Sarah Binks

Primary tabs

Pages

MSS 37_I_A_1_109
95But such a man without his will, Must pay the price in more than swill, His mind may dwell on pig in death � But his eyes are crossed from holding breath And he who follows where he goes, Must wear a clothes-pin on his nose: Of all the farmer's bird and beast, I think I like the pig the least.
MSS 37_I_A_1_110
96Sarah's experience with sheep had been limited to the portrait of the prize ram which hung in the parlor facing that of Thadeus T. Thurnow as a companion piece, and to the opinion of Jacob Binks that "where the dam' sheep have passed nothing ever grows". She attempted one poem based on the Study of the portrait, but only got as far as a few lines:My son, yon sheep that gazes into space, Conceals his thoughts behind yon sheep-like free, For he who wins the prize must ever train His features never to express disdain; who wins the ribbon or the laurel here, Must never frown, or laugh from ear to ear, But in his features, speech and all his acts, Express profound acceptance of the facts.But Sarah did not continue this, poem. For one thing, it might be attributed to her grandfather, and for another it was too philosophical. Sarah was becoming a little weary of philosophy, for which no one can blame her. It is almost as if for the time being she steps out of character and becomes the least bit shrewish. It is not the most popular of all her poems and Professor Marrowfat might have made a better showing in the Binks-Thurnow controversy if he had analysed the internal evidence here instead of SPACE, TIME, and CRISSCROSSERS. But Sarah was dealing with a subject which was not only difficult in itself but was unfamiliar to her. She comes much closer to the great heart of Saskatchewan when she abandons her contemplation of the two portraits and lets her inclination go in HORSES OF SHEEP, the poem which she submitted, and which was tied for first place. In HORDES OF SHEEP she seems to confuse the sheep with the buf-
MSS 37_I_A_1_111
97falo herds of Saskatchewan*s early days, but unfamiliar as the subject must have been to her, the West, the country of the big open spaces was not, and the spirit of the West blows through every line of it. It was this which the judges must have had in mind when they gave it first place immediately on its receipt but later demoted to second place or tie when Sarah's other entry appeared:HORDES OP SHEEP.'Tis night on the prairie and night on the plain, And all is still � no sign of rain � And all is peace, and deep in his teepee The red man sleeps and his squaw is sleepy; The red man snores with the red man's cunning � But hark, what's that? 'tis the sound of running, 'Tis the sound of rushing* of hurrying feet � And hark, what's that? 'tis the sound of bleat; Louder it comes, it rises wild, Ah, the mother hears it and grabs her child, Louder still, the frantic mother, Grabs her child � and another and another; And the red man waked by that hurrying tread, Turns deadly pale beneath his red; The Indian Brave is groused from sleep; "Run for your life boys,' here come sheep"!A night of terror, the desolate dawn Counts many a Brave that was trampled on, And nothing grows where the sheep have passed � But, things that come must go at lost; And the years roll by, and it's once more night, But where is that echoing tread of fright? That thundering horde that swept like fire, Is bits of wool on the barbed wire; And the monarch has traded his high estate For bed and board and the right to mate, And gives his wool quite meek and mild, To the red man's wife for her latest child; And soundly the Brave, on his reservation, Sleeps in his woolen combinations."Epic", cried the critics when it appeared, "simply epic"! Even Marrowfat, unless sober, rises to enthusiasm. "There is no doubt "he declares, "that 3a rah wrote this one. I see no suggestion of the mature wisdom of Thadeus T.Thurnow here. Theinspiration is Ole's, if any."
MSS 37_I_A_1_112
Sarah, submitted HORDES OF SHEEP with every confidence. But her active mind, intent upon a second entry, at once "began to cast about for another farm animal. The same difficulty which she had previously experienced presented itself, a shortage of farm animals. She did not like to venture into the field of poultry. "Poultry and poetry don't mix," she had once told Mathilda, and this in spite of the success of THE CURSED DUCK. It was therefore a fortunate day for her when the farm skunk, whose home was in one of the farther reaches of the coulee, paid one of his infrequent visits to the Binks* home and decided to stay over for the week-end. Here was Sorah*s inspiration. She had completely forgotten about the skunk and her quick intuition told her at once that she would have a free field, in the matter of literary theme. Few farms in the dry belt were fortunate enough to have one of these quaint animals within their borders and were obliged to depend almost entirely on the pail-smudge to control their mosquitoes. But welcome as was the skunk, it resisted all attempts at domestication, preferring the free life, if hazardous at times, to the security of "bed and board and the right to mate", for which the once proud sheep had sold its heritage. Sarah admired the skunk for its independence, but also mildly resented its manner of resisting all advances, especially after Ole's friendly overtures had been met with a distinct snub. With deft sureness she puts her finger on the one weak spot in the skunk character, its pride.
