The village, east of highway five,huddles by the only railway tracks infifty miles. One white grain elevatortells you where you are, from anydirection. After four fires the placeis still big enough to have theusual buildings: school, hall,station, hotel and two stores.Sunday evenings, a passengertrain; Thursday, a freight.There are no factories hereand no luxuries. On two sidesthere are hay fields and country;machinery and men sometimes movethere. North of here is nothing.
On Saturday night there are Indianssick in the pub and Crazy John sittingin the poolhall where he's sat for yearswatching the spinning balls, the young men,who knows what. Visitors soon discoverthere are some here who likewhat they have lived through. Mostly, thereare young men who stand waitingwith their hands made fists inpockets that are empty, young menwho know that Winnipeg(200 miles south and not big enoughfor a place on the map of the worldin the post office), that Winnipegis where the world begins.
