
* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside
Canada, check your country's copyright laws.
IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY,
DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: Fruit Ranching in British Columbia
Author: Bealby, John Thomas (1858-1943/1944)
Photographer: Brydges, N.
Photographer: McQuarrie, R. M.
Photographer: Notman, William (1826-1891),
   or a member of his studio's staff
Date of first publication: 1909
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Adam and Charles Black, 1909
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 26 December 2010
Date last updated: 26 December 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #682

This ebook was produced by
Barbara Watson, Ross Cooling, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This ebook was produced from images generously made
available by the Internet Archive/University of Toronto
- Gerstein Science Information Centre






  FRUIT RANCHING IN BRITISH COLUMBIA




  AGENTS.

  AMERICA       THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                64 & 65, Fifth Avenue, NEW YORK

  AUSTRALASIA   OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
                205, Flinders Lane, MELBOURNE

  CANADA        THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD.
                27, Richmond Street West, TORONTO

  INDIA         MACMILLAN & COMPANY, LTD.
                Macmillan Building, BOMBAY
                309, Bow Bazaar Street, CALCUTTA

  [Illustration: NORTHERN SPY APPLE TREE, Five Years Old.
  Grown on the Ranch of F. G. Fauquier, Arrow Lake.]




  FRUIT RANCHING

  IN

  BRITISH COLUMBIA


  BY
  J. T. BEALBY, M.A.


  _CONTAINING THIRTY-TWO FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS._


  LONDON
  ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
  1909




    The writer's thanks are due to R. M. McQuarrie, Esq., and N.
    Brydges, Esq., both of Nelson, B.C., for the loan of Photographs
    reproduced in the following pages.




  _PREFATORY NOTE._


_"And so you are really going?" said Walter, as he settled himself in an
easy chair in front of my study fire._

_"Yes," I answered. "I am. I have decided."_

_Walter reflected a moment. Then he observed, "I don't know but what you
are right." Yet his tone was not the tone of absolute conviction, as his
next remark showed. "But don't you think, all the same, that you could
grow fruit in England? Many people do. You know that hundreds of acres
are being planted with apple trees in Nottinghamshire and
Lincolnshire."_

_"Yes: I am quite aware of that. But what are the prospects? Consider
the price of the land--100 per acre, anywhere within easy reach of
London--perhaps more. Then, suppose you plant your orchard. After
waiting the eight or ten years while it is growing up, you may at the
end of that time find it is spoilt by the erection of factories,
belching out smoke and other impurities, poisoning the atmosphere all
round your trees."_

_"True, that might happen" admitted Walter, thoughtfully. "But," he
added, after a pause, "why not go farther into the country, where there
is no risk from smoky factories?"_

_"That would appear to be the more sensible thing to do: but there are
so many objections."_

_"Such as?" queried Walter._

_"The same thing as before--the high price of land. Even in the
country--say well over one hundred miles from London--you have to give
50 an acre for land that is suitable for fruit-growing, and I have
known instances quite recently of land for that purpose fetching 80 per
acre, and that was over one hundred miles from London."_

_"That does seem a lot of money," said Walter. "But even then, would it
not pay?"_

_"I doubt it. The seasons are uncertain. Almost every spring frosts do
damage. There are many bird enemies. Rates and taxes are increasing
every year. The risks are too great for the large amount of capital at
stake."_

_"Could you not rent land, then, instead of buying it outright?"_

_"That wouldn't do," I rejoined. "As my trees began to yield, the
landlord would be sure to put up the rent. There would be no guarantee
against that, and no security of tenure either. I might also be turned
out of the place just when it had reached its most profitable stage."_

_"Wouldn't a long lease prevent that?" asked Walter._

_"I object to leases, and above all things to long leases. Circumstances
change rapidly nowadays, and if you are tied down by a long lease you
are unable to adapt yourself to them as they change. You cannot take
advantage of opportunities that may crop up in your way."_

_"How is it, then, that we have to pay so much for fruit? Why, you can't
get an apple that is worth eating for less than 4d. a pound," urged
Walter. "Surely it must pay to grow them at that price?"_

_"So it would. Only, 4d. a pound is not the price the grower gets.
Twopence a pound is a very good price to him; often he thinks himself
lucky if he can get as much as 1d. per lb."_

_"Well, even at that rate," interposed my friend, "you would get--how
much per acre?"_

_"Let me see! Say we get four stones off each tree, and there are fifty
trees to the acre, and apples at 1s. 6d. per stone. It works out at 15.
And even if you take the top price, and put it at half-a-crown a stone,
the price Bramleys and Blenheims often sell at, you make only 25 per
acre."_

_"But surely that would pay?" suggested Walter._

_"Pay! You are forgetting that this is the gross return. There are all
the expenses to put against that--interest on capital, labour, railway
rates, losses of fruit, uncertainty of the markets, bad debts, cost of
boxes or hampers, middlemen's commissions, all that sort of thing."_

_"And how much would all that come to?"_

_Walter seemed determined to get to the bottom of everything._

_"Well, really, I couldn't tell you. It would vary much from year to
year, and would not be the same for any two men, even supposing they
were working in the same district. I really couldn't tell you. But it
would amount to a pretty high proportion."_

_"Then, in your opinion, an orchard is not exactly a Garden of Eden?"_

_"Not in England, at any rate."_

_"Is it so anywhere--in any part of the world?"_

_"Yes: in Canada. At least, so I am told. I mean in British Columbia. It
certainly is a paying occupation in Oregon and Washington and other
Western States of America. And in the Okanagan district of British
Columbia it is equally profitable. In those parts of the world the
industry is old enough to have been thoroughly tested, and the results
are satisfactory."_




  CONTENTS.


                                                     PAGE

  Prefatory Note                                       v.

  CHAP.

      I. Liverpool to Montreal                          1

     II. Winnipeg to Nelson                             5

    III. Fruit-Growing Capabilities of the Kootenays    9

     IV. Prices of Fruit and Cost of Land              23

      V. Spying Out the Land                           34

     VI. Our Herd                                      40

    VII. Undeserved Worries                            46

   VIII. Clearing and Planting                         57

     IX. Ranching Incidents                            66

      X. Beasts, Birds, and Fish                       76

     XI. Our New Ranch                                 84

    XII. In Cherry and Berry Time                      94

   XIII. The Fire Fiend                               105

    XIV. Water Worries                                113

     XV. Some of Our Neighbours                       120

    XVI. Canadian Life and Manners                    133

   XVII. Ranching Successes                           141

  XVIII. Apples--Varieties, Packing                   145

    XIX. Making an Orchard                            159

     XX. Some Results                                 171

    XXI. Prospects                                    186




  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


  Northern Spy Apple Tree, 5 years old        _Frontispiece_

                                                 FACING PAGE

  A Family Group at Welland Ranch                          1

  C. P. R. Transcontinental Train                          5

  Sleighing in Winter                                      8

  Kicking Horse River, Rocky Mountains                    12

  Cox's Orange Pippin, 2 years old                        16

  A Successful Orchard amongst the Stones, near Nelson    17

  A Single Strawberry Plant, Kootenay District            24

  Potato Crop on newly broken Ground, Arrow Lake          32

  An Okanagan Peach Orchard                               37

  Frame House, Bonnington Falls Ranch }                   40
  Buildings, Bonnington Falls Ranch   }

  Upper and Lower Bonnington Falls                        44

  First Digging of New Ground, Bonnington Falls Ranch     49

  A Big Stump Split by a Dynamite Charge }                64
  A Logging Scene                        }

  Leslie and the Calf                                     69

  Fishing in the Pool below Bonnington Falls, Kootenay
    River                                                 76

  An Orchard Scene, West Arm of Kootenay Lake             81

  On the Top of the Kootenay Mountains in Winter }        88
  William and Arthur Just Returned from their    }
    Mountain Climb                               }

  Cherry Trees in Bloom on Welland Ranch, West Arm
    of Kootenay Lake                                      96

  A Kootenay Lake Steamboat                              101

  Fruit Ranch, West Arm of Kootenay Lake                 108

  View of Kootenay Lake in Winter from Welland }
    Ranch                                      }         117
  Building Greenhouses in the Snow             }

  Young Orchard on West Arm of Kootenay Lake             124

  Tobogganing: A Spill                                   129

  Exhibition Fruit                                       144

  Fruit packed ready for shipment                        149

  Young Apple Orchard, Kootenay                          156

  Ground for a Fruit Ranch, partly cleared,
    Kootenay District                                    161

  Spraying a Fruit Tree                                  168

  Pear Tree                                              176

  Young Cherry Tree in Bloom, Welland Ranch              181

  A Kootenay Orchard Home                                188




  [Illustration: A FAMILY GROUP AT WELLAND RANCH.]




  FRUIT RANCHING IN BRITISH COLUMBIA.

  CHAPTER I.

  Liverpool to Montreal.


It was about the middle of March when we landed at St. John, and the
winter had been one of unexampled severity throughout Canada. The snow
still lay deep all over the country as we journeyed towards Montreal. In
fact, except for a few hours west of that city, where the snow had
partly melted, exposing the bare earth in patches, unbroken snow
extended all the way to the Rocky Mountains. Owing to this fact, we were
unable to see very much of the real aspects and features of the country.

After a long and weary wait at St. John, in a cold and cheerless shed,
draughty and of vast size, and after several false starts--in fact,
owing to there being nobody to give us any information, we naturally
assumed that every train which backed into the station alongside the
shed was our train--we at length got away. After the superabundance of
ready, if not disinterested, assistance which the railway traveller
receives at an English railway station, we felt rather bewildered at the
lack of porters to lend us a hand with our traps and chattels.

We were going out to settle in Canada. We were emigrants, or, as the
Canadian Pacific Railway prefers to call them, colonists. Consequently,
when we took train we travelled in a colonist car--"car" being Canadian
for passenger carriage or coach. This vehicle has a platform at each
end, and there is a short gangway, with a protecting rail on either
side, which connects the platform at the rear end of one car with the
platform at the front end of the next car. By this means you can walk
from one end of the train to the other as it travels along. In the cars
the seats are arranged two by two, facing one another, on either side of
the central passage. At night the seats pull forward until they meet,
and so make a bedstead, on which you can spread your rugs and wraps,
and, though the bed is rather hard, you can generally contrive to get a
fair night's rest. This arrangement provides, of course, room for only
two out of the four passengers who occupy each compartment. The other
two have to climb up on to a kind of broad shelf, which is pulled down
from the roof of the car until it sticks out horizontally above the bed
made by the two seats below.

The scene of subdued bustle which was presented at night, when everybody
began to prepare for sleep, was only equalled, or rather it was
excelled, by the buzzing of the same human hive just before breakfast
time in the morning, when the factotum of each travelling party began to
struggle in good humour for an opportunity to deposit his kettle or
teapot on the stove.

The impressions we gathered during the course of our sixteen or
seventeen hours' run from St. John to Montreal were necessarily
fleeting. Everywhere there was snow--deep and dazzling white.
Everywhere the prospect of the champaign was shut in by forests.

The villages came at fairly close intervals, and generally had an open,
warm, and cheerful appearance. The houses were apparently all
constructed of wood, and generally painted white. Their windows were
flush with the wall, and along the front, and often along one or both
sides as well, ran a stepped verandah. The verandah, we subsequently
learned, is as invariable an adjunct of a Canadian house as the stoop is
of the South African Boer's house. With their stacks of split logs for
winter fuel, their air of quiet, easy-going prosperity, these villages
and dwelling-houses gave a succession of gentle tugs at our heart
strings, which were hanging loose and lacerated after their recent
rupture from the soil in which they had been rooted from infancy.

At the outskirts of one or two of the little towns we observed cabs,
mounted, not on wheels, but on runners: they were, in fact, sleigh-cabs.
Sleighs proper were frequent on the landscape. Very curious to our
unaccustomed eyes it was to see a black dot moving afar off across a
level expanse of snow--a level expanse, framed round with a border of
forest-trees, showing that it was a lake. After a while, as we drew
nearer to the point for which the black dot was also making, we became
aware that it was a sleigh. We could just see the horse's legs going
trot-trot-trot, and just discern two figures in the sleigh, muffled up
to the nose in furs. And to think they were thus driving iron-shod over
the deep waters!

The thermometer ranged most of the time but very little above
freezing-point; yet we did not feel unpleasantly cold. Certainly not in
the railway cars, for they were rather too hot and close and stuffy; nor
yet, again, when the train pulled up at some wayside station for the
engine to take in water. On such occasions, all the passengers tumbled
out like mice escaping from a corn-bin: it was such a delightful change
to be able to stretch one's legs for a minute or two. And all the time
the sun shone brightly; and somehow, when the sun does shine in Canada
in winter, and especially when it shines on virgin-white snow, it
glitters with a peculiarly brilliant lustre.

The most characteristic feature of the landscape east of the St.
Lawrence and Montreal appeared to us to be these beautiful lakes, with
park-like shores rising into low, gently-swelling hills and offering
vistas of smooth lawns of unsullied whiteness. After we left Montreal,
the country was flatter and more open. It was evidently of older
settlement. Every now and again there was a house built of brick. This,
together with fields and fences and roads, carried our minds back across
the watery wastes of the Atlantic to a dear old country. Here, in this
part of our journey, the snow was beginning to melt, and in several
places we saw the cows and other cattle standing on patches of brown
earth outside the byres, in which they had been shut up for so many
weeks. There was not a scrap of anything for them to eat; but the fresh
air would do them good, and, poor things, they looked spiritless and
dejected enough, as they feebly whisked their tails in the cheering
sun.

[Illustration: C.P.R. TRANSCONTINENTAL TRAIN.]




  CHAPTER II.

  Winnipeg to Nelson.


The last night of our journey before we reached Nelson was spent in the
Crows' Nest Pass of the Rocky Mountains. The finest part of the pass was
unfortunately traversed in the middle of the night while we were all
asleep. And even if we had not been asleep, the pass is, I am told, so
narrow that you can see but little of its grandeur from the window of a
passenger car. The scenery is remarkably fine, and the route presents
several engineering feats worthy of attention. At one place the railway
line describes a complete loop, the upper end of which lies almost
vertically above the lower end. The finest scenery in this part of the
Rocky Mountains--scenery that is truly entitled to be described as
magnificent--occurs in the Kicking Horse Pass, by which the main line of
the C.P.R. pierces the range on its way from Winnipeg to Vancouver.

The name of the Crows' Nest Pass is in no way connected with the
familiar bird. The Crows are, or were, Indians, and the word "nest" is a
rough translation of an Indian word for "encampment." This particular
"nest" of the Crow Indians is one of ensanguined omen in the annals of
Redskin warfare. It was here that a large band of Crow Indians were
surprised and massacred by a larger force of their hereditary enemies,
the Blackfeet.

But though we did not obtain good views of the Rocky Mountains proper,
we did see something of the Purcell and Selkirk Ranges, two of the
flanking ranges on the west side of the Rockies. At that time, the end
of March, the mountains were still draped in snow, or, more strictly
speaking, in snow and ice, for the summits of both these ranges are, as
a rule, sharp cut and rugged, even in places serrated--or notched like a
saw. Glaciers form on them, and remain permanently, although as a rule
the loftier summits during the summer shake off their snowy hoods and
bare their brows to the sparkling airs of British Columbia.

These mountains we saw from Lake Kootenay, which they fence in on east
and west. It was on this lake that we travelled the last fifty or sixty
miles of our journey before reaching Nelson. It is a long, narrow sheet
of water, stretching north and south for eighty miles by some three to
five miles wide, and is set deep in a framework of rocky mountains. I
could readily have fancied myself transported again to one of the
Norwegians fjords. There is in the two regions the same aspect of
sternness and adamantine immovability, the same comparative absence of
the subduing hand of man, the same sombre draping of dark pine woods,
the same sullen sleep of the unfathomable waters at their feet. The
general impression, not exactly one of magnificence, owing to the
absence of towering altitude in the mountain peaks, is yet that of
sublimity, of grandeur, of power. The mountain girdle is massive, its
continuity unbroken; its features are devoid of softness, of allurement,
of winning charm. I do not mean that these Kootenay Mountains and this
Kootenay Lake lack attraction. I mean that it is to severe and austere
moods of the imagination that they appeal, rather than to soft and
tender sensibilities. The poetic effect is produced; but it is an effect
that is sympathetic to the mind of a Crabbe rather than to the mind of a
Longfellow, typical of a Browning rather than of a Tennyson.

The boat by which we travelled from Kootenay Landing, at the south end
of Kootenay Lake, to Nelson, near the western extremity of the west arm
of the same lake, was a stern-wheeler, shaped like the boats which ply
up and down the Mississippi. The "boat" proper is flat-bottomed and very
shallow. Above it are constructed three or four oblong, round-ended
stories, to contain the general cargo, the passengers' dining-saloon and
other apartments, the sleeping berths, and the skipper's steering-box or
outlook. These boats, at all events on the inland waters of British
Columbia, draw only a very few feet of water at the bow. This is to
allow them to push their noses on to the sandy shore when called upon to
land or take on board passengers or cargo. The country is not yet old
enough to afford landing-stages at every stopping-place. Sometimes,
indeed, a landing-place is marked by only a single, solitary house;
often by not more than two or three houses at the most.

And how small, how toy-like, a single house looks when clinging in
isolated sovereignty to the foot of these mountain masses! Nor is a
village in a similar situation able to invest itself with any higher
dignity than such as belongs to the doll-like. So dwarfing is the effect
of stupendous masses of sky-aspiring rock when contrasted with the work
of human hands!

When we entered the west arm of Kootenay Lake at the narrow gateway of
Procter, the lake instantly assumed a different character. If hitherto
we had been steaming up a Canadian Norwegian fjord, we now began to
navigate a Canadian Scottish loch. The mountains were more rounded in
outline; their flanks, while not less steep, wore a more friendly and
genial aspect; the strips of land at their feet were broader and had a
more home-like look. Across the hollows of the mountains there hung in
many places a thin vapoury haze of deep and vivid purple, softening the
outlines, and blending lake, mountain, and sky together in one poetic
dream. Yet, owing to the chilly nature of the evening and the darkling
hour at which we began our brief journey down the west arm, the general
impression left upon us, wearied as we were with fourteen days of
continuous travel, could not very well have been other than
disappointing--disappointing, I mean, from the special point of view of
the prospective fruit-rancher.

I knew there were fruit ranches on these shores, I knew the names of men
who owned them. I had seen the fruit which grew on them--fruit of great
excellence. We could not see them, it was true; yet there they must be.

  [Illustration: SLEIGHING IN WINTER.    _W. Notman and Sons._]




  CHAPTER III.

  Fruit-growing Capabilities of the Kootenays.


Any sensible man who contemplates investing brain, muscle, and capital
in British Columbia, whether in mining, lumbering, or fruit-growing,
will naturally seek information from the Agent-General of that province
in London. And I am sure, from the present distinguished holder of that
office, the Hon. J. H. Turner, formerly Prime Minister of British
Columbia, any and every inquirer will always receive patient and
courteous attention, and be given true, disinterested information, as
well as sound advice.

When I myself was discussing with him the subject of fruit-growing in
the province which he represents, he said, speaking of the flavour of
apples: "In my opinion the finest-flavoured apple is that grown in
England, the next in point of flavour is the apple grown on Vancouver
Island--but in saying this I may be prejudiced, for forty years of my
life have been spent on that island--and after that comes the apple of
the interior of British Columbia." A perfectly honest and candid
opinion! All the same, it is an opinion which I for my part am not able
to indorse. Of the Vancouver Island apple I have no experience whatever.
Consequently I leave it entirely out of the account. But with regard to
the apples grown in the interior of British Columbia, at any rate in the
district of Kootenay, in the south-east corner of that province, I have
no hesitation in declaring that there are varieties grown there which,
in point of flavour, are every whit the equals of the choicest English
apples. The varieties I have in mind are Gravenstein, Wealthy, McIntosh
Red, Golden Russet, Grimes' Golden, Ribston Pippin, and Northern Spy.
These, as the English fruit-grower will observe, are all Canadian
varieties except two--the Golden Russet and the Ribston Pippin. In both
these cases I would honestly prefer the British Columbian product. On
the other hand, the Blenheim Orange, as grown in British Columbia, seems
to me to be, in point of flavour, unquestionably inferior to the English
variety.

I have mentioned this little matter to exemplify the strict and careful
impartiality which is displayed by Mr. Turner. It shows that he is a man
who is conscientiously desirous not to mislead, that he is a man in whom
the inquirer may repose full confidence--even as I did myself.

But the prudent inquirer will not rest content with making inquiries in
London alone. He will extend his investigations to British Columbia
itself. He will seek to acquire information in the actual district in
which he contemplates settling. If, however, he prefers to leave the
selection of his district open until he has an opportunity to see the
country and investigate for himself, then he must, of course, spread the
net of his inquiries wider, and seek his information in more than one
district of the province.

For my own part, I was pretty well decided, even before I left England,
that the district which would suit me best was the vicinity of Nelson,
an important little town on the west arm of Lake Kootenay. One advantage
accruing from this was that I was able to push my inquiries deeper, and
to make them more circumstantial.

Nelson, then, was from the first the end and object of our journey.

Almost the first thing I did, after the idea of settling in British
Columbia had taken root in my mind, was to subscribe to two or three of
the local newspapers published in the Kootenays, and more especially in
the vicinity of Nelson. These sheets are, of course, written, not for
the use of readers in England or in any other distant land, but for the
entertainment and information of the people dwelling on the spot. Hence
the news they convey, the intelligence they impart, and the facts they
give are, as a rule, devoid of prejudice: that is to say, they have not
been penned for the purpose of throwing dust in the eyes of the stranger
or glossing the truth to mislead the unwary. And even if they were so,
it is generally possible, with a moderate exercise of the critical
faculty, to read between the lines, and so to obtain some fair insight
into actual conditions and actual circumstances.

Having read these newspapers for a period of eight or nine months, and
having made personal inquiries by means of definite questions, concisely
put--inquiries addressed to all sorts and conditions of men--I formed
certain conclusions as to the actual state of affairs, as regards
fruit-growing, in the Kootenays. These conclusions I will endeavour to
summarise.

The industry, viewed as professional fruit-growing, was in its infancy,
not more than two or three years old. At the same time, there were just
a few orchards containing trees old enough to produce crops which showed
what the capabilities of the district were. The fruit which was produced
took high rank--exceptionally high rank--not only by virtue of its size,
its shape, its colour, its quality, but also by virtue of the
consistency and the abundance of its yield. This was demonstrated by the
way in which it held its own on the show boards both in America and at
the Royal Horticultural Society's exhibitions of Colonial fruit at
Westminster and other places in the British Isles. And it was also
testified to by the opinions of men whose judgment was not lightly to be
set aside--namely, professors of horticulture at U.S. universities and
colleges, professors from agricultural and fruit-experimental farms in
Eastern Canada--and opinions vouched for by visitors who were more or
less practical fruit-growers, if not experts in their several lines of
orchard work.

[Illustration: KICKING HORSE RIVER, ROCKY MOUNTAINS.]

For instance, Professor Shutt, Chemist at the Central Experimental Farm
at Ottawa, lecturing on the "Sources of Fertility in Fruit and Vegetable
Culture other than Soil," said--and the Professor invariably spoke with
professorial carefulness and with almost minute exactness in all his
deliverances--that "there was a great future for vegetable and fruit
culture in the Kootenays, especially for several species of apples,
pears, plums, and cherries. The success of the district here as a
fruit-growing one had fairly passed the experimental stage and had been
proven." An equally favourable opinion was expressed about the same time
by Professor E. R. Lake, of the Oregon Agricultural Experiment Station,
a man whose opinion carries considerable weight in the horticultural
world.

Testimony of a similar character could be quoted from the lips of
several similar more or less competent observers. But let it suffice for
me to say I was quite satisfied that the Kootenays was a district well
suited, if not, indeed, exceptionally favoured, for the growing of
fruit. Moreover, just about this time Earl Grey, Governor-General of
Canada, gave convincing proof of the impression which the fruit-growing
capabilities of the district had made upon him by purchasing, after
personal inspection, 54 acres of fruit land on the shore of the main
Kootenay Lake. This was not without its effect upon my view. The vaunts
as to the fitness of the Kootenays for growing fruit could not be
altogether without foundation after that.

The next questions were--How far the climate could be relied upon? How
did it affect the prospects of the crop year by year? What was the
effect of late spring frosts? How far cold east or north winds proved
injurious? What was the extent of damage done by high winds to the laden
trees? Were birds troublesome?

I was told that those varieties of trees which usually bear a crop every
year could be safely relied upon for a full crop annually, and that
those varieties, such as Blenheim Orange, which in England yield a crop
every second year only, would in British Columbia yield, on an average,
a full crop one year and half a crop the second year, and so on.

Spring frosts do occur; but they do not in any way seriously affect the
fruit trees. "During all the time I have grown fruit beside Lake
Kootenay," wrote one of my correspondents, "I can truthfully say I have
never lost a cent from this cause." This appears to be perfectly
correct. The explanation probably is that, owing to the geographical
situation, the trees are somewhat late in blossoming, and do not reach
the stage of development at which they become especially susceptible to
injury from spring frosts until a time when the frosts are ceasing.
Another contributory factor may, no doubt, be discerned in the proximity
of the lake, the vapour from which, rising as the air warms in a
morning, spreads itself like a protecting veil over the vegetation,
including the orchards, which cling to the foot and slopes of the
mountains. The early morning sun, again, owing to the narrowness of the
lake and the altitude of the encircling mountains, does not shoot his
beams directly upon the cultivated lower slopes, but strikes first the
summits of the mountains, and then slowly creeps down from the top to
the bottom, warming the air before him as he descends, so that when he
does at last reach the orchards below, the frost has already been thawed
out of them.

Nor, probably, is the diurnal range of the temperature without its
effect in providing a certain measure of protection against the
"scalding or blighting" influences of the early morning rays. For,
though the day may be bright and sunny, and even actually hot, as early
as April, or, indeed, earlier, the nights are always, without exception,
cool. This wide difference between day and night temperatures,
sometimes reaching as high a figure as 40 deg. Fahr., obtains throughout
the whole of the year, so that the nights, even after the hottest days
of July and August, are refreshingly cool and agreeable. At this season,
again, the hottest part of the summer, the lake acts as a sort of
regulator, in that the heavy evaporation filters upwards through the
orchards, moistening the foliage of the trees and cooling the bark, the
blossom, or the fruit, and imparting a certain measure of humidity to
the surface of the earth.

As for the winds, one of the most noticeable things that strike the
new-comer in the Kootenays is the comparative absence of wind, the
prevalent stillness of the atmosphere. This is especially observable, as
a rule, at the time when fruit-blossoms are setting, and this is a fact
the importance of which must not be overlooked. If fruit-blossoms set
well, in still, tranquil, sunny weather, a good crop is pretty certain
to follow. The comparative absence of wind will, in a similar manner,
account for the smallness of the loss from the dropping of immature or
nearly ripe fruit. The comparative immunity from loss in this way must,
however, also be attributed to the entire absence of the codlin moth and
other insectal and fungoid pests in the Kootenay orchards.

The geographical configuration of the country, the mountains screening
the orchards from the quarters whence blow the chilling and injurious
winds, accounts perfectly for the safety which the Kootenay fruit-grower
enjoys against that dreaded enemy of his English confrre, the East wind
and its near ally, the North wind.

[Illustration: COX'S ORANGE PIPPIN, TWO YEARS OLD.]

According to the information given me beforehand, the winter in the
Kootenays, especially along the immediate shores of the lake, was
relatively mild as compared not only with that of the Dominion as a
whole, but also with that of the rest of the province of British
Columbia. During the ten years or more that meteorological observations
of any scientific accuracy had been kept at Nelson, the lowest point
ever touched by the thermometer in the winter was -6 Fahr. One or two
cold snaps might be expected every winter; but, as a general rule, they
were of short duration, and the thermometer seldom dropped below zero.
At all events, the frost was never severe enough to do real injury to
the fruit trees. Scientifically speaking, the thorough rest from all the
various phases of reproductive activity enforced upon the tree by the
comparative severity of the winter is of great value to it, and, no
doubt, counterbalances the remarkably rapid manifestation of that same
activity during the summer months. However that may be, it is
indisputable that during the period from the blossoming to the maturing
of the fruit the trees exhibit a wonderful display of vigour and an
exceptional activity. The young twigs, representing the season's growth,
not uncommonly run to a length of three, four, five, or even six feet.
And this goes on very often simultaneously with the production of such a
heavy crop of fruit as to necessitate the propping of the trees. It is
nothing unusual to see the larger portion of the mature trees in a
British Columbia orchard surrounded with props--six, twelve, a score, or
more; and even quite young trees, five or six years old, will, if
allowed to carry all the fruit they bring forth, call for the
application of a "forest" of friendly supports. Consequently, were it
not for the compulsory rest of the winter, the trees would pretty soon
exhaust their natural energies.

[Illustration: A SUCCESSFUL ORCHARD AMONGST THE STONES, NEAR NELSON.]

Although the winter in the Kootenays, mild when viewed with Canadian
eyes, severe when regarded in the light of English experience, thus
provides compensation, as it were, to the exhaustive output of the
trees' summer activities, it befriends them in yet another way.

Winter lasts, I was told, as a rule, from the middle of December to the
middle or end of March, and during all that time the ground is under
snow. This protects the roots against the frost. Then, again, the snow,
melting on the mountains through the spring and on into the early
summer, sets up a subsoil irrigation, which goes on practically all
through the hot weeks of the mid-summer season. In this way aqueous
nutrition is supplied to the trees by a natural, and, indeed, automatic,
process of filtration, and they receive the moisture, not at any one
time in excess, but all the time in well-proportioned measure pretty
much as they need it. And this process of natural root-watering is
greatly facilitated by the situation of the orchards at the foot of the
mountains and the more or less gentle angle at which they slope down to
the lake. This purely mechanical and gradual distribution of the
"seepage" water co-operates with the heavy evaporation and consequent
foliage-watering of summer to explain the fact that irrigation is less
needed in this part of British Columbia than in most other regions of
the province except the coast.

But the fact is also, and principally, accounted for by the relatively
heavier rainfall in the Kootenays. The total annual rainfall averages 28
inches. This figure includes the snowfall. The amount, when distributed
by "seepage" in the manner I have described, through the summer months,
is sufficient to enable the rancher to dispense with irrigation. All the
same, if the fruit-grower is able to command a supply of water, and is
able to distribute it to his crops during July and August--and he
generally is able to do both--he will find it greatly to his advantage.

The prevalent soil throughout the Kootenays is a light sandy loam,
generally of a reddish colour, with a clay subsoil. In places the
surface consists of gritty sand of a light grey colour. Fruit trees grow
equally well in both soils. The atmosphere of British Columbia is
impregnated with a peculiar quality of dryness; in fact, it might almost
be described as parching. Owing to this, and to its own inherent
lightness, the soil is apt to dry quickly on the surface. But this
evaporation can be in great part, if not entirely, overcome by inducing
the formation of humus and by continuous and uninterrupted cultivation.
The formation of humus is effected in one way by the working into the
land of good manure. It must be farmyard manure, which will contribute
vegetable matter as well as animal matter. Artificial or chemical manure
will not serve the purpose. Another effectual means to secure the
formation of humus is to sow clover, vetches, cow-peas, or some other
leguminous crop and plough it under. Both these methods enable the
surface soil to retain a larger proportion of moisture, and to that
extent diminish the need for continuous and uninterrupted cultivation,
which is the third expedient resorted to in orchard work to preserve the
trees against the drying influences of the atmosphere. Continuous and
uninterrupted cultivation preserves a fine tilth, and converts the
topmost layer of the soil into a dust mulch, which tends to prevent
excessive evaporation of the moisture stored underneath.

