"Forlorner nor a musquash if you took and dreened his swamp."
When I reached the house I picked out the kindest-looking chair I could
find and fell into it. I don't believe we shall need any more summer
wood. Besides, after such a steady winter, we are almost sure to have a
hot summer.
_Jan. 7._--That fool weasel or ermine was in the trap this morning. You
needn't tell me that they are cunning or anything of that sort. By the
way, working a crosscut saw isn't nearly so bad a job on the second day.
One can get used to anything.
_Jan. 11._--My move, is it? Where did you move? Oh!--well, why didn't
you say so? I've been waiting for you to move for the past week.
A checker epidemic is now raging in the country. It is affecting people
in much the same way as tarantism, or the dancing sickness, affected the
Italians in the middle ages. We speak the language of checkers, act the
actions of checkers, and even in our sleep we try to make moves on the
patchwork quilts. When the boys go to do the chores they jump the
swill-buckets over the pigs, and when the girls make pancakes they jump
them around the pan instead of turning them. The storekeepers jump the
pennies over the quarters when making change, and the bakers jump the
buns with the cookies when filling orders. Even the snowflakes seem to
be jumping one another as they fall, and then they drift in zigzags
towards some mysterious king-row beyond the horizon. The present state
of the public mind is shown by the following clipping from the Appin
news of _The Glencoe Transcript_:--"Ed. Laughton and John McMaster have
chosen sides for another checker match. Each side has thirteen players,
and over 500 games must be played in the next two weeks. The losers must
provide an oyster supper and concert in the Town Hall. Every available
space in town is covered by a checkerboard."
The outbreak is by no means local. This week some one sent me a copy of
_The Grimsby Independent_, and marked a letter which overflows with
Gargantuan mirth and Homeric defiance. It is humorous to the point of
libel:--
"A CHALLENGE TO THE FIVE SCOTCH-IRISH JOHNS OF CAISTOR
"There are so many contests now going on, some fool and some legitimate,
that the writer thought it would be unique to have one on the
checkerboard here in Grimsby. Now, if the Five Johns of Caistor, who
have had a checkered career living out in the jungles, viz.: John Young,
John Deans, John Warner, John Jackson, and John Leslie, could be induced
to leave their lairs for a short time to make some moves on the magic
squares (and, by the way, it is the only time some of them do move) we
will trim them to a peak. There will be in this contest no houses and
lots, pianos, trips to the Falkland Islands, moon, etc., but they will
get their paunches well filled with 'Scotch haggis' and potatoes boiled
with the hides on; the liquid refreshments men from that burg always
carry on or in their person. If they should win, perhaps our other John
might give us a trophy out of his rare collection to turn loose in their
swamps--"
"'A Hip-pa-con-da-hare
Or a High-ta-ton-ta-toose
A Wolver-ine-achipmunk,
Or Tam-a-ram-a-goose.'--_D. Jackson_."
If the Grimsby-Caistor match is pulled off I hereby issue a challenge to
the victors on behalf of the winners of the Appin tournament. I pin my
faith to our local talent. We have some of the most sedentary players in
this vicinity that the country has ever produced. They are wearing the
bottoms out of the chairs playing checkers, and if a fire broke out when
a game was in progress they have their minds so completely concentrated
on the moves that they would have to be carried out with the
checkerboard on their knees, and they would finish the game in a
snowdrift, without noticing that anything had happened. Bring on your
champions.
As far as I am concerned, I am forced to confess that I am not making
the progress I should. I have too many things to take my mind off the
game, and a man can never hope to be a great checker-player if he ever
thinks of anything else. The boys have got used to all my tricky moves,
and have developed new ones of their own, so that when we play my kings
and men are all the time being caught on level crossings.
_Jan. 14._--The editorials in the papers urging the farmers to produce
more and better foodstuffs, so that they will make more money and reduce
the cost of living in the cities, are being read by the farmers with
growing wonder. The answer to these eloquent appeals is simply, "What's
the use?" Is it possible that the economic writers of the cities have
not discovered that the good old law of Supply and Demand is as dead as
Competition? The trusts and mergers killed Competition and gave us
wasteful methods and high prices of monopoly instead, and now the
transportation companies and the middlemen have strangled our old
friends Supply and Demand. A point has been reached where our historical
societies should be erecting brass tablets sacred to the memory of the
economic laws that once governed trade and commerce. It would be a good
idea to have these tablets put up on the walls of our parliament
buildings, so that our representatives might have constant reminders of
the results of granting special privileges to favoured persons and
corporations.
