POWER AND THE PLOW 



THE MOTOR CONTEST 



CLOUDS of smoke and hissing steam ; a broad prairie 

 stretching for miles without a break, save for the dis- 

 tant mirage; here and there a tiny prairie fire held in 

 leash by bands of blackened earth; dust and heat; 

 throngs of eager spectators; the song of vibrant steel and the 

 cracking roots of age-old sod imagine all this, add to it the 

 sight of a score of monster engines pulling leviathan plows, 

 and you have a faint picture of the Winnipeg plowing contest. 

 Shining prows of steel, cleaving the waves of a sea of prairie 

 grass; long furrows lost in a haze; lines of fluttering flags to 

 guide the engineer on a straight course; huge twenty-ton en- 

 gines mere dots on the landscape, and you have the impression 

 of distance. Refreshment tents, excursion trains, busy autos 

 running errands for the slow-moving tractors, or whisking the 

 manufacturer's crew back and forth, and you feel the spirit 

 of a modern festival. Then, in the twilight, mild-eyed cattle 

 meandering slowly over the upturned field, wondering, Rip Van 

 Winkle-like, at the transformation, and you sense a tragedy, 

 for the pasture of the ox and buffalo from time immemorial 

 is lost forever to advancing civilization. In the night, when the 

 camps have vanished, one might even fancy Indian spirits 

 floating miserably over the desolate waste of a one-time happy 

 hunting ground. 