One word of warning is necessary. The English settler, accustomed to the
trim and orderly aspect of an English ploughed field, with its unbroken
and level expanse of brown soil and its neat hedges or straight lines of
fences, must not look to find the same things in a new country such as
British Columbia. I do not mean to say that nowhere will he find the
counterpart of what he has left at home. Tracts of land, evincing the
same advanced cultivation, are not, indeed, difficult to find; but by
far the greater portion of the orchards presents, as yet, a much more
unfinished appearance. It is not many years since the whole of British
Columbia was covered with forest trees and scrub. The orchards have had
to be carved out of the virgin forests. In many cases the work of
eradicating all traces of the forest has been thoroughly and effectually
performed; in many other cases it has been accomplished in a more or
less incomplete fashion. The stumps of the big trees, cut off at the
height of two or three feet from the ground, and blackened by the fires
which burnt away the scrub and bush, attest impatience or want of
thoroughness on the part of the first original settler.

Another eyesore to the English immigrant is the stones which in some
places have been left littering the surface of the ground. These are of
all sizes, from the bigness of a teacup to that of a boulder as bulky as
a barn. It is, however, the most effective way, and in the long run the
most economical, to eradicate every root and remove every stone that can
be removed, at the time of clearing, before any attempt is made to
cultivate the land or plant an orchard. Many of the early settlers did
not act in that spirit, and the consequence is that, in some of the
older orchards, the fruit-trees are to be seen growing--and growing
splendidly notwithstanding--among the blackened stumps or amid the
boulders which the destructive agents of Nature--denudation, aerial
disintegration, and gravitation--have strewn over the lower slopes of
the mountain.

The subjoined description is typical of the accounts which are
circulated with regard to the district I am writing about, the
Kootenays. It was penned by one of the pioneer fruit-growers of the
Nelson country, an enthusiastic and public-spirited man, possessed of
considerable experience as a grower of fruit:--

"I consider the conditions here (Kootenay Lake District) the most
perfect for fruit-culture. I have been interested in fruit-growing in
various parts of Canada and of the United States during the last twenty
years, and until coming to Nelson, in 1901, I had found the climate of
the Alleghany Mountains of West Virginia the most suitable for the
production of small fruit. The shores of Lakes Erie and Ontario to
Montreal I considered the best for the production of apples. The shores
of Lake Ontario, from Niagara to Toronto, I believe to be the finest
peach section in America. Within the past two years, however, we have
shown that we can produce as fine apples here [Nelson] as in any part of
Ontario or in the Northern States. Peaches are grown here to perfection,
and I feel quite confident in asserting that the quality of the small
fruit produced, such as raspberries, gooseberries, and black currants,
is superior to any produced elsewhere on the continent; in fact, the
Southern States, such as Virginia, Tennessee, and Georgia, will not
compare with this section in the production of these fruits. The quality
and size here are far superior, and the yield per acre is at least
double that of anything I have ever seen or succeeded in producing
during my ten years' residence in these States. One average gooseberry
bush in my Nelson garden bears finer fruit, and as much of it, as six of
my finest bushes did in West Virginia--and my Virginian garden excelled
in the production of gooseberries in that country.

"I find that I can grow vegetables, such as sweet corn and tomatoes,
just as well as I could in Virginia. We can grow potatoes to perfection,
and the Champion of England and Ne Plus Ultra peas reach a height of
eight feet in my garden.

"I have not found irrigation necessary, and this adds much to the
superior quality of all our fruit.

"The fruit-grower will find here an ideal home. The climate is perfect;
the soil is very rich and productive, and the market the best. He will
be surrounded by beautiful scenery; and the shooting and fishing are the
best to be found anywhere."

It was statements such as this--and if we tone down one or two of its
superlatives, it will pass for a genuine and credible statement--coupled
with facts published in Government handbooks, and information as to
prices, markets, and the commercial aspects of fruit-growing in British
Columbia gathered from private correspondents actually engaged in the
business--that made me decide to pitch my tent beneath the apple-trees
of this highly-favoured region.




  CHAPTER IV.

  Prices of Fruit and Cost of Land.


In the "Handbook of British Columbia," an official Government bulletin,
distributed from the office of the Agent-General for British Columbia,
Salisbury House, Finsbury Circus, London, E.C., we read (pp. 39-42):
"The actual experience of many fruit-growers is highly satisfactory to
them and a temptation to every man who desires to make money pleasantly
to set up in the business. In Okanagan there are instances of $500
(100) to $600 (120) gross profit per acre. At Kelowna nine tons of
pears and 10 tons of prunes per acre are not uncommon. Near Nelson 14
acres produced 1,000 cases of strawberries and 94 tons of roots, netting
the owner $100 (20) per acre. This land was formerly a cedar swamp. At
Lytton to-day grapes averaging 4lb. to the bunch were grown in the open.
On the Coldstream Ranch, near Vernon, 20 acres produced $10,000 (2,000)
worth of Northern Spy apples. At Peachland one acre and a half gave a
return of $700 (140) in peaches. Tomatoes to the value of $1,500 (300)
per acre were grown near Okanagan Lake. A cherry-tree at Penticton
produced 800lbs. of fruit. These cases are by no means exceptional or
confined to any single district. Similar ones could be cited from
almost any part of the province. Apples and pears produce from 8 to 15
tons of fruit per acre, according to variety, and the average price is
$26 (5 2s.) and $30 (6) per ton respectively. Plums, prunes, cherries,
and peaches invariably bear largely, and the prices are always
satisfactory if the fruit is properly picked and packed."

[Illustration: A SINGLE STRAWBERRY PLANT, KOOTENAY DISTRICT.]

In another official publication of the British Columbia Government,
namely, "Agriculture in British Columbia," Official Bulletin, No. 10, we
read (pp. 22-25): "Mr. T. W. Stirling, Bankhead Ranch, Kelowna, says:
This orchard of about 16 acres will produce about 160 to 170 tons this
present year (1906). In 1903 it produced 140 tons; in 1904 it produced
130 tons; in 1905 it produced 160 to 170 tons; and probably it has not
yet reached maximum production. Apples (variety Jonathan), planted in
1900, produced this year 100lbs. a tree--fruit worth $1.50 (6s.) per
40lb. box, f.o.b. packing-house--last year these trees yielded, as
four-year-olds, 60lbs. a tree. Next year's crop may be estimated at
200lbs. per tree. One and one-third acres of Bartlett--_i.e._,
Williams--pears produced 16 tons of fruit, or about 800 boxes (selling
price $1.35 (5s. 6d.) per box f.o.b. packing-house--$1,080=216). One
and one-third acres of Beurr d'Anjou pears produced 17 tons, or 850
boxes (selling price, $1.40 (5s. 8d.) per box f.o.b.
packing-house--$1,090=218). Two and one-third acres of Italian prunes
produced 32 tons, or 3,200 crates (selling price, 60 cents (2s. 6d.) per
crate--$1,920=384). One acre of plums produced 12 tons, or 1,200 crates
(selling price, 70 cents (3s.) per crate--$840=168). Over $5,000
(1,000) from six and one-third acres!" In "Southern British Columbia,
the Garden of Canada," issued by the Canadian Pacific Railway, it is
said (pp. 8-9): "Mr. J. M. Durr has four acres of bottom land on St.
Joseph's Creek, south of Cranbrook [in the Crows' Nest Pass]. He has 3
acres under cultivation. Off nine-tenths of an acre he raised 12 tons of
first-class potatoes. An acre and a half of cabbages yielded the
enormous quantity of 15 tons, which sold for 8 cents (4d.) per pound. He
also raised 5 tons of carrots from a quarter acre. Mr. Durr's profits
for the season, after retaining all the vegetables required for his own
use, was $800 (160), equal to over $200 (40) per acre."

A privately-issued pamphlet, in speaking of the Kootenay Valley fruit
lands, says: "One peach-tree produced 23 crates of marketable fruit,
which sold for $40.25 (8 1s.), and one strawberry patch, containing an
acre and five-eighths, produced 498 crates of first-class berries, which
at $2.25 (9s.) per crate, means about $690 (138). The above are, of
course, not average prices; but the prices obtained last year for
strawberries netted the fruit farmer about $200 (40) per acre. An apple
orchard of about 3,000 trees, four years old, netted $4 (16s.) per tree,
with 76 trees to the acre. Cherries sold from $20 (4) to $25 (5) per
tree."

My next extract is from an ably-conducted Nelson newspaper, "The Daily
News." In describing the valley of the Kettle River, which lies west of
the Kootenays, it says: "Italian prunes grown on the Covert estate by J.
D. Honsberger, who purchased a portion of the estate two years ago, were
shipped by him to Winnipeg at prices which yielded him a net return of
$275 (65) per acre. . . . Last year the older apple orchard on the same
estate yielded a net return of $300 (60) per acre, some of the trees
giving over 20 cases of fruit each."

Mr. E. A. Ackland, of the Toronto "Globe," reported, when writing about
the Nelson district: "As to prices, the [straw] berries averaged $1.80
(7s. 4d.) per crate net, and a case is reported where 5 acres of
strawberries last year [1905] netted $1,000 (200) clear to the
producer. Apples brought about $1.50 (6s.) per box, averaging $8 (1 7s.
6d) to $25 (5) per tree." Usually from 50 to 80 trees are planted to
the acre.

Mr. Maxwell Smith, Dominion Fruit Inspector, speaking of British
Columbia, has stated publicly that the "fruit lands of the province pay
from $50 (10) to $1,200 (240) per acre, according to cultivation; $150
(30) an acre is a common net return."

Mr. W. J. Brandrith, Secretary-Treasurer of the British Columbian Fruit
Growers' Association, reporting to the Bureau of Provincial Information
for the season of 1905, said: . . . "Average prices throughout the
provinces were as follows: No. 1 apples, from October 1st, 1905, to
March 31st, 1906, were $1.27 (5s. 1d.) per 40lb. box f.o.b. shipping
point. The early varieties started out at $1 (4s. net), and during the
latter part of February and March as high as $2 (8s.) per box was being
paid for strictly No. 1 in carload lots. The average prices of other
fruits for the season of 1905 were: Pears $1.38 (4s. 6d.) per 40lb.
box; prunes and plums, 75 cents (3s.) per 20lb. box; peaches, $1.15 (4s.
7d.) per 20lb. box; strawberries, $2.30 (9s. 3d.) per 24-basket crate;
raspberries, $2.19 (8s. 9d.) per 24-basket crate; blackberries, $2.40
(9s. 8d.) per 24-basket crate; gooseberries, 5 cents (2d.) per lb.;
crabapples, 2 cents (1d.) per lb.; tomatoes, 5 cents (2d.) per lb.;
currants, 7 cents (3d.) per lb.; and cherries, 9 cents (4d.) per lb."

All these, it must be remembered, were wholesale prices, the prices
realised by the grower, not the prices paid by the consumer. They range
probably somewhat higher than prices of the corresponding fruit in
England. Add to this the heavier yield, the greater certainty of a crop,
and the lower cost of the land, and the scale of advantage dips without
hesitation in favour of British Columbia.

I had before me another table of returns which was not without its
effect in the way of influencing my decision. The accompanying statement
does not tell us whether part of the produce mentioned was reared under
glass; but the inference (e.g., tomato plants) is that it was. And I may
state that after I reached British Columbia I visited Messrs. Gellatly's
holding personally, and found there two large glass houses, probably
each 150 feet long by 25 feet or more wide.

"As an example of what can be done on a 10-acre farm in British
Columbia, the following statement of early fruit and vegetables shipped
from Gellatly [beside Okanagan Lake], B.C., by D. E. Gellatly and Sons
is submitted:--

  Shipments (_i.e._ Sales).

                By Express.  By Freight.   Total.
                    lbs.        lbs.        lbs.

  Beets             120        --           120
  Beans, green    1,028        --         1,028
  Corn, green       998        --           998
  Cabbage           815      3,711        4,526
  Carrots           985      3,075        4,060
  Cucumbers       3,295        --         3,295
  Citron (melon)    --       4,090        4,090
  Egg plants        151        --           151
  Melon           2,436        --         2,436
  Onions            200      1,030        1,230
  Parsnips          --       1,450        1,450
  Pumpkins          --         275          275
  Potatoes        1,780     11,065       12,845
  Peppers           170        --           170
  Rhubarb           760      1,000        1,760
  Raspberries       --         700          700
  Strawberries    3,775      6,726       10,500
  Turnips         1,060        155        1,215
  Tomatoes       44,035     25,228       69,262
                 ------     ------      -------
                 61,608     58,504      120,112

  Total                60 tons 112 lbs.

  Plants.

  Tomatoes     85,000
  Cabbage      10,000
  Strawberry   80,000
  Raspberry     3,000
              -------
              178,000

"All this was raised on a 10-acre clearing in heavy bush in Okanagan
Lake District the fourth year after Mr. Gellatly located the land"
("Agriculture in British Columbia," Official Bulletin No. 10, p. 16).

I now turn to the consideration of the costs of laying-out an
orchard--that is to say, the price of land, the expenses of clearing,
fencing, planting, and so forth. And I take, first, a little pamphlet
which was sent to me in England from Nelson, entitled "Glorious
Kootenay": "The price of fruit land varies according to location,
situation, and the amount of clearing to be done, and suitable land can
be secured throughout the various parts of the district at prices
ranging from $30 (6) to $100 (20) per acre. As a general rule, it is
better to commence by clearing sufficient land to put in strawberries
and small fruits, so as to secure an early revenue, and then gradually
to clear and improve the remainder for orchard purposes. Clearing can,
however, be done by a contract or by day labour. It may be broadly
stated that, with a capital of $2,000 (400) to $2,500 (500), 20 acres
of good land can be cleared and planted with fruit-trees and
strawberries and other small fruits, and that this amount of land is
sufficient for an ordinary family, and should afford a good and
sufficient income to live well upon" (pp. 18-19).

Now, it is evident, on a little reflection, that, while these statements
may be true, they are incomplete as a summary of the situation. If the
land alone cost $100 per acre (and this, I may add, is the average price
that would have to be paid now), the price of the 20 acres would absorb
the whole of the settler's capital. If, however, we put the cost price
of the land at $50, the settler, after paying for his land, would have
$1,000 to $1,500 left. Assume that the clearing costs him $40 (or better
say $50) per acre, he has just about sufficient capital left to plant
his land with. Twenty acres planted with 50 trees (if apples) per acre,
at 30 feet apart every way, would cost for the trees alone (1,000 of
them), one-year-old trees, $150 to $250. Add to this the expense of
planting, fencing, the support of a family during two years; for, even
though the man succeeds in clearing 2 acres the first year and getting
them planted with small fruits in the fall and with strawberries in the
succeeding spring, he still has to wait two years before he will be able
to get any returns. The amount of capital stated would obviously be
inadequate. It should be put at least 50 per cent. higher, and probably
that would not be enough. Indeed, in the British Columbia Government
publication, "Agriculture in British Columbia" (p. 22), the initial cost
of planting 20 acres with apple-trees is put at $2,489.40; and the total
cost before the trees begin to yield a revenue at $4,838.22, or $242 per
acre, the ground produce and small-fruit returns being assumed to cover
the settler's living expenses. This more than justifies the moderation
of my criticism.

Now, it is very probable that the writer of the paragraph quoted was
proceeding on the assumption that the land would be paid for in four
instalments, one of these being cash down, and the other three a bond
upon the ranch at 6, or may be 7, per cent. Let us see how the case
stands then. The settler, buying at $50 per acre, pays in cash $250. He
clears 2 acres in each of the first two years at a cost of $40 per acre
($160), supporting himself meanwhile on his own capital. At the end of
two years he has paid two further instalments of $250 each, plus
interest ($575), and has spent $1,000 on his own living and $800 on
fences, trees, implements, a house, and so forth. Consequently, he has
spent altogether $2,785. And even if we assume that the settler does all
the clearing with his own hands--a task almost impossible--he would
still have spent nearly $300 more than his capital. Assuming, however,
that he by some means keeps his expenditure below that limit and does
not exceed. He will then be in the position of having exhausted his
capital, with one instalment, plus interest, to be paid at the end of
his third year. On the other hand, he will have 2 acres capable of
giving him a return and 2 acres more ready to plant; but by this he has
no capital left with which to buy trees. We have seen in the last
chapter that Mr. Durr, near Cranbrook, after providing himself with
vegetables, but vegetables only, for his family, sold off 3 acres
produce to the extent of $800. Our settler has only 2 acres capable of
giving him a revenue; consequently, he will earn only $457. Now, even
though he does raise his own vegetables, his living, with taxes, seed
(potatoes, clover), plants, and trees, will more than absorb the amount
he earns.

In this discussion everything has been put in the most favourable way
for the settler. Nothing is allowed for contingent expenses, such as
making water arrangements, travelling, hired help for cultivation,
clothing, or for total or partial failure of small fruit bushes to bear
the second year. Altogether, it is pretty manifest that the capital sum
mentioned is not sufficient, and that it ought to be increased by at
least 50 per cent. Then, it is to be remembered that this discussion is
upon the foundation of the figures as to cost and prices supplied to me
through the pamphlet mentioned, as well as other sources upon which I
was drawing for information at the time. If I were to rediscuss the
matter in the light of the actual prices which obtain to-day a 50 per
cent. increase in the amount of capital stated to be necessary would not
be enough. The land alone would cost, not $50, but $100 per acre. But
with this I shall deal again towards the end of the book.

Let us now look at another estimate of cost, framed by a firm of
land-agents interested in selling fruit-lands.

  10 acres at $100 per acre  $1,000.00
  Clearing                      150.00
  Ploughing                      50.00
  Trees                         100.00
  Planting                       25.00
  Cultivating for 3 years       300.00
                             ---------
                             $1,625.00

This tabular statement ignores fencing, cost of house and implements,
and the settler's living expenses, and it puts the cost of clearing 100
per cent. too low. As a result, the amount of capital quoted ought to be
at least doubled.

However, the printed statement from which I have quoted the tabular
formula above goes on to say: "Should the purchaser do his own work and
cultivate between the trees, and raise vegetables, etc., during the
first years, he may not only obviate the cost of cultivating, pruning,
etc., but may count on an annual income from the first year from his
vegetable crops. The usual price of potatoes is 60 cents (2s. 6d.) per
bushel in car-load lots, and at retail lots 90 cents per bushel is a low
price. Tomatoes sell on the market at from 3 cents (1d.) to 20 cents
(10d.) per lb, depending entirely on how early in the season they are
placed on the market. In the second year strawberries come in,
peach-trees produce fruit in the third year, and apple-trees in the
fourth. In addition . . . eggs sell at 40 cents (1s. 8d.) per dozen, and
during the winter 75 cents (3s.) is a low price."

[Illustration: POTATO CROP ON NEWLY-BROKEN GROUND, ARROW LAKE.]

The setting out and care of an orchard, until it becomes a source of
profit, does require a considerable outlay of money and considerable
personal exertion. The clearing is by no means an easy task. It is often
an arduous undertaking, costing from a few dollars up to $100 and even
$125 per acre. In the mountainous south-eastern corner of British
Columbia, where the Kootenays (East and West) are situated, the slopes
are often fairly steep, and the surface is littered with large boulders,
which render ploughing and other operations of the cultivator a matter
of some difficulty. But, provided the slope is not too steep to retain
the soil, fruit-trees may be confidently counted on to grow and produce
the finest of fruit in ample abundance.

It is pretty evident, therefore, that the amount of capital required for
a 20-acre orchard, even if the settler buys land which is as yet in a
state of nature, is something like $3,500-$4,000, or at the rate of
nearly $200 per acre.




  CHAPTER V.

  Spying Out the Land.


I spent a week inspecting fruit ranches on the shores of the west arm of
Kootenay Lake, near Nelson, at prices ranging from $100 to $135 per
acre, the ranches being all what are called "improved"--that is, each
had a certain proportion of its acreage cleared and planted with trees
of various ages, and a further proportion in different stages of
clearing. Then I looked at a few unimproved fruit-lands, the prices, of
course, ruling lower. It was one of these, situated near Bonnington
Falls, in the Kootenay River, eleven miles below Nelson, that appealed
to me most strongly. The soil was first-rate and of great depth. A large
portion of the land was cleared in as far as big trees were concerned,
and on the remainder the big timber-trees were all sold and the
purchaser was busily engaged cutting them down and getting them out. The
aspect, a gentle slope towards the south, well sheltered all round, was
in every way excellent. Five to ten acres were ready for breaking and
ploughing at once, and if this were done without delay a crop of some
sort could be reaped the first year. The place was close to a railway
station, through which three trains passed each way, to and from
Nelson, every day--three times the usual number. There were two houses
on the property ready to step into; also a large new stable and a big
poultry-house. Then, to crown all, the price was reasonable. Nor does
this exhaust the attractions of the place; and I use the word
"attractions" advisedly, because the higher ground commanded one of the
most striking and beautiful river scenes in British Columbia, and that
is equivalent to ranking it among the loveliest pieces of landscape to
be found in the world. As we stood at the edge of the bench-land, we had
at our feet the two falls of the Kootenay River, with the flashing
reaches that link the lower falls with a series of rapids which thread a
group of rocky, tree-grown islets lower down.

The principal drawback to the place was that certain parts of the
frontage next the Canadian Pacific Railway were very rocky and the
ascent to the bench above was rather steep. This last objection could be
overcome by making a road up the soft earthern face of the bench. As for
the rock outcrops, they were seen at their worst from the railway. When
you got up above, on to the land, they were only prominent in two
places. The total amount of waste from this cause was probably about 6
per cent. of the whole, and there were scarcely any big boulders. Almost
the entire area of the ranch would admit of being planted with
fruit-trees. Of the total extent, there was less than 5 per cent. that
could not be planted. The area amounted to over 300 acres.

Although I found here very many of the conditions I was looking for, I
postponed making a decision until I had visited the Okanagan district,
farther west. It was the Okanagan district which had done most to make
British Columbia so widely and famously known as a producer of excellent
fruit, and I wanted to see what the country was like. As it chanced, the
opportunity presented itself to visit the valley in the company of the
President and Secretary of the British Columbia Fruit Growers'
Association. I seized it, and was thus enabled not only to see the
Okanagan country under the best auspices, but also to gain access to
localities which might possibly have been denied to a simple stranger
unprovided with special credentials. Moreover, the two officials
mentioned were to give a series of demonstrations in tree-planting,
pruning, and spraying, and to advocate the formation of a Central
Provincial Exchange as an agency for co-operative buying and
selling--chiefly for selling.

The first locality at which we stopped was Kelowna, a bright little
town, with an air of English neatness and prosperity, the well-built
houses standing back in large gardens, and the streets being wide, while
behind the town was a large expanse of farm land, intersected by fenced
roads. We were driven on to a large fruit farm of some three hundred
acres. But the trees were quite young, and had by no means reached the
bearing stage. All the fruit land in that district was dependent upon
irrigation; and somehow, although I was posted up in the advantages of
irrigation as regards both the certainty of an annual crop and the
heaviness of the yield, I had a prejudice in favour of unirrigated land.
Nor did I see anything either at Kelowna, or at Summerland or Vernon,
both of which places we visited during the course of the trip, to
warrant me in disregarding the promptings of that prejudice. Besides, it
was not altogether instinct that deterred me from buying in the
Okanagan. The prices there ruled very much higher than they did in the
Kootenays. This was only to be expected, as the country was older and
the art of fruit-growing in every way more developed than in the
Kootenays. The prices I was asked ranged from $200 (40) an acre
upwards. But then, I must admit that this was for land which required no
clearing: it was already cleared and quite ready for the plough and for
planting. On the other hand, there was an annual rent for water, a rent
that would last in perpetuity. And what a heavy burden a tax of that
nature may become upon agriculture I knew from painful experience in the
region of my youth--the Fens of Lincolnshire.

[Illustration: AN OKANAGAN PEACH ORCHARD.]

Summerland, some ninety miles farther south, on the west side of the
Okanagan Lake, was in many respects an ideal place. There was not a
single drinking saloon or store which could supply strong drink
throughout the whole of the community. Such a thing as locking the house
door was, I was assured, absolutely unknown. The ranchers had a most
convincing air of prosperity, and were very hospitable. We were shown
three or four of the ranches belonging to the most successful of these
men, whose fruit had won medals at the Royal Horticultural Society's
Colonial Exhibitions in London two years in succession. But the dust!
April though it was, the roads were more than ankle-deep in soft,
floury, silty dust, which rose in choking clouds in the wake of our
chariot wheels.

At Vernon we witnessed a proof of the severity of even a British
Columbia winter. The preceding winter had been one of unexampled rigour
throughout the west of Canada, and in the Okanagan the thermometer had
dropped to -28 Fahr. The consequence was that at Vernon some of the
peach trees, in at least one small orchard, were killed down to the
ground level. This again did not appeal to me, any more than did the
dust of Summerland, especially as at Summerland itself, despite its
name, we had seen other peach trees which had almost certainly been
killed back to within a few inches of the ground by frost.

It was, as I have already said, my object to erect greenhouses and grow
hothouse produce, including flowers. For this object none of these
Okanagan towns appeared to me sufficiently favourable. In the first
place, water is a _sine qu non_ of greenhouse work--water in unlimited
quantities. It would not do to be restricted to the quantity that would
be appropriated strictly to my acreage. In the next place, these towns
were smaller than Nelson, and consequently were not likely to purchase
so large a quantity of flowering plants and cut flowers. Thirdly, places
on the Okanagan Lake had communication with the main line of the C.P.R.
at Sicamous Junction on three days of the week only--the boat returning
south on the other three days of the week. Now, however, there is a
daily service.

For these various reasons, I would not settle in the Okanagan Valley; I
would return to Nelson and the Kootenays. I did so, and after very
little further delay I bought the Bonnington Falls ranch. I have been
asked why I did not try to see more of British Columbia before making my
selection. The answer is simple. From the inquiries which I had made at
a distance before coming out I was pretty certain that there was a good
opening at Nelson for the special line of business which I proposed to
embark in. When I reached Nelson I found that my impression was correct.
In other words, I knew precisely what I wanted, and, having found the
thing that appeared to me to fulfil the essential requirements of the
case, I did not see what object was to be gained by further search,
especially as by making further search I should have lost that season,
and with it practically a twelvemonth's work.

[Illustration: FRAME HOUSE, BONNINGTON FALLS RANCH.]

[Illustration: BUILDINGS, BONNINGTON FALLS RANCH.]




  CHAPTER VI.

  Our Herd.


Having bought ourselves a good kitchen stove and various kitchen
utensils in Nelson, and several pieces of second-hand furniture from the
people living in the house at the Bonnington ranch, we went out to take
possession of our new property. I had already bought from the former
owner of the ranch the whole of his herd of cattle, numbering in all
seven head--namely, three cows, a calf, a young bull, a young steer, and
a young heifer. These animals were, of course, kept under cover during
the winter, so long as the snow lay on the ground. But it was now the
middle of April, the snow had already disappeared, and the animals were
being allowed to range at will all over the ranch--that is, through the
woods and along the hillsides. There was a certain amount of clover and
grass, which they knew how to find; but they lived to a considerable
extent upon the young foliage of the trees and shrubs. And though we
were at times able to detect the flavour of their food in the milk, it
was never so disagreeable that we were unable to drink it. The rest of
the herd used to accompany the cows when they came home of an evening to
be milked. We kept them in the stable all night, feeding them with hay,
and, after milking the cows in the morning, turned them adrift for the
day.

After the exceptionally severe winter in the North-West hay grew to be
extravagantly dear in the spring of 1907, the price running up to $30
(6), and even $35 (7), per ton; whereas the average price at ordinary
times is $20 (4) to $25 (5). In addition to this price I had to pay
cartage and freight on it coming out of Nelson by rail. There was, it is
true, a driving road to within about one mile of the house; but,
unfortunately, it ended on the other side of the river, immediately
opposite to the Upper Falls, and there was no bridge across. Then the
road was a rough mountain road, and it is questionable whether we should
have been able to cart hay in any quantity over it, especially as the
distance would be fully eleven miles. At first, however, we did not even
think of this alternative: we did not possess either horse or waggon.

In spite of the excessive cost of the hay, we soon began to find out
that our herd was a source of profit. On a large neighbouring ranch were
several young men, who catered for themselves. They were eager customers
for butter, milk, and eggs.

Both the Upper and the Lower Falls in the river had been harnessed and
made subservient to the needs of man. At each fall the West Kootenay
Power and Light Company had constructed an electric plant, for the
purpose of supplying electric power to the mines and smelters at
Rossland, Trail, Phoenix, Greenwood, and other towns along the
American-Canadian frontier line, twenty to fifty miles distant. To say
that the company had constructed its plant at both falls is not quite
accurate. The works at the Lower Falls were, indeed, completed; but they
had been discarded in favour of a more up-to-date and more powerful
equipment at the Upper Falls, and this latter was not yet fully
completed. Seventy men were still at work putting the finishing touches
to the constructional works, although the plant was running and
supplying power.

These men, too, came to buy eggs and milk, and some of them, who were
married, and lived in shacks (rough wooden huts) or tents, wanted butter
also. Our butter we sold for 40 cents (1s. 8d.) per lb., our milk for 10
cents per quart, and our eggs for 40 cents (1s. 8d.) to 70 cents (2s.
11d.) per dozen. Maggie, my wife, soon began to wax rich.

In the meantime I had been joined by two men from England--one, a
married man, an experienced gardener; the other, a single man, was to
look after the live stock and cultivate the land.

I am sorry to say I cannot commend cows as valuable assistants on a
fruit ranch--that is to say, on a ranch where the fences are incomplete.
Our first experience of the sort of assistance cows render was in
connection with young cabbage plants. Almost the first thing we did
after settling on our new possessions was to sow some cabbage seed, so
that we might have early cabbages for market. Now, there was not far
from the house a little pocket of useful garden ground, well hidden, and
at a distance from the cow-tracks, so that we never dreamed of our young
cabbages and cauliflowers, our lettuce and radishes, being in any
jeopardy. Nor were they, all through the early stages. But our security
was false. Whilst the seeds were growing up into young plants, we were
straining every nerve to get a piece of ground dug and cleared ready to
receive them. After strenuous efforts (for it is anything but an easy
task to dig the virgin forest ground, with its tangle of interlacing
roots) we were just congratulating ourselves what a nice piece of
well-dug, well-cleaned land we had prepared for our cabbages, and, all
being well, to-morrow we should transplant them. But destiny--that is to
say, our noble herd of cattle--decreed otherwise. Even while the smile
of self-satisfaction was beaming upon our perspiring countenances, the
cows, followed, not led, by the lord of the herd, had found out our
young plants, and were revelling in the luxury.

It was very exasperating to lose them in this way, precisely when they
were ready for being transplanted, and when we, moreover, were equally
ready to transplant them. However, a small residue of both cabbages and
cauliflowers was saved. These growths we transplanted, and from them we
cut the cabbage and cauliflower heads which won each a first prize at
the Nelson Fruit Fair in the September following.

Of course, we lost no time in fencing round the little pocket of garden
ground; but, in spite of our efforts, the cows broke in three or four
times subsequently. They were animals which had been bred and born in
the forest. Fallen logs were no insuperable obstacles to them. They
could all jump like greyhounds, especially the calf, to which our
children Olive and Leslie gave the name of Nellie. This animal, rearing
herself on her hind legs, would pop her fore feet over the log, then
lift her hind feet--if not gracefully, at all events cleverly--and over
she would go. And all the rest of the herd were equally clever at
threading their way through the under-growth of the forest and over the
fallen trees, which in places encumbered it.

One Sunday morning, when I was lying down resting, after the strenuous
toil of the week, engrossed in a light book, I was aroused by hearing
Leslie cry "Father! Father!"

"Yes; what is it?" I answered.

"The cows are at the gunpowder!"

I hurried out, fearing the beasts would cause a concussion with their
hoofs and blow themselves into mincemeat, for it was dynamite, or rather
powerful blasting powder, with a large proportion of dynamite in it,
into which the cows were poking their inquisitive noses.

The boxes containing the dynamite had been placed in a hole dug out of
the face of the slope leading up to the bench-land, and it was there,
sure enough, that the animals of "Our herd" were holding conclave. I
hurried off at once up the hill.

Nothing happened. The animals were evidently digesting dynamite with the
greatest gusto. Nor, so far as we were able to detect, did any of the
cows suffer any ill effects from this banquet of peril. All the same,
dynamite was far too expensive a luxury to regale the pampered appetites
of cows upon. I afterwards had it properly protected with beams and
planking.

