[Transcribed from The Summerside Journal 11 November 1943]
IN SEARCH OF PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND
By C. D. Lang - Editor Fur of Canada
It's a long way from the West to The Island. Montreal is only about half way. Heavens, what a lot of Canada there is! And people are always going somewhere in large numbers. The service is not anything that can be pointed to with pride on the long section of territory east of Montreal. That is why The Island seems so remote and is one of the things that annoy the Maritime folks; - the improvement of this service figures prominently in the things they demand under the general heading of Maritime Rights.
The traveler to the Maritime is well repaid for the long journey. Here is a beautiful land, having a character and an atmosphere peculiar to itself, living in its own traditions, which derive mellowness from the past to a greater extent than most of the inland settlements.
The train arrives in Moncton - not too near the coast, but still of the sea. Something in the air. Something in the way of life of the people. The great bore comes up through Moncton twice a day when the tides of Fundy rise. The roar of the rushing water is a fitting obligato to the impressive spectacle. The bore channel winds through the city. The sea comes.
No feeling of being a stranger in New Brunswick. George McLeod, the field man who guards the fur farms of New Brunswick is at the depot with his grave poise and welcoming smile. Klint, as usual, wants to get going. Harry Selden, an inlander and unaffected by the wild home-coming emotions of seafaring folk, wants to eat. He wants lobster for breakfast. But the New Brunswick lobster season has not opened yet. Sad news for all of us. Maybe the season will be open further down the coast.
So we start out. We visit the big Colpitts ranches at Salisbury where Russell Colpitts shows us some sweet new foxes and we gaze with wonder at the vast barns and the limitless expanse of the Colpitts Settlement - farms, forests, and fox ranches, world without end.
We make a circuit by way of the famous Magnetic hill on our way to Cape Tormentine, where we are to take the evening boat for Borden, the last stage on the long road to the Island. This Magnetic hill, now, is a marvelous thing. You see an obvious hill, at the bottom of which is a sign which tells you to shut off the engine of your car and release the brakes. When you do this the car starts to run backward up the hill; the water in the ditch is also running uphill. Don't enquire of this writer how it is done. These New Brunswickers are clever people. Think of water that runs uphill! What wonderful stuff to mix with Scotch or rye!
On the way to Cape Tormentine we enquire anxiously at Shediac for lobster, but no lobsters are available. So we hold our horses until we get to Port Elgin. Frank Copp is sure to have the lobster situation well in hand. Frank manufactures blankets, raises foxes and is an authority on lobsters. We find him working in his garden and after asking about the lobsters we enquire about his health. We learn that he is beginning to recover from the effects of his trip to Winnipeg five years ago. But there are no lobsters. At this point we have to yield tribute to Klint and Harry Selden for their resignation and fortitude in deciding to wait until we reach Prince Edward Island, where, all authorities are agreed, the lobster season is open.
The journey through New Brunswick was filled with interest. This province is beautiful. It's not thickly settled as one would expect such an old province to be. Large areas are still wilderness. There are numerous inviting trout streams. The wild laurel was in bloom amid the rocks and on the red earth. The apple blossoms still lingered. A friendly and serene part of Canada.
We arrive at Cape Tormentine and board the Borden ferry at dusk. It takes the boat about forty-five minutes to make the nine-mile trip, but you can see the low coast of Prince Edward Island faintly on the eastern horizon. If you are a fox person who has never seen the Island before that sight does something to you. In fact if you are a Canadian you will feel you are approaching the shrine, the place where your nation was cradled. "A man should always love his native land whether he was born there or not," some Irishman once remarked. Any man would have a dead soul who failed to be proud he is a Canadian, regardless of his birthplace; or who could remain unmoved to think that over there on that dim skyline this great Dominion was born.
At last the roll of mother sea, as the big ferry moved out from her dock in the last rays of the setting sun. The markers of lobster traps suggest submarines but nobody is worried. A plane swoops around the ferry a few times and disappears. The navy boys have also means of dealing with enemy submarines that might be brash enough to explore that channel. The Islanders just don't think of submarines except to hope that one day they may catch a sub behind the eight ball.
We land at Borden in the late twilight, and half an hour later we reach Summerside. It is too dark to see much. But you notice the friendly automobiles parked on the main street; they share the sidewalk fifty-fifty with the pedestrians. Summerside was not built for automobiles; in fact it is not so long ago since the Province of Prince Edward Island prohibited the use of such contraptions. Now the Island has beautiful paved highways and laments the gasoline shortage like the rest of us.
