JUNE

_June 4._--Everything that has been done in the orchard has been

wonderfully interesting, but the third spraying was a revelation. When

Mr. Clement began "squirting Death through a hose" at the blossoms, I

regarded the operation as part of the ordinary routine, and little

suspected that back of the work lay one of those romances of science

that are lost in commonplace reports, instead of glowing on the pages of

a poet. As usual, a chance question brought out the wonderful fact that

kindled my imagination. A teacher had asked the nature student to bring

to school a specimen of the codling moth, and when I tried to help him,

and looked up the literature on the subject, I found that the codling

moth flies by night, and that many experienced orchardists have never

seen one. Then I asked if it would be possible to capture a codling moth

at this time of the year.

"No. They do not begin to lay their eggs until about the end of June."

Instantly I became a living interrogation mark, and during the next few

minutes learned a story that illustrates better than anything I have yet

found the patient work that is being done by our scientists, and the

wonderful skill with which they adapt their methods to the processes of

Nature in order to accomplish results. Here is a case where they meet

Nature on her own ground, and conquer her by a subtlety equal to her

own. It is a triumph of science that should be observed by Faber and

described by Maeterlinck. Having studied out the processes of an apple's

development and the codling worm's method of attack, they prepare a

death-trap for an insect that is as yet unborn. While the calyx of the

blossom is open, they saturate it with a spray of arsenate of lead. As

the young apple develops, the calyx closes and folds within itself the

charge of poison where it cannot be washed out by the rain. Weeks later

the young codling worm is hatched from the egg deposited on some near-by

twig by the moth, and, obeying a compelling instinct, crawls up the stem

of the little apple, makes its way to the calyx, and begins to eat its

way into the fruit. Then it meets with the lurking death that has been

placed in its path by the ingenuity of man. Could anything be more

skilful or more carefully thought out? The orchardist makes Nature

herself "commend the ingredients of the poisoned chalice" to the lips of

her destroying creatures. Here is something that surpasses the craft of

the poisoners of the Dark Ages. It is fabled that they could administer

their death-dealing "Aqua Tofana" in the perfume of a rose, and that

Cæsar Borgia could destroy an enemy by poisoning one side of a knife,

dividing a peach with it, and then eating his own half with relish,

while his unsuspecting guest took certain death from the other. But the

Borgias, de Medicis, and Brinvilliers were clumsy poisoners when

compared with the scientists who protect the bounties of Nature from the

ravages of her prodigal hordes. Poisoning the blossom for the unborn

insect that would prey on the fruit is surely the masterpiece of

protective science. In my excitement, I forgot to ask if it is known who

devised this plan, but probably it was developed bit by bit, scientist

after scientist adding his portion, until the scheme was perfect. This

marvel is now one of the commonplaces of farm work. I wonder how many

more stories just like it are back of the methods and formulas by which

man is slowly learning to control the forces of Nature for his profit.

The orchard is right up to date. It has been given its three sprayings,

and has been fertilised and ploughed. Of course, I have never watched an

orchard closely until now, but those who should know assure me that

there has never been such a showing for apples as there is this year.

The little apples are now formed, and it is easy to find trees on which

four and five blossoms out of each cluster of six have been fertilised.

If even a small percentage of the apples that are already formed reach

maturity, practically every tree in the orchard will be loaded. In fact,

it has been suggested that there are so many apples the fruit will be

small unless it is thinned out later in the season. If the insects that

prey on the young fruit only worked with discretion they might be

helpful in thinning it out. I wonder if the scientists cannot find some

way of training the larvæ that feed on the blossoms to take only a just

proportion of them. Nature provides enough for them and for man if they

could only work in unison. But I am afraid that the war of extermination

must go on, for I doubt if they can do anything along this line, even

though they are so wonderfully skilful.

A couple of days ago a sharp-eyed boy found something on the apple trees

to which he called my attention. There were little clusters of eggs on

the under side of the branches--little yellow things about the size of

pin-points. I am so anxious to find out what they are that I am going to

clip off a few pieces of bark, put them in a pill-box, and send them

over to Mr. Clement. But perhaps, instead of being the eggs of some

injurious insect, they may be the eggs of something useful. I wonder if

I should take all the eggs when sending them, or should I leave a

nest-egg? In doing these scientific things, the ordinary man is always

afraid he may not be right. But as the eggs seem fairly plentiful, I

guess I can risk it. Anyway, I want to find out all about everything

that is happening to those trees.

This has been a great year for gardening. Although it has been a late

spring, we are already having plenty of lettuce, radishes, and young

onions, and the work needed to make a garden was not missed. One thing

that interests me is to find that the cabbage, cauliflower, and tomato

plants I am getting from seeds sown in the open are growing so rapidly

that they promise to do better than the hothouse plants that were put

out for an early crop. Apparently, there is little to be gained by

forcing plants for ordinary gardening, though it may be useful in market

gardening when every day counts in getting the high prices at the

beginning of the season. We have over thirty varieties of vegetables in

the garden this year, ranging from the bulky squash to the small,

savoury herbs, and when vegetarians call to see us this summer we shall

always be ready to give them a dinner fit for a cow--I mean a king.

_June 7._--I have just had an hour of pure enjoyment, and that was worth

while, even though the experience did not have a happy ending. The day

being fine, and the work being well in hand, I went for a walk about the

farm. I was delighted to find the oats doing so well, and had my first

thrill when I realised that they were my oats. Then I went to look at

the hay--my hay--and found that most of the field gives promise of a

good crop. Then I looked at the corn--my corn--and saw that it is coming

through the ground in fine style, even though the seed grain used was

open to suspicion. The potatoes--my potatoes--are already through the

ground, and the pasture--my pasture--is rich and plentiful. The

garden--my (I mean our) garden--is already producing daily salads, and

we shall have spinach in a few days. By the time I got back to the house

my chest measurement was at least six inches greater than when I started

out. Then I foolishly took up an account book--her account book--and

began to look over the expenses--my expenses. Before I had added them

up, I collapsed like a torn balloon and curled up like a codling worm

that has sampled the arsenate. I hardly had enough energy left to heave

a sigh. The item for labour was appalling. Then, there was seed grain

and tools, and a score of other things that I didn't count on when

beginning the work. It wouldn't do to show that expense account to

people who are thinking of coming back to the land, or they would never

come, and the farmers would lose a chance of profitably unloading farrow

cows and wind-broken horses on them when they are stocking up. I wish

that account book hadn't been lying in so prominent a place. It spoiled

the day's enjoyment.

When I am inclined to be despondent about other things, I go and look at

the orchard. Thanks to the Department of Agriculture, it is not crushed

under an expense account, and the prospects are good for a bumper crop.

The little apples--my little apples--are swelling rapidly, and beginning

to look like ready money. But I find that on some branches not a single

blossom was fertilised. This makes me think that there are a few things

that the orchardist will have to do before he will get the fullest

results. Depending on insects to do the fertilising seems very

haphazard, if not unscientific. I wonder how it would do to collect the

pollen from the blossoms with a vacuum cleaner, and then put it where it

is needed with a sand-blast? It might be fussy work, but it shouldn't be

much worse than spraying. I shall ask Mr. Clement about it the next time

I see him. I am hopeful that, if I keep on investigating in the proper

spirit, I may yet hit on something that will be a real contribution to

the science of farming. The trouble so far has been that the scientists

take all my suggestions as jokes. But never mind. A day will come.

_June 10._--After the corn had pushed its way through the ground there

was urgent need of a dead crow to hang in the cornfield. Since men began

to cultivate corn crows have been taking toll of the crops, and many and

various have been the scarecrows that have been devised to keep them out

of the fields. I have seen stuffed figures made to represent awesome and

dangerous men and women, windmills with clappers on them, pieces of tin

or mirrors hung so that they would revolve and send out sudden flashes

of light, bells hung so that they would ring whenever the wind stirred,

and many other frightful contrivances. Indeed, I think that scarecrows

might be studied carefully by antiquarians and philosophers, and if one

took in at the same time all the social, political, theological,

artistic, and financial scarecrows that have been flaunted before

mankind it should be possible for a new Teuffelsdroch to compile

another _Sartor Resartus_ for the amusement and edification of mankind.

