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J.A.V.
(Alex) David
In 1882
David Hysop, a conductor on the Grand Trunk, was going west. He
had been out west in the fall of ’79 and had walked a hundred miles
over the prairie. In 1882 he decided to move his family out to
Manitoba. So my Dad, twenty-four years old at the time, went with
the party. It was an eight-day trip by way of Windsor, Chicago
and St. Paul. They arrived in Emerson early in May, I
believe. The Red River was on the rampage.
It
took
eight days to come from Gananoque to Emerson because the trains were
mixed trains with carloads of stock and equipment which were
side-tracked at every possible point to let the express go by.
Besides, the animals had to be fed and watered. Though the owners
were supposed to have food and water with them they often ran
out. Then the train crew with great apparent reluctance gave them
a chance to re-stock. In 1882 the rivers were all in flood, so
trains were stopped at bridges and often taken over in sections.
Emerson
was over a hundred miles from where our party wanted to go, but was the
closest railroad point at that time. When the cars were finally
placed on the siding, unloading began. The water was from two to
three feet deep. Waggons were unloaded first and put
together. Horses were harnessed, then forced to jump into the
water, hooked up. Waggons were loaded with enough to start a
camp. It was three miles to ground high and dry enough to
camp. The balance of the carload was unloaded as soon as camp had
been set up, and drawn to camp. Then came the big job; loading
all that the teams could handle; stacking up the rest, finding someone
to keep an eye on its safety, and then off to the Promised Land.
When
they got away from the flooded Red River; the ground was dry, and grass
and crocus coming up everywhere. The willow was in bud; pussy
willows were coming out. Huge flocks of ducks and geese were
flying north, so no wonder my dad, fresh from a rocky bush farm,
thought this is the place to be.
On
the
fourth day, after only minor troubles, they arrived at Section 31.2.16
where David Hysop had filed on a homestead. Dad took S.E.
24.3.18; William Hysop took up S.W. 24.3.18.
The nearest store was Wakopa, and the closest lumber was a sawmill at
the west end of Rock Lake.
Dad
built a neat little frame or lumber cottage, mostly by himself.
That fall, he returned east and on March 28th, 1883 was married to
Harriet Hysop……………
My Dad
and Mother left for Manitoba by train. His car of effects had
already started in charge of a young fellow who wanted to go
west. At that time every car was in charge of someone, and, in
many cases, though against the rules, two or three more were hidden out
in the car, for all young fellows were willing and eager to go
west.
By the
spring of 1883 trains were going through to Brandon. This was a
great improvement over coming by Emerson, as it was half or less than
half the distance. Brandon at that time was a few hundred people living
in tents and shanties, even in discarded railway boxcars.
One
very wise move my dad made was to bring a very wonderful team of mules
Jack and Kate. For many years they did good service. No
road was too long or night too dark but they would find the way
home. In winter during storms and drifting snow they could be
left to find their way home without guidance.
…..
Dad had
brought with him a bellows and anvil and other blacksmith tools, and so
was in great demand for help, not only from all the neighbours but from
all those passing through who needed horses shod or tires set.
Usually he loaned his equipment and let people do their own work.
Being also something of a vet., he doctored sick horses for cows for
all and sundry. He was lucky if he got enough to pay for the
medicine he used up. However, he did get some very pleasant
surprises. ……
During
next five years Dad made many trips back to Ontario encouraging
settlers to come and also bringing in buggies, buckboards, democrats,
sleighs, etc., to sell. He worked with the McLaughlin Company of
Brockville, and at that time was the only one in the business.
In
1887
Dad sold his homestead and bought three-quarters of Section 7.3.7. with
the Pembina River running all along the north line, or just one
straight mile of river, but as it was, and is anything but straight,
two miles would be more like it.
The
south side of the river had trees, bushes and high banks, while the
north side was clear of bush. In the valley, maple and Balm of
Gilead grew, and chokecherries, pincherries, saskatoons (more often
called blueberries), also gooseberries, raspberries, black currants,
wild strawberries, wild plums and hops, used at that time to make
yeast. Also on the oak trees there were acorns and on the bushes
hazelnuts.
