MAY

_May 3._--After all the talking we have been doing it is just possible

that there is nothing the matter with Ontario. Ontario may just be

passing through a crisis. It is a rich province and is steadily growing

richer. Now, in the richest counties, such as Middlesex, a change has

commenced that may indicate the future of the province. The hundred-acre

superstition is breaking down. Time was when a man who had less than a

hundred acres, even though he had it clear of debt, was considered

poor--a man who was trying to farm in cramped conditions. As soon as he

could he would sell it, often at a sacrifice, and buy a hundred-acre

farm with a nice, hand-welted mortgage on it. Then he could hold up his

head in the community. In those brave days, before the passage of the

McKinley bill, land in lots smaller than a hundred acres sold at a

disadvantage. Now, however, the smaller lots, when in decent condition,

bring the best prices. There are townships like Caradoc, where

twenty-five acre farms are in the majority, and the people are getting

rich and richer. One man can just about work twenty-five acres properly.

In some cases they specialise on fruits or gardening, but in most cases

they go in for mixed farming, and do it with a profit. They work their

land well, manure it well, and get crops that would stagger the

statisticians of the junior provinces. Ontario land is not the kind that

a man can sow with the wind and reap with a whirlwind, and then go to

the mushroom-growth capital and talk about having eighteen bushels to

the acre. Ontario land is the kind that should be cultivated with a

garden rake; and then it will yield forty or more bushels to the acre.

It is true that here and there one strikes a little land baron who owns

three or four hundred, or even a thousand acres, but that sort of thing

is passing. If he has a family the land must be divided up among the

children, either before or after the death of the owner, and if he has

no family the land will eventually be sold in farm lots. Large holdings

of land will not pay in Ontario unless they can be worked, and tenants

are practically unknown. I do not know of a single tenant farmer in this

district. With the breaking up of the land into small holdings Ontario

will gradually become what nature intended it to be, a garden province

raising fruits, vegetables, and other luxuries for the big, hurrying

provinces that are making so much haste to get rich. The small-farm idea

has a firm foothold in the Niagara Peninsula, and it is spreading. There

is hardly an acre anywhere in the province that is not fitted for

gardening or intensive farming, and in time the small farms will prevail

everywhere. Then, instead of asking, "What's the matter with Ontario?"

people will be saying, "Just look at Ontario!"

With the advent of the small farm the "good roads" problem is being

solved. Where you find a group of twenty-five acre holdings you will

find a stretch of good road. Improvements are not so burdensome where

most of the farms have a frontage of only thirty rods. Even the roadwork

or statute labour has more effect and comes nearer to giving good roads

than in the large-farm districts. This is especially true where the use

of the split-log drag is understood. There is no getting around the fact

that perfected stone roads are expensive, and until a scheme has been

hit on that will make them less burdensome it would be a good idea to

expatiate on the merits of the split-log drag. It makes even earth roads

passable for most of the year, but its use requires a certain amount of

public spirit, and a public-spirited citizen is a man whose motives are

suspected. Moreover, he is a very rare creature. It may be accepted as a

truism that every stretch of good road in the country leads to the home

of a public-spirited citizen, but the stretches are few. When you find

one it is usually worth while to find out the story of how it came to be

built so as to get a light on human nature. You will usually find that

some energetic man, like the celebrated monk of Siberia, of mud became

weary and wearier, until at last he began to stir up his neighbours and

the township council in the matter. In collecting money from his

neighbours, besides those who were willing to help, he struck two

classes of those who lack public spirit. First, and these are plentiful,

he struck the men who do not want to contribute for fear some one else,

even a passing stranger, may get some benefit from their contributions

without paying for it. Then there is the totally yellow type of man who

is glad to know that the work is going on, but refuses to contribute a

cent because he knows that his neighbours are going to put it through

anyway, and he will get the benefit of it without helping. This type of

man usually has a perverted sense of humour, and whenever the matter is

referred to laughs loudly at the way he got the start of his neighbours.

When the truly public-spirited man gets the necessary money collected,

and gets the council to contribute its share, he usually has to keep an

eye on the work until it is completed, and altogether contributes in

time and money three or four times as much as any one else. But if he

gets a good road built he is fully repaid for his efforts. He finds in

the end that the work paid, even if done from selfish motives. But his

good neighbours will not let matters rest there. They see back of his

public-spirited efforts some design for getting himself elected

councillor or something of that sort. For a man to do a thing wholly for

the good of the community is too incredible. Where the small farms

prevail public-spirited citizens are naturally more plentiful, as the

population is greater, and the good-roads movement is thereby the

gainer.

"Fair weather cometh out of the north," says the Book of Job, and

fortified by this text I shall venture to say something about the spring

weather. The last time I spoke about signs of fair weather it settled

down and rained steadily for two weeks. But the clouds have blown away,

clearing from the north, and to-day a fine, exhilarating north wind is

blowing. Those who are weather-wise say that fine weather is at hand. We

have had much rain, but not too much for the hay and wheat. The ground

is as full of water as a soaked sponge, the wells are full to the brim,

and all the streams are either overflowing their banks or full to the

level of the ground. Enthusiasts say that never before has there been a

better prospect of a good harvest. The fruit trees are crowded with

blossoms that have not yet opened. The garden, looked at across the

chicken-wire fence, shows the seeds and weeds all sprouting lustily, but

the ground is too wet for any work to be done. A couple of days like

to-day, however, will make things fit for hoeing and weeding.

I understand that there is a fortune awaiting the man who can hit on a

sure plan for wintering bees. As an unsolved mystery it ranks with the

bottle that cannot be refilled. Every sort of plan has been tried from

burying the hives in pits or putting them in cellars to leaving them in

the wind-swept open. Some years they winter successfully in one way and

next year will all die off under exactly the same conditions. All kinds

of plans have proven successful at different times, and then again have

failed. A few weeks ago I helped to move a couple of hives that seemed

strong and thrifty. They were heavy with honey, and it looked as if they

had wintered properly. A week later every bee was dead and the hives

were empty of honey. They had been attacked by robbers and cleaned out.

