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Carrie
LeFlore Perry
From: Sturm's Oklahoma Magazine (Jan. Feb 1911)
A Selected
Edition By Amanda L. Paige
Chicago
My Dear Mother:
Do you think this is truly your “little girl” who is on her way to Europe? I
feel like Cinderella doubtless felt when she entered the coach, “mighty queer
and somewhat unbelievin’.”
I shall send a letter from the cities we visit and I promise to “do my best”
to let you know if the reality equals the dream. As I do not remember to have
included Chicago in my dreams, I shall pass her by.
We have decided to go by way of Niagara Falls and the St. Lawrence river to
Quebec and there board the express. As we go the extreme northern route it will
be cold; I am shivering in anticipation, think how glorious to freeze in warm
sunshiny June.
Mother, how did we ever make our way in those awful streets? Is it possible
that we, unassisted by man, actually found life enjoyable there? I am
helpless. Ed pokes much fun at me but I care not, I cling to him! He declares I
am “truly savage” hence my dislike to this hustling city.
This afternoon was spent shopping. As we were preparing to return to the
hotel we saw a man struck by an auto. Of course we remained to see the “after
doin’s.” Fortunately the man was very slightly injured but what a spectacle of
abject fright he presented! I was disgusted, you expect a woman to do the
“fainting Araminta” part, but a man should brace up.
I shall send this tonight as tomorrow we are off. I do not think I shall pine
to return here, I like my ease too well. I like to make haste slowly.
It is good to know that in your dear heart, absence cannot dim the fire of
love.
Lovingly,
C.
On Board The Train
Mother Dear:
We are really beginning our journey! I am so elated that
I simply must write to you, although writing aboard a train was never my best.
This train is in a hurry, going at an unholy pace and to my sorrow, the scenery
is being whisked past at greater speed than a moving picture show, therefore I
cannot truthfully state I am enraptured. We have just passed Michigan City1,
with its mountains of white sand, “Hoosier slide.” The train obligingly remained
at a standstill for at least three minutes and we dashed madly out, gazed, and
rushed back. From the porter I learned that the sand is piled two hundred feet
high, and is owned by the U.S. government. What a delightful place for children
to play! I am going to curl up in a seat and dream in this growing twilight.
Niagara Falls
Mother:
How would you like to be here in this Mecca of lovers, the
true honeymoon city? We arrived here early this morning almost earlier than even
old Gabriel would care to blow his trumpet, and after finding a suitable hotel
we started out merrily to view the mighty falls, even my voluble French blood
found not a word to express my feelings. I stood there entranced, listening to
the voices of the gods. I heard their silver, sweet calling, calling, every
calling, beneath the wild waves of sound and I know why many have cast
themselves into the foaming water. They heard the voices and could not resist.
Tell the boys, Auntie has been in Rainbow Land, and yet
missed the pot of gold! We went on this wonderful journey in a little boat, the
“Maid of the Mist.”2 Ed declares she must be an old maid, as
he trod her decks many, many years ago, but what of that? She rode the waves
quite youthfully. We were enveloped in rubber by a very obliging lad, and then
sought a chair on the deck. We plunged through the blinding spray and were soon
within Rainbow Land! Such a cruel rainbow, it tossed our little Maid again and
yet again until I was so sick I could hardly watch the colors come and go; just
as I felt the ride on that particular rainbow was too rich, we fell off and then
mounted another! Oh, yes, it was beautiful beyond expression but I would have
enjoyed it far more had we been less buffeted by the waves. The reason I missed
the gold was because when we were at the proper place I was too seasick to grab
it!
The woods are so beautiful, we have walked miles and miles
I know, and at every turn we found the water rushing, ever rushing. Does it
never tire?
Surely the Great Spirit must have created the falls to
over-awe the souls of men. I am sending you a descriptive pamphlet of the
trolley ride, now one of the features of the resort. Following the advice of a
friend, we crossed and went down the Canadian side and up the American. Why do
they think it necessary to make this magic place useful? Surely a little beauty
that “toils not, neither doth it spin” would not be amiss in this too prosaic
world of ours.
Do you recall a tale of my father’s, running thus:
Long, long years ago, just as the warm winds from the
Southland kissed the flowers into radiant beauty, the Great Spirit sent his
angel and bore away the soul of the young bride of a chieftain of our clan. In
the sighing breezes, in the waving grasses, in the nodding flowers from dawn
until dusk, from dusk into day, he heard her voice calling, every calling:
“Follow, follow me.” Unable longer to bear the agony he besought his people to
release him from duty that he might seek the voice. With sad misgivings, the
permission was granted and the young lover-husband began his quest of days,
weeks and months over hill and dale, ever hearing the silvery “follow, follow
me.” At last a day dawned in autumn splendor and he stood beside the roaring
waters of the great fall. He bent to listen; hark, clearer and every clearer,
high and sweet above the awful roar: “Come, my beloved, oh come; here at last is
rest.” One eager look, one plunge and the beplumed warrior found his bride! When
the marvelous joy of this place unfolded itself to me this day, I no longer
wondered that the over-wrought, untutored soul thought that here he would find
her with the gods.
