This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on May 18, 1940.
Sunday is never just another day, a figure on a calendar, a morning and an evening, but when Sunday happens to be the first day of spring it becomes an event, a sensation, something to remember.
The coming of spring differs in the provinces of Canada. In Victoria, spring is never far enough away to make a triumphant entry, but in Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta, spring gets the welcome that was once given to the bad boy who had taken his inheritance and walked out on his people.
It was my good fortune to be in Winnipeg this year on a Sunday in April to see and enjoy the return of the prodigal. I saw preparations for spring beginning the day before when two little girls came out to play in socks. The game was marbles.
I would have taken that as a sure sign of spring but they were recalled by a firm voice from an upstairs window before they had time to make more than the ring. The voice said they could play on the verandah but they must put on their long stockings, so spring went back into hiding.
But the next day, Sunday, the socks came out, and straw hats with flowing ribbons hanging down backs (ribbons finished with fish-tail ends). And even though it was Sunday, in the afternoon when the day’s devotions were over, roller skates made merry music on the sidewalks and kites were flying.
Our street teemed with children of all ages. They dashed out from lanes, overflowed the vacant lots, on foot, on kiddie cars and on tricycles, shouting and singing.
No one tried to stop them, for we all felt the same way. It was the spring singing in our veins. We could even smell the spring.
First there is the smell of the awakening earth, which no one can describe — it is soft and fresh and heady. Mixed with this there is the smell of wood smoke, some furtive fires may have been burning then in back yards, getting rid of the accumulation of winter, or maybe I only imagined it, for wood smoke belongs to the spring with the cawing of crows and the cackling of hens.
We drove out to Assiniboine Park to see the golden willows, gleaming against the dull, bare limbs of the poplars. The sap seemed to have mounted to the very tips of the bushes and caused them to shine yellow as gold, “and pretty as paint.”
I saw some red oslers too, bright against their grey neighbours, and wondered why parks do not make more use of these lovely things for their early colour.
Then there were the rivers. Running full with ice planks cracking on one side, and free water, grey-green in colour, turgid and treacherous on the other. But I wished I had seen the first piling up and jamming of the ice, when it grates and crunches and threatens bridges.
It was one of the first great sights of the year to us to see the ice go out of the Souris River, and no one begrudged the miles we had to run when the word came that “the ice was going out.” I have not seen a real ice jam for years. I wonder if it is as great a spectacle now as it was in the ’80s and ’90s, before moving pictures brought us all the convulsions of nature with no effort on our part but to sit and watch.
We left the warm weather in Winnipeg, but in spite of raw winds and some snow, signs of spring persisted all across the prairies. Cattle roamed the stubble fields; and straw stacks, eaten into strange shapes, went up in flames, evidence of the faith of the farmer that the grass is on its way. The ordinary willows have turned red with the mounting sap and give the only touch of colour to the dull landscapes.
The seeding is late this year on the prairie because of snow storms, and when I saw it at the end of April, much water was lying about, and the farmers were impatient to get on with the seeding. But knowing how quickly spring can come and how easily the delay will be forgiven, I expect that even now the men are on the land with their seeders and with high hopes of the best crops the prairie has had for years.
And now I am home again, and have been looking around to see what changes have come in my absence. The lily-of-the-valley, given to us by the good friends has not only grown, but bloomed, and the garden peas are in bloom, crowding up on sticks put in for their support.
The lawn is white with cherry blossoms, as if a wedding had just been held, and the tall iris, deeply purple, lean out of the border to watch; bluebells grow below the tulips, making a soft draping for the bright Clara Butts and William Pitts.
More and more people in central Canada are finding that they can have flowers that belong to the warmer portions. A friend of mine in Dauphin sent me a little package of seed which I sent on to a good gardener at Wawanesa to try. I know that wall flowers will grow in Manitoba, and of course, we admit that no place grows better peonies, dahlias, sweet peas and roses.
The anemones grown here are the rich relations of the little prairie crocus, but have discarded the heavy underwear of the prairie dweller and have a great variety of colour, but the family resemblance is unmistakable and we like them all the better because of it.
The little mauve flower that pushes its furry nose up through the snow on every pasture headland, fulfils the divine mission of a flower. It was there when the buffaloes ran the prairie. I am sure it appeared as there was a crack in the icefields, and it will always gladden the heart of the people who wait for the spring. It has the spirit we need!
I am writing this on a bright Monday morning, when the laurel leaves are shining in the sun and a bush of white broom sways in a gentle breeze. Through the apple trees, growing heavy with blossoms, I can see the sea, deeply blue and rippling with sunbeams; the skylarks are singing. I see the neighbours working in their fields, a horse team goes up and down, turning at the end of the furrows without a word. When the driver speaks to them, he speaks as a man to his friends, for so they are.
There is peace and comfort in every bush and flower, in every ripple that runs over the grass, and every petal that falls from the trees. But so there was in Poland, and in Norway, and in Czechoslovakia, where men and women loved their work and made the earth beautiful. Peace and beauty, even industry and love of the land do not bring security. That can only come when hatred and fear are cast out and men learn that there is enough for everyone, without grabbing.
Even we have not learned that yet. We still believe we can succeed only by outdoing others.