But it is hardly exact to say that Supply and Demand are dead. They are
simply handcuffed and fettered. According to the papers, Demand is very
noisy in the cities, but his twin brother, Supply, cannot rush to his
assistance. What's the use? If Demand could only find some way of
offering to the farmers those wonderful prices that we hear about it
would be surprising to see how Supply would wax strong. When H. H.
Vreeland was traffic manager for one of the Hudson River railways that
feed into New York he worked out a scheme by which the farmers could
reach the city markets with their produce at the least possible expense.
The immediate result was that the district through which his railway
passed at once became one of the greatest dairying sections in the
country. When Demand expressed his needs to the farmers in terms of
higher prices, instead of newspaper reports, they adopted better methods
at once and doubled and trebled their products. That one act by the
traffic manager did more to promote the best methods than could be done
by an agricultural college, and his railway reaped the reward in the
form of increased freight at a reasonable rate. I am inclined to think
that if something were done to enable the farmers to market their
products profitably more would be done to promote scientific agriculture
than any one dreams. The farmers would then go after education instead
of waiting to have it carried to them. It is no answer to say that the
farmers should co-operate. They are already co-operating in a Government
that should look after their interests. What is the use of telling
farmers that they should feed only the best stock when they know that,
taking things year in and year out, about all they can hope to get by
feeding the best stock is more fertiliser to enrich their land? Once do
away with the restrictions that keep Supply and Demand apart, and you
will solve both the problem of cheap living and the spread of
agricultural education.
_Jan. 15._--When one is prepared for it, this zero weather is as
delightful in its way as the balmiest season of spring or summer. At no
other time of the year is the air so pure and stimulating. Yesterday I
had a walk in the forenoon and another at night. In the forenoon the sun
was reflected from millions of fresh snowflakes that had sifted down in
the night and had not been blown away by the wind. But though the
sunlight was dazzling there was not enough warmth in it to start the
growth of an icicle on the south side of the house. At first I thought I
was not going to see a trace of a living thing except occasional
mouse-tracks, but Sheppy, the collie, made a sudden rush and for a
moment I saw a black squirrel making a flying leap from one tree to
another, where it disappeared into a hole. A little farther on we
started a flock of quail, and instead of alighting in scrub of some kind
they lit in the tops of the tallest maples. While searching for them
where they were perched on the branches I was surprised to see a
highholder busily hunting for insects in the rough bark of a maple.
At night I went for another walk and saw the snowflakes glisten by
moonlight. As the thermometer stood at nine below zero, I had to
maintain a lively pace to keep from being nipped by the frost. Not even
an owl hooted and not a sound was to be heard except the rhythmic
"gling-glong" of sleigh-bells a couple of miles away. There were as many
stars in the snow as in the sky, and the silver moon presided over both
with still serenity. In spite of the loneliness and the silence I am not
sure but the walk by night was more enjoyable than the walk by day.
_Jan. 20._--The January thaw has arrived, and up to the time of writing
it has proven itself an entirely competent thaw. It has its work cut out
for it, however, and only time will tell whether it is equal to its
task. That last snowstorm piled the drifts as high as the fences, choked
all the drains and watercourses, and brought everything in the country
to a standstill for some days. There was no doubt but winter was with
us, and then came signs of a change, though the weather-wise were unable
to say with certainty just what the change would be.
"Well, what are we going to have--rain or snow?" became the general form
of greeting.
"I can't exactly make out. It may be either," was the invariable reply.
After a day of mild stillness a raw, damp wind began to breathe from the
south and nature favoured us with another of her marvellous
transformation scenes. Hoarfrost began to gather on everything, but it
was not like the hoarfrost of a couple of weeks ago, which crystallised
from the still, cold air on every side of everything. This hoarfrost
showed like an icy growth on the side of things nearest the wind,
delicate fern-like formations, closely packed, that in some cases
attained at least an inch in length. The sky was whitish grey, and a
white mist veiled everything between the blinding white snow and the
sky. Still the result could not be predicted.
