Nellie L. McClung - The Next of Kin
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Nellie L. McClung >> The Next of Kin
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The Church's stiff attitude toward women has been a hard thing to
explain to the "world." Many a time I have been afraid that it would
be advanced as a reason for not considering woman suffrage in the
State. "If the Church," politicians might well have said, "with its
spiritual understanding of right and justice, cannot see its way clear
to give the vote to women, why should the State incur the risk?"
Whenever I have invited questions, at the close of an address, I have
feared that one. That cheerful air of confidence with which I urged
people to speak right up and ask any question they wished always
covered a trembling and fearful heart. You have heard of people
whistling as they passed a graveyard, and perhaps you thought that
they were frivolously light-hearted? Oh, no! That is not why they
whistled!
When the vote was given to the women in our province and all the
other Western provinces, I confess that I thought our worst troubles
were over. I see now that they were really beginning. A second
Hindenburg line has been set up, and seems harder to pierce than the
first. It is the line of bitter prejudice! Some of those who, at the
time the vote was given, made eloquent speeches of welcome, declaring
their long devotion to the cause of women, are now busily engaged in
trying to make it uncomfortably hot for the women who dare to enter
the political field. They are like the employers who furnish seats for
their clerks in the stores, yet make it clear that to use them may
cost their jobs.
The granting of the franchise to women in western Canada, was brought
about easily. It won, not by political pressure, but on its merits.
There is something about a new country which beats out prejudice, and
the pioneer age is not so far removed as to have passed out of memory.
The real men of the West remember gratefully how the women stood by
them in the old hard days, taking their full share of the hardships
and the sacrifice uncomplainingly. It was largely this spirit which
prompted the action of the legislators of the West. As Kipling says:--
Now and not hereafter, while the breath is in our nostrils,
Now and not hereafter, ere the meaner years go by,
Let us now remember many honorable women--
They who stretched their hands to us, when we were like to die!
There was not any great opposition here in western Canada. One member
did say that, if women ever entered Parliament, he would immediately
resign; but the women were not disturbed. They said that it was just
another proof of the purifying effect that the entrance of women into
politics would have! Sitting in Parliament does not seem like such a
hard job to those of us who have sat in the Ladies' Gallery and looked
over; there is such unanimity among members of Parliament, such
remarkable and unquestioning faith in the soundness of their party's
opinion. In one of the Parliaments of the West there sat for twelve
years an honored member who never once broke the silence of the back
benches except to say, "Aye," when he was told to say, "Aye." But on
toward the end of the thirteenth year he gave unmistakable signs of
life. A window had been left open behind him, and when the draft blew
over him--he sneezed! Shortly after, he got up and shut the window!
Looking down upon such tranquil scenes as these there are women who
have said in their boastful way that they believe they could do just
as well--with a little practice!
Women who sit in Parliament will do so by sheer merit, for there is
still enough prejudice to keep them out if any reason for so doing can
be found. Their greatest contribution, in Parliament and out of it,
will be independence of thought.
Women have not the strong party affiliations which men have. They have
no political past, no political promises to keep, no political sins to
expiate. They start fair and with a clean sheet. Those who make the
mistake of falling into old party lines, and of accepting ready-made
opinions and prejudices, will make no difference in the political
life of the country except to enlarge the voters' list and increase
the expenses of elections.
Just now partyism is falling into disfavor, for there are too many
serious questions to be fought out. There are still a few people who
would rather lose the war than have their party defeated, but not
many. "When the Empire is in danger is no time to think of men,"
appeals to the average thinking man and woman. The independent man who
carefully thinks out issues for himself, and who is not led away by
election cries, is the factor who has held things steady in the past.
Now it seems that this independent body will be increased by the new
voters, and if so, they will hold in their hands the balance of power
in any province, and really become a terror to evil-doers as well as a
praise to those who do well!
Old things are passing away, and those who have eyes to see it know
that all things are becoming new. The political ideals of the far-off,
easy days of peace will not do for these new and searching times.