How is it that they were unable to protect themselves? Wintering the

bees seems to be the big unsolved problem of bee-keeping. If it were not

for that bee-keepers would get rich too quickly, for when once a hive

gets started properly on its summer work it does nothing but make money.

This summer I expect to learn more about bee-keeping, for the bees are

to be handled according to instructions furnished by the Agricultural

College at Guelph. We are going to follow those instructions to the

letter, even if we have to build a bee-house so as to "tack the

instructions on the inside of the door," as advised in the circular.

The hen, when not kept within bounds, and when raised on the same farm

as a garden, is a nuisance, but you can't help respecting her when you

are asked to make yourself useful by gathering the eggs and find that

you need a couple of twelve-quart pails to do the chore. With eggs at

prevailing prices that sort of thing makes you feel that the Mint at

Ottawa doesn't amount to so very much after all. But I have a dreadful

secret to tell. All the poultry experts will call it heresy, and some

poultry editor may hold me up to the scorn of the whole chicken-raising

world, but I am going to tell it. This year the incubators have been

loaned to ambitious amateurs, and all the chickens on this farm have

been hatched out by nice, motherly old hens. They didn't have to have

some one sit up nights with them, and they brought out a chicken from

every egg but two. Besides, the chickens are so strong and healthy they

have their feathers and are beginning to look like broilers at three

weeks old. Of course, this is dreadfully unscientific. But it is "a

condition, not a theory, that confronts us." Perhaps if I get time to

look into the matter I may find that nature's way of raising chickens is

scientific after all. Anyway, it is practical, and less than half the

trouble.

_May 6._--Spring is here at last, joyous, effervescent, carolling, busy

spring. The fields, the streams, and the air are full of it. It is

harder to watch than a three-ring circus. Every nook and cranny has its

side show. The world is alive, alive, alive. The downpour of rain a few

days ago delayed seeding, so that I had time to look about me while the

miracles of nature were being performed. On going to the woodlot I was

surprised to find the mayflowers, adder's-tongues, trilliums, Dutchman's

breeches, and hepaticas already in bloom and the violets just opening.

By giving shelter from the winds and letting the sunlight through their

bare branches, the trees seem to make a natural forcing bed for the

flowers, so that the woods stir to life earlier than the fields and

gardens. And now the leaves are coming out. The beeches are red, the

maples a yellow green, and the elms misty and undefinable. The pastures

and wheat fields are a vivid green, contrasting beautifully with the

cool, brown earth of the ploughed land. The birds are so busy with their

housekeeping that they hardly have time to sing, but when they do sing

they throw their whole souls into it. One afternoon I heard so much

music coming from the top of an elm that I had to investigate. I thought

all the birds must have put through a merger in music and were

celebrating, but I found that one solitary brown thrasher was doing it

all. I knew that it belongs to the mocking-bird family, but as it is a

newcomer in this district I had never before heard it give an exhibition

of its powers. It made an amazingly joyous racket for a while, varying

its imitations with original bits of its own. And it expressed exactly

what I was feeling at the time.

I wonder just what the poets mean when they speak of spring as being

"balmy." Steamy would describe the condition of the air this morning for

purposes of prose. It has the warmth and moisture of air in a greenhouse

and is laden with earthy odours. The spring crops are going in with a

rush, for the season is so late that every day counts. To-day we are

discing corn-ground for oats, and this afternoon I am going to hitch a

bag over my shoulder and sow the grain, just as they do in the great

paintings for which American millionaires pay such fabulous prices. I am

not doing it for artistic effect either. I would much rather do it after

the manner of the O. A. C. and use a common, everyday seed drill, but,

with only ten acres of spring seeding to do, it would not pay a

struggling farmer to buy a seed drill, and every drill in the

neighbourhood has a previous engagement this morning. A man doesn't need

a drill many days in the year, but on those days he needs it mightily. I

wish I had the use of one, but, since I have not, the work must be done

by hand. Anyway it will be an experience, and it is a method of doing

the work that has been much praised in both prose and verse as well as

in pictures. If I am not mistaken, there are several popular hymns on

the subject, and I know that there is a song in one of the kindergarten

books. I shall look it up in a few minutes, so that I shall be able to

sing at my work as a farmer should. I have no conceit, however, that my

singing will help to make the day more musical, but it may scare away

the hens and keep them from following me too closely and picking up the

scattered grain. But in weather like this everything goes. It even

sounds good to hear the men in the fields yelling at the horses and the

women scolding at the hens as they chase them out of their gardens. And

it is all because it is spring, spring, spring!

Speaking of hens in gardens reminds me that about the meanest job the

hired man and I tackled this spring was changing the location of the

garden and moving the chicken wire that was around it. That stuff could

kink, twist, bend, break, and otherwise make itself objectionable in

more ways than anything I ever had to deal with. Why doesn't some one

invent a kind of chicken wire that can be moved when necessary? Of

course, we moved it, by brute strength, but now that it is in place

again it looks as if it had been rammed through a corn-sheller and then

tramped on by the cows. Still it will turn hens, and perhaps when the

wild cucumber vines and gourds begin to climb over it, it will not look

so bad. And while on the subject of fences let me "put myself on

record," as the politicians say, as believing that inventors still have

a fruitful field ahead of them inventing farm fences. Rail fences are

going out entirely because of the scarcity of timber, and board fences

are going for the same reason. There are many kinds of wire fences on

the market, all guaranteed to be horse-high and skunk-tight. Most of

them are all right for a year or two and then they begin to sag and

wires begin to break. Patching and stretching them when they begin to

give out is no job for a man with a feverish temper. Besides, it is work

that has to be done when farm work is beginning to rush, and a man in a

hurry is usually irritable. And beyond all this I wonder what on earth

people are going to do when they finally have to take down useless wire

fences and put up new ones. You can't burn the old ones or roll them

into reasonable compass. I doubt if the collectors of old iron can do

anything with them. So what is to be done? The wire fences on the

average Canadian farm would clutter up acres of ground if taken off to

make way for new ones, and a piece of unemployed fence wire lying in the

grass is about the trippingest, scratchiest thing a man can run into

accidentally on a dark night or drive into with a team in the daytime. I

think our inventors would make more money if they turned their attention

from flying machines to wire fences for a while. This country is always

going to need wire fencing, and millions of miles of it, and what is

needed is a kind that will be serviceable and movable and that can be

done away with when useless.

