A Ribbon of Shining Steel Read online

  I sweep with a voice of wrath –

  In a fleecy cloud I wrap my train

  As I tread my iron path!

  My bowels are fire and my arm is steel,

  My breath is a rolling cloud –

  And my voice peals out as I onward wheel,

  Like the thunder rolling loud!

  I roar on the beach of the roaring deep

  When the sea-shells touch my wheels –

  Through the desert land with a howl I sweep

  And the yellow harvest fields.

  I traverse the regions of burning heat –

  The Equator hears my scream –

  And I breathe the silence of winter’s retreat,

  Where the glittering snow-fields gleam.

  The wild beasts fly when my voice they hear,

  Through the sounding forest ring,

  And the sons of men stand mute with fear,

  Of Earth I am King!

  I love this poem. I’m going to learn it by heart and recite it whenever I walk along the tracks or when I take the train across Canada — or even when I visit the Equator!

  I wonder what it is like on the Equator, besides hot. I wonder if Mr. Hagan composed the poem and is simply being modest. I would not be modest if I had written such a splendid poem.

  Saturday, October 28

  More rain. More mud.

  Caught Toby pouring cod liver oil down the sink. He planned to fill the bottle with tea — the same colour as cod liver oil — and asked if I would help. He did not need to ask twice. Swallowing rotten fish in liquid form is truly a disgusting form of torture and we Knights of the Thistle must resist. When the tea was ready we poured it into the bottle and put the bottle back in the cupboard.

  Andrew came home a while later, drenched to the skin, but with a fine buck. Now we can look forward to roast venison with Mama’s Old English Jelly Wine Sauce that makes everything taste better.

  We told Andrew about the cod liver oil and swore him to Secrecy.

  Sunday, October 29

  Dismal, dreary, rainy day.

  Mama opened the bottle of “cod liver oil” and knew it was tea. Hell’s Gate and Galoshes! — have I not suffered enough with the whooping cough?

  November 1882

  Wednesday, November 1

  Anne’s birthday is coming up — it’s on Saturday, November 11, and today she handed out invitations to her party. I told her I can’t go because I’m going to Spuzzum to see Rachel and not even an earthquake will keep me away this time.

  Anne looked a little disappointed and asked if I couldn’t go to Rachel’s another time. No! I said. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. We’re going to ride horses and have all sorts of Adventures!

  Thursday, November 2

  Snow in the mountains! Soon we can go sledding.

  Saturday, November 4

  Dull, dreary day and a mood to match. I asked Anne if she wanted to go for a stroll but she said she was busy. So I walked up the river by myself and looked for jade. I came home empty-handed without having a shadow of an Adventure.

  Monday, November 6

  Today at school Anne asked me why I always walked as if I had a yardstick taped to my back. She said it looked very odd and made everyone laugh. To prove her point, she told me to turn around. And when I did I saw Clara and the other girls — except Melissa — giggling and pointing at me.

  I’m hurt to the bone. How could Anne make such a cruel remark? Surely she is not still fretting about the jade. That happened over a month ago! How could anyone hold a grudge for that long?

  Thank goodness I’m going to Rachel’s on Saturday. I wish I could stay in Spuzzum forever.

  Friday, November 10

  Papa came home with dreadful news. A huge blast went off and a piece of rock was thrown so far it hit a Chinese worker and cut off his head.

  Papa said the Chinese gang blamed the foreman because he had not given proper warning. No wonder they were angry. They chased the foreman into the river up to his neck and threw stones from the bank. Someone finally appeared in a boat and rescued him. And then the Chinese fired shots and two bullets hit the water close to the boat.

  Now it is bedtime and I should get to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll see Rachel! But tonight, I hope I don’t have nightmares. Papa is a Bridge Foreman — what if something goes wrong and all his workers chase him into the river and throw stones?