At the Canadian National Silver Fox Breeders' building on the main street we find leading fox personages of the Island, and others from afar who are gathering in for the annual meeting. Tom Carruthers has a friendly welcome. George Callbeck, Don Stewart and Ray Tinney are there standing up splendidly to the occasion. Many others arrive before we proceed to the Queen Hotel, situated right at the edge of the sea. The pleasant chatelaine of the Queen gave us rooms looking out on the harbor. Every hotel in the world should have rooms looking out over water, and salt water if possible. The strong salty air, the lullaby of the waves, and a man can do wonders with a simple bed and a pair of Hudson's Bay Point blankets.
One of the main troubles about fox meetings and fur conventions is the business that some people persist in bringing up; it occupies nearly the whole time a man has to spend away from home, to the exclusion of the serious things of life such as fishing and constructive conviviality. But this time a day intervened between our arrival and the beginning of the annual meeting. A whole day to poke around and do nothing of a commercial nature! And Foster Sharpe of Bideford was on hand to take us to his home on Malpeque Bay, that Bay where the best oysters in all the world are born and brought up to fulfill their high destiny on the tables of the ultra-discriminating. We left with Foster about midnight, arriving at his home about three hours later, due to a brief interlude with a couple of airmen en route; these gentlemen disclosed no information whatever of military nature, - but they freely shared with us a wealth of information about brands, varieties, pubs, taverns and other factors relating to the important question of purveying supplies. Good old Air Force! It hasn't changed at all since this writer flew flying bedsteads in the last war.
It is not yet daylight but Klint, who has the uncurable disease known as early rising, is already prowling around the household looking for something to eat. No refinement. No restraint. But even we, ourself [sic], are filled with juvenile excitement. We are going out to fish oysters, lobsters and other forms of marine life. Startled by the violent noises at such an unearthly hour, our kind hostess, Mrs. Foster Sharpe, appeared and took over Klint's barbarous and rudimentary approach to breakfast. It is amazing how people can eat so early in the morning. They should carry a lunch to bed with them.
After daybreak we approach The Shore. It is raining and a fairly strong wind is blowing. But, boy! Oh, man! Oh, holy hour! The aroma of that sea! The tang of that wind! No mere weather could dampen the spirit in such a place.
With the daylight we get a real chance to look at the Island. It is green and rolling. The soil is the same red color as the soils of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, indicating that The Island is probably an ancient delta of the St. Lawrence. Nowhere did we see any rock formation but were informed that there is some red sandstone of recent geological formation. Such matters, however, were not on our minds as we headed for the shore. We wanted oysters and we wanted lobsters. With Foster Sharpe we were in the right company to meet up with both. Foster's profession is oyster farming. Here, on Malpeque Bay, grow the world's most succulent and justly famous oysters. The farmers hold leases of the beds and cultivate the oysters with scientific care. The Department of Fisheries maintains a staff of scientists to study the private life of the oyster, including the love life; the men help the oyster farmers to make a success of the business. The "spat" or eggs of the oyster adhere to egg crates that have been treated with cement and sunk in the rivers; these are removed to shallow bays and, later, the small seed oysters are collected and planted in deeper, colder water, where, in the fullness of time, they acquire the size and flavor which makes them what they are.
Oliver McKay now enters upon the scene. Oliver is captain of the gas boat which guards the oyster beds. Thousand of dollars worth of innocent oysters are lying in about five feet of water and somebody might forget about the little matter of ownership when the sun is in the north. So Oliver cruises over the beds night and day to discourage such ideas.
We proceeded to a point where Foster and Oliver took careful bearings and then informed us we were on a bed. There, with the aid of oyster tongs we proceeded to feel around in the bottom of the sea for the oysters. These tongs are simply two wooden shafts with rakes at their ends, joined together like fox tongs. Probably they provided the inspiration for the original fox tongs. The operator opens them wide and gropes around until he feels the oysters. Then he closes the tongs and raises the catch with a vertical stroke. Presently the boat has about a hundred oysters aboard. Foster and Oliver can open them faster than three of us can eat them, meaning that they can open with more than considerable speed. Messrs. Klintberg, Selden, and Lang at last had come to a point in life where they had as many Malpeque oysters as they wanted to eat. Even the immortal Wimpy would have been satisfied. Oysters were almost running out of our ears.
The rain was coming down in sheets and the sea was kicking up her heels. The boat was bucking like a broncho. Such was the moment that Oliver chose to introduce us to the famous Island Twist. This is an eating or chewing tobacco, black as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat and tasting like a judicious mixture of coal tar and sulphuric acid. Only the editor and Oliver partook of the treat. Klint and Harry Selden retired to the cabin. The pale green color of their complexions was not a suitable color as they peered out from time to time to see that the literary man was not cheating. Thanks to a succession of hardy, pioneering, seafaring ancestors, he was able to "herd" the cud until the last trace of the coal tar and sulphuric acid had gone with the wind over the lee side. Oliver explained that the Island Twist is the life of the Island and is the reason why P.E.I. has produced so many great men. A most logical statement. Any man who can consume Island Twist with enjoyment and regularity has the elements of greatness in him.