Word has just come that the trees are at the railway station, and that

means more hustle. The thousand I planted in the woodlot last year did

so well that this spring I got ambitious to finish the job of

reforestation, and I sent for two thousand and five hundred. Wishing to

get as great a variety as possible, so that some would be sure to

thrive. I asked for white pine, Scotch pine, locust, catalpa, white elm,

white maple, walnut, red oak, and chestnut. They are sending the whole

list, and, as last year's work proved to me that planting three hundred

trees a day is good, heavy work for a man and a boy, I expect we shall

be fairly busy. In fact, as I think of the seeding and the trees, I feel

like parodying Shakespeare and protesting lest

"This great sea of jobs rushing upon me

O'erbear the shore of my mortality,

And drown me with their sweetness."

That last word hardly applies in my case, but there are a lot of people

in the country who claim to like work, so I shall let it stand for their

benefit. I wonder if it would not be possible for the Forestry

Department to devise a method of planting trees at a different season

of the year. If they can be planted only in the spring, during

seeding-time, the work of reforestation will never make much progress

among the farmers of the country. Few of them have enough help to enable

them to do the real spring work without taking on other jobs like this.

And they are all the more reluctant to undertake the work because of the

belief that a man who plants trees will never get any returns from his

work. Of course that point of view is all wrong, but it is very

prevalent. A man who plants trees for the benefit of his descendants is

doing as much for them as if he put money in the bank for their use. It

is just as wise an investment as any other that a man can make. But I am

not going to argue out that question in such a busy time as this. If I

think of it I'll take it up in the winter when there is little to occupy

our minds. Just now I shall plant trees, and explain afterwards.

Moreover, I had better get started or people will think I am guilty of

"terminological inexactitudes" when I talk about being busy. This is no

time to be sitting in the house pounding at a typewriter. I should be

outside, getting sun-burned and hustling about the thousand and one

things that are to be done. If the wonderful things that will be

happening in all nature during the next few days are to be

sympathetically described this spring, some one else will have to be

assigned to the job. As far as I am concerned there is nothing in sight

but work, work, work.

_May 9._--Two thousand five hundred trees are altogether too many for

one farmer to undertake to plant in one season. There are too many other

things to do at the time when the trees should be planted. Yet,

nevertheless, and notwithstanding, the two thousand five hundred that I

ordered are planted to the last seedling, and we still live. Moreover,

that job of reforestation is done, and all that remains to do is to put

a permanent fence around the woodlot and let nature take her course.

There are twenty-four varieties of trees in that three acres, and if

this year's planting does as well as last year's there should be a fine

coppice before we are much older. While the government trees are doing

well, I am especially interested to find that the whole woodlot is now

swarming with sugar maple seedlings. The fact that the cattle have been

kept out for the past couple of years has given the natural growth a

chance, and there are places where the little maples are growing as

thickly as they can push from the ground. I think it would be a fair

estimate to say that there are ten maple seedlings to every seedling I

have planted. Between this year and last year we have planted over

thirty-five hundred trees, so the outlook for a future timber limit is

fairly rosy, though I have no doubt wise people are right in saying that

"I'll never live to see any good come from all this work." That all may

be, but there is a kind of satisfaction in doing some work that you know

you will never derive any benefit from. It is a pleasant variation from

the usual method of doing work from which you are expecting great

profits and then getting bumped.

The expert who sent me the pasture mixture to sow in the oat field did

not furnish plans and specifications for getting the stuff into the

ground. Some of the seeds seemed to be nothing but fluff and fuzz, and

when I tried to sow them with a hand seeder they took the wings of the

morning and I don't know where they landed. Being anxious to confine the

stuff I was sowing to Middlesex county, I waited for a dead calm, in the

hope that if I got the stuff floating over the field some of it would

gradually settle down where it was needed. There were seven varieties of

seed in the mixture, each of a different specific gravity, and I don't

think it would be possible for any one to distribute it properly over

the ground unless he put it in the same as the women folk sometimes put

in garden seeds--by poking each seed into the ground with the finger. As

that process would be rather slow, and would be likely to take up the

rest of the summer, I decided against it. The hand-seeder had to be

discarded, too, because I couldn't get the seed to feed through it

evenly. After many trials and false starts, I finally had to go back to

the old system of broadcasting and scatter the stuff by hand. Yesterday

was an ideal day for such work. We had a series of thunderstorms, and

for about an hour before each storm there was a lull:

"That strange silence which before a storm

Shakes the forest leaves without a breath."

I was able to sift the seed over the ground in the still air, but after

each storm the mud got stickier and heavier until it seemed that I was

pulling up about as much oats at each step as I was putting in of grass

seed. Sowing may be an artistic job, but as I thought it over I couldn't

just remember how Millet represented the feet of the peasant in his

celebrated picture. After yesterday's experience I feel safe in assuming

that "The Sower" was not wearing patent leather pumps.

The orchard is certainly looking fine. The blossoms are just opening and

on most of the trees they are plentiful enough to satisfy any one. Mr.

Clement came over last week and sprayed them thoroughly with lime

sulphur and arsenate of lead. The purpose of this was to destroy the

insects that feed on the blossoms and to kill the leaf-curl worms. It

was surprising to find how many of these creatures were commencing their

ravages before the spraying had begun. I should never have noticed them

in making a casual observation, but Mr. Clement ferreted them out for me

and showed how they were feeding fat on my profits from the orchard.