  Saturday, November 11

  Aspen Hill Farm, Spuzzum

  It is very late. Rachel and I are curled up in her bed, wide awake with talk and giggles and plans and Excitement. Mrs. Perkins has just come in and told us to be quiet and get to sleep. But we can’t sleep. So Rachel has lit a lamp and we are presently engaged in recording the events of the day in our Diaries.

  I left Yale early this morning with Papa on the Express coach for Spuzzum. Mr. Tingley was driving a six-horse team and the leaders were so spirited and anxious they reared up and almost got tangled in the harness. After the first 100 yards or so they settled down to a brisk trot and nothing distracted them.

  It was a thrilling ride but also very frightening. In some places the railway track is high up the bank and the Wagon Road is beside the river. A slide could come down at any time because of all the rain and mud. And the bluffs! The road goes around on struts that overhang the Fraser River hundreds of feet below. There is a rule that says the lighter traffic, like the Express, takes the outside of the road and the heavy traffic, like ox teams with six, eight or ten yoke of oxen, have to take the inside. The road is only 18 feet wide. So every time we passed an ox team we were off to the outside edge clinging for dear life.

  A fine shaking we had in that coach, scrunching over stones and into potholes as deep as a ditch. Papa said that when the railway is finished we’ll feel like we’re riding on silk.

  We saw lots of deer on the road, and a coyote, but no bears because of the season, and no panthers. Once before, on another trip, I saw a panther cross the road in front of us.

  All along the way we saw railway workers — gangs of track layers carrying heavy wooden ties on their shoulders (two men to a tie) and placing them on the roadbed, gangs laying down the steel rails and bolting them together, gangs hammering in the iron spikes to hold the rails in place. Then another gang spreads gravel and sand between the ties so the track is steady. And after all that, the foreman comes along and lies down on the rail and looks with one eye to make sure the track is even.

  We passed bunkhouse camps where the white workers live, tent camps where the Chinese live, and hundreds of Chinese workers. They are in gangs, too, about thirty in a gang and every Chinese gang has a white boss. They were drilling and blasting and removing the rock to get the roadbed ready for the gangs who followed.

  I’m writing this down before I forget because Papa says it is important. So when the Railway is finished and I’m riding across Canada on the train I’ll remember not only the famous men like Andrew Onderdonk and our Prime Minister, Sir John A. Macdonald — and of course, the Very Famous John Stuart Cameron (Papa’s joke!) — but all the ordinary workers who made it possible.

  Today was fairly mild for November, but all along the line we saw fires and huge teapots so the Chinese could warm themselves and drink their tea. Papa said they feel the cold most sorely, since the part of China they come from is very warm.

  A passenger in the coach said, “Pity they didn’t stay there.”

  Papa’s mouth turned into a thin line, the way it does when he is angry. But he held his tongue.

  On the way we passed some of Papa’s bridges. He calls them “grasshopper trestles.” They do look like grasshoppers, with long post-legs on the outside standing in steps cut into the rock, and short post-legs on the other side because there’s only half a roadbed. Papa said they have to build the bridges that way to get around some of the bluffs.

  We got to Spuzzum — 12 miles above Yale — and there was Rachel, waiting to give me a hug. I kissed Papa goodbye — he has to go up-
country to Lytton — and got into the wagon with Rachel and her brother, Adam. For fun, Adam took us across the Alexandra Suspension Bridge a mile above Spuzzum. The river there is tremendously swift and deep — to think that Rachel and I ventured upon it in a very small boat.

  Adam stopped the horse in the middle of the Bridge so we could admire the view — mossy rocks, fir trees, boiling river — but the poor horse was not impressed. He was skittery and impatient to be back on solid ground.

  Rachel and I chattered like chipmunks all the way to Aspen Hill Farm. We laughed about how much we had hated each other when I first came to Yale. She said I put on Big City Airs the way I tippy-toed down the street — I did not! — and I said she was as mean as a rusty nail and a ruffian besides. That is how it was until we ended up at the same fishing spot with our brothers and Rachel fell into the creek — showing off — and I went to her rescue and we became Best Friends.

