The Foreigner | Page 9

out his watch, consulting his time table, and cursing the delay.
Occasionally he glanced out through the window across the white plain
that stretched level to the horizon, specked here and there by infrequent
little black shacks and by huge stacks of straw half buried in snow.
Suddenly his attention was arrested by a trim line of small buildings
cosily ensconced behind a plantation of poplars and Manitoba maples.
"What are those structures?" he enquired of his neighbour in careful
book English, and with slightly foreign accent.

"What? That bunch of buildings. That is a Mennonite village," was the
reply.
"Mennonite! Ah!"
"Yes," replied his neighbour. "Dutch, or Russian, or something."
"Yes, Russian," answered the stranger quickly. "That is Russian,
surely," he continued, pointing eagerly to the trim and cosy group of
buildings. "These Mennonites, are they
prosperous--ah--citizens--ah--settlers?"
"You bet! They make money where other folks would starve. They
know what they're doing. They picked out this land that everybody else
was passing over--the very best in the country--and they are making
money hand over fist. Mighty poor spenders, though. They won't buy
nothing; eat what they can't sell off the farm."
"Aha," ejaculated the stranger, with a smile.
"Yes, they sell everything, grain, hogs, eggs, butter, and live on
cabbages, cheese, bread."
"Aha," repeated the stranger, again with evident approval.
"They are honest, though," continued his neighbour judicially; "we sell
them implements."
"Ah, implements?" enquired the stranger.
"Yes, ploughs, drills, binders, you know."
"Ah, so, implements," said the stranger, evidently making a mental note
of the word. "And they pay you?"
"Yes, they are good pay, mighty good pay. They are good settlers, too."
"Not good for soldiers, eh?" laughed the stranger.
"Soldiers? No, I guess not. But we don't want soldiers."
"What? You have no soldiers? No garrisons?"
"No, what do we want soldiers for in this country? We want farmers
and lots of them."
The stranger was apparently much struck with this remark. He pursued
the subject with keen interest. If there were no soldiers, how was order
preserved? What happened in the case of riots? What about the
collecting of taxes?
"Riots? There ain't no riots in this country. What would we riot for?
We're too busy. And taxes? There ain't no taxes except for schools."
"Not for churches?" enquired the foreigner.
"No, every man supports his own church or no church at all if he likes

it better."
The foreigner was deeply impressed. What a country it was, to be sure!
No soldiers, no riots, no taxes, and churches only for those who wanted
them! He made diligent enquiry as to the Mennonite settlements, where
they were placed, their size, the character of the people and all things
pertaining to them. But when questioned in regard to himself or his
own affairs, he at once became reticent. He was a citizen of many
countries. He was travelling for pleasure and to gather knowledge. Yes,
he might one day settle in the country, but not now. He relapsed into
silence, sitting with his head fallen forward upon his breast, and so sat
till the brakeman passing through shouted, "Winnipeg! All change!"
Then he rose, thanked with stiff and formal politeness his seat-mate for
his courtesy, put on his long overcoat lined with lambskin and adorned
with braid, placed his lambskin cap upon his head, and so stood looking
more than ever like a military man.
The station platform at Winnipeg was the scene of uproar and
confusion. Railway baggagemen and porters, with warning cries,
pushed their trucks through the crowd. Hotel runners shouted the rates
and names of their hotels. Express men and cab drivers vociferously
solicited custom. Citizens, heedless of every one, pushed their eager
way through the crowd to welcome friends and relatives. It was a busy,
bustling, confusing scene. But the stranger stood unembarrassed, as if
quite accustomed to move amid jostling crowds, casting quick, sharp
glances hither and thither.
Gradually the platform cleared. The hotel runners marched off in
triumph with their victims, and express drivers and cab men drove off
with their fares, and only a scattering few were left behind. At one end
of the platform stood two men in sheepskin coats and caps. The
stranger slowly moved toward them. As he drew near, the men glanced
at first carelessly, then more earnestly at him. For a few moments he
stood gazing down the street, then said, as if to himself, in the Russian
tongue, "The wind blows from the north to-night."
Instantly the men came to rigid attention.
"And the snow lies deep," replied one, raising his hand in salute.
"But spring will come, brother," replied the stranger.
One of the men came quickly toward him, took his hand and kissed it.
"Fool!" said the stranger, drawing away his hand, and