Read Ebook: The Fraud of Feminism by Bax Ernest Belfort

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PAGE The Prairie 1 The Gramophone 4 The Plow 8 The Mothering 12 Hustlin' in My Jeans 15 The Homesteader 20 Vain Suitors 24 God's Signalman 26 Going Home 32 Just Be Glad 38 The Canadian Rockies 40 A Prairie Heroine 42 The Seer 51 The Son of Marquis Noddle 56 The Prodigals 62 The Squad of One 64 Alkali Hall 70 Prairie Born 76 "A Colonial" 81 Little Tim Trotter 84 The Vortex 86 The Old Guard 91 Kid McCann 93 Who Owns the Land? 99 A Race for Life 103

THE PRAIRIE

The City? Oh, yes, the City Is a good enough place for a while, It fawns on the clever and witty, And welcomes the rich with a smile; It lavishes money as water, It boasts of its palace and hall, But the City is only the daughter-- The Prairie is mother of all!

The City is all artificial, Its life is a fashion-made fraud, Its wisdom, though learned and judicial, Is far from the wisdom of God; Its hope is the hope of ambition, Its lust is the lust to acquire, And the larger it grows, its condition Sinks lower in pestilent mire.

The City is cramped and congested, The haunt and the covert of crime; The Prairie is broad, unmolested, It points to the high and sublime; Where only the sky is above you And only the distance in view, With no one to jostle or shove you-- It's there a man learns to be true!

Where the breeze whispers over the willows Or sighs in the dew laden grass, And the rain clouds, like big, stormy billows, Besprinkle the land as they pass; With the smudge-fire alight in the distance, The wild duck alert on the stream, Where life is a psalm of existence And opulence only a dream.

Where wide as the plan of creation The Prairies stretch ever away, And beckon a broad invitation To fly to their bosom, and stay; The prairie fire smell in the gloaming-- The water-wet wind in the spring-- An empire untrod for the roaming-- Ah, this is a life for a king!

When peaceful and pure as a river They lie in the light of the moon, You know that the Infinite Giver Is stringing your spirit a-tune; That life is not told in the telling, That death does not whisper adieu, And deep in your bosom up-welling, You know that the Promise is true!

To those who have seen it and smelt it, To those who have loved it alone To those who have known it and felt it-- The Prairie is ever their own; And far though they wander, unwary, Far, far from the breath of the plain, A thought of the wind on the Prairie Will set their blood rushing again.

Then you to the City who want it, Go, grovel its gain-glutted streets, Be one of the ciphers that haunt it, Or sit in its opulent seats; But for me, where the Prairies are reaching As far as the vision can scan-- Ah, that is the prayer and the preaching That goes to the heart of a man!

THE GRAMOPHONE

Where the lonely settler's shanty dots the plain, And he sighs for friends and comradeship in vain, Through the silences intense Comes a sound of eloquence Shrilling forth in steely, brazen, waxen strain-- The deep, resonant voice of Gladstone calling from the tomb, Or Ingersoll's deliverance before his brother's bier; Then a saucy someone singing, "When the daisies are in bloom," And the fife and drummers rendering "The British Grenadier."

Back as far into the hills as they could get, They've a roof that turns the winter and the wet, They are grizzled but they're gay, They've a daily matinee, They are happy though they're head and ears in debt-- "I wish I had my old girl back again," "If the wind had only blown the other way," Uncertain voices join an old refrain And repeat the same performance every day.

There's a Scotchman holding down a mining claim All unknown to Fortune, Influence or Fame, But a few of Harry's songs Are a solace for his wrongs And he sings them ev'ry evening in his "hame"-- "I'm courtin' Bonnie Leezy Lindsay noo," "When I get back again"--you know the lilt-- "We parted on the shore," "I'm fou', I'm fou'," "And that's the reason noo I wear the kilt."

There's a son of Erin in Saskatchewan, He's at work a half an hour before the dawn, But before he goes to bunk He makes a table of his trunk And he sets his clock-work concert thereupon-- "The harp that once through Tara's halls," "St Patrick's day in the mornin'," "The last rose of summer," and Fancy recalls A glimpse of his "Kathleen Mavourneen."

There's an Englishman who's living in a shack, He's a victim of the gramophone attack, With a half-a-dozen kids But he dances with the youngest on his back-- Though he's living in the country of the Cree The horn that hangs a fathom from his head Stretches out a thousand leagues across the sea And sings in dear old London town instead.