"We are going to have a big change of some kind," was the general
verdict. "I have always noticed that when things take a few days working
up we get something worth while."
Yesterday morning the air became milder, the hoarfrost began to
disappear, and presently the snow became "grippy" underfoot. By noon
there was a driving mist and the thaw was on. By nightfall, for the
first time in weeks, the rain was on the roof. This morning things are
dreary in the country, with the ground covered with slushy snow and a
dripping sky overhead. One realises what a terrible bore the man must
have been who was described as being as "tedious as a great thaw." But
wait a moment. A glance through the window shows a driving snowstorm in
progress. It looks as if both those who predicted rain and those who
predicted snow were right. What is the use of trying to describe
country weather anyway? It simply refuses to sit for its picture.
_Jan. 22._--Although the fields are bare and deserted there is still
much business activity in the country. This is a time of much dealing in
horses, both for local use and for shipment. Teams, both heavy-draught
and roadsters, are being matched for future use or sale, and this gives
rise to much dealing among the farmers themselves. It is seldom that a
farmer manages to raise a properly-matched team on his farm, so he must
seek among his neighbours for horses of the proper points to match his
own. As most of the men who deal in horses are excellent judges of
horseflesh, their trading is sharp and discriminating. In this part of
the country horses almost have social position, their name, breeding,
and history being as well known as their owners'. The experts recognise
them at sight, and it is not unusual to hear scraps of conversation like
this:
"Was it you that drove along the town line yesterday?"
"Yes."
"I was sure it was your team, but I was not sure it was you that was
with them."
To be known by the horse one drives instead of by one's own commanding
presence is always something of a shock to one who becomes aware of it
for the first time. But it is not surprising. The men who make a
specialty of horses know every colt and horse in several townships, as
well as, or even better than, they do their owners. When a dealer wishes
to get together a carload, he applies to such men and can at once get an
idea of the quality and prices of all the desirable horses of any
particular class in the vicinity, just as readily as if they were all
assembled in a market for his inspection. Then by driving about the
country and using the rural telephone he can quickly secure the lot he
wants. The matter of preparing horses for the market is not an entirely
simple one, and a number of men usually make their profits before the
horses reach their final owner. One man may be successful as a breeder
and may be depended on for a constant supply of colts. Another may be an
expert at breaking colts and bringing out their best qualities. Then
comes the shuffle of matching teams. Finally, they pass through the
hands of local buyers to the dealers, who ship them to points where
there is a demand. One result of this experience and interest in good
horses is that some horses from this locality have been prize-winners at
the horse shows of New York and Chicago and are now doing high stepping
on fashionable driveways of many great cities.
_Jan. 23._--The next great European war will be fought by soldiers who
have nothing left to fight for but a national debt. It is quite evident
to every one watching the progress of events that the only thing
preventing a war at the present time is that none of the belligerent
nations are prepared. It is also evident that they will not be fully
prepared as long as they are able to borrow money or raise it by taxes
in order to build Dreadnoughts and get on the best possible war footing.
The great powers of diplomacy are being exerted solely to delay war
until the preparations are complete, and they will doubtless delay it so
long that the inevitable war will synchronise with a general bankruptcy
of the nations. This will give the historians and poets of the future
new matter to deal with, and as I speculate on the forthcoming war of
universal bankruptcy my imagination is roused. How will the soldiers
fight in such circumstances? Will they march into battle, singing:
"How can a man die better
Than facing fearful odds"
For the taxes of his fathers
And the Armour lobby frauds?
That doesn't sound very inspiring, does it? And yet I cannot think of
anything else that would be so appropriate.
The article, "War against War," which I wrote some time ago in the
_Toronto Globe_, brought me so many letters that I am impelled to deal
with the subject again. Some letters approved entirely, while others
were so delightfully sarcastic that I am tingling all over with the joy
of battle. I have just read "Horatius at the Bridge" to put me in a
vaunting mood, and if you find quotations from it bubbling to the
surface you will know what is the matter. After all it may be quite
timely to deal with the subject again. At the present writing it is
rumoured that the naval bill will be up in Parliament before many days
have passed.
"I wis that in the Senate
There was no heart so bold
But sore it ached and fast it beat
When that ill news was told."
