Behold, O God of seedtime,
Thy children, how they toil!
Scattering the seed before Thee
On the altar of the soil.
Thy little birds with music
Disport on joyous wing,
But we who feed the nations,
We are too tired to sing.
Behold, O God of harvest,
The burden of our days,
We gather in Thy bounty
And may not stop to praise.
Thy little birds around us
The spell of music fling,
But we who feed the nations,
We are too tired to sing.
O God of those who labour
In field and mill and mine,
With whirling wheels to drive us,
Lo, we are also Thine!
Thy little birds a-lilting
Come back to us each spring,
But we who feed the nations,
We are too tired to sing.
_Aug. 8._--When it comes to appreciating the bounty of nature you should
go to a city. That's where you hear the stimulating talk. When I was in
Toronto last week I heard more downright blowing about crops than I have
heard in the country in the past year.
"Say! I wish you could take a run out to my place and see my garden,"
exclaimed one enthusiast after we had shaken hands and I had proudly
pressed my callous spots into his soft and ladylike palm. "I tell you
it's great."
Having had a city garden of my own years ago, and farther south, I
couldn't help asking a few leading questions.
"Are you going in for specialties or doing ordinary mixed gardening?"
"Oh, I have a little of everything," he replied with the jaunty air of a
man determined to bluff it out. "Say! I had a tomato for breakfast out
of my own garden this morning."
I looked properly astonished, and even went so far as to admit that all
the tomatoes I had enjoyed so far this season had been bought in a
grocery store.
"Yes, sir! And I have had a tomato for breakfast from that garden every
morning for the last three mornings."
"I notice that you speak of your tomato in the singular. Don't the other
members of the family like tomatoes?"
"Aw, see here," he protested with offended dignity, "I'm not running a
farm. I'm gardening on a town lot."
"Quite so. How is your squash doing?" I began to use the singular also.
"Say!" he exclaimed in a confidential tone, seeing that I understood
something of his difficulties, "I admit that that squash was a mistake.
The vine has already covered the carrot bed and the gravel walk, and is
trespassing on my neighbour's lot at the rate of one yard of vine and
three big leaves a day. It is making my garden look like a tropical
jungle, and there isn't a sign of a squash on it yet, though there have
been plenty of blossoms."
"How much space have you under garden?" I asked abruptly.
"Well," he squirmed, "we have a forty-foot frontage, and the garden
runs back about thirty feet, but I haven't got it all under vegetables.
We have a fine peach tree and a lilac bush, and my wife has a couple of
flower beds in one corner, but I have all I can really attend to. It is
intensive gardening all right, but we have been having something from it
every day since the first radishes and lettuce came in."
Further conversation brought out the fact that he has four stalks of
corn in his garden, and that some day soon he is going to have green
corn for dinner. His corn is doing fine, by the way, and doesn't seem to
be affected by the heat and drought.
Another city farmer had been having some trouble and wanted to know if I
could tell him what it was. His vegetables have been acting freakishly.
They grew too fast at first, put on too much top, turned yellow, and
then seemed to burn out in spite of watering and much cultivation. When
I found out how much fertiliser he had surprised his eight-by-twelve
patch of ground with I diagnosed the case as one of water-brash or some
similar form of soil indigestion. I advised him to put his garden on a
spoon diet till it got back to normal. At the present time it is
evidently so strong that it is heaving the roots out of the ground.
Another man complained that his troubles were due to a city ordinance
that forbade the use of water during the recent hot spell.
"If I had been at home," he explained, "things would have been
different. But I went away with my family for a two-weeks' holiday and
left the garden to the care of a man who does odd jobs around the
neighbourhood. I told him above all things to water it regularly, but as
soon as he heard that the city forbade the use of water in that way he
shut right off instead of finding some way of doing it at night when no
one was looking. It's a corker how careful some people are about the law
when it lets them get out of doing work."
But in spite of these occasional failures the crop reports for Toronto
are very good. Cucumbers seem to be thriving especially well in
captivity, and carrots that are kept in solitary confinement are doing
wonderfully. If reciprocity is passed and the yield of canned vegetables
is normal Toronto will pull through the winter all right.
Since coming home I have been busy shocking oats and I find that
shocking, like every other occupation on the farm, has undergone a
change. The shocks of my earliest recollection were works of art in
their way. Although I am woefully lacking in specific information
regarding these old-time shocks, I have a very distinct impression that
they meant more than merely a convenient pile of sheaves set up to dry.
Those old shocks, as I remember them, were made in two shapes and sizes.
There were ten-sheaf shocks built in a straight line in which two
sheaves were braced against each other in a way that is still customary.
Then there was a round shock made of thirteen sheaves, twelve in the
pile, and the thirteenth placed on the top with both ends spread out so
as to make a kind of thatch roof. My impressions are vague, but I am
setting them forth in the hope that some one who really knows will set
me right so that a bit of information of pioneer days may be preserved.
Those old-time shocks invariably had the same number of sheaves made as
nearly as possible of the same size, and a definite number of them were
supposed to represent a fair day's work, but just how many I cannot say.
They served to keep tally as well as to preserve the grain, but these
modern shocks of the kind I threw together are not ornamental and no
more useful than the law demands. After some of them were put up I held
my breath and moved away on tiptoe for fear of shaking them over. The
number of sheaves in each one depended on the thickness of the sheaves
at the point where I began my building operations. They are altogether
too sketchy in appearance to serve as models for an agricultural
implement poster, but it doesn't matter much, as there are no signs even
of "local thunderstorms," and we intend to begin hauling in to-morrow.
