JULY

_July 2._--For some reason I feel it in my bones that I am about due for

a comprehensive stinging by the bees. It is not in the nature of things

that my present immunity should last forever. As a boy I used blue clay

mud and three kinds of leaves chewed together as a cure for bee stings

just as often as any boy in the country. Bumble bees jabbed me with or

without provocation. On one unforgettable occasion I accumulated

twenty-seven yellow-jacket stings by jumping from the top of a log and

putting a foot through their nest. One of these stings was on the bony

spot back of my right ear, and in my personal annals of pain it takes

the first place. In fact, my memory is well stocked with bee, wasp,

hornet, and yellow-jacket stings, and yet for the past two years I have

been meddling with bees without being stung once. This immunity dates

from a day when several hundred thousand bees started to rob some stored

honey and I started to head them off by trying to close the holes

through which they were getting at it. Being somewhat excited I did not

pay any attention to them when they lit on me, and by the time I got the

holes closed bees were walking all over me. They were on my hands and

face as well as on my clothes and I didn't get stung once. I have been

told that when bees are robbing they are so intent on the work in hand

that they never sting. Besides, I had not startled them by jumping and

trying to brush them off. Anyway, since that experience, I have not been

afraid of the bees and have moved among them unscathed, but it seems too

good to last.

Day before yesterday the cry rose that the bees from the one hive which

escaped winter before last were swarming. When I went out to look at

them the air was full of bees, and they were humming like a thrashing

machine. Presently they began to cluster on a branch of a spruce tree

and I went back to the house to get a veil, coat, and gloves. Though I

have been on good terms with the bees, I did not propose to take any

unnecessary chances. But by the time I had equipped myself for the task

I found that they were all going back into the parent hive. Evidently

the queen had forgotten something. Her hat was not on straight or she

was not satisfied with her travelling outfit. Anyway, she and her

followers went back and the swarming was postponed for that day. After

this manifestation the hive was carefully watched, and shortly before

noon yesterday they swarmed again. This time they lit on a little plum

tree about five feet high. As I had everything ready from the day before

I was soon in shape to attend to the hiving. A white sheet was spread on

the ground under the tree and a hive that had been well cleaned and

provided with honey frames was placed at the edge of the sheet. Then I

took the garden rake and shook the tree. The bees tumbled on the sheet

and started for the hive, and for a few minutes it looked as if the

operation were going to be successful. But after a while the bees that

had entered the hive began to crawl out and cluster on the outside.

Evidently the hive did not suit them. Perhaps they wanted better

ventilation, open plumbing, and stationary bath-tubs. Modern bees are

becoming so human that it is hard to satisfy them. I remember the day

when bees were satisfied if you offered them a section of gum-tree with

a couple of cross-bars in it, but now they turn up their noses at a hive

made of planed and matched lumber, nicely painted and furnished with all

the modern improvements. And this swarm seemed particularly nifty.

When it became evident that they were not going to accept the hive that

had been offered I prepared another and placed it on the edge of the

sheet. While this was being done the bees reassembled on the little tree

and I shook them down again. By this time I was almost smothered by the

veil, and as the bees showed no intention of attacking me I took it off

and went at my work bare-faced and bare-handed. I shifted the new hive

to a more attractive position and they investigated it as they did the

first. It did not suit them at all and they all trooped back to the

little tree. While this work was in progress the bees frequently lit on

my hands and face but did not sting me, though they made me feel creepy.

When they refused the two hives I was completely stumped and sent for an

experienced bee-keeper to come and help me. He brought a hive that was

filled with comb from which the honey had been extracted last season. He

put this in the place of my first hive and shook the tree again. They

began to cluster on the sheet at the root of the tree, so he took a

broom and swept them gently towards the hive. This time they all went

into the hive and everything seemed all right. But it was not. Nothing

would satisfy those bees. They probably wanted a hive with a southern

exposure and this one faced to the north. Anyway, a few minutes after

being hived, they were all in the air and moving in a confused cloud

towards the woods. Somebody yelled at me to throw water among them and I

went after them with a pail of water and a dipper, but there was no

result. Some one began pounding on a tin pan in old-fashioned style and

there was racket and excitement to spare. I am told that making a noise

does no good, but the fact remains that when the pounding on the pan was

at its worst the bees settled on a fence post. We had a council of war

and decided to try them with a double hive, empty frames below and the

empty comb above. The sheet and hive were placed again and as the post

could not be shaken the other man took a tin pail and whisk broom and

dusted about a pailful of bees off the post. He poured them in front of

the hive like so much corn, and though working without protection of any

kind was not stung. This encouraged me so much that when I was asked to

take the whisk and dust them off the other side of the post I did not

flinch. Of course the fence was between me and the hive, and this gave

me a sense of security that lasted until I stopped long enough to think

and then I reflected that a wire fence does not amount to much as a

protection from bees. But this swarm must have been unusually full-fed

and good-natured, for with all the handling they got they did not sting

any one. When they were all in the two-story hive we lifted it gently

and put an excluder, a sheet of zinc with perforations that will admit

workers but not the queen, on the bottom of the hive. This would make it

impossible for the queen to get out and they will probably settle down

and stay with us. I am told that in a day or so we can investigate and

find out which story of the hive the bees have decided to occupy. Then

we can remove the other and let them settle down to the job of

collecting honey.

