WE’RE celebrating the holidays with Harold F. Cruickshank—creator of those great Aces of the Western Front’s Hell Skies—Red Eagle, Sky Wolf, and Sky Devil. But this holiday season it’s going to be a down home Christmas featuring Cruickshank’s Pioneer Folk stories from the pages of Range Riders Western (1945-1952) on Mondays and Fridays; and Cruickshank’s own recollections of homesteading life from The Edmonton Journal’s The Third Column on Wednesdays.

The Edmonton Journal regularly set aside the third column on its editorial page for submissions from freelance writers, of which Cruickshank was an occasional contributor over the years. His columns frequently focused on his life growing up as a homesteader with his father and brother who had all immigrated from Scotland in 1905 to Barrhead, Canada along the famed Klondike Trail, just to the northwest of Fort Edmonton.

It’s Wednesday, so here’s another of Cruickshank’s Third Columns.

The Third Column

by Harold F. Cruickshank • Edmonton Journal, Edmonton, Canada • Saturday, 23 May 1953

Bad Seasons and Good

AFTER forty-seven years of residence in these latitudes, I have found that nature balances her seasons fairly well. Over the long term and as a whole, we haven’t suffered too much through weather capers.

I think today, especially, of our first springtime in this country our first spring (question mark) in the hinterland.

We had trekked in, in the summer of 1906, and had somehow thrived as we survived that most terrible winter on record, the winter of 1906-07. We had, by back-breaking toll, with other work accomplished, cleared five acres of heavy willow-studded land. When the snows at last started to melt, we looked eagerly to the firing of the brush piles, the plowing and the sowing of that first patch of “chocolate-loam” soil. (The descriptive phrase is from publicity pamphlets we had read In Britain in 1905.)

We had, in the winter, hauled in seed oats a distance of seventy miles, over drifted trails. We now saw miniature creeks become raging rivers, for the snow had been heavy, and the spring season tardy indeed.

As I remember it, it was the first week in June before we, at last, got our first few bushels of oats harrowed in.

Five acres of oats! How insignificant now, but how important then! We watched for the first green blades to shoot up through the inadequately tilled sod. When we saw them, we were thrilled!

It was a reward, indeed, for those endless days of toil—grubbing out those horrible willow clumps with axe and mattock, or grub-hoe.

* * *

We were informed by more experienced settlers that the crops of 1907 would never ripen. We were more optimistic, especially as we watched the rapid growth of the green oats.

The “more experienced” settlers were right: An early frost struck the ripening grain and all we had for our efforts was feed oats, though that was something. We had a fairly good harvest of feed oats. Our horses would need them, in bundles and as threshed grain. Sadly enough, though, my father, who in his boyhood had herded sheep in the Highlands of Scotland, bought a small band of sheep. He had visions of quick-turn-over—lambs and wool crop. We, his two sons and George, a youth we had brought out with us, had visions of endless sheep-herding in a wild, coyote-infested wilderness. . . .

Our “visions,” pessimistic as they were, bore material fruit. . . .

It might have been better, or not so bad, had it not been for Samantha-Jane, the bell ewe. Samantha-Jane was the homeliest, most exasperating creature I have ever known—a she-devil if there ever was one.

Tall, rich peavine grass grew close to the homestead area, but Samantha-Jane spurned it. She started out at a trot and kept trotting, always for distant pastures. The flock followed, and of course the herder tried to follow, or to swing the flock back. Samantha-Jane led us over, under, or through twisted labyrinths of fallen brush and timber, through mazes of rosebush scrub, alders, and willows, in her ceaseless search for heaven knew what.

A year or so later, we were extremely sorry for a young Scot who bought the sheep band, when he had the misfortune to fall into a swollen creek. We regarded him as our greatest friend, for he was taking Samantha-Jane away. He was rescued, of course; so were the sheep. . . . Needless to say, Samantha-Jane was the first ashore.

I feel reasonably sure that if, today, I could take a trip up to some of those old haunts. I would see her impudent, mottled face leering at me through a port in a rosebush maze, and hear her blatting. . . .

* * *

Up in the wilds, in those early days, we learned to take the bitter with the better. We established a sense of gratitude for the “better,” which helped us to forget the bitter.

Then, there were no drive-in theatres, or local baseball tournaments, or radios, or regular mail service. . . . We were happy enough, after riding through muskeg or circumnavigating swampland, to be able to pick up long overdue mail which might include a seed catalogue, a letter or newspaper from the homefolk, or that always welcome periodical—the fat weekly which came from Montreal.

* * *

Soon, again, June will be “bustin’ out all over,” and we shall be able to forget all about a rather miserable April, as we bounce right into summer.

But, for those readers who cannot agree with me, there is the philosophy of that priceless frontline character, Old Bill: “If you know of a better ’ole, go to it. . .”

After nearly half a century hereabouts, this writer is sticking around. He wants to see what John Ducey’s Eskimos have to offer and what those other Eskimos, in football harness, will have to offer. . .