[Illustration: UPPER AND LOWER BONNINGTON FALLS.]

I was told later that cattle have a penchant for gunpowder and
dynamite, being attracted by the salts they contain. Shortly afterwards
I learned that the summer preceding a near neighbour had lost two of his
young heifers in some mysterious way, and that both, when opened after
death, were distinctly black inside, evidently from devouring gunpowder.
Then, a little later, we read in the local paper that a rancher about
fifty miles away had had no fewer than fifteen young cattle killed
through eating dynamite, and that another man had lost seven from the
same cause. The salts in the compound were evidently the temptation.




  CHAPTER VII.

  Undeserved Worries.


No sooner were we shaken down in our new quarters than I began to
inquire about a team of horses. I was told there was a team to sell at a
logging camp just outside the boundary of the ranch, and was taken to
look at them. They were by no means first-class animals; but they were
accustomed to the hills, and they had been trained to haul logs--both
very useful qualities for clearing, the work I wanted principally to
engage them upon. The price was not high. But I made no real attempt to
buy them. In consequence of a hint which I received, I called at the
Government Property Register Office, in Nelson, and there learned, in
answer to my inquiries, that there was a mortgage upon the team; for, in
British Columbia, all mortgages, whether upon land or upon chattels,
have to be registered to be effective in law.

Shortly after this I learned that a firm of horse importers in Nelson
had a team to sell. My informant, who knew more about horses than I did,
told me that he had himself seen them, that they were satisfactory
animals, and that the price was so-and-so.

I went into Nelson to look at them. On reaching the town I learned, to
my dismay, that, owing to a scarcity of coal, caused by a strike at the
mines, the C.P.R. had determined to accept no more heavy goods for
transportation. Consequently, unless they would agree to put the horses
(assuming I bought them) on the last freight train, which was to leave
Nelson at that midnight, I should be unable to get them out to
Bonnington. However, I went to look at the horses, and bought them,
provided they could be got to Bonnington by next day. At first the
C.P.R. refused to accept them. Then the seller proposed to take them by
road as far as Upper Bonnington Falls, and thence ferry them across the
river. I was just dipping my pen into the ink for the purpose of writing
out the cheque to pay for them.

I paused. "Well, in that case," said I, "I will give you your cheque
when the horses get across the river." The place where they would be
ferried across was only two hundred yards above the falls, and the
current ran both swift and strong. In fact, within a year afterwards
three men who were crossing by that same ferry were swept away in the
boat, hurled over the falls, and drowned.

"Wait a moment!" cried the seller, and he turned to his telephone, and
rang the bell vigorously. After an animated conversation, he announced
that the C.P.R. would take the horses out on their last train, at
midnight, provided they were put in the car before six o'clock that
evening.

Next day we looked out anxiously at Bonnington for the freight train
from Nelson. The freight train came about the middle of the morning. It
pulled up at our station. It put off some heavy stores for the
cook-house or bunk-house (sleeping rooms) of the men of the West
Kootenay Power and Light Company, and then went on. But where was the
car with our two horses? None was left. What had become of them? Some
one at length suggested that, perhaps, they had been left at the Upper
Falls.

Off we went to the Upper Falls Station. Before we reached it, we caught
sight of a freight car standing on the spur or siding. We found its
floor to be four feet above the ground, and there was nothing in the
nature of a platform. How on earth were we to get our horses out? By
this time, however, we had had some experience in grappling with little
difficulties of this kind. Borrowing several stout two-inch planks from
the Power Plant people, we constructed a sloping platform, and down it
we led our horses one by one.

We had got our horses. But for some time they proved to be of very
little real use to us. I shall never forget the first attempt we made to
plough with them. It was not ploughing, as ordinarily understood. It was
breaking the ground for the first time since its creation. Centuries
upon centuries had gone to the making of it. We aimed at confounding the
slow labour of Time in the course of a few fleeting minutes. Although
the soil was light in texture, the work was terribly severe. Every few
yards we had to stop to clear the ploughshare from the mat of
interlacing roots which clogged it. Calaby took the plough-handles,
while I endeavoured to lead one of the horses by the bridle. From the
very first the mare resented my being at her head. We knew that both had
been doing nothing for some considerable time; but we persevered,
believing they would quiet down and become more tractable when they had
worked off their friskiness. Instead of improving, they became worse. I
put myself between the two of them, and took hold of both bridles, and
tried in that way to lead them both. The second mare was ten times worse
than the first one. Not only did she fling her head about wildly: she
struck out with her fore foot and attempted again and again to get my
hand into her mouth. Then she stopped, and refused to pull, and it was
not long before the first mare followed suit. We tried all ways, gentle
and other; but pull they would not. At last, after the two of them,
jerking at the same moment, had nearly wrenched my arms out of their
sockets, we were obliged to desist. Lawrie, the gardener, who was a
witness of our proceedings, said afterwards that he fully expected to
see me struck down and injured, if not worse. For weeks after my arms
suffered from the strain. I ought to add that I had never worked with
horses before in my life.

[Illustration: FIRST DIGGING OF NEW GROUND, BONNINGTON FALLS RANCH.]

Upon my going to consult with a native Canadian, settled on the next
ranch, he told me that Canadian horses are not accustomed to be led, and
will hardly ever work when they are led; they are always, for all
purposes, driven by long reins. Acting upon this information in future,
we never experienced anything like the same difficulty with them.
Indeed, in process of time, they became so docile, and worked so well,
that Calaby, while driving them into Nelson, was repeatedly asked if he
would take for them a sum equivalent to 10 more than I paid for them.

We did not attempt to plough with them again for several weeks. One
reason was that for nearly a month they luxuriated in lameness--first
one, then the other. No sooner was the foot of the grey mare recovered
than the foot of the brown went wrong; and did we bandage and rub and
poultice the brown mare's foot into soundness, we found the grey
limping. It was insinuated to me that it was all caused by
mismanagement; but I refused to credit that. And no better proof of the
falsity of the insinuation could be found than in the subsequent history
of the team. They turned out as useful and handsome a pair of horses as
a man need wish to see. They never suffered from any trouble, either to
their feet or to their chests, and to-day they are both as sound of wind
and limb as horses should be. I have no doubt it was their unfamiliarity
with the ground that caused their lameness. They had been bred on the
prairie, and they had not yet learnt how to avoid the sharp stones of
the British Columbian hillsides or the still sharper "stubs"--jagged
ends--of the slashed scrub.

There was a further cause why, for a time, we did not get out of them
all the work that we had a right to expect. Both were mares, and both
turned out to be in foal. I had been warned of the possibility of this
in the case of one of them, though I did not suspect it in the case of
the other.

When their troubles arising out of this condition were well over, we had
them engaged in "stumping," one of the processes of clearing, and after
that we again put them to the plough, one man driving with the long
reins, while Calaby guided the plough. This time everything went without
a hitch.

       *     *     *     *     *

Early one Sunday morning, towards the middle of the summer, I was
awakened by repeated lowings of cattle outside the house, and, judging
from the noise and commotion, there appeared to be a considerable number
of them. I jumped from bed, and looked out of the window. At the sight
which met my gaze I was ready to tear out my hair by the handful. The
yard was full of cattle--strange animals, for, as I have said, "our
herd" numbered only seven, and yet here were more than a score! It was
not that, however, which excited my wrath. The bull and three other
animals were rampaging inside the fencing which ought to have protected
another choice piece of garden ground, in which were growing, not only
two large beds of extra fine lettuce, but also a very choice collection
of dahlias and sweet peas, and other florists' flowers, intended partly
to stock my greenhouses as soon as I could get them constructed.

Dragging on a few clothes, out I dashed, and, snatching up the biggest
stick I could see, I gave hot chase to the animals. But, as the Germans
love to put it, in throwing away the bath water I flung out the infant
also. Once I had the strange cattle on the move, off they went of their
own accord; but they took with them my own herd! Fortunately, after
going a short distance, my cows, desiring to be milked, turned back and
made their way of themselves to the stable. The other creatures I chased
more than a quarter of a mile up the hill, and then, seeing they were
travelling steadily through the woods, I returned home, to continue at
four a.m. my night's interrupted repose.

But this was a Sunday, and for some reason the Fates had decreed my
Sundays should be marked by unsought adventure and excitement. About an
hour before noon Maggie put her head into the room in which I was
sitting, to tell me that the yard was again full of "cows."

"Where are Calaby and Leslie and the rest?" I cried. I had had enough of
the early delights of cow-punching for one day.

"I don't know," said Maggie; "I think they have gone down to the power
house. I don't see them anywhere about."

Accordingly, in spite of myself, I had to have all the fun alone. And
fun it was! Fun that drove me distracted. I managed to meet the
marauders before they got well within the precincts of the yard, and
turned them back. So far, so good. But instead of proceeding, as they
had done on the first occasion, seven or eight hours before, in a
compact body straight back by the path by which they had come, they
scattered over the hillside, and made for the cultivated land on the
bench above, where, in one direction, we had peas, carrots, potatoes,
turnips, savoys, brussels sprouts, and other vegetables growing, and in
the opposite direction tomatoes, carrots, and clover. True, both
"fields" were fenced round; but along the edge of the bench, where the
beasts would first come into contact with it, the fence was,
unfortunately, weakest, consisting in part of barbed wire; in part of
slim horizontal poles nailed to slight upright posts. They did not
attempt to break their way through our flimsy fences; but they did what
was worse. They streamed up the roadway we had made up the face of the
bench and forced an entrance through the "gate" at the top, and so began
to spread out over both fields, to right and to left. By dint of running
hard, I contrived to head off and turn back most of the band, and got
them well started along the outside of the fence; but a few escaped me.
Of these, some went at full gallop all over the tomatoes and clover, and
you may imagine how enraptured I felt when I beheld two or three
athletic young steers choosing out my lines of recently-planted apple
trees for a cinder path, a young heifer "doing the mile" inside the
fence, and zigzagging across the potato field, with her tail high in the
air; while a "bunch" (to use a Canadian idiom), possessed of sedater
manners and more inquiring minds, were endeavouring to sample my
dynamite boxes.

I shouted, I waved my stick, I ran till I was breathless; but no matter
how far I ran or how fast, I seemed to get not one bit "forrader." While
I was chasing animal No. 1, the rest of the bunch were demonstrating the
independence of their characters by pursuing each a separate path. My
eye would light upon depredator No. 2 working irreparable havoc among
the green peas (just ready for cooking, of course), and off I started
after No. 2, leaving No. 1 in dangerous proximity to the young carrots.
Then animal No. 3 wooed my attention, and I had to desert No. 2 to take
up with the new beauty. They kept me at this game for over half an hour,
and I had not beaten a single one of them, either literally or
metaphorically. I was just giving up the thing in utter despair--hot,
panting, exhausted--when, thank heaven! Leslie's head appeared above the
edge of the bench, and soon after he was followed by one of the men.
Stationing myself, therefore, at the parting of the ways, I suffered
them to carry off the honours by chasing the evil-doers out of the
fields.

These cattle belonged to a neighbour, who had them fenced, it is true,
into his own domain; but they had broken bounds, scrambled down the side
of a steep ravine, then climbed up the other side, and traversed over a
mile of our woods. I could not help thinking that for the crime of being
a "tenderfoot" I was receiving something more than the punishment that
was strictly my due.

Our cows came back that night; so did the heifer and the calves, for by
this we had two of them. But that prodigal son of a bull did not show
himself either that evening or the next. I had to go over to my
neighbour, and lodge a formal complaint against his cows of having
eloped with the lord and master of my herd, and request his assistance
in recovering the truant. This he readily promised, and he was as good
as his word. In three or four days he let me know that he had the
culprit safe in a stall in his cattle shed.

Calaby and I trudged over to bring the bull back home again. It was not
the most inviting task--to lead a strong young bull, who had never known
restraint, whose nose was not even pierced for a ring, a distance of a
mile and a half through a country destitute of roads. Fortunately, my
neighbour was an experienced man among cattle, having been at one
period of his life a cow-puncher in Texas. With his help, we got a
patent ring inserted into the animal's nose; and it was almost
incredible with what ease and absence of bustle Mr. ---- pierced the
nose and inserted the ring. Of course, the bull did not like the
trinket, and grew restive under the pain it inflicted.

Having snapped a strong chain into the ring, and securely tied an
equally strong cord to the same, we let the beast pass quietly out of
the stall. By dint of pulling and humouring and driving we got him on to
the railway track, along which we had to travel for nearly half a mile.
We had chosen a time when, as a rule, there was no train to be expected.
Still, the trains, especially the freight trains, run so irregularly on
the Canadian lines that no reliance could be placed upon precedent--it
was quite possible that we might either meet or be overtaken by a train
before we covered that critical half-mile. The task before us was one
that I had not the slightest relish for. Part of the way along the
railway we should be in a deep rock cutting; part of the way on a high
narrow embankment, with a sheer drop of twenty feet on both sides.

Well, as I have said, we got down on to the railway track without any
serious difficulty; but no sooner did we get clear of the railway
station than trouble began. If the cows' escapades in my potato and
tomato fields were comparable with a ladylike game of hockey, the game
we were now compelled to play was little different from the toughest
scrimmage of an American football match.

The bull would race along for ten yards or so. Then he stood
stock-still, and could not be hauled or beaten into movement. Then he
would turn half round, and try to get back to where he had come from.
Once he put his head between his knees and turned an almost complete
summersault into the ditch at the side of the track. We both thought he
had broken his neck, until Calaby managed to pull one of his legs from
under him, and straightened him out a little. Thus the game went on, it
costing us half an hour's solid hard work to get the bull safely over
that dangerous half-mile. Calaby eventually found that the most
effective way to induce the animal to go forward was to twist his tail.
So, there he was, Calaby one hand hanging on to the chain, the other
twisting the root of the prodigal's tail, while I held on to the rope,
my aim being chiefly to prevent the bull from running back.

At length we came to the trail leading up to the lumber camp, where I
had seen the team of horses. I cannot say how thankful I was to have
escaped an encounter with a train.

The climb from the railway into the woods was an ascent into regions of
greater difficulty. The trail was narrow, and in places not very well
defined. Everywhere it was bordered by trees, scrub, and fallen logs.
The bull would not go straight. Frequently he tried to tie himself and
us into a knot round a tree or a bush. At length, however, we reached
ground that was more familiar to him, and he put on dignity, as more
suitable to a triumphant return to the domestic circle. The muscles of
my arms were a long time in recovering tone and elasticity, and to this
day Calaby has not forgotten that morning's work.




  CHAPTER VIII.

  Clearing and Planting.


It was the middle of April when we actually began ranching operations.
My first aim was to get some fruit trees planted, so as to save a good
twelvemonth towards the time of their maturing. In Canada the spring is
the season when most fruit trees are planted. I am well aware it would
have been more scientific to plough the land and sow it with clover
before attempting to plant. But one does not always do, one is not
always able to do, what one knows quite well ought to be done. It must
be remembered that the ground I had to deal with was completely stripped
of its big trees and bigger scrub. What remained was creeping
vegetation, like the Oregon grape and the thimbleberry, a sort of bushy
raspberry, with tough, ramifying roots. We measured out our orchard
ground, arranging to plant the apple trees 30 feet apart every way, and
all other fruit trees at intervals of 20 feet both from tree to tree and
from row to row. Then, where each tree was to come, we dug the surface
for a distance of six or eight feet square, and afterwards, when the
fruit trees arrived, put one tree in the middle of each square of clean,
well-dug land. Even then, by the time we had finished planting, it was
very late, for our last tree was not put in until May 18. By that time
summer had fully come; the days were hot, and the sun shone with
considerable power. I expected to lose some of the young trees; but,
even though only 50 per cent. survived, I should have had so many trees
one year ahead. As a matter of fact, I lost no more than 12 per cent. of
the whole. The loss was principally in one variety of apples and in the
peaches.

While we were waiting for the fruit trees to arrive, we had dug over the
little sheltered piece of garden ground in which we sowed the cabbage,
cauliflower, lettuce, and radish seed; and there we planted 5,000
one-year-old asparagus plants which I had brought with me, as well as
hardy ferns and violets, and sowed onion seed, French beans, and other
vegetables. Then we tackled one portion of the bench-land above, a space
of about 1 acre, which was practically ready for the plough. Of this
area we did not get much more than one-half turned over with the plough,
owing to the trouble we had with our horses.

As soon as I understood that the horses were not to be counted upon for
breaking the virgin soil, I sent to Nelson for a couple of extra spades.
Every now and then, as we worked, we came across the half-drawn fangs of
some former giant of the forest. Then down went our spades, and up went
axe and mattock and crowbar, and we chopped and hacked and hauled and
lifted and levered and strained until the last relics of the monster
were upheaved. Then we either kindled a fire underneath him or drilled a
hole below him and inserted half a stick or a quarter of a stick of
dynamite and lit a fuse, retiring to watch the result.

In this way we slowly but surely subdued every inch of that acre and a
half. Then we planted the ground with potatoes. By this time it was
almost too late for that; but I had resolved to risk it. The risk was
justified by the result. Off that 1 acre we dug in September sixty
hundredweight of sound potatoes, or "spuds," as the Canadian prefers to
call them.

As soon as the potatoes were planted, we turned our energies to the
preparation of half an acre or so to receive two thousand tomato plants.
These plants, when they arrived, proved to be very different from what
we should have had sent to us for planting in England, having been
lifted directly from the seed-boxes. This gave them a severe check. Yet
this was not the only trouble that fretted their brief existence. Just
as they were recovering from the shift to the open ground, we noticed
that they were being eaten by some insect or other enemy. We suspected
slugs or caterpillars; but of neither were we able to discover the
slightest trace. As a matter of fact, slugs cannot live in the dry
atmosphere of British Columbia. We were puzzled. What could the enemy
be? It was obviously something outside the range of our ordinary English
experience. A day or two later the mystery was solved for us by the
local newspaper, which spoke of the ravages of the "cutworm" among the
cabbage "patches" of Nelson. The cutworm! That was our enemy beyond a
doubt. Luckily I had a Government pamphlet in the house, describing the
creature and its habits, and telling the ignorant how to feed him to
render him innocuous. The diet recommended was bran and Paris green
(arsenic). I lost no time in ministering to the taste of the cutworm and
in humouring his palate to the top of his bent. We were troubled by him
no more.

Fortunately, the depredations of this pernicious enemy are confined as a
rule to three weeks or so in the twelvemonth; but while the voracity of
the creature lasts the mischief it does is almost inconceivable. The
cutworm itself is a short, thick creature like a caterpillar, dark
brown, closely resembling the earth in which it lives. It is generally
found about half an inch or so under the surface, and as a rule at the
base of the stem or stalk of the plant upon which it is preying.

Notwithstanding these set-backs and disasters, our tomatoes thrived
amazingly in the hot, bright sun of British Columbia, and they began to
ripen early. Although they did not all attain full maturity of colour, I
was able to sell between forty and fifty boxes at the price of $1 (4s.)
per box. This was not, it is true, a very great or very profitable
yield. But then the plants were small and backward to begin with, and
they had experienced two severe checks. Besides, they had no fertilizer
whatever, and no water was given them after the day they were planted.
The result was sufficient to convince me that, given strong,
early-transplanted plants and a favourable season, it would be possible
to raise a paying crop of tomatoes on a sunny bench such as that which
we had at Bonnington.

This conclusion was supported by the experience of our neighbours on the
next ranch. The crop of tomatoes which they produced (from forwarder
plants than ours) was one which excited the emphatic admiration of
Lawrie, who confessed he had never seen a crop of tomatoes like it in
all his life. But whereas we had staked up our tomatoes, our neighbours
allowed theirs to spread out and ramble, in the orthodox Canadian way,
all over the ground. The consequence was that when rain came many of
them cracked, and the edges of the cracks turned black. In the Okanagan
Valley outdoor tomatoes are one of the crops that the ranchers rely upon
principally for their annual income.

       *     *     *     *     *

When a newly-arrived settler buys fruit land in British Columbia, there
is always a more or less large proportion of it covered with trees and
forest growth. This has, of course, to be removed before the rancher can
begin his proper work of growing fruit. The successive operations are
logging, burning, stumping, and grubbing.

Logging is the operation of cutting down the big trees. The tools
required for this are a couple of two-headed axes and a big,
two-handled, cross-cut saw. A notch having been made in the side of the
tree, about two or two and a half feet from the ground, the saw is got
to work, and with two skilled men at the handles the tree will be sawn
through in less than ten minutes. Indeed, a couple of men who understand
their work will cut down (so one such man told me on one occasion) no
fewer than seventy trees in a day. At this work the man who told me this
and his mate were able to earn at the rate of $3 (12s. 6d.) each per
day. It sometimes happens that a tree in falling lodges against another
tree, and so fails to reach the ground. In that case the woodsmen attack
a third tree standing close by, and saw it down in such a way that, when
it crashes, it falls across the first tree, and the two then generally
come to the ground together.

After the tree lies prone on the ground, it is stripped of its branches,
and the trunk is sawn into definite lengths of ten, twelve, and so on up
to twenty feet. The branches are left on the ground, for, the trees
being mostly straight conifers, the branches are generally small. The
logs are drawn off, and either sent to the saw-mill to be cut up into
planks and building timber, or sawn up on the spot for cordwood
(firewood) and fencing posts and rails. When all the big trees are
felled, the bushes are slashed down with a sort of bill-hook, known as a
bush-hook, and then the whole of the ground is swept by fire. By British
Columbia law this burning of the scrub ought to be done in the month of
April, but is prohibited, under heavy fines, in the succeeding hot, dry
months--from fear of forest fires. The law is not everywhere rigidly
enforced, and the consequence is that forest fires are frequent. There
is nothing to prevent a rancher from burning his scrub during the winter
months, provided he can get it to burn then.

After the burning, the proceeding is to eradicate, or grub out, the
charred stumps of the big trees. In some parts of the country this is
done with a stumping machine; but the machine is expensive, and not easy
to move about in a mountainous country. I do not remember ever to have
heard of one being used in the Kootenays. In default of using a
stumping machine, the work has to be done by human agency, with the
assistance of horses.

The first thing that is done is to bore a hole right under the middle of
the stump with a big auger, or make one with an iron bar; then insert a
charge of dynamite or blasting powder, attach the fuse, and blow up the
stump. If the stump is not too big, and the charge of dynamite is of the
right size, this result will follow. If the stump is a very big one, the
result aimed at will be to split it up the middle and at the same time
loosen the fangs. These are then drawn out one by one by horses, pulling
on a heavy steel logging chain. Trying work it is, especially upon the
harness and the single-trees or heel-trees. Our horses became quite
expert at this work.

Now this work of stumping is by no means free from danger. The blasting
material used is highly explosive, and a slight concussion will
sometimes discharge it. Fortunately, it freezes at a higher temperature
than water does. In consequence of this, it often has to be thawed out
before it can be used. The safest way is to thaw it over a tin of warm
water. But men do not always keep to the ways that are safe. For
instance, I have been told of men who were thawing dynamite on a kitchen
stove, the sticks lying naked on the iron. One of the party, after
drinking out of an enamelled tin cup, put it down on the stove.
Instantly there was an explosion, the slight concussion having disturbed
the equilibrium of the molecules of the powder. In the case I am
alluding to the consequences were serious. One man was killed outright,
and another dangerously hurt.

Almost immediately after we settled at Bonnington Falls I engaged three
young men to stump and clear by contract the piece of ground on which we
afterwards planted our tomatoes. They accomplished their task, and left
us on the Monday morning. Next day, in the afternoon, when the steamer
from Nelson to Kaslo put in at a landing-stage on the west arm of
Kootenay Lake, she was asked to take on board a badly-wounded man. It
was one of the three young fellows who had been at work on our ranch
only two days before. It seems that he and his companions had drilled
two holes, one on each side of a large stump, and that, having inserted
the charges of powder, the injured man proceeded to light the one fuse,
while his cousin simultaneously applied a match to the fuse on the
opposite side of the stump. The first man's fuse burned without a hitch;
his cousin's refused to catch. The first man thereupon leaned over the
stump and endeavoured to light the refractory fuse with another match.
While he was doing this his own charge exploded, and shattered his
thigh, besides inflicting other serious injuries. After he had lingered
in agony for something like twenty-four hours, death mercifully put an
end to his sufferings. We all felt this tragic incident, for not only
was the sufferer a fine young fellow, with a winning and attractive
personality, but he was also well-known to people with whom we were
acquainted in the Old Country.

[Illustration: A BIG STUMP SPLIT BY A DYNAMITE CHARGE.]

[Illustration: A LOGGING SCENE.]

His cousin, who had been on the other side of the stump at the time of
the accident, suffered injury, especially to the eyes. At first it was
feared that he would lose the sight of one, if not of both; but
eventually he recovered, and was very little the worse except for the
shock. The last operation in clearing away the virgin forest,
preparatory to ploughing, is that known as grubbing, or getting out the
roots of the scrub, bushes, and quite young trees. For this work the
most effective tool is the mattock, which has an adze on the one face
and a narrow axe on the other. Many of the roots can be got out with
this tool alone. Where it fails to do the work completely, a team with a
short logging chain will soon complete the business. A good pull at the
fangs in one direction, followed by an equally good pull in the opposite
direction, will generally loosen the stubbornest root, and once it is
loosened the rest is easy.




  CHAPTER IX.

  Ranching Incidents.


Close to the house at Bonnington Falls was a stretch of something like
half an acre of almost level ground. At first sight it did not appear to
be promising as a field for cultivation, and I dare say we should never
have attempted to make use of it in that way--at all events, not at that
early stage of the proceedings--had it not been for some gooseberry
bushes already growing on it. It was thickly strewn with stones, mostly
small. But the former owner of the ranch, who indeed had squatted on the
land (or, in Canadian language, "staked" it), had picked off the stones,
leaving them in four rows, one on each side of the gooseberry bushes.
Our breakfast used to be ready at half-past six; consequently there was
half an hour, and sometimes an hour, to spare before that meal. This
time was utilised by some of us in picking off the stones and building
them up into a wall, intended to serve as a fence. As fast as the stones
were cleared off we dug the ground, and eventually we planted part of it
with a choice collection of dahlias, which I had brought out with me
from England. This ground proved to be the best of all the pieces that
we cultivated. At the fruit fair held at Nelson in September, we put up
over one hundred varieties of dahlia blooms--cactus, decorative, pompon,
and single--and with them won two first prizes and a second. The blooms,
being all massed together, formed the most striking feature of the
floral section of the show.

On the same soil we grew some remarkably fine gladioli, which again won
us a first prize at Nelson. Altogether, at that same show, we won six
first and three second prizes out of ten entries. Eloquent testimony to
the natural fertility of the soil of Bonnington Ranch!

It was while the majority of us were absent in Nelson at the show that
the only instance of lawlessness which came under our own immediate
observation occurred. A stranger came in off the railway track, and
presenting himself at Mrs. Lawrie's door begged for something to eat,
and after he had been given what he asked for went on to demand money.
Mrs. Lawrie gave him a modest coin. He was not satisfied, and demanded
more. Calaby, the only man of our party left at home, was working up on
the bench, nearly half a mile away, so that Mrs. Lawrie was quite
helpless, and was obliged to give the man what he wanted. No doubt he
knew that it was the fair day, and speculated upon the men of the ranch
being absent in Nelson.

The main incidents of our ranch life at this time were such as arose out
of the newness of the country and our want of experience. For instance,
when our horses went lame, I was advised to remove their shoes and let
them run shoeless, being told that it was the invariable practice to do
so. This did not prevent them from going lame, however, and after a
while we found that their hoofs were wearing down. I decided that the
shoes should go on again. But then arose a difficulty. Who was to put
them on? Where should we be able to find a blacksmith? I knew that
blacksmiths were to be found in Nelson; but the question was: Would a
blacksmith be willing to sacrifice half a day or more to a journey out
to Bonnington and back in order to shoe two horses, and, even supposing
he were willing to do so, what would the cost be? So far as I was able
to calculate it, the cost would run up to thirty shillings or so. Then,
we possessed neither anvil nor forge.

On inquiry we learned that a smith was expected to visit the
logging-camp, which I have mentioned more than once, and it was
equipped, we knew, with both a forge and an anvil. Yet it was altogether
uncertain when the blacksmith would come. We sent to the logging-camp
every day for a week; but no blacksmith appeared, and we were no nearer
to getting our horses re-shod. But help came from an unexpected quarter.
Our neighbours discovered that their horses also needed re-shoeing, and
they were able to arrange with a blacksmith (who had been a farrier in a
British cavalry regiment) from a neighbouring gold mine to come out on a
Sunday and put shoes on all four horses. And by the kindness of the
Superintendent of the West Kootenay Power Plant, we were granted
permission to use their forge and anvil.

Yet another little escapade of our horses, which vied with the cattle in
causing us worry, may be chronicled. One day, Maggie, the two children,
and I went down to the station intending to take train to Nelson. After
waiting some minutes, we saw the smoke of the engine, telling us that
the train had left Slocan Junction, a mile and a half away. Ours was the
next stopping-place, so that it would not be many minutes before the
train arrived. Just at this moment we caught sight of the grey mare,
plunging on the higher ground immediately above the station.

"Look!" cried Leslie. "She's got her foot fast in the wire netting!"

I realised that in her efforts to release herself the mare might pull
off her shoe, if not her hoof. Yet if I went to her to set her free, I
should to a certainty miss the train, which would be tantamount to
postponing our journey until the following day, for the next train into
Nelson did not arrive until too late in the evening to be of any real
use, unless we were prepared to stay all night. However, there was
nothing for it: I could not go off and leave the mare in difficulties.
Off I started, therefore, to her relief. But just as I was crossing the
line, Leslie called to me, "There's Calaby, father! Can't you hear him
whistling?" Then, lifting up his shrill voice, he called, "Calaby!
Calaby!" and proceeded to warn him what was amiss. As it happened,
Calaby had seen the predicament the mare was in, and was already
hastening to her rescue.

[Illustration: LESLIE AND THE CALF.]

Although both Maggie and I had been familiar with the usual domestic
animals when we were young, neither of us had had much to do with them
personally. Hence, now that we possessed animals of our own, we were
immensely taken up with them, and studied all their habits and doings
with the liveliest interest. From one point of view all our animals
were in her eyes of regal breed: they were incapable of doing wrong.
They might eat our young cabbages and cauliflowers, crop (as they did
three times in succession) our green peas, nibble our melon plants, and
so on; their offences were not at all too heinous for pardon. But when
they went the length of invading our water-works and upsetting the
pipes, so that the flow of water into the house was stopped, they
overstepped the bounds of pardon, particularly when the offence was on a
washing day!

The children were, perhaps, more delighted with the animals than we
were. The horses, the cows, the other cattle, but, above all, the
calves, were never-ending objects of interest and wonderment. At first,
so long as the two calves were too small to be allowed to range the
woods with their mothers, they were kept at home. Still, the weather was
warm, and I did not like the idea of their being shut up all day in the
stable. We had as yet no home paddock or pasture to turn them into. The
only enclosure was a large poultry run, fenced round with wire netting
six feet high. In lieu of any better place, we used to turn them loose
into this poultry run. It often fell to Leslie's lot to lead them out of
the stable and put them into their day quarters. Many were the
half-hours of frantic amusement this task afforded, not only to Leslie,
and to Olive, who was sometimes ambitious enough to try to help her
"little" brother, but to all the rest of us.

After we had been settled at Bonnington about four months the owner of
one of the oldest orchards in the immediate vicinity of Nelson came and
offered to sell me his property. By that time I was committed to
Bonnington: the property there was paid for, and I had sunk an
appreciable amount of additional capital towards developing the place.
My preparations for erecting greenhouses were already well advanced. The
glass was on the spot, the timber was ordered and (in the Canadian
phrase) might be "shipped" any day. And I had no fault to find with my
Bonnington purchase. I felt I should act unwisely to make any change.
After taking some time to think over the offer--which was in some ways a
tempting one--I made up my mind to decline it. But it was decreed that
the matter should not rest there.

