This page is a text version of the Beckoning Hills History Book. This is the story of the Turtle Mountain Area of Manitoba. You can get a PDF copy of the book on our full version page. The PDF copy is an exact page by page representation of the original book. This text version has been reformated for the web and contains text recognition mistakes. These mistakes do not appear in the full version. The full version also includes each image in the original book.

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oxen laboring in front of a wooden beam, breaking plow, then horses pulling a steel walking plow. Later wheels were added and again a seat so that man would find the going easier. These gave way to larger plows pulled by steam tractors. I have helped when threshing was done by horse power and the straw was hauled away into bucks or piles. The grain was caught into a bushel measure and dumped into bags. I have seen the change to the straw blower and the grain bagger and then to bulk hauling.

The foregoing are some of the recollections of my early life.

I have tried to give facts as I have known them. Some of my state­ ments are of necessity largely hear say, but I am sure that in the main the reader will get an over all picture of the ups and downs, the joys and sorrows, that is part of the past of every Western community.

I believe I am the only remaining member of the early settlers of this community still residing on the farm.

I would like to close with the following verses written in 1906 by the late A. S. Barton of Victoria, B.C., who was one of the early settlers of this district and for some years editor of the Boissevain Recorder.


Strangers alike from distant lands, Not then the clasp of parting hands, In the happy days of long ago,

What of the future could we know?

What did we reck when we were young? For life was sweet when the joy bells rung; Not toil, nor pain, nor sorrow then,

Little we cared when we were Men.

Oh! the glorious days when we were young, And never a backward glance we flung;

When all the world was ours to win,

And we'd nought to do with grief or sin.

Now you and I are old,

Aged by far more than the years,

For time rolls on and the tale must be told, And the telling must needs be through

Sound of tears-but for some the tale has been told.

Old friends, you and I, old comrades still, What! shall we never clasp hands again?

We stand on the brink of the long, long years By the river of time that is filled with tears, But it carries away our pain.

Old friends! we have earned the name, Remember the days gone by;