shirt, Bill; if you lose, I’ll give you one of mine. Besides, I don’t drink and that’s my biggest lead over all the others.”

This latter remark was just a dig for Bill’s private opinions on drinking, but I had considerable faith in my ability as a runner, for I had won foot races against some pretty strong competition. My trips for the post after game and fish had kept me in good condition. Pierre, the driver of the second team, had urged me to enter the race and had been the one to approach the factor.

“Peter, you by gar, are de best runner in dese parts. You win de race for sure. You never drink de whisky, while dem men dey drink, dey eat an’ feed de dogs like peegs. Dey lazy like Hell, all de week. For sure you win dat race, maybe.”

The starting point was marked by stakes frozen in the ice far enough apart to accommodate the seven teams at the line. One mile and a half downriver was another set of stakes, three in number around which we must drive before returning to the starting line. Failure to pass around the far stake would disqualify any driver. There were judges at this end and watchers at the other to make sure the drivers complied with the rules. No man was allowed to foul up another driver or cut in unless he had a clear lead to the trail that would be well marked on our trip downriver.

We were off! Bill was my helper at the post. I had given him instructions to hold the dogs back until at least half of the others had started. They would be plowing snow on an unraveled track. Bill, disgusted at that foolish way of starting, nevertheless obeyed. There were four teams in the lead, all abreast for the first two hundred yards or so. The Jasper man had the same idea as I had; he was holding his dogs to the track already made by the other four toboggans. One man was left at the post as his dogs in their eagerness had become fouled up in their harness. I could see that the man from Jasper would be my strong competitor.

What none of the other drivers knew about was a stretch of overflow ice on the last half mile of the course downriver where I hoped to pass the others without plowing deep snow. Pierre our Edmonton driver was now in second place behind the Fort Pitt man. We were all closely bunched when we made the turn but I got ahead of the fourth team as his dogs cut short instead of rounding the marker posts, and he had to turn his dogs.

I was now in third place, the Jasper man directly behind me.

When I came opposite the overflow ice, I struck into the deep snow as if to pass the team ahead; he started to follow me but seeing the depth of snow turned back. The minute I reached the thin snow on the overflow ice, I cracked the whip over the dogs’ backs and yelled. They almost threw me off the sleigh with their increased speed, as I had climbed on the sleigh to give it weight.

Now ahead of all the others, I allowed myself plenty of room before cutting back to the track. I had the race if I could stand the pace that I was being forced to travel to hold my lead. I had a brief breather while riding the overflow but jumped off when I came to the now well marked trail.

The Fort Pitt man was close up behind me and I knew I had to outdistance him before we reached the last quarter mile, because then he would also have a broken trail to follow. Now for the second time since starting I cracked my whip over the dogs, yelling for more speed, not hitting them but my voice and whip urging more speed.

I did not dare to look behind me at the others but was content with side glances only. For truth to tell, I had neither breath to spare nor energy to worry about opponents as long as I could see no driver ahead. We were only a hundred yards or so from the starting posts when another side glance showed the Fort Pitt man gaining beside me, his lead dog almost opposite my toboggan front. Only the short distance would save the race for me as I had the limit of speed out of my dogs. I hit the finish line with only a two dog advantage over my opponent.

Bill was like a crazy man, shouting and yelling his triumph for my win, but I found out later his delight was for himself as he had won a new shirt and pants by betting on my team to win. He even forgot to congratulate me as all the others did as soon as I could get my breath to acknowledge my thanks. Pierre and the Jasper man had fought for third place but the Jasper man beat him in a closer finish than my win. In fact the judges had some doubt about it but Pierre acknowledged his defeat. He told me afterwards, by gar, he didn’t care as long as our Edmonton team won a first.

At daylight the next morning the far-distant post managers had pulled out for another long year of isolated wilderness where their duties held little of entertainment and no social life whatever, until the following gathering a year hence at Edmonton. No wonder the Chief Factor had put so much effort and attention for their comfort and entertainment while they were in
Edmonton.

It seems such a time since I have written to you, but it cannot be very long for your letter has not gone yet. It was the 24th, Thursday, that I finished it, and in a great hurry I was too.

After lunch on the 24th I got [Inspector] Denny to come with me and we went down through the bush towards Kanouse’s, both with rifles. I saw four fine deer but did not get a shot at them. We went a long, long way and at last saw some more deer far off from the immediate bank of the river, feeding on the hill side as it slopes down from the prairie to the river bottom. We made a wide detour and climbed the steep hill and out on the prairie level and crept towards the deer. We got above them and figuring to try and get near fired at a long range and missed them. There were six of them; we were very much disgusted and came home. We got into camp just as the bugle sounded the “Dress” for dinner. Our dinner was very nice; the table lay with a sheet as a tablecloth. It is the only sheet in camp. After dinner I went to my room and with Ferland, my Hospt. Sergt. began to dissect some eyes of a deer. I finished them during the evening altho’ I was interrupted by various calls as Secretary of the Mess Committee.