Political ideals have been different from any other. Men who would
not rob a bank or sandbag a traveler, and who are quite punctilious
about paying their butcher and their baker, have been known to rob the
country quite freely and even hilariously, doctoring an expense sheet,
overcharging for any service rendered. "Good old country," they have
seemed to say, "if I do not rob you, some one else will!"
This easy conscience regarding the treasury of the country is early
shown in the attitude toward road-work, those few days' labor which
the municipality requires men to do as part payment of their taxes.
Who has not noticed the languorous ease of the lotus-eating
road-workers as they sit on their plough-handles and watch the slow
afternoon roll by?
Politics too long has been a mystical word which has brought visions
of a dark but fascinating realm of romantic intrigue, sharp deals,
good-natured tricks, and lucky strikes. The greatest asset a
politician can have is the ability to "put it over" and "get something
for us." The attitude of the average voter has been that of
expectancy. If he renders a public service, he expects to be
remunerated. His relation to his country has not been, "What can I
do?" but, "What can I get?" His hand has been outstretched palm
upward! Citizenship to us has not meant much; it has come too easy,
like money to the rich man's son! All things have been ours by
inheritance--free speech, freedom of religion, responsible government.
Somebody fought for these things, but it was a long time ago, and only
in a vague way are we grateful! These things become valuable only when
threatened.
There hangs on the wall, in one of the missions in the city of
Winnipeg, a picture of a street in one of the Polish villages. In it
the people are huddled together, cowering with fear. The priest,
holding aloft the sacred crucifix, stands in front of them, while down
the street come the galloping Cossacks with rifles and bayonets.
Polish men and women have cried bitter tears before that picture. They
knew what happened. They knew that the sacred sign of the crucifix did
not stay the fury of the Cossacks! These are the people, these Polish
people, who have been seen to kiss the soil of Canada in an ecstasy of
gladness when they set foot upon it, for it is to them the land of
liberty. Liberty of speech and of action, safety of life and of
property mean something to them; but we have always enjoyed these
things, and esteem them lightly.
The first blow between the eyes that our complacency received was
Belgium!--that heroic little country to whose people citizenship was
so much dearer than life or riches, or even the safety of their loved
ones, that they flung all these things away, in a frenzy of devotion,
for the honor of their country and her good name among nations. This
has disturbed us: we cannot forget Belgium. It has upset our
comfortable Canadian conscience, for it has given us a glimpse of the
upper country, and life can never be the same again. It is not all of
life to live--that is, grow rich and quit work.
The heroism of the trenches is coming back to us. It is filtering
through. It is the need for heroism which is bringing it out. We are
playing a losing game, even though we are winning. There is only one
thing more disastrous than a victory, and that is a defeat. I do not
need to enumerate what we are losing--we know. What can we do to make
good the loss? Some of our people have always done all they could:
they have always stood in the front trench and "carried on"; others
have been in the "stand-to" trench, and have done well, too, in time
of stress. Many have not yet signed on, but they will: they are not
cowards, they are only indifferent. This has been true of the
protected woman in the home, who has not considered herself a citizen.
We have come to the place now when our full force must be called out.
The women are our last reserves. If they cannot heal the world, we are
lost, for they are the last we have--we cannot call the angels down.
The trumpets are calling now in every street of every town, in every
country lane, even in the trackless fastnesses of the North Country.
The call is for citizens,--woman citizens,--who, with deft and
skillful fingers, will lovingly, patiently undertake the task of
piecing together the torn mantle of civilization; who will make it so
strong, so beautiful, so glorified, that never again can it be torn or
soiled or stained with human blood. The trumpets are calling for
healers and binders who will not be appalled at the task of nursing
back to health a wounded world, shot to pieces by injustice, greed,
cruelty, and wrong thinking.
The sign of the Red Cross is a fitting emblem for the Order, worn not
only on the sleeve, but in the heart; red to remind its wearer that
God made all people of one blood, and is the Father of all; and the
Cross which speaks of the One whose mission on earth was to save; who
came not to be ministered unto, but to minister. Every one who signs
on does so for "duration," and must consider herself under orders
until the coming in of that glad day
"When men shall brothers be
And form one family
The wide world o'er!"