Following this interlude we proceeded to visit a lobster cannery on Hog Island. This is owned by Ernest Hardy of Conway. It will comfort those who eat Mr. Hardy's lobsters to know that his cannery on this sandy windswept island has modern equipment and is extremely clean. Mrs. Hardy takes an active party in the business. Kind and lovable people, living on and by the sea.
On the way home we collected some lobsters from the many traps set in the Bay. At last we had caught up with the lobsters. And Foster has a fascinating idea of what a lobster dinner should be. It consists of about fifty pounds of lobsters, boiled until they are a bright red color, expertly boned and placed on a great platter in the middle of the table. My fellow countrymen, this is the way to eat lobster. The memory of such a feast causes a man to choke with emotion and makes tears as large as cantaloupes course down his cheeks. This was the beginning of a series of lobster feasts on the Island and this is a subject that cannot be slurred over or treated lightly. It is our hope some day to produce a monograph, or a five thousand line poem, on the great art, so that the truth may be made available for posterity.
The people of the Island are most generous with the lobsters as indeed they are about everything else. Theirs is a pastoral country where a rich soil produces abundance; their pastures extend out into the sea and are no less rich. The fields are a vivid green never seen on the Western plains, almost as green as Ireland. In fact, you have a feeling that you are in the Glens of Antrim when you talk to the Islanders. They have been on the Island long enough to have produced a strain. Their speech has retained all the richness of original sources; it preserves many of the constructions used in Ireland and Scotland. For instance, the good old letter R receives full recognition; it is doubtful if there is a broad AH on the Island. When they say "King Lear" you know it is King Lear and not King Leah. They are not an ostenatious [sic] people. Everywhere are good, solid decent homes, but no displays of tremendous wealth such as are seen in the big mainland cities. The people are justly but not offensively proud of their traditions. The Confederation of Canada, the Silver Fox industry - these things are treasured in the hearts of the Islanders. And who could begrudge them these glories? When you hear talk about Maritime Rights, you wonder what changed could make them more happy. In fact, when you see the serene prosperity of the Island, you begin brooding about Western Wrongs - the sufferings of Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta people who have no lobsters, oysters or codfish. By Heaven, the Government should do something about it!
A sad interlude of our visit to Bideford was the call at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Al. England. Death had taken their daughter, a young girl of seventeen. We could only sympathise [sic] with our friends and assure them that their sorrow would be shared by many people in the West.
And so we returned to Summerside and the annual meeting.
Wandering around the city in the cool of the evening, or as some people might call it, the middle of the night - it was one o'clock in the morning; we were hailed by a gentleman of the police force. Instead of arresting us for disturbing the peace, he very kindly took us on a cruise around the city during which he pointed out the homes of many distinguished citizens. We also enjoyed a visit to the power station and other civic institutions, but we did not see the jail. Middy Wedge appeared to know the names of everybody on the Island and also all the inter-relationships by marriage. Everybody on the Island has a tremendous number of relations except Lowell Hancock who came from the Mainland and married an Island lady. So Lowell has only about half the average number of relations.
When you know how long Prince Edward Island has been settled you begin to wonder why the population today is not much larger. A little reflection, however, will lead directly to the answer. The Island population is small because the Island has to supply the rest of Canada and the United States with judges, eminent jurists, ordinary lawyers, doctors, surgeons, business executive, foxmen and other prominent citizens. It is only necessary to attend an annual banquet of the Maritime Provinces Association in Winnipeg or any other city to understand where the population of Prince Edward Island and the other Maritime provinces has gone. Bishops and clergymen, judges and business magnates, archbishops, premiers, diplomats and poets come from the provinces by the sea. They all have the gift of oratory and the parliamentary approach. The spirit of Confederation is upon them.
Thus it is that the Island, with a small population, is a very important Canadian province, wielding a mighty influence in the affairs of the nation. At Maritime province banquets the orators point out such things with pride and eloquence. But there is no development of publicity in the modern manner on the Island. Prince Edward Island potatoes are sold without advertising. Most of the notable breeders of foxes on the Island do not advertise - which accounts for the fact that the names of many of their outstanding foxmen are unknown on these Western prairies. Yet the Publicity Bureau maintained by the government at Charlottetown, and conducted by the dynamic B. Graham Rogers, turns out the most attractive and informative material of its kind issued in Canada.
The annual meeting has now started and the delegates are being welcomed by Hon. J. Walter Jones, the new premier of the province. (Since that time Mr. Jones has received the approval of his people in an election which was successfully carried by his government. The only premier in Canada who is a fur farmer was talking to other fur farmers. The author of the first book on fur farming to be published anywhere in the world was giving his views on the current development of the industry. He saw a new era of prosperity ahead. The Jones government will undoubtedly stimulate the fur farming industry on the Island, continuing and expanding the noble efforts of past governments. Walter Shaw, the eloquent and energetic Deputy Minister of Agriculture, will no doubt follow up past performances and make the Charlottetown Show mightier yet. The Island breeders are really going to work on the new type foxes; perhaps, too, Mr. Shaw may be started on the Island. So far the able to get some interest in mink interest and production is negligible. The Premier, however, is pondering the mink situation. So, in the future, it may be possible to raise mink down there without being injured socially.