  All this time, Adam hadn’t said Boo, but then he said I should have left Rachel in the creek! He warned us we had better not be planning to run the rapids this time — at least, not in his boat. We gave him our Solemn Word.

  When we got to the Farm I gave Mrs. Perkins the six jars of preserved salmon Mama had sent up, and told little Becky how much she’s grown. They both seemed very pleased.

  We had roast chicken for lunch. I was enjoying it immensely, until Becky told me it was Harold, her pet rooster. That explained why she only ate mashed potatoes. Poor Becky. I have to admit Harold was tasty.

  After lunch Rachel and I helped with the washing-up and then we went riding. She rode her horse, Fireweed, and I rode Starlight. We galloped across the field as fast as the wind and came back along the Wagon Road.

  We rubbed down the horses and Starlight nuzzled my cheek as if to say “thank you.” I told Rachel she was so lucky, that I would give anything to live on a farm and have my own horse. At that, she burst into tears and told me she was going to Victoria in January and had to leave Fireweed behind. Why Victoria? Because her parents want her to have a proper education so they are sending her to Angela College.

  Well! When I heard this my mood went from despair to exceedingly great joy. I told her that my parents were planning to send me to Angela College!

  This cheered her up enormously. We danced around the barn, then kissed the horses and went inside.

  We had cold mutton sandwiches for supper and Becky told me it was Radish, her pet sheep. Rachel’s other brother, Simon — who had been off on some errands at lunch — said to pay her no mind as she is forever telling tales. Her only real pet is a cat. Which they are not planning to eat.

  We played Charades after supper and then it was time for bed and here we are. Rachel is asleep. So I’m going to blow out the lamp and go to sleep, too. It was a wonderful day.

  Sunday, November 12

  Home again, after another eventful day.

  This morning at Rachel’s I was attacked by a rooster. I was collecting the eggs and when I reached under one of the hens, the way I do at home, she made such an almighty fuss the rooster flew to her defense — straight at my face. Rachel heard my screams, ran to my rescue and chased the rooster outside.

  Mercy McGinnis! I could have lost an eye. If Rachel has to face that monster every morning, she is braver than I am. I told her she deserved to be in the Knights of the Thistle.

  We had another gallop after breakfast, then lunch and then it was time to go.

  I waited for the Express at Spuzzum, sad to say goodbye, but excited, too, because for the first time I was travelling on my own. But when I got on the Express, horrors! Rusty was there with his parents. I had no choice but to sit across from him — and he smiled, the cheek!

  The coach was full, four passengers to a side, and every time we hit a rut in the road — every second, that is — we tumbled against each other and had a right good shake-up. The road was busy, even though it was Sunday — we went whipping around one curve and almost collided with a twelve-mule team.

  Whenever I happened to look at Rusty — not on purpose but when I could not help it — he gave me the same little smile. He was quiet and polite, too, not loud and rude and silly like he is at school around Finch. And I noticed something odd. Whenever I caught his eye, my stomach went queasy. I’m certain it was because of the rough road. But there was a twinge of something I have never felt before.

  Rusty’s mother, Mrs. Schroeder, asked after Mama and her work at the Hospital, and Mr. Schroeder asked how Papa was doing and how the railway was progressing. I answered as best I could. Then they asked how Rusty was doing in school. Poor Rusty! His face turned as red as a beet. And I do not know why, but my stomach took another funny tumble.

  Monday, November 13

  Anne was very odd today. I told her about the splendid time I had with Rachel but she didn’t seem interested, not even when I told her that we had eaten Becky’s pets. She said maybe next time we would eat Rachel’s horse. I laughed, thinking she was playing along with my joke, but then she said as serious as all get-out, “People do eat horses, you know, in places like France, for instance. Maybe what you thought was mutton was really a tough old horse.” After that she linked arms with Clara and walked away.

