r that day when labour
and capital have become one, or till a still later epoch when instead
of sex in soul, there shall be soul in sex. Then take them out,
Posterity, and crush them into a sacramental wafer that all the world
may eat of it as a loving pledge from the twentieth century.

If you think this too long to wait, perhaps you will recall that while
the seven sleepers slept, Caesar was superseded by Christ. Now, the
time they slept was for the lives of three men.

In handling wheat, you have doubtless noticed that it is not only alive
but possesses a markedly developed will-power. It is ever resisting
conquest. They tell me that in the part of the exchange called the
pit, you cannot beat back wheat. Some men have succeeded for a while,
but always it has rolled in and smothered its erstwhile victors. Try
to hold a handful and the task is well-nigh impossible. It slides
through your fingers and causes your palm to open involuntarily. It
wearies a man to hold wheat tightly for long. Oats may be held and
other cereals, but not wheat. Its tendency is to fall to the ground
and reproduce. Thus, it is age-old but still eternally young. It is
the true Isis and no one has lifted its veil. I tell you men, there is
something uncanny and almost wicked about a thing that refuses to die,
and it so small as a grain of wheat.

As a whole, this country is not beautiful, but now and then, there come
striking pictures. Here are pleasing lakelets a-flush with ducks; tall
cotton-woods which I name the maidens because of their fluffy
hair--these, and lush meadows, over which range regiments of asters,
sunflowers, and yarrow. It is a magic lantern fantasia with an
occasional muskeg to represent the waits between views. On the muskegs
the trees are so thin and straight they fairly scratch your eyes.

Oh! but it is hot this day, and every leaf seems a green tongue thrust
out with thirst. The sun is making amends for his insulting reticence
of last winter. The Indians call him Great Grandfather Sun, but why, I
do not know.

The houses of the homesteaders are built of poplar lumber,
weather-stained and ugly. Others are of logs chinsed with mud and
moss. All are small and favourable neither for hospitality nor
reproduction. Some day, when a large acreage is under crop, pretty
bungalows with brave red paint, will edit the scene as in the older and
more settled districts of the north.

At every station, land seeker