Old Lady Nature will take care of our crops. . . . Just wait and see!

THIS holiday season, we’re going to celebrate it with Harold F. Cruickshank—creator of those great Aces of the Western Front’s Hell Skies—Red Eagle, Sky Wolf, and Sky Devil. But this holiday season it’s going to be a down home Christmas featuring Cruickshanks Pioneer Folk stories of young couple of homesteaders trying to establish a life and home for themselves in the wild west from the pages of Range Riders Western (1945-1952).

We’ll be pairing these with Cruickshank’s own recollections of his life as a homesteader in Barrhead, Canada before The Great War that appeared in the Edmonton Journal’s The Third Column feature during the ‘50. The Edmonton Journal regularly set aside the third column on its editorial page for submissions from freelance writers, of which Cruickshank was an occasional contributor over the years. His columns frequently focused on his life growing up as a homesteader with his father and brother who had all immigrated from Scotland in 1905 to Barrhead, Canada along the famed Klondike Trail, just to the northwest of Fort Edmonton.

Let’s get the ball rolling with one of Cruickshank’s Third Columns.

The Third Column

by Harold F. Cruickshank • Edmonton Journal, Edmonton, Canada • Tuesday, 8 September 1953

Of Homesteading Days

NOT all tales from the pioneer days were “tall” tales . . . Some extraordinary characters moved in to settle the wild land.

A good example was a lone newcomer who, after introducing himself, vanished into the heavy brush to the south of us. We saw nothing of him for several weeks; we were very busy: he waa very busy.

One night, a friend and I decided to visit some more distant newcomers and had to trek through the bushland of the “mystery” man’s homestead.

We were suddenly startled by weird, banshee-like shrieks or wails which seemed muted by some muffler. We were a bit afraid of the very ground we stood on. But we moved on and in time reached a small clearing and smelled wood-smoke, but there was no shack!

Finally, we came to a flat sod roof, close to the ground, a roof through which protruded a stovepipe and a split-pole ventilator shaft.

Part of the mystery was solved, the newcomer had constructed a dugout-type shack. Neatly cut clay steps led us down to a split-pole door. The caterwauling had ceased, but as we hesitated at the door it broke out again. However, this time it was recognizable as a series of skillfully-lipped scales on a cornet.

Our new neighbor was a professional musician. He made us welcome, and we admired his cosy little dugout. After much persuasion, he treated us to some very fine numbers on his cornet.

Some time later, he packed the instrument and the rest of his belongings and moved silently away. We never saw him again.

* * *

ONE of the earliest settlers to the north of us was a delightful, widely-traveled Irish bachelor I shall call “Doc.”

Doc had tired of circling the globe and decided to try his luck in our wild country. A great horseman, he brought in some excellent saddle stock, among which was a handsome Arabian gelding.

One evening, as he finished his lone supper at his shack, he heard human voices. Since he was about the first settler in his district, his interest was aroused; such sounds were a rarity. Moreover, these were of special interest because they included voices in the feminine register.

Outside, through a light drizzle of rain, he located the wagon outfit, bogged down. Doc could have walked, but he saddled up the Arab steed and galloped down to execute a swashbuckling rescue.

The party, of Scots, included a lovely, titian-haired girl, who at once sent Doc’s heart into a series of cartwheels. . . He commenced to plan.

Doc got the outfit bog-hauled to dry ground and whipped up a supper for them; then, mounting his horse, he piloted them on to their homestead area. He hustled the sons, getting up tents. When all were secure for the night, and Bessie, the cow, was safely tethered. Doc rode away.

He was back the next day. and the next, and the next, always eager to lend a hand. He was welcome, too, until the old skipper suspected that he was paying too much attention to his lovely daughter. Then, Doc got the cold shoulder.

* * *

DOC just stayed away, until one morning, bright and early, he happened to be riding the north line, past the Scottish camp and saw that the party was in despair. The womenfolk hailed him, but he rode on. . .

A “sudden change of heart,” however, halted him. He turned his horse and rode into camp.

Tearfully, the mother told of the disappearance of Bessie, the cow. Doc shook his head sympathetically. Cautioning them to remain in camp, lest they become lost, he promised to hunt through the entire township, and rode on into the bush.

At sunset, it was the lovely red-head who first spotted the weary rider coming up the survey-line. It was Doc, spent from the hunt, but successful. He led the slow-moving Bessie.

Doc was at once proclaimed a hero!

In due time, he and the titian-haired beauty were married.

For the conclusion of this tale, it would be best to quote what Doc said, in the presence of his wife, to my wife and me:

“What the old folks never did know,” he said with a sly chuckle, “was that, the night before all the excitement, I’d sneaked up, untethered Bessie, and trailed her to the bush near my place. There I kept her until the time was ripe for the big show, rescue and restoration and”—he smiled mischievously at his wife—”reward!”