While he went on with the spraying I went poking around looking for

matters of interest and found that the Baldwins were showing signs of

some kind of blight. The leaves and blossoms were blackening as if they

had been touched by frost. Mr. Clement said that he had never before

observed anything like it. It seemed to be something new. A couple of

days later he wrote to tell me that in Elgin county the lower branches

of the Baldwins are affected in the same way and as yet no one has been

able to offer an explanation. But I guess I hadn't better say much about

this. Apparently I was the first to discover this blight, and it would

be just like these scientific men to name it after me. I freely admit

that they have a lot to get even with me for, but I hope that they will

not take any such fiendish revenge as that. I don't want to go down to

history in the same class with the man Bright who first developed

Bright's disease. I rather wish I hadn't noticed that blight.

When I heard that morels were being found in the neighbourhood I simply

couldn't restrain myself. The call of the fungus is something I cannot

resist. Although I was tired enough from sowing that grass seed and

dragging my feet out of the mud I put off milking for half an hour to

make a search through the long grass by the roadside. Although I had

once or twice enjoyed a dish of morels I had never managed to find a

specimen, but last night luck was with me and I got seven beauties. When

I tasted them before I regarded them as a rather feeble substitute for

mushrooms, but they had a tang of their own that appealed to my palate.

This time they were served differently and proved a supreme success.

Some one had heard that to be at their best morels should be stewed in

cream, and that was the way we had them for breakfast. While altogether

different, they were every bit as delicious as the finest mushroom, and

from now on if any morel within a radius of a mile escapes me it will be

because I have become so practical a farmer that I no longer take any

interest in the enjoyments of life. I have never seen morels on the bill

of fare of any restaurant, but I can assure the epicures that they are

missing something.

_May 11._--Say, it isn't fair of the banks to spring an important move

like the Royal-Trader merger when a fellow is too busy with his spring

work to give it proper attention. They might have known that I would

want to look into the business in a careful and leisurely way, and here

they go and put through their deal when I am all fussed up with other

things. But that is a way they have. Most of the privileges they enjoy

they got when no one was watching them. But we'll get around to them

again one of these fine days, and perhaps, as Shakespeare says:

"Use them for our mirth.

Yea, for our laughter when we are waspish."

I am glad I undertook to plant those trees in the woodlot this year. It

is so satisfyingly ridiculous a thing to do that wise people have no

time to criticise the way I am putting in the rest of my crops. It is

more amusing than having the orchard attended to by the latest

scientific methods. But I must be fair on this point. Although there

were a few people who laughed noisily when they heard that I was going

to place the orchard in the hands of experts, there are many others who

are anxious to know just how the work is being done, and who openly envy

me for having been able to arrange with the Department of Agriculture to

give the demonstration. Some have gone so far as to prune their trees

this year, and several professional pruners found all the work they

wanted to do in this district. But I am afraid this will not help the

cause of orcharding very much, for none of the trees are being sprayed,

and the result is likely to be of a kind that would need the pen of Joel

the son of Pethuel to describe properly. What the codling worm leaves,

the caterpillar will destroy, and so on, and so on. You will remember

the text.

The glorious spring we are having just now makes me feel in my bones

that there is something about the season of growth that the scientists

have not yet discovered. When everything is alive, from the grain of

mustard seed to the mighty oak, and everything is bursting into life and

bloom, I always feel that there are other forces at work besides heat

and moisture. Wherever I turn, things seem to be flooded with life, as

if life were a form of force like electricity--something too

all-pervading and subtle to be isolated by scientific investigators.

Life seems to be something apart from the chemical changes that take

place in the seeds--something that compels these changes, but does not

enter into the combination itself. At this season of the year the world

seems to be flooded with an abounding vitality not noticeable at other

times. As yet the scientists have not been able to make any more of it

than have the poets, but it seems very real.

_May 14._--Last night I had only three hours' sleep, and all on account

of that orchard. After an unexpected and wholly unseasonable snowstorm,

the weather turned cold, and the signs all pointed to a sharp frost. An

hour after sunset the thermometer registered thirty-four degrees above

zero--just two degrees above the freezing point. I began to worry at

once. I have seldom been more interested in anything than I am in that

orchard, and it is not entirely because I am hoping for a profitable

crop. This is the first time I have ever had a chance to follow closely

the art of fruit-producing, and I am profoundly interested in the work

because of the light it throws on man's partnership with nature. Mr.

Clement has undertaken his share of the task in such a hearty fashion

that I do not want to have anything interrupt us until the demonstration

has been completed. So, as I said, when frost threatened I began to

worry. It seemed as if the whole experiment might be defeated by a

slight change in temperature. Every few minutes I went and consulted the

thermometer, and it was slowly but surely edging closer to the

danger-point. Not knowing what to do, I decided that I must do

something. It was impossible to get after the experts at that hour of

the night, and I was perfectly willing to do anything, however foolish,

to save the buds so that our work of apple-producing might go on.

Racking my memory for something that would give me guidance, I

remembered having read somewhere that the vine-growers in France, when

threatened by frost, build fires in their vineyards. On mentioning this,

some one remembered that one hard summer, in pioneer days, one of our

neighbours saved his corn from a June frost by lighting all the brush

heaps and stumps in his fields, and that year he was the only man in the

district who had corn. Some one else remembered having heard that out

West they sometimes save part of their crop by making smudges that will

lay a blanket of smoke over the fields. Of course, I hadn't seen

anything in the bulletins or farm papers about that sort of thing, but I

didn't hesitate. I was perfectly willing to do a dozen fool things, if

one of them would by any chance protect the buds from frost. It didn't

matter to me if I lit a torch that would cause laughter from Niagara to

Lambton. I am getting used to being laughed at, and, as a very prominent

Canadian educationist wrote when a fellow professor lost his pet dog,

"Vot did I told him? I dunno!

I neffer said a vort!

For ven von's leetle dog vos dead,

A leetle more don't hurt."