The days of the annual meeting are restless days. The formal sessions are only a part of the proceedings. The foxmen wander around the town by night and day, visiting between the hotels to exchange the fox lore of Canada. The committees hold meeting and more meetings. Somebody is looking for Ken Taylor of Halifax or George Mayers of New York. Tom Carruthers has a million questions to answer; some of these he settles offhand; for other answers he refers to the large bale of documents which accompanies him. There is one man who can never be fully appreciated. The detail burden of the annual meeting falls upon his shoulders and the strain is enough to kill a horse. Yet Tom maintains an unbroken attitude of good humor and courtesy of everybody.
Of course, everybody calls on Peter Clark who institution is a short distance down the street from the National building. Mr. Clark is one of the realists of the industry and always has something of value to tell the visitor. His grading room is a delight to the eye; if there is a better grading room anywhere, this writer has not seen it. Some people think of Peter Clark as a stern and unbending character. He is really not so. While efficient and practical to a degree, Peter Clark has a pleasant sense of humor and a very human outlook on life. He knows what goes on in this business and he issues a monthly bulletin which tells the story very clearly. A real foxman is Peter Clark.
All things end, including the annual meeting, and the boys are beginning to disperse. But there is no change to get lonesome because Lowell Hancock won't let you. And you must visit Charlottetown. You must see the ancient red sandstone building where your Canada was born in l864. Your feet must walk on the worn stone tiles of the foyer of that building. You must sit in the Confederation Chamber and meditate reverently on what happened there in l864. What if Canada has been a collection of weak political units instead of the great and strong nation it is today? The men who accomplished Confederation did indeed build better than they knew, as it says on the bronze tablet on the wall of The Room. You have a feeling of deep appreciation for the men who have preserved the Room as it was on the day of the memorable event, who have carefully tended the furniture and the other relics of the union. It is indeed a great national shrine, a precious and moving memory of a truly great thing in human history. Little wonder that Prince Edward Island men are inspired to be leaders in every field of life. Their eyes have looked upon the place where good men saw a great vision and translated it into reality.
Major O. W. Campbell, who is Deputy Provincial Secretary-Treasurer, was our courteous guide. He showed us the interesting things and explained them with charm and culture. The day was dark and our pictures were not a success. But pictures are not necessary to preserve a lasting impression of that Room and that building.
Premier Jones, whose office is in the Confederation Building which also contains the Legislative Chamber, is no different as a premier than he was as a citizen. He gave us a cordial welcome and was our host in a tour of the City of Charlottetown and the neighboring country. Like all parts of the Island, the Charlottetown area is charming. The farms are cultivated to the utmost degree and well bred cattle graze in the pastures. Mr. Jones is a noted breeder of Holsteins himself, a winner at many national shows. Even a fox and mink editor could see the great quality of his animals when we visited his own farm. Like every other Island man he is a horse enthusiast, as are all the members of his family. His two young daughters are outstanding riders and the horses they ride are of the choicest riding stock on the continent. The Jones farm reflects the Premier's deep interest in arboriculture. The trees are magnificent. Mr. Jones is a plain man with no frills about him. He has a real feeling for the soil and the people, a liberal mind and a solid academic background. He will be a good leader of his people.
Prince Edward Island has many trout streams. We visited one of these - the Dunk River - in company with Lowell Hancock. The time for this kind of activity was all too short because Lowell's program includes a flying trip to Halifax, a motor trip through Nova Scotia, visits to fox farms, food plants and many other excursions. The writer also had to have a swim in the sea - no use going down to the sea and coming back dirty. The weather was cool and the sea was cold, but it was June. So in we went. Lowell stood on the pier and secured photographic records. No other bathing beauties were in sight.
The sun was shining brightly for the first time during our visit when we took the plane for Moncton. Then we saw the glory and the beauty of the Island. The red soil stained the sea around the shores, but outside, the sea was very blue and the Garden of the Gulf did indeed look like a garden in the June morning.
We left the Island with regret, with the feeling that we had enjoyed a wholly satisfying experience, long anticipated. As the plane crossed the Strait of Northumberland we thought of the men who had crossed that narrow water in 1864 to make the little Island of the sea a place of destiny. How did they go? Where did they embark? Where did they land?
Bless you, Prince Edward Island, and give you all the Maritime Rights you desire. But keep your people and your soil and your sea as they are. - Fur of Canada.
