had left Winnipeg so long before us in the morning; one of them was stuck
deep in the mud, and the drivers were just parting company--the first, a
French Canadian, declining to help the second, an Irish Canadian boy,
whose good-natured face was a picture of dismay, as he stood
contemplating the scene of disaster. The Frenchman declared that he had
stuck three times, and had to unload both teams twice, and he wasn't
going to do it again; so he whipped up his horse and left poor young
"Stick-in-the-Mud," as we dubbed him, to his fate. Promising to send a
yoke of oxen from McQuade's, five miles further on, where we intended
putting up for the night, we also left him, but not without regret. I
could not help feeling sorry for the poor boy out there alone on the
prairie, perhaps for the whole night, as it was by no means certain that
the hoped-for yoke of oxen would be forthcoming. But the lad was so
civil, and evidently so determined to make the best of things, that
fortune favoured him. A mile further on we met a long train of carts, and
Mr. C---- shouted to the driver of the first to go and help
"Stick-in-the-Mud," promising to pay him for his services. By this time
it was getting dark, the mosquitoes were troublesome, and the children
were hungry and cross, and we joyfully hailed the first glimmer of the
lights at McQuade's. But though in sight of the haven where we would be,
our troubles were not yet over. Crossing a broken culvert not half a mile
from the house, one of the horses fell in, and we all had to get out and
walk, an annoyance which we felt to be the "last straw" on our
much-enduring backs.

McQuade's is merely a farmhouse on the main road. But in the usual
condition of those roads it is the first stopping-place from Winnipeg,
and McQuade's, or "Little Pointe du Chene," as it is sometimes called, is
familiar to all the engineers on the staff of that part of the Canada
Pacific Railway. The yard was full of the teams which had left Winnipeg