Deep Furrows

Deep Furrows, by Hopkins
Moorhouse

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Title: Deep Furrows
Author: Hopkins Moorhouse
Release Date: June 1, 2007 [EBook #21657]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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FURROWS ***

Produced by Al Haines

DEEP FURROWS
Which Tells of Pioneer Trails Along Which the Farmers of Western
Canada Fought Their Way to Great Achievements in Co-Operation

By
HOPKINS MOORHOUSE

TORONTO AND WINNIPEG
GEORGE J. McLEOD, LIMITED
PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1918
BY GEORGE J. McLEOD, LIMITED

TO THE
MEN AND WOMEN OF THE SOIL

CONTENTS
CHAPTER
Foreword
I The Man on the Qu'Appelle Trail II A Call to Arms III The First Shot
is Fired IV "That Man Partridge!" V "The House With the Closed
Shutters" VI On a Card in the Window of Wilson's Old Store VII A
Fight for Life VIII A Knock on the Door IX The Grain Exchange
Again X Printers' Ink XI From the Red River Valley to the Foothills
XII The Showdown XIII The Mysterious "Mr. Observer" XIV The
Internal Elevator Campaign XV Concerning the Terminals XVI The

Grip of the Pit XVII New Furrows XVIII A Final Test XIX Meanwhile,
in Saskatchewan XX What Happened in Alberta XXI In the Drag of the
Harrows XXII The Width of the Field XXIII The Depth of the Furrows
XXIV And the End is Not Yet Appendix

FOREWORD
Once in awhile, maybe, twenty-five or thirty years ago, they used to
pack you off during the holidays for a visit on Somebody's Farm. Have
you forgotten? You went with your little round head close clipped till
all the scar places showed white and you came back with a mat of
sunbleached hair, your face and hands and legs brown as a nut.
Probably you treasure recollections of those boyhood days when a raw
field turnip, peeled with a "toad-stabber," was mighty good eatin'. You
remember the cows and chickens, the horses, pigs and sheep, the old
corn-crib where generally you could scare up a chipmunk, the gnarled
old orchard--the Eastern rail-fenced farm of a hundred-acres-or-so. You
remember Wilson's Emporium at the Corners where you went for the
mail--the place where the overalled legs of the whole community
drummed idly against the cracker boxes and where dried prunes,
acquired with due caution, furnished the juvenile substitute for a chew
of tobacco!
Or perhaps you did not know even this much about country life--you of
the Big Cities. To you, it may be, the Farmer has been little more than
the caricatures of the theatres. You have seen him wearing blue jeans or
a long linen duster in "The Old Homestead," wiping his eyes with a big
red bandana from his hip pocket. You have seen him dance eccentric
steps in wrinkled cowhide boots, his hands beneath flapping coat-tails,
his chewing jaws constantly moving "the little bunch of spinach on his
chin!" You have heard him fiddle away like two-sixty at "Pop Goes the
Weasel!" You have grinned while he sang through his nose about the
great big hat with the great big brim, "All Ba-ound Ra-ound With a
Woolen String!"

Yes, and you used to read about the Farmer, too--Will Carleton's farm
ballads and legends; Riley's fine verses about the frost on the pumpkin
and "Little Orphant Annie" and "Over the Hill to the Poorhouse!" And
when Cousin Letty took you to the Harvest Home Supper and Grand
Entertainment in the Town Hall you may have heard the village choir
wail: "Oh, Shall We Mortgage the Farm?"
Perhaps even yet, now that you are man grown--business or
professional man of the great cities--perhaps even yet, although you
long have studied the market reports and faithfully have read the papers
every day--perhaps that first impression of what a farmer was like still
lingers in a more or less modified way. So that to you pretty much of an
"Old Hayseed" he remains. Thus, while you have been busy with other
things, the New Farmer has come striding along until he has "arrived in
our midst" and to you he is a stranger.
Remember the old shiny black mohair sofa and the wheezy,
yellow-keyed melodeon or the little roller hand-organ that used to play
"Old Hundred"? They have given place to new styles of furniture,
upright pianos and cabinet gramophones. Coffin-handles and wax
flowers are not framed in walnut and hung in the Farmer's front parlor
any more; you will find the grotesque crayon portrait superseded by
photo