A little more laughing wouldn't hurt me any, so I hunted up a bundle of

rags and the coal-oil can and started for the orchard. Up to that time I

had been rather ashamed of the fact that, owing to the rush of work, we

hadn't been able to clear away the brush that had been pruned from the

trees, but last night I was glad it was still there. It was in neat

piles, anyway, and that made it handier to get at. As there was not a

breath of air stirring, I selected a spot in the middle of the orchard,

where I would not be in danger of scorching any of the trees, started my

fire of rags and oil, and began to pile the green brush on it. In a few

minutes I had a bonfire that would have been big enough to celebrate a

victory of the people over the Big Interests. The night was so still

that the flame and smoke went straight up into the air. But there was

not enough smoke. Going to the stable, I got a forkful of wet straw and

carried it to my bonfire. After throwing it on the fire, I had an

excellent illustration of what Milton meant by the phrase:

"Cast forth

Redounding smoke and ruddy flame."

In a few minutes there was a most satisfying blanket of smoke hanging

over the trees and rolling through their branches. Of course, I knew

that there was no frost as yet, but I had demonstrated to my own

satisfaction that if it did come I could make all the smoke that was

necessary. By this time it was almost twelve o'clock, so I set the alarm

for three a.m., and turned in with an easy conscience. It is always

just before sunrise that a frost strikes hardest, and I would get up and

be ready for it. At three o'clock the alarm went off with a wholly

unnecessary jangle, and after I had explained to the aroused and

protesting family what the rumpus was all about, I took a peep at the

thermometer. The mercury stood exactly at the freezing point. In a few

minutes I had four bonfires, half smothered with wet straw, throwing up

clouds of smoke. By the time the dawn began to appear in the east, the

thermometer had shaded below the freezing point, and water in a pan by

the door was slightly coated with ice. This made me redouble my efforts,

and I certainly did get up a glorious fog. If those buds could be saved,

I was going to save them. I kept up the good work until six o'clock,

when the sun's heat began to be felt. Then I had breakfast and waited

for Mr. Clement, like a little curly-headed boy who had done all his

homework. I forgot to mention that to-day was the day decided on for the

second spraying of the trees.

When Mr. Clement finally came, I couldn't wait to get his horses

unhitched until I had told him what I had done, and what do you think?

He just roared and laughed! Now I don't think that's fair. Scientific

farmers have no business laughing at the rest of us. It is their

business to do fussy things and let us laugh at them. Still, he wasn't

so very bad about it. He soon let me see that what amused him was my

enthusiasm about the work. He assured me that the situation might have

been one where what I had done would have been exactly the right thing.

At this stage, however, there is little danger of the blossoms being

destroyed by frost. It is usually a frost that comes after the fruit is

set that causes trouble, and, if two weeks from now there should be a

cold snap, I should be doing exactly the right thing in making a blanket

of smoke for the trees. It was very kind of him to spare my feelings in

this way, but still I wish he hadn't been quite so much amused, and that

his eyes didn't twinkle every time the matter was referred to during

the day. Although I am getting pretty thoroughly seasoned, I still have

feelings.

I don't care even if my bonfires were not needed, and if I did lose a

few hours' sleep. I have done a whole lot of more foolish things than

that, and got away with them by simply looking solemn. Moreover, I have

more than once lost a night's sleep, and it wasn't always by sitting up

with a sick friend, either. Any time during the early summer, if you

waken up before daylight and see a big light in the sky down in this

direction, you needn't imagine that somebody's buildings are being

burned. It will probably be me having bonfires in my orchard. Mr.

Clement admitted that it would be all right, and I don't care a bit if

he did grin a little at the time. We are going to make a success of that

orchard if it is humanly possible, and I had my reward for last night's

exploit in another way. I had a chance to hear the wonderful concert of

the birds that greets the dawn, long before even the most industrious of

us humans is stirring. But I am not going to say much about that just

now. I am too much hurried to deal with anything so poetic. It will

serve as a subject for a special article later on.

_May 16._--Last week I made up my mind to write an article founded on

experience, but I found that _The Farmer's Advocate_ has to some extent

anticipated me. It has an editorial dealing with the subject I had in

view, but, instead of giving up my article, I shall quote what _The

Advocate_ says, and then proceed with my own thoughts on the same point:

"One of the greatest mistakes a farmer can make is yielding to that

insidious tendency to dull his mental energy by sheer physical

exhaustion. There are so many things to do about a farm, and so few

hands to do them, that, unless one is careful, he finds himself working

on into the night, when he should be resting, if not sleeping. Morning

comes apace, finding his senses heavy; but necessity, that stern

prompter, opens his eyelids and drives him through another round of

duty. Day after day this continues, till unconsciously he slips into a

routine, and, despite natural inclinations and resolutions to the

contrary, gradually settles into ruts. He loses his mental grasp and

outlook, becomes the slave of his own work, drags through it as best he

may, with dulled perception, flagging enterprise, and dull-grey outlook,

where nothing matters much but grimly holding on. The future holds

nothing of promise, and only the old ways are safe."

Farm papers are usually so unrelentingly practical that it is good to

find one sounding so healthy a note of warning.

While planting trees and gardening I went at the work with a grim

determination to get it done. Only when the task was completed and I had

time and energy to reflect did I realise to what a complete blank I had

reduced the most enjoyable season of the year. I remember that on the

first day I went to the woods the buds were swelling on the trees. When

the work was done the trees were in full leaf and the ground was covered

with wild flowers, but I had not noticed the progress of the change.

During this strenuous period I observed nothing, enjoyed nothing,

thought nothing, read nothing. I reduced myself to a mere machine,

capable of nothing but work and weariness. It was only when the rush was

over that I realised how insensate and inanimate I had been. While I had

been slaving a coronation scene more wonderful than that which is about

to take place in London had been in progress, but I had seen nothing of

it. Nature was being crowned with flowers, and the fields and trees had

put on their wonderful green mantles for the great occasion, but I had

been indifferent. As I thought of this I suddenly realised that I had

simply reduced myself to the condition that is habitual with nine

farmers out of every ten in this beautiful country. I understood for the

first time why farmers as a class are so apathetic to the wonders by

which they are surrounded. Living more closely in touch with nature than

any one else, they probably enjoy her beauty less than any one else.