As the car wound in and out, following the canyon, now we
saw the foaming hissing water, madly falling over gigantic rocks in its haste to
reach the sea; again it flowed calmly, sanely, as if it was pleased to dally
between frowning banks; again it paused to retrace its steps, and then as if in
anger at the delay, churning, boiling, raging in its wrath, it leaps high in the
air, and tumbling, twisting like a mad thing, returns again to its seaward
course.
One must be a dreamer of dreams, mother mine, to see the
true beauty of this place, and then the gods let its true grandeur sink so
deeply within your soul one aches with the anguish of it, yet it is given to but
few to express the visions vouchsafed. I am not one. I can only throb with the
glory of it, and sob with the pain!
Did I ever complain of the cold? Well Heaven forgive me,
for now I must cry out against the heat, that even the night does not drive
away! Oh, for only a little breeze; the nights in Oklahoma are cool. An amusing
incident occurred at our table this evening; a foreign gentleman and his wife
were striving to make the ebon-hued waiter comprehend that they wished dinner
served in courses; he, not knowing how to serve, a la American, in many
little dishes!
After a very unsatisfactory repast of which they expressed
their opinion in voluble French, thus giving much pleasure to Ed, they left the
dining room, disgusted with American ways. As we now had the undivided attention
of the waiter, Ed casually inquired, “Pretty hard time you were having, John.
What was the trouble?” “ ‘Fore Gawd, mister, but I never seed such orderin’ one
thing at a time, clean plate, knife and fork every time! Them furriners don’t
know nothin’.”
In a very few days we will be “furriners”; what will be the
verdict of the waiters over there?
Sunday Eve
A very peaceful day, truly a Sabbath; the divine service in
the little church overshadowed by giant trees was so restful. I enjoyed the
sermon very much. We were greatly amused when the contribution box was passed,
for a man accompanied the collector and appeared to record amount placed
therein! Ed whispered he was the auditor. If the congregation is no more
blessed with worldly goods than one I know in the far West, that auditor is not
needed. We have spent the afternoon strolling leisurely about the little islands
and enjoyed the glimpses of honey-mooners who, thinking themselves hidden, have
betrayed their newness to matrimony. Ed teases me, because I insist that I am
glad that we leave here tomorrow morning, but I am so weary of the “ever-never”
of the water I cannot rest, for its ceaseless roar unnerves me. Just suppose
that Indian ancestor of mine should rise up and beckon! Do not be uneasy. I’ll
wager my French blood would come gallantly to the rescue, with, “Pardon,
monsieur, I dare not intrude.”
Good night, mother mine, it is almost as hot as my idea of
Hades, but I shall “woo sweet slumber.”
Lovingly,
C.
1.
Michigan City is on the shores of Lake Michigan in Indiana. Nearby are
dunes of white sand built up by wave, ice and wind actions.
2.
“Maid of the Mist” boats have been in operation at Niagara Falls since
1846 with tours leaving both the United States and Canadian side of the falls.
It has the distinction of being the oldest tourist attraction in North America.
Mrs. Perry and her husband took the tour of the falls on the American side.
Montreal
Mother Mine:
Out of the United States! We passed across the lake from
Lewiston to Toronto and finding a couple of hours at our disposal, we proceeded
to “do” the town. I cannot say it is especially interesting; it is clean and
hustling, but too much like an American city to please me. You see, I am looking
for the old, the beautiful and the picturesque, not the new and practical. The
night was so cool I slept like a child and awoke at five-thirty ready to enjoy
the Thousand Islands. I think a picture of an openmouthed rustic and a whole row
of exclamation points would give you a better idea of my state this morning than
words. Island after island, bearing homes of splendor, then dear little wooded
spots with an unpretentious cottage peeping from the trees; again, a monster
club house and magnificent grounds, just one continuous picture of homes and
places of pleasure. Many of the houses crowning the islands were such monster
affairs the lawns were lost in the river! Do they have babies in those homes? If
so, how do they keep them out of the water? Ed chuckled with pleasure over the
mental picture of you, on a little pocket-handkerchief lawn, with those
irrepressible boys, in a wild endeavor to keep them out of the St. Lawrence!