I was again brought into contact with the owner of the ranch. He renewed
his offer. In the meantime the attractions which I had formerly seen in
it had acquired added importance, and other reasons why it might be a
desirable thing to make a move had begun to press in upon my mind. This
time I did not hesitate very long, but resolved to close with the offer.
In this way I became the owner of two fruit ranches before I had been
six months in the country. There was a keen and growing demand for fruit
land, and prices were steadily going up, so that I did not think I was
running any very serious risk in saddling myself with this additional
responsibility. For another thing, in the new ranch I should be much
nearer Nelson, and on a waggon road only three miles distant. We should
thus be able to sell and deliver our flowering plants and cut flowers
and other greenhouse produce with our own vehicles independently of the
railway. Moreover, the two children would be able to continue their
schooling, and yet remain at home under our own eyes and under our own
care, a thing they could not do at Bonnington, owing to the lack at that
time of a school of any kind in the neighbourhood.

As soon as I resolved to move, I set about disposing of my herd, or the
greater part of it, for the new ranch was much smaller, and did not
possess pasture more than enough to feed a team of horses and at the
most two cows.

In answer to an advertisement which I put into the local paper, a
dairyman came out one night to look at the bull with a view to buying
him. It was a pitch-dark night, and pouring with rain, and we went to
inspect the animal by the light of a lantern. The dairyman could not, I
am sure, see very much of the beast; nevertheless, he made me a bid for
him, which I did not choose to accept.

The young heifer and the biggest of the calves, Nellie, the
steeplechaser, I sold to a precise, conscientious old man, who came and
talked half a day about them before he finally made up his mind to buy.
At last he set off along the railway track at the tail of the young
heifer. I say "at the tail of the young heifer" because, although we
tied a long rope to her horns, and put the other end in his hands, with
the idea that he should lead the animal to his own home, seven or eight
miles away down the railway, the heifer started at such a pace that she
literally dragged the poor old man nearly off his feet in his efforts to
keep up with her. Nellie ran along after the two of them, and behind
Nellie was Calaby, who followed for about a mile, and then had to stop
from want of breath. When he got back home he reported that he had left
the old man and the heifer and the calf "still running." I myself met
the old gentleman again some months afterwards, and learned that he had
made "a very expeditious journey home." But he expressed his unfeigned
astonishment at the way the calf was able to "leap and bound," and he
inquired if I could tell him the best way to prevent the heifer from
"making so free with her hind legs when he went to milk her."

Now, in addition to horses and cattle, I had also laid the foundation of
a herd of swine by buying a Berkshire sow. The animal arrived by rail in
a wooden crate, which was put out at our station and left on the
platform. Had we been wise, we should have had the horses draw the pig
on a sleigh all the way to her new quarters in our sty. But somehow our
instincts did not lean towards wisdom--at all events, not on this
occasion. There were one, two, three, four, five of us, and she was but
one small pig. Where, then, could be any difficulty or trouble? We
anticipated none. In fact, even before the animal arrived Leslie
bargained that he might be allowed to bring her up single-handed. He had
led the second horse from the Upper Falls siding to the stable
successfully, and a pig is nothing like so big as a horse.

Before knocking away the side of the wooden crate, Calaby twisted a
stout cord round her snout. Then a few blows of a hammer, and the animal
was free. The distance we had to take her was about two hundred yards.
But all the time we spent traversing those yards (and it was really
unconscionable) it was as if Pandemonium had broken loose. All the
inhabitants in the vicinity came out to witness the spectacle. On the
verandah of our house were Maggie and Olive and Mrs. Lawrie, all in fits
of laughter. The wife of the superintendent of the West Kootenay Power
Plant, who lived immediately opposite, was doubled up with amusement.
Calaby hung on to the cord like grim death while he practised his method
of enforcing progress by twisting the pig's tail. I clung like a limpet
to one ear, and tugged and hauled with all my might. Leslie, expert in
the dragging of calves, put all his strength on to the rope which Calaby
was holding, while a fourth man pushed behind.

Shortly before I bought the second ranch I learned that a neighbour was
willing to sell some eight acres of clover. As the price he asked for it
was quite reasonable, and I had found the cost of hay excessively high,
I agreed, after some hesitation, to buy. The hay would prove extremely
useful. My hesitation arose out of the question, How shall we get it
home? In the first place, I had no waggon. In the next place, even if I
had possessed a waggon, it would have been impossible to use it until
after we had constructed a road a mile and a half through the woods. But
the seller and another neighbour, a born Canadian, removed my hesitation
by assuring me that we should experience no difficulty in "hauling" the
hay home on a sleigh after the snow fell in winter. When it came to the
point, we discovered yet another way, and contrived to get it brought
home in the summer. We packed it on our horses' backs. To each side of a
pack-saddle we securely tied a long bundle of hay, and then hoisted a
third bundle on the top of the two, and so led the horses one behind the
other by the trail through the forest. As they came lurching along the
road which we had made down from the bench, there was very little more
of the horses to be seen than their legs and switching tails.

On one occasion during the course of this work we very nearly had a
serious accident. In the course of the journey we had to cross a
home-made bridge spanning a deep gully. The bridge was made by flinging
two long poles across the ravine, and then laying shorter poles closely
side by side at right angles across the first two. On the occasion I am
alluding to the leading mare broke one of these transverse poles and put
her foot through. She went on as if nothing were amiss. I myself was
leading the second mare, and between us, in our efforts to avoid the
hole, the mare made a second hole, and her leg dropped through, her load
at the same time pulling her over towards the side of the bridge, where
there was nothing but a thin handrail to guard against a tumble into the
ravine. Had she gone over, it would have been an extremely difficult
matter to get her out again, because just at that spot the sides of the
ravine were of solid rock, and not only did they go sheer down to a
depth of twenty feet, but the water of the torrent had eaten its way
into the rock at the bottom, so that there was, as it were, a cave at
each side. Luckily, the mare recovered her footing before the hay
dragged her over.




  CHAPTER X.

  Beasts, Birds, and Fish.


One day, walking along the path which our cows usually followed through
the woods, on climbing up from a watercourse I caught sight of two
pretty animals playing in and out underneath a fallen log. They were
about as big as hares, but white, with a broad black band running all
round them from the sharp-pointed snout to the tail. They did not
manifest any alarm at my approach. What could they be? I began to move
nearer, when all at once the answer flashed across my mind. Black and
white! I turned and ran--literally ran--back ten or a dozen yards, and
then proceeded onwards again on a wide detour, being very careful not to
disturb the little innocents at their play. They were skunks!

[Illustration: "FISHING IN THE POOL BELOW BONNINGTON FALLS, KOOTENAY
RIVER."]

On reaching home I did not fail to report. The recital put Maggie into
high agitation. She trembled for the lives of her last two broods of
chickens, than which there are no daintier morsels in the
black-and-white rascals' diet. We helped her to take every precaution
for their safety, putting the coops on boarded floors, which projected
with an ample margin all round, and every night the little fluffy
creatures were elaborately barricaded into their quarters. In spite of
all, the bloodthirsty enemies discovered their whereabouts. Very late
one night we were startled out of our sleep by hearing the sharp report
of a shotgun quite close to the house. Naturally we were alarmed, until
some one called out, "Oh! it's only Calaby."

But we each put to ourselves the question, "What's he shooting at?"

The question was very quickly answered, and that without the breathing
of a word or the flicker of an eyelid.

Sniff! sniff! The house began to be invaded by the most pestilential
odour it would be possible for the most depraved imagination to
conceive. It grew stronger and stronger; it penetrated to every part of
the house; it was impossible to get away from it; and it persisted.

When we rose in the morning, Calaby proudly exhibited a dead skunk.

Next evening, when the time came for fastening up the hens and chicks,
one of them could not be found. Eventually we discovered her ensconced
behind the stove in the outer kitchen, the door of which had evidently
been left open. She was, of course, driven away to her coop. Next night
the same hen was missing, and it was only after a prolonged search that
we found her safe in the henhouse. Clearly the smell of the skunk was
abhorrent to her!

A few nights later Maggie and I were just winding up the labours of the
day when Maggie literally took my breath away by the vehemence with
which she flung open the house-door and dashed out, crying, "There's
something at my chickens! It's skunks! It's skunks!"

Before I was able to join her with a lighted candle she was waging
warfare upon the dreaded enemy, beating at them with her apron. I
expected every instant to see her covered with the nauseous fluid that
the skunk ejects when angered. There were two of the creatures, and
although I saw one slipping away into the darkness as I stepped out of
doors, the other clung to one of the coops, and despite Maggie's excited
cries and her frantic attempts to scare it away, refused to budge. It
had contrived somehow to insert a foot underneath the bottom edge of the
coop, and with its sharp claws had dragged one poor hapless chick away
from the shelter of its mother's wing. As I approached, the beast at
last relinquished its prey and slunk off after its mate. I suppose it
fled before my lighted candle.

Skunks were not the only enemy that Maggie feared for her chicks. Daily
she went in trepidation for their lives, for hawks abounded in the
vicinity, and almost every day, and often several times in the day, we
heard their harsh challenges. It was not until Calaby had scourged them
severely, and cut down a half-charred, decapitated tree which they were
fond of using as an outlook tower, that we were free from their
persistent menacings.

Later, after we had removed to the second ranch, we had experience of
the boldness of these hawks. One evening, when we were all sitting on
the verandah laughing and talking, something on wings flew past us, not
more than ten feet distant, and on a level with our eyes. It was a hawk
with a big young chicken in its talons. I leapt to my feet and gave
chase, and was fortunate enough to come up with the feathered highwayman
just as he was preparing to tear his prey to pieces. A lucky fling with
a stone over a clump of intervening bushes so startled him that he took
flight, leaving the chicken behind him. I picked up the fluttering
creature, and though its skin was badly torn under its leg, it
recovered, and lived to grow up into a profitable pullet.

Up on the bench-land at Bonnington there was yet a third animal which,
we were given to understand, had a _penchant_ for tiny chickens. This
was the gopher, a species of marmot, a creature whose external
appearance combines the familiar features of the rabbit and the rat.
Fortunately, the gophers remained up on the bench-land, and never came
down as far as our poultry yard. In fact, as we broke up the ground on
the bench, and destroyed their burrows, they gradually disappeared.

After the gophers disappeared, we were visited by another somewhat
similar animal, which also lived in a burrow in the ground. This was the
chipmunk, or ground squirrel. A pretty little creature, the nimblest
animal I ever saw. To see the chipmunks running along the tops of the
fences, stopping suddenly, tilting backwards on their haunches, and
patting their mouth with their forepaws, first one side and then the
other, with almost incredible quickness, was indescribably funny. We all
thought them charming little animals, until we discovered they had a
certain habit. This was to run all over the plum and pear trees and
nibble tiny chunks first out of one fruit, then out of another. Had they
stuck to one and the same fruit, their very daintiness and their
playful ways would have earned them forgiveness. But to flit from fruit
to fruit, and from tree to tree, sipping the honey of plum and pear,
spoiling, not consuming--that was more than the selfish heart of a
fruit-grower could tolerate or forgive.

Bird life was very abundant all the summer at Bonnington. Most of the
species were birds of passage. One of the prettiest was the Blue Bird,
about the size of a robin. Indeed, it is sometimes called the Blue
Robin. Its note is very sweet and liquid, and has been happily described
as the "violet of sound." The bird is a favourite all over the American
continent. Lowell, the poet, sings of

  "The blue bird, shifting his light load of song
  From post to post along the cheerless fence."

On another occasion I saw a single specimen of a remarkably handsome
species. Despite a merely fugitive glance, I was able to see that the
bird wore a most gay and brilliant apparel, the predominating tints
being orange, scarlet, and glossy black. I suppose this was the American
Oriole, better known as the Baltimore Bird.

Woodpeckers, too, were plentiful in the woods; and in the winter the
landscape, generally so still and serene, is wont to be enlivened by the
flittings to and fro of flocks of snow-buntings, and by the plaintive
"cheep, cheep," of the solitary "chickadee," both being about the same
size as the ordinary English sparrow, which they resemble in plumage.
Another conspicuous visitant, especially in the fall (autumn), though it
is by no means plentiful in point of numbers, is the blue jay. In the
popular imagination this is a sacred bird, and we were informed that
the killing of it is forbidden by law. We failed to see any reason for
killing it; it does no damage, so far as our observation goes. Its worst
offence appears to be that it sometimes pilfers from the elderberry
bushes when the berries are ripe.

[Illustration: AN ORCHARD SCENE, WEST ARM OF KOOTENAY LAKE:

Nelson in the distance.]

Tiny humming birds, with bright vermilion throats, hover on tireless
wings above the blossoms of apple, pear, plum, and cherry during May,
and later sip honey from the nectar cups of gladioli, sweet peas, and
other fragrant flowers.

The principal game bird, though we did not find its numbers at all
inconvenient, is called the grouse. This is by no means a shy or timid
bird. It clings to cover until you almost tread on it, and even when it
does "flush," it will settle again a very few feet away. On one occasion
I "put up" the same bird three times within the space of twenty-five
yards and less than two minutes of time.

Slocan Junction, which is within a mile and a half of Bonnington Falls,
boasts of one of the most famous fishing pools in the interior of
British Columbia. The Canadian Pacific Railway have recently built there
a "fishing chalet" for the accommodation of sportsmen, and although
passenger trains do not run in that direction on a Sunday, provision is
made to convey devotees of the rod out and back on the usual Sunday
freight train.

Lawrie, our gardener, is an enthusiastic fisherman, and he is as skilful
with the reel as he is enthusiastic, having fished in the Tweed when a
boy. Every evening, as soon as his day's work was done, barely giving
himself time to swallow a bite of food, off he went to prey upon the
unwary trout in the deep, swift, tumultuous Kootenay river, which danced
past his house not fifty yards distant. And there he would remain until
darkness of the summer night made it impossible for him to see. He
hardly ever came home empty-handed.

Now, Lawrie's prowess excited Leslie's slumbering ambition. He, too,
wanted to be a fisherman, and "catch mother a trout for supper." He
tried his 'prentice hand with a makeshift rod, and caught a few small
fish occasionally. His mother, sceptical as to his ability, declared she
would give him a dollar for the first big fish he brought home with him.
A new rod was bought for him, and down he went in Lawrie's wake. Ere
many minutes we heard him afar off, returning in a state of
uncontrollable excitement and triumph, carrying a big rainbow trout. It
turned the scale at close upon 3 lbs.

But Leslie's success as a fisherman was not unique: his mother's matched
it. _Her_ triumph was won in the wider, deeper waters of Kootenay Lake.
One evening a friend, Mrs. S----, called and begged Maggie to accompany
her and Mr. S---- for a row on the lake. As it happened, Mrs. S---- had
a line out, with a minnow at the end, trailing behind the boat. Maggie
related Leslie's adventure, and concluded her narrative with a remark on
how much she herself would like to catch a fish. Mrs. S---- put the line
into her visitor's fingers. Her visitor's fingers closed upon it, and
her visitor went on talking. Suddenly she forgot the thread of her
discourse, and cried excitedly, "Oh! there's something on the hook!" and
before she could recover her presence of mind, Mrs. S---- was helping
her to draw a monster to the surface. It, too, was a trout, how big it
beseemeth me not to say.

Here I may remark that the lakes and rivers of the Kootenays are well
stocked with various kinds of trout, as well as with char. The king of
the Kootenay fish is the rainbow trout, a game fellow, who grows to a
weight of sixteen pounds, if not more, and furnishes many an hour's keen
delight.

Wild duck and teal swarm on the Kootenay Lake at certain seasons, and
throng the marshy ground at the southern end.

Deer are fairly common in the mountains. In fact, they prove themselves
at times a nuisance to the rancher, for they leap his fences, even
though as much as eight feet in height, and nibble the sprouting foliage
of his fruit trees early in spring.




  CHAPTER XI.

  Our New Ranch.


The new ranch is three miles east of Nelson, on the south shore of the
west arm of Kootenay Lake. It occupies a flat, blunted tongue of land
that slopes gently from the mountain foot and projects into the lake. In
other words, the lake sweeps round it in a semi-circle. Lake Kootenay is
throughout a beautiful sheet of water, and this place, to which we have
given the name of Welland Ranch, is one of the most beautiful anywhere
on the lake. A clump of tall cottonwood and other trees bathe their feet
in the cold, crystal waters on one side of us, while the ground between
the margin of the lake and the mountain behind the house is covered with
our orchard, or rather orchards, because we are cut in two by the
railway from Nelson, which skirts the southern shore of the west arm all
the way to its exit from the main lake at Procter. Opposite our ranch
the west arm is about a mile wide, so that we are able to command a fair
view of the fruit ranches on the opposite shore. They, too, are backed
by mountains, rising 2,000 to 3,000 feet above the level of the lake,
which itself lies 1,760 feet above sea-level. The mountains on both
sides have rounded outlines, but are scarred and weather-worn, although
the surface is softened by the trailing garlands of dark pines which
grow in the hollows and along the watercourses. It is a never-ending
pleasure to watch the transformations of light and colour on these
mountain sides--the mottling shadows of the scurrying clouds, the
clinging scarves and veils of fleecy mist, the purple glow of evening,
the splashes of vivid sunset flying over the snow-capped mountain
crests, the gloom of the coming snowstorm, the vivid sharpness of the
frost, the limpid purity of early summer dawn. Of all her various moods,
I think I admire the lake most when she lays all her caprices and
coquetries aside and just rests. At such times--and the loveliest hour
is at daybreak on a midsummer morning or towards the close of a warm,
bright day in autumn--every feature of the rocky mountains around, every
tree, almost every twig, is etched on the glassy surface with such keen
and minute sharpness that it is not always easy to tell at the first
glance where the lake ends and the dry land begins.

The house is large and rambling. The original building has been added to
at various times, and there are evidences of the internal arrangements
having been materially modified. For some time it was used as a
lake-side summer hotel, to which the people of Nelson resorted,
especially on Sundays, for snug little dinners. Notwithstanding the
close proximity of the mountains, the outlook from the windows is always
cheerful. We stand sufficiently high above the lake to see everything
that passes to and fro on its waters. All summer it is alive with
pleasure boats and launches, and even in winter three steamboats ply up
and down the lake every day. Now and then we have opportunity to watch
a big boom of cut logs floating on their way to the saw-mills at Nelson.
Barges, laden with mineral ores or cordwood, sawn timber or general
stores, pass frequently, pushed, not pulled, by fussy little tugs with
stern-wheel paddles. Occasionally we catch a glimpse of a canoe, our
admiration excited by the swift, short strokes of the Indians and their
rapid swing of the paddles from side to side, generally after every two,
three, or four strokes. And when there are two or three Indians in one
canoe, it is wonderful how cleverly they keep time with their leader,
both in paddling and in changing over.

In the spring and early in summer the lake is often thickly strewn with
floating lumber, branches, tree-trunks, and all sorts of _disjecta
membra_ of the woods and watercourses. These are washed down by the
freshets which flow out of the rapidly-melting snows, and are eagerly
sought after for firewood by people dwelling on the lake side. Men even
go out in boats "log-hunting." In the course of a few days a man is
sometimes able to tow to land sufficient wood to serve him for firing
for the whole year. For some time there lay on our foreshore a forest
giant running to 150 feet in length and nearly three feet in thickness
at the butt. It took a man nearly a fortnight to saw it up and split it
into quarters.

A broad garden path, shaded by half a score of rose arches, runs down
from the front of the house to the edge of the lake, a distance of
little more than 100 yards. The path is flanked by broad flower borders,
behind which stand on the one side a triple row of cherry trees, and on
the other a double row of Italian prunes. The walk ends at an
exceptionally lofty cottonwood tree, the topmost branches of which have
been broken off in some storm. It only wants that melancholy sombre
fowl, the raven, to come and perch on the topmost broken branch to
complete the sense of weirdness and some unholy curse which the sight of
it suggests, especially when a tempest howls about its gaunt and
stiffened limbs.

Behind the cherry trees are the greenhouses, standing in a broad
excavation, hewn, or rather blasted, out of the sloping surface. The
only level ground on the whole of the ranch was too near the edge of the
lake for us to use it as a site for the greenhouses. The stoke-hole of
the furnace would have had to be put down below the water level, and
when the lake rises, as it does, ten, and sometimes fifteen, feet at
high water in July, the furnace would almost certainly have been
standing in water. Consequently, we were forced to excavate the site for
the houses. As fate would have it, we made an unfortunate choice of a
locality, for we chanced to stumble into the middle of a stone slide,
which was, in fact, as it turned out, little better than a veritable
stone quarry. Towards the upper end we had to blast out almost every
foot of the ground. We shifted tons upon tons of stone, hauling them
with the horses down to the boulder-strewn margin of the lake. The
excavation of the site for the greenhouses occupied five men for nine
weeks. We were, of course, prevented from beginning the work of
construction until the whole of the site was excavated and levelled, for
fear that the blasting would shatter the glass, or even smash the spars
and rafters. The houses were built and glazed throughout by two young
men named Arthur and William, the former an Englishman, the latter a
Canadian from Manitoba. The winter was, on the whole, so mild and open
that, despite the heavy snowfall, they were able to continue the work
almost without interruption all the season.

As the work drew towards a finish, the constructors took it into their
heads that they would like to climb the mountain on the opposite side of
the lake, so that they "might see what the country was like at the top."
It was still buried deep in snow, as was abundantly evident from below.
An experienced mountain guide whom the two adventurers consulted in
Nelson warned them that they would be taking great risks if they
attempted to climb the mountain at that season. Nevertheless, they
determined to undertake the adventure. Then every night for more than a
week before they were to make a start they were out on the snows
practising snowshoeing by moonlight. I can see them still, flitting,
early one morning, before it was fully light, down the front pathway
leading to the lake, each with a heavy knapsack on his back. Halfway
across the lake they vanished in the gloom of the morning.

[Illustration: ON THE TOP OF THE KOOTENAY MOUNTAINS IN WINTER.]

[Illustration: WILLIAM AND ARTHUR,

Just Returned from their Mountain Climb.]

Before setting off they arranged with us that they would burn a red
flare every night to let us know that they were all right, and that they
did not intend to return the following day. The first night we saw the
signal light quite easily, and so, too, on the second night. A few
minutes after the red flare had died down, I was called to the telephone
by one of the boatmen of Nelson.

"Hello! Is that you, Mr. Bealby?"

"Yes."

"This is [So-and-so]. I say, do you know anything about those red lights
on the top of the mountain opposite you? Baker Street is full of people.
They are wondering if anybody is hurt up there."

"It's only two of my young men," I answered, "gone up to have a look at
your country."

"Is that all? Then it's all right?"

"Yes: perfectly right. The signal you see means that--that things _are_
all right."

It appeared from the newspaper next day that Nelson had been quite
excited about the mysterious signals on the top of the mountain. It was
feared that somebody had met with a serious accident, and was signalling
for assistance. And so much did this idea gain ground that one of the
doctors was actually organising a rescue party.

One of these young men, William, built me a model poultry house. It is
about twelve feet square, double-boarded all over--sides, floor, and
roof--with a layer of tarred paper between the two skins of planking.
The floor is elevated three feet from the ground for a distance of about
four feet back from the front of the house. Then it rises vertically ten
inches, and then slopes at a gentle incline up to the back wall. The
perches are arranged over this sloping part, and every perch is movable,
being held in its place by a socket into which it drops at each end.
Ventilators are made to slide backwards and forwards near the top of the
back wall, and two big windows are fixed to open on hinges in the upper
part of the front wall. The under part of the house, fenced in by wire
netting across the front, thus affords a dry run and scratching-place
for the poultry during the snowy weeks of winter. A sliding door in the
vertical part of the floor and a ladder enable the fowls to go from the
upper to the lower storey, and at night it is only necessary to close
the sliding door, and they are perfectly safe from every kind of vermin
or other enemy. Two doors in the end of the house give access, one to
the run underneath, the other by steps to the upper storey. Room is
found for the nests at the end opposite to the upper door and between
the windows.

I have said that the dwelling-house is connected with Nelson by a waggon
road. The last half-mile of this at our end is at present a true
mountain road; that is to say, it runs up and down, and has several
steep gradients, while the watercourses, being unconfined, have in many
places worn the stones bare, so that they stick up like big knuckles, or
the joint-bones of a skeleton of rock. All this proved very trying to
our vehicles during the first winter. Before the snow came we used a
light waggon; after it came, we made use of sleighs, one a big, heavy
thing requiring both horses to haul it, the other a light box, drawn by
one horse. Altogether, during that winter we had no fewer than nine
breakages with these vehicles. Even the light "delivery sleigh," which I
bought new, broke on two successive journeys. As soon as the snow had
disappeared, I was able to induce the Provincial Government Agent to
improve the road a little by filling in the worst hollows and cutting
back the track in places where it had a dangerous outward slope. This
road is, however, to be very much further improved.

That winter was on the whole mild. Snow fell in quantity on Christmas
Eve, and remained on the ground until just after the middle of March,
when the permanent thaw set in. The snow all disappeared off the ranch
in less than a week, though it was, of course, considerably longer in
melting off the mountains. It is this gradual melting of the snow from
the lake-level upwards that ensures natural irrigation to the orchards
all through the spring and early summer. The water trickles down
underneath the surface, and the roots of the fruit trees suck it up as
it "seeps" past them. For this reason a sloping orchard is to be
preferred to one planted on the flat--at all events, in non-irrigated
districts such as the Kootenays.

Soon after the snow begins to melt in earnest, every watercourse that
seams the mountain-sides swells rapidly into a roaring torrent. At such
times even a meek and innocent rill is apt to grow obstreperous and
refractory. Of this a striking example came under my immediate notice in
a somewhat unpleasant way in the spring after we settled in our new
ranch.

One Sunday morning the section foreman--that is to say, the foreman
platelayer for the section of railway line running through our
ranch--came into the yard to tell me that the stream which tumbles down
the mountain at the back of the house and supplies us with water for
domestic purposes, was breaking bounds, and invading a choice piece of
garden ground on the lower side of the railway track. The culvert which
should conduct it under the roadway that leads into our yard was too
small to take the water away fast enough, and the torrent was racing
out of its stone-littered bed and threatening havoc on my property. The
section foreman and his assistants set to work to break open the culvert
and to widen it. Meanwhile some of his men and I sought to divert the
escaping water on the upper side of the culvert in another direction,
parallel to and alongside the railway track. And lo! there we were
digging and delving all the morning. Our diversion effectually saved my
land from being flooded; but the escaping water, having travelled some
fifty yards down the line, began insidiously to eat its way through the
soft, sandy embankment, and before we were aware of it, it had made a
hole in the railway big enough to drive a waggon through. However, a
speedy re-diversion of the current soon stopped all further mischief in
that direction.

The frost was not really severe until after Christmas. The general run
was 10 deg. to 20 deg. of frost during the night, with a day temperature
ranging from 20 deg. to over freezing-point. On one night only did the
thermometer drop below zero, and then it registered only -3 deg., while
on another occasion it touched zero. These nights were not successive.
We did not feel the cold at all unpleasant except on two occasions, when
an icy wind blew out of the north. The house is partly heated with hot
water, and in addition we possess what is the envy of almost everybody
who sees it--a large open fireplace of stone, on which we burn wood and
coke together. The hot water is conveyed through the house in iron
pipes, and is concentrated in each room into coils of pipes or
radiators. Attached to the dwelling when we moved into it was a small
greenhouse heated by hot water. The furnace which heats the water was
built in a cellar underneath the dwelling-house; as it had a good
reserve of heating power, I decided to use that reserve for heating the
house itself, and hence the radiators.




  CHAPTER XII.

  In Cherry and Berry Time.


One of the most wonderful sights in a British Columbian orchard, and
more especially a Kootenay orchard, is the cherry-trees when laden with
their snow-white blossoms. Every branch, from its divergence from a
large limb or the main trunk, right away to the outermost twig, is
thickly feathered with clusters of blossom, and tufts of bloom cling
even to the main trunk and large limbs. This is true of every variety of
cherry alike, sour as well as sweet.

The crops are, as a rule, enormously heavy--so much so that the
trees--and this applies to apples, pears, and plums, as well as to
cherries--have to be well supported with props to prevent them from
breaking down under the loads they carry, and even then it is no unusual
thing for one or more branches to split off before the fruit can be
gathered. There is, however, a way of guarding against this. Screw-eyes,
with long shanks, and the threads of the screws deeply cut, are put into
the branches it is desired to hold together, and then stout wire is
stretched half a dozen times across from the one eye to the other. The
screw-eyes should, if possible, be made of galvanised iron, to prevent
them from rusting in the tree, and so injuring it. The Kootenays are
famous for their cherries, as they are for strawberries and apples;
while the Okanagan is regarded as the country of the peach, the tomato,
and the apple. The varieties of the cherry principally grown in the
former district are Governor Wood, Black Tartarian, Royal Anne, and
Early Richmond. The first three are sufficiently well known in England
to need no remarks. The Governor Wood is grown because it ripens early.
The Royal Anne, which is a synonym for the Napoleon Bigarreau, is the
prime favourite on the Prairies, and in the Kootenays grows to a
remarkable size. The Early Richmond is in great demand for preserving in
syrup, a form of keeping fruit for winter use extensively employed by
Canadian housewives. Certainly a dish of preserved cherries, eaten along
with some preparation of rice, is delicious in the early spring.

I am given to understand that the best cherries to grow commercially are
the Bing and the Lambert. Both are big, dark-coloured fruits, which,
having firm skins, travel well for long distances, and always command
good prices. When packing cherries in the way that I shall describe
presently, it is easier, more economical, and quicker to pack large
fruit than small fruit, and the superior attractiveness of the larger
and finer fruit is self-evident. Hence, if one were planting a cherry
orchard from the beginning, it would probably be a judicious plan to
select the Bing, the Lambert, the Royal Anne, and the Early Richmond.
There is something to be said for Governor Wood on the score of its
early ripening; but, as a fruit, it is distinctly inferior to the
varieties I have named. The Black Tartarian is superfluous when you
have Bing or Lambert, or both.

Although the cherry is a heavy and certain bearer every year, and
although the fruit commands a ready market and a good price, there is a
considerable amount of labour and expense connected with the gathering
and packing of the crop.

The picking is necessarily slow work when the individual fruits are so
small, and hang on the trees in such vast quantities as Kootenay
cherries do. But there is another circumstance which makes the gathering
of the cherry a still more onerous task. It is that the individual
cherries do not all ripen simultaneously. Of three cherries on a bunch,
two will be ripe and well-coloured, the third still immature. A careful
fruit-grower has therefore no alternative but to pick his cherry trees
over two or three times. By this means he preserves a good sample, and
thus secures a better price; but the labour, and consequently the
expense, of gathering are enhanced. Even then, when the pickers select
only the fully mature cherries to come off the trees, two men are able
to keep fairly well ahead of half a dozen packers.

By this time our force of hands had been augmented by half a dozen more.
Early in April our two elder girls, whom we had left behind in England
to finish their schooling, came out to join us, accompanied by Mr.
Braine, brother of some Finchley friends. The cherries and the berries
gave their unemployed fingers something to do.

[Illustration: CHERRY TREES IN BLOOM ON WELLAND RANCH, WEST ARM OF
KOOTENAY LAKE.]

Cherries are packed into little square cardboard boxes called cartons,
which have a narrow margin or flange all round the top, but no lid.
Underneath, two flaps are folded together and held fast by a tongue in
the one inserted through a slit in the other. To pack the carton, it is
held face downwards on a small flat slab of wood, and the cherries are
placed in one by one, care being taken that no stalks show below the
cherries. The fruits are arranged in perfectly regular rows both ways
across the carton, until the bottom (eventually to be the top) layer is
completed. The first row finished, many packers drop the cherries in by
little handfuls until the carton is full. It is better to pack each
layer to the top in the same way as the first. This ensures a level face
and fills the carton even in the corners, which otherwise are apt to
show hollow spaces. When the carton is full, the flaps are folded over,
and the tongue is inserted into the slit. The carton is then carefully
turned over, the flat slab of board being preserved in close contact
with the face of the carton--otherwise the cherries will fall out.

It is very important, not merely as a question of commercial honesty,
but to prevent the fruit from shaking about and becoming bruised in
transit, that the cartons should be quite full, so as to have no room to
shake.