Even the city man who goes for an occasional stroll in the park enjoys

nature more than they do.

This point of view suddenly changed my attitude towards a number of

things I was inclined to admire. When the report of the Ontario

Agricultural College came to me through the mail a couple of days ago I

found it hideously practical. It is full of information that if applied

will greatly increase the prosperity of the country, but in my present

frame of mind I am not sure that that is what we stand most in need of.

What is the use of reducing the cow to a butter-fat machine, the hen to

an egg machine, and so on, if the men who look after them are to be

reduced to work machines? Mr. James' assertion that the products of

Ontario can be doubled in ten years does not look so good to me as it

did. If he proposed to show how as much as is being produced in Ontario

could be produced with half the amount of labour I should like it

better. It is this everlasting effort to produce more, instead of to

enjoy more, that is robbing life of all its charms. They need a

professor of leisure in connection with the Agricultural Department to

teach the value of leisure on the farm, how to secure it and how to

enjoy it. Work has become a mania and people are trying madly to do more

than their share. Instead of saying, "Build thee greater mansions, O my

soul!" the farmer is raging to build greater bank barns and the

Department of Agriculture is doing all in its power to help him do it

and to show him how to fill them. Now I understand why days of idleness

are so irksome to so many people. It is not always because they are

greedy for gain and cannot bear to think that time is being lost. It is

because they habitually stupefy themselves with work as with a powerful

narcotic, and find it painful to have their minds awake. When the mind

is given a chance it is apt to show how useless so much of our striving

is, and we have to stupefy it again so as to escape from its

accusations. I am even inclined to suspect that those who are trying to

educate the farmers are defeating their own purposes. By showing how to

make work more profitable they are inducing people to work harder, and

in that way they have their minds less open to new ideas and better

methods. The professor of leisure could correct this by forcing home

the truth that the end of all work is to win leisure. It is in our

hours of leisure that we enjoy ourselves and grow. But the world has

been reduced to such a condition by work that we need to be taught how

to enjoy ourselves and grow. There is certainly a great field for the

new professor.

There is thunder in the air to-day, and everybody is hoping for a good

brisk rain--that will not delay the work too much. The spring crops, as

well as the gardens, need a good watering, and my trees would be the

better of a good warm soaking. I looked them over yesterday, and they

seem to be doing pretty well. Practically all the butternut and ash

trees are in full leaf, though some of the ash seem to be withering. The

walnut buds are swelling, but few of them are in leaf. As for the pine

and cedar, I am somewhat puzzled. They are not showing any signs of new

growth. In fact they are looking discouragingly like the hang-over

Christmas decorations in the Town Hall, but perhaps that is their way,

and in due season they will begin to make progress. Anyway, my

conscience is clear. I planted them according to instructions, and

reduced myself to what Markham calls "a brother to the ox" while doing

it. They will probably turn out all right, but I wish they would hurry

and put forth the "tender leaves of hope."

It is hard to believe that there are so many wildflowers in the woods,

but an hour among the trees with the boy who is engaged in nature study

was a liberal education. He had been rooting around making a disturbance

of the kind described by the Rocky Mountain guide as having been made by

"a wild hawg or a scientist," when I happened along, thirsting for

information. He had found twenty-two varieties and he introduced me to

all of them, but I am afraid that I shall not be able to recall their

college names when I meet them again. I was already familiar with the

Indian turnip, which the big boys used to think it was great fun to get

the little boys to bite at, and I could still feel my tongue ache and

shrivel as I recognised it. I also knew the violet and phlox, but

Solomon's seal and mitre-wort and foam-flowers and many others were new

to me. Now that it is becoming fashionable to rail at the educational

authorities, I want to hand them a little bouquet--of wildflowers.

Nature study, at least, is all right, even though it doesn't teach the

children to work.

For fear that no one else in this busy world will notice the fact, I

want to publish the glorious news that the apple trees are beginning to

blossom. The plum and pear trees are already in full bloom, and the

fields and woods are fresh and green and flooded with spring perfumes.

It is no time for any one to be indoors, or for any one who is outdoors

to be oblivious to the beauties by which he is surrounded. Get outdoors

and waken up! There is health to be had for the taking, and enjoyment is

free to all. Even the birds that are hatching out their eggs in the

old-fashioned way, instead of using up-to-date incubators, seem to be

getting something out of life, for they insist on singing all the time

the sun shines and sometimes they waken up in the night to tell how

happy they are. The frogs--but before I forget it there are some things

I want to find out about frogs. Does thunder kill tadpoles? The nature

student had a lot of frogs' eggs hatching out in an old pan. I noticed

them swimming about just before a thunderstorm came up, and after it was

over they were all lying dead in the bottom of the pan. Did the thunder

kill them? Another thing I noticed was that, although the frogs in the

ponds were all indulging in their "Pandean chorus," they suddenly

stopped when the storm began to threaten. At the same time the

tree-toads began to croak. They never croak except before a storm, I am

told. Now that I have rid myself of the curse of work for this spring

and have scolded about it for a page or so I shall begin to look into

important matters like this and try to enjoy life again.

_May 19._--This letter is going to be written under difficulties. To

begin with, I have only a vague idea of what I am going to write about,

for a beautiful May morning is altogether too distracting for a man to

be able to concentrate his thoughts. All the senses are being delicately

catered to by spring delights. A balmy breeze is puffing through the

open door, laden with fresh odours; snatches of bird-song assail my

ears, and whenever I raise my eyes from the paper the mellow sunlight

invites me to wander in the garden or orchard. As for the sense of

taste, my briar-root pipe is at its best. By yielding to the allurement

of any of the senses I could enjoy myself to the full. In addition to

this a clutch of hens' eggs was hatched out last night in a barrel at

the foot of the garden, and the duck eggs are chipped. I am not

particularly interested in this, but a little boy is more interested

than I can pretend to be in anything and he insists on giving me

bulletins every few minutes.