It is not likely, however, that we shall have such a battle as raged all
over the Hansard last year. It is quite certain that the two parties
will be no nearer to agreement than they were a year ago, and that
emboldens me to make a suggestion. Of course I do not expect it to be
accepted at once, for when I read what editors and statesmen have to say
on the subject I am afraid that Mr. Borden is fortified in his own
opinions like Lars Porsena:
"There be thirty chosen prophets,
The wisest of the land,
Who alway by Lars Porsena
Both morn and evening stand:
And with one voice the Thirty
Have their glad answer given:
'Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena;
Go forth, beloved of Heaven.'"
As neither party seems to have the power to put through its policy I
venture to suggest an alternative. Instead of giving money or building a
navy why should not Canada contribute thirty-five million dollars' worth
of wheat? Wheat will be needed just as much as Dreadnoughts or
ammunition. We have wheat. Why not give it?
It seems to me that this suggestion embodies all the good features of
both policies and has a few good ones of its own. It would be as quickly
effective in a case of emergency as a cash contribution, and the money
would all be expended here in Canada. Of course, there is the question
of Canadians fighting in their own defence, but I shall deal with that
later. Now, think it over carefully before arriving at a conclusion.
What would be the matter with a contribution of wheat, or, still better,
of flour? The chief weakness of Great Britain at the present time is an
underfed population. Reliable statistics show that in the British
Islands there are over twelve millions of people who are below the
hunger-line, who never know what it means to have enough to eat. By
making it possible for these unfortunates to be strong and well
nourished we should increase the fighting force of the empire by
millions. Because no one in modern times has contributed to war funds in
this way, the suggestion may seem novel, but in the brave days of old
such contributions were frequent. The people gave what they had and gave
what would do the most good. Moreover, there is a Canadian side to this
suggestion that appeals to me. If our government undertook to buy
thirty-five million dollars' worth of wheat, to mill it and ship the
flour, they might learn things that would lead to far-reaching reforms.
They might find out why Canadian flour is cheaper in London, England,
than it is in Winnipeg, and they would learn all about our
transportation problems and the shipping combine. Also they would get
more reliable facts about the high cost of living than could be dug out
by Royal Commissions in ten years. And practically all the war money
would be spent with our own farmers, millers, and railways, and in that
way would stimulate our basic home industries. Now, do not all speak at
once. Stop and count thirty-five millions before scolding me for my
wheat-giving suggestion.
As for doing our own fighting, I think every red-blooded Canadian is in
favour of that. But we should not think of fighting except in
self-defence. Those who would undertake our fighting should be men with
a deep-rooted horror of war, who would be willing to fight to put an end
to it. The great trouble with all the suggestions for warlike
preparedness that I have seen is that they are full of the pride, pomp,
and poppy-cock of old-fashioned war. There is no true glory in war. The
killing of men, even in self-defence, is a hideous necessity at best.
But if it must be done, let it be done without fuss and feathers. If we
cannot be prepared for war without indulging in strutting and tinsel,
there is something wrong. I think history will bear me out in the
statement that the great fighters were men with a great purpose, rather
than with elaborate training. Without referring to cases in recent
history where embattled farmers--men without training and devoid of the
love of glory--held in check the best trained troops, let us consider
for a moment the "crop-eared boors" led by the brewer, Cromwell. Having
a great purpose, they developed into the renowned Ironsides, perhaps the
most efficient group of fighting men that England ever produced. Glory
was no part of their creed, and if we should ever be compelled by
aggression to put men in the field they should be men of that kind. I
would have no criticism to make of military training if it taught men to
fight only for the rights of humanity. Men should shudder when they
think of war instead of bursting into song in praise of its horrible
glories.