Eight of these cartons fit exactly into a small, shallow wooden box, and
after facing them with clean, white paper, the lid is put on and nailed
down, the box properly labelled, and it is then ready for market. Some
packers nail the lid on the box first, place the cartons in it, fill
them, fasten them up, and then nail on the bottom of the box. It is a
quicker method, but allows no opportunity to examine the faces of the
cartons after they are packed.

In our case the cherries gathered every day were all packed up and boxed
by ten o'clock, or, at the latest, by eleven o'clock, at night. The
boxes were placed outside the house, under cover, but in the open air,
on a side where the rays of the rising sun were unable to reach them, so
that by the morning they were always cool and ready to travel to any
distance. Very many Kootenay cherries go as far as Winnipeg, 1,100 miles
by rail from Nelson; consignments have travelled from Nelson to
Montreal, a distance of over 2,500 miles, and arrived in perfect
condition. We put our boxes on board the outgoing boat at four o'clock
in the morning, the boat coming inshore immediately opposite to the
house and picking up the fruit from a floating raft moored to a tree
stump.

In the same way we shipped out our strawberries and small fruits, such
as raspberries, black and red currants, gooseberries, and blackberries.
All these fruits are packed, not in cartons, but in small square chip
boxes, without lids, each holding one pound of fruit, and
four-and-twenty of them going into a wooden box divided vertically
across the middle, so that there are on each side of the partition one
dozen chip boxes, known variously as punnets, fillers, cups, and
hallets. These also are arranged in two tiers, six above six, thin spars
of light wood being used to keep the upper punnets from squeezing or
pressing upon the fruit contained in the lower punnets. Sour or
preserving cherries go to market in the same way.

The spirit of malicious sportiveness which has dogged so many of our
proceedings in the country of our adoption lay in wait for us again in
this new work. The first morning that we had fruit to ship
out--strawberries and cherries--I myself accompanied Calaby to the
float, to make sure that everything should go off satisfactorily. And it
did! We signalled the steamer by waving a white flag until she blew a
toot of her siren in response. Then we stood patiently waiting beside
our boxes, a goodly dozen of them in all. Up came the colossus towering
high above us. I turned my head to point to the end of a big log that
was half submerged in the water immediately in the line of the steamer's
bow. At that instant the end of the heavy landing bridge was dropped on
to the middle of our float. There was an ominous crack, and the next
moment I was up to my knees in water, and several of our fruit boxes
were floating half-submerged in the lake. The heavy landing bridge had
broken through the middle of our float, leaving us without a platform to
stand on.

The eventual loss was not so great as might perhaps have been expected.
We unpacked our boxes, spread the fruit out thin on newspapers on the
verandah to dry, and in the course of a few hours we were able to repack
it. I sold it frankly for what it was, and made very nearly the full
price of it all, except one crate of cherries.

The gathering of the strawberries, although requiring a proportionately
large number of fingers, is not so onerous or so slow an operation as
the picking of cherries. I ought to have said that some growers use for
the latter purpose a small tin receptacle like a pint mug, with a pair
of flexible scissor-like clippers at the top; but my pickers, after
giving these mechanical tools a trial, unanimously preferred the old
well-tried instruments of thumb and finger.

To return to the strawberries. There are various methods of gathering
this fruit, the method employed being determined principally by the
acreage and the amount to be picked. In some localities the Indians are
employed as pickers, just as they are employed to pick hops, for
example, on Lord Aberdeen's Coldstream estate at Vernon in the Okanagan
Valley. When the berries are picked by Indians, they are all taken into
the packing-house, turned out on tables, graded, and packed there. Where
the crop is smaller, and the pickers are more under control and capable
of exercising better judgment, it is usual to pick the berries straight
into the punnets or chip boxes, the punnets being filled three-parts
full. These are then collected and taken into the packing-room, where
they are filled up with other berries, neatly arranged in regular order,
so as to give the punnet a more attractive appearance for selling. If a
grower has a proper regard for his fruit, and desires to have it arrive
in good condition, he will not gather it during the heat of the day, but
will discontinue picking between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. Even then, it is
still necessary that the strawberries should have time to cool down
before being shipped out. If they are shipped warm they will not travel
well, especially if they are the softer varieties. The harder varieties,
if properly cooled, placed in cold storage, and put into an iced
refrigerator car on the train, will keep perfectly sound for four or
even five days, sufficiently long to allow of their performing a journey
of over 1,000 miles. In fact, one of the chief markets for Kootenay
strawberries is Winnipeg, which, as I have already stated, is 1,100
miles from Nelson. In 1908 a consignment of Kootenay strawberries,
after being properly cooled, were shipped a distance of no less than
3,000 miles, and arrived in good condition.

[Illustration: A KOOTENAY LAKE STEAMBOAT.]

Twenty-four berry punnets are packed into a crate, in the same manner as
raspberries and currants. These crates sell for prices ranging, under
ordinary circumstances, from $2 (8s.) up to $3.50 (14s.) wholesale. The
total cost of production and selling has been estimated at $1.25 (5s.)
per crate, so that, the heavy yield being borne in mind, there is a
sufficient profit. The average gross yield per acre is put generally at
$500 (100), and several growers have asserted that their strawberry
crop has produced double that amount. The division between cost of
production and net profit would be 40 per cent. and 60 per cent.
respectively. It is important to remember that this crop does not cover
the whole of the ground; the strawberry plants occupy the ground between
the young fruit trees during the four or five years that these are
growing up to the bearing stage.

Strawberries are the fruit that the Kootenay fruit growers rely upon
principally to earn them an income during the early years of their
orchard. The fruit, when well marketed, does indeed bring in a
satisfactory return. But it can only be marketed on the co-operative
system; and unless a district is thoroughly well organised and
efficiently managed, there is apt to be loss and consequently
disappointment in the marketing of the fruit. I am alluding to the
smaller growers, who do not produce sufficient berries to be able
individually to ship out a carload at once. For the carload is the unit
of shipment, especially if the car is to be iced. It is, of course,
unwise not to have it full, for the freight cost will be the same
whether the car is wholly or only partly filled.

I cannot help thinking that, all things considered, it is a mistake to
rely exclusively upon such a perishable commodity as strawberries to
tide the fruit rancher over the early years. Potatoes, for instance, are
nothing like so precarious a crop, and not only can they be dug under
less insistent pressure than strawberries can be gathered, but also
there is a certain amount of latitude and choice in the time at which
they may be sold. At Bonnington, on ground that was simply dug,
practically used in a state of nature, we obtained a yield of three tons
per acre. Had the land been properly worked and properly manured, and
had the potatoes been planted a month earlier than we were able to get
them in, the crop would have been at least 50 per cent. heavier. Say,
then, the yield is 4 tons per acre, which is equal, in Canadian measure
(1 ton--2,000lbs.), to 9,000lbs., or ninety 100lb. bags. Take the
selling price of these at $1.25 per bag, and we get a yield per acre of
$112.50 (22 10s.). This figure might very easily run up to $135 (27)
per acre. In the spring of 1909 potatoes were selling at $3 per bag.
This, on the low basis of yield assumed above, would have yielded $270
(52). The cost of production of an acre of potatoes is, of course, very
much less than the cost of production of an acre of strawberries.

If the fruit rancher prefers to pin his faith to strawberries, the
question of varieties becomes a matter of paramount importance. If the
berries are to travel 1,000 miles, it is imperative that they should
have firm skins, so as not to bruise. Numerous varieties have been
experimented with; but only two appear to answer the requirements of the
case. These are the Magoon and the Clark's Seedling. The Hood River
fruit growers in the State of Oregon, who stand in the very forefront as
scientific producers of fruit, grow nothing but Clark's Seedling. The
British Columbia growers, including, of course, those of the Kootenays,
are recommended to plant the Magoon. I have had experience of both, and
I see very little difference between them. If there is any difference it
probably lies in this, that at the shipping stage--they are picked
before getting dead ripe--the Clark's Seedling is probably a little the
more attractive in appearance. Still, that is only an individual
opinion, and it may be a minority opinion. At all events, it is
conclusively established that one or the other of these two varieties is
what the beginner in fruit ranching in British Columbia must select for
planting.

The mention of Hood River suggests the pre-eminent success with which
the fruit growers in that region have co-operated for the purposes of
their profession. By exercising an inflexible discipline, they have
established a reputation for absolutely perfect fruit--absolutely
perfect crates of strawberries and absolutely perfect boxes of apples.
In consequence of this, they are able to secure the very best prices in
the market for both kinds of fruit, prices which are always ahead of the
average market prices. What Hood River has done, surely other districts
should be able to do! In point of fact, notwithstanding the unfortunate
results which have attended the endeavours of certain fruit-growing
districts in British Columbia to follow in the footsteps of Hood River,
complete success _has_ been achieved by other districts in that same
province. The Victoria Fruit Growers' Association, for instance, did not
lose one single cent through their sales of strawberries in the season
of 1908.




  CHAPTER XIII.

  The Fire Fiend.


One of the most valuable assets which the province of British Columbia
possesses is her extensive forests. The Provincial Government is fully
alive to the importance of this asset, and has taken legislative and
other means to preserve the live timber. Fire wardens are appointed for
each district, and settlers and others who cause forest fires are
heavily fined. In spite of these precautions, there is a woeful waste of
good timber every year. A spark from a passing locomotive, the ashes
from a half-smoked pipe, or any similar cause, is enough to start a
fire, especially when woods and scrub and fallen leaves are all parched
by the sun. Once started, a fire may smoulder for days, its presence
hardly suspected, owing to the fact that it spreads by means of a
species of dried-up moss, which forms a carpet immediately underneath
the surface. It is this moss which smoulders, breaking out every now and
then into little tongues of flame, to which nobody as a rule pays heed.
Nevertheless, these little tongues of flame may be instrumental in
causing thousands of dollars' loss.

In the height of the summer of 1908 the prosperous mining town of
Fernie, in the Crows' Nest Pass, was almost entirely destroyed. Those
tiny fires were known to be lurking in the forests on three sides of the
town; but they were so insignificant that nobody paid attention to
them. Suddenly a high wind sprang up and swept through the pass, and
instantly the whole of the town of Fernie was enveloped in flames. The
houses, being built, as the great majority of Canadian houses are, of
wood, licked up the flames, crackled, collapsed, and sank into ashes.
Several lives were lost, a great amount of property was destroyed, and
much suffering was inflicted upon the survivors before they were able to
get themselves comfortably housed again.

To read of a disastrous conflagration like this at Fernie, two hundred
miles though it may be distant from you, is distressing enough. But when
the danger appears at your own back door, you realise what it means with
very much greater vividness. Within less than a fortnight after the
Fernie outbreak we did have the danger appear quite close to Welland
Ranch, and that in three separate places. Two were on our own property.
The third, a far more serious affair, was not more than two miles
distant.

One night, when Calaby had gone into Nelson with the waggon and team
after tea, he had not returned at considerably over an hour beyond his
usual time. Only a week or two before, while he had been hauling a load
of earth for the greenhouses over a steep ridge which strikes across the
road, the waggon, when half-way up the ridge, had suddenly begun to run
backwards, and before the teamster was able to prevent it, it had
slipped off the road, down the embankment, and turned right over on its
side. Luckily, Calaby had the horses well under control, and was able to
prevent them from following the waggon. With this incident in her mind,
and also the breakages of the winter before, Maggie naturally grew
anxious when the waggon was so long behind its usual time for returning.
At length she could restrain her nervous anxiety no longer. She rose and
went out of the back door into the yard, whence she would be able to
command a view of the road for a short distance.

After the lapse of half a minute she was back again, crying in excited
tones:--

"John! John! Oh, do come! There's such a blaze just outside the gate!"

I could not conceive what there was in the spot indicated that was
capable of going into a blaze. All the same, I ran out as quickly as I
could. It might be the wooden fence that was on fire. It might even be
the stable.

As soon as I reached the gate, I saw, only ten or twelve feet from it, a
big stack of ties, or railway sleepers, blazing away with long tongues
of licking fire, and the wind was blowing them and the sparks which
rained off them in showers directly towards the roof of the stable.
There was not a moment to lose. Running back a few yards, I caught at a
prop which held up a branch of the nearest cherry tree, and with it I
attempted to lever down the topmost of the burning ties. The prop broke
off short in my hand. Still, enough remained, and I stuck to the work.
Very soon I was receiving valuable assistance from Lawrie, who had
somewhere found a long stout piece of iron, which he used very
effectively as a lever. Nor were the other men of the place at all
backward. Our first efforts were directed to saving a big telegraph post
belonging to the railway, for the ties were stacked up, almost touching
it. A few minutes' frantic pushing and pulling and levering enabled us
to throw the worst of the ties apart. The telegraph pole was saved; but
our stable was still in jeopardy from the sparks.

Meanwhile Maggie, Frances, Dorothy, Leslie, and Olive were carrying
buckets of water, and pouring them on the ties as we pulled them apart.
In the midst of the confusion Mrs. Lawrie was so upset by the occurrence
that she fainted away, and one member of our scanty forces had to be
withdrawn to attend to her and bring her back to consciousness. As soon
as the ties were pulled apart and lay scattered singly over the roadway,
we all took our turns at the buckets, and it was not long before we had
the fire completely extinguished. The cause of the pile igniting was no
doubt a spark from a train which had passed about half an hour before.

The next alarm of this nature that we had was neither so imminent nor so
menacing; but, on the other hand, it was a good deal more obstinate and
difficult to subdue. It occurred the very next night after we put out
the blazing stack of railway ties.

[Illustration: FRUIT RANCH, WEST ARM OF KOOTENAY LAKE.

Young Strawberry Plants in Foreground.]

Calaby, in the course of a week's relief from other work, had begun to
clear a piece of new ground beside the upper orchard. He cut down the
scrub--big trees there were none--and piled it into heaps, and, having
added to these the stumps and roots which he grubbed up, proceeded to
set fire to the stacks of rubbish. These burned for two days, and then
the fires died out, or appeared to do so. To make sure, I myself went
along one evening, and came back satisfied that there was no danger from
that quarter. Imagine, therefore, our surprise when one night, fully a
week afterwards, the very night, as I have said, after the stack of ties
caught fire, we beheld two or three columns of smoke curling up near the
spot where the clearing had been done, and a haze of smoke hovering
amongst the trees a little higher up the mountain side. Two or three of
us hurried off to see what was amiss, and on breasting a ridge of the
road that had hitherto intervened, we saw flames dancing merrily in the
underbrush.

A hurried visit convinced us that there was no immediate danger. Some
half a dozen prostrate logs were burning in half a dozen different
places, and the entire floor of the forest appeared to be aglow, for
incandescent edges or ribbons of fire showed themselves in every
direction. But although there was, so far as we were able to judge, no
immediate danger, there was undoubtedly a risk of the fire spreading to
the upper orchard, which was not more than two hundred yards away. Once
it were permitted to get a hold there, nothing could save my fruit
trees, and these were my best trees, ten years old, and bearing fruit
every year. The fire must be checked in that direction at all costs.

We attempted to break up the fire by dragging away the loose branches
and dead sticks, by chopping through the logs and leaving the portions
that were alight to burn themselves out, while we removed the sound
pieces, and by extinguishing the burning carpet of moss. This last we
endeavoured to effect at first by stamping on it; but every stamp,
whilst it put out the incandescent glow immediately underneath our shoe
soles, only made it gleam out in four or five other places round about.
Then we tried to beat it out with sticks, and after that with hay forks.
This last method proved the most effective. By dint of labouring until
after midnight, and carrying water from the lake up and over the railway
embankment, we managed to get the fire, if not subdued, at all events
under control.

By the next morning it was blazing out afresh in two or three places. A
brief attack was all that we were able to spare to it then; other work
had to be attended to. But after dark, when the regular day's work was
done, we returned to the attack, and this time with a still greater
measure of success, though we had any amount of trouble to put out the
stubborn moss. Just where these fires were burning there were several
large boulders, and it was in the hollow spaces underneath these that
the ignited moss bade us defiance. And it was only after we had
laboriously barricaded it in with earth banked all round with stone, and
thus smothered it, that we were able to feel satisfied that we had
conquered.

Our anxieties from the risk of fire were not yet over. The very next
night following, which was pretty dark, somebody came in and told us
there was a big fire burning two miles higher up the lake. At first we
paid little heed, not realising that it was anything out of the common,
because we had grown accustomed to seeing bush fires on the opposite
side of the lake all the summer through. But by the time we were ready
for bed the aspect of the conflagration was greatly changed. It was
evident that it was no ordinary burning of scrub which we beheld, but
something much more serious.

At the spot where the fire was visible the lake makes a bend. From our
point of view it was a bend to the right. The fire was spread all over
the slope of the mountain which faced us on the far side of the bend.
Everywhere, up and down, and across and across, the face of the mountain
was streaked with long, scintillating lines of blood-red glare, with
pillars of vivid brightness here and there. In some places these columns
of fire were so close together as to convey the impression of curling
crests of a sea of fire, but a sea of fire tilted up on the distant
horizon in such a way that we could see the whole of it, hanging, as it
were, like a curtain from sky to earth. The illusion was heightened by
the dark masses of the foliage showing up like the hollows between the
breakers of flame. It was not a steady, quiet, persistent blaze; the
flames were everywhere in movement, full of darting, devouring energy,
waxing, waning, dying out, leaping up afresh, now here, now there. Had
it not first suggested the idea of a tumultuous sea of fire, it might,
perhaps, have shaped itself in the imagination into the image of a host
of flambent snakes, writhing in torture, striving to break through an
imprisoning curtain. We watched the scene with eyes of fascinated awe,
thankful that we were no nearer to it than we actually were.

For two nights and the intervening day the fire continued with the same
intensity. On the third night it was still going on, though abating. By
the fourth night it was almost impossible to discern either streak or
glow. It was practically extinct.

This conflagration originated, it was understood, from bush fires made
by a fruit rancher in the vicinity. It entailed upon him, I was
informed, a fine of $150 (30).




  CHAPTER XIV.

  Water Worries.


Half-way up the slope of the upper orchard, and not far from the foot of
the mountain, we caught our stream in a small reservoir, and thence
conveyed it in an iron pipe to the house, where it served in scullery,
kitchen, lavatory, and bathroom. It was a capricious brook, and
sometimes failed us; but had we not a steel windmill and pump standing
within a few feet only of the edge of the lake? Had we not a tank
capable of holding 7,000 gallons close to our back door? Had we not just
put underground a long pipe with connections all over the greenhouses to
carry the water from the tank by natural gravitation to the tomatoes and
other thirsty plants making haste to outgrow the hot summer sun under
the protection of glass and "burlap" blinds? And, finally, had we not
trained an elaborate system of surface pipes, with standards and taps,
across a large area of the ranch, so that we might be able to supply
water from close at hand to our chrysanthemums, dahlias, roses, and
other valuable plants?

A tempest sprang up one afternoon. We hailed it with delight. Our tank
would speedily be filled again. Alas! the windmill suddenly broke. An
important casting had snapped, and we learned (by telephone) that a new
casting could not be instantly found in Nelson.

"How long shall we have to wait for a new piece?"

"About a week."

Just then, owing to the great heat of the sun and the long drought, we
used a very large quantity of water every day. Even assuming that the
tank were full--which, as a matter of fact, was not the case--it would
have sufficed for all purposes little more than two days. How, then,
were we to obtain a sufficient supply for a whole week? To carry up
water from the lake in such quantities as we should need was not for one
moment to be thought of.

Lawrie, however, with his usual happy instinct when a difficulty
confronted us, affixed one of the long rubber hoses to a stand-pipe in
the water pipe from off the mountain, and lifting the other end over the
edge of the tank, thus compelled the stream to do the work which the
mill had suddenly refused to do. And it obeyed--it yielded--for one
night! Next day, even in the morning, when we hurried in to sniff up the
savoury odour of porridge, there was not a drop of water to be drawn off
the mountain. The mountain stream had dried up again--before the day's
work was begun. And the windmill was broken!

That day it was hotter than ever, and the next, and the next day after
that--not a pin to choose between them. Our tank was nearly empty.
Telephoning frantically to inquire if there were no news of the casting,
I was answered, "Not come yet. Know nothing about it."

And this went on for four days longer. We were forced to put our
chrysanthemums, our dahlias, our roses on short commons; then to
withhold water from them altogether. What little there was in the tank
must be husbanded for the begonias, fuchsias, and so forth under the
glass. Three or four trees of early apples were not plumping out their
fruit as they ought to do. A row of young fruit trees, planted
temporarily on the slope of the orchard until we should be able to clear
permanent abiding places for them, began to show leaves of a yellowish
hue. The state of affairs was serious. One thing was, however, sure. We
must provide water at all costs to the greenhouses. Which would it be
better to do--haul water day by day from the lake in barrels, or pump by
hand? To haul from the lake would have kept men and horses busy all day
and every day. It was not to be thought of, except as a means for the
salvation of fruit trees, chrysanthemums, dahlias, roses. We used the
pump. Four of us wrought at it for two hours one morning, and we nearly
filled the tank.

Two days later water from the stream began to come again; but even then
we were not done with trouble. Our windmill, after being repaired, ran
only a short time before it broke again, and until the rains came, some
three weeks later, the stream continued to act intermittently.

The winter of 1907-8 was comparatively mild. That of 1908-9 set in with
sharp frosts before the snow came, which was three days earlier than in
the year preceding--namely, December 22. On the night of January 4-5 the
temperature dropped between twenty and thirty degrees, and when we awoke
in the morning we found by our minimum thermometer that it had been as
low as -8 deg. Fahr. during the night. That was five degrees colder
than the coldest night in the winter of 1907-8, and two degrees colder
than had been recorded at Nelson for nine or ten years. On the following
day a fierce wind came out of the north. It penetrated at every cranny
and crevice of the house, of the greenhouses, of the stables. It
searched in underneath the foundations, and thrust its freezing breath
up through the chinks of the uncarpeted floors. It froze the milk in the
dairy, the potatoes in the scullery, the water in the buckets in the
kitchen. If water was accidentally spilled on the floor, it froze, even
though only three feet from the stove. A bucket of ice and water brought
up in the evening from the lake, and put in direct contact with a big
radiator, remained ice and water in the morning. During the night the
water froze in the kettles on the stove. The wind blew all day on
Tuesday, January 5, and all day on Wednesday, January 6, the thermometer
dropping during the two nights to -10 deg. and -13 deg. respectively.
Then the wind ceased. On Thursday night the thermometer registered a
minimum of -16 deg., and on Friday night -19 deg. It had never been
known to fall so low in the history of Nelson as an inhabited place, and
the records of that history went back for a space of over twenty years.

We began the spell of cold weather with about six tons of gas coke in
hand. We soon realised that there was a very serious risk of our running
short. The gas works announced that their stock was exhausted, and owing
to the severity of the weather they were compelled to use their own coke
to heat their own retorts as fast as they made it. The coal dealers
declared that they had only six or seven tons of coal in hand, and that
all except two tons was sold already.

"Can I have those two tons?" I asked.

"Sure. But you had better get them away at once. We may not be able to
hold them for you."

I got them away at once. Then I wanted more. Fuel of some sort I _must_
have. Fortunately, through the kind instrumentality of a friend, I got
hold of a carload of coke, and, what is more, I got it brought within a
mile of the house, and we began to haul it on the Saturday, the fifth
day of the "blast." Meanwhile, Lawrie was knocked up with stoking. He
had been forced to sit up all night for three nights, and stoke almost
every hour.

[Illustration: 1. VIEW OF KOOTENAY LAKE IN WINTER, FROM WELLAND RANCH.

2. BUILDING GREENHOUSES IN THE SNOW.]

When Lawrie knocked up, Calaby went on to night duty. But how were we to
get our coke hauled? After forty-eight hours railway demurrage would
begin to count against us. Fortunately, a neighbour came to our relief,
and by working all day on Sunday we kept our furnaces going and held
winter at bay outside of our greenhouses. But it was a desperate
struggle!

Meanwhile the pump froze, the tank froze, the stream froze. We could get
not one drop of water, either in the house or in the greenhouses. There
was only one resource to fall back upon--the lake. On the Wednesday
afternoon Mr. Braine and I, taking an axe and a couple of buckets each,
went down to the water's edge, hoping to get water with which to fill up
the barrels and reservoirs inside the greenhouses. The waves, which the
fierce wind drove hard against the shore, froze as they fell, covering
the stones with a thick coating of ice. They were whipped into spray,
which turned into ice the moment it touched anything solid, and the edge
of the water, or rather the margin of the sand, was slippery. When I
dipped my buckets into the hole that we had chopped in the ice, I
naturally turned my back to the hurricane. Upon reaching the shelter of
the greenhouses, I found my back covered with a plate of ice. Although I
wore two pairs of thick, warm gloves, I had to thaw out my fingers
before venturing forth again. Mr. Braine and I agreed that those four
bucketsful--his and mine--had better go up to the house for our own use.
We would defer the getting of a supply of water for the greenhouses
until next morning. Perhaps the wind would have dropped by then.

And it had. During the following night the lake froze completely over.
At night there was a braiding of ice four or five feet wide all round
the lake. In the morning there was not a vestige of open water to be
seen, and by the next day after that the ice was ten, eleven, and twelve
inches thick. A man who has a poultry ranch immediately opposite Nelson
seized the opportunity to take across a big waggon sleigh, drawn by two
powerful horses, and filled with corn for the use of his poultry.
Another man led across his working ox, and yet another drove a pair of
ponies and a light four-wheeled buggy along the ice.

When the thermometer rose again, as it began to do on the following
Wednesday, ten days after the first rapid fall, we kept the frost at bay
inside the dwelling-house. But it was nearly three weeks after that
before we were able to press the mountain stream into our service. That
done, we filled our tank by means of a hose from a stand-pipe which
tapped that stream, or rather the iron pipe from it. Just below the
reservoir the ground had frozen to a depth of more than three feet! In
the meantime, until we did get our tank into operation, we had the daily
task of hauling water from the lake up to the greenhouses in a barrel
fixed on a sleigh and drawn by the horses. Of course, we did not require
anything like the quantity then that we needed in the hot, thirsty days
of the height of the summer, so that the task was not such an onerous
one. We were devoutly thankful that we had suffered no worse scathe.
Thanks to our radiators, and, above all, to our open hearth, where we
took care to maintain a big fire of wood and coke, we suffered no
personal harm, and not much real personal discomfort once the wind
dropped. We blessed our stars we were not in Winnipeg, with its
thermometers down to -72 deg. Fahr., or 104 deg. of frost!

A few days after the cold "snap" broke up an agent of the Canadian
Pacific Railway "'phoned" to me out from Nelson:

"How about your young fruit trees? Have they suffered any damage from
the frost?"

I went and made a thorough examination, came back, rang him up, and
reported, "No: I do not see the slightest damage--not a tree hurt. And
in due course I shall have peaches to sell."




  CHAPTER XV.

  Some of Our Neighbours.


Soon after settling at Welland Ranch we discovered that we had a strange
neighbour. He inhabits a tiny peninsula, dwelling in what is little
better than a hole in the steep face of the shore, closed by a few
planks and a sloping door flush with the earth's surface. The shore for
many yards along the front of his "palace" is generally strewn with
derelict logs, fished out of the lake. He employs himself sawing these
up into cordwood. This is his only occupation, and the proceeds from the
sale are his only source of livelihood. The man himself we seldom see,
though we hear the sound of his saw almost every day. He is a recluse;
and he is a Chinaman. We are informed that he is an outcast from the
society of his countrymen. He is of unsound mind, and it is for that
reason that the rest of the Chinks (as the Canadians call the Chinese)
ostracise him. If one of us chance to meet him on the railway or on the
shore, and accost him, "Good day," or with any other friendly greeting,
he never speaks. Nor does he even give us a glance, but marches stolidly
on as though we were non-existent.

When the first spring came we used to see him practically all day long,
scouring the lake on a frail and clumsy raft of his own construction,
hunting logs. If I looked out of a morning, say shortly before six
o'clock, very often the first thing that met my gaze was this singular
figure of the crazy Chinaman on his equally crazy craft on the sunlit
waters of the lake. Several times I have been compelled to stand and
watch him when one of the big ships has been approaching, steaming at
eighteen knots an hour. How he contrives to keep his balance when the
waves caused by the steamer begin to rock his precarious "tug-boat" is
always a wonder.

On the north side of the lake, immediately opposite to the City of
Nelson, there lives another singular being. He is a white man, and is
known as Coal-Oil Jimmie. His domicile is a log cabin half-way up the
mountain side. And when his solitary light twinkles out across the lake
in the darkness, it invariably arrests the stranger's attention, and
leads to question and answer.

"What is that light up there?"

"That's Coal-Oil Jimmie."

"Coal-Oil Jimmie! What's he doing up there, anyway?"

"Working a claim."

"What sort of a claim--gold?"

"Sure."

"And is it any good?"

"I don't know. Jimmie's been pegging away at it for the last eighteen
years or more."

"Well, well. But why do you call him Coal-Oil Jimmie?"

"Oh! that's because, when he wants money to buy bread with, or blasting
powder, he comes down into the city and sells coal-oil."

"Coal oil! You mean petroleum?"

"Sure."

The following narrative relates an incident which befell not very
distant neighbours.

Picture to yourself an autumn night, a pallid moon floating among
islands of scurrying cloud, a dim and baffling light on the earth, a
deep, dark lake on the one side, lofty mountains capped with snow and
half swallowed up in gloom on the other, and a narrow ribbon of road
creeping along between the windings of the lake shore and the flank of
the mountains; the wind moaning fitfully through the gorges and ravines,
and whispering in ghostly cadences through the scattered forests which
cling to the lower parts of the hills, and throw their shadows across
the uneasy road.

Along that road creaked a rig, a small, light waggon on four wheels. In
the waggon sat a man and a woman. The night was made still more eerie by
mysterious sounds creeping up from the lake, dropping from the
mountains, drifting out of the woods, sounds which it would have puzzled
a skilled native to explain, still more newcomers such as Albert
Stephens and his wife.

The horse was jogging along at a slow pace. Stephens half turned in his
seat, and remained so for perhaps a minute.

"What is it, Albert?" asked his wife.

"Nothing. I was just looking to see if the carcass of mutton was all
right."

Mrs. Stephens was not conscious that the carcass had moved, nor had she
heard it fall out of the vehicle. She wondered.

"Get on, you beggar!" cried Stephens, and he whipped the horse. The
animal responded gamely--for two minutes!

All at once Mrs. Stephens laid her hand on her husband's arm,
exclaiming--

"Alfred, what's that?"

"What's what?" responded Stephens, irritably.

"I'm sure something is following us. Have you got your revolver?
Listen." She half turned her head, still keeping her hand on her
husband's arm.

"Revolver? No. What do I want a revolver for?"

"I'm sure there _is_ something," cried Mrs. Stephens again. "Don't you
hear it? It sounds like some big animal--and it's coming after us."

"Well, yes," admitted Stephens. "I fancy I have heard something for some
time. The brute seems to be keeping up with us, too. Get on! get on!"
And again the whip fell with stinging urgency upon the back and sides of
the Indian cayuse (native horse).

But the faster Stephens urged on his own animal, the faster came the
pursuing beast. They could now hear it breathing hard as it raced along
after them. Indeed, Mrs. Stephens, glancing timorously over her
shoulder, saw a large form labouring after them in the gloom.

"Oh, do make Bonnie go on faster, Albert," cried she, her fears getting
the upper hand. "I'm sure it will catch us soon!"

"Here, Bessie!" cried Stephens. "Hold the reins a minute; but don't let
Bonnie slacken her pace." So saying, he flung one leg over the seat
behind him.

"You're not going to get out, Albert? You've got no gun," cried Mrs.
Stephens, in tones of terror. "It will tear you to pieces." For some
time her mind had been busily picturing the ferocity of a grizzly, a
cinnamon bear, a mountain lion, a lynx.

"All right, Bessie, don't worry!" said her husband. By this he was
heaving up the carcass of mutton, and the next moment Mrs. Stephens
heard a dull thud as it dropped on the road behind the waggon.

"Perhaps that will keep it busy for a bit," said Stephens, as he climbed
back over the seat, and took the reins out of his wife's hands.