But the need for a working scarecrow that would keep the crows from

pulling up my corn was so immediate that I had no time to take up this

aspect of the problem. Long experience has taught people that no

scarecrow can compare with a dead crow hung conspicuously in the field.

As soon as the crows see it they call a mass meeting and caw fiercely

against the cruelty of farmers. After they have scolded until they are

tired and hungry they go away from that field of death and light in the

field of some neighbour who uses ordinary scarecrows. This involves a

nice question of morals which I leave to more subtle brains and more

tender consciences. If scaring the crows from my field sends them to

pillage the field of my neighbour am I to blame for the damage they do?

This is a point to be thought out in the long winter evenings. At this

busy time I simply realised the need of scaring the crows from my own

field, and taking the rifle I wandered away to the woods.

It was a beautiful, lazy summer afternoon, with thunder in the air, and

I was glad that crow-hunting is about the most leisurely occupation

known to man. If you stir around the watchful crows will see you and

keep out of range, but if you hide in a good place and keep perfectly

still a crow may light in some stag-topped tree and wait long enough for

you to get a shot at him. The woodlot is a narrow strip, not too dense,

and when hiding in the middle of it I would have almost every tree

within range. I could hear young crows cawing and squawking in one

corner of the patch, and knew it might be possible to sneak up on them,

but that meant an amount of exertion that neither suited the day nor my

mood. Selecting a cradle knoll under a shady tree, where I had a good

view of the woods, I made myself comfortable and began to wait. A

killdeer began to scream and flap around, and that called my attention

to the watering pond beside me. It is a hollow scooped out of the earth,

with a quicksand bottom, that gives an unfailing supply of fresh, cold

water. There were lily pads on the edge, and a couple of dragon-flies

were flashing back and forth over the surface. On a muddy spot at the

far side there was a cluster of yellow cabbage butterflies, and here and

there I could see the staring eyes of a frog. The time, the place, and

the materials were all at hand for a nature study, and I could think of

no better way of passing the time. Rousing myself to observe the life

about me, I was delighted to see a mudturtle on the bottom of the pond.

It was partly concealed by some lily pads and to the eyes of a casual

observer might pass for a waterlogged piece of board. Although

mudturtles have not figured much in literature, I was at once reminded

of an almost appropriate quotation:

"Sabrina, fair!

Listen, where thou art sitting,

Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,

In twisted braids of lilies knitting

The loose train of thine amber dripping hair."

Of course, the mudturtle didn't have any hair, but otherwise the

quotation was satisfactory.

I do not think I have ever seen a comprehensive essay on the turtle,

although there is enough scattered information to make a book. Since the

earliest times turtle eggs have been the stay of shipwrecked mariners

and marooned pirates, though I do not think I should care for them as a

steady diet. I remember finding some turtle eggs buried in a sand bank

beside a deep hole in the railroad ditch, and they looked like ping-pong

balls, though ping-pong was not invented until many years after I had

made my find. Though I knew that many of the heroes of my early reading

had lived on turtle eggs for years I did not try them. Hen's eggs were

too cheap and plentiful at the time. But to go back to the dawn of

history, the turtle has at all times appealed to the imagination. The

ancients believed that the earth was based on the back of a gigantic

turtle--a most comfortable belief, for the turtle moves so slowly and

cautiously that there would be no danger that it would be joggled off.

It is also interesting to note that turtle soup dates back to

prehistoric times. Then, again, we have terrapin, the most aristocratic

of turtles, whose flesh is so highly prized by epicures that

restaurateurs cannot get enough of it and are compelled to serve stewed

muskrat as a substitute. This reflection reminded me of a tale of woe I

once heard from a celebrated magazine editor in New York. He and a

champion prize-fighter had gone out to dinner together, and in looking

over the bill of fare they were startled to see "Terrapin, 25." As

neither of them had tasted terrapin before they decided that this was

the time to try it, and they ordered two portions. It was so good that

they repeated the order. Then they asked for their checks. Each received

a check calling for $5. There was a row and explanations, and it turned

out that there had been a misprint on the bill of fare. Terrapin cost

$2.50 a portion and not twenty-five cents. They had to pay, and as it

was a lean time, between fights, with the prize-fighter, and as editors

are always poor, their banquet cut deep into their resources. The editor

had just got back to his desk when I called on him, and I don't think I

ever saw a man with five dollars' worth of epicurean food inside of him

who looked so downcast and discouraged. And he was in such an ugly

temper that he rejected a poem I offered him without holding it "for

further consideration." Just as I had finished chuckling over this

recollection and was switching to turtle soup and other phases of the

turtle question a young crow lit in a tree a few rods away and squawked.

It is needless to go into the details of the tragedy. He is now hanging

by one leg in the middle of the cornfield, and the indignant crows are

all going to other people's fields for their breakfasts. Strange to say

my conscience does not trouble me greatly about this development.

Before starting home with my crow I returned to my study of Sabrina. I

wanted her to give me an exhibition of swimming. Besides, it seemed to

me that it was a long time since she had breathed. Although turtles are

perfectly at home under water, they are forced to come to the surface

sometimes to breathe. I do not remember seeing anywhere just how long a

turtle can stay under water. I have seen them come up to breathe, and

they are very skilful in doing it. They push up their noses beside a

lily-pad and make no more disturbance than a rising bubble. But it

seemed as if my turtle would never come up. I had been watching it for

fully half an hour and it had not stirred. As I had performed my mission

to the woods, I finally got impatient and, picking up a stick, I threw

it into the water right above the turtle. It never stirred. Then I went

closer and made the startling discovery that it was not a turtle after

all. It was simply a waterlogged piece of board. But do you think I am

going to throw away this nature study of the turtle for that reason? I

should say not. You may take it for what it is worth, and I would not be

afraid to bet that a lot of the nature studies I have read in the papers

have no more foundation in fact than this one.

_June 13._--A few days ago I heard a good farmer--one who enjoys farming

and has done well at it--say that there are three times when a field

looks good.

"The first time is in the spring when you have finished putting in the

grain and have run the slip-furrows and have done all you can to make

sure of a good crop. The second time is when the crop is all in the

shock in good shape, and the third time is when the stubble is bare and

you have your harvest safe in the barn."

I have not been able to discipline myself sufficiently to confine my

enjoyment to stated periods. Besides the time when the work of putting

in the crop is done, I thought it looked fine when the first showing of

green spread over the field, and every time I have passed it seemed good

to see a few inches added to the growth, and it listens fine to have

real farmers say with a wise look as they sweep the oat field with a

critical eye: "Those oats of yours have a splendid colour." In fact when

things are going well it strikes me that a good field of grain looks

good at any time. But this dip into real farming is making me see crops

with other eyes. In the past I have contented myself with admiring the

delicate green and the ripple of the waving grain in the sunshine.

Though I can still enjoy that phase, I now catch myself looking at the

crops with a calculating eye, using my best judgment as to the probable

yield and the prospect of getting back the cost of the labour and seed

grain needed to bring the field to its present interesting appearance.

Moreover, I am beginning to realise what it must mean to a farmer to

have all his capital and hope of profits wrapped up in his fields. His

interest cannot help being the keenest of all, and he cannot help noting

little changes for good or bad that would escape the eye of the casual

observer. He glances at his fields in much the same way as an investor

looks at the financial column of the papers; and when the daily paper

comes home he looks at the weather reports and the markets before he

does at the political news or the editorial page. I am beginning to

learn that a man can get no grasp of farm problems until they become

vital to him by the actual work of farming. There may be great men who

can take columns of crop reports and statistics and figure out the kind

of laws that would mean even-handed justice to the farmer, but the

nearer I get to the soil the less faith I have in the learned

conclusions of our moulders of public opinion. It is impossible to

realise all the hopes and fears, benefits and mishaps of farming unless

one has done it as farmers are forced to do it--for a living. When his

crop shows signs of failure he cannot reorganise, issue a batch of

watered stock, and unload his failure on the investing public. All he

can do is to gather up all he can and go in debt while waiting for

another year.

There are always proverbs in the making in the country. The experience

that men have with the changing phases of farm work gradually

crystallises into phrases and neat sentences and becomes a part of the

folk-wisdom of the world. Yesterday a man favoured me with a bit that

seems new and original.