MSS 37_I_A_1_113
99THE FARM SKUNK.I take it that the skunk is proud, And uses devious device, To hold himself aloof from crowd, Surround himself with social ice.Me tends to give himself an air, And has been known to snub his betters, His attitude a bored hauteur, Like those who talk of arts and letters.He lifts his eyebrows to his peers,Attempts at friendliness annoy him �Bo wonder that in course of yearsHis very best of friends avoid him.Sarah polished and re-polished this poem and had Mathilda check its metre before she submitted it to the contest editors. It is a short poem, but she decided that under rule 6 of the contest it might stand a better chance than HORDES OF SHEEP which was not so short. But short as it is, it has a brilliancy, almost a sophistication which is unusual in her. Regina had done something to Sarah. That Athens of Saskatchewan had perhaps taught her more than Henry Welkin had anticipated. The poetess who can use "bored hauteur" so casually has come a long way from the Sweet Songstress of Saskatchewan who wrote BLADE OF GRAINS and THE PARSON'S PATCH. True, the mail order catalogues were employing more and more college graduates to describe the feminine pages, and 'hauteur' had replaced 'chic' in more than one edition, but Sarah was beginning to understand things that she had never understood before. That grace and perfection of line which had always distinguished her was becoming, if anything, more graceful. It is not for nothing that she is sometimes known as The Poet's Poetess. Certainly no one has ever excelled her in the graceful tribute she pays to one of Saskatchewan's greatest statesmen in
MSS 37_I_A_1_114
100those brief lines, THE PREMIER, in which she casts The honorable Grafton Tabernackel in the role of that self-sacrificing Roman, Cincinnatus, who left his oxen and plough in the field when the call came to give his talents to the state. Sarah expresses too the opinion widely held that The Honorable Grafton Tabernackel had done his duty and should receive his reward in greater leisure and time for his hobbies.THE PREMIER.He heard the call to service and arose At once, (his ear was tuned to Just that pitch) Left field and ox, nor stopped to change his clothes, His plough and harrow idle in the ditch.His ear was finely tuned to just that sound, Too well attuned � will someone tell us now, What note will reach that ear pressed to the ground, And call hack Cincinnatus to the plough?Sarah wrote these lines while waiting for the announcement of the award and intended to recite them at the Quagmire Agricultural Society Fair, upon receiving the prize of whose nature she was still in ignorance hut which she rightly surmized would have to do with farm animals. She hoped that it would not be an extra package of the stock conditioner. The horses were looking very well as it was, and Ole was very fit, in fact, Mathilda had complained that he was almost too fit and had suggested less cereal for breakfast.The announcement of the award and the publication ofTHE FARM SKUNK, by Sarah Binks, of North Willows, Saskatchewan, gave Sarah no surprise. She had expected it, and her only doubtwas whether HORDES OF SHEEP, or THE FARM SKUNK would be awarded first place. What was surprising, however, was the storm of protest which arose over the award, a storm which surprised
MSS 37_I_A_1_115
even those hardened content holders, Messrs McCohen and Meyers, themselves. That a comparatively unknown author, and a girl, should stir up such a tempest gave them cause for reflection. Not only were there protests from the disappointed contestants, they were accustomed to that, tout that the protests should arrive from those who had neither participated in the contest nor used their stock conditioner, showed that they were dealing with a new star on the literary horizon. From a single farm near Willows, thirteen separate letters had arrived protest ting the award, chiefly on the grounds that Sarah Binks had lost her amateur standing,and that she was not therefore eligible to compete in a contest of this kind which was obviously for non-professionaIs. The letters pointed to the publication of HORSE and SPRING as outstanding examples of her professional work. Other protests raised the technical objection that a skunk was not a farm animal within the meaning of The Farm Animal Act Others again accused the judges of favoritismand declared that Sarah had been given the first place entirely on the grounds of neatness and spelling, whereas others protested that the terms of the contest had been made too difficult and that the award should be made on the grounds of neatness and spelling only. To all objections, except those which went so far as to make personal comments on the portrait of Adolf McCohen on the packages of the stock conditioner, the judges duly replied, pointing out that nothing had been said as to the eligibility of professionals, that this was an open contest, that Sarah had been awarded no marks for neatness and spelling, and that she had complied with the rules. The most serious objection,