Christmas day, of course, was observed as a Holyday. In the morning Capt. Jackson fired off our big gun with shells at an old tree and struck a branch of it, cutting it off completely. The pow-wow that was to have taken place the day before was put off on account of all the Indians not being able to get there. Instead we are to have it on Christmas. All the morning men were busy making mottoes to be hung around the room. They were painted in vermillion on white cloth and looked very well. “The Nor’West Mounted Police, Pioneers of a Glorious Future,” “Law and Order is Peace and Prosperity,” “Our Absent Friends, God Bless ‘em.” How my heart echoed back “God Bless them.” How I wondered then what you were doing and where you were. I knew wherever you were and whatever you were doing you would think of me, did you not, old woman? I know you did, but I want to hear you say you did. How I would like to see you and hear you speak, fold you in my arms once again. Oh Liz when I come back we won’t separate again for so long, will we? I don’t think I could be happy after seeing you again, to leave you for so long.

At two o’clock the Indians came and we took them out on the prairie to show them the effect of our artillery at a long range. They were greatly impressed thereat and after returning to the Mess Room we proceeded to feed them, Biscuit, Rice & Molasses & Coffee. They ate until they were portly full and then the Col. [Asst. Commissioner James F. Macleod], taking the Chiefs aside, talked to them. The squaws came and had a show in the good things going; some of them were quite handsome for squaws but all of them dirty. The young “Bucks” were all dressed to kill- feathers and paint and furs and gaudy blankets and beads. They all went away quietly about 5 o’clock. The men of the Troops had invited their respective Officers to dinner at their quarters in the middle of the day and from what we can hear they had most sumptuous repasts. Our dinner was not to be despised as the enclosed “Bill of Fare” will show you. The last course finished, we had a small jar of whiskey brought on the table, a present from [Fort] Benton, and in whiskey we drank to our “Absent Friends”. No other toast was drunk and no speech was made, for none was required. Then sitting round the table smoking, we talked of Christmases gone by, of friends & home.

About eleven o’clock we went over to “B” Troop to a dance and concert given by the men. Some of the songs were excellent, the dancing quite enjoyable and the remainder of the evening passed in revelry. About 12 we went to “F” Troop for supper and there had oysters, canned fruit pies, rice pudding, plum pudding and lots of it. The Interpreter then sent for the squaws and at 2 o’clock they came over and danced. We gave them some supper and 4 o’clock saw the end of the Christmas Day.

I guarantee that such a Christmas had never been seen in the Nor’West. Everyone expected to have a gloomy sad time, but the united efforts of men and officers managed to dispel the gloom and if Christmas was not exactly merry, it was at all events, pleasant.

Your own,
Barrie

From a Blackfoot Boy You have been telling in your paper of the way all the white people enjoyed themselves at Christmas and New Year, so now please let us tell you how we enjoyed ourselves on the Blackfoot reserve. Well, to begin with, we boys and girls take a great interest in

Santa Claus and as he paid us a visit last year, we thought we would get something again, so we got a long rope and stretched it across the room and put all our stockings and socks on it on Christmas eve. He came sure, and we all got candies and nuts and plums and one boy got a card sent from
England and the girls got scissors and hair ribbons too.

At 11 o’clock on Christmas Day we had service in our new schoolhouse and heard about Jesus being born and sang our Christmas hymns in Blackfoot. At 1 o’clock, 0 my! We had a fine dinner, roast beef and plum pudding. Three big plum puddings, one for each table, and Albert, he couldn’t eat his all up, and Mr. Tims, he said it was the first time Albert said he couldn’t eat any more.

Well, after dinner we went on to the ice to play and at 5 o’clock the big bell began to ring and there was no boy late for tea this night. We never saw anything like it before. The cakes were all white on the top and little rabbits and mice all over them, but the boys soon found it was all sugar, and there were no rabbits or mice after tea. Well, when tea was over we heard a great noise, and the boys, they said it was old Santa Claus come, and we all ran out and there he was coming over from the Mission house with a long white beard, and a dress like an old woman, and a bundle of things on his arm and we all laughed at him and we all went into the school house. Then we saw what Mr. Baker and Miss Garlick and the other teacher had been doing all the afternoon. They had got a pine tree and dressed it up with all sorts of things, and all the boys and girls looked happy.

Old Santa Claus, he said some of the Indians could come in and see it too, so a lot of our fathers and mothers, they came in and sat down and the tree was lit up with candles and Santa Claus began to give us some things. The boys got boots, braces, handkerchiefs, knives, and the little boys got tin horses and dogs and the girls they got dolls and work bags and one got a knife, fork and spoon in a box all the way from
Toronto. Then we had apples and scrambled for nuts and candies which Santa Claus said Mr. Haynes sent.

After that we had games and played “nuts and may” and “turn the trencher” and all the Indians, they played too, and we sang songs and that was how we spent Christmas.

Very good, sir. And then at New Year, Mr. Tims always gives our parents a feast then and about fifty Indians all came to the school-house and had bread and beef, and apple pies, and lots of tea, and Mr. Tims he gave to each father a quilt and a shirt or coat or something that came up in the bales, and our mothers (some of us have 2 or 3 mothers) they had a dress or a petticoat and something else, a hood or a scarf. This was the parents’ feast. Then the next day all the other Indians came, and the children got something, a pair of mitts or a doll and Mr. Tims he gave all the old women petticoats or something else and the girls got dresses and the boys scarves and hats and everybody had tea and bread and jam and all we boys and girls had candies.

I don’t know how many people there were, about 150 I should think. This was all New Year’s at this camp. Eagle Ribs’ people at the South Camp, where there is another school, they had New Year’s too and got some things same as the Indians here. Next year, Mr. Editor, I will tell you again what we do, and I hope there will be a lot more bales [of clothing] come up again.