"Corn is a crop that likes company," he said with a smile. Then he went

on to explain. "If you want a good crop of corn you must keep company

with it most of the summer, and I have noticed that it is very

particular about the kind of company it keeps. The kind it seems to like

best is that of an intelligent, industrious, able-bodied man who will go

out to see it early in the morning and stay with it all day long. If he

likes the corn and keeps it well cultivated and keeps down the weeds it

will show its appreciation by giving a good crop; but if corn is left

too much to itself it will soon begin to look lonesome and discouraged

and will not have the heart to put on big ears."

I haven't started with our little corn patch as yet, but after such a

talk as that I know what is ahead of me.

There is a little patch of bindweed on the place--a memento of some

chicken feed purchased a couple of winters ago--and I have been looking

into the question of how to get rid of it. The cultivation I gave it

last year when the field was under corn simply encouraged its growth. As

nearly as I can find out, the only sure way to kill bindweed is to build

a barn with a cellar about eight feet deep on the spot and then put down

a solid cement floor. But I am told that unless one is careful it will

poke up around the foundations. As we are not ready to put up a bank

barn yet, I guess I shall have to go after the pest in some other way.

Sowing with salt has been recommended, and covering the patch a couple

of feet deep with straw. The last plan appeals to me most, as it does

not involve much labour, and the labour is of a clean and easy kind.

Anyway I have convinced myself that I shall only be wasting my time to

try ordinary cultivation unless I do it every day or two for the whole

summer. As I have plans for doing other things besides fighting bindweed

I guess the straw cure will be tried.

Among other things I find that farming greatly increases a man's

interest in weeds. Almost every day I find a new variety, and, according

to the government weed-book, each variety is worse than the last. The

Canadian thistle, which used to be spudded in youthful days, no longer

seems a pest when compared with some of the other kinds. Thistles can

be discouraged by cultivation, and we are so used to them that we know

how to go about the job, but the new things that are coming into the

country with every batch of mill feed or seed grain are usually

mysteries as to their habits until they have been firmly established.

Having secured a copy of the government weed-book, the nature-student

has been hunting for the plants described, and between the railroad

right of way and the neighbouring fields has found almost every noxious

weed described. None of them has a serious hold as yet, but they only

need a season of neglect to become a nuisance. I hear that the alfalfa

seed that was last sown in this section brought with it a new weed that

has not been classified, but appears to be in every way undesirable. The

farmers are pulling it out on suspicion. With seed grain, chicken feed,

and mill feed carrying weed seeds to the farms and the stock cars on the

railroads scattering them along the right of way, it is beginning to

look as if the weeds would get very evenly distributed through the

country. Last summer when travelling between London and Hamilton I was

amazed to see wild mustard covering whole farms, and hundreds of them.

In this section this weed has been kept confined to one spot for the

past fifty years, and, though it is plentiful enough on that spot, it

has not been allowed to spread. Even the babies know wild mustard when

they see it and never fail to pull it out. That is the way to fight a

weed, but with a couple of dozen new kinds making head in the country it

is getting beyond the babies.

I am beginning to wonder if sports and games are epidemic. Last winter

the country was devastated by an attack of checkers that still rages in

obscure corners, and now the good old game of horse-shoes is with us. It

may be that people have been playing it all along and I did not notice,

but, anyway, it is being played everywhere just now. They are pitching

horse-shoes in the villages after six o'clock, and in driving through

the country one can see the boys and hired men at it on the farms. In

these later days the hired man stops work at six o'clock, and has time

to play horse-shoes while his employer milks the cows. This no doubt

seems unnatural to farmers of the old school, but hired men are now so

scarce that they are able to insist on working regular hours--which is

entirely just and proper. Perhaps, after a while, farmers will come to

regard milking as part of the farm work instead of a chore, and will

have it done during the regular working hours. It would be a good thing

if they would, and then they could try their hands at horse-shoes

themselves. It is a good old game, derived from the disc-throwing of the

ancients, and it furnishes a healthful relaxation from heavy work. I

haven't heard of any tournaments as yet, but no doubt prizes will be

offered at the fall fairs where prizes are given for sports. It is good

to see some one in the country taking time to have some fun, even though

it may be left to the hired men to set the necessary good example.

_June 15._--Last week a correspondent wrote: "I am trying to live the

simple life as you do." Then he went on to describe his little garden

and lawn and trees, so that I positively envied him. Then the humour of

the situation began to dawn on me. Here is a worthy fellow-countryman

who is trying to live my life as he gathers it from these letters. That

is surely a terrible responsibility to put on me, but it shows an almost

universal tendency. Apparently everybody thinks that some one else is

getting more out of life than he is. We are all trying to live some one

else's life instead of our own, but I don't like the feeling that any

one else is trying to live mine. If I had a chance to whisper a few

things to this man in confidence he might change his mind. Anyway, he

had better try living his own life, and not be trying to imitate what he

imagines is the life of another man. That other man has troubles of his

own.

How many farmers know the full extent of their possessions? Most of them

know how many acres they own and the probable value of their crops,

stock, and investments, but that is only a small part of their heritage.

The laws of property deal only with such things as can be handled and

trafficked in, but the farmer is rich in many things besides these. His

powers of enjoyment are not "fobbed with the rusty curb of old Father

Antic, the law." Every sense is catered to by things that are as free to

him as the air. The sunshine, the cooling breeze, the odour of flowers

and the music of birds have no regard for line fences, however carefully

they may be surveyed, and the view from the hilltop that takes in a

score of farms and the little village with its church spires belongs to

him as surely as if he had a deed for it properly registered. The

ownership of his senses extends beyond the boundaries of his farm in

every direction. The ancient philosopher who thanked the rich man for

sharing his wealth with him when he showed him his stores of gold and

jewels uttered a truth whose full significance we should all try to

appreciate. The farmer who has a beautiful clump of trees by his house

or a well-cared-for piece of woodland shares it with every one whose eye

it pleases. The country girl who has a garden of flowers confers a

favour on every one who passes that way, whether friend or stranger. In

the same way the man who has an untidy farm with tumbled-down buildings

and ragged fences does an injury to the whole countryside. He maintains

an eyesore that offends every one of taste who is forced to see it.

The man does not really own his farm who does not know all its pleasant

places and its possibilities of enjoyment. He should know the shadiest

tree under which to read a book or spend an hour in day-dreaming. It

would do him no harm to know where the hepaticas bloom first and what

green aisles of the woods are heavy with the incense of phlox. He should

be acquainted with the robins that return to the same nest year after

year, and should be familiar with every view worth pausing to look at

when driving about the country attending to his affairs. They all belong

to him, and it is his own fault if he does not enjoy them. The greatest

advantage of owning a farm is that it gives a man the freedom of the

whole country. The "no trespass" signs have no terrors for the eye that

is open to beauty, and the enjoying mind takes its own wherever it

finds it. It is all very well to have everything on your farm as it

should be, so that you will get the best results from your labour, but

if you value the piece of ground that you own merely for the crops it

will yield you should not be encumbering it, but, as Mark Twain said,

"should be under it, inspiring the cabbages."

_June 17._--It is all right to go and hook your chin over the top wire

of the fence and do mental arithmetic about how much corn a five-acre

field should yield, and how many chickens the corn will feed, and what

the cornstalks will be worth for cattle fodder, and what crop should be

put in after the corn, but if you are going to have a crop of any kind

you must drain the land. After the heaviest of that series of showers we

had last week I went out to look at the field where the corn had been

trying for the past two weeks to get through the ground while the crows

and blackbirds have been doing all they can to help it, when I noticed

that one of the slip furrows had not been cleaned out. The rain had

started the water flowing from the woods, and if there was to be any

corn on the piece of flat land through which the furrow passes it must

be cleaned out so that the water would drain off and not drown the crop.

Like Davy Crockett, "I seen my duty and I done it." The long-handled

shovel was hunted up, and presently I was returning to the field quoting

that classic which every schoolboy once knew:--

"Honest John Tompkins, the hedger and ditcher,

Who, though he was poor, never wished to be richer."