MSS 37_I_A_1_116
102namely, that the farm skunk was not a farm animal they admitted ae having some foundation. Their original intention was to regard as farm animals only those whose condition could be improved by their stock conditioners, but they had every confidence in their product and had no doubt that the skunk would feel much better and probably put on weight if their stock conditioner were given him. The judges admitted, however, that in read in Sarah's poem, they had misread "The Farm Skunk as "The Farm Chunk", and that this variety of light draught horse very properly came under the Farm Animal Act of 1904. The chunk was as proud a horse as the skunk was & proud a skunk, and the poem could be rend in either wry and make as good sense. In any case under Rule 10 of the contest they were not permitted to change their decision, "This is positive." In his memoirs* Adolf McCohen recalls, "I myself acted as judges beer use it was pn important contest and lexers counted the labels. We seen right away from the protests that this Sarah had something and I said to my partner this girl is going to be a writer perhaps or in advertising and better keep en eye on her there might be a percentage in it. I we decided to give her one of our horse thermometers instead of the three color lithograph of Dan Patch which we generally give in contests of this kind, not that they don*t cost just about as much, but it seemed to be attracting a lot of attention."The big day of the Quagmire Agricultural Society Fair arrived soon after the announcement of the award. Sarah received her exhibitor's badge and was duly notified to be* Bancruptcy Commission - Saskatchewan Law Reports.
MSS 37_I_A_1_117
103somewhere in the neighbourhood of the grand stand during the middle of the afternoon. The Hon. Grafton Tabernackel himself who had opened the fair, consented to present the prize in person but was unfortunately engaged at the moment in opening some special exhibits behind the sheep barn when Sarah's name was called. Her appearance when she stepped onto the platform was the signal for tumultuous applause. She hod been preceded by a trapeze act and the next item on the list of attractions was to have been a symbolic dance by Lolita, one of the performers from the far end of the midway who had been brought to quagmire at tremendous expense for this occasion. It was an exceptionally windy day and the grand stand was looking forward to this dance with some anticipation,especially after one of the trapeze artists had just been blown off the trapeze and had landed on the third base of the adjoining baseball diamond where a game was in progress, and from which position of vantage he was able to score for Quagmire. Sarah herself had some misgivings about the wind when she stepped onto the platform and her attention was diverted by it to such an extent that for some time shewas mistaken for Lolita and given round after round of applause.In fact, it was not until Adolf McCohen, rising to the occasion in the absence of the premier, presented Sarah with the bright and shining horse thermometer, that the public was really aware that their new poetess had come among them. As Sarah shook Adolf McCohen's hand to receive his congratulations, the cheer which arose like a blest of wind, and almost simultaneously with it, showed how Saskatchewan had taken her to its great heart. She bowed her acknowledgements and recited that graceful tribute to the premier, but owing to the fact that the Quagmire band at
MSS 37_I_A_1_118