The early morning light added to the magic beauty of the
scene, yet I shall be disappointed if the Rhine is not more entrancing.
The castles are too new, the homes do not show the caress
of time; it is like our entire country, great and beautiful, but so new, so
palpably new. We were from six to ten-thirty passing through this wonderful bit
of the St. Lawrence, and like unto children, we were quite sure the island of
the moment was the most fair.
We were told that there were 1,642 in all, and I do not
doubt the statement after this morning. Leaving Prescott where we changed to a
smaller boat, we were soon passing the numerous rapids. They increased in wonder
until the Lachine Rapids were entered, and there we were truly amazed! A lady
friend had informed me that I would be greatly disappointed with the rapids, as
they were very peaceful, like unto soap bubbles! My comment is this: I would not
wish that brand of soap turned loose in my vicinity if I were boating. Do you
recall the legend of the Indian, who, for telling a lie, was doomed by the Great
Spirit to ever wander by streams with his canoe upon his back in a fruitless
search for a place to launch it? I wonder if he ever tried the Lachine Rapids?
If he did I’ll venture the Great Spirit had to hurry to save man and canoe. When
we reached Cornwall, we found the bridge had fallen, blocking the canal, and
learned our boat would be the last to Montreal for several days. You see the
vessels go down the river but up the canal, because of the rapids. I am so
thankful we did not miss our river trip.
We are staying at a quaint old hotel, in the French part of
the city, very near the cathedral where Ed was christened. You need a guide in
the hotel; it is a succession of up you go and down you come! There is an air of
age and an odor too, about the rooms and corridors. We were told the present
King1 stayed here, when he visited Canada as Prince of Wales, and I
feel sure there has been little change since then! We have a monster apartment
lined with mirrors and such massive furniture I feel oppressed. I tried to find
the office before commencing this letter, and landed in an unknown hall. Seeing
a chambermaid I inquired the way to the elevator, and was told something like
this: Up two stairs, around a corner, down three steps, a long corridor, up
three, then up two, across a hall, and enter the elevator and I would soon find
myself opposite the office! I appreciated her directions but begged her to
escort me to room 45 as I would defer the excursion until my husband returned.
I wish I could find my way to the hall of the lion; it is
rather exciting to press a button, see the monster tongue loll out, and then a
stream of ice water. Would not the boys drink to repletion?
June 24
Mother, Ed came in just as I was finishing the above
paragraph, and with his assistance I found the lion and also enjoyed a street
car ride. Today we have been “sight-seeing.” Right here I wish to say that Ed
would be a capital guide, he will even sacrifice truth to interest if he is not
sure of his data. You would never suspect it, but I have a lurking suspicion
that I have been told many dream tales, although what of it? May not a man
romance of his home city? The very first thing we did was to make our way across
the historic Place D’Armes Square into the old cathedral. It is a place of
shadows, where prayer comes easily to the heart; beneath the giant crucifix of
our Lord thereon, the soul is melted with tenderness.
I did so wish to examine the records and see his name
there, as a tiny infant, but we were too early, and later in the day we would be
elsewhere. We had decided to have breakfast in the Café A—, where Ed assured me
the delicacies offered were beyond compare, and the room a little palace. Ah,
the eyes of childhood! When we entered the small place, Ed with a twinkle said:
“My dear, this place has grown smaller; I assure you it used to be the size of
the cathedral!” Dear old café, perhaps it had seen better days; I know I have
never seen a poorer breakfast. I drank to the King, in a cup of awful liquid
called English Breakfast tea. Heaven pity the subjects of King Edward if they
drink that decoction frequently! After a most unsatisfactory repast Ed said:
“Now we will buy the very finest peppermints in the world; the kind I used to
eat.” Alas for the dreams of childhood, the candy was the “last straw.” When we
reached the street it was my turn and I said, “Let us buy presidents at a baker
shop, you know dear, the kind you used to buy in old Montreal.” You see I was
determined to finish the “dream” right then and there. Cruel of me, I hear you
say? Do believe me, that pastry was delicious, the very best every; I shall urge
all my friends to visit Montreal and eat “Presidents.” We walked on old Bleury
Street to the Jesuit College where his young ideas were encourage to burst into
bloom, and there I met an old priest who knew Ed as a boy, and had the pleasure
(?) of teaching him. He assured me that Ed’s ideas were always ready to bloom
and ofttimes the flowers were startling.
No one feared he would die early because of his angelic
goodness, but they often expected him to enter the pearly gates in a violent
manner. He was permitted to lead me through his former class room, recreation
room, and out-door play grounds; it was quite interesting to see the places and
hear his animated tales of old school days.