Memory also gave back the fine moral tale about John Adams and his Latin

grammar. The President in embryo found ditching so hard that to get away

from it he started off with a rush that finally landed him in the White

House. Because of this, ditching has long been regarded as one of the

finest things in the world to urge young men to higher things. They have

been known to work so hard to get away from ditching that they have

become multi-millionaires and ministers and school teachers and such

like.

The land through which the slip furrow passes is dead level, and, having

been loosened by ploughing and harrowing, about an acre of it was as

soft as mortar and as sticky as a bad reputation. Some one had told me

once that when ditching one should begin at the top of the drain and

work down with the water. That enabled me to start from the strip of sod

at the edge of the woods. The first little dam of sod and earth in the

furrow was as far out as I could reach with the long-handled shovel

while standing dry shod. After making a couple of foolish pokes I

straightened up to consider the situation. It was much the same kind of

position you find yourself in when your golf ball falls in the water

hazard that an unfeeling greens committee has located somewhere about

the sixth hole. (Farmers who play golf will understand just what I

mean.) You make a swipe or two at it with your niblick and only manage

to get mud on your face and drive it deeper among the grass roots. Then

you forget about your nice new golf shoes and wade in to root it out and

you say things that no one would print and think things that no one

would say, and when you finally get the ball into play again you wonder

whether you will leave your shoes there and go home barefoot or wear

them home and let your wife plant ferns in them as part of her scheme of

ornamental gardening. Before getting back to the ditching I want to

suggest to the rules committees of all golf clubs that there are times

and places when a duffer at least should be allowed to use a

long-handled shovel. But, to resume, I saw that there was no dainty way

to do ditching and stepped in. The removal of a couple of shovelfuls set

free a pond that flowed down into another, greatly adding to its size.

The obstruction that held this pond was removed in its turn and a still

larger one was formed. After this process had been repeated several

times I saw that I would either have to swim or get a boat, so I decided

to pull for the shore. It was then I noticed my new shoes for the first

time. When I looked down I could still see the knots on the laces.

Every time I stepped I seemed to be tearing myself up by the roots, but

at last the wire fence was reached. Some one ought to get out a patent

on wire fences as mud scrapers. They are worth ten times as much as the

kind you usually find rusting with disuse beside the farmhouse door.

Housewives would do well to have the yard fenced with wire and then the

men folks would have no excuse for going into the house without cleaning

their boots. But this will never do. All the time we're talking that

pond out in the field is getting to look more and more like a lake.

Feeling very light-footed, I pranced down to the outlet of the furrow

and began operations from that end. Each little pond as it was opened

flowed away, and I was able to finish the job without swimming. Possibly

the drain-viewers would not report favourably on my kind of ditching,

but it is one of the peculiarities of water that it will flow crooked

just as readily as it will flow straight.

Now for the most important matter of all. While I was ditching

Opportunity knocked at my door. I had a chance to make a fortune, and

let it slip away with the oily water in the furrow. Just about the place

where the mud was the stickiest and my thoughts were the worst I saw a

pool of water that was unmistakably covered with oil. You know this is

the district where there was an oil craze in the days when Bothwell and

Petrolia were to the speculative what Cobalt is now. It is suspected

that oil exists under many parts of Ontario, and just now there are

strange stories about the mysterious doings of the Standard Oil Company.

It is said to be boring in various quarters, and whenever oil is struck

the well is plugged and the matter hushed up until the land in the

neighbourhood has been acquired. And here I had discovered surface

indications of oil! On careful examination I found that the oil-bearing

water was coming out of a crawfish hole! Doesn't that fire your

imagination? During the dry spell last year a crawfish kept going down

and down and down--you know they always go down until they reach

water--until at last he struck oil, and the oil gushed to the surface.

Think of what a story that would make in a prospectus! Every farmer

knows what a crawfish is, and what a hole it will bore, and what could

be more likely than that a crawfish should strike oil? "The Crawfish Oil

Co., Ltd." That title nicely lithographed on good bond paper should

catch the farmers every time. They are just about ripe for another

killing, anyway. The lawsuits resulting from the last promotion they

were mixed up in are about all settled, and unless somebody takes their

money away from them soon they will find throwing it at knot-holes in

the fences. I really think I could float "Crawfish, Ltd.," in Toronto if

I were not interested in the crops. The right man should be able to

clean up quite a pile before Saturday Night got after him, and when that

happened he could live up to his title and do the crawfish act. He could

crawl into his hole and pull it in after him.

_June 18._--It is all very well for Mr. Nash to go around lecturing to

the Farmers' Institutes about the value of hawks and telling the boys

that they shouldn't shoot them, but when a pair of hen hawks extend

their sphere of influence over the chicken yard things are not the same.

This is especially true when their taste runs to young turkeys. It is

possible to keep chickens penned up until they are able to take care of

themselves, but turkeys still have so much of the wild nature in them

that they must be allowed to run at large at least part of the time and

then the hawks do their deadliest. Judging from the experience of last

week it takes about four Christmas dinners to satisfy one brood of young

hawks for a day. Which is it going to be? Are poor city people to be

deprived of the Christmas dinner or are we to get along without mousing

hawks? The Agricultural Department may be able to prove to a nicety that

each hawk is worth $17.83 to the farmer, but each young turkey means a

possible two-dollar bill, and it doesn't take long at that rate for a

hungry hawk to eat its head off. The Department of Agriculture might do

more foolish things than to issue a report on hawks _v._ turkeys. In

the meantime, I have oiled up the shotgun and laid in a store of

ammunition. I don't know how to realise in cash on the $17.83 that each

hawk is worth to me, but I do know how to sell turkeys.

The fine weather to-day has brought to light an unexpected state of

affairs in the fields. During the wet, cold days of the past weeks every

one seemed to think that all growth had stopped. On the contrary,

everything seems to have been growing lustily. The hay is knee-deep, and

the pasture up to the horns of the cattle. That old expression about the

pasture being "up to the horns" should probably be retired on a pension,

as all respectable cattle are now dehorned. Spring crops could not

possibly look more promising, and as the comet seems to be safely out of

the way the harvest will probably come to us as usual. Nature certainly

does seem to have a way of carrying out her share of the yearly

contract. Man gives the seed and the labour and she seldom fails to give

growth and the harvest. It is about the only kind of contract into which

man enters in which the party of the second part can always be depended

on to deal fairly.

_June 20._--One day last week a big maple in the woodlot came crashing

down when not a breath of air was stirring. As the idea was fixed in my

mind that trees are never uprooted except by high winds and storms, it

was a surprise to have one topple over when everything in nature was

quiet. On going to investigate I found that an apparently sound tree

over two feet in diameter had fallen and "lay full many a rood." An

examination revealed the fact that it was dead in the heart and the

decay showed even in the broken branches, though it was covered with

leaves and clusters of winged seeds. The upturned roots that rose like a

wall showed that all the central roots had rotted off and, except for

the live fibres at the outer rim, the tree had merely been sitting on

the ground. It was easy to see what had caused the disaster. The ground

was so thoroughly saturated with water that the little roots had lost

their grip on the sand and mould, and as the tree had always leaned a

little to the south-west it finally lost its balance and went over.

After having braved the storms and winds for at least a century it had

tumbled over on a still summer morning--a clear case of arboreal

euthanasia. The hole from which its roots had been lifted had

immediately filled with water, showing plainly how its foundations had

been sapped. While looking at the wrecked giant I remembered having read

in one of John Burroughs' essays that when one is in the great natural

forests branches can be heard breaking off and trees falling even on the

stillest days. When the trees mature they must go down like the grass

that numbers less days than they do years. Turning from the fallen

patriarch I took some satisfaction in finding that the young trees I

planted this spring are looking thrifty and give abundant promise of

filling any gaps that occur among the veterans of the woodlot. This has

been an ideal year for tree-planting, as there have been plenty of

showers, and at no time has the weather been scorchingly hot. Every

seedling I examined was making a good growth, and it looks as if most of

the two thousand and five hundred that were planted with much groaning

and backaches have a fair chance of living. All the catalpas were

winter-killed at the top, but they are putting out a strong growth from

the root, and the pines, soft maples, white ashes, chestnuts, and elms

are doing wonderfully. The chestnuts, with their brightly varnished

leaves, are looking especially attractive. I guess we can spare the big

maple that fell, and cut it into firewood without undue mourning.