_Jan. 24._--Some recent discoveries have made me wish to publicly abase
myself--to admit that in at least some respects I am an old fogy,
unobservant and far from being up-to-date. Ever since coming to the
country I have been waiting patiently for some of the good old swindles
to turn up and to observe just how they are worked. I have been
positively yearning for a visit from a book agent who would try to get
me to subscribe for the first volume of some one's Compendium of Useless
Information in sixty-seven volumes. The first volume would be only a
sample, of course, but there would be a little joker in the order form
that would make it a contract for the whole sixty-seven. I hankered to
see an order for a force-pump that would later turn out to be an order
for a whole crate. After months of waiting I was coming to the
conclusion that the men who used to prey on the farmers and rob them of
their earnings have either died or reformed. And all the time evidence
was lying about me and I couldn't see it. I take refuge under the
assertion of a great wit that "Nothing is so hard to see as the
obvious." But at last I am wise. Years of city life had dulled my ears
to the siren song of the promoter and I did not realise when I heard the
same voice in the country that it indicated an old industry in a new
form. The fact is that the modern farmer is a business man, and when
swindled the work must be done in a business-like way instead of by
trickery. He will not consent to be separated from his money except by
the methods that are used in the city. When he has a bunch of money that
is burning a hole in the stocking--I mean bank--in which it is kept he
listens to the glozings of the get-rich-quick man or to the silvery
persuadings of the mining promoter. He buys stocks, forsooth, and loses
his money like a business man. I am reliably informed that there are
successful farmers who could paper the spare bedroom with nicely
lithographed little squares of paper, the sight of which would make the
house tomcat arch his back and spit because of their wild-cat
complexion. When I hear young men discussing the price of wheat, I no
longer regard the conversation as a sign of the interest they take in
their work, but begin to wonder mildly what bucket-shop they are
patronising. Assuredly the times have changed and I had not changed with
them, but my eyes are opened. I am no longer waiting for the
double-dealing book agent or the deceitful peddler. Instead, I am
culling alluring prospectuses from my daily mail and revelling in their
financial humour. I thought they were part of the penalty I had to pay
for having once lived in the city, but I find they are part of the
present features of country life. Thus do we live and learn.
_Jan. 25._--Is an open winter a blessing after all? I have heard many
people rejoicing because the mild weather made it unnecessary to feed
their stock heavily, and those who, like myself, cut their own wood find
that there is a great saving in fuel. They say that a winter like the
one we have been having is "not so hard on the poor" and that is a good
thing, but there is another side to the story. The weather is so
changeable that colds and sickness are very prevalent, and because of
the bad roads the social life of the country has been at a standstill.
There are days when hardly a rig passes, even on a road that lies
between two villages, and not since I have come to the country have
there been so few public entertainments of any kind. The mild and wet
weather leaves the country roads impassable, and that keeps people at
home when there is little work to be done. It would be much better if
they could be refreshing themselves with the natural enjoyments of
visiting and parties. Although most of us dread the steady cold of the
old-fashioned winters, I am inclined to think that the steady severe
weather is better for us than the kind we are getting. The old-fashioned
winters have plenty of sleighing that makes travelling about a luxury,
and it always freshens people to mix with their fellows. Although the
weather has been mild, this winter threatens to seem unusually long
because people are practically prisoners on their farms.
_Jan. 27._--Yesterday I saw the largest flock of quail it has ever been
my pleasure to look at. I counted twenty-two, and they made a pretty
picture as they scurried across a stubble-field feeding on the seeds of
weeds that had not been buried by the snow. They all looked plump and
vigorous, and unless something untoward happens they should winter all
right. I know where there are nine more flocks and all are within a mile
of where this is being written. As I was at one time an enthusiastic
hunter of quail it gives me a pleasant glow to realise that, with such
abundant opportunities at hand, I came through the hunting season
without being tempted to do them harm. Of course there is a little
matter of rabbits, but rabbits are something of a nuisance, given to
girdling young trees and rose bushes. They rest lightly on my
conscience.