From the College to Mount Royal on the cars it is but a
little time, and there we were high above the city, enjoying the wondrous
panorama. Ed pointed out all the historic houses and thus I have learned my
Montreal fairly well, even if here but a day. This is a city of churches and
charitable institutions, if we had more time we would surely visit many of them;
I am not fully content with a “bird’s eye view.” When we returned to the hotel,
while I rested Ed went out to see a college chum who is now a dignified
attorney; he must have had a jolly time as he was quite late returning to the
hotel for me, and our little excursion to the Convent of the Ladies of the
Sacred Heart2 was begun as the afternoon was almost ended.
The trolley ride was so cool and through such fine
country I was rather sorry when the convent cross appeared. Madame K.,my old
teacher, gave us welcome and showed us the many beauties of the place. It was
such a comfort to talk with dear Madam, I felt that she was truly interested in
all that concerned me. After a pleasant hour, we turned our faces towards
Montreal; the lamps were glowing when we reached the city and thus our pleasure
was enhanced, it lies so quaint and queer under the gleaming lights. After a
dinner—not at the Café A.—we strolled along the streets of the French town and
Ed aired his mother-tongue with the many children scampering here and there in
the joys of hide and seek. Thus ends our day in Montreal; we are true birds of
passage, in twenty minutes we leave for Quebec, and until then you will have
peace.
Lovingly,
C.
1.
King Edward VII was the King of England at this time.
Edward VII ruled England upon the death of his mother, Queen Victoria, in 1901
until 1910.
2.
Mrs. Perry had been educated at one of the convent
schools run by the Ladies of the Sacred Heart. These schools were noted for
their education for young women.
Quebec
Dear Mother:
We arrived here at the early hour of six-thirty, entered a cab and were driven
up, up, almost to heaven! The streets were in gala attire, banners of the saints
hanging everywhere. We just missed the religious celebration in honor of the ter-centenary
of Quebec. In the morning light the ancient city looked her best, and the drive
to the Chateau Fontenac was filled with interest. There is a magnificent hotel
built on the site of Chateau St. Louis, of historic associations. There is
nothing ancient about this hostelry. It is a place of beautiful nooks and
corners, wide spaces and sunshine. Far below lies the old town, and high above
frowns the famous citadel.
The Dufferin Terrace, two hundred feet above the St.
Lawrence, is the pride of Quebec, and here you see the beauty and chivalry ever
promenading. We followed it for quite a distance, then I desired to reach the
top of the fortress crowned rocks that we retraced our steps, and finding a
street car, were soon at our goal. The view is beyond description, and had I not
felt time was passing we would have lingered there for hours. Of course we were
on the heights of Abraham, where Wolf died and Montcalm was mortally wounded. Do
you remember as a child I used to be disconsolate because I knew not which hero
I should mourn—whether I should rejoice with the English or weep with the
French? Well, Dear, I felt just the same this sunshiny morn.
The street car rides are delightful; you are in such
unexpected places, now in a broad, modern thoroughfare, and then into a tiny
street where children, chickens, dogs and cats scamper into doorways to escape
the car, which I assure you fully occupies the street and even extends over the
narrow sidewalk. Ed was determined that I should visit the fish market. I cannot
say I desired it, but of course I followed him. The place was filled with queer
fish and I am glad I saw it, yet I shall not visit another. It is too “smelly”
for me.
As we were turning down a little street, not far from the
market, Ed saw a sign, “Dressmaking,” and shouted: “Hurrah, come on, C.; this is
where we get your dress altered.” To explain, Mother, my suit in which I
expected to travel all over Europe came from the maker too large and I did not
have time to have it made smaller, and this appeared to Ed, “the time, the place
and the woman.”
We entered the shop and a French lady of imposing
dimensions assured him that her time was fully occupied, but that she knew of a
seamstress who would gladly effect the change. We were to go up one block, then
turn north, walk two, and half way of the next block we would see a stairway,
walk up, and there we would find her. We started. The street was like the road
to heaven, narrow, steep, and beset with pitfalls. We boldly opened the outer
wicket of the stairway into a dark passage, age old, up a flight, into Stygian
blackness and the odor of the grave. I saw a door on a little landing and
knocked. Hearing a voice, I opened, and imagine my consternation when I caught a
glimpse of a man and woman seemingly engaged in preparing dinner. The man turned
a scowling face and I quickly closed the door, caught Ed’s hand and pulled him
helter skelter down the musty, dusty stair into God’s sunlight. My dress shall
await a London tailor. We hailed a cab and drove to the city walls, and into all
sorts of nooks and corners. After luncheon we decided to take a car for
Montmorency Falls and the shrine of St. Anne de Beaupre. The Falls are
exquisite, so foamy and milky white. We were told they were far higher than
Niagara, but they are not so awe-inspiring—you can laugh and chatter without
feeling that you are misbehaving in church. We entered a cage and were drawn to
the plateau above the falls where we drank tea on the veranda of Kent House,
once the home of the grandfather of Edward VII. and wandered at will in the
zoological garden kept up there by the big fur establishments of Quebec.
