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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And sometimes as you trudge along, you wonder, 'will it pay' ?

You can't turn back, the road is onward now.

Yes, the road is always onward, and the bitter and the sweet, Will take their toll, it's always been that way;

With swift discern they separate the chaff from out the wheat, The strong survive, the weak fall by the way.

No diagnostic service, no X or Violet Ray; No doctor, and no means to find a cure;

A troublesome appendix, I've heard the old folks say, 'Inflammation of the bowls' was for sure.

No nothing of the serums, and you couldn't get your shots, No diagnosis, either right or wrong;

No clinics, sanitoriums, they could have helped out lots, And long 'fore Sauk and Banting came along.

It caused a lot of heart-break, yes, anguish and dismay, When medicine and help could not be had; Sometimes it was the mother, or children had to pay, Some fam'lies got along without a Dad.

Sometimes a tiny, failing form, - those pain and tear-filled eyes, No help for miles, no doctors to be found;

With utter desolation, - your helplessness despise, And soon, - another grassy little mound.

Sometimes it was diphtheria, and sometimes whooping cough, Or any of a dozen, we may say;

And sometimes croup, pneumonia, or typhoid took them off, And brought the dawning of a sterner day.

'Survival of the fittest', is a rule of nature old,

In modern times or in the earlydays;

It may be in the summer's heat or bitter cold,

The strong and weak must go their separate ways.

Hauling poplar from the mountains, or to Brandon with their wheat, The storms, their Spartan spirits couldn't mar;

Sometimes their guide a 'homing-sense', they didn't know defeat, Sometimes just guided by the Polar Star.

They always knew when on the trail, and they had been about, Their hauling jobs, and day had turned to night;

That from the shanty window, some-one anxiously looked out, And thru' the glass there'd always shine a light.

Some men turned out inventers, and some another way, Have brought themselves acclaim and great renown; The locomotive fire-door-it's still in use today, Inventer was Bert Grant, - a man of town.

'Jones' Blowers for the threshers, the carriers must go, The buck-pole ne'er again they'd have to ride;

Elias Jones invented it, we want you folks to know,

He lived about a mile from Mountainside.

The Governor of Malta, a man within their midst, The son of J. B. Douglas we allow;

Which proves to us that hardy sons of hardy pioneers, Have destinies besides behind a plow.

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