"One of the chickens has its head stuck out froo the old hen's fevvers."

"Yes, yes! Run along now. Can't you see that I am busy?"

There are a lot of minnows in the creek a few rods away, and they are

dividing his attention somewhat. This morning he had a mess of chub

about the size of sardines for breakfast and he thinks I should go

fishing to provide food for the family. He is so serious about it all

that it is a shame to smile at him, especially when I have nothing

better to do than to write nonsense. But there are times when even

writing nonsense seems like hard work, and this is one of them. It would

be much better if the people who are in the habit of reading newspapers

were to go out and devote the time it takes to read a column or so of

print to enjoying nature for themselves. Why not stop right now and

spend a few minutes in the open air with every sense alert to what is

going on around you? I would if I could.

There have been hours this spring when I have felt like criticising

Wordsworth, even though he, above all others, is the poet of nature.

There is one familiar quotation from his poems that has done more to set

nature-lovers wrong than anything else in the language. If I could, I

would verify it to make sure that it is quoted as he meant it, but for

some unaccountable reason my copy of his poems, which I thought was

complete, does not contain "Peter Bell." It is many years since I read

the poem, but the impression that sticks in my memory is the popular one

that Peter was regarded as an undesirable citizen because:

"A primrose by a river's brim

A yellow primrose was to him,

And it was nothing more."

Now it seems to me that if Peter realised that, he reached the highest

point possible to a poet. A flower in itself is more wonderful than

anything that can be imagined about it. It is a beautiful part of the

universal mystery--just as wonderful and mysterious as a constellation.

The primrose is perfect in itself and its charm is not increased by the

fact that men have "sought out many inventions" about it. To the

scientist it is a gamopetalous plant, to the politician the emblem of an

aristocratic political league, and to the student curious in ancient

philosophy a possible key to the Pythagorean system. There you have

"inventions" with a vengeance, but in reality it is simply a yellow

primrose, and it is nothing more. If Peter Bell was able to look at it

in that simple way he achieved an intellectual feat that is almost

impossible to us in this age of profound explanations that explain

nothing.

"What's that?"

"The chicken that had its head sticking through the fevvers tumbled out,

and the old hen pushed it back under her with her beak."

"Good for her. Run along now."

But it will not do to scold Wordsworth too much for this mistake about

Peter Bell, for he shows in other poems that when he was at his best he

regarded things from Peter's simple point of view:

"My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;

So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!"

There is nothing in that to suggest that he considered a rainbow as

anything but a rainbow. There is no hint of a study of the laws of

refraction or of the symbolism which makes the rainbow a pledge that the

world will never again be destroyed by water. In fact, we might parody

Peter Bell and say:

A rainbow on the horizon's rim

A glorious rainbow was to him,

And it was nothing more.

Because Wordsworth, the man, accepted the rainbow as he did when a child

he gave us a perfect gem of poetry. And everything else in the world is

just as poetical if approached in the same childlike spirit. But this is

almost impossible because of the "many inventions."

But the primroses and rainbows are not the only things that are made

hard to see rightly because of "many inventions." It is no longer

possible to see our fellow-men simply as men. Just ask any one to

describe some man of his acquaintance for you. You will probably find

that he will begin by telling you whether he is well off. Then he will

tell you what political party he belongs to. After that he will tell you

what church he attends. The man will possibly be described as

well-to-do, a Grit and a Presbyterian. Now, that is not a description of

a man. Wealth, partisanship, sectarianism are simply "inventions." A man

may be a man for a' that.

"What's the trouble now?"

"The old hen stepped on a chicken."

"Well, wrap it up in a cloth and put it in a basket by the kitchen stove

and see if it will get better."

Let me see. Where were we at? Oh, yes, we were trying to describe a man.

How would it do to go back to Solomon's study of the matter? He said

that man was made upright. "But they have sought out many inventions."

Wouldn't we get a better idea of a man if he were described as upright,

generous, good-natured, neighbourly? These are all qualities, not

"inventions." But I do not think I ever heard a man described in that

way. We all seem to think of the "inventions" first. It is just as hard

to consider a man as a man as it is to consider a primrose as a yellow

primrose.

As I read over what I have written I seem to discover a great truth.

When a man has nothing else to say he naturally begins to moralise. But

I am going to stop. The old hen is squawking and the little boy is

calling. She is probably moralising, too, if the tone of her voice tells

anything. She is probably saying that since the "invention" of

incubators chickens are not what they used to be when she was young. And

human children are more troublesome. It is a strange world that we live

in and it is hard to get the right attitude towards it. But I think we

shall make a great advance towards enjoying it when we realise that

things are what they are and not what people imagine they are. The

sunshine is good and the warm breeze is good and the flowers are good

and the birds are good, and, if possible, for the rest of this glorious

day I am not going to bother my head about what they may possibly be on

a last analysis or what they perhaps stand for. I am weary of the "many

inventions."