CHAPTER XV
LIFE'S TRAGEDY
It often happens that people die
At the hand of that they loved the best;
One who loves horses all his days
By a horse's hoof is laid to rest!
The swimmer who loves on the waves to lie
Is caught in the swell of a passing boat,
And the thing he loves breaks over his head
And chokes the breath from his gasping throat.
And the Christ who loved all men so well
That he came to earth their friend to be,
By one was denied, by one betrayed,
By others nailed to the cursed tree!
And more and more I seem to see
That Love is the world's great Tragedy!
Love is a terrible thing--quite different from amiability, which is
sometimes confused with it. Amiability will never cause people to do
hard things, but love will tear the heart to pieces!
It was because the people of Belgium loved their country that they
chose to suffer all things rather than have her good name tarnished
among the nations of the earth. It has been for love, love of fair
play, love of British traditions, that Canada has sent nearly four
hundred thousand men across the sea to fight against the powers of
darkness. Canada has nothing to gain in this struggle, in a material
way, as a nation, and even less has there been any chance of gain to
the individual who answered the call. There are many things that may
happen to the soldier after he has put on the uniform, but sudden
riches is not among them.
Some of the men, whose love of country made them give up all and
follow the gleam, have come back to us now, and on pleasant afternoons
may be seen sitting on the balconies of the Convalescent Homes or
perhaps being wheeled in chairs by their more fortunate companions.
Their neighbors, who had an amiable feeling for the country instead of
love, and who therefore stayed at home, are very sorry for these
broken men, and sometimes, when the day is fine, they take the
"returned men" out in their big cars for a ride!
There are spiritual and moral dead-beats in every community who get
through life easily by following a "safety-first" plan in everything,
who keep close to the line of "low visibility," which means, "Keep
your head down or you may get hit"; who allow others to do the
fighting and bear all the criticism, and then are not even gracious
enough to acknowledge the unearned benefits. The most popular man in
every community is the one who has never taken a stand on any moral
question; who has never loved anything well enough to fight for it;
who is broad-minded and tolerant--because he does not care....
Amiability fattens, but love kills!
Amiable patriots at the present time talk quite cheerfully of the
conscription of life, but say little of the conscription of wealth,
declaring quite truthfully that wealth will never win the war! Neither
will men! It will take both, and all we have, too, I am afraid. Surely
if the government feels that it can ask one man for his life, it need
not be so diffident about asking another man for his wealth. The
conscription of wealth might well begin with placing all articles of
food and clothing on the free list and levying a direct tax on all
land values. Then, if all profits from war-supplies were turned over
to the government, there would be money enough to pay a fair allowance
to our soldiers and their dependents. It does not seem fair that the
soldier should bear all the sacrifices of hardship and danger, and
then have the additional one of poverty for his family and the
prospect of it for himself, when he comes back unfit for his former
occupation. Hardship and danger for the soldier are inevitable, but
poverty is not. The honest conscription of wealth would make it
possible for all who serve the Empire to have an assurance of a decent
living as long as they live.
If equal pay were given to every man, whether he is a private or a
major, equal pensions to every soldier's widow, and if all political
preference were eliminated, as it would have to be under this system;
when all service is put on the same basis and one man's life counts as
much as another's, there would be no need of compulsion to fill the
ranks of the Canadian army. We know that there never can be equality
of service--the soldier will always bear the heavy burden, and no
money can ever pay him for what he does; but we must not take refuge
behind that statement to let him bear the burdens which belong to the
people who stay at home.
Heroism is contagious. It becomes easier when every one is practicing
it. What we need now, more than anything, are big, strong, heroic
leaders, men of moral passion, who will show us the hard path of
sacrifice, not asking us to do what they are not willing to do
themselves; not pointing the way, but traveling in it; men of heroic
mould who will say, "If my right eye offend me, I will pluck it out";
men who are willing to go down to political death if the country can
be saved by that sacrifice. We need men at home who are as brave as
the boys in the trenches, who risk their lives every day in a dozen
different ways, without a trace of self-applause, who have laid all
their equipment on the altar of sacrifice; who "carry on" when all
seems hopeless; who stand up to death unflinchingly, and at the last,
ask only, that their faces may be turned to the West!--to Canada!