If all goes well there should be a great yield of honey in this

district, for white clover has never been known to be so plentiful.

Every pasture field is white with it, and on still hot afternoons the

air is heavy with the sweet, cloying clover perfume. There are quite a

number of farmers who are keeping bees as a side-line, and there are

some professional bee-keepers in the district who devote their whole

time to the work. Personally I think bee-keeping is just about the

finest and most profitable form of light occupation that a man or woman

can undertake. But perhaps when the time comes to get properly stung

I'll change my mind. I know it is altogether against the tenets of the

New Thought to even think of such things, for I am vibrating adverse

suggestions into the ether and some day they may come home to roost. But

with the memory of past stinging in my mind I cannot believe that I am

permanently immune. And when I do get stung I feel sure that I can write

a spirited article about it. In fact I feel that if I had been stung

while hiving these bees there would be more ginger in this article. A

bee sting stimulates the language faculty and gives even a man of

sluggish disposition a marvellous command of effective words. I quite

realise that if I were a true literary artist I should go out and

deliberately get stung, but there is a limit to the sacrifices that I

am willing to make for art.

_July 4._--The problem of the high cost of living is now acute, and the

discussion has become so general that it may be regarded as open to all.

For that reason I shall venture to offer a solution.

But before offering my suggestion I propose to clear the ground by

calling attention to a few fundamental truths. In spite of the Shorter

Catechism, the chief end of man is to make a living. If he is to

continue to live he must have food, clothing, and shelter. Moreover, he

must be guarded in his right to these necessaries when he has acquired

them. In primitive states of society the problem of securing food and

then guarding it from plunderers came home to every man. In the brave

days when our ancestors "lived upon oysters and foes" the thrifty

householder, or cave-dweller, either had to go tonging oysters himself

or spearing for some one who had already tonged his winter supply. In

this way society gradually became divided into food producers and

fighters. The fighters "recognised their own where they saw it" and

proceeded to help themselves, and if a few lives were lost in the

transaction that only added to their glory. It is simply appalling to

read how human life was regarded when fighting and killing was still a

private matter. It was a dull day when a mail-clad knight did not

slaughter some one, and no one thought of questioning his right. It is

only necessary to glance through some of the old romances and histories

to understand what I mean. Take the case of Percy, "The Hotspur of the

North." "He that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a

breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife: 'Fie upon this quiet

life! I want work.'

"'O, my sweet Harry,' says she. 'How many hast thou killed to-day?'

"'Give my roan horse a drench,' says he; and answers, 'Some

fourteen'--an hour after; 'a trifle, a trifle.'"

As civilisation advanced it was found that it was better to protect a

number of producers from others and levy tribute from them. In this way

a military aristocracy was developed, and the producers, whose work was

really the most important of all in the human problem of existence,

became the serfs or slaves of their military over-lords. The fighters

gave protection and did the high-toned killing while the serfs produced

the necessary food and clothing and attended to all the sloppy work.

Developing along these lines it was presently found that killing was too

dangerous a matter to leave to individuals, so it was taken over by the

state, which organised armies, diplomatic corps, and all the other

machinery of good government. The problem of protection was completely

solved to the satisfaction of able and peaceful lawyers, and in some

cases, when enemies were plentiful and threatening, the government

established a system of conscription, by which all the able-bodied men

were trained to military service, so that if at any time they should be

needed for the protection of their country they could go into service at

once. This development has not yet reached the new world, though we are

not without military sages who advocate it. Certainly a country where

military conscription is enforced is at all times ready to defend itself

against encroachments and plunder.

But while the aristocratic and military side of the problem of existence

was being solved the business of food production was left to private

enterprise. The common people had to produce for their own living, and

naturally produced a surplus which went to feed others who made

themselves useful in more delightful occupations, and to pay the taxes

needed to carry on the government which protected people in their

rights. Now a condition is arising in which the amount of food produced

is not sufficient to enable the state to progress harmoniously. People

in the more delightful occupations find they have to devote altogether

too much energy to earning a living. We seem to be reaching a state

where men are struggling wildly to earn money with which to buy food

that no longer exists. There is much talk of going back to the land,

where people are supposed to produce the necessaries of life with the

least possible expenditure of energy, but few of us go and still fewer

of us like it when we do go. We find that the work of securing the means

of subsistence from Nature is heavy and mussy, and, after all, requires

an amount of knowledge and training that is surprising to the city man.

But if the people now on the land are unable to produce the food of the

nation something must be done. We cannot legislate people back to the

land, for that would be trespassing on the rights of the individual. But

I see no reason why we should not learn a little from the solution of

the military and more aristocratic side of the human problem. Protection

and production were of equal importance in the beginning, and why should

they not be equal now?