_May 20._--If a man could only know as much before he starts a job as he

does after it has been finished, work would be a great deal easier. I

thought I had everything just right when starting to plant the new

orchard, but I learned a few things. We planted cherry trees for

fillers, and I thought it would be no trick to get them in right after

the apple trees were planted. We made a fairly good job of planting the

apple trees. Though the rows are not so straight that a rifle bullet

would nick every tree, they are not so bad. Here and there one may be

out an inch or two, but the stretched and marked wire kept us fairly

straight in spite of the rolling ground. It is only when you look across

the field corner-ways that you notice the little mistakes. But the great

mistake was in imagining that if I got the apple trees in straight I

should have no trouble putting in the fillers by sighting along the rows

of apple trees. This had to be done by sighting along the rows that

showed corner-ways, and, as they revealed all the mistakes of the

apple-tree planting, these mistakes were multiplied in planting the

cherry trees. After the first couple of rows of fillers had been put in,

I thought they would help me in sighting, but matters kept getting worse

steadily. As Nature has not fitted me with enough eyes to enable me to

sight in six different directions at once, the problem was too deep for

me. I know that we should have planted the fillers after each row of

apple trees, and there were twenty-foot marks on the wire for that

purpose, but nobody told me. When we found out it was too late to do

things right, for the planted trees made it practically impossible to

shift the wire for each row. So we put in the cherry trees as best we

could, and I danced around like a hen on a hot griddle trying to sight

in six different directions without delaying the work of planting. The

result is not what you would call a fancy job of planting, but I have

seen worse. In fact the trees are in better line than in most of the

orchards I know of, but they should be right. Of course, the fillers

will be cut out some time in the future and the orchard will then look

all right, but I shall have to wait a good many years before it looks as

I should like to have it.

Planting the young orchard was not the joyous job I had expected, for

there was less hope in the work than I would have liked. The trees

arrived in such condition that it seems hardly possible that even a

decent percentage of them will live. The box in which they were packed

was broken, most of the packing had fallen out, and they were as dry as

last year's brush. They had been twelve days coming from Welland, and

had been exposed to the hottest weather of the season. They might have

been delivered with a wheel-barrow as quickly as they were delivered by

the railways. People who saw them at the station advised me not to

accept delivery, but I called up the nurseries and the manager asked me

to try to save the trees. He advised soaking them over night, and then

heeling them in a wet place. This was done, and with the help of two men

who have had experience in planting we put in the trees according to

the directions of the nurserymen. I was anxious to give the trees a

chance, not only because I did not want to see so large a shipment

destroyed, but because we have been preparing to plant this orchard for

the past year. Last fall a clover sod was ploughed under, and

preparations made to give the young orchard every chance. If I rejected

the trees a whole year would be lost, and the work would have to be done

over again. The nurserymen promised me fair treatment if I would plant

the trees, and now I am waiting to see the result. Though the trees were

thoroughly soaked before planting, ten days ago, and have had two good

showers of rain since they were planted, I cannot find a bud that has

even swollen. If they do not grow it will mean a lot of wasted work.

_May 23._--Getting out to grass is certainly the event of the year for

the animals on the farm. I know, because I have a strong fellow-feeling

for them. When the sun begins to get warm, and the grass starts to grow,

I get impatient for the time when I can fling myself at full length on

the sod without being scolded for taking chances of catching cold. When

the cows were allowed out for the first time they could hardly wait to

go through the gate before they started to graze, and for a couple of

hours they kept at it as if their lives depended on getting a good meal.

But presently something stampeded the young cattle, and the whole bunch

began running, bunting one another, and jumping around as if indulging

in a foolish sort of sun dance to celebrate their freedom. When this was

over, the red cow started on her annual inspection of the fences. The

thorn hedge, woven with barbed wire, baffled her, as it did last year,

and I thought everything was all right. The next time I looked she was

in the clover field. The spring flood had loosened things around the

government drain. After driving her out I fixed this break in the fence,

only to find that she was in the field again. She had found a place

where the wire fence had been cut to haul out wood and had managed to

push through. Turning her out again I made a thorough job of mending

this, and that ended the trouble. She made a complete round of the

field, stuck her head over every fence and bawled, but that was all. Now

I can go about my work without giving a thought to the fences. The red

cow and I examined and tested them thoroughly on the first day and fixed

them for the summer. Really, the red cow is a great help. If it were not

for her I might be bothered with fences all season, but one day is

enough. She examines the fences thoroughly and after she finds the weak

spots I fix them up. If her calves take after her I shall be able to

advertise a new strain of useful stock. No farmer should be without one

of these fence-testing cows to help him keep his farm in shape and

protect his crops.

For a few days everything was quiet in the pasture field, and then, all

of a sudden, there was a noise like a general election. All the cattle

began to bawl defiance. A big, slab-sided two-year-old steer began to

lead the herd towards the line fence. He had his head down, his mouth

open, and he walked catercorner, roaring like one of the bulls of

Bashan. A neighbour had just turned out his cattle, and they were

approaching the line fence, and putting up the same warlike bluff. I

should have had more respect for the dehorned two-year-old and his war

talk had it not been that on the previous evening I had seen him being

prodded across the field by a sharp-horned little yearling heifer. He

grunted and got out of her way like a fat man getting beyond the reach

of a suffragette's elbow in a street-car rush. But he certainly did make

an awful noise. I don't know why it is, but I always find something in

the actions of cattle to remind me of politics. There is the same

tendency to go in flocks, to make a wholly unnecessary amount of noise,

and then to accomplish nothing. When the two roaring herds finally met

at the line fence they merely stuck their noses through the wires and

sniffed at one another for a few minutes, and then went back to pasture.

The crisis was over.

When the driver got out for the first time she went through the gate on

the run. She ate quietly for a couple of minutes, then lay down and had

a most satisfactory roll. When she got up she took a look around the

field, squealed, jumped into the air, and began to give an exhibition of

energy that I didn't think was in her system. She must have had it in

cold storage all winter, for she hadn't been using much of it on the

road. She galloped, kicked, and snorted, and I sat down and tried to

figure out whether she was snorting at the kick or kicking at the snort.

But like many another problem I have tackled, it was too deep for me.

There were times when she had all four feet in the air at once, and

looked as if she could have kept four more going. She would gallop round

in a circle, then come to a sudden stop and snort. When the echo of the

snort came back from the woods, it would scare her so that she would

start off on the gallop again. After she had relieved herself and

galloped around the field in this way about a dozen times, she finally

settled down and began to eat. After watching this exhibition I made up

my mind that there will be more speed in my drives to the post office in

the future. I thought she was troubled with "that tired feeling" that

comes to all of us in the spring, but now I shall have no compunction

about using the whip. She has simply been loafing on me.