  I wonder when Mama is going to tell me about Angela College. I hope I can go with Rachel in January.

  Wednesday, November 15

  Andrew has taken up pyrography, where you burn a picture into a piece of wood. He is etching a design on a pipe rack to give Papa for Christmas. Naturally Toby is doing the same, only he is etching his design on a necktie holder. Now I know why their bedroom sometimes smells smoky — but only when Papa is away from home. They asked if I would like to try pyrography but I’m certain I would burn more fingers than wood.

  I hope they’re finished soon. I’m so afraid they might get careless and set the house on fire.

  Friday, November 17

  Hell’s Gate and Gory Goblins! I could spit railway spikes. I will call upon Justice Crease himself and have that wicked Toby sentenced to death by hanging. Why? Because he found my Diary and took it to school and read parts of it out loud in the playground — my Private Thoughts about Anne being odd and how I wished I had not saved her lunch from the outhouse — and what I wrote about Rusty on the way back from Spuzzum. I could DIE with Humiliation. The rest of the day Anne refused to look at me, let alone talk to me. And Rusty — he smiled at me the whole livelong day.

  I am presently in the chicken shed, sneezing every two minutes on account of the straw, and my eyes are stinging and red because of the torrents of tears I’ve shed these last few hours — and the hens are squawking and the rooster is giving me nasty looks as if he thinks I’m planning to move into his territory. I can hear Mama inside the house giving Toby an earful, with an abundance of “Wait til’ your father gets home.” GOOD! I will never forgive him.

  He says he did it because I donated his Boy’s Own Papers to the library without asking his permission.

  LESSON LEARNED.

  I know it was wrong, I know I acted without thinking — but only because I was so excited by the prospect of a Lending Library. And I would have asked Toby if he had been home at the time, instead of gallivanting in the woods with Andrew. And if they had let me go with them, I would not have set myself the task of looking for magazines in the first place. But I apologized and got them back — all the Boy’s Own Papers and the almanacs, too. I would have thought that was enough, but Toby was set on Revenge.

  Thank goodness today is Friday. Perhaps by Monday Anne will have forgiven me, Rusty will have forgotten me, and the rest of the school will find someone else to torment. OHHH! Hateful horrid life. Hateful HORRID Toby.

  Later

  I’m back in my room after brushing off dust and straw and bits of grain. I smell of chickens and my head itches. All I need now is an attack of lice.

  I may not be a reporter after all. Reporting an event or expressing an opinion that the WHOLE WORLD can read sounds exceedingly grand — but what if
the World disagrees? Or takes it the wrong way, even if it is true? Mr. Hagan says you have to be thick-skinned and prepared to take it on the chin. I’m not sure if I can. I have a very small, thin-skinned chin.

  Saturday, November 18

  Mama made plum pudding today and now the whole house smells like Christmas — raisins and currants and candied peel, sugar and spices and brandy! Almonds, too! But no plums. Mama said in the olden days people made the pudding with dried plums — what we call prunes. Now they use currants and raisins instead.

  We took turns stirring our Christmas wishes into the batter. Andrew reminded me to stir in the right direction. It has to be east to west because that is the direction the three Wise Men were travelling when they first saw the star in Bethlehem. He asked what I wished for but I refused to tell. Then I helped Mama stir in the silver charms. I hope I get the horseshoe this time. Last year I got the thimble and Toby called me Old Maid for weeks. I do not especially want a husband but I do NOT want to be an Old Maid. Are there any other choices?

  Toby and I did not speak to each other all day.

  Monday, November 20

  Beastly day. Beastly school. My head still aches from being shouted at — not once but three times. Once for daydreaming, once for asking Teacher to repeat a question and a third time for failing to give the correct answer. Teacher got his “One hundred lines coming up” look and scowled his left eyebrow straight into his forehead. I thought I would die. But Toby whispered the correct answer and I was saved. Now I will have to forgive him for stealing my Diary.