Why should we not have economic conscription instead of military

conscription, now that the problem of feeding has become more important

than the problem of defence? Why should not every young man and woman in

the country be compelled to spend, say, three years in the production of

the necessaries of life? This would not only help to relieve the present

situation, but would undoubtedly increase the number of intelligent

producers and restore society to a normal balance. It has been said that

"an army travels on its belly," and this is equally true of a nation. If

a nation can resort to conscription to keep up its fighting efficiency,

what is to prevent it from resorting to the same means to keep up its

feeding efficiency? The two ideas are parallel in principle, only the

question of feeding has lagged behind that of protection. This seems to

be a time to bring them abreast, and the new world, being the field of

economic battles rather than of military battles, should face the

situation squarely.

Of course there would be objections on the part of the food producers

when the state started in rivalry to them, but we have only to glance

back over history to see how universal were the objections to the state

taking over the business of fighting and killing. Even yet there are

nations where the individual claims the right of the duel to avenge his

private wrongs, but the state has established a fairly complete monopoly

of killing. In the economic work which I propose it would not be so

grasping. It would merely undertake to fit every individual for the

struggle of existence. In fact this step would be nothing more than the

extension of our present system of compulsory education. It was so that

each citizen would be better fitted to make his way in the world that

schools were established to teach reading, writing and arithmetic, and

other things that I cannot name off-hand, as I do not keep track of the

latest educational frills. Now that we are realising the fact that we

must have more and cheaper food, why not educate young people along

food-producing lines? At the present time a great proportion of our

able-bodied citizens would be just about as helpless in the presence of

food in its crude state as was the Englishman who was found perishing of

thirst beside a river. He could not take a drink because he had no

glass.

As making a living, reduced to its elements, simply means having a

capacity of securing food and shelter from the raw materials of nature,

how could any man be better equipped for the vicissitudes of life than

by knowing how to get his own living in this way? Having once acquired

the needful training, he could enter the struggle of commercial life,

and those cleaner occupations which we all desire, with greater

confidence because he would know that if he failed he would still know

how to make his living. The average man who fails in the struggle of

city life is almost helpless if he tries to go back to the land to get

his living from it. He barely knows which end of a hoe to take hold of

if he undertakes farm work; and a plough and its workings are mysterious

beyond words. He may know all about trust bookkeeping that will baffle

an investigating committee, but he cannot milk the brindle cow, and as

for planting corn he cannot do it until some one invents a corn-planter

that will cough and clear its own throat, because he never fails to jab

it into the ground with its mouth open. If he had been taught these

things in his youth he would step into his place in the army of workers

and be worth board and wages from the beginning.

Of course a plan of this kind would need a great deal of thinking out to

make it work right, but I think it could be done without interfering

with individual liberty as much as military conscription does. A man may

have scruples of conscience about learning the art of war and slaughter,

but he can have none against raising cabbages and potatoes. The more I

think of it the more feasible it seems to me, but I merely offer it as a

suggestion and leave it for others to develop.

_July 7._--The children came home from the berry-patch with a stirring

account of having seen a skunk--"a pretty striped, little animal," that

stood by his hole; conscious of his power and refused to be frightened.

Somehow the incident reminded me of coon-hunting, for it is wonderful

how many coon-hunts in the old days were brought to an end by a skunk.

Even the best trained coon-dogs would sometimes follow a trail that led

to a hollow log where a flash of the lantern would reveal a pair of

glowing green eyes. As a rule only a formal call was made on Mr.

Mephiticus Americanus (the dictionary is not handy, but I think that is

his full name), but sometimes the dogs caught him before he reached the

log, and for weeks afterwards they were kicked out whenever they tried

to lie under the stove, because they smelled like a nicely warmed

theatre on a winter evening when the ladies are wearing their costly

furs. One encounter with a skunk would ruin a dog's sense of smell for a

season and make him so dull scented that he couldn't trail even an

automobile (Yes, I know the story about the skunk and the automobile),

but if the melons were plentiful coon-hunting went on just the same.

One night the coon-dogs led us into the middle of a tamarac swamp and

then lost the trail. As the full dreariness of the situation dawned on

us we sat for a breathing spell on a fallen log and talked things over.

We were four miles from home, wet, muddy, bruised, and briar-scratched.

Moreover, before starting out we had been wearied by a hard day's work

at threshing. Presently the man who had suggested the coon-hunt made a

little speech befitting the occasion that was interrupted only by

frantic slaps at mosquitoes.

"If any one had told me ten years ago," he began in slow, measured

tones, "that on the seventeenth of October of this year I would be

sitting on a wet log in the middle of a swamp at one o'clock in the

morning, I would have called that--man--a--liar."

We all agreed with the sentiment and felt a dull rage against that

hypothetical prophet of woe. If he had appeared among us at that moment,

he would have been roughly handled. Right here it may as well be

confessed that, although I have tramped many miles after some of the

most noted coon-dogs the country ever knew, I never was present at the

killing of a coon. Yet if this were the right season of the year and

some one came along to-night suggesting a coon-hunt, I would go along.

There is something about knocking around in the dark woods with a couple

of scouting dogs that appeals to some primal instinct that doubtless

comes down to us from the days when Nimrod was "a mighty hunter before

the Lord."

It will probably be news to most people that trapping is still a means

of livelihood in the older parts of Ontario. From Windsor to Niagara

there are men who set out their traps every winter as in the pioneer

days, and trudge many miles to visit them every week. The catch consists

of minks, muskrats, skunks, and weasels, and skins to the value of from

one to two hundred dollars are secured in a season by some trappers.

