This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on March 11, 1939.
I took a day off yesterday.
It was the yellow morning sunshine coming in through the window where I sat reading the paper that suggested the idea. The sunlight was warm and comforting, and made a pool of glory on the floor, and as I sat there, I wanted time to stand still. It could never be sweeter than this.
Every cloud in the sky had marched away, leaving a perfect blue bowl over our heads. The windows were open to air the house after the damp, cold weather, when all the fires had been kept going. So the fresh air was welcome.
As it billowed the curtains, I could see they were dusty, but even that did not rouse me. What difference did it make? What difference did anything make on a morning like this?
I went outside to get the real tang of the air, and to hear the skylarks. They were full of song, these enchanted singers that lead a charmed life. How they escape the cats and crows I cannot tell, for they do not even seek the safety of the trees, but nest on the ground under strawberry stalks, or any little shelter, and somehow survive. They are so precious and dear and small, each spring their song comes like another assurance of God’s continued care.
This day was all the brighter because we have had snow, deep enough to put all the birds on the bread-line. A speaker over the radio the day it snowed appealed for the little people, dependent now on human charity. I am sure there was a ready response.
We have a garden table were the bread is spread, and on the snowy day two gulls came, but something held them back. I watched them through the window as they made several attempts to move in on the little birds. But when one advanced toward the table, the other beat him back. At last they fought it out and flew away, full or recriminations, and the juncos and robins were left in peace.
The snow, which came after the cold weather, saved the bulbs from injury by drawing the frost. Nothing seems to be hurt. The yellow crocuses make fairy rings under the monkey trees.
We brought some of the blossoms into the house and put them in water to see them open wide, and fold up again at night. The next day the water had turned yellow, and I put a piece of white cotton in to see if it would take the dye. I could see in this a new dye called
“Crocus Yellow.”
I have often done this with Indian paintbrush, which colours the water pink, and from this gets its name. All went well until the tiny members of the family decided this glass of crocuses had been in the house long enough. So my scientific research ended.
But nothing spoiled the sunshine of yesterday. The Olympics, blue and white, smiled down on us. Mount Baker, over the shoulder of San Juan Island, looked more and more like a partly melted dish of ice cream. Haro Strait, between us and San Juan, dimpled and rippled.
The fields steamed in the warm air, and I am sure every bulb felt a stirring in its little heart. Fat robins stepped about the lawn intent on the extraction of worms from the grass. Catkins are hanging from the nut trees. Every year they promise nuts, but none have come so far. But I believe them again this year.
The little holly trees are shining in their tightly set leaves. Some day they will grow into a full hedge, with red berries in the fall and winter. We have 80 of them in a row, grown from seed. The birds carry the berries from the holly farm nearby, and so in the woods come the hardy seedlings, growing by their own free will. When you see one growing you know it has passed the elimination test; the weak ones have died.
One of the neighbours came out on the early bus to enjoy the sunshine with me, and strangely enough we talked of cold weather and the ways we contrived to keep warm when winter storms raged on the prairie.
We spoke of taking hot stove-lids wrapped in newspapers to bed and recalled the smell of the almost singeing paper. We remembered that the “bridge” of the stove was in special favour, because it could seldom be spared. Pots could be placed on the stove holes, but the “bridge” had no substitute unless the boiler was pressed into service.
A black iron pot filled with coals was often used to take the chill off the room. But its hours were numbered and in the morning it seemed to add to the cold. We recalled the tub full of water that sat in the cellar to keep the potatoes and apples from freezing; and the newspapers next to the glass in the windows to preserve the precious flowers.
All this was far enough away to be pleasant to remember. And it brought back a time when life held no outside fears. The world was safe, even if the winters were cold in Manitoba. Queen Victoria was on the throne, and the “open Bible was the secret of England’s greatness.”
We did not know much about governments and their ways. They did not concern us. We were not looking for any help. What we did not have we did without, and everyone knew that prosperity was ahead.
The man who was willing to work was sure to succeed. We learned that from the copy-books; also from observation.
So we endured patiently, knowing summer would come, crops would grow, prices would go up and the next year would be the best one yet.
I walked down the lane with my friend when she went away. We knew exactly when to leave the house, for Jimmie, the driver, is never late. Round the bend and up the hill came the orange coach that serves the travelling needs of Gordon Head. (When we think Jimmie is late, we know our watches are wrong.)
Ferndale Road lay silent and empty, quivering with sunshine after the bus went by. I stayed to look at the purple aubrieta, which grows outside the fence. The neighbourhood never looked lovelier, for I was saying goodbye to it again. Blooms will come and fall before I shall see it again. But I put that thought away as unworthy of such a day.