We have always had plenty of amiability, but in this terrible time it
will not do. Our country is calling for love.
CHAPTER XVI
WAITING!
Sing a song of the Next of Kin,
A weary, wishful, waiting rhyme,
That has no tune and has no time,
But just a way of wearing in!
Sing a song of those who weep
While slow the weary night hours go;
Wondering if God willed it so,
That human life should be so cheap!
Sing a song of those who wait,
Wondering what the post will bring;
Saddened when he slights the gate,
Trembling at his ring,--
The day the British mail comes in
Is a day of thrills for the Next of Kin.
When the Alpine climbers make a dangerous ascent, they fasten a rope
from one to the other; so that if one slips, the others will be able
to hold him until he finds his feet again; and thus many a catastrophe
is averted! We have a ring like that here--we whose boys are gone.
Somebody is almost sure to get a letter when the British mail comes
in; and even a letter from another boy read over the 'phone is
cheering, especially if he mentions your boy--or even if he doesn't;
for we tell each other that the writer of the letter would surely know
"if anything had happened."
Even "Posty" does his best to cheer us when the letters are far apart,
and when the British mail has brought us nothing tells us it was a
very small, and, he is sure, divided mail, and the other part of it
will be along to-morrow. He also tells us the U-boats are probably
accounting for the scarcity of French mail, anyway, and we must not be
worried. He is a good fellow, this "Posty"!
We hold tight to every thread of comfort--we have to. That's why we
wear bright-colored clothes: there is a buoyancy, an assurance about
them, that we sorely need! We try to economize on our emotions, too,
never shedding a useless or idle tear! In the days of peace we could
afford to go to see "East Lynne," "Madame X," or "Romeo and Juliet,"
and cry our eyes red over their sorrows. Now we must go easy on all
that! Some of us are running on the emergency tank now, and there is
still a long way to go!
There are some things we try not to think about, especially at night.
There is no use--we have thought it all over and over again; and now
our brains act like machines which have been used for sewing something
too heavy for them, and which don't "feed" just right, and skip
stitches. So we try to do the things that we think ought to be done,
and take all the enjoyment we can from the day's work.
We have learned to divide our time into day-lengths, following the
plan of the water-tight compartments in ships, which are so arranged
that, if a leak occurs in one of these, the damaged one may be closed
up, and no harm is done to the ship. So it is in life. We can live so
completely one day at a time that no mournful yesterday can throw its
dull shadow on the sunshine of to-day; neither can any frowning
to-morrow reach back and with a black hand slap its smiling face.
To-day is a sacred thing if we know how to live it.
I am writing this on the fourth day of August, which is a day when
memory grows bitter and reflective if we are not careful. The August
sunshine lies rich and yellow on the fields, and almost perceptibly
the pale green of the wheat is absorbing the golden hue of the air.
The painted cup has faded from rosy pink to a dull, ashy color, and
the few wild roses which are still to be seen in the shaded places
have paled to a pastel shade. The purple and yellow of goldenrod, wild
sage, gallardia, and coxcomb are to be seen everywhere--the strong,
bold colors of the harvest.
Everything spoke of peace to-day as we drove through the country. The
air had the indescribably sweet smell of ripening grain,
clover-blooms, and new hay; for the high stands of wild hay around the
ponds and lakes are all being cut this year, and even the timothy
along the roads, and there was a mellow undertone of mowing machines
everywhere, like the distant hum of a city. Fat cattle stood knee-deep
in a stream as we passed, and others lay contentedly on the
clover-covered banks. One restless spirit, with a poke on her neck,
sniffed at us as we went by, and tossed her head in grim defiance of
public opinion and man-made laws. She had been given a bad name--and
was going to live up to it!
Going over a hill, we came upon a woman driving a mower. It was the
first reminder of the war. She was a fine-looking woman, with a tanned
face, brown, but handsome, and she swung her team around the edge of
the meadow with a grace and skill that called forth our admiration.