I am beginning to wonder what the hunters are after. Every day I hear
shooting in the woods, and I am at a loss to know what game is being
pursued. It is now the close season for quail, partridge, and black
squirrels, but the guns are banging away as merrily as in the early
fall. Once in a while the wind brings evidence that skunks are being
killed, and that reminds me that skunk-hunting seems to have risen to
the dignity of a profession. One day last fall I saw a couple of
well-dressed hunters with guns and dogs passing through a field, and
fearing that they might be after quail I went out to warn them off. The
one I interviewed was dressed to the minute in puttees, khaki hunting
jacket, and prospector's boots. He told me that they were hunting for
skunk, and were having a very successful season. They had taken seven on
the previous day, and as I understand that good skins are worth from
three to four dollars each, the occupation is not unprofitable. They had
a tent located a couple of miles away, and were travelling through the
country hunting carefully through each district. As neither the dogs nor
the hunters gave my nose any evidence of their occupation, there must be
some way of killing skunks and "trammelling up the consequences." When
an ordinary man undertakes the task it is usually months before either
he or his dogs are received in good society. Yesterday a hunter passed
through the neighbourhood looking for mink. He said that their skins are
worth twelve dollars each this year. This recalls the fact that while in
the village recently I saw a young man getting a lot of empty packing
boxes, and was told that he was going in for breeding mink and wanted
the boxes to make dens for them. With skins at that price, mink farming
should rank with the fox farming of Prince Edward Island. Strange to
say, although the woods are so nearly cleared off, I have been told that
the catch of fur-bearing animals in Southern Ontario is almost as great
as it was in the days of the Indians and the Hudson Bay Company. It is
some time since I have seen a coon skin tacked up on the end of a
wood-shed, but every once in a while I hear a farmer complain that coon
hunters have cut down a tree worth more than many coons. As a matter of
fact the beavers seem to be the only important kind of fur-bearing
animals that have entirely disappeared from the country. It does not
increase one's respect for the law of the survival of the fittest to
find that such vermin as skunks, weasels, and mink have survived the
deer and all the other wild creatures that were in the original forests.
I wonder if it is the same with human beings, and that the harder the
struggle for existence becomes the more likely we shall be to find the
meaner, more cunning and despicable types prospering? Sometimes when I
am feeling bilious I am inclined to think that the law of the survival
of the fittest works out among human beings the same as it does among
skunks.
It is surprising to find how few of the things that were native to the
country have really disappeared. Last fall I was asked to write a
Christmas story, and in the course of it tried to describe a dinner
where pioneer dishes were used. I found it was possible to get all of
them except one. Nowhere could I get a trace of the old wild crab apples
that grew in the thick woods. The pioneers used to put them away in pits
until spring, and then would cook them in maple syrup. I felt quite safe
in saying that these wild crab apples had disappeared with the original
forest, but when the story was published I found that a housewife living
within a mile of me had been putting up wild crab apple jelly about the
time I was writing the story. It seems that there is a thrifty wild crab
apple tree about three miles from here on the banks of the creek that
flows through this farm. This is another thing that shows how foolish it
is to be sure about anything. Emerson, in his biographical sketch of
Thoreau, tells that the naturalist-philosopher had found, in the
neighbourhood of Walden Pond, specimens of practically every kind of
plant produced on the continent. He was even able to duplicate samples
that had been brought to him from the Arctic circle, and that were not
supposed to exist in the temperate zone at all.
_Jan. 31._--Last week I opened another silo--I mean trench--of celery,
and was surprised to find that I was altogether too hasty in
complaining about the pithy growth of the plants. When the work of
trenching the celery was being completed we trenched the pithy stuff on
general principles, and because we had noticed a few good hearts in the
huge bundles of stalks. On opening the trench I stripped away the pithy
outer stalks and found in almost all of them large sound hearts. The
celery I grumbled about turns out to be the best we have had this year.
It is crisp, and tender, and better flavoured than the kind we had been
using earlier in the season. But this has been a bad year for trenching
celery as it was almost impossible to keep the water drained away from
it, and the mice got into some of the trenches. At the same time I am
inclined to think that trenched celery, if handled successfully, retains
its flavour, and is much more appetising than that which is kept in
cellars.
Apples that we kept for the winter are proving interesting in several
ways. They were packed in barrels just like those that were shipped, and
instead of being put in a cellar were buried in a side hill. Although I
hear complaints that apples kept in pits and cellars are rotting badly,
ours are coming out as sound as when they were put away. We opened a
barrel of Spies last week, and I found only one rotten apple. They were
as sound as when they were packed, and it was interesting to find that,
although they were tightly pressed, they were not injured. The bruises
caused by the pressing had all dried instead of rotting, and the only
damage done was to the shape of the apples. As the barrel we opened had
been filled with culls, I am inclined to think that the apples shipped
must have been of pretty good quality, because these were good enough
for any one. The ink spot and scabs, which made it necessary to cull
them, have not affected the eating or keeping qualities of the apples,
and now when there is no choice fruit with which to compare them they
seem more like Fancy No. 1's than like culls. So far I have not found a
single worm, and "we eats them cores and all."