The water power is utilized for many purposes. You see
the spirit of commercialism is even invading this delightful spot. We barely
caught the car to St. Anne’s we remained so long. The little French villages
nestling beside the hills, with the river flowing peacefully towards the sea,
are very picturesque. The houses are all of the same type, be they old or new,
just as much alike as peas in a pod, all with dormer windows and an outside
stairway. The farms are so tiny not like a farm out our way. In Oklahoma a
tenant would expect you to allow him that amount of land rent free, for a
garden.
The place of the shrine is a village with an air of the
medieval ages. The chapel is ancient, but the Basilica with its twin towers and
colossal statue of St. Anne, is of comparatively recent date. Such faith as is
evinced here! How can it be, in this material age of ours? I knew of St. Anne’s,
but I never conceived of anything like unto this. We talked long with the priest
in charge and he told us of cures at which we marveled greatly. It is a place of
many miracles, judged by the number of crutches, canes, etc., left by cured
supplicants.
Oh, dear, we are hurried. Hardly do we become fairly
interested when we must move on. We did not reach the city until nightfall and
thus once more enjoyed a Canadian twilight. Glimpses of the inhabitants engaged
in evening chores, laughing children, green fields, and the lights on the river
gave to all an air most enthralling. Surely this must be like your beloved
France, for it is not English nor American.
This evening we have witnessed a Canadian political celebration, watched a
procession, listened to speeches and enjoyed the music.
The city is brilliantly illuminated and Dufferin Terrace
is aglow with handsomely gowned women. I do not feel that I could have done
dear, dear old Quebec even scant justice, and I could find it in my heart to
wish the boat did not sail so soon. We are going to the Empress in a caleche,1
so, as Ed declares I may have a foretaste of a ship at sea. Mother, I have your
last letter to solace me when I am far from my “ain countree” but oh, dear, I do
feel such a clutch at my heart when I think of the vast sea so soon to separate
us. –Why can we not have pleasure without pain?
Good night and good-bye until we land on the shores of
Albion. Can you wait that long?
Lovingly,
C.
1.
A calache is a lightweight four- passenger carriage.
A Leaf from my notebook
June 26—Off at last! We came early to the vessel and were
comfortably settled before we left Quebec. Our state rooms leave nothing to be
desired. Ed says we have 1,910 passengers aboard; would be quite a large town in
Oklahoma. Little book, do you think I’ll often write on your nice white pages?
27th—Away out somewhere on the broad bosom of
the St. Lawrence. We anchored at Rimouski1 for twelve hours awaiting
the mail. I am feeling a little queer; surely I am not to be ill on this placid
river?
28th—Sunday, up at seven-thirty. I am feeling
like a new person. Assisted at mass this morning at ten-thirty; now I am writing
this in a sheltered nook away up stairs. It is very, very cold. We are passing
the bleak coast of Labrador, and whales and icebergs are enchanting all of us.
The sun shining on the wonderful masses of ice renders them like fairy castles.
I am feeling very, very dizzy.
11 P.M. –My wife is very ill, but wishes this little book
kept up. Sea a little rough. What should I put in here?
29th—Doctor here to see my wife; high fever;
feed her chipped ice all the time! Phew! I am freezing; glad I am not obliged to
eat this ice. Wish I had my winter clothes. Poor little woman, the sea is not
kind to her.
30th—I am uneasy, wife very ill, begging to go
home. This voyage not turning out well.
July 1st –Thank goodness. Wife is better, fever
gone. Sea very smooth. Day very long, not dark at eleven and day at three.
Always something doing, but I have been too much occupied to enjoy myself.
2nd—Hurrah! Wife much better. Land will surely
complete the cure. Saw whales today, many porpoises and thousands of ducks.
Heavy fog off north coast of Ireland; ship delayed several hours.
July 3rd—Wife spent miserable night, but the
sight of land this morning helped her greatly. We are nearing Liverpool. I have
my wife ready to leave. She is very weak, but insists upon leaving for London on
the fast express at three-thirty. We land at one-thirty.
Good bye, old ocean; you are grand, but I know someone
who does not love you.
1. Rimouski is a city on the south shore of the St.
Lawrence.
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