Put
all
these things and many, many more in a valley full of game, with fish in
the river, lots of places to swim; it made a wonderful place to bring
up a family.
Dad
chose a wonderful site for his home. Robert Church, who had had
experience making brick in the Old Country, had found clay suitable for
bricks some eight miles south of Killarney and had started a kiln. He
made a wonderful hard red brick and Dad bought enough to build a
seven-room house at $8 a thousand.
In
1890
Dad built a three-story barn, 34 x 34 feet. There was a stone
basement for cows, opening out on a low level; a brick veneer second
storey for horses, grain, implements, etc., which opened on a higher
level and a square mow which held 16 loads of hay or feed.
In 1890
he also built a frame building, 24 x 28, for a cheese factory. He
brought the vat, press, etc. from Ontario, also the cheesemaker, Ike
Woods, a real artist at his job. We milked up to 50 cows, by
hand, of course, and also bought all the milk the neighbors brought
in. He brought in the first Babcock Milk Tester in 1892, and it
caused quite a sensation. Before that, all milk was paid for at
the same rate, even though watered. Some few people were highly
indignant about this new contrivance. The cheese was taken to Brandon
and sold at six to eight cents a pound. Once we got ten cents for
it. It took three days to haul a load to Brandon, sell it and
return.
Ike
Woods made cheese for us for six years. The next cheese-maker was
J. Gillespie. He was not so hot. The next was Chris
Greenizan who was good, but by that time the people were breaking more
land and not milking so many cows.
In the
fall of 1899 Dad sold our herd to the C.P. R. He sold half, or
one vat, one press, and most of our equipment to Nathan Clark, south of
Killarney. He carried on for some five or six years after we quit.
Our
first threshing was done with an 18-inch separator on skids, fed by
hand. The grain came out in a tray or box underneath. The
straw just chopped out the back and then had to be forked away.
With good luck it would thresh 50 bushels in a day. The power to
drive this was a treadmill and our two good mules. It was a steep
incline and they walked uphill turning the tread which turned the big
wheel, which in turn drove the separator. My first job threshing
was riding one of the mules and with a switch keeping them at the same
pace. I was six at the time.
Then
we
bought an upright steam engine, one of the first in our part of the
world. With it we pumped water for the cheese factory, supplied
the hot water, and in the fall used it for threshing. Though it
took four horses to pull it around, and the separator – a 28-inch
cylinder - took four more horses, it was a big improvement. This
separator had a bagger on the side and a straw carrier. My job
then was drawing water in two barrels on a stoneboat to keep the engine
in water. When my brothers were with me to steady the barrels, it
was not bad, but when alone and the barrels upset, and the whistle was
blowing three calls which meant “water needed, hurry up” – I’m afraid
it made me cross. I was ten that year. The next year we had
a water tank with a pump that sometimes worked.
When I
was nine Dad let me take the cattle out to pasture Saturdays and spring
holidays. We could go five miles in one direction without a field
or a garden or much to worry about. We only had to keep our herd
from mingling with other cattle. As the bulls were allowed to run
then, that was a real job sometimes, and many a good bull-fight took
place.
The
prairie, except along the river, did not have a tree or even a bush.
Only wolfwillow, which we cut to form a teepee to give us shade when we
were eating our lunch. We took the cattle about eight in the
morning, and rounded them up to start home at four or five.
Milking time was at six.
Arnold
started school very young as he was needed to make up the necessary
number for the government grant. The summer he was five he drove
a big dog hitched to a little waggon two miles across the prairie to
school.
The
Oak
Ridge school was on 18.3.17. The pupils included Richards,
Moxleys, Yules, Rigbys, Viponds, Wilkins, Elliots, Heppels, Schoults,
and later Haydens, Freemans, Andersons and Campbells.
The
long prairie grass made it possible to slide down the hills in summer
or fall just as fast as a sleigh would go in winter. We used a
smooth board or barrel stave instead of a sleigh with runners.
