town which I hated and which are always in some ways aspects of myself. 16 The land still draws me more than other lands.I have lived in Africa and in England,but splendid as both can be,they do not have the power to move me in the same way as,for example,that part of southern Ontario where I spent four months last summer in a cedar cabin beside a river."Scratch a Canadian,and you find a phony pioneer,"I used to say to myself in warning.But all the same it is true,I think,that we are not yet totally alienated from physical earth,and let us only pray we do not become so.I once thought that my lifelong fear and mistrust of cities made me a kind of old-fashioned freak;now I see differently. 17 The cabin has a long window across its front western wall,and sitting at the oak table there in the mornings,I used to look out at the river and at the tall trees beyond, green-gold in the early light.The river was bronze;the sun caught it strangely,reflecting upon its surface the near-shore sand ripples underneath.Suddenly,the crescenting of a fish,gone before the eye could clearly give image to it.The old man next door said these leaping fish were carp.Himself,he preferred muskie,for he was a real fisherman and the muskie gave him a flight.The wind most often blew from the south,and the river flowed toward the south,so when the water was wind-riffled,and the current was strong,the river seemed to be flowing both ways.I like this,and interpreted it as an omen,a natural symbol. 18 A few years ago,when I was back in Winnipeg,I gave a talk at my old college.It was open to the public,and afterward a very old man came up to me and asked me if my maiden name had been Wemyss.I said yes,thinking he might have known my father or grandfather.But no."When I was a lad,"he said,"I once worked for your great-grandfather,Robert Wemyss,when he had the sheep ranch at Raeburn."I think that was a moment when I realized all over again something of great importance to me. My long-ago families came from Scotland and Ireland,but in a sense that no longer mattered so much.My true roots were here. 19 I am not very patriotic,in the usual meaning of that word.I cannot say "My country right or wrong"in any political,social or literary context.But one thing is inalterable,for better or worse,for life. 20 This is where my world began.A world which includes the ancestors-both my own and other people's ancestors who become mine.A world which formed me,and continues to do so,even while I fought it in some of its aspects,and continues to do so. A world which gave me my own lifework to do,because it was here that I learned the sight of my own particular eyes. Cultural Notes: 1.Margaret Laurence (1926-1987):a Canadian novelist and short story writer,one of the major figures in Canadian literature.She was also a founder of the Writers'Trust of Canada,a non-profit literary organization that seeks to encourage Canada's writing community.The text is from Laurence's 1976 book of essays Heart ofa Stranger. 2.Canadian prairies:a region in western Canada,which may correspond to several different4 town which I hated and which are always in some ways aspects of myself. 16 The land still draws me more than other lands. I have lived in Africa and in England, but splendid as both can be, they do not have the power to move me in the same way as, for example, that part of southern Ontario where I spent four months last summer in a cedar cabin beside a river. “Scratch a Canadian, and you find a phony pioneer,” I used to say to myself in warning. But all the same it is true, I think, that we are not yet totally alienated from physical earth, and let us only pray we do not become so. I once thought that my lifelong fear and mistrust of cities made me a kind of old-fashioned freak; now I see differently. 17 The cabin has a long window across its front western wall, and sitting at the oak table there in the mornings, I used to look out at the river and at the tall trees beyond, green-gold in the early light. The river was bronze; the sun caught it strangely, reflecting upon its surface the near-shore sand ripples underneath. Suddenly, the crescenting of a fish, gone before the eye could clearly give image to it. The old man next door said these leaping fish were carp. Himself, he preferred muskie, for he was a real fisherman and the muskie gave him a flight. The wind most often blew from the south, and the river flowed toward the south, so when the water was wind-riffled, and the current was strong, the river seemed to be flowing both ways. I like this, and interpreted it as an omen, a natural symbol. 18 A few years ago, when I was back in Winnipeg, I gave a talk at my old college. It was open to the public, and afterward a very old man came up to me and asked me if my maiden name had been Wemyss. I said yes, thinking he might have known my father or grandfather. But no. “When I was a lad,” he said, “I once worked for your great-grandfather, Robert Wemyss, when he had the sheep ranch at Raeburn.” I think that was a moment when I realized all over again something of great importance to me. My long-ago families came from Scotland and Ireland, but in a sense that no longer mattered so much. My true roots were here. 19 I am not very patriotic, in the usual meaning of that word. I cannot say “My country right or wrong” in any political, social or literary context. But one thing is inalterable, for better or worse, for life. 20 This is where my world began. A world which includes the ancestors—both my own and other people’s ancestors who become mine. A world which formed me, and continues to do so, even while I fought it in some of its aspects, and continues to do so. A world which gave me my own lifework to do, because it was here that I learned the sight of my own particular eyes. Cultural Notes: 1. Margaret Laurence (1926-1987): a Canadian novelist and short story writer, one of the major figures in Canadian literature. She was also a founder of the Writers’ Trust of Canada, a non-profit literary organization that seeks to encourage Canada’s writing community. The text is from Laurence’s 1976 book of essays Heart of a Stranger. 2. Canadian prairies: a region in western Canada, which may correspond to several different