ne thing England had taught me which my friends and relatives would not tolerate-smoking! Canadians thought smoking women fast, bad. There was a scene in which my eldest sister gave her ultimatum. "If smoke you must, go to the barn and smoke with the cow. Smoke in my house you shall not."
So I smoked with the cow. Neither she nor I were heavy smokers but we enjoyed each others company.
Growing Pains
by Emily Carr.
Image#: B.C. Archives D-03843
he idea of a Bobtail kennel did not rush into my mind with a sudden burst. It matured slowly, growing from a sincere love of admiration for the breed, awakened by my dog, Billie, a half-breed Old English Bobtail sheep-dog. Billie's Bobtail half was crammed with the royalty, lovableness, wisdom, courage and kindness of the breed. His something-else half was negligible, though it debarred him from the show bench. Heart, instincts, intelligence--all were pure Bobtail.
Heart of a Peacock
by Emily Carr
Image#: B.C. Archives C-05229
he first time I knew that Victoria was slower than other towns was when, at the age of twelve, I was recovering from typhoid fever and a lady whom Mother knew, and whose two children had had typhoid in the same epidemic as I, took me along with her little girls for a trip to Puget Sound. It was my first visit to an American city and I felt giddy in the head from its rush. I heard Americans laugh and say "slow as Canadian" and call my town "sleepy old Victoria."
I heard one man say to another, "Went across the line this summer."
"Did eh? What sort of place is Victoria?"
"Sleepiest ever!" laughed the first, Every place of business had a notice up, 'Gone to lunch. Back in a couple of hours.'"
That was the first time I knew we were slow.
The Book of Small
by Emily Carr.
Image#: B.C. Archives F-07887
very morning I met the Johnson girl on Carr Street. The Johnsons had a vegetable garden round the corner and their girl carried the vegetables to people in a basket. I don't know what her name was. We never spoke. She was taller than I and had a flat body and a meek face...which made me angry. After she passed I always turned round and made a face at her. She knew I was going to, so she looked back.
One morning she had a big basket of potatoes on her arm and I made a dreadful face. She looked so hard and long that she tripped and sprawled in the mud, all her potatoes flying into the ditch. I laughed right out loud and stood watching while she fished them out. Her apron was all mud. She took it off and wiped each potatoe and put it back onto the basket. She did not look at me or say one word. When the potatoes were wiped and put back in the basket she wiped first one of her eyes and then the other on the muddy apron, picked up her basket and went down the street.
I went home too. I felt the meanest, meanest meanest thing I had ever heard of. Why didn't the Johnson girl hit me? Or throw mud, or say something? Why didn't she?
The Book of Small
by Emily Carr.
Left: Image#: B.C. Archives G-02845
Right: Image#: B.C. Archives H-02812
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