I wish I had a gift for statistics. If I had I think I could learnedly

evolve a lesson from this business of farming and would be able to

discourse on it profitably. Now that the rush of seeding is over, I am

beginning to wonder vaguely who is going to get the profits from this

work. As nearly as I can figure it out I shall be lucky if I get back

the money invested in rent, seed grain, and labour and perhaps a day

labourer's wages for myself: and yet, if all goes well, there should be

enough of the raw materials of food--oats, corn, potatoes, apples, and

garden truck--produced to feed several old-fashioned families. There

should be a fine profit for that, even if the consumers got it at a

little over the cost of production. Who is going to get the profits?

There is a great chance for some one who has a proper grasp of business

conditions to reverse the story of Macaulay's charwoman who set so many

obedient workers in motion when she ordered her dish of tea. He should

take the case of the farmer and show how many people he helps to make

profits when he tills his land. Let us consider the orchard for a

moment. When we got busy with that we had to buy sulphur and lime and no

doubt had to pay prices that would give dividends on watered stock in a

sulphur trust and a lime trust. I do not know whether those commodities

are handled by trusts, but if they are not it is because some promoter

has overlooked an opportunity. That one act of getting materials for the

lime sulphur spray would cause activity among the sulphur miners of

Sicily and the lime burners of Canada. It would also give employment to

sailors and railroad workers and swell the profits of corporations that

must make profits in spite of extravagance and wastefulness. To protect

themselves they create monopolies and charge as much as the traffic will

bear, and the man who uses their material must pay his share of it all.

But I should be writing all summer if I tried to suggest even a few of

those who will be helped by the work of the farmer. Let us pass on to

the final stage. When the apples are ready to be sold barrels must be

secured from some probable cooperage trust that gets its materials from

a lumber trust and a nail trust. The apples must be shipped over a

railroad that was built in a way that made millions for promoters and

contractors and the freight rates must pay dividends on what was stolen

and wasted as well as on what was legitimately invested. As nearly as I

can see it, the farmer's profits must go to pay every form of waste and

extravagance and extortion in the business world. And the part of this

burden that he is not able to bear is placed on the ultimate consumer of

his products, who, as a rule, cannot afford it any more than the

farmer. Looking at matters in this way, it amazes me to think that every

attempt to regulate the operations of the banks and Big Business at once

meets with such an outcry of protest. Surely those who have to bear the

burdens should have something to say about the amount of these burdens.

The farmer of the present day is compelled to use as much intelligence,

education, thrift, and business foresight as any business man if he is

to keep his head above water and he is compelled to bear the whole

burden of his own mistakes and waste and extravagance. Why should not

business men be placed on the same footing? If you take the trouble to

figure it out you will find that the burden of every failure and

mismanagement in the business world finally falls on the farmers and

consumers of the country. Business men may fail and lose all, but in the

end every cent of their losses must be paid to society as a whole by the

workers. It is about time that our captains of industry and finance were

awakened from their dreams. Those who make their profits from the white

shirt business of distribution should be compelled to bear burdens as

well as the men who do the cowhide boot and overall work of production.

The farmer is compelled to take what is offered for his products and pay

what he is asked for what he buys. As it is impossible for farmers to

protect themselves by forming a trust and securing a monopoly of the

necessaries of life, it seems to me that they are quite within their

rights in demanding that others be prevented from doing such things.

They have to do all their work on a competitive basis, and there is no

reason that others should not be forced to do the same. The ghastly joke

of the whole unjust arrangement is that it is largely the money of the

farmers, deposited in the branch banks, that is used to finance

corporations that stifle competition and make the farmers pay profits on

their watered stock and mismanagement. This system has been the growth

of only the past few years. I wonder how long it is going to keep on

growing.

The season of picnics is once more at hand, and the Sunday school

children are on the tiptoe of anticipation. Before the business goes any

further I wish to protest in the most public and emphatic way against

these new-fangled, snobbish, strife-breeding basket picnics. There are

no picnics like the old-fashioned kind where they set up rough board

tables of interminable length and piled on them the dainties of the

countryside. Social distinctions were wiped out and for one day all men

were free and equal and the children usurped the reins of power. At

these basket picnics you are apt to see the freckle-faced boy standing

somewhere outside the hunger-line, waiting for some one to hand him a

sandwich or a cruller that is chiefly hole. In the happier days of my

earliest recollections matters were different. The freckle-faced boy

edged between the legs of the grown-ups, and got a seat at the first

table at the right hand of the minister. That was not because he of the

freckles reverenced the cloth. By no means. He knew that from the point

of vantage which he occupied he would get the second helping of every

good thing that was provided. The woman who had a particularly succulent

custard pie or a pound of cake that was all raisins would invariably

begin by offering the first slice to the minister, and then he of the

snub nose and freckles would be right in line for the second helping.

Rah! for the old-fashioned picnics. At least the boys and ministers

approved of them, and, come to think of it, it is no wonder that

Hufeland, in his _Encyclopædia of Insurance_, mentioned ministers as

especially unfavourable risks, because so many of them die young from

indigestion. His tables were prepared before the coming of the basket

picnics. The cloth may have succumbed, but the snub-nosed boy throve

mightily. Rah! for the long tables! Rah! for the free lemonade, and down

with your basket picnics.

_June 21._--Riding on a disc-harrow is another of those jobs that give a

man a chance to think. There are eight acres of young orchard to be kept

in a thorough state of cultivation, and, beyond keeping the horses

moving and watching the rows of little trees so as to avoid barking

them when passing, there is nothing to do. In fact, if a man didn't do a

little thinking it would be a positively lazy job. Of course, a real

farmer would have something to think about, for farming has degenerated

into such a bug-fight that a man has to be thinking all the time about

the best way to overcome the pests that threaten his crops. When a

farmer thinks of all the insects and blights that attack his fruit,

grain, vegetables, and even live stock, he can hardly be blamed if he

feels sometimes that the work of creation was overdone. Why were all

these pests created anyway? If I had started to think along farming

lines I would have had the blues in no time, but the sun was warm and

the air was full of the happiness of birds, and so I settled down to a

peaceful meditation on Diogenes. Now, do not jump to the conclusion that

I was in a cynical humour, for the fact is that seldom have I been more

cheerful. It was the sunshine that made me think of the old Greek. You

remember what he replied when Alexander the Great asked if he could do

anything to oblige him.

"Yes," said Diogenes. "Stand from between me and the sun."

No doubt the sunlight in front of his tub felt just as good to him as it

did to me in the orchard and I could sympathise with his objection to

having the radiating comfort cut off by a burly military person. As I

turned this over in my mind I got a new light on Diogenes. I realised

that he is another of the maligned characters of history. Just because

"Those budge doctors of the Stoic fur

Who fetch their precepts from the Cynic's tub"

have been justifying their own bilious outlook on life by

misinterpreting his sayings they have done him a grievous wrong. His

objection to having Alexander stand between him and the sun was one of

the wisest things ever uttered. What are all our conquerors and captains

of industry and great men doing but standing between us and the sun?

Diogenes had stripped life to its essentials and was showing the people

of Athens how a free-souled philosopher should live. With a tub for

shelter, a piece of cloth for covering, and a crust to eat, he had all

that a man must have physically, and by employing his ample leisure in

developing his own personality he was able to make himself bulk as large

in history as the slaughtering Alexander. If he allowed himself to be

misled by ambition or false ideals of any kind he would lose his place

in the sun. Just think it over a little. Is not the corporation which

keeps you working at a desk standing between you and the sun? Are not

the false ideals that keep you working from morning till night so that

you have no time to enjoy the sunshine standing between you and the sun?

The social conditions that have been imposed upon us by the ambitious

leaders in thought and progress are keeping us all from our places in

the sun. Even nations are beginning to realise this, and Germany, like

Diogenes, has been asking Great Britain to stand from between her and

the sun. Without sunshine we cannot live, and it is one of the few

things that it is hard to get too much of. So, instead of thinking of

Diogenes as a snarling cynic, I feel that I could put up an excellent

argument to show that his reply to Alexander was made with philosophical

gentleness. Alexander was standing between everybody and the sun at that

time. The philosopher merely expressed a great truth in a symbolical

way. He taught a lesson that all the world would do well to learn. At

the present time there are a great many people standing between us and

the sun. I wonder if we shall ever pluck up the courage of Diogenes and

politely ask them to stand aside.