Owing to the clearing away of the forests some of the animals have

changed their habits in order to accommodate themselves to the new

conditions. Muskrats have given up building their houses and live

entirely in holes in the banks of the Government drains. Last winter a

trapper who was digging out muskrats found a plump coon hibernating in

the hole, the lack of hollow trees having driven him to the earth.

Skunks by exercising the right of eminent domain now live almost

entirely in the holes of ground-hogs. It is generally believed that the

ground-hogs extend to them a truly Oriental hospitality--giving them a

quit-claim on the premises as soon as they enter. The men who dig out

the skunks for profit do not move in our best circles. Even in the

churches the right hand of fellowship is grudgingly extended to them.

Of all the wild creatures that "faced the new conditions" the turkey

fared the best. As the forests disappeared he simply stepped over the

fence into the barn yard, where he lords it like a king who has come to

his own. There are more turkeys in the country at the present time than

when the white man came, and according to tradition they were plentiful

then. The first wheat that was sown in the new clearings had to be

protected from their depredations, as corn is now protected from the

crows. There are stories told of whole flocks being killed by one

discharge of an old army musket loaded to the muzzle with buckshot. As

for capturing the birds the trick was ridiculously easy. The pioneers

built little huts of logs where the turkeys were plentiful, leaving out

the bottom log on one side and covering the top with brush. Then they

took some corn and dropped it in a trail over the beech knolls where the

turkeys fed and into the hut. When the turkeys found the corn they began

eating and followed the trail with heads down until they had entered the

hut. When the corn was eaten they lifted their heads and found

themselves prisoners, for the silly birds never thought of stooping down

and going out by the opening through which they had entered. In this way

entire flocks were captured, and from those that were kept with clipped

wings the tame turkeys of the present day were developed. In some places

the tame turkeys still wander away to the woods at brooding time and do

not return to the barn yards until driven home by the cold weather. When

their natural food is plentiful these birds are as deliciously gamy as

the highly prized wild turkeys.

Fourteen years after the discovery of America turkeys are mentioned in

the Court annals of England as being part of the royal fare. It is

generally supposed that they received their name through a mistaken

notion that they had been brought from the East, though it has been

suggested that the name was bestowed on them because of the haughty

Sultanic appearance of the gobblers. Since their first appearance on the

banquet table their place has been assured, and there is no danger that

they will disappear like the other wild game of the new world.

Quail are almost as plentiful this season as the "No Trespassing" and

"Shooting Forbidden" signs by which they are protected. In the early

mornings and evenings they can be heard whistling "Bob White" or "More

Wet," for among the weather wise their whistling is said to be a sure

sign of rain. Partridge have entirely disappeared from the older

sections of the country, and although an occasional black squirrel may

be seen they are practically extinct. In the Niagara Peninsula the

golden pheasants are becoming so numerous as to be a nuisance to the

farmers. Brown rabbits are fairly plentiful though the hard winters and

lack of cover keep them in check. The big, long-legged swamp hares that

turn snowy white in the winter are now seldom found, but a few still

exist in the irreclaimable swamps and less thickly settled districts. As

matters stand the hunter who has friends among the farmers and can get

permission to shoot can make an occasional bag. In this connection a

story is told of a local hunter. One day in the fall he took his gun and

dogs and drove out into the country for a day's shooting. While driving,

his dogs suddenly pointed in a field a few rods from the road. The

hunter hurriedly tied his horse, took his gun, and climbed over the

fence. Before he reached his dogs the farmer came running across the

field, shouting at him to get off his place, but the hunter was stubborn

and determined to have a shot, so he walked up on the birds. A beautiful

flock of quail rose and he tried for them with both barrels. They

whirred away without losing a feather. The farmer cooled down instantly.

"That's all right," he shouted. "You can keep right on. They are too

tame anyway. If you shoot at them a few times they'll get wilder and it

will be harder for some one else to get them when I ain't lookin'. When

you have enjoyed yourself enough, come up to the house and have some

dinner."

_July 11._--Much human ingenuity has been devoted to the invention of

alarm clocks, the purpose being to get a kind that you cannot get used

to hearing or silence by knocking the tail feathers out of it with a

well-aimed shoe. I have even seen pictures of contrivances that would

throw a man out of bed, light the kitchen fire, and turn on the cold

water in the bathtub at a stated hour, but they never came into general

use. As a matter of fact, the perfect alarm clock has never been

invented, but the other night I got an idea. When the beds in the tent

had been made up an ordinary tame bee evidently got tangled up in the

clothes. At exactly seventeen minutes thirty-eight and one-tenth seconds

after two o'clock next morning this bee, in its efforts to escape,

stepped on my naked flesh, and, being peevish through loss of sleep, let

fly at me. Instantly I was so wide awake you could have heard me a mile.

I don't think I was ever more wide awake in my life. There was no

yawning and stretching and closing one eye for a catnap about that

awakening. It was instantaneous and complete. Now, what is to prevent

some genius from inventing an alarm clock that will release a bee at the

right minute? Of course it might not work out in practice--few good

ideas do. Still I offer it for what it is worth.