And the stratagem--the sop to Cerberus--did keep _it_ busy for--three
minutes or so, not longer. Then the two terrified travellers once more
heard the mysterious beast snorting along in their wake. But by this
time they were within some half-mile of the settlement they were making
for. Before they had gone another quarter of a mile, to their intense
relief, their pursuer suddenly stopped, and they heard no more of it.

[Illustration: YOUNG ORCHARD ON WEST ARM OF KOOTENAY LAKE.]

On reaching the settlement they eagerly related the details of their
adventure. The men of the settlement, not relishing the proximity of
such a dangerous customer, at once armed themselves, and taking with
them a good dog, set off to hunt and kill the ferocious beast. The dog
soon ran on ahead of them. They advanced nearly a mile without either
seeing or hearing anything of the animal which had so terrified Albert
Stephens and his wife. Then they came upon the carcass of the sheep
which Stephens had thrown out of his waggon, and there was the dog busy
tearing mouthfuls of flesh off its hind quarters. Driving off the dog,
they continued their hunt. After advancing another half-mile or so, the
men who were leading the way heard something, evidently some big animal,
moving in a clump of scrub by the side of the road. They sent the dog in
to scare the game, and posted themselves in readiness. The dog
barked--and barked--and barked--and then out trotted a--harmless,
innocent, ordinary donkey!

The central figure in my next incident was a neighbour only in the sense
that every inhabitant of the city of Nelson is a neighbour. But the
story will find a fitting place here, not only as being closely
connected with our own experience, but also as illustrating one of the
sides of Canadian life; although, strictly speaking, the story is
British rather than Canadian.

One evening I was packing apples. The time was about half-past eight. In
the room were present, besides myself, Maggie, Leslie, and Mr. Braine.

Suddenly there appeared inside the door at my left hand a stranger. He
had entered by the back of the house, had traversed the scullery and a
small passage, in order to reach the spot where he presented himself. He
opened the door so noiselessly that we were all startled. He was a young
man, under thirty years of age. His face appeared to me familiar, though
for some little time I was not able to recall where I had seen it
before.

"Are you the proprietor?" he asked, addressing me. There was an air of
directness and resolution about him which at once arrested attention.

"Yes."

I paused in my work and glanced at him expectantly.

"Will you give me work for fifty cents?"

The request was put in such a curious and uncommon way that I looked at
the man fixedly before replying.

"Well, I don't exactly want any help, as I have let a man go away only
last week; but if you want a day's work, why, come back to-morrow, and I
will give you one."

"Will you give me your promise in writing?" he said, putting his hand
into the inside pocket of his jacket, as if for paper and pencil.

This, again, was an extraordinary request.

"Nonsense! You don't want a written document for that."

The man was persistent. At length I said decisively, "I'm not going to
do anything so absurd. If you can't take my word for it, let it alone,
and go."

Then, after saying, "You won't go back from your word?" he shifted his
ground, and began to beg for ten cents by way of "arles," or
earnest-money.

But by this time I had called the man fully to mind, and recollected the
circumstances under which I had seen him. Before going further, I will
relate what those circumstances were.

Early one morning we were waiting for the first delivery of cherries
from the pickers. A short, round-faced young fellow, with a foreign
look, came into the scullery and begged a bite of breakfast, or rather
two bites, one for himself, and one for his mate outside. I procured the
man what he wanted. He held out his hand to me, saying, "Thank you."

"Are you a Scandinavian?" I asked, for his action recalled a Norwegian
custom.

"No," he said: "German."

I then addressed him in German; but he told me he was born in America,
and could not speak German. I saw, however, that he was half
intoxicated: so I dismissed him, and he went away. I never saw him
again.

Ere five minutes had passed I met another man at the gate, a man young,
well-dressed, and fairly well educated, evidently a town dweller, and
probably a clerk or store salesman. It was the man who afterwards wanted
the work for fifty cents.

"Can you tell me about the roads?" he began. "I want to get to Procter
[at the junction of the West Arm and the main Kootenay Lake]; but there
is a man waiting for me on the road to kill me."

"Surely not?" I rejoined.

"But there is," went on the stranger. "We have quarrelled and had a
scuffle, and he is out there waiting for me. He means to do for me.
Can't I get past him by any other road?"

"Not if you want to go to Procter. There's no other road except the
railway track. But why not wait a bit and let the man get out of your
way? Or go back to Nelson?" I suggested.

"Oh, he's one of the Black Hand [an Italian secret society which was
reputed to use violence, and had its seat of operations at Fernie and
other mining towns in the Crows' Nest Pass, where there are a large
number of Italian working men]. He's one of the Black Hand," said the
stranger, "and they've set their mark against me. I was up in Fernie at
the time of the fire, and I wrote something about them in a newspaper,
and now they are wanting my life."

"What sort of a man is this who is waiting for you?" I asked him. "Is he
a round-faced, boyish-looking young fellow?"

"Yes: that's he," he answered eagerly: "that's he! I know he means to
assassinate me."

"Nonsense! You needn't be afraid of _him_. He won't--he couldn't--hurt
you. Why, he's half drunk."

"And so am I," he declared, "more's the pity! But, I say," he added,
with sudden energy, "you haven't an old revolver you could lend me--have
you?"

"No: I haven't," I told him, and in thought I continued, "and if I had I
certainly shouldn't lend it to _you_."

I urged him, if he were afraid, to go back to Nelson. But for some time
longer I had great difficulty in pacifying him. At last he begged
permission to sit down outside the gate, in sight of my men gathering
cherries, and with that he went away.

These circumstances I now recalled, and naturally I set the intruder
down as a drinker and a ne'er-do-well, who was just trying to get a few
cents out of me. Consequently, I refused to give him even ten cents.
Finding he could obtain nothing from me, he went away, or, rather,
started to go away. In less than half a minute he was back.

"Have you any place where I could sleep the night?" he asked. "Anywhere
will do." Just for two seconds I hesitated. There was the stable, and
the hay; but I did not feel I could trust the man.

"No; I'm sorry I haven't," I said. "We are full up." And so we were in
the house.

He repeated his request once, twice, three times.

I turned and faced him. "I would prefer you should go back to Nelson.
Good-night."

He went, and we thought he had gone right away. But no; after a full
minute there he was again, outside the packing-room window. He called to
me, saying, "What is your name, that I may know who has given me work?"

I told him.

This time he did go away, and I never saw the man again. Afterwards I
congratulated myself that that man did not make a homicidal attack upon
me. I cannot help thinking that it hung by little more than a hair's
breadth when he put his hand inside his breast pocket, ostensibly
feeling for a piece of paper on which I might write the promise to give
him work. For in that pocket he carried a formidable weapon, and that
weapon he used not twenty minutes after he had left our house.

[Illustration: TOBOGGANING: A SPILL.    _From "Canada Illustrated."_]

In the middle of the following morning somebody came to me, saying,

"Mr. Devitt, of the Provincial Police, wants to see you."

I wondered what was wrong.

I went up to the house, for I was down in the greenhouses when the
message came.

On reaching the yard outside the back door, I found the Chief of the
Provincial Police for the Nelson district, with a new, blood-stained
razor in his hand, and two young bloodhounds sniffing about the yard.

"You had a visit last night from a young man?" he began, and then he
went on to describe him.

"We found him," he told me, "at one o'clock this morning, not far from
the C.P.R. shipyards, with his throat cut, and I have just picked up
this razor near the big rock." (This was a quarter of a mile from our
house, and half a mile from the spot where the man was found.)

"And is he dead?" I asked.

"Yes," said Mr. Devitt. "He was dead--stone dead--when we found him. His
head was almost severed from his body, and he lay in quite a pool of
blood. It looks like a most determined case of suicide, though it might
be murder. I just want to make sure. Was the man alone when he came to
you?"

"Yes, so far as I know. I did not see or hear of anybody being with
him."

"Did he appear to be at all strange?"

"He appeared to be quite rational and collected; but he made absurd
requests. The fact is, I was busy packing fruit, and did not pay much
attention to the man's demeanour. But he thoroughly frightened my
people, and my little boy, who is not at all a timid boy, took his gun
to bed with him. And my gardener, Lawrie, tells me he was watching the
man for some time outside. The stranger went backwards and forwards
between the house and the gate fully a dozen times. I find he went to
the Lawries' door first, and even then Lawrie's suspicions were aroused
by the man's behaviour. Lawrie thought at first he was drunk; but he
soon came to the conclusion that the stranger had not had any drink
that day."

I proceeded to tell the Chief of the Provincial Police all I knew about
the man. When I had finished, he observed, "It looks pretty certainly a
case of suicide. I think I may safely act on that."

He then told me what they had been able to find out about the man from
letters in his pocket. He was a young Scotsman, and had been a clerk at
one of the larger towns in the west of Canada, and had actually been in
Fernie for some time, but had apparently come to Nelson after Fernie was
destroyed by fire. In Nelson, in the course of only a few weeks, he had
had two situations, but had lost both through his drinking habit, having
been discharged from the second the day before he came to us.

From what I learned subsequently, the suicide's movements, after he left
our house, were these. He walked a quarter of a mile, and then cut his
throat with his razor, a new one with a white handle. Going on a quarter
of a mile farther, and seeing a light in a house by the roadside, he had
been unable to resist the feeling of burning thirst which assailed him.
He had struggled to Mr. Habegard's door and knocked, and when the door
was opened he stumbled in, gasping, "Water! water!"

Mr. Habegard put out his hand to hold the intruder up, and while he was
doing that, Mrs. Habegard exclaimed, "What's that on his neck? It's
blood!"

Mr. Habegard stepped back, and then saw the wound on the man's throat.

"Did you do that?" he asked. But the stranger made no answer. They gave
him the water he craved, and he went away. Mr. Habegard deputed his son,
a lad of sixteen, to follow the stranger, while he himself, having asked
a neighbour to go and stay with Mrs. Habegard, pushed on to the C.P.R.
shipyard, and from there telephoned to the Chief of the Provincial
Police.

When the officer came, he and Mr. Habegard walked back towards the house
of the latter, and after going about a quarter of a mile they came upon
the suicide lying in the middle of the road, weltering in his blood, his
head being nearly severed from his body. He had made a second attack
upon himself with his penknife.

The man was demented with hard drinking, and laboured under delusions.
First, he imagined he was being dogged by the Black Hand organisation of
the Italian workmen; then he believed that his life was threatened by an
assassin. It was while labouring under this insane delusion that he
destroyed himself.




  CHAPTER XVI.

  Canadian Life and Manners.


The change from England to Canada is one that, as far as personal
conditions go, presses more hardly upon women than upon men. In the
latter country domestic servants are really scarce; when they are found,
they can only be described as pearls of great price. You have to pay
them three or four times what you pay a good servant at home. And they
are not all good that are obtainable in Canada. Hence you have to adopt
the policy of Mother Hubbard's dog, and do without.

This means, if you are not near a convenient store, that your wife has
to make and bake her own bread, to make her own butter, to do her own
washing.

The Canadian housewife not only makes her own bread; she stocks her
larder with all sorts of preserved fruits--pears, peaches, crab apples,
strawberries, cherries, and so forth. These are all preserved in syrup
in hermetically-sealed glass jars. She also revels in jellies, chutnees,
tomato sauce, piccalillies, and so forth. Jams, the toothsome,
old-fashioned, yet ever-welcome jams of her English sister, she "has no
use for," as she would say. Evidently the youthful Canadian palate is
not yet educated to them. Yet for that same palate "candy" has as
irresistible an attraction as "sweets" have for the young son or
daughter of Old England.

At a Canadian meal, especially if you take it in an hotel, you select
your food from the _menu_, and you are served with what you
select--meat, potatoes, cauliflower--each on a separate small dish, so
that, if you exercise your privilege pretty widely, you speedily find
yourself entrenched behind quite an array of culinary bastions, which
would excite the dismay of an ordinary diner, unless pricked on by the
stimulus of an extra dose of mountain air. As a rule, all the meals in
an hotel are _table d'hte_ affairs. You have to eat at the times when
meals are ready, or wait until they are. Fortunately, the opportunities
for eating while you travel are ampler and more convenient than they are
when travelling in England. Nobody need arrive late at his hotel and go
to bed supperless. Three meals are generally taken--breakfast, dinner at
noon exactly, and supper at 6 p.m. Tea or coffee, preferably tea, is
drunk at all three meals, even at dinner. On the other hand, in the
ordinary course of things, intoxicating drinks never appear on the
Canadian dinner-table, and even at formal banquets they are generally
absent.

Into the mysteries of "sweet corn" (maize ears boiled), maple syrup,
squash pie, pumpkin pie, and so on, my courage will not avail to conduct
me. These things must be eaten to be appreciated. On the whole, from
what I have observed, the Canadians would appear to be moderate eaters,
although good cooks can everywhere command unusually high salaries. A
skilled man cook, who can wrestle successfully with the ordinary range
of plain dishes, can command $70 to $80 per month, with board, at a
mining or lumber camp; but then he may have anything from forty to one
hundred and forty men to cook for, and as many "masters" to grumble at
him.

In the matter of dress there is not much difference observable between
England and Canada. Many of the working men in Canada habitually wear
gloves, in summer and winter alike. In winter gloves are necessary
because of the cold, and in summer they are almost indispensable for
certain kinds of work, because of the parching quality of the
atmosphere, which soon causes the skin to crack. Overalls, covering a
man from the chin to the toes, are generally worn, not only by working
men, but also by all sorts and conditions of men, even by a merchant in
his store or warehouse.

In winter the best and most convenient clothing, especially for
out-of-doors among the snow, is a good thick jersey, and if more than an
ordinary jacket is required, the most serviceable addition is a mackinaw
jacket, made of thick rough frieze, with knitted, tight-fitting cuffs
inside the sleeves, and a very high collar. Protection for the ears is
indispensable in sharp frost, especially if the wind is keen. It is good
to wear very coarse, thick woollen stockings, known as German stockings,
outside the trousers, and over them coarse rubber shoes, loosely laced,
or else high boots, into which the bottoms of the trousers are tucked.
School children wear knitted toques, which in shape are something like
the old-fashioned night-cap of our grandfathers, only they are more
pointed and more ornamental. In sharp weather these can be pulled down
over the ears. It is good to see a party of young Canadians with their
bob-sleighs, flexible fliers, and what not, gliding down a steep
incline with the speed of the wind, filling the frosty air with their
crisp shoutings and their merry laughter. Their happiness is
irresistible; it sweetens the heart, it beautifies life. If the songs of
the angels have any analogies on earth, assuredly it is the gleeful play
of children!

Now, the wearing of gloves must not for one moment be taken as a sign of
effeminacy. Whatever faults may be alleged against the Canadian
character, effeminacy is the very last that anybody who has had
experience of it would dream of imputing to it. The keynote of the
Canadian character, at all events out West, is energy. Your Canadian is
always in good spirits, always hopeful, prompt in his decisions, swift
to act, full of resource. A distinguished Scottish visitor recently
epitomised the practical creed of the West as consisting of faith, hope,
and muscle. In this there is not more than that amount of inaccuracy
which is the inevitable toll of wit. It is the buoyant spirit of the
Canadian which enables him to adapt himself so readily to changing
circumstances, and, taken in conjunction with his upbringing in a new
country, where personal ingenuity so often has to supply the lack of
convenience, it is that same spirit which makes him so capable a man in
a sudden emergency. One of his favourite phrases is that a man is "up
against it"; it is when he is in such a position, which may be defined
as "being in a tight corner," or "with his back to the wall"--it is then
that the really great powers of resource lying latent in every Canadian
prove his salvation. And when he really is "up against it," and has to
cope with a difficulty, he shows a striking absence of fuss or worry.

On the other hand, this very spirit of all-subduing hopefulness, and
this well-proved self-confidence, are probably responsible for what may
perhaps be regarded as a blemish, or, at all events, as a lurking
tendency to detriment, in the Canadian character, namely, the want of
foresight. The fact that the telephone is ever at his elbow, ready to
serve him at a moment's notice, tends to strengthen that tendency in him
in a way that he probably does not yet sufficiently realise. With these
allies at his back--his hopefulness, his self-confidence, his resource,
his swiftness in action, backed by the telephone--your Canadian has no
dread of difficulties. When they come, they do not daunt him. When they
are overcome, he does not exult. They have been part of the everyday
routine of things; the overcoming of them has formed part of the daily
tale of duties to be done.

These same qualities of mind, acting and reacting upon the almost
infinite possibilities of a new and undeveloped country, have engendered
in the Canadian of the West a marked love of speculation, an ever
present readiness to dare and do, and to risk all on the toss of the
dice. A man having a sum of capital at his disposal is not content to
invest it, even when he can do so on the safest security, for a return
of seven, eight, or even ten per cent. Nothing less than the chance to
double it will satisfy him.

For instance, a certain gold mine was abandoned by the lessees as being
practically worked out. One of the men who had been using the pick and
blasting powder in it believed there was still enough of the precious
metal in the mine to warrant a further trial. He secured a fresh lease
of it for a small sum, and went out to begin work upon the mine
single-handed, having barely enough money to furnish himself with the
necessary tools and provisions to last a few weeks. At the end of two
years that same Italian workman had over forty men in his employ, and a
balance in the bank of $50,000 (10,000), and sufficient ore lying
outside the mine, ready to be "rawhided" down, to yield him another
$50,000. It is strokes like this which feed the never-extinguished lamp
of fervent hopefulness and fan into a flame the ever-glowing embers of
speculation in the breast of the Western Canadian.

Rawhiding, I may explain, is a name for a method by which metallic ore
taken out of a mine is conveyed down the mountain side. The ore is
crammed into strong bags, weighing approximately 200lbs. each. A few of
these are packed together on the raw hide of an ox, and the hide is then
dragged down over the snow by a horse.

Another channel by which the predominant impulses of the Canadian flow
out into the fields of fruitful action is his keen love of sport,
especially the national sports of hockey (on ice) and lacrosse, though
all sorts of games, and not the least the art of boxing, claim their
proportionate share of his personal interest. And where his personal
sympathies are involved, there his purse is not wont to be niggardly in
its backing. A hockey contest between two neighbouring communities stirs
each community to its depths. The interest excited affects every stratum
of the social life. The great struggles for the Stanley Cup, the
supreme trophy of Canadian winter hockey, are talked of for weeks
beforehand. They are described in fullest detail in every newspaper
throughout the length and breadth of the Dominion. The contestants are
heroes, the winners demi-gods. And, indeed, no man can witness the swift
and sudden alternations of the game, the brilliant rushes down the rink,
the inevitable collisions that appear to be imminent, the marvellous
swerves, glides, and feints by which the players avoid injury to
themselves or their opponents--no man can witness this fast and exciting
sport without his blood beginning to leap and dance and shout in his
veins.

In Canada the exuberant enthusiasms that attend genuine love of sport
are fostered by the keen local patriotism which animates the citizens of
every town. The inhabitants of a given town, high and low, rich and
poor, young and old--all are equally proud of the place they dwell in.
They extol its real and vaunt its imagined advantages with an energy
that never slackens. The people strive their hardest to make the merits
of the district which they have chosen known far and wide. They
advertise their town, they "boost" its advantages, they attract citizens
by all the devices and by every means they are able to compass. They
constitute themselves into 10,000 clubs, 20,000 clubs, 50,000 clubs, and
labour might and main to augment the population up to the limit
indicated in the title of the club.

And yet the Canadian is the very reverse of a stick-in-the-mud. He does
not as a rule strike root very deeply, or, at all events, permanently,
in any one place. Far fitter would it be to describe him as a bird of
passage, or, if the transition be not too abrupt, as a rolling stone. In
this case, however, it is a rolling stone that does gather the moss.
Occasionally the moss drops off altogether, leaving the stone as bare as
it was before it began its peregrinations; but as soon as it begins to
roll again the moss begins to cling anew.

As might presumably be expected of a young people subduing a new
country, there is in the Canadian temperament an admirable spirit of
wonder. Their admiration is readily excited and ever prompt to respond
to true solicitation. "My, but it's dandy!" "Ain't it cute?" "Why, sure,
that's the elegantest thing I have seen!" are phrases which easily
spring to their lips. I have even heard the paradoxical exclamation,
"Ain't it a terror?" applied to signify the acme of admiration. Such
impetuosity and sincerity of feeling are refreshing after the curbed and
chilled lip-praising of the older civilisations.

Last, but not least, a trait which strikes the immigrant Englishman as
being predominant in the character of the Canadian is the genuine leaven
of his democratic feeling. There is a marked absence of official
uniforms, a negation of outward ceremony, an indifference to mere
authority, coupled with a deep-rooted, wide-reaching, sense of equality,
man with man, which imparts a quickened feeling of freedom, and makes
real and vital the consciousness of liberty, that liberty which is
beginning to burn feebly under the legislative restrictions and fetters
imposed in ever-increasing complexity and multiplicity by the States of
Europe.




  CHAPTER XVII.

  Ranching Successes.


My colonial career has by no means been an uninterrupted series of
stumbles, mistakes, and failures, as perhaps this narrative would make
it almost exclusively appear. In our progress there have been several
bright and happy results. Many of these are intangible, as difficult to
fix in the form of precise description as are the rains which water the
earth or the sunshine which ripens and colours the fruit. But elusive
though some of them be, others do admit of being recorded in a form
which every reader can appreciate.

One measure of success, which was vouchsafed before we were six months
resident in the country, was a success for which we may reasonably claim
a degree of personal merit. I mean the prizes we won for flowers and
vegetables at the Nelson Fruit Fair in September, 1907. Nevertheless,
that achievement would have been impossible had not the soil of
Bonnington and the climate of the Kootenays so admirably seconded our
efforts. Six first prizes and three second prizes out of ten exhibits as
the result of five months' work--that was success No. 1.

Success number two was won two months later, in England. This is how the
"Daily News" of Nelson recorded the event: "The silver Knightian medal
awarded by the Royal Horticultural Society to the Nelson Fruit Growers'
Association on November 26 last, at the show in London, has just been
received. The apples were sent by James Johnstone, J. J. Campbell, J. T.
Bealby, and C. G. Broadwood. The Cox's Orange Pippins in the display
were said to have been the finest exhibited in London, and 26s. per box
was offered for them."

Our third success was gained in June-July of the following year, at the
Dominion Fair held at Calgary, in Alberta, on the other side of the
Rocky Mountains. To that fair I contributed, amongst other things, a few
boxes of Hothouse Tomatoes and a few dozen Hothouse Cucumbers. The
former were stated, in more than one organ of public opinion, to be the
best in the show. They did not gain any prize, because no prize was
awarded for such exhibits. As for the cucumbers, they seem to have
excited an unwarranted amount of attention. Many visitors, whose
experience of fruit of that kind was limited to the short, sturdy Spine
Cucumbers, which are grown extensively out of doors in certain parts of
America, could hardly credit that our cucumbers, over a foot long,
straight as a ruler, and destitute of spines, could be real. One old
lady refused to accept the statement that they were _not_ made of wax
until one was snapped in half and the "pearling juice drops" were
exhibited for her conviction!

Success number four was won at the Nelson Fruit Fair of 1908. On that
occasion I staged various products--flowers, fruit, and vegetables, and
though my proportion of wins was not so high, the total number was
higher than the year before--namely, thirteen. One week earlier I took
a collection of fruit to Kaslo, and from there I brought home no less
than twenty-two prizes, including what might, perhaps, be regarded as
one of the blue ribbons of the fair, the first for Gravenstein apples, a
variety which Kaslo has made peculiarly her own. That counts, then, as
success number five.

In connection with the Nelson show I ought, perhaps, to add that a
display which we made of ferns and begonias drew from Earl Grey, the
Governor-General of the Dominion, a word of praise, which he expressed
to me personally.

But the greatest triumph of all, along the lines of special success that
I am chronicling, came in December, 1908. On the days December 7-12 was
held the largest and undoubtedly also the most important apple show ever
held in any country. This was at Spokane, in the neighbouring State of
Washington. The prize money awarded reached a total of $35,000 (7,000),
and individual prizes ran up to as high as $100 (20) in several cases,
$500 (100) in at least two cases, and $1,000 (200) for the biggest
exhibit in the show--namely, a whole carload (10 tons) of packed apples.
In addition, no fewer than twelve fruit farms, ranging in area from two
acres to eight acres, were awarded to successful competitors with divers
exhibits. The total amount of apples put into competition reached close
upon forty tons, the number of separate exhibits being no less than
15,000. The competitors embraced very many of the principal expert
growers of the United States--men who stand in the very front of their
profession the world over--and included also exhibitors from England,
Germany, and Norway.

At this great show I had the temerity to put up one special exhibit, for
the "Best Plate Collection of Apples Grown by any Individual," and about
a score of separate varieties staged five fruits of each variety on a
plate. In the special exhibit, despite the fact that I was minus all my
early varieties, having sold them before making up my mind to exhibit, I
was placed second. With the score of separate plate exhibits I was
fortunate enough to win eleven prizes--not all of them, of course, first
prizes. In fact, they were distributed as follows--two first prizes,
four second prizes, one third, two fourth, and two fifth. Now, surely to
win even a fifth prize at such a show, and against such competitors, is
a feather in the cap of a beginner! This success came at the end of my
first twelvemonth as an actual fruit-grower, a twelvemonth in which (as
will be abundantly evident by inference from the foregoing narrative) my
energies had been, of necessity, not given undividedly to the growing of
apples.

[Illustration: EXHIBITION FRUIT.]




  CHAPTER XVIII.

  Apples--Varieties, Packing.


Although cherries and strawberries yield excellent returns in the
Kootenays, the mainstay of the fruit-grower in that district, and,
indeed, in every district of British Columbia, is of necessity the
apple. Neither the cherry nor the strawberry will keep; both must be
sold as soon as they are ripe, and there is a limit to the distance to
which either will travel. This is not the case with the apple. Even as
regards the early varieties of the apple, there is a certain latitude in
selecting the time to put the fruit on the market. It need not be sold
the very day after it is taken off the tree. But, apart from these
varieties (of which no sensible grower will plant any large number), the
later varieties, and especially the winter varieties, can be kept for
periods varying from four to some thirty weeks, affording ample
opportunity to seize the most favourable moment for putting the fruit on
the market. Speaking generally, the travelling capacity of the winter
apple, at all events of certain varieties of winter apple, has been
abundantly demonstrated. British Columbia apples travel to England, a
journey of over 5,000 miles, and even to Australia. The Spitzenbergs and
Yellow Newtown Pippins of the American States of Oregon and Washington
find their best markets in New York, London, Glasgow, and Liverpool,
and it is not until after Christmas that they begin their long journey.
How well these varieties keep is proved by the fact that the shipping
season for them lasts from February until the end of May.

The following facts go to show the exceptional keeping qualities of the
Kootenay apples. At the Nelson Fruit Fair, in September, 1907, two
plates of McIntosh Red apples were shown which were plucked eleven
months before, and had been kept in an ordinary cellar underneath the
house of Mr. J. W. Holmes, of Nelson. They were in very fair condition.
In April, 1909, Mr. R. W. Hulbert, of Nelson, reported to me that he had
just opened a box of Ribston Pippins, and, with the exception of one
single apple, the contents of the box were perfectly sound and good. In
June, 1909, Mr. Alexander Milton, of Crawford Bay (Kootenay Lake),
stated in the "Daily News" of Nelson that he had kept until that date
Ontario apples gathered in the autumn of 1907, and had consequently
preserved them nearly twenty months! These apples were kept in an
ordinary frost-proof root cellar. Mr. Milton has kept Wealthy apples
until June and Yellow Transparent apples until January. Northern Spy
apples will keep perfectly sound for a full twelvemonth. Now, the
Ribston, the McIntosh Red, and the Wealthy are what would be called in
England mid-season varieties, which do not, as a rule, keep much beyond
Christmas. Yellow Transparent is the earliest apple to ripen in the
Kootenays, and is not ordinarily supposed to keep at all. The Ontario
and the Northern Spy are the only winter varieties amongst those just
mentioned.

But, perhaps, an even more wonderful instance of the remarkable keeping
qualities of Kootenay apples is this. The author, at the time of
correcting the proofs of this book (July) had in his cellar Baldwin,
Canada Red, and Grimes' Golden apples, which had all been frozen as hard
as stones in the preceding January. The Baldwins and the Canada Reds
were perfectly sound and firm, and of good flavour. The Grimes' Golden,
whilst in very fair condition, had lost their flavour. All three are
winter varieties.

The principal markets for British Columbia apples are at present the
home markets and the prairies of the North-West. The orchards in the
province are as yet young, and the output does not amount to any great
quantity in the aggregate. Shipments, however, have been made to
England, and in the year 1908 to Australia. The unit of over-seas
shipping is the car-load (630 boxes of 40 lbs. each), and except from
the Grand Forks and Okanagan districts, there would be some difficulty
in getting together a car-load of apples of one variety from any single
district. But this drawback will be gradually removed as time goes on.
There appears to be a decided preference for a car-load to consist of
one variety only. Why this should be, I fail to perceive; that is to
say, I am not convinced that there is any inherent reason for it, beyond
the fixed idea of the wholesale buyer. From the growers' point of view,
it is always easier to make up a car-load of two or three varieties,
though they must, of course, be all mid-season varieties or all winter
varieties. And provided the varieties which are sold together are of
the same rank in point of quality, it is difficult to see what can be
the real objection to "shipping" them together.

This subject of varieties is one of the greatest importance. The
problems it involves will face the fruit grower at the very threshold of
his career. As soon as he gets an acre or two of land cleared, he will
naturally want to plant. Then arises the question, What shall he plant?
Shall he specialise, and plant one kind of fruit only, as the peach, the
apple, the cherry, the prune? Shall he plant a great number of varieties
of that one kind, so as to be certain of having a crop, no matter how
the season comes, or shall he confine himself to one variety only? Shall
he plant three, four, five, or six well-tried varieties? The fruit
growers of Oregon and Washington, who stand in the forefront as
scientific "orchardists," have in many cases specialised, and confine
themselves to one kind of fruit, and when they have planted apples, have
not planted more than two, three, or four varieties.

[Illustration: FRUIT PACKED READY FOR SHIPMENT.]

Well, let us just see what are the postulates which should weigh with
the man who is beginning to plant. In the first place, what market does
he intend to grow for? Obviously, whichever market he selects, he must
grow varieties which that market wants. The taste or fashion of the
parties is different from the taste or fashion in Great Britain. In
considering this question, there is one factor which fruit growers in
America appear to forget. Fashion or taste in apples changes, as does
fashion or taste in other things. For instance, in the days of our
grandfathers in England, the queen of apples was the Ribston Pippin;
now there would seem to be two rivals for the pre-eminence from which
the Ribston has been deposed, namely, Cox's Orange Pippin and the Yellow
Newtown Pippin, and in certain parts of England a culinary apple,
Bramley's Seedling, is at the present time being planted in scores of
acres. On the prairies, again, the prime favourite is the Northern Spy.
In Ontario people swear by the Fameuse, or Snow Apple, and the Baldwin
is everywhere a favourite. Ben Davis, a quondam favourite in many parts
of Canada, has now fallen into disrepute. In the United States, while
New York prefers the Spitzenberg, Chicago likes the Jonathan. All this
goes to show that it is not wise to pin one's faith exclusively to any
one variety of apple. And for this conclusion there is yet another
convincing reason. Taking the fruit seasons one with another, it would
be folly to pretend that all seasons alike are equally suitable to all
varieties of apple. It is well established that while one season is more
particularly favourable for one variety, another season is more
particularly favourable for another variety. Hence, on this ground
alone, prudence dictates that a man should plant at least two varieties,
and probably the greater wisdom would recommend the planting of three,
perhaps four, varieties. That is to say, three or four varieties for the
main crop and chief reliance for an income. For even though this policy
is followed, of restricting the number of main varieties, there is no
valid reason why a few trees of other varieties should not be planted.
Indeed, something of the sort will be imperatively demanded if the
varieties selected for the main crops are such as do not fertilise their
blossoms themselves. In that case, the orchardist _must_ plant a
certain proportion of trees of varieties which will help to pollenise
the blossoms of his main-crop varieties.