They are far from auditorium or hall, But their minds are still a-tune to Music's call, They can hear Caruso sing, Or the bells of Shandon ring, As they smoke and count the cracks along the wall.

THE PLOW

What power is this that stands behind the steel?-- A homely implement of blade and wheel-- Neglected by the margin of the way, And flashing back the blaze of dying day; Or dragging slow across the yellow field In silent prophecy of lavish yield, It marks the pace of innocence and toil, And taps the boundless treasure of the soil.

Before you came the red man rode the plain. Untitled lord of Nature's great domain; The shaggy herds, knee deep in mellow grass; The lazy summer hours were wont to pass; The wild goose nested by the water side; The red deer roamed upon the prairie wide; The black bear trod the woods in solemn might; The lynx stole through the bushes in the night.

No sound of toil was heard in all the land; No joyous laugh of voice or sharp command, No cloud of smoke from iron funnels thrown Was through the autumn hazes gently blown; No edge of steel tore up the virgin sod; No church its shining finger turned to God; No tradesman labored over bench and tool; No children chattered on their way to school.

But all the land lay desolate and bare, Its wealth of plain its forest riches rare Unguessed by those who saw it through their tears, And Nature--miser of a thousand years-- Was adding still to her immense reserve That shall supply the world with brawn and nerve: But all lay silent, useless, and unused, And useless 'twas because it was unused.

You came. Straightway the silent plain Grew mellow with the glow of golden grain; The axes in the solitary wood Rang out where stately oak and maple stood; The land became alive with busy din, And as the many settled, more came in; The world looked on in wonder and dismay-- The building of a nation in a day!

Where yesterday the lazy bison lay A city glitters in the sun to-day; His paths are turned to streets of wood and stone, And thousands tread the way he trod alone; The mighty hum of industry and trade Fills all the place where once he held parade, And far away the unheard river's play Makes joyous night still brighter than the day!

Upon the plains a thousand towns arise, And quickly each to be a city tries; The sound of trade is heard on every hand And sturdy men rise to possess the land; Awhile they lingered, thinking it a dream, But now they flow in a resistless stream That seems to fill the prairie far and near, Yet in its vastness soon they disappear.

Where once the silent red man spurned the ground A land of peace and plenty now is found, A land by Nature destined to be great, Where every man is lord of his estate; Where men may dwell together in accord, And honest toil receive its due reward; Where loyal friends and happy homes are made, And culture follows hard the feet of trade.

This you have made it. Is it vain to hope The sons of such a land will climb and grope Along the undiscovered ways of life, And neither seek nor be found shunning strife, But ever, beckoned by a high ideal, Press onward, upward, till they make it real; With feet sure planted on their native sod, And will and aspirations linked with God?

THE MOTHERING

I had lain untrod for a million years from the line to the Arctic sea; I had dreamed strange dreams of the vast unknown, Of the lisping wind and the dancing zone Where the Northland fairies' feet had flown, And it all seemed good to me.

At the close of a thousand eons of sleep came a pang that was strange to me; The pang of a new life in my breast, The swell of a vast and a vague unrest, And it thrilled my soul from East to West As it fluttered to be free.

But I steeled my heart to the biped thing; of vast presumption he: He would lure my lonely thoughts away, He would sport himself on the sacred clay Where the dust of the prehistoric lay; But he scorned the soul of me.

So I stretched my plains for a thousand leagues from the mountains to the sea; But he rolled them back with a steel-laid line, And he crumbled space by man's design And he filled his life with the breath of mine; But his love he gave not me.

Then I called him foes from the farthest north and the snowflake fluttered free; But he took him trees I had given birth, And he delved him coal from my bowels of earth, And he laughed at me as he sat in mirth; But he cursed the cold of me.

Then I gave him hopes he could not define and fears that he could not flee; And he heard my cry in the long, still night, In my spirit-thrall I held him tight And his blind soul-eyes craved for the light; But the light he could not see.

So I held my peace till I saw him sit with children at his knee; And I sent them the sun, the wind and the rain, And the ferny slope and the flowery plain, And the wet night-smell of the growing grain; And their love they gave to me.

In the last race-birth of the sons of men a travail holdeth me; But out of the night of pain and tears A new life comes with the rolling years; And I fondle the child of my hope and fears, And it seemeth good to me.