Last week I experienced a couple of those coincidences that lead to so

much profitless speculation. When in town one day I was looking at a

case of stuffed birds and saw one that was a stranger to me. I was told

that it was a Carolina rail. I had never seen one in a collection before

and had never run across one in the woods or fields. Two days later when

I was driving home from the post office a Carolina rail fluttered across

the road ahead of me and perched on the top of the fence. It evidently

had its young with it, for it kept up a constant twittering, stretching

its neck and fluffing up its feathers and acting as if greatly

disturbed. I stopped the horse and had a good look at it, and beyond a

doubt it was the same kind of bird as I had seen in the collection. Yet

I had never seen one before, though I hunted much some years ago, and

for the past couple of years have been watching bird-life closely. So

much for the first coincidence. The second came when a correspondent

wrote asking if there were any cuckoos to keep in check the caterpillars

in this section. I had been watching for cuckoos for the past couple of

years, but had seen none. Yet on the very afternoon on which I got the

letter a pair of cuckoos appeared in the orchard. Of course it was only

another coincidence, but I feel like asking, as our nature student does

after he has recounted some observation:

"Now, why was that?"

The dry spell has given me a chance to get a collection of all the signs

of rain that are popular in the country. When the maple trees showed the

white side of their leaves we were sure to have rain; when no dew fell

for two nights rain was not far off; the squawking of the geese made

rain as certain as if it were already falling; when the tree toads

started croaking everybody got ready for a wet spell; when the quails

whistled they were simply saying "More wet"--and yet--and yet--it didn't

rain. Then came the wisest observation of all: "All signs fail in dry

weather." They certainly had failed, every one of them. At last,

weather-wise men began to remark, after rain had threatened a few times

and nothing had happened:

"I've always noticed that after a dry spell such as we have been having

it takes a lot to get the rain started."

According to that the weather must be something like the old wooden

pumps we used to have. It needs a thorough priming before we can get

rain. Another thing I have noticed is the different language people use

about a storm when the weather is dry. In ordinary times they say that a

storm "looks threatening." After a spell like this they say of every

thunderhead that appears, "That looks promising." It makes all the

difference whether rain is wanted or not.

I hope we don't have a mad-dog scare this summer. If we do I am afraid

it is all up with Sheppy, the dog. He is so full of irrepressible fool

energy that he can't help falling under suspicion of being afflicted

with rabies. Every once in a while the steam gets hissing at his safety

valve and he simply can't contain himself. He will start running around

in wide circles, with head down and tongue lolling out, barking and

snapping at everything he passes. I admit that I might be alarmed myself

if I had not seen him act in the same way in mid-winter. The explanation

seems to be that he gets so full of the joy of life that he simply has

to act foolish to express his emotion. Of course I know it is wrong, if

not positively immoral, for him to act in that way in a province so

sedate and well ordered as Ontario, but I cannot find it in my heart to

check him. And he has a wicked habit of taking the end of a stick in his

mouth and running around the children until one of them grabs the other

end, and they go for a romp together. I know in my heart that this

should not be allowed. Sheppy should be taught to work off his

superfluous energy on one of those treadmill churns they advertise in

the farm papers, and the children should be doing their homework or

reading improving books. As for me, I know that I should not be lying on

my stomach on the grass, laughing at their antics. I should be doing

something to improve my mind, such as sitting on the roadside fence

discussing reciprocity with some neighbour who doesn't know any more

about it than I do. But I am afraid that I have fallen too much into the

way of Carman's St. Kavin, who

"Was something like a gnome,

Or a sphinx let out of school--

He could always be at home

Just beyond the reach of rule."

With a whole province full of people who are setting me good examples of

serious-mindedness and industry and all the virtues, I have become so

hardened that I can spend an hour at any time watching the pup and the

children at play and never think of reproving them. I know this is

very, very wrong, and--and--

"I'm very sorry, very much ashamed,

And mean--next winter--to be thoroughly reclaimed."

I have never heard birds accused of having a sense of humour, but there

is a killdeer in the pasture field that seems to have glimmerings. Every

evening when Sheppy and I go out to milk the cows this bird flutters

down in front of the dog and acts like a flying machine that has broken

one of its planes or has run out of gasoline. Of course Sheppy takes

after it, and the bird will flutter along just ahead of him for a couple

of hundred yards and then, with a joyous screech, will rise over the

fence and leave him in the lurch. When he starts to trot back the bird

will swoop down ahead of him, and the chase will be resumed until

another fence is reached, and then the rising and screeching will be

repeated. I suppose the killdeer has a nest somewhere in the field, but

it doesn't matter what part of the fifteen acres Sheppy appears in the

bird will come to tease him. They usually keep up the game all the time

I am milking, until the poor dog is so hot and panting so hard you would

think he was trying to "step outside of himself and let the wind whistle

through his ribs." When the dog finally gives up the chase and starts

home with me the bird circles around above us screeching "Look't here!

look't here!" in the offensive way that people have when they have got

the better of you in a practical joke. Probably sober-minded, scientific

persons would say that the killdeer is simply trying to protect its

young and keep the dog from approaching them, but I don't believe it. I

think that the bird is simply having fun. Our scientific men are all so

serious-minded that I am afraid they miss many things when engaged in

their nature studies. Perhaps if they cultivated humour a little they

would not make so many solemn blunders.

