The Men in Sheepskin Coats
The postmaster of Gimli, Manitoba, is named Tudni Thorsteinsen. He is an old man now, with curly gray hair, a face which may properly be called beautiful, and fine, clear eyes.
He has held his official position for fifty years, since he came to Canada from Iceland. His daughter does most of the work at the post office now, and this gives him time to complete his memoirs. He writes them on a typewriter in the Icelandic language and then translates them into English. When you sit in his little house, across the village street from the new brick post office, and listen to him read the records of Gimli, you can still see in his old eyes some of the immigrant's lust for land, for settlement, for crops, for building. In this neat and shiny sitting room you can see, as well as anywhere, how the blood of foreign races has been poured into the earth of Canada, and guess that in time it will grow a new race here, indigenous to this country, against all calculations and against all race prejudice.
At Gimli everybody is Icelandic. The old folks speak only the language brought with them from home. At the refuge for the aged down the street only one inmate can speak good English. But the younger folks understand both tongues, and many of them have succeeded in the business, professions, and politics of Winnipeg. Two of them have gone to Oxford as Rhodes Scholars, one into the Canadian government.
Mr. Thorsteinsen is proud of his people and sets down their record faithfully on his little typewriter. Meticulously, as if