HUSTLIN' IN MY JEANS

Yes, I'm holdin' down the homestead here an' roughin' it a bit, It seems the only kind o' life that I was built to fit, For it's thirty years last summer since I staked my first preserve, An' I reckon on the whole I've prospered more than I deserve; An' my friends kep' naggin' at me for to quit this toil an' strife An' to settle in the city for the balance of my life, An' I ain't compelled to labor--I've cached a wad of beans-- But I'm happier when I'm hustlin' on the homestead in my jeans.

I've tried to loaf an' like it an' I've tried to swell about Where the boozey run to red-eye an' the greedy run to gout, An' I've tried to wear a collar an' a fancy fly-net vest, An' I've tried to think it pleasant just to sit around an' rest; An' I've mingled with the nabobs an' hee-hawed with other guys That were just as sick as I was of a life of livin' lies; I've mingled in society an' peeked behind the scenes-- An' I'm happier when I'm hustlin' on the homestead in my jeans.

Then I got the lust for roamin' an' I rummaged round the earth, An' I got a big experience an' correspondin' girth, But the more I roved an' rambled the less I cared to live, An' I only kep' on goin' cause I'd no alternative; I learned through tips an' tickets an' the jostle of the cars That I wouldn't trade a homestead for a continent in Mars; An' I bid good-bye to Fashion an' her social kings an' queens, An' I filed my second homestead an' I bought a pair of jeans.

'Course it's sometimes kind o' lonely on the prairie here alone, When the night-time settles round you an' your thoughts are all your own, An' old faces flit before you like a flock o' homin' birds An' your heart swells with emotion that no man can put in words, An' you ponder on the Why-for, the Beginnin', an' the End; An' you know the only things worth while are Family an' Friend-- From the trifles of existence your better judgment weans, An' you get the right perspective on the homestead--in your jeans.

There are days the sweat-drops glisten on this sun-burned hand of mine, There are nights the joints go creakin' as I crawl to bed, at nine, But I hear the horses' stampin' and the rap of Collie's tail An' it minds me of the Eighties an' the Old Commission Trail-- Of the days we pledged our future to a land we hardly knew, An' the men whose brave beginnings made prosperity for you; There are men now worth their millions I remember in their teens, An' they made their start by hustlin' on the homestead in their jeans.

There are times when most folks figure that their life has been a blank; You may be a homeless hobo or director of a bank, But the thought will catch you nappin'--catch you sometime unawares-- That your life has been a failure, and that no one really cares; That the world will roll without you till the Resurrection morn, An' that no one would have missed you if you never had been born; An' I give you my conclusion--all that livin' really means Is revealed to those who hustle on the homestead in their jeans.

Some day I reckon I'll cash in an' file another claim Where the wicked cease from troublin' an' the good get in the game; Where the pews are not allotted by the fashion of your dress, An' the only thing that figures is inherent manliness-- Give me no silk-spangled horses an' no silver-plated hearse, But let some student preacher read a bit of Scripture verse, An' find a sunny hillside where the water-willow screens, An' plant me on the homestead where I hustled--in my jeans.

THE HOMESTEADER

Far away from the din of the city, I dwell on the prairie alone, With no one to praise or to pity, And all the broad earth for my own; The fields to allure me to labor, The shanty to shelter my sleep, A league and a half to a neighbor-- And Collie to watch if I weep.

Yes, this is my place of probation, Though woefully windy and bare; I am lord of my own habitation, I mock at the meaning of care; For here, on the edge of creation, Lies, far as the vision can fling, A kingdom that's fit for a nation-- A kingdom--and I am the king!

The grasses aglare in the morning With crystalline radiance shine; The dew-drops are jewels adorning, Are jewels--and the jewels are mine; The heat of the sun when it shineth, The wet of the wind when it rains, Are balm to the heart that repineth-- The Medicine Men of the plains!

I follow the plow in the breaking, I tap the rich treasures of Time-- The treasure is here for the taking, And taking it isn't a crime; I ride on the rack or the reaper To harvest the fruit of my hand, And daily I know that the deeper I'm rooting my soul in the land.

They say there is wealth in the doing, That royal and rich are the gains, But 'tisn't the wealth I am wooing So much as the life of the plains; For here in the latter-day morning, Where Time to Eternity clings, Midwife to a breed in the borning, I behold the Beginnings of Things!

When, reckless of time and of trouble, I watch till the water fowl comes, Or, picking my steps in the stubble, I steal where the prairie hen drums; When shooting the wolf in the brushes, Or spearing the pike in the stream, Or potting the crane in the rushes-- Ambition seems only a dream.

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