_July 15._--It is not often that I want to make a speech. As a rule I

would rather have a tooth filled than speak a few well-chosen words at a

picnic or meeting of the Farmers' Institute, but yesterday afternoon

there were some minutes when I yearned to pour forth my perturbed spirit

in an adequate oration. If I could have been transported from the

cornfield just at the instant when the monkey-wrench slipped and I

barked three knuckles of my right hand, and if at that psychological

moment I could have been placed on the platform of a meeting of the

Manufacturers' Association, I would have addressed a few words to that

stall-fed aggregation of Privileged Pirates that would have made

Demosthenes against Philip, Cicero against Catiline, and Burke against

the despoiler of the Carnatic sound like the commencement exercises at a

girls' school. G-rr-r-r-!! (meaning snarls of rage). Why won't some one

let me get at them? Their relations with the press are largely confined

to the servile approaches of the advertising department, or to the

well-fed compliments of the halter-broke editors who respond to the

toast of the press at annual banquets. It might do them good to have a

run in with a spontaneous and care-free journalistic outlaw when he was

in the humour to kick out the tail board of the dictionary, and let the

big bouncing adjectives roll down from the sulphur-blue heights of his

eloquence. I do not think it was in vain that the poison of asps was put

under my lips, and if I could have got at those fellows while the

monkey-wrench was in my hand they would have sent in a fire alarm,

called the police, wired Colonel the Honourable Sam Hughes for a

regiment, and then to a man they would have hidden their fatness under

the seats until the lightning and continuous thunder had passed, and the

weather began to clear.

Of course, all this demands some explanation, but in making the

explanation I want to make a few restrictions. I want it to be

understood that I am talking as man to man to farmers who do their own

work. What I have to say is not intended for those purse-proud farmers

who have hired men, and who feel that because they sold their beef

cattle for a few cents above the market it is to them I am referring

when I speak of shady operations in High Finance. Do you know I have

been finding that when I pay my respects to Sir Jingo McBore there are a

lot of farmers who feel that I am attacking the propertied class, and

that they are getting kicks out of the overflow? But that is not what I

want to talk about to-day. I simply want to explain to the ordinary

farmer, who has to scratch gravel with both feet in order to provide for

his brood, that I have stumbled on another way in which we are being

looted, and it is the meanest and most exasperating trick that has come

to my notice in a blue moon. I was placidly cultivating corn in the new

orchard, when I noticed that the frame of the cultivator was working

loose. The correct thing to do was to tighten the nuts, and I got a

wrench for that purpose. Feeling that I was doing the right thing at the

right time, just as a real farmer would do it, I began to turn on one of

the nuts with the wrench. But it did no good. There was no tightening of

the loose frame. A more careful examination showed that the bolt was

turning with the nut, and I could keep on turning till the cows came

home, and it would make no difference. The head of the bolt was round

and flat, and there was no possible way of catching it with another

wrench and holding it while the nut was being tightened. I passed on to

several other nuts that were working loose, and found the same state of

affairs. Every bolt would turn with the nut, and it was impossible for

me to tighten anything. It was just after I had made this discovery that

it occurred to me that perhaps if I gave the wrench a quick jerk the nut

would loosen and begin to turn without the bolt. I tried and the wrench

slipped and my knuckles struck on the iron frame. That was the moment

when I should have been introduced to the Manufacturers' Association. As

it was I merely sat down on the cultivator frame, and, though there was

no one but the old grey horse to hear me, I talked about the

manufacturer of that cultivator for some minutes. It was about two

o'clock in the afternoon, about the time when he would be sipping his

coffee after his luncheon, and I shouldn't wonder but he remarked to his

wife that his ears were burning and that probably some one was talking

about him. If he said that, he was entirely right. Some one was talking

about him in a very restrained but exceedingly feverish manner.

