Wide Awake on the Sleeping Buffalo

No sun — no moon!  No morn — no noon — No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day. No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,  No comfortable feel in any member — No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,  No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! — November

The village, east of highway five, huddles by the only railway tracks in fifty miles. One white grain elevator tells you where you are, from any direction. After four fires the place is still big enough to have the usual buildings: school, hall, station, hotel and two stores. Sunday evenings, a passenger train; Thursday, a freight. There are no factories here and no luxuries. On two sides there are hay fields and country; machinery and men sometimes move there. North of here is nothing. On Saturday night there are Indians sick in the pub and Crazy John sitting in the poolhall where he's sat for years watching the spinning balls, the young men, who knows what. Visitors soon discover there are some here who like what they have lived through. Mostly, there are young men who stand waiting with their hands made fists in pockets that are empty, young men who know that Winnipeg (200 miles south and not big enough for a place on the map of the world in the post office), that Winnipeg is where the world begins.