I went over and spoke to her, for I recognized her as a woman whom I
had met at the Farm-Woman's Convention last winter. After we had
exchanged greetings, and she had made her kind inquiry, "What news do
you get from the Front?" and had heard that my news had been good--she
said abruptly:--
"Did you know I've lost my husband?"
I expressed my sorrow.
"Yes," she said, "it was a smashing blow--never believed Alex could be
killed: he was so big, and strong, and could do anything.... Ever
since I can remember, I thought Alex was the most wonderful of all
people on earth ... and at first ... when the news came, it seemed I
could not go on living ... but I am all right now, and have thought
things out.... This isn't the only plane of existence ... there are
others; this is merely one phase of life.... I am taking a longer view
of things now.... You see that schoolhouse over there,"--she pointed
with her whip to a green-and-white school farther down the
road,--"Alex and I went to school there.... We began the same day and
left the same day. His family and mine settled in this neighborhood
twenty years ago--we are all Kincardine people--Bruce, you know. Our
road to school lay together on the last mile ... and we had a way of
telling whether the other one had passed. We had a red willow stick
which we drove into the ground. Then, when I came along in the morning
and found it standing, I knew I was there first. I pulled it out and
laid it down, so when Alex came he knew I had passed, and hurried
along after me. When he came first and found it standing, he always
waited for me, if he could, for he would rather be late than go
without me. When I got the message I could not think of anything but
the loneliness of the world, for a few days; but after a while I
realized what it meant ... Alex had passed ... the willow was down ...
but he'll wait for me some place ... nothing is surer than that! I am
not lonely now.... Alex and I are closer together than plenty of
people who are living side by side. Distance is a matter of spirit ...
like everything else that counts.
"I am getting on well. The children are at school now, both of
them,--they sit in the same seats we sat in,--the crops are in good
shape--did you ever see a finer stand of wild hay? I can manage the
farm, with one extra hired man in harvest-time. Alex went out on the
crest of the wave--he had just been recommended for promotion--the
children will always have a proud memory.
"This is a great country, isn't it? Where can you find such abundance,
and such a climate, with its sunshine and its cool nights, and such a
chance to make good?... I suppose freedom has to be paid for. We
thought the people long ago had paid for it, but another installment
of the debt fell due. Freedom is like a farm--it has to be kept up. It
is worth something to have a chance to work and bring up my
children--in peace--so I am living on from day to day ... not grieving
... not moping ... not thinking too much,--it hurts to think too
hard,--just living."
Then we shook hands, and I told her that she had found something far
greater than happiness, for she had achieved power!
* * * * *
There is a fine rainbow in the sky this evening, so bright and strong
that it shows again in a reflected bow on the clouds behind it. A
rainbow is a heartsome thing, for it reminds us of a promise made long
ago, and faithfully kept.
There is shadow and shine, sorrow and joy, all the way along. This is
inevitable, and so we must take them as they come, and rejoice over
every sunny hour of every day, or, if the day is all dark, we must go
hopefully forward through the gloom.
To-day has been fine. There was one spattering shower, which pebbled
the dusty roads, and a few crashes of rolling thunder. But the western
sky is red now, giving promise of a good day to-morrow.
A PRAYER FOR THE NEXT OF KIN
O Thou, who once Thine own Son gave
To save the world from sin,
Draw near in pity now we crave
To all the Next of Kin.
To Thee we make our humble prayer
To save us from despair!
Send sleep to all the hearts that wake;
Send tears into the eyes that burn;
Steady the trembling hands that shake;
Comfort all hearts that mourn.
But most of all, dear Lord, we pray
For strength to see us through this day.
As in the wilderness of old,
When Thou Thy children safely led,
They gathered, as we have been told,
One day's supply of heavenly bread,
And if they gathered more than that,
At evening it was stale and flat,--
So, Lord, may this our faith increase--
To leave, untouched, to-morrow's load,
To take of grace a one-day lease
Upon life's winding road.
Though round the bend we may not see,
Still let us travel hopefully!
Or, if our faith is still so small--
Our hearts so void of heavenly grace,
That we may still affrighted be
In passing some dark place--
Then in Thy mercy let us run
Blindfolded in the race.
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