charged forward and crashed the iron railings down with their weight
and force.

There were cries of "Shoulder him! Shoulder the boy!" and a rush was
made towards him. The police had a hard struggle to keep the people
back, and, as it was, it was only the swift withdrawal of the Prince
from the scene that averted trouble; for in a crowd that had got
slightly out of hand in its enthusiasm, the presence of so many
children and women seemed to spell calamity.

This splendid ardour is more remarkable, since, only a few months
before, Winnipeg had been the scene of an outburst which its citizens
describe as nothing else but Bolshevik.

That outcrop of active discontent--which, by the way, was germinated in
part by Englishmen--had a loud and ugly sound, and its clamour seemed
ominous. People asked whether all the West, and indeed, all Canada,
was going to be involved. Was Canada speaking in the accents of revolt?

Well, on September 9th, there arose another sound in Winnipeg, and it
was but part of a wave of sound that had been travelling westward for
more than a month. It was, I think, a most significant sound. It was
the sound of majorities expressing themselves.

It was not a few shouting revolt. It was the many shouting its
affection and loyalty for tried democratic ideals.

When minorities raise their voices our ears are dinned by the shouting
and we imagine it is a whole people speaking. We forget those who sit
silent at home, not joining in the storm. The silent mass of the
majority is overlooked because it finds so few opportunities for
self-expression. Only such a visit as this of the Prince gives them a
chance.

It seemed to me that this display of affection had a human rather than
a political significance. It impressed me not as an affair of parties,
but as the fundamental, human desire of the great mass of ordinary
workaday people to show their appreciation for stable and democratic
ideals which the peculiarly democratic individuality of the Prince
represents.

III

Winnipeg is a town with a vital spirit. It has a large air. There is
something in its spaciousness that tells of the great grain plains at
the threshold of which it stands. It is the "Chicago of Canada," and
hub of a world of grain, Queen City in the Kingdom of Bakers' Flour.
And it is mightily conscious of its high office.

It springs upward out of the flat and brooding prairies, where the
Assiniboine and the strong Red R