Then there is the story of Diogenes going about the streets of Athens at

noonday, carrying a lantern and explaining to those who questioned him

that he was hunting for an honest man. How wonderfully that illustrates

the gentleness and humility of this misrepresented man! I know that is

not the usual explanation, but once more people have missed the point.

If you look into the matter carefully you will see that I am right. The

people of Athens were doubtless much like ourselves, and Diogenes was

trying to teach them a lesson that they needed, and that was too deep

for them. Now, if you wanted to hunt for an honest man, how would you go

about it? Be perfectly honest for once, and confess. You would not go

into the street with a lantern at noonday as Diogenes did. You would go

into the bedroom and hunt for your honest man with a looking-glass!

There might be some little qualms as those familiar features stared back

at you, but on the whole you would feel that the object of your search

had been found. There might be some slight twinges of conscience about

your sharp deals, but "business is business," and you would feel that in

spite of everything you were justified in hunting for an honest man in

your looking-glass. As the people of Athens were doubtless of the same

mind, Diogenes administered a beautiful rebuke by going out to hunt for

an honest man with a lantern. He knew himself too well to follow the

popular method of using a looking-glass. By going out with a lantern he

showed that he was too honest to pose as an honest man himself, and,

furthermore, made it clear that if an honest man could be found he would

be one whose conduct could bear the full light of the sun and of all our

lanterns and tallow dips besides. In no other way could he show so

clearly his high appreciation of a truly honest man. Really, I do not

understand how people could be so blind as to regard Diogenes as a

snarling cynic. He was humble regarding his own merits and ready to bow

down to real goodness if it could be found. You may think he could have

found his honest man without making such stir, but if you stop searching

in your looking-glass you may find the task just as hard as he did.

Another story that has been quoted to show the arrogance of this kindly

soul is the one about the time when he was taken captive and sold as a

slave. When asked what he could do for any one who bought him he

replied:

"I can govern men."

There is wisdom for you again. Only the man who has served is fit to

govern. Only a man who knows what it means to be a slave is fit to be

entrusted with the government of others. If Diogenes had been set to

rule over the land he would know it from the foundations up, for he

himself had been a slave. The Big Interests of his time could not fool

him about the way they treated the lower classes. He would know from

experience. He could understand the need for old age pensions and

government insurance and all that sort of thing. History would be worth

reading if we had a few men like Diogenes as rulers. Your Alexanders

regarded the lower classes simply as "food for powder" or Greek fire or

whatever they use in fighting their battles. Diogenes, the ex-slave,

would know that life is sweet to the slave as to the conqueror and would

govern himself and others accordingly. The world certainly lost a great

ruler when the foolish people of his time failed to take the wise

philosopher of the slave market at his word.

By the time I had thought this out the day's work was done. The orchard

had been thoroughly disced so that the warmth could get down to the

roots of the little trees and I myself was so warmed through that I

could see nothing but good, even in Diogenes, who has been regarded at

all times as a savage railer at humanity. I am afraid that too many of

our thinkers work in the gloom of libraries instead of in nature's great

sun parlour. If they would take their problems out into the sunshine it

might be healthier for them and for all of us. We should try to think

things out with no one standing between us and the sun.

_June 22._--This week I have a dog story to tell, and a beautiful moral

goes with it. Sheppy, the collie, did something that should give him a

high place in the rank of intelligent dogs, but no one will give him

credit for it. Unfortunately, Sheppy's range of virtues is very limited.

No one had the time or knew how to train him properly, and beyond

keeping the hens away from the house and chasing the cows from the wire

fence near by, he does nothing of value. It seems impossible to make him

understand what is wanted when the cows are to be brought home at

milking time, and even when he does go after them he always goes at

their heads and turns them back. Taken by and large, Sheppy, although

well bred, is just about as useless a dog as there is in the country.

And yet he did something out of the ordinary. The other night, when the

boys got home from the village, it was found that a parcel had been

dropped from the buggy. Besides it was known that it must have been

dropped some distance up the road for it was missed quite awhile before

they got home. As it was too late and dark for any one to go after it

that night it was arranged that a boy should go back over the road

before five o'clock in the morning to hunt for the parcel. As Sheppy was

around at that time he undoubtedly heard these arrangements being made,

but no one thought anything of that. But in the morning we got a

surprise. Just as the boy was going to start on his trip Sheppy came to

the door with the parcel in his mouth. He usually goes out for a run

around the farm when he is turned out in the morning, but he seldom goes

any distance along the road, and he has never been trained to fetch and

carry like other dogs. Now will some one kindly explain how he came to

bring home that parcel at that particular minute. He has never before

carried anything home. If he had been one of those wonderful dogs we

sometimes hear so much about this achievement would add to his fame.

Every one would be sure that he had understood all that was being said

and had gone after that parcel, but as there is nothing in his past life

to justify such a theory no one will give him credit. As a matter of

fact, I do not believe myself that he understood and went after the

parcel. The fact remains, however, that he brought it home in his mouth

in good condition just as if he were one of the good dogs that always do

the right thing at the right time.

Speaking of the intelligence of dumb creatures, I had an exhibition when

discing the orchard that is worth recording. When going over the ground

for the first time a couple of killdeers made a lot of excitement in one

corner of the field. They fluttered ahead of the horses, screaming and

pretending to be wounded as is their habit when any one approaches their

nests. I left the horses standing and hunted carefully over several

lands in the hope that I might find their nest and avoid crushing the

eggs, but I could not locate it and finally had to go on with my work

without minding their protests. When giving the same corner a stroke of

the disc a couple of days ago a killdeer suddenly stood up with

outstretched wings and tail, about a foot from the end of the disc. I

stopped the horses, and for several minutes that bird stood there and

delivered a lecture on squatter rights and the laws of homesteading and

the suffragette movement. It was very convincing both to me and to the

little boy who was riding on my knee. The bird made no attempt to lead

me away from the nest. She simply stood over her eggs and scolded. She

even refused to move when I touched her with the end of the buggy whip

while trying to point out to the little boy the earth-grey eggs, over

which she was standing. Even when we were so close to them it was hard

to distinguish them from the clods, and it was no wonder that I missed

them in the previous search. It is probable, however, that the disc

destroyed the first setting, and that these were new eggs. What

impressed me was that I had never seen a killdeer act in this way

before. Had she made up her mind that I was probably a reasonable being

and only needed to have matters explained to me? Anyway she stuck to her

nest and each time I passed with the disc, and later when I came along

with the corn marker, she simply stood up and gave me another lecture.

Though the disc passed her within a foot on each side she refused to

leave, though she made some very pointed remarks about being disturbed

so much.

One morning recently I had a lively couple of minutes with a pair of

blue jays and other birds that they had called to their assistance. The

children had called my attention to a young blue jay that was under one

of the apple trees, and I thought I would pick up the youngster to

examine him more closely, but as soon as I touched him he started to

squawk and things began to happen. One blue jay struck me back of the

ear with beak and claws and managed to draw blood. At the same instant

the other struck me full in the face. As I beat them away a couple of

robins that had evidently been attracted by the noise also began to make

swoop at my head. As this was the first time I had ever seen birds of

another variety turn in to help I stopped to watch the robins, that were

making just as much noise as if I were trying to get one of their

fledglings instead of the blue jays'. By the time they had quieted down

the blue jays had managed to get their youngsters away to a place of

safety. Now I have always had it in my head that the jays and robins are

natural enemies, but they seemed to forget all private grudges when a

common enemy appeared on the scene. It is interesting to reflect that

although these jays would protect their young at the risk of their own

lives, in a few weeks, after the brooding season is over, they would

probably rob their own young of any dainty morsel just as quickly as

they would another bird.

_June 23._--All ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy,

or pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope, who believe that the

deficiencies of to-day will be made up by the morrow, and that age will

fulfil the promises of youth, attend to the history of a wayfarer

dwelling in the country. There's Johnson for you, somewhat "scratched."

