Unit Three Canada In-depth Reading Pre-reading Questions: 1.How much do you know about Canada? 2.Is Canada an interesting or dull country to you? Where the World Began Margaret Laurence! 1 A strange place it was,that place where the world began.A place of incredible happenings,splendors and revelations,despairs like multitudinous pits of isolated hells. A place of shadow-spookiness,inhabited by the unknowable dead.A place of jubilation and of mourning,horrible and beautiful. 2 It was,in fact,a small prairie town. 3 Because that settlement and that land were my first and for many years my only real knowledge of this planet,in some profound way they remain my world,my way of viewing.My eyes were formed there.Towns like ours,set in a sea of land,have been described thousands of times as dull,bleak,flat,uninteresting.I have had it said to me that the railway trip across Canada is spectacular,except for the prairies2,when it would be desirable to go to sleep for several days,until the ordeal is over.I am always unable to argue this point effectively.All I can say is-well,you really have to live there to know that country.The town of my childhood could be called bizarre,agonizingly repressive or cruel at times,and the land in which it grew could be called harsh in the violence of its seasonal changes.But never merely flat or uninteresting.Never dull. 4 In winter,we used to hitch rides on the back of the milk sleigh,our moccasins squeaking and slithering on the hard rutted snow of the roads,our hands in ice-bubbled mitts hanging onto the box edge of the sleigh for dear life,while Bert grinned at us through his great frosted moustache and shouted the horse into speed,daring us to stay put.Those mornings,rising,there would be the perpetual fascination of the frost feathers on windows,the ferns and flowers and eerie faces traced there during the night by unseen artists of the wind.Evenings,coming back from skating,the sky would be black but not dark,for you could see a cold glitter of stars from one side of the earth's rim to the other.And then the sometime astonishment when you saw the Northern Lights flaring across the sky,like the scrawled signature of God.After a blizzard,when the snowploughs hadn't yet got through,school would be closed for the day,the assumption being that the town's young could not possibly flounder through five feet of snow in the pursuit of education.We would then gaily don snowshoes and flounder for miles out into the white dazzling deserts,in pursuit of a different kind of knowing.If you came back too close to night,through the woods at the foot of the town hill,the thin black branches of poplar and chokecherry mow meringued with frost,sometimes you heard coyotes.Or maybe the banshee wolf-voices were really only inside your head.1 Unit Three Canada In-depth Reading Pre-reading Questions: 1. How much do you know about Canada? 2. Is Canada an interesting or dull country to you? Where the World Began Margaret Laurence 1 1 A strange place it was, that place where the world began. A place of incredible happenings, splendors and revelations, despairs like multitudinous pits of isolated hells. A place of shadow-spookiness, inhabited by the unknowable dead. A place of jubilation and of mourning, horrible and beautiful. 2 It was, in fact, a small prairie town. 3 Because that settlement and that land were my first and for many years my only real knowledge of this planet, in some profound way they remain my world, my way of viewing. My eyes were formed there. Towns like ours, set in a sea of land, have been described thousands of times as dull, bleak, flat, uninteresting. I have had it said to me that the railway trip across Canada is spectacular, except for the prairies 2 , when it would be desirable to go to sleep for several days, until the ordeal is over. I am always unable to argue this point effectively. All I can say is—well, you really have to live there to know that country. The town of my childhood could be called bizarre, agonizingly repressive or cruel at times, and the land in which it grew could be called harsh in the violence of its seasonal changes. But never merely flat or uninteresting. Never dull. 4 In winter, we used to hitch rides on the back of the milk sleigh, our moccasins squeaking and slithering on the hard rutted snow of the roads, our hands in ice-bubbled mitts hanging onto the box edge of the sleigh for dear life, while Bert grinned at us through his great frosted moustache and shouted the horse into speed, daring us to stay put. Those mornings, rising, there would be the perpetual fascination of the frost feathers on windows, the ferns and flowers and eerie faces traced there during the night by unseen artists of the wind. Evenings, coming back from skating, the sky would be black but not dark, for you could see a cold glitter of stars from one side of the earth’s rim to the other. And then the sometime astonishment when you saw the Northern Lights flaring across the sky, like the scrawled signature of God. After a blizzard, when the snowploughs hadn’t yet got through, school would be closed for the day, the assumption being that the town’s young could not possibly flounder through five feet of snow in the pursuit of education. We would then gaily don snowshoes and flounder for miles out into the white dazzling deserts, in pursuit of a different kind of knowing. If you came back too close to night, through the woods at the foot of the town hill, the thin black branches of poplar and chokecherry mow meringued with frost, sometimes you heard coyotes. Or maybe the banshee wolf-voices were really only inside your head