104that moment buret into its rendering of Red Wing, and to the fact that the Guernsey hull, Grand Champion Molloch II, decided to leave the judging ring for the hall game and score nine rune for Pelvis, Sarah's graceful tribute did not at that time receive the publicity it deserved.Sarah's first act on returning home that evening was to destroy ODE TO THE SOUTH-WEST WIND. She may have felt with her new honor, and conscious of her responsibility as a public character, a feminine Laureate of Saskatchewan, that her work should be more critically scrutinised, and that none should go down to posterity without the hall mark of perfection. whatever the reason, ODE TO THE SOUTH-WEST WIND, the first of a series or cycle of eight poems which she had planned and in which she had intended to box the compass so completely that nothing more need ever be written about the winds, was destroyed and the whole splendid conception of the cycle was abandoned. But it was to be replaced by a larger and more splendid conception. Those haunting linesShould maddened pterodactyl chance to meet With raging crocodile, Then crocodile the pterodactyl eat Or pterodactyl eat the crocodile.were once more beginning to haunt her. That epic, that super-epic, UP PROM THE MAGMA AND BACK AGAIN, whose outlines she had vaguely sketched back in those days when William Greenglow had first opened for her the treasurers of Warden and Rockbuster � and how long ago it all seemed � that epic was now to take form. Profoundly philosophical, profoundly geological, rich in soil and rock and the experiences of life, all of whose depths Sarah had plumbed, it was to lead her to Saskatchewan's
MSS 37_I_A_1_119
106Chapter X UP FROM THE MAGMA.Sarah hated winter. Time und �i*aln she had expressed her opinionof its heavy cloak", of its "blighted snowbanks" and their four footdepths, and once at least, as we know from her letters to Mathilda,she had expressed all her opinions with consummate mastery in a finalsummation, "if it warent for the goddam snow." But for once also shefaced the winter with fortitude and bravery;Beyond the dripping nose and tear, Beyond the chillblain and the bite, Beyond the scratchu underwere, Beyond the eighty-below at night, There still must lie � though drifts conceal � Some hidden good for mans' descry, Some secret bounty for his weal, Which nan (should shovel out � or try.Thus Sarah Rinks begins her great epic, UP FROM THE MAGMA AND BACK AGAIN, CANTO I, THE GREAT ICE AGE. And let this be said for Sarah, whatever her private opinion of that age may have been in terms of chill-blain and scratchy "underwere", the inner eye of the poet looks always beyond these things for some hidden good. Moreover all effort carries with it its own reward even though it be only exercise. The virtuoso must alway practice, and Sarah, the self-conscious possessor of a horse-thermometer, and with a cubic foot of handbills in front of her, was now suddenly aware that winter, her ususal fallow season, must also receive its share of effort. That hidden good, that secret bounty for ma man's weal, might or might nor be there beneath the drifts. She would shovel it out � or at least try. And let this also be said for Sarah; she certainly shovelled it out.It was not easy. Time and again Sarah would grow discouraged and the winter after all, was long, and much of CANTO I, THE GREAT ICE AGE, is taken up with the anticipation of CANTO II, THE GREAT SPRING THAW.
MSS 37_I_A_1_120
107Moreover the machanical difficulties of her ambitious venture were by no means email, as anyone must know who has undertaken to write a cubic foot of verse. Often enough the burners grew dire In their lamps, and the cold would creep in as the fire in the Quebec heater died down to its single navigation light. No sound except her grandfather's rhythmic snore, and � from the anteroom � Ole's sneezes with which he regulrly marked the hour and the half-hour in all his sleeping, wouldbreak the silence of that long prairie night. And Sarah, struggling into another overcoat and her grandfather's felt boots, would help herself to a plate of cold beans and go back for just one more rhyme often enough, alas, only to echo the plaint of all poets from time immemoriable,He knows not life, the one who never ever, Has burned the midnight coal-oil in his time, And donned two overcoats in stern endeavor, To wrestle with the spelling and the rhyme:Ho knows it not, the anguish of the poet, Who never sat all night and cursed the pen, And writ a word, and rubbed out what he wrote, And once more wrote, and rubbed it out again:Ah, what knows he of deep dyspeptic sorrow, Whose tuning-in is blocked with poet's rage, And waits the void � until the dawn's cold morrow Sees only rubbed-out marks across the page.Actually it is doubtfull whether Sarah ever this awaited the "dawn's cold morrow". Beans tended to make her sleepy among other things and as a rule she had turned. In and was dead to the world by the time Ole had struck ten. But even this hour � � countered to some extent by the beans � would lower hernatural buoyancy the following day. Her art, then, becomes "a thin chimera"and she dwells upon the sadder aspects of writing, even to the extent of wondering whether it might not get her down. With stern fortitude

Pages