Our
farm being so close to the school, we often found ourselves with a
dozen or more children to keep over night when a storm came up suddenly
in the winter. Once Mother had eight children and a teacher for
four days.
In
those days Mother put a lamp in an upstairs window every dark or stormy
night in the winter for lost travelers or for any of us after
dark. Many a person was thankful for that light.
We
children never went to bed at night without looking out a window.
One night we saw a light out in a field in front of our house. We
watched it and it seemed to be going in circles. So we called our
Dad. He put his heavy clothes on and got on a horse to see what
it meant. It was Dr. Patterson, our first doctor in
Killarney. He had been out near Ninga helping a baby into the
world. He and his driver had started back to Killarney. The
doctor had dozed off and the driver, who had been drinking had passed
out. One of the lines had got under a runner so it was pulling
the team in circles. It was 30 below. I still remember the
noise they made when dad and mother got them thawed out a bit. By
noon next day they were able to go on to town.
Since
we had the cheese factory and a herd of dairy cows, we also had a
Holstein bull, and we boys had to feed and water him. We led him
down to the Pembina river to drink, then would climb on his back to
ride up the hill. The summer I was ten-past, we coaxed Dad to let
us take Wingwaggler to the Fair. Fred and I walked and led him
in. The Fair was held near the Stockyard. Most of the
animals were tied to waggons. Our competitors were bulls owned by
Nathan Clark, John Clark and George Vipond. The judge gave us First
Prize, which was fine. But when we were taking our bull out of
the ring, he was attacked by George Vipon’s bull. What a fight,
and what a scurrying of people to get out of the way. Our good
bull won the fight and though the judge told us boys to take our bull
and go home we didn’t mind a bit. We took him up the track to the
first pile of old ties, climbed on his back and rode him home, bursting
with pride that he had won both the prize and the fight.
When
Arnold was born the nearest doctor was at or near Crystal City.
Dad went for him, but Arnold was born before they returned. Mrs.
Edwards, some three miles away, had taken charge. The Edwards
family came from England bringing several children, a black mammy to
cook, and furniture and equipment suitable for any place but a new
country or for farming. The girls grew up and became nurses or
were married, and the only boy joined the army for the South African
War. Only a row of trees they planted marked the place now, as
the farm is worked by owners who live on other land.
Born
February 14th, 1887, at my Mother’s old home between Kingston and
Gananoque,
Ontario.
Came West when six months old. Don’t remember too much about
that.
Rode my first horse when I was two years old, fell off, but was put
back on and taught to hang on to the
mane.
Five years old, could & did bring up the cows, also started
school.
Nine years old I was trusted to take the herd out to graze, Saturdays
&
Sundays.
Still miles of prairie, just the odd field to keep them out
of.
Also had to keep them from getting mixed with neighbor’s cattle, for
that always meant a bull-fight. T
he
summer days
seemed very long, but I had a good pony and a good dog, and my Mother
saw to it that I had a good
lunch.
The bird life on the prairie in those days was
wonderful. The
badgers and other wild life a constant interest. My brother Fred
came with me for part of the day, and rode behind me on the
pony.
The first job I had at threshing time was riding a mule on the tread
mill, and with a switch to keep the speed up, so the separator would
not
plug.
My next job was drawing water for an upright steam engine, which
replaced the treadmill.
Drew
the water in barrels, on a stone
boat.
The heart-breaking part of that was when the barrel upset going up from
the river, and the whistle was blowing for water. Three
Toots.
From then on, I soon learned to do a man’s work, and by sixteen thought
myself as good as any man. In threshing time we
were up at 5 a.m. and seldom saw the bed before 11 p.m., but those were
good
days.
An hour with the gun would bring enough ducks or
prairie chicken to
give the whole gang a bird each for
dinner.
I do not build houses from a big heart, just to have
something to
do. I always felt better when I had cleared and broke a quarter
section, and now feel the same when I see a good house, where only
weeds
grew.
During my lifetime we broke 2200 acres of prairie sod and at the last
were farming four sections of land
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