As might be supposed there is a reason for having cultivators put

together as mine is. The reason is called "Profits." When machinery is

properly assembled before being sold, bolts that must be taken out from

time to time are fitted with square shoulders under the head, and these

fit into square holes. This makes it possible to tighten nuts or remove

them as occasion may require. But, under our modern non-competitive

system, the sole purpose of the manufacturer is to get his implements

put together and sold. If he does not trouble himself to have

square-shouldered bolts fit into square holes, he can save the wages of

several mechanics who would otherwise put in their time seeing that the

implements went together properly and could be taken apart again. By

using bolts that are smaller than the holes in the castings they can

assemble the implements without bothering to ream out the holes, and

then if you want to change the position of, say, a cultivator tooth you

may find, even if you are fortunate enough to get out the bolt, the next

hole has never been reamed out, and that you must take the cultivator to

a blacksmith to get it changed. And all this is due to the fact that

thrifty manufacturers want to save the wages of mechanics in assembling

their implements. If they can save a few cents it does not matter that

they will cause delay and annoyance to the farmers who buy their

implements. It is about the meanest, cheapest form of petty graft to

which they can stoop, but they are doing it every day. Sir Jingo McBore

is on the board of directors, and his one purpose in life is to get more

dividends. To meet his insistent clamour, the manufacturer is forced to

save at every turn so as to increase profits. Machines are put together

in the cheapest way possible, and even though the style and materials

may be of the best, they become a source of constant annoyance and loss

of time to the man who buys and uses them. When I realised just what was

the matter with that cultivator, and that, in order to make a saving of

fifteen or twenty cents in the wages of a mechanic who would fit the

bolts into their places properly, the manufacturer had sold me an

imperfect implement, I just naturally boiled over. For a few vivid

moments I lost my grip on the National Policy, and all the great

verities of life. While I sat on the cultivator I recalled the

appearance of a manufacturer of agricultural implements whom I had the

privilege of looking at for fully half an hour one day last spring. He

was a mild-looking man with pink whiskers and an air of vested rights,

and, judging from his tone of voice when speaking from his place in

parliament, he probably contributes regularly to the funds of the Holy

Name Society. And yet that man and others like him sell to the farmers

implements like my cultivator, that poison the fountains of language at

the source. As I recalled the meek looks of this manufacturer and rubbed

my barked knuckles, I saw red. It was then that I wanted a chance to

address the Manufacturers' Association, and I think I could have said a

few things to them that would have been worth while. And I have a

sneaking suspicion that in addressing them on this subject I should be

voicing the unexpressed and unprintable opinions of thousands of farmers

in this fair Canada of ours.

_July 18._--Hurrah! The new bug has come. This morning I found a

Perillus Bioculatus--or was it Claudus? And yet again it might have been

Circumcinctus. Oh, what's the use? What I am really trying to tell is

that I found one of the new beetles that are eating the potato bugs. I

had heard that such a beetle exists, but had no hope of ever seeing one.

There is a little patch of early potatoes in the corner of the garden,

and when looking them over and making up my mind to spray them with

Paris green, I noticed the little stranger. At first I thought it was a

new enemy of the potato, and was trying to work up a feeling of

resignation, when I noticed it had its proboscis sticking into a young

potato bug. To make sure that it was really killing the creature, I put

my finger close to it, and it ran along the leaf, still carrying its

prey with it. It was undoubtedly a true Perillus bioculatus, or claudus,

or circumcinctus, though it did not wear a tag giving its Latin name. It

is a rather handsome creature, of about the same length and breadth as

the hard-shelled potato bug, square-shouldered and attractively marked

with yellow stripes on a black ground. I am not much of a hand at

telling what any one or anything wears, so you may find it hard to

recognise this excellent beetle from my description; but if you find one

that has a potato bug speared on its beak, you will know that it is the

farmer's friend. When you find one, be good to it, and make it welcome.

I think we should get together with our scientists, and give it a better

name than it has. I suggest that we call it the "Fun Bug," because, when

it gets plentiful, the children can go and have fun, instead of picking

the potato bugs. If you do not care for that name, and have a better one

to suggest, you may write to me, giving your choice, and enclosing

postage stamps as a guarantee of good faith. But above all things, be

good to our new friend. To find a bug that is a benefit, and not a pest,

is enough to make a man declare a birthday and go out to celebrate it.

Homer tells about a man who "dwelt beside a road and was the friend of

mankind." A farmer meditating on that passage might be inclined to

remark that in the days when Homer wrote there were no automobiles. If

there had been, the gentle soul who dwelt beside the road might have

found the milk of human kindness curdling in his bosom. And yet this

would hardly be true. In those good old days they had chariots with

scythes sticking out from the axles that must have been rather ticklish

things to get past, especially when driven by some silken Greek or

Trojan noble who was trying to handle a team of wild horses. The only

point to this is that we must not run away with the idea that people did

not have trouble before our time. I quite realise that there is nothing

new to say on the question of automobiles, but there are times when I

feel like saying a few old things with much bitterness of heart.

Automobiles are more plentiful and more hasty than ever this year. I am

told that the latest make cannot be run successfully at less than

fifteen miles an hour, and that they can be made to go at the rate of

forty and fifty miles an hour without trouble to any one except farmers

who may be trying to go about their business on the public road. I

frequently see them going by more swiftly than the express trains on the

railway. I am told that only Americans crossing from Windsor to Niagara

Falls offend in this way, but I have my doubts. It is quite true that

the people in near-by towns who own automobiles are commendably

considerate when approaching a skittish horse, but that is when they are

near home. It is hard to say what they would do if they got out beyond

the circle of their acquaintanceship. While travelling where they are

known, they have to be careful, for we all know where they live, and if

they don't treat us right they are likely to have a rough-necked man

drop in at their place of business to talk matters over with them.

Visitors of this kind can lean up close to the offending automobilist

and say things to him, and if he tries to talk back, they can bite him.

I am sorry to say that I have no suggestion to make about improving

conditions of mixed travel on the public roads, but still I think it is

worth while to keep on saying something about it, "Lest we forget, lest

we forget." Some day we shall find a solution of the difficulty. In

fact, we must find one, if we are not to be crowded off the roads

altogether.

A few days ago I had an illuminating talk with a visiting fish peddler.

