Then comes a town deep in black mud—­a straggly, inch-thick plank town, with dull red grain elevators.  The open country refuses to be subdued even for a few score rods.  Each street ends in the illimitable open, and it is as though the whole houseless, outside earth were racing through it.  Towards evening, under a gray sky, flies by an unframed picture of desolation.  In the foreground a farm wagon almost axle deep in mud, the mire dripping from the slow-turning wheels as the man flogs the horses.  Behind him on a knoll of sodden soggy grass, fenced off by raw rails from the landscape at large, are a knot of utterly uninterested citizens who have flogged horses and raised wheat in their time, but to-day lie under chipped and weather-worn wooden headstones.  Surely burial here must be more awful to the newly-made ghost than burial at sea.

There is more snow as we go north, and Nature is hard at work breaking up the ground for the spring.  The thaw has filled every depression with a sullen gray-black spate, and out on the levels the water lies six inches deep, in stretch upon stretch, as far as the eye can reach.  Every culvert is full, and the broken ice clicks against the wooden pier-guards of the bridges.  Somewhere in this flatness there is a refreshing jingle of spurs along the cars, and a man of the Canadian Mounted Police swaggers through with his black fur cap and the yellow tab aside, his well-fitting overalls and his better set-up back.  One wants to shake hands with him because he is clean and does not slouch nor spit, trims his hair, and walks as a man should.  Then a custom-house officer wants to know too much about cigars, whisky, and Florida water.  Her Majesty the Queen of England and Empress of India has us in her keeping.  Nothing has happened to the landscape, and Winnipeg, which is, as it were, a centre of distribution for emigrants, stands up to her knees in the water of the thaw.  The year has turned in earnest, and somebody is talking about the ‘first ice-shove’ at Montreal, 1300 or 1400 miles east.

They will not run trains on Sunday at Montreal, and this is Wednesday.  Therefore, the Canadian Pacific makes up a train for Vancouver at Winnipeg.  This is worth remembering, because few people travel in that train, and you escape any rush of tourists running westward to catch the Yokohama boat.  The car is your own, and with it the service of the porter.  Our porter, seeing things were slack, beguiled himself with a guitar, which gave a triumphal and festive touch to the journey, ridiculously out of keeping with the view.  For eight-and-twenty long hours did the bored locomotive trail us through a flat and hairy land, powdered, ribbed, and speckled with snow, small snow that drives like dust-shot in the wind—­the land of Assiniboia.  Now and again, for no obvious reason to the outside mind, there was a town.  Then the towns gave place to ‘section so and so’; then there were trails of the buffalo, where he once walked in his pride; then there was a mound of white bones, supposed to belong to the said buffalo, and then the wilderness took up the tale.  Some of it was good ground, but most of it seemed to have fallen by the wayside, and the tedium of it was eternal.