The first point to decide, then, is this. Shall I plant for the British
market, or shall I plant for the prairies? In the former case, the
selection must be made from what are essentially winter apples, as
winter apples are not only the best keepers, but also the best
travellers. In the latter case, mid-season varieties compete with the
winter varieties for our choice.

Before we go further, there is yet another important consideration which
must not be overlooked. We ought to bear in mind the fact that, while
one district is specially suited to produce one kind of fruit, as
grapes, or peaches, or apples, in better quality or greater abundance
than another district, so one district may, in consequence of its
natural advantages, be better fitted to produce a particular variety of
apple, while a second district will excel in a second variety, and a
third district be pre-eminent in a third. Now, while this fact is one of
very great importance in the abstract, on the field of actual practice
it cannot, unfortunately, as yet play any great or decisive part in
British Columbia. The orchards in this province are not yet old enough
to have told us with any degree of certainty what varieties grow best in
particular districts. All that can be affirmed with safety is that
certain varieties grow well and satisfactorily in such and such a
district. For instance, the growers of Oregon and Washington and the
North-West generally have satisfied themselves that the most profitable
varieties for them to plant are the Esopus Spitzenberg and Yellow
Newtown Pippin; but their experience does not admit of being adopted
straightaway in British Columbia. Neither of these varieties has been
sufficiently tested in the latter region. The Kootenays, for example,
ripen their apples later than the famous Hood River, in Oregon, ripens
its apples of the same variety. It is not yet proved that the Esopus
Spitzenberg and the Yellow Newtown Pippin will ripen early enough in the
comparatively late season of the Kootenays to make it profitable to grow
them there, although one experienced grower declares that the
Spitzenberg does succeed well in West Kootenay. A wait of four or five
years will, in all probability, give us just the information that we at
present lack. There are trees of the varieties named now growing up, and
when they reach the bearing stage this question will be answered.

Under the circumstances, at present we cannot safely do more than
enumerate the varieties which we know to grow well, leaving the question
of superiority among them to be determined later. What, then, are these
varieties?

The Department of Agriculture of British Columbia answered this question
in 1906, in Bulletin No. 20, entitled, "Varieties of Fruit Recommended."
The introductory paragraph of this pamphlet runs thus: "This list is
published, as experience has shown that the varieties named may
generally be safely grown for commercial purposes, and to put intending
orchardists on their guard against recommendations of tree agents and of
others who have not the means of obtaining reliable information. It
must be understood, however, that the list does not contain the names of
all varieties which possibly may be safely, and probably in many cases
profitably, grown. For commercial purposes a great variety of each kind
of fruit is not recommended. It is better to profit by experience, and
plant only those varieties which are known to be profitable. In apples
one or two, and at the outside three, varieties of known suitability and
excellence, and good money-makers, are quite sufficient for any
district."

The list of varieties is as follows:--

    _Late Summer._--Yellow Transparent, Red Astrakhan.

    _Early Fall._--Duchess of Oldenburg, Gravenstein.

    _Later._--Wealthy, McIntosh Red, Cox's Orange Pippin, King of
    Tompkins County.

    _Latest._--Jonathan, Wagner, Spitzenberg, Red Cheek Pippin, Rome
    Beauty, Northern Spy, York Imperial, Yellow Newtown Pippin.

Now, I will say that, as far as my own experience goes, the best sellers
among the above are Duchess of Oldenburg, Gravenstein, Wealthy, McIntosh
Red, Jonathan, and Northern Spy. I have found the following equally good
sellers:--Ribston Pippin, Golden Russet, and Baldwin. Ribston Pippin is
now practically superseded by Cox's Orange Pippin. Provided only that
they will ripen sufficiently in the Kootenays, then Spitzenberg (Esopus)
and Yellow Newtown Pippin might be added to those which I have named as
the best varieties for selling. A trained fruit grower who has been
engaged in orchard work in the Kootenays for ten years has compiled a
list of thoroughly choice varieties which do succeed in that district.
They are Yellow Transparent, Red Astrakhan, Wealthy, Gravenstein,
McIntosh Red, Spitzenberg, Jonathan, Wagner, and Rome Beauty. As good
commercial varieties, the following have been recommended by a grower of
considerable experience in the State of Oregon:--Winesap (not Stayman
Winesap), Red Cheek Pippin, Cox's Orange Pippin, Yellow Newtown, Rome
Beauty, Northern Spy, Wagner, and Jonathan. To these other authorities,
equally entitled to attention, would add Delicious and Fameuse or Snow.
Taking all these recommendations into account, we get a revised table as
follows, every variety in which is a good commercial variety; but of
these varieties, only those printed in italics have been sufficiently
tested in the Kootenays:--

    _Early._--_Yellow Transparent_, _Duchess of Oldenburg_.

    _Mid-Season._--_Gravenstein_, _Wealthy_, Snow or Fameuse,
    _McIntosh Red_, _Cox's Orange Pippin_.

    _Winter._--_Jonathan_, _Spitzenberg_, Yellow Newtown Pippin, Red
    Cheek Pippin, _Rome Beauty_, _Northern Spy_, _Baldwin_,
    _Wagner_, Delicious, Winesap.

Now, this list may be still further curtailed. Of the two "early"
varieties one only need be planted, so that the other becomes
superfluous, and neither should be planted in large numbers. For main
crop varieties, both these, therefore, may be disregarded. Of the
mid-season varieties, the most desirable is, beyond question, Cox's
Orange Pippin, and of the other four, unquestionably the finest in
point of flavour is McIntosh Red. It also yields heavily, besides being
a very handsome, dark-red apple, with a heavy whitish bloom. Both
Gravenstein and Wealthy, again, are of first-rate quality and good
bearers; but, being comparatively early, they will not travel far, and
in the Kootenays they have been planted, perhaps, in excess. In the list
of winter varieties, neither Wagner nor Baldwin is the equal in point of
quality of the rest of the varieties named; but both sell well, and
Wagner is useful as a "filler"--that is, to fill up the spaces between
the main crop varieties during the early stages of their growth.
Delicious is comparatively new, and it has scarcely found its proper
place in the market, although, perhaps because it is still scarce, it
fetches high prices. Accepting these statements, and remembering that
only certain of the varieties in the list have been properly tested in
the Kootenays, it would appear that the best apples for planting are
Cox's Orange Pippin, McIntosh Red, Jonathan, Spitzenberg, Yellow Newtown
Pippin, Rome Beauty, and Northern Spy. All the same, the fruit grower
who should plant any of those enumerated in the last-printed table, on
p. 153, would not make any serious mistake, taking care, of course, to
have a proper proportion between mid-season and winter varieties.

All apples in British Columbia, irrespectively of the variety and
irrespectively of the size, are packed into a box of uniform
dimensions--namely, 20in. long, 11in. wide, 10in. deep; and on one end
of each box the law imperatively demands that the grower or packer shall
place his name and postal address, the name of the variety, the grade,
and the number of tiers of apples, counting from the bottom upwards. A
box of these dimensions, no matter how large or how small the apples
packed into it, will almost invariably weigh 40lbs. As the different
varieties differ greatly in size, the methods of arranging them in the
box differ in corresponding ways. A considerable amount of skill, or, at
all events, practice, is required to pack a box of apples well. The
objects aimed at are to have the box full, to make it attractive in
appearance when opened, to place the apples in such a way that they will
not move in transit (if they move they will almost certainly bruise), to
see that all the apples which go into one box are as nearly as possible
of the same size, and to be sure that each apple is free from bruises,
disease marks, and insect or fungoid defects.

Consequently, the first requisite for good packing is that the apples
should be graded--sorted into suitable sizes. This can be done most
conveniently while they are being picked, especially if the quantity is
not great. Indoors, in the packing house, the tables should be so
arranged that the packers can pack apples of two (or three) sizes or
grades simultaneously, and this they can do if the culls, or small
fruits, are put on one side by themselves in the orchard as they are
gathered. If the crop has been well and properly thinned at the right
time, there should not be very many culls to put on one side. Thinning,
therefore, is a most important operation. To take off deliberately, and
in cold blood, one-half or two-thirds of one's crop, is a proceeding
which goes against the grain, and in the case of the beginner requires
no ordinary courage. Yet hardly anything pays so well as thorough and
judicious thinning. Which is better, to gather five boxes off one tree,
each box containing 68 or 72 or 84 apples, to be sold for $2 per box, or
eight boxes, out of which you have four boxes of culls that will not
sell at all, except to the jam factory at 25 cents a box, and four other
boxes running over 200 apples to the box, and making when sold only
$1.50 per box? Thinning invariably adds to the _total_ weight of the
crop, instead of diminishing it; the apples have a much finer
appearance, make a better price, and bring the customer back another
year.

The first requisite for a good apple-packer is a keen, quick eye, so
that he can tell at a glance, before he picks up a specimen, which apple
will fit into the next space he desires to fill in the box. This saves
not only time, but unnecessary handling of the fruit. The second
requisite is quickness of handling. For one man to pack a car-load would
keep him employed over a month; it takes a quick and clever packer to
pack more than twenty boxes in a day of normal length. The car-load of
apples, consisting of 630 boxes, which won the most important prize
($1,000--200) at the great Spokane Apple Show in December, 1908, was
packed by one man, of course an expert, and the operation kept him
occupied for the space of two months. He was deliberately packing for
exhibition, and naturally speed was not a matter of moment. His average
rate of packing was ten boxes a day.

[Illustration: YOUNG APPLE ORCHARD, KOOTENAY.]

The apple-packers of the Hood River Valley, in the State of Oregon,
acting under the strict regulations of the Hood River Apple Growers'
Union, have brought their art to such a pitch of perfection, and work
on such a standard of integrity, that thousands of boxes of Hood River
apples are bought by wholesale houses in New York and other large
Eastern American cities without their ever seeing or examining a single
box, or even a single apple. "The Hood River organization now controls
approximately 90 per cent. of the fruit of the valley. In four years it
has been able to raise the price from 85 cents (1s. 10d.) to $3.15
(13s. 1d.) for the best grade of Spitzenbergs, and $2.50 (10s. 5d.) for
the best Yellow Newtowns. . . . . As an experiment, this past fall
[1907] the association sent nine car-loads of fall apples to
England. . . . . After all expenses were paid they netted the Hood River
growers $1.32 (5s. 6d.) per box."

These results are achieved by maintaining an inflexible and undeviating
honesty in the packing: the contents of the box answer strictly and
without exception to the description (grade, tier, etc.) on the outside,
and every apple is as near as possible perfect.

As a further illustration of the value of an unimpeachable commercial
reputation, combined with the enhanced value due to novelty of variety,
I may quote the following paragraph from the journal _Better Fruit_
(October, 1907, p. 36), the semi-official organ of the Hood River Apple
Growers' Union:--

"The highest price ever known to be obtained for apples was received by
Oscar Vanderbilt, a Hood River grower, recently, who sold forty boxes of
the Winter Banana variety at $8 (1 13s. 4d.) per box (40lbs.--10d. per
lb.). The fruit was bought by Seeley, Mason and Co., of Portland, who
disposed of it the next day to New York parties for the fabulous sum of
$12 (2 10s.) per box (1s. 3d. per lb.)."

The winner of the above-mentioned car-load of apples at the Spokane
Apple Show sold 150 boxes of the exhibit at $10 (2 1s. 8d.) per box to
Mr. James J. Hill, Chairman of the Board of Directors of the (American)
Great Northern Railway Company, and his son, Louis W. Hill. The
remainder of the car-load, 480 boxes, were sold to Messrs. D. Crossley
and Sons, of Liverpool, England, for approximately $4,000 (800). The
varieties were Jonathan, Winesap, and Spitzenberg.

With the above may be compared the price of twenty-six shillings offered
for the Cox's Orange Pippins sent by the Nelson Fruit Growers'
Association to the Colonial Exhibition in London in November, 1907. The
Winter Banana is a novelty, and as yet scarce. When it has been grown as
long as Cox's Orange Pippin, and is as plentiful, will _it_ too fetch
twenty-six shillings the box?




  CHAPTER XIX.

  Making an Orchard.


The most suitable time for the fruit grower to arrive in British
Columbia is, I should judge, early in April, though some authorities
recommend him to aim at reaching his destination towards the autumn.
Arriving at the earlier period, he has a longer time in which to look
about him and select the locality which appeals most strongly to his
judgment.

Among the factors which make principally for success in the production
of the choice fruits of the Kootenays are the soil and the climate,
pre-eminently, perhaps, the climate. That subject has been already
touched upon in Chapter V. As regards the soil, it may be stated
summarily that fruit trees appear to grow and thrive in nearly all kinds
of soil. The prevalent soil occurring, I believe, in all parts of the
Kootenays is a rich but light silty loam, of a reddish colour, friable
and easily worked, and the subsoil is generally clay. The principal
defect of this soil, the tendency to dry quickly, is met by growing and
ploughing in clover or some equivalent leguminous crop, and by the
application of farmyard manure, where procurable. Large fruit trees do
not, as a rule, suffer from this property of the soil--insufficient
retention of moisture; they find the requisite moisture in the
"seepage," or subsoil irrigation, which goes on all summer down the
mountain sides. Hence the value of planting an orchard on a slope. In
the case of young fruit trees, mulching either with finely pulverised,
well cultivated natural surface soil, or with farmyard manure, or some
cover crop, is a fairly effective substitute for "seepage" irrigation.
At Bonnington, in default of anything better, we mulched our young,
newly-planted trees with the foliage of the wild salmon-berry, a few
stones being placed on the leaves to prevent them from being blown away.
The expedient served its purpose perfectly.

As regards the situation, practically the same remarks apply: orchards
appear to thrive and grow well in any aspect. Mr. J. R. Anderson, late
Deputy-Minister of Agriculture for the Province of British Columbia, in
Bulletin No. 12, entitled "Information for Fruit Growers," and dated
August 28th, 1905, says (p. 3): "Experience has shown that eastern and
southern exposures are not well adapted for orchards, such exposures
tending to promote early growth, and in the case of late frosts the
influence of the early morning sun acting injuriously on the trees. A
north-western exposure, other conditions being favourable, is, I
believe, the ideal site for an orchard in British Columbia. On such an
exposure the unduly early growth is retarded, the influence of the early
morning sun is minimised, and the full effect of the afternoon sun, at
the season when it is of the greatest utility, is secured. An excellent
plan to retard the growth of trees, in those parts where the ground gets
sufficiently frozen in winter, is to mulch the trees whilst the ground
is frozen. . . . . This serves to keep the ground frozen and
consequently cold about the roots, and prevents the sap rising too
soon."

[Illustration: GROUND FOR A FRUIT RANCH, PARTLY CLEARED, KOOTENAY
DISTRICT.]

With Mr. Anderson's preference for a north-western aspect nobody would
quarrel; but, as all fruit ranches cannot face in that direction, it
will be useful to know what other aspects may be chosen. And here it may
be stated, as the result of actual observation on the ranches along the
shores of Lake Kootenay, that they may, and do, face north, east, west,
south, and south-east, as well as north-west, without any injurious
effects following from spring or fall frosts. One of the most prominent
growers in the vicinity of Nelson, whose ranch faces south-east, has
publicly said, "During my seven years' experience here I have never
suffered the slightest injury to plums, peaches, or cherries from spring
or fall frosts"; and, so far as I know, no lake-front rancher, whatever
the aspect and situation of his ranch, has suffered injury or loss from
late spring frosts. During the January of the present year (1909), when
there occurred the coldest spell and severest frost ever experienced in
the history of Nelson, the thermometer descending thirteen degrees below
the previous minimum, or to -19 deg. Fahr., young peach trees, standing
on a northward slope, and consequently exposed to the keenest blizzard
that has visited the district within the memory of man, suffered no
serious injury. I may add that I myself have seen and examined the trees
in question. Thus a frost of 19 deg. below zero proved to be innocuous
to even tender fruit trees. From this it is not unreasonable to infer
that fruit trees will succeed in almost any situation and aspect,
provided only they can command the advantage of sheltering mountains,
and that, with proper precautions observed, the risk of loss or injury
from spring or autumn frosts is very slight.

For suitable land, enjoying favourable facilities for transportation,
the incoming fruit grower must make up his mind that he will, under
existing conditions, have to pay about $100 (20) per acre, and that
will be for uncleared, unimproved fruit land. Improved or partly
cultivated land will cost at the rate of $200 (40) per acre and
upwards. Apples and cherries thrive well on high land with a good slope,
pears and plums succeed on lower and moister soils; but in all cases
thorough drainage is indispensable. Light, peaty soil suits no kind of
fruit. For apples, cherries, and peaches, it is better to avoid the low
bottom land, generally black in colour, in the floor of the valleys.
Fir-covered slopes are to be preferred, or, in other words, it is wiser
to plant apples, cherries, and peaches on what is known as bench land,
or the higher slopes at the sides of the valleys. If the fruit grower
buys bottom land, he will have to incur the additional expense of
drainage, for fruit trees absolutely will not thrive on land that is in
any degree water-logged. I have myself witnessed the cutting down and
grubbing up of a plantation of plum trees in this province of British
Columbia on the cogent plea that for years in succession they had
yielded a continuously diminishing return, when as an actual fact the
only thing that was amiss with the trees was that the land--flat and
level--on which they were planted required to be drained.

In any case, whether the fruit grower buy flat bottom land or higher
bench land, he will have to face the cost of clearing, for no matter
where you go in the Kootenays, you will find trees on the land. The cost
of clearing will range generally from $35 per acre upwards, according to
the density of the forest growth. If he buys twenty acres, or even ten
acres, he will not (unless he can command a larger capital than the
average) proceed to clear more than four or five acres in the first
year. The steps necessary for successful clearing have been already
described in Chapter VIII.

But in addition to clearing (and possibly draining), he may have to cope
with boulders and scattered rocks. Loose small stones littered over the
surface are an objection, because of the expense of taking them off; but
very often the soil underneath leaves nothing to be desired in point of
quality. In fact, the best piece of land we used at Bonnington Falls was
the half-acre or so from which we picked off the stones in odd
half-hours. Large boulders are not, perhaps, a really serious drawback,
except in so far as they interfere with ground cultivation; and this
interference is reduced to a minimum if among the boulders the rancher
plants his cherry trees, for the less the soil is disturbed about the
roots of the cherry, the better the tree will thrive, weeds, of course,
being kept down and scrub not allowed to grow. Large stones or boulders
lying on a slope always conserve a certain amount of moisture underneath
them, and this moisture the roots of the cherries or other fruit trees
will unfailingly find out and utilise as soon as the trees are big
enough. The illustration, "A Successful Orchard Among the Stones" will
demonstrate clearly that I am making no exaggerated or misleading
statements. The orchard which is shown in the illustration is famous for
its cherry trees. In one corner there is a solid block of them, and when
they are in blossom they make a picture that is worth travelling a long
way to see.

Having thoroughly cleared the land of trees, scrub (chiefly by burning),
and stones, and ploughed and harrowed it, the next operation ought to be
the sowing of a crop of clover, 12lbs. to the acre, in July or August if
the ground is only moist enough--that is to say, as soon as rain falls.
This crop will then be ploughed under in the following spring, and thus
supply the ingredient that the virgin soil of the Kootenays principally
lacks, humus--that is, decayed or disintegrated vegetable (or animal)
matter. If there should be a supply of good stable manure available
(which is seldom the case) it will serve the same purpose as the clover.
It must be admitted, however, that the majority of planters proceed to
plant without sowing clover.

Assuming that the preparation of the ground is sufficiently advanced,
the fruit grower may plant his trees in the fall of his first year.
Apple trees ought to be planted 30 feet apart each way; that is to say,
the rows should be 30 feet from each other, and the trees also 30 feet
from each other in the rows. As the young apple tree will not for some
few years by any means cover all the intervening space, it is usual to
plant other fruit trees in between the apple trees. The varieties chosen
to fill these spaces may be the apple known as Wagner, which comes into
bearing early, and will yield several useful crops before having to be
cut out; also peaches, apricots, and pears. I see no reason why black
and red currants, as well as gooseberries, should not be used for this
purpose, gaps being left at convenient intervals to enable the rancher
to get his implements backwards and forwards. But raspberries should not
be grown amongst other fruit trees, owing to the habit which their roots
have of spreading underground. Raspberries should always be grown in a
patch by themselves. It must be distinctly borne in mind that, whatever
the fruit trees planted for fillers, these must be cut out as soon as
the main crop apples require the space, though it will probably be
possible to leave them for ten or twelve years. Sour, or the Morello,
varieties of cherries, as well as pears, should be planted about 20 feet
apart, and sweet cherries require eight to ten feet more space. Peaches,
apricots, plums, and prunes may all be planted at intervals of 20 feet
or so. The number of trees needed to cover an acre of ground, planting
them 30 feet apart, is 50; planting 20 feet apart, it is 109. The cost
of planting an acre of apple trees may be put generally at from $12
(50s.) to $25 (5). Pears will cost rather more; peaches and plums
rather less; and cherries from $20 (4) to $40 (8).

The young trees will need no protection during the winter beyond what
the snow affords. But in the following year they will require to be
mulched during the hot, dry weather. The best method is cultivation; but
then it must be cultivation persistently carried on all through the
summer. The object is to secure a finely pulverised tilth, or even
dust, on the surface. Mr. L. H. Bailey, one of the most esteemed
authorities on garden and orchard cultivation in the United States,
says: "A finely divided, mellow, friable soil is more productive than a
hard and lumpy one of the same chemical composition, because it holds
and retains more moisture, holds more air, presents greater surface to
the roots, promotes nitrification [the absorption by roots of trees of
the nitrogen contained in decayed vegetable matter incorporated with the
soil], hastens the decomposition of the mineral elements, has less
variable extremes of temperature, allows a better root hold to the
plant. In all these ways and others the mellowness of the soil renders
the plant food more available, and affords a congenial and comfortable
place in which the plant may grow."

Between the young fruit trees potatoes or other root crops, as well as
almost any kind of vegetables, may be grown with advantage as well as
profit, and these crops may be continued every year for a few years, but
for a few years only. As soon as the trees begin to send out their roots
to any distance, and the foliage begins to shade the land, the practice
of growing supplementary crops between the rows of fruit trees must be
discontinued. Grasses and grains should on no account be grown between
the fruit trees, even in the very youngest stages of the orchard's life.

Young fruit trees will not require to be pruned until at least one year
after planting. But from that time onwards they will need to be pruned
every spring in order to give the right shape to the tree and promote
wood growth, so as to build it up with a well-balanced, symmetrical
head, open to wind and sun, and with the branches not too crowded. When
the tree reaches five years or so, summer pruning is recommended in
place of winter, or rather spring, pruning, in order to develop fruit
buds instead of wood growth. The rule is: Winter pruning for wood
growth, and summer pruning for fruit growth. Fruit buds will, of course,
form, even though there is no summer pruning. They form independently of
winter pruning; but summer pruning is believed to promote their
formation. This question of summer _versus_ winter pruning is one of
considerable intricacy and difficulty. Even experts are not fully agreed
as to the actual effects produced in the case of either. The difference
between the two, although it appears to be pretty well established, is
still to a large extent a matter of theoretical discussion. But it will
be a few years before the planter of a young orchard will have any need
to face the problems involved in this stage of orchard work, and by that
time he will no doubt have gathered sufficient information on the
subject to enable him to form his own opinion.

The following sound and valuable advice was offered by a prominent fruit
grower in the State of Washington in a paper read before the Washington
Horticultural Society at Seattle, and reproduced in Bulletin No. 14
(1905) of the Department of Agriculture of British Columbia, on the
"Care and Management of Orchards" (pp. 10-11):--

"The first year after setting, head the shoots back from eight to twelve
inches, according to the vigour of the growth, those least vigorous to
be shortened in the most. Exercise the same care in reference to the
terminal bud and manner of cut as before [the cut should be made close
to a bud, and should be slightly diagonal, sloping downwards away from
the bud]. Care and judgment must be exercised in selecting the position
of the bud. If straight shoots are desired, cut to inside buds for trees
of a spreading character, like the Greening; or for compact growers like
the Northern Spy, cut to outside buds. It is best to cut outside buds on
the side next the wind, in order to throw the growth toward the wind,
and sometimes, on the opposite side of the same tree, it will be
necessary to cut inside buds to maintain an evenly-balanced top. [This
advice has no force in the Kootenays, where there is as a rule very
little wind.]

"The second year from planting the previous season's growth should be
headed back to about twenty inches, the less vigorous to be pruned the
most. Keep the length of the cut [on the different branches] as nearly
even as possible, varying, of course, to suit the buds that come in the
desired positions.

"Remove all cross branches and those having a tendency to grow towards
the centre of the tree, except the fruit spurs. These should not be
removed even from the first year's growth. The fruit spurs are thrown
out straight from the trees, and look like thorns, or the growth on
seedlings. The mistake is often made of removing these, and in
consequence leaving long, bare poles.

[Illustration: SPRAYING A FRUIT-TREE.]

"The third year from planting shorten back to from two to three feet of
previous year's growth. This pruning applies to apples, pears, and the
plum family. Cherry trees should be dropped from the list [of trees to
be pruned] the first. This is the last of the shortening in on these
varieties. With this, the fourth season's growth, the head will be
formed, if all has gone well, and with the exception of an occasional
refractory branch, which should be shortened in, will not need to be
touched.

"The tree is now ready for fruiting. Commencing in June, pinch prune
[_i.e._, prune by pinching with the thumb and finger], removing all
superfluous growth, and keep the head symmetrical. This pruning in
during June will have a tendency to throw the tree into fruiting. Keep
off all straggling branches that have a tendency to grow toward the
ground. The tree is now in shape; pinching in will keep it there.
Ingrowing branches can be nipped in the bud.

"Peaches and apricots should be treated from the start as the apple and
plum family, but should be shortened in about half the season's growth
each year. The shortening in process should not be done
indiscriminately; they should be cut back to a good bud or fork, or else
the tree will soon thicken up with an undesirable growth."

In the case of apples, pears, plums, cherries, and quinces, it is best
to plant trees one or two years old, preferably one year old. Nothing
whatever would be gained by planting trees three years old, and the risk
of their dying in consequence of removal from the nursery to the orchard
is very much greater than it is with the younger trees. Peaches and
apricots should hardly be older than one year when planted in an
orchard.

When the orchard has reached the bearing stage, another important
operation becomes necessary--spraying. This is no more a simple
operation than pruning is. The object of spraying is either to prevent
the ravages of insect and fungus enemies of the fruit tree or to destroy
the insect or fungoid pest. The process is carried out both in summer,
when the trees are in leaf, and in winter, when the vegetative
activities are dormant, the former chiefly to combat insect pests, the
latter directed principally against fungoid nuisances. The most
efficacious agent employed against the attacks of insects is a mixture
of lime, sulphur, and salt, applied hot, in the spring, immediately the
pruning is finished, and before the leaf buds begin to open. For
preventing or curing the attack of fungoid diseases, the remedy usually
employed is Bordeaux mixture (lime and bluestone--_i.e._, sulphate of
lead). For fighting insects when the trees are in leaf, various agents
are had recourse to, according as the pest specially to be combated
sucks the juices of the tree, eats its leaves, or bores into its
substance or its roots. Whale-oil soap, quassia chips, kerosene,
arsenate of lead, and Paris green (arsenic), besides other remedies, are
employed in various mixtures, and at various periods of the summer. Full
information with regard to these matters can be obtained from a pamphlet
entitled "Orchard Cleansing--Remedies for Insect Pests and Diseases,"
issued in April, 1907, by the Provincial Inspector of Fruit Pests for
British Columbia.




  CHAPTER XX.

  Some Results.


When the attention of a man in England or Scotland is seriously arrested
by the highly favourable accounts he hears of fruit growing in British
Columbia, he naturally begins to make inquiries. The information he
gleans will be similar to that which I have repeated in Chapters III.
and IV. If he is able to do so, he will make it his business to go to
Westminster and see for himself the kind of fruit which British Columbia
sends every autumn to the Colonial Fruit Exhibition organised by the
Royal Horticultural Society of England. One visit will be sufficient to
convince him, no matter how sceptical he may be, as to the superior
qualities of that fruit, that it is, indeed, entitled to rank among the
finest in the world.

When he gets out to British Columbia, and is taken to see a mountain
slope, irregular in contour, thickly studded with big trees, beneath
which creep tangled thickets of bushes and scrub, and observes, it may
be, the big boulders scattered here and there over the surface, and is
told that that is the land on which he will have to plant his orchard,
it is not a matter for surprise if he should be incredulous--for a
time--and question the correctness of the information which has been
given to him. I say "for a time," because after he has had an
opportunity to visit an orchard actually in bearing, and has witnessed
the cherry trees in bloom, the plum trees with the fruit hanging on them
as thick as ropes of onions, the pear trees trailing their branches on
the ground through sheer inability to hold up their load of fruit, even
after they have been thinned, and has studied the apples colouring day
after day under the bright autumn sunshine--well, how can he be
sceptical after that?

I will confess that I, too, had my hour of unbelief. I saw, admired, and
was tempted by the gloriously-coloured, beautifully-graded,
splendidly-packed fruit exhibited by the Provincial Government of
British Columbia at Westminster. I had already become interested in the
Nelson district of the Kootenays, and, in consequence, paid particular
attention to two collections of apples sent from that locality. The
first thing I did after reaching Nelson was to pay a visit to each of
the ranches on which those collections of apples were grown. I candidly
acknowledge that I was disappointed in both. Yet, after I became better
acquainted with the country, disappointment so far wore away that I
actually bought one of the two ranches in question, namely, Welland
Ranch, on which I am at this present moment living; and, what is more, I
would not now sell it for double the price I paid; and I say this
notwithstanding that it is far from being all that a model fruit ranch
ought to be. The facts which have brought me round to this opinion I
will now proceed to state, and later to amplify.

(1) British Columbia produces some of the very finest apples grown
anywhere in the world.

(2) Fruit growing can be, and is, carried on successfully as a
commercial enterprise.

(3) The life is interesting, pleasant, and, after the first year or so,
easy.

(4) The fruit ranch affords a satisfactory escape from the stress and
strain of city life, and gives an added dignity and freedom to one's
sense of individuality.

That British Columbia apples are not only superb, but supreme in their
kind, is abundantly attested by the awards which they have gained before
the expert tribunals of the world. Each successive year since and
including 1904 they have won the gold medal of the Royal Horticultural
Society of England, the highest award that Society has in its power to
bestow, an award that is not by any means lavishly bestowed; in fact,
nothing but real sterling merit is ever able to win it. And, it is
pertinent to remember, the apples which have won this distinctive award
have all travelled over 5,000 miles before being placed under the
judge's eyes. The most famous apple-growing region in the United States,
where orchard work is conducted on the most scientific principles, is
the Hood River Valley, in the State of Oregon. Yet in December, 1907, in
an open competition confined to three classes, and held at New
Westminster, in which the Hood River Valley competed, British Columbia
was placed first in two out of the three classes, and second in the
third. For the best five boxes of apples the first prize was awarded to
Mr. J. D. Honsberger, of Grand Forks, British Columbia; the second to
Mr. A. I. Mason, of Hood River, Oregon; and the third to Mr. T. G. Earl,
of Lytton, British Columbia. For the best display of fresh fruit, the
first prize was given to the Kelowna Fruit Growers' Association,
Kelowna, British Columbia; the second to Mr. James Rooke, Grand Forks,
British Columbia; and the third to the Chelan County Horticultural
Association, Wenatchee, Washington, U.S.A. For the best box of
commercial apples, the first prize went to Mr. A. I. Mason, Hood River,
Oregon; the second to Mr. E. H. Shepard, Hood River, Oregon; and the
third to Mr. T. G. Earl, Lytton, British Columbia. In these competitions
British Columbia not only successfully held her own, but also beat a
rival who up to that time never had been beaten when exhibiting apples
in the show room.

Again, at the gigantic show of apples held at Spokane, Washington, in
December, 1908, although British Columbia, as a whole, was not
represented, and only a few of her districts, her growers returned laden
with honours. One grower, Mr. F. R. E. de Hart, of Kelowna, won no fewer
than fifteen first prizes and four seconds; while Mrs. A. J. Smith, of
Spence's Bridge, gained four firsts and two seconds; Mr. James Cook, of
Creston, two firsts and three seconds; Mr. J. T. Bealby, of Nelson, two
firsts and five seconds; Mr. H. W. Collins, of Carson, one first and
five seconds; and Mr. J. W. Cockle and Mr. J. Biddle, of Kaslo, each one
first. In addition, the growers from this province won several third
prizes and others of lower denomination. But to win even a fifth prize
at such a show was a distinction to be proud of.