But what would you? You can't expect a man to remember to a syllable the

reverberating "history of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia," but as this

letter is addressed to exactly the same class of dreamers as was that

ponderous, pot-boiling classic there is a colourable excuse for

borrowing its resounding invocation. To be more explicit, it is

addressed to all ye who dream of holidays in the country, or pursue with

eagerness the hope of a rustic home; who believe that you still have it

in you to be successful farmers, or that you will spend your age amid

the scenes of your youth. For your benefit and inspiration an attempt

will be made to describe life in the country as it is to-day.

To-day the country is at its most wonderful. Nature has "all her bravery

on." Every field is full of promise. Wherever the eye turns there is

life and beauty. The thick woods are rich with flower-haunted shades

that invite to picnics; the clover fields are steaming with perfume and

thronged with murmuring bees; the birds are clamorous with their young,

and the bland, rain-washed air has a tang of real ozone, not of "that

blending of the odours of tarred rope and decaying fish that passes for

ozone at seaside resorts." Above all is the blue sky, unfathomably deep

and flecked with wind-shepherded clouds that keep the shadows hurrying

on their uncharted quest. The leaves are all whispering; flies are

droning fitfully, and everything invites to indolence and the unthinking

peace that refreshes and revives. It is true that those who work are

busy in the fields cultivating the corn or hoeing, and finding the

occasional glimpses of the sun uncomfortably hot. But their pride is to

"scorn delights and live laborious days," and this year the prospects

are that they shall have their reward. The prospects for all kinds of

crops are of the best, and the "growing weather" is simply perfect.

At this point there was an interruption in the form of an order to go

out into the garden and pick a salad. Breaking off crisp lettuce leaves,

pulling young onions--Yes! ONIONS! That's what I said--and rooting out

radishes can hardly be classed as work, but the chore involved stooping

over in the hot sun for a few minutes, and the discovery was made that a

cool breeze cannot be half appreciated unless one's brow is at least

reddened with the sweat of honest toil. Besides, a salad always tastes

better if one has helped in its preparation.

The visit to the garden revealed prospects of much good eating. The

early peas are already heavily podded and in a week or so will be ready

to garnish broilers or lamb chops. There is also an excellent promise of

butter beans and new potatoes, and the melon and cucumber vines are

spreading bravely. The cabbage, cauliflower, and tomato plants are

thrifty, and on the whole the time seems opportune for putting to the

test the teachings of G. Bernard Shaw. But although he affects to be one

of those who elect to

"Sit a guest with Daniel at his pulse,"

he produces an amount of satire that provokes a suspicion that a

vegetarian diet is productive of bile. Perhaps it will be as well to

exercise moderation in the consumption of vegetables. Besides, those

broilers are getting plumper and looking more tempting every day, and

the best doctors approve of a mixed diet.

After dinner the clouds began to hang lower and almost without warning

it began to rain. It was a real "growing shower," the rain seeming to

ooze out of the warm air and fall without storming. It began from a

wispy cloud that did not seem of much importance, gathered rapidly, and

poured steadily for half an hour. It lacked the majesty of a June

thunderstorm, but had distinct charms of its own. The birds chirped and

sang throughout the downpour and the cattle pastured as if they found it

refreshing. When it had passed and drifted away with a broken rainbow on

its back it left a world wonderfully bejewelled and "bedewed with liquid

odours." Those who had been driven to the shelter of the shade trees in

the cornfield protested that they could see the corn growing during the

shower. Anyway, the already fresh fields were made still fresher and the

delights of the morning were multiplied.

"There will be wild strawberries along the railroad," was the

announcement after the shower, and an investigation brought results. The

berrypickers got a couple of quarts of small but juicy and

full-flavoured berries, and now there is a "trifling, foolish" shortcake

"toward"--not one of those with layers of cake laid on rows of white

indurated knobs that passes for strawberry shortcake at our best

restaurants, but a fat shortcake made of biscuit dough, split open,

buttered, filled and smothered with crushed wild strawberries, each of

which has more flavour than a basketful of your big, watery, tame

berries. Also there will be plenty of fresh cream--but why make you

envious!

Wherefore, all ye who were addressed in the opening sentence and have

pursued the narrative thus far, you may rest assured that the country is

still all that you have dreamed. In fact it is probably more. Not only

has it all its olden joys, but many of its discomforts and drawbacks

have disappeared. There is nothing of value in the city that you cannot

have in the country, and even the cities themselves have been brought

near by improved transportation. The village stores and groceries now

sell fruits and delicacies that could be secured a few years ago only in

the best city markets. There are churches and good schools everywhere

and facilities for every reasonable enjoyment. And above all there is

the glorious country itself, with its fresh air, green fields, cool

woods, and stainless summer skies. Days like this make one forget the

storms and winter weather, but modern homes and good roads are making

these less trying. Every year conditions are improving and every year

the farmers are enjoying more and more "the glorious right of being

independent." Those who dream of a country life do well, and it is to be

hoped that some day their dreams may come true. A few days like this can

make up for years in the city.

_June 25._--Last week I undertook to drive about fifty miles across

country to attend a picnic. Of course, I didn't finish the drive, but

what of that? If I didn't try to do foolish things once in a while I

wouldn't have any fun. Those perfectly correct people who always know

the right thing to do and how to do it--oh, well, what's the use? I

could lecture at them from now until next election and couldn't make

even a dent on their self-satisfied complacency. And after a fellow has

been at a really enjoyable picnic is no time to start scolding. As

intimated above, I did not finish the drive. At Watford the automobiles

became altogether too plentiful, and after I had been given my choice of

driving the horse over an eight-rail fence or plunging down a

fifteen-foot embankment, I lost all my enthusiasm about sight-seeing

from a buggy. The driver was even more fussed up about it than I was,

but the man with the automobile was more considerate than most of those

I have encountered. He stopped his snorting contraption until the horse

was led past, and, after patching up a breeching strap, I was able to

proceed. I make no attempt to tell what my feelings were at the time. I

simply purred gently and thanked the owner of the car for being so kind.

I am unable to understand the exact point of view of the driver in

regard to motor cars. She will let four or five pass without doing more

than dropping one ear forward, and then when the next one comes along

she goes into hysterics. As the crop of motor cars this year is

unusually heavy, I seldom move abroad without moments of excitement, and

the things I say under my breath remind people who go out with me of the

odour that a motor car leaves trailing behind it. If it were not for the

automobiles nothing could be pleasanter than a ride through the country

at this season of the year. The weather was not too hot, there were

clouds drifting over, and the air was deliciously pure and clear. When

we approached Watford, the flat plain gave way to gentle undulations and

the farmhouses had the home-like appearance one finds only in old

settlements. The roads were better--and--and the automobiles were more

plentiful.

After a night of kindly hospitality near Watford, the picnic people took

pity and came after me with an automobile. When the time came for me to

embark, I felt much the same as Mazeppa did when they tied him on the

wild horse.

"Bring forth the car!" The car was brought.

In truth it was a nifty make,

Such as a financier would take;

It seemed as if the speed of thought

Were in its wheels; but it was wild.

Wild as a grafter when he's caught,

Or wild as----when he's riled.

'Twas but a month it had been bought,

And snorting, likewise raising Cain,

And struggling fiercely, but in vain,

In the full foam of wrath and dread,

To me the choo-choo car was led.

They loosed it with a sudden crash--

And banged the door and laughed aloud.

Away, away, and on we dash!

Torrents less rapid and less rash!

A swift turn around an unexpected corner brought my heart into my mouth

so suddenly that it knocked the cigar out of my teeth and when I

collected myself my thoughts were parodying Dickens instead of Byron.

Honk! Honk! Past fields of alsike and red clover that give forth a

perfume inviting enough to make a man envy Nebuchadnezzar, who ate grass

like an ox. Past orchards innocent alike of the pruning knife and the

sweet influences of lime-sulphur. Over a culvert that catapults the

passenger so high in the air that he gets a bird's-eye view of half of

Warwick township.

Honk! Honk! The road slips beneath us like a flowing stream. A woman

hoeing in a field of sugar-beets straightens her back to look at us for

a moment and waves her hand--or did she shake her fist at us? I really

didn't have time to see.

