With Love from Bliss by Ruth Glover

Author:Ruth Glover
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781441239334
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group

What a hodgepodge they were, what a conglomeration of nationalities. From most corners of the world they came—all seeking a homestead.

“Keep Canada British” was the cry. But the gates were open, and like a mighty, rushing stream, they could not be stanched. Wanted or not, welcome or not—they came.

English settlers were pursued with some vigor. Contacted through a London office, every adult over twenty-one who signed on for western Canada was paid a bonus. Bonuses were also paid to Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Belgians, Scandinavians, and Germans.

Not so blessed, not so sought after—the Hungarians, Russians, Ukrainians, Poles. But they came. They took what was left, whether it was poplar or swamp, paid their ten dollar filing fee, got in their buggies, and drove the muddy roads to 160 acres that they could call their own. And, most generally, made a go of it. “Foreigners,” they were called, while the favored races were termed “white.” Their arrival by the thousands caused bitter debate in Parliament. “Canada is a dumping ground for the refuse of every country in the world,” one member was reported to have said rashly. But they were a quiet and industrious people. They were a hardworking people. Freedom was a prize to be treasured. Independence was a goal to be gained. They would, literally, earn the respect of their neighbors and the world in general, becoming Canadians along the way.

Before the railway, these settlers, choosing the Northwest, were outfitted in Red River and trailed in by cart, by boat, or by portage. Luxuries were not feasible to transport, and most homesteaders suffered unspeakable deprivation, simply “making do” on what the land provided.

On the open plains, unless lumber could be brought in, a soddy—turves from their own land, cut and piled, bricklike—was the only alternative for a home. Many people had a great aversion to them because it was generally thought they attracted fleas and bedbugs; certainly they were a plague to be reckoned with. In the sod hut’s favor—warm in winter, cool in summer, or at least warmer and cooler than a tar paper shack on the open prairie. For those who sought out the bush and accepted the backbreaking task of clearing five acres a year for three years, a log cabin, chinked and sealed, would be home.

The bush wasn’t friendly, it didn’t give ground easily. On the prairie it was just plow, and sow, perhaps chop a few willow roots; in the bush it was chop and cut all day, and for many days out of the year. In spite of that, there were those who rejected the prairie with its unending horizon and terrifying loneliness and chose the green and near-impenetrable bush. But prairie or bush, the land was pocked with sloughs, sloughs, and more sloughs, and overhead was a sky whose vastness was beyond expressing or grasping. Prairie or bush—the venturesome and visionary dared; the stubborn and desperate endured.

Connor Dougal had chosen the bush. Five years of backbreaking toil had seen the clearing of twenty acres

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