He told me that it had taken him three years to work up his route, so

that he can cover it profitably. People had to be educated to the use of

fish. Now that they have become accustomed to his visits, he has no

difficulty in selling from twelve hundred to fifteen hundred pounds of

fish a week; but if he gets off his beaten track and tries a new

district, he finds it hard to sell. This reminds me that I saw in a

recent newspaper article a statement that Canadians are becoming much

greater users of cheese than they were in the past. It is also said

that the home demand for fruit and honey is also increasing--all of

which is good news. It does not mean that people are becoming more

extravagant in their way of living, but that they are learning the value

of variety in their food. Fish, cheese, honey, and fruits are no more

expensive than the pork, beef, and so-called plain foods which the

majority of people use year in and year out, without change. The medical

authorities tell us that variety in our foodstuffs makes for public

health; so, besides making profit for themselves, those who are

educating the people to use new foods are rendering a public service,

and introducing the variety which is said to be "the spice of life."

They have raised a monument to the McIntosh Red apple, and there is talk

of raising a fitting memorial to the man who introduced Red Fife wheat.

This is a step in the right direction, and I think, when we are at it,

we should raise a memorial of some kind to all the people who have done

work from which they expected no return. We have only to look at the

roads, the cleared fields, and the orchards of Canada to realise that

the generations that went before us did not all look to collect for

themselves the last cent of profit from their work. I am moved to make

these remarks by the fact that I have so frequently heard people say to

those who are planting out orchards or making other improvements that

cannot be perfected for years to come, "Well, you'll never live to get

any good out of it." Of all the discouraging, unprogressive points of

view, I think that is easily the worst. The world would practically be

at a standstill if men did not undertake anything from which they could

not hope to reap the entire profit. Moreover, this matter of getting and

having does not seem to be very well understood. Many people who have

collected all the profits of their work really have nothing at all,

because they get no good from what they have gathered. There is much

food for thought in the words of the Frenchman who said on his

death-bed, "What I spent I enjoyed, what I gave away I still have, but

what I saved I lost completely."

_July 19._--There are young grasshoppers in the field--merry,

inconsequent grasshoppers--but in the present state of public opinion in

Canada I doubt if it would be wise to say much in their praise. The

grasshopper chews tobacco, and fiddles, and I understand that both

practices are forbidden by church discipline. And yet there is much

about the grasshopper that appeals to me. To parody Sir John (I mean

Falstaff, who must not in any way be confused with any of our own Sir

Johns): "If to be merry and inconsequent be a sin, then many an old

codger I know is going to get into trouble." In spite of his cheerful

disposition the grasshopper has been an object of scorn to the moralists

and fabulists. They have been fond of comparing him with the bee and the

ant, to his disadvantage, and yet, as usual, there is another side to

the story. In all the fairy tales, myths, and records of sorcery that I

have read only one man was ever transformed into an insect, and he

elected to be a grasshopper. When Tithonus, the accepted lover of Eos,

goddess of the dawn, began to get old and shrivelled because he

neglected to ask for immortal youth instead of immortal life, she got

rid of him by changing him into a grasshopper, and I suspect that the

change was made by request. Tithonus was no doubt very wise as well as

very old. As the favoured lover of Rhododaktulos Eos he must have seen a

great deal of life. To begin with, he must have been one of the

industrious sort or he would never have been up early enough to make

love to the Dawn. Besides, in order to live up to his position he would

have to be around at daybreak every morning. So it is no wonder when it

was "time for a change," as the politicians say, that he decided to be

changed into a grasshopper. This insect neither works nor stores up

treasure. He takes his ease until the sun is high every morning, and

when danger threatens he clears out of the way with one jump. His life

lasts only while the pasture is good, and when he isn't eating he chews

tobacco and fiddles. Personally, I prefer a pipe, and those who ought to

know tell me that I am not musical, but, still, I have much admiration

for old Tithonus, who decided that if he couldn't be a man he wanted to

be a grasshopper.

The more I consider insects the more I am convinced that our moralists

must give up drawing lessons from them. Although the ant is industrious

she never lays up more food than is needed for a hard winter, and no ant

hill that I have ever investigated has revealed anything suggestive of

the most approved forms of modern thrift. The ants have nothing to

correspond with our industrial system, with its mergers and watered

stocks. The bee is nearest to man in these matters, and see what a fool

she is. She lays up treasures where the moth can corrupt and thieves

break in and steal. A great majority of the bees work themselves to

death without ever getting a chance to enjoy the treasures they have

stored up. If you provide them with comfortable quarters and plenty of

white clover blossoms they will go on producing like farmers without

ever noticing who is getting the profits of their work. Although the

bees have been much favoured by fabulists I think that they should

really be regarded as horrible examples.

_July 21._--This is a wonderful year for roses. In the early morning

when they are drenched with dew every bush looks like a fairy fountain

where the universal life force is bubbling up in beauty of form and

colour and perfume. And the roses are not alone. All the other

old-fashioned flowers, the marigolds, petunias, larkspurs, poppies, and

hyacinths, are sending up their jets of tremulous loveliness. As I look

at them with eyes refreshed by sleep I realise the truth of that verse

in the Koran which says:

"If I had but one loaf of bread I would sell half of it and buy

hyacinths, for beauty is food for the soul."