Honk! Honk! On, ever on, at a speed that makes it easier to imagine what

Lambton will be than to see what it looks like now. I discreetly avoided

looking at the speedometer to see how fast we were going. No, your

honour, I do not know what our speed was. We might have been going ten

miles an hour. In fact, I feel pretty sure we were. You say the

constable says we were exceeding the speed limit? I really cannot say.

Honk! Honk!

Honk! Honk! Through the leafy town of Forest, past the fine new school

and out into the country again. Past fields of tomatoes planted under

contract with the benign Canners' combine. Past new orchards that give

glorious promise for the future. Past old orchards that are thoughtfully

cared for. Over stretches of fertile soil that needs only a press agent

to make it rank with the best boomed sections of the west. Around a

corner and into a lane that winds along the crest of a gully brimming

with trees, past a cosy farmhouse, through a barn yard and out over the

sod to the top of the embankment, where we stop dazzled by a first view

of Lake Huron and the wonderful lake shore valley, where they have

orchards equal to those of the Niagara Peninsula. High above the

orchards of apples and peaches we admired their foliage and guessed at

their treasures of fruit. It was a wonderful trip, through a wonderful

country, and the view of the lake and the valley gave it a fitting

climax.

After the picnic was over the trip was repeated with the very material

difference that comes from being familiar with an automobile. I was able

to revel in the speed and the sense of freedom one gets from being in a

conveyance that makes miles seem trifles. I cannot understand why men

should want airships when they can have automobiles. The only trouble

was with farmers who will persist in getting in the way with their

skittish horses. I had a chance to see that an automobile driver can be

considerate and yet not be able to do much good. Some horses are so

cranky that they should never be taken out of a box stall. Why can't

horses be trained to pass automobiles without trying to wriggle out of

the harness? Well, here we are. And now we must start home in the buggy.

I am hardly in my seat before I begin looking behind and before to see

if there are any of those confounded automobiles in sight. Who owns the

roads, anyway, the farmers or the men with cars?

I quite realise that I got somewhat mixed in my emotions by changing

from a buggy to an automobile and then back again. The gist of the

matter is that no country can stand that is half horse and half car. If

the farmers could all afford cars the problem would be solved. How would

it do to cut out the special privileges that enable others to afford

automobiles at the expense of the farmers? Then the farmers could have

them. The question is respectfully suggested for the consideration of

the gentlemen of the Automobile Club.

_June 30._--This is the strawberry season, and the jam-kettles are

bubbling odorously and cheerfully. Both children and grown-ups are

putting in their spare time in the berry patches, and aching backs and

sun-blistered necks are the subjects of much conversation and the

objects of much tender attention. The tame berries are plentiful and

well flavoured, and as for the wild berries--um--er--well, the weather

is too hot for one to drop into poetry. But right here shall be recorded

a real live item of news. According to some newspapers, and all cheap

magazines, our railroads produce no fruit but melons. All wrong! The

Grand Trunk Railroad produces wild strawberries that are all substance

and flavour, and have less water than an old-fashioned issue of stock.

But if there is any place this side of Death Valley where the sun beats

hotter than on the railroad banks, let that place be desolate. And as

for railroad mosquitoes, they are as hungry as cormorants, and so big

that when they suck blood you can feel your heart shrivel. As lobbyists

they would be a success.

Speaking of big mosquitoes reminds me of a scare I got a few nights ago.

I was just falling asleep, after a day of light work and heavy eating,

when a mosquito began to hum about my head. I fanned it away gently,

hoping it would go and bite some one else and leave me in peace, but it

still persisted. As I tried to sleep the humming grew louder, louder,

louder, until I began to wonder drowsily if there were any winged

elephants in the neighbourhood. Memory, half aroused, brought up a tag

from Milton about "the gryphon" that "with winged speed pursues the

Arimaspian," and still the humming grew louder and louder. At last I

started bolt upright, wide awake, only to find that what I was listening

to was a passing freight train. I also found that under cover of the

noise the mosquito had bitten me on the side of the neck.

A couple of nights ago a weasel visited one of the chicken brooders, and

now, as Mark Twain suggests about certain people, he is "under the

ground inspiring the cabbages." His fate was richly deserved. After

glutting himself with blood he kept on from mere lust of killing, until

he had destroyed twenty-six young chickens. A sharp bite at the base of

the skull did the work, and then he had the impudence to curl up and go

to sleep in a cosy corner of the brooder. When disturbed in the morning

he sought refuge under the floor of a chicken house, and there was a

hurried call for the shotgun. A minute or two later his evil head and

long, snaky neck appeared from a hole in a corner, and a charge of

bird-shot, properly distributed, put an end to his depredations.

Fortunately this kind of vermin is not plentiful or chicken-raising

would be impossible, as a weasel is said to be able to squeeze himself

through any crack that is not air-tight. At first there was some talk of

making a purse from his skin, for there is an old superstition that a

weasel-skin purse will never be empty, but the odour of the creature was

discouraging. Money kept in a purse made from its skin would certainly

be "tainted money," so the idea was abandoned.

At this point it may as well be confessed that chicken-farming does not

grow in favour under continued observation. It pays, of course, but the

amount of attention required becomes tiresome. The grown hens are all

right, needing food and water only three times a day, and the task of

gathering the eggs is only a pastime, but young chickens are a constant

source of worry and bother. They must be fed five or six times a day on

a varied diet and they require different food at different stages of

their growth. The result is that when there have been several settings

some one must be busy all the time preparing food or feeding them. If

their brooders are not kept at exactly the right temperature they may

"bunch" and trample one another to death, just like a mob of intelligent

human beings. Their brooders need constant cleaning, and they must be

looked after when it storms, for they don't know enough to go in when it

rains; in short some one must be pottering about among them all the

time.

Bee-keeping, on the contrary, grows in favour the more it is studied.

Bees are clean, orderly, and industrious. They require attention only

when swarming, and hiving a swarm is interesting rather than

troublesome. If provided with plenty of room they will gather honey with

a singleness of purpose that leaves no excuse for the enterprising

Yankee who tried to cross his bees with fire-flies so that they would

work all night. Some of the colonies under observation have gathered

fully fifty pounds of honey already this season and they are to be

provided with more space for their activities. So many stories are

current, all of them well authenticated, about men achieving prosperity

through keeping bees, it is a wonder that more people do not go into the

business. This may be due to the fact that some localities are not so

favourable to bee-keeping as others, but wherever white clover is

plentiful bee-keeping can be made an easy source of profit. A bee-keeper

may get stung physically once in a while, though the danger of this can

be reduced to a minimum by proper care, but he is in little danger of

being "stung" financially.

With the celebration of Dominion Day this week, and Orange celebrations

less than two weeks off, the air is full of athletic talk. Practising

Marathon runners are to be seen every evening speeding along the country

roads, and the merits of rival baseball pitchers are hotly contested.

Scientific baseball now afflicts the country as well as the cities, and

the "twirler" who has "a bundle of curves in his mitt" is as much of a

hero just now as the successful candidate on the day after election. One

local hero is said to squeeze the ball so hard that when he turns it

loose on its erratic course it crosses the plate looking no bigger than

a huckleberry. Every enterprising country paper now has its baseball

reporter, who is as perfect a master of the necessary slang as was N. P.

Caylor, who is said to have invented much of the current lingo, when

reporting for The _New York Herald_. Personally he was meek and

unobtrusive, but to read his reports one would imagine he had a voice

like a fog-horn, and ought to be suppressed as a public nuisance. The

reports of country matches now show as few runs as reports of the work

of league teams, and the old-fashioned lover of excitement sighs for the

days when the Longwood road boys held the pasture lot against all

comers. In those days there were no score-cards, and the honest man who

kept tally did it by making a notch with his jack-knife on the top rail

of a snake fence for each run. Sometimes he worked his way along two

panels before the game was over. While on this subject there is a fact

to be noted that should make men who do the eminent thinking for the

editorial pages walk humbly. The most popular daily papers are those

whose sporting news is the fullest and most accurate. Let the

editors-in-chief think of that

"In silence and alone

And weigh against a grain of sand the glory of a throne."