I cannot fret—­and drive the plough,—­
    Nor weep—­and ply the spade;
  O blessed work—­I need you now
    To keep me unafraid!

  No terrors can invade the place
    Where honest green things thrive;
  Come blisters—­backache—­sunburnt face—­
    And save my soul alive!

No wonder that increased production has become a popular cry.  Every one wants to work in a garden—­a garden is so comforting and reassuring.  Everything else has changed, but seedtime and harvest still remain.  Rain still falls, seeds sprout, buds break into leaves, and blossoms are replaced by fruit.

We are forced back to the elemental things.  Horses and cattle look better to me every day.  Read the war news—­which to-day tells of the destruction of French villages—­and then look at the cattle grazing peacefully on the grass which clothes the hillside, and see how good they look!  They look like sanctified Christians to me!

Ever since the war I have envied them.  They are not suspicious or jealous; they are not worried, hurried, troubled, or afraid; they are oblivious of public opinion; they have no debts to pay; they do not weary you with explanations; they are not sorry for anything they have ever done; they are not blaming God for anything!  On every count the cattle seem to have the best of us!

It is a quiet evening here in northern Alberta, and the evening light is glinting on the frozen ponds.  I can see far up the valley as I write, and one by one the lights begin to glimmer in the farmhouses; and I like to think that supper is being prepared there for hungry children.  The thought of supper appeals to me because there is no dining-car on the train, and every minute I am growing hungrier.  The western sky burns red with the sunset, and throws a sullen glow on the banks of clouds in the east.  It is a quiet, peaceful evening, and I find it hard to believe that somewhere men are killing each other and whole villages are burning....  The light on the ponds grows dimmer, with less of rose and more of a luminous gray....  I grow hungrier still, and I know it is just because I cannot get anything.  I eat apples and nut-bars, but they do not satisfy me; it is roast beef, brown gravy, potatoes, and turnips that I want.  Is it possible that I refused lemon pie—­last night—­at Carmangay?  Well—­well—­let this be a lesson to you!

The sunset is gone now, and there is only a brightness in the western sky, and a big staring moon stands above the valley, shining down on the patches of snow which seem to run together like the wolves we used to see on the prairies of Manitoba long ago.  The farmhouses we pass are bright with lights, and I know the children are gathered around the table to “do” their lessons.  The North Country, with its long, snowy winters, develops the love of home in the hearts of our people, and drives the children indoors to find their comfort around the fire.  Solomon knew this when he said that the perfect woman “is not afraid of the snow for her household.”  Indeed, no; she knows that the snow is a home-developing agency, and that no one knows the joy and comfort of home like those of us who have battled with cold and storm and drifted roads all day, and at nightfall come safely to this blessed place where warmth and companionship await us!  Life has its compensations.