| Title: | Agnes Shakespeare (Nesta), Alberta, to "My darling Mother". |
|---|---|
| ID | 2417 |
| Collection | Irish Emigration Database |
| File | Shakespeare, Agnes/17 |
| Year | 1897 |
| Sender | Shakespeare, Agnes |
| Sender Gender | female |
| Sender Occupation | unknown |
| Sender Religion | unknown |
| Origin | Alberta, Canada |
| Destination | Ireland |
| Recipient | unknown |
| Recipient Gender | female |
| Relationship | daughter-mother |
| Source | D3590/M/4/1-16: Deposited by Godfrey Higginson Skrine Esq. |
| Archive | The Public Record Office, Northern Ireland |
| Doc. No. | 9909234 |
| Date | 19/05/1897 |
| Partial Date | |
| Doc. Type | EMG |
| Log | Document added by LT, 21:09:99. |
| Word Count | 1327 |
| Genre | |
| Note | |
| Transcript | High River, Alberta, May 19th, 1897. My darling Mother Though rather sleepy, I must get in a letter to you some time tonight, as I hear the horses were got in purposely for us to ride over to Pekisko tomorrow; and it seems too long since I sent you a letter. "Getting in the horses" means getting in the whole band, as they always follow each other, and you can never get in one without all the others. At present they are not even behind a fence; they might range anywhere over the whole prairie if they liked, but likely they are "located": that is, they look on this ranch as their home, and so they don't go more than a mile or so from the fence. Of course there must be always one or two horses kept in the stable or round the corrals, so when you want fresh horses, you can take one, ride out and get in the band. You corral them, then catch the ones you want, and let the rest go. I believe I am to have Morgan's horse to ride tomorrow. The handsome little chestnut I told you about, didn't I? - as I have given two other horses, besides Billy my own, as much as they want at present. You would be surprised to see the rides I can take now, and not feel the riding, if only I get lunch some time or other. I'm a whole lot stronger than I was last year. But I must say I like to have a fresh horse every day. It's the greatest of luxuries. Last week we made up our minds we simply must go to the Oxley Ranche. The Springetts had been asking us to go over and make a stay there, ever since we came to the country. They live about 22 miles away. So on Thursday last I packed my little saddle-bag, got out my summer habit with a thin silk shirt, and a careful new veil! - for it was piping hot weather, and off we went after breakfast, on two right handsome horses. Walter was riding "Harry" - the big chestnut I called after the Colonel, and I had his favourite "Browny", who is better for these long trips than my own. They did look so nice together, their summer coats are so jolly and shining. We rode over that high ridge all covered with willows where we went driving one day last fall, but now all the willows are pale gold and green, a perfect mass of their fluffy sort of flowers. But the Rockies were lost to sight in the smoke of prairie-fires; you could only see the snow shining through here and there, high up in the sky. We rode down a lovely valley below the ridge, and then for a long time over the open prairie, which was much like people at home imagine the prairie to be than our own part of the country. For it was much flatter, with only a slight roll, and a far low horizon rather like the sea; splendid country for riding, we loped along so easily, smooth grass, and no badger holes to dodge. I'd love to be coyote-hunting there. We got to the Oxley about 5 o'clock - we had stopped at another ranch for lunch and a long visit - and the first thing I saw was Mrs Springett's little girl - two years old - seated in her high chair, just ready to howl, and the other one, a yearling - staggering across the floor with the gait peculiar to her age. Then I knew what our visit was likely to prove; - and so it did: though I must say they were nice little children. Still in a ranch house children are a dire mistake. You can't get away from them. If you don't see them, you hear them; and not in the faint, melodious way we hear children at home far off at the top of the house, but quite plain and clear through the thin wooden walls, just as if they were in the room. Nothing amuses me more than to see Walter at these times. The mothers always think that he is one of those rare and beautiful manly characters that love children and all young and helpless things. [... ...?] This is because he isn't afraid of the children, with the helpless terror that some men have; and of course in a way, he is the sort of character they mean. But they would think far less of him if they heard him expressing to me in private his devout thankfulness for having been spared these "blessings". I believe it must have been the terror of the past few years to him: and it is only now that he feels sufficiently sure of my sympathy on the subject, that he expresses it. My dear mother, you needn't think us both very unnatural. If you just knew what it would be like in a ranch house without the array of maids and the secure retreats that a woman has at home. And then if you could see the children here; either in perpetually renewed white frocks that you know it takes a woman her whole life to wash and iron - or else- much the most frequent case - "sensibly dressed" in dirty little rumpled dark clothes, smeared with goodness knows what mixture of what, and laying grubby hands on everything around them. No, thank you. I really couldn't. Poor Mrs, Shepperd brought her little boy here the other day, quite a small child. He was very good on the whole; but there was an interval while his mother was in my room, when he was wandering in and out at the door into Walter's dressing room. I thought I had repaired all his depredations afterwards. I put back the shaving brush into its ring and the brushes and things he had scattered about too, but next morning Walter opened the door and asked me, "Was that little brute in here yesterday?" - "Yes. Why?" - "Look at my boot-trees lying there on the grass." The child had hurled them out of the window, if you please. But it was worth anything to see Walter stand gazing at them, gently murmuring, "The little brute! Oh, by George, I'm thankful I haven't any - here, you'd better go along and dress." The weather just now is perectly glorious - awfully hot, I should say, but still fresh. The cattle are getting as fat and jolly as they can be; the little calves are coming in showers. It's pretty to see them skipping thro' the herd in all directions. In some ways this is really the nicest time of year after the winter bothers, and spring bother are well over, and you have no more fear of things dying on you, and it's not time to think about the hay. You can just ride among your herd, and think how well they look, and what a lot of calves there are going to be, and it's very encouraging and jolly. Walter looks as light-headed as anything. It's a very funny thing that our mail seems to have stuck somewhere. I have not had a letter from you or the others since I came back from Calgary; but don't imagine I'm fussing, for I had one from the faithful Colonel, so I know it's all right. I think you must have been all three moving at the same time, and it's so hard to write letters then. But still I'm sure one letter must have been delayed somewhere, and the papers too. The only thing I want to know is if you are all right again after your second collapse at [Forenaghts?]. Perhaps I'll get one tomorrow at Pekisko. Best love from us both to you all. I really must go to bed. Your loving daughter Nesta. |