After these severe tests, the superlative excellence of British
Columbia apples cannot for one moment be doubted.

The next subject for inquiry is the commercial aspects of fruit growing.
Can fruit growing be made to pay? Is it possible to grow apples, and, of
course, other fruit, at a profit? Can a man, after buying his land,
clearing and planting it, and then waiting for his trees to grow up to
the bearing stage--can he hope to make a good living out of the fruit
they yield? Finally, to pass from the general to the particular, can
fruit growing be carried on as a commercial success in British Columbia?

As an answer to these questions, I will first quote precise results
which have actually been accomplished in the famous fruit-growing
districts of the Western United States--districts in which the
conditions do not differ materially from those in the fruit-growing
districts of British Columbia; and finally I will add similar facts and
figures gathered from various parts of British Columbia itself.

First, as regards apples. From the Wenatchee Valley, in the State of
Washington, I have before me gross returns per acre ranging from $100
(20) to $825 (165); from the Yakima Valley, Washington, similar
returns ranging from $186 (37) to $2,288.50 (457 10s.); from the Rogue
River Valley, Oregon, from $157 (31) to $1,143 (229); and from Hood
River, Oregon, from $567 (113) to $1,420 (284). One series of returns,
furnished by Mr. A. D. Helm, of Rogue River, Oregon, for an orchard of
seven acres, extends over a period of seven years; the average gross
returns for those seven years were $589 (118) per acre. This, I need
hardly point out, is an exceptionally valuable record, partly because
it is for the same piece of land, partly because of the length of time
over which the records have been continuously kept.

As regards pears, the gross returns for the same four districts range
between $150 (30) and $3,806 (761) per acre, the average being $200
(40) to $400 (80).

[Illustration: PEAR TREE.

Showing Pendulous Habit Caused by Weight of Fruit.]

Cherries, principally from the Wenatchee Valley, Washington, gave fruit
to the gross value of $150 (30) to $1,120 (224). The net returns, in
two at least of the returns quoted, amounted to 75 per cent. of the
gross returns. The owner of one of these orchards, containing ten acres,
Mr. Enos Presnall, of Salem (Wenatchee Valley), Washington, paid $1,500
for the property in the spring of 1907, and in the summer of the same
year sold off it cherries to the value of $1,700 gross, answering to
$1,350 net: in one year he had a gross return greater than the original
cost price of the property.

The returns from peaches grown in the Wenatchee and Yakima Valleys of
Washington run at a more uniform figure, the average being $1,678 (335)
per acre.

Prunes give gross returns ranging from $88 (18) to $328 (66), the
average being $156 (31). These are for the Wenatchee Valley only.

Strawberries, taking returns from Hood River, Oregon, and Wenatchee,
Washington, range between $115 (23) and $350 (70), the average being
$232 (46 10s.) per acre.

For other kinds of fruit there are returns--grapes, $700 (140) net;
raspberries, $100 to $150 (20 to 30); gooseberries, $204 (41);
loganberries, $348 (69 10s.); tomatoes, $400 (80); and dewberries,
$1,000 (200) and $1,651 (320).

Mr. Theodore S. Darby, of Yakima Valley, Washington, bought a ten-acre
orchard in 1903, paying for it $4,200 (840); in 1907 he sold off it
mixed fruit to the aggregate value of $4,206 (841), giving an average
of $420 (84) per acre. Mr. Horan, of the Wenatchee Valley, Washington,
who won the principal prize of $1,000 (200) for the best car-load of
apples at the Spokane Apple Show in December, 1908, planted an orchard
of 50 acres in 1900, the land being at that time worth $100 (20) per
acre. In 1908 it yielded 8,000 boxes of peaches and 7,000 boxes of
pears, equivalent to an average of $440 (88) per acre, without counting
the produce of 1,340 apple trees. Probably Mr. Horan's orchard would
bring him in that year $30,000 (6,000), or an average of $600 (120)
per acre, for his winning car-load of apples was sold for a sum closely
approximating $5,500 (1,100). Mr. Horan declares that some time
previous to the show he refused an offer of $2,000 (400) per acre for
his orchard.

Mr. H. M. Gilbert, of North Yakima, Washington, who won the second prize
in the same competition, planted a 20-acre orchard in 1898-1901. During
the last six years the peaches have yielded $1,000 (200) per acre, and
during 1908 the total yield of apples, peaches, pears, and apricots
amounted to an estimate of $20,000 (4,000), or $1,000 (200) per acre.

The last two instances quoted are for trees ten years old, or, in other
words, for orchards just beginning to bear full crops. The average price
for orchard land with trees of that age is not less than $1,000 (200)
per acre, and runs up to double that amount.

British Columbia, to which I will now turn, is, it must be remembered,
as a fruit-growing region, some eight years younger than the districts
of Oregon and Washington, from which I have quoted. In the majority of
the cases quoted for British Columbia it will be necessary to add to the
returns for apples or pears or peaches the returns for a second crop,
still growing between the fruit trees. In other words, in order to
institute a proper comparison between Oregon and Washington, on the one
hand, and British Columbia on the other, it is necessary to take two
crops for the latter, such as, for instance, apples and strawberries, in
so far as both crops are occupying the ground simultaneously while the
apple trees are small.

First, I will quote a few returns in which apples alone are grown,
without any supplementary crop. Mr. James Johnstone, of Nelson, states
that he has obtained an average net profit per acre of $500-$600
(100-120) from his apple trees, virtually seven years old. Mr. John
Hyslop, also of Nelson, obtained an average of $900 (180) per acre from
twelve-year-old trees. Mr. J. D. Honsberger, of Grand Forks, one of the
successful exhibitors against the Hood River Valley at New Westminster
in December, 1906, records a yield for apples averaging $300 (60) net
per acre.

Messrs. Mawdsley and Eskrigge, who have an excellent orchard at Kaslo,
have kindly favoured me with the following particulars. "In 1907," they
write, "we picked thirty-two boxes from about forty trees of Wealthy, at
that time seven years old. In 1908, from the same trees, we harvested
118 boxes. In the year 1907 we picked twenty-four boxes of Ontarios from
thirty trees, and in 1908 fifty-four. From one Fameuse tree, eight years
old, we had 3 boxes. All these apples sold at $1.75 per box. This works
out as follows: Yield of Wealthy per acre, 1907 $67 (13 10s.) and 1908
$142 (28 10s.); Ontarios, 1907 $67 (13 10s.) and 1908 $151 (30 5s.);
Fameuse in 1908 $315 (63). "In 1907," continue Messrs. Mawdsley and
Eskrigge, "we had potatoes planted between the rows of trees, with a
crop of about ten tons, which we sold at an average price of $26.50 (5
6s. 8d.)." This would be, I suppose, equivalent to a return of about
$175 (35) per acre. Adding this to the value of the apple crop, we
obtain 64 as the gross return per acre of this particular Kootenay
orchard.

Mr. R. W. Hulbert has kindly placed at my disposal the subjoined
particulars of the yield of his orchard at Granite, two miles west of
Nelson. In 1908, twenty Ribston Pippin trees yielded four to five boxes
each, which sold at $1.75 per box, equivalent to a gross return of $380
(76) per acre; Wealthy, seven year old trees, yielded eight to ten
boxes each, averaging a gross return of $540 (108) per acre; Duchess of
Oldenburg, nine year old trees, gave an average of $15 (3) worth of
fruit per tree, equivalent to $720 (144) per acre; Northern Spy, nine
year old trees, gave four boxes each, which, selling at $1.75 per box,
is equal to an average of $336 (67 5s.) per acre; Ontarios, five year
old trees, yielded 1 boxes each, which, at the same price, works out
at an average of $105 (21) per acre; and Stark yielded eighteen to
twenty boxes each, which, at $1.25 per box, comes to an average of
$1,150 (230) per acre. With regard to cherries, Mr. Hulbert states that
even after losing 50 per cent. of the blossoms on the crop in 1908,
there was, nevertheless, a total increase, as compared with the harvest
of 1907, of 25 per cent. Mr. Hulbert's ranch is famous for its cherries,
the principal varieties being Royal Windsor, Lambert, and Bing. He
estimates that in 1908 the total gross value of the crop per acre was
$1,400 (280), and the total net value $900 (180) per acre. Two trees
of Royal Windsor, eight years old, gave together twenty boxes,
equivalent to $12 (2 10s.) per tree, or $840 (168) per acre. Lambert
cherries, about five years old, yielded five boxes each, which sold for
$2 each, the box weighing 8lb. net. This works out at an average of $700
(140) per acre. Plums, eight to ten years old, yielded from $7.50 to
$16.50 per tree, the varieties being Imperial, Peach, Grand Duke, and
Bradshaw. This is equivalent, on the basis of 120 trees to the acre, to
a gross yield of the value of $900 to $1,980 (140 to 396) per acre.
The chief varieties of pears grown by Mr. Hulbert are Bartlett
(Williams' Bon Chrtien), Flemish Beauty, and Kieffer's Hybrid, all the
trees being seven to eight years old. The average yields in 1908 were $8
to $12 per tree; which, at seventy-two trees to the acre, gives an
average of $576 to $854 (115 to 171) per acre.

[Illustration: YOUNG CHERRY TREE IN BLOOM, WELLAND RANCH.]

My own experience, in the cases of trees of various ages from five to
ten years, all taken together in the lump, is that they give an average
gross yield of $350-$400 (70-80) per acre, with an addition for
strawberries growing among (say) one-half of them. Mr. T. W. Stirling,
of Kelowna, on the Okanagan Lake, has stated his return for apples alone
from a nine-year-old orchard at $150 (30) _net_. And this is
approximately the amount at which Mr. R. M. Palmer, Deputy-Minister of
Agriculture for the Province of British Columbia, estimates the net
annual profit per acre for an orchard nine years old, his figures being
$125 (25) to $150 (30). In the case of one four-year-old orchard on
Kootenay Lake, the gross yield in the first year of bearing amounted to
an average of $75 (15) per acre, and to this there is to be added the
much more valuable crop of strawberries, which would average from $250
to $500 (50 to 100) per acre. Another orchard of 40 acres yielded when
the trees were four years old $4 (16s.) per tree, or $200 (40) per
acre, this being their first crop.

How heavily strawberries do yield in the Kootenays is proved by the
statistics kept by Mr. E. I. Wigen, of Creston, near the southern end of
Kootenay Lake. In a letter to me, in which he courteously places his
results at my disposal, he says: "In the season of 1905 I had only 1 1/5
acre in fruiting, which brought a gross return of $1,300 (260), or net
result of $800 (160). [This gives an average of $1,083 (217) gross and
$667 (133) net per acre.] For the season of 1906 I had three acres in
fruiting, but this being the year when the strawberry crop was a general
failure all over, I only realised a gross return of $2,300 (460), or
net result of $1,200 (240). [This gives an average of $767 (135)
gross or $400 (80) net per acre.] In the season of 1907 I had four
acres in fruiting, which brought a gross return of $4,300 (860) or over
$1,000 (200) per acre, the net results being about $2,300 (460),
giving an average net return of $560 (112) per acre." The season of
1908 afforded heavy yields, but prices ranged low, and the weather at
the time of shipping was very unfavourable; consequently the gross value
of the returns was below the average. In spite of that, Mr. Wigen sold
his crop off a little over four acres for approximately $4,200 (840),
or about $1,000 (200) per acre.

Mr. Thomas Morley, who has had twelve years' experience of fruit growing
in the immediate vicinity of the West Arm of Kootenay Lake, says: "I
have known several instances where from $350 to $500 (70 to 100) an
acre has been produced from a strawberry crop the second year of
planting." Mr. F. G. Fauquier, of the Needles, Arrow Lake, in the
Kootenays, writes: "I have been very successful with strawberries, one
year clearing $523.50 (105) off a little less than one-third of an
acre." This gives an average of $1,570 (314) per acre. A grower at
Burnaby, whose name I am not at liberty to disclose, has sold $400 (80)
worth of strawberries off one-quarter of an acre, or at the rate of
$1,600 (320) per acre. Another grower in the same locality netted
$1,000 off 1 acre of strawberries, or an average of $800 (160) per
acre. Another striking illustration of the value of the strawberry has
come under my notice as I write. In 1908 Mr. R. A. Bevan, of Creston,
shipped strawberries all the way to Sault Ste. Marie, between Lakes
Superior and Huron, in Eastern Canada, a distance of 3,000 miles, and
they arrived in good condition. In January, 1909, he sold his crop for
the following summer in advance for $3.10 per crate, equal to about
$1,300 (260) per acre.

If we now add these figures to the returns for even young apple trees,
we obtain an average gross return per acre of $575 (115) to $1,500
(300). Allowing 50 per cent. for cost of production, we get as net
yield an average of $275 (55) to $750 (150) per acre. These figures,
it will be seen, compare not unfavourably with those from the older
fruit-growing regions of Washington and Oregon. In the matter of
strawberries alone the returns for British Columbia are easily 100 per
cent. superior to those from the Hood River Valley.

In British Columbia nearly all orchards are planted as yet with mixed
fruits, so that it is difficult to obtain the actual figures for each
kind of fruit separately. We have, however, the result of the Coldstream
Ranch, near Vernon, belonging to Lord Aberdeen, where even a few years
ago 20 acres of Northern Spy apples produced $10,000 (2,000) of fruit,
or an average of $500 (100) per acre. Peaches at Peachland, beside
Okanagan Lake, have yielded at the rate of $467 (93) per acre; and
tomatoes in the same locality have yielded $1,500 (300) per acre. Mr.
Thomas Morley, already quoted, says that $400 (80) per acre can be
produced from a four or five-year-old orchard. Mr. John Hyslop has
gathered peaches at the rate of $2,450 (490) per acre. The same
gentleman has had a return of $1,380 (276) per acre for cherries. Mr.
Johnstone's average gross return for cherries is at the rate of $1,050
(210) per acre. I myself have half-a-dozen cherry trees, ten to twelve
years old, which for three or more years past have produced more that
$20 (4) worth of fruit each. This, with sixty trees to the acre, would
give an average yield of $1,200 (240) per acre. Mr. J. D. Honsberger,
at Grand Forks, has cleared off an eight-acre orchard of twelve-year-old
prunes a net profit of $275 (55) per acre. A fruit-grower at Ladner, in
the delta of the Fraser River, sold one year $900 (180) worth of
raspberries off an acre, and in the following year $820 (164) worth.
Mr. John Hyslop also has had returns from raspberries at the rate of
$900 (180) per acre.

To take a couple of instances of mixed fruit growing. I am told in a
private letter that a man at Salmon Arm "bought 80 acres five years ago,
paying therefor $400 (80), $100 cash and $100 per year at 8 per cent.
After making his first payment he had $32 left, and for a time was
disabled with a cut foot. He left his wife in England, and supported her
there by working in the woods or on the roads. He planted raspberries
and strawberries, and now has his place paid for, a nice little cottage,
and a team of horses. His wife is with him, and for two years he has not
worked for others." Another settler established himself at "Maple Ridge
fourteen years ago, with approximately $3,500 (700). He bought ten
acres, built a comfortable cottage, planted four acres of plums, apples,
etc., and three acres of strawberries. Later he planted half an acre of
sweet cherries. He has made money from the start, and in one year
banked $4,000 (800)."

If now we consider these facts and statements as a whole, it is fair to
draw the inference that, after the second year from the start, a fruit
grower will be able to realise something like $500 (100) per acre from
his land. This is, of course, the gross return: the net return would be
equal to about half of that amount. The actual returns which I have been
able to gather are nearly all higher than Mr. Palmer's conservative
estimate. But even if we assume that Mr. Palmer's figures are correct,
it is at once obvious that from a ten-acre orchard in full bearing the
fruit grower would realise a minimum net return of $1,500 (300) per
annum. So far as my own experience goes, I do not think it would be at
all an unsafe statement to say that to an energetic, intelligent man,
who thoroughly understands what he is doing, the actual net return would
be nearly double the amount just quoted. A very great deal depends upon
the skill and energy that are brought to bear upon the up-building and
maintenance of the orchard. While Smith may make a good thing out of it,
Brown, on the very next ranch, which does not differ in any material
particular from Smith's, may be unable to make anything.

Capitalising the minimum net return arrived at above at a 10 per cent.
valuation, we obtain as the value of the fruit land $1,500 (300) per
acre. Consequently, unimproved fruit land is not dear at $100 (20) per
acre, even though it should cost as much again for clearing, and produce
nothing for the first two years.




  CHAPTER XXI.

  Prospects.


As I have pointed out in the preceding chapter, it is difficult in the
case of the Kootenay orchards, where the trees are young and fruits of
different kinds are all grown on the same acre of land, to obtain data
which are perfectly conclusive. To help out the defects arising from
this circumstance, I have quoted figures of actual yields from the
fruit-growing districts of Oregon and Washington, where the orchards
are, as a rule, some eight years older than they are in the Kootenays.
It would not be difficult to give returns of yields from one or two
trees for individual years, as, for instance, $12 (50s.) from a
Keiffer's Hybrid pear tree; $50 (10) from five Gravenstein apple trees;
$25 (5) from three Smuts peach trees; $40 (8) from three Alexander
apple trees; $81 (16) from one Black Tartarian cherry tree; $175 (35)
from eight Royal Anne cherry trees; $105 (21) from three Governor Wood
cherry trees; $42 (8 10s.) from six Golden Russet apple trees; $33 (6
10s.) from six Northern Spy apple trees; and so on. This is, however,
almost all that can be done as yet for the Kootenays. From those data we
have to estimate the yield per acre, knowing, as we do, the number of
trees of each kind of fruit which should be planted on that area. On the
other hand, it is easy to supplement this kind of half-estimated fact
by the general experience of trustworthy fruit-growers, who are actually
engaged in orchard work.

Mr. F. G. Fauquier says (1906): "I have been living on my present
location on the Lower Arrow Lake, at the Needles, about midway between
Nakusp and Robson, for the past four years. My clearing has cost me from
$30 to $40 per acre--that is, cleaned up clear of stumps and roots and
ready for the plough. . . . . Small fruits of all kinds do very well
here, especially raspberries; they will yield enormous crops if cared
for. . . . . Apples, pears, plums, and cherries all have given most
satisfactory results with me. The early apples have come into bearing
the second year after planting, and have continued since then giving
more or less of a return every year. Bartlett [Williams'] pears the
same. . . . . The future I look upon as assured for this
country. . . . . there need be no doubt of the prosperity of ranchers
and others in this district--a small fortune for the man who is willing
to work and use his brains in connection with it. I do not know of any
country where a man can as easily make a living in so short a time as in
this district."

Mr. Thomas Morley, writing in April, 1907, says: "We are exceedingly
fortunate in Kootenay in the absence of insect pests. It is true we
spray our trees, but simply as a preventive. . . . . We claim to be
absolutely free from any of the pests which cause much trouble and
expense to fruit growers in other parts of the Continent of
America. . . . . We can produce Wealthy apples three years after
planting, and Northern Spy in the fourth year. The Northern Spy will
produce about four boxes and the Wealthy four or five boxes per tree in
five years. The price ranges from $1.50 (6s.) to $2 (8s.) per
box. . . . . There is no danger of the market being overcrowded, as the
influx of settlers into the Canadian North-West is greater than the
increase in fruit production. The English market, the best in the world,
is also clamouring for our apples, and winter varieties of Kootenay
apples command the highest price there. The new official class 'Fancy'
has been created to designate the apples produced in Kootenay, which
exceed in quality the requirements of the highest class under previous
regulations. The province has stringent inspection laws, and vigorous
means are taken to assure the cleanliness of all orchards and of all
stock and fruit imported. . . . . Orchard land unimproved sells from
$100 (20) to $150 (30) per acre, and clearing costs $35 an acre, and
upwards. A ten-acre orchard can be planted and brought to a paying basis
in four years for about $3,500. If planted in fruit trees only, a
revenue of $175 (35) per acre will be secured. If planted in the
meantime with such crops as strawberries and potatoes it would yield at
least $375 (75) per acre the second year."

To the statements contained in this excerpt no exception can be taken,
apart from the value put upon wholly unimproved land. Such land can be
bought at prices ranging from $50 (10) to $100 (20). The estimate of
$3,500 (700) for bringing a ten-acre orchard from the state of virgin
forest to the stage of a producing orchard is, I should judge, about
correct.

[Illustration: A KOOTENAY ORCHARD HOME.]

Mr. John Hyslop has written: "After having been engaged in growing
fruit in Ontario practically all my life, I came to the Kootenay
district about seven years ago, and took up fruit growing. The result
has been extremely favourable, and I would not exchange one acre of
bearing fruit trees in Kootenay district for ten acres in Ontario. My
reasons for these statements are as follows: The trees here begin to
bear at an earlier age. The yield is almost double. The quality and
colour are unsurpassed. The keeping qualities of the fruit are much
superior. The market facilities are unequalled. The yield of
strawberries, raspberries, and other small fruits is enormous. In
consequence, I have found that the profits per acre are three-fold or
more than those of Ontario."

Mr. Roy C. Brock, late Secretary of the Kootenay Fruit Growers'
Association, who was trained on one of the best-conducted ranches in the
Hood River Valley, says (1908): "One of the best mixed orchards I have
known yielded an average of $550 (110) per acre, giving a net profit of
$265 (53) per acre, and these figures may be safely used as the basis
for calculation in Kootenay district. This net profit is 10 per cent.
valuation of $2,650 (530) per acre. . . . . The conditions of soil and
climate in Kootenay for growing strawberries are equal to, or better
than, those I know of elsewhere, the yield is remarkably large, and the
berry rather firmer than that grown farther south. . . . . This year the
berries will average the grower net, after paying all selling charges,
$2 per crate of twenty-four one-pound boxes. I think the price is not
likely to be lower for a number of years, because this year we had to
meet several unusual adverse conditions. For commercial purposes I would
recommend none but firm varieties that will stand shipping. Those most
satisfactory are Magoon and Clark's Seedling. . . . . For planting I
would recommend that, after the land is cleared, a heavy crop of clover
be ploughed under, and after that is decomposed the plants be
set. . . . . Strawberry growing, I am convinced, when intelligently
carried on, will continue to be a safe and highly profitable investment
in Kootenay. . . . . All the conditions are ideal for raspberries,
blackberries, currants, gooseberries, and other small fruits. The two
first-named are of much greater commercial value than the others, and
the firm varieties will reach Winnipeg in good market
condition. . . . . Some time ago I estimated the profits of a good
orchard at $265 per acre, and further observation has not changed my
opinion. Single trees or small portion of an orchard might exceed this,
but taking one year with another the whole orchard would average about
this return. . . . . I look forward for many years to a steady demand
and good prices in the prairie provinces of Canada for all the apples we
can grow. . . . . Pears will also continue to be a very profitable crop.
The fruit will bring a little higher price than apples, and the trees
will require a little more care. For varieties, I would recommend
Doyenn du Comice, Beurr d'Anjou, Beurr Easter, and Winter Nelis as
good keepers and ready sellers."

Mr. R. M. Palmer, Deputy-Minister of Agriculture for the Province of
British Columbia, says: "The cost of making a twenty-acre orchard is
variously estimated from $2,500 to $3,500, according to the first outlay
on land and the cost of local labour conditions. Care and maintenance
for five years, or until the orchard begins to bear, would cost about
$2,500, less the value of small fruits and vegetables planted between
the trees, and the fifth year's return of fruit, which in all should pay
the original cost of the trees. In the sixth year the orchard should
produce $850 worth of fruit, in the seventh $3,200, and in the ninth
$5,800, after which it should pay a net annual profit of $125 to $150
per acre, and assured income for life of $2,500 to $3,000 a year. This
estimate is, it is stated, justified by actual
experience. . . . Fruit-packing has been brought to a fine art in the
province, the methods used being considered perfect by experts. Careless
or dishonest packing is not tolerated, offenders being severely
punished."

Finally, Mr. Charles Lucas, Provincial Assessor of Land and other Taxes
for the Kaslo District, writing in September, 1907, says: "Good land
under cultivation, clear of stumps and stones, so that it can be
cultivated by horse power, with perpetual water rights and ditches and
flumes constructed, favourably situated on Howser, Kootenay, Slocan, or
Arrow Lakes, or on streams emptying into or flowing out of these lakes,
is worth $150 (30) to $250 (50) an acre. Unimproved land is worth the
difference between these figures and the cost of making these
improvements. A well-selected, well-cared-for apple orchard, five years
old, is worth $500 (100) to $600 (120) per acre, and at ten years
$1,000 (200) to $1,200 (240). The districts named are, from a climatic
and soil point of view, particularly well adapted to growing apples,
plums, cherries, strawberries, and most small fruits of first-class
quality, quite equal, in the opinion of experts who have investigated
them, to the best-known districts of British Columbia, Washington,
Oregon, and Idaho. I have visited these districts, and find average
prices to be: Good land under cultivation, with water rights, exclusive
of improvements, $350 (70) to $600 (120) per acre; five-year-old
orchard, $800 (160) to $1,000 (200); and full-matured orchard, $1,200
(240) to $1,800 (360) per acre. Fruit lands in Kootenay are selling at
less than in other districts, because they are not so well known. From
the foregoing estimates, which I submit are correct, the difference in
values of West Kootenay lands and those of the same quality in Okanagan
and other districts should be sufficient inducement to capitalists to
invest in Kootenay lands. It costs $35 (7) to plant an acre with
one-year-old trees, and an average of $15 (3) an acre to care for them
until they are five years old; after which they ought to pay expenses. I
am convinced that the West Kootenay is equal, if not superior, to any
other known district for growing fancy fruit, first-class apples, and
their keeping qualities are unequalled. I conclude that a first-class
five-year-old orchard will cost the owner $360 (72) an acre, and is
worth $550 (110). After five years it will pay a profit, and at ten
years the owner will have received five years' fruit, and the orchard
will be worth $1,200 (240) per acre."

A striking proof of the value which is attached to the fruit lands of
the Kootenays was afforded in the summer of 1906, when Earl Grey bought
fifty-four acres on the main Kootenay Lake. He has since then had them
laid out as a fruit ranch. "In the Kootenay district," wrote a prominent
citizen of Nelson recently (1908), "the average price of unimproved
land is about $50 per acre. Good fruit land under cultivation, clear of
stumps and stones, so that it may be cultivated by horse power, is worth
from $150 to $250 per acre."

Mr. Cockle, of Kaslo, says (1908): "Subdivided blocks of ten acres, free
from rock, command $75 to $100 per acre. A few small tracts of
cultivated orchards are to be had, and the price varies from $300 per
acre up. Exception has been taken to the value placed by holders on the
land; but the best evidence that prices are not inflated is found in the
fact that at the recent Government land sale at Creston prices far in
advance of those asked by dealers were obtained, and in many cases the
purchaser was a local man, thoroughly posted as to the values."

The land at Creston, near the southern extremity of Kootenay Lake, which
was sold at public auction in November, fetched from $20 to $150 per
acre. This was uncleared, unbroken land belonging to the British
Columbia Government, and the sale was attended by many buyers from the
fruit-growing districts of the United States. The purchasers, however,
were nearly all local men, men who knew the true value of the land, and
were not deceived or misled by any puffery of the enterprising
real-estate agent.

Orcharding is a delightful occupation; but it is not an indolent life.
No man can sit on his verandah all day and expect his ranch to buy him
bread and cheese. Fruit-growing means work--solid, hard work--work from
the first glinting of the dawn to the creeping up of midnight. It means
an unceasing vigilance. It calls for the constant, daily exercise of a
high intelligence. Once again, it calls for work, long and strenuous
hours--at all events, throughout the summer. Hear the cry of the tender
of orchards!

  Awake! awake!
      The doe and the fawn
  Steal from the dew-dripping brake
      At the first soft whisper of dawn.

  Awake! awake!
      The wings of the mist,
  The shivering, slumbering lake
      Like swallows already have kissed.

  Awake! awake!
      The spear-shafts of morn
  On the mountains quiver and break
      In flashes of fiery scorn.

  Awake! awake!
      Oh play not the drone!
  But move like the startled snake
      As it darts from the sun-drenched stone.

  Awake! awake!
      To shuffle and shirk
  Avail not. For worry and ache
      The cure of cures is work--
          Work--work!

Nor will this imperative call to work by any means cease when you have
guided your orchard through its childhood's years. Even when it begins
to repay you for your love and unremitting care, you will still find
that it makes no light demands upon your energies. Spraying will have to
be done, once, twice, perhaps three times, during the spring and summer.
The soil will have to be kept free from weeds, and the surface
maintained in a state of fine pulverisation. The fruit will have to be
thinned, gathered, graded, packed, and loaded up for market. In fact, if
you grow fruit that is worth growing, you must prepare yourself to lead
the strenuous life; and if you can combine with that the postulates of
the simple life, so much the better. The greater will be your
satisfaction, the more enviable your lot. In any case, you will lead a
delightful open-air life; rain and sun, sweet airs, earth's wholesome
scents, the mysteries of all growing things--these will be your constant
and ever-eloquent companions. Surely there are in such a life, if in any
that earth affords, the elements of the truest happiness. The delight of
the artist who creates a thing of beauty--such is one reward of the
faithful tiller of the soil. Healthful vigour in the bodily frame, sunny
cheer in heart and mind--these are other guerdons of his lot.

Still, although fruit-growing in British Columbia may be described as an
ideal life, the material conditions which surround it are not yet all
that could be desired. It is not all warm sunshine and fair breezes--not
yet. Smooth progress is hampered to some extent by impediments, though
fortunately they are impediments which time and growing experience will
in all probability remove. One of the most noticeable of these
hindrances is the high cost of hired labour. This is, no doubt, felt the
more from the fact that few, if any, orchards have as yet reached the
stage of greatest profitableness. Most orchard-growers are as yet
working under the load of maximum expenses and imperfect, incomplete
returns. But year by year the balance will tend nearer and nearer
towards a satisfactory equilibrium.

Again, the marketing of the products does not always proceed so
satisfactorily as might be desired. This is, of course, a very important
branch of the fruit-growers' operations. Owing to the relative
geographical positions of the markets and the orchards, the task of
selling apples, strawberries, and other fruit is carried on under
unusual conditions, and hampered by difficulties altogether foreign to
the experience of the European grower. The basis on which the marketing
of orchard fruit is being attempted is that of mutual co-operation on
the part of the growers. That is, beyond all question, the true basis to
work upon; co-operation is, in fact, dictated not less by the distance
of the markets than by the small size of the great majority of the fruit
ranches. But as yet the organization of some of the fruit-growing
districts falls considerably short of perfection; though others again,
such as Victoria, work smoothly and quite successfully. With the example
and stimulus afforded by the splendid organization of the Hood River
Apple Growers' Union before them, the fruit ranchers of British Columbia
have every encouragement to persevere. What others have done, they too
can do. Where others have succeeded, they too can achieve success. Those
who best understand the position of affairs are fully confident that ere
long the fruit-growers of British Columbia will be able to market their
products as successfully as the fruit-growers of Yakima, of Wenatchee,
of the Hood River Valley.


[Footnote: Whilst passing this chapter through the press, the author has
gathered close upon a quarter of a ton of Black Tartarian cherries off a
single tree, the crop being worth $65 to $75 (13 to 15).]


  Printed at the "Pall Mall" Press, 12-14, Newton-street,
  Holborn, London, W.C.


  =Transcriber's Notes:=
  original hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in
    the original
  Page 8, "they must be" changed to "they must be."
  Page 13, 'had been proven.' changed to 'had been proven."'
  Page 26, 'Average prices' changed to '"Average prices'
  Page 124, "by this they" changed to "by this time they"
  Page 127, 'he said: "German"' changed to 'he said: "German."'
  Page 189, "or more those" changed to "or more than those"




[End of Fruit Ranching in British Columbia, by J. T. Bealby]