My personal recollection of sheaves covers practically their whole
evolution. Although the first reaping I remember was done with a
horse-killing machine which carried two men, one of whom swept the
sheaves off the table with a rake, I had a chance to see the work of
some belated sickle men. In new land that was too stumpy for machines,
or even successful work with the cradles, sickles were used. As the
sickle men cut the wheat in handfuls, they were able to lay every straw
in its place and make sheaves that for square butts and compactness
surpassed any that can be turned out by the self-binders. They also made
sheaves of practically the same size. Those who followed the cradles
were apt to make big sheaves where the crop was heavy and little sheaves
where it was light, and the swath would have to be raked for a
considerable distance to get a proper bundle. There was also an artistic
carelessness about the sheaves made with a self-rake machine, but the
binder of to-day makes them all of the same size--a fact which makes the
handling of sheaves much more convenient. Before leaving this subject I
wish some one would tell me just why binders are made to go in the
opposite direction to mowers. I can see no reason for this, and no one
of whom I have asked has been able to offer an explanation.
Threshing is now in progress in all parts of the country, and as soon as
we have that well in hand you may bring on your politics as fast as you
like. The indications are that the yield of speeches is going to be
large and weedy, but whether our statesmen will thresh out any No. 1
hard ideas remains to be seen. Already there are indications that flails
may be used in the threshing by some of the workers. Moreover, I have
noticed that, although it is hard to get good hired men on the farm,
political hired men are cheap and plentiful. But enough of this.
_Aug. 15._--"Do bees pay?"
"They do. For the amount of the investment, and the labour required,
they pay better than anything else a man can raise."
"Then why doesn't everybody raise bees?"--(At this point the fight
begins.)
Those who are able to handle bees successfully always laugh at those who
are not--the whole thing seems so simple to them. On the other hand,
those who have tried and failed are liable to ruffle up when they hear
bees mentioned, as if they could still feel the stings. In such a
discussion an enthusiast on bees who has at the time of writing a
cauliflower ear due to a bee sting may be expected to tell the truth.
Therefore perpend.
Bees certainly pay, if given a ghost of a show. Any one who keeps an eye
on the farmer's sales in the spring can buy good, strong hives for five
dollars each. If he has the proper appliances, and gives the necessary
attention at the right time, such a hive may reasonably be expected to
yield ten dollars' worth of honey, at least two swarms, that, if
properly hived, will each be as valuable for another year as the parent
hive, and that may yield in the first year another ten dollars' worth of
honey. As a handy man can make his own hives and can buy the fittings
(frames for the honeycomb, pound sections, etc.) very cheaply, the
actual money investment need not be large. The time investment is so
small that it need not be taken into account--it can be credited to that
indefinite part of farm work called "chores." Let us now see how this
figures out. Expenses:--Parent hive, $5; extra hives, appliances, etc.
(say), $5. Returns:--Honey, $20; three colonies of bees worth $5 each,
$15, total $35; profit, $25. Can you beat it? If a company were formed
to handle bees on that basis the prospectus would be excluded from the
mails, and very properly, for the business seldom works out that way. A
successful bee-handier seems to be born, not made.
"Don't you feel frightened when bees light on your hands and face?" a
successful bee-keeper was asked.
"No, but I sometimes feel uncomfortable. Their feet tickle me when they
walk about."
A farmer to whom this was repeated, snorted: "That's just it. There are
some folks that bees will walk all over without stinging, and others
that they'll sting all over without walking."
For two weeks the writer moved about fearlessly and unharmed among ten
hives of bees, and indulged in the beautiful moral reflections that the
thrifty colonies are supposed to inspire. Their constant industry
recalled in an improved version the words of the poet:--
How do the busy little bees
Improve the shining hours
By making honey all the day
From other people's flowers.
In spare moments he put together pound sections, fitting into each a
strip of "starter"--wax foundations for combs--and similarly prepared
frames for the larger boxes from which the honey will be extracted later
on. At last the fateful day arrived when the pound sections were to be
put on some of the hives, and the boxes with frames on others. A
demonstration in practical bee-handling was to be given for his benefit.
The demonstrator took the usual precaution of wearing thick woollen
gloves and an ample gauze veil. The cautious observer, who never could
see the use of taking unnecessary chances, viewed the proceedings from
behind a screen door. Very simple the work seemed. The top of the hive
was lifted off, a box of frames or pound sections put in place, and the
top put on again. All went merrily until an old and somewhat imperfect
hive was reached. It was found that the top had been gummed down by the
bees, and a chisel was needed to pry it loose. This fussing angered the
bees, but everything would have gone off right had not a sudden gust of
wind blown the veil against the demonstrator's face. Instantly three
bees got in their fine work. At this point another veil must be drawn.
When bees have once been angered, as were the inhabitants of this hive,
it takes them some days to settle down--as the writer knows to his cost.
On the morning after the demonstration he was standing fifty yards from
the hive admiring a fine plump broiler, and wondering if he would have
him served fried, with brown gravy, broiled, or à la Maryland, when a
scouting bee lit for one hot moment on the Darwin tip of his ear. A wild
slap that almost knocked his head off, a jump of two feet straight up in
the air, and a staccato yell that roused the whole neighbourhood did no
good. It was everlastingly too late--hence the cauliflower ear referred
to above. This morning, three days later, an attempt to split some
kindling wood within twenty yards of the hive led to another attack.
Fortunately the bee was killed at the first swipe, and splitting
kindling wood is a nuisance that one is only too glad of a good excuse
for being rid of.
Bees are so scientific in their methods that it is easy for the skilled
bee-keeper to meet them half-way and get the best results. The
literature on the subject is so copious and precise that any one can
have expert knowledge with a little study, and then, if he keeps on good
terms with his colonies, he can handle them with ease and profit. He can
be fully instructed just when to give them extra working room fitted
with proper appliances, how to take the honey from them and induce them
to do the greatest possible amount of work, and how to feed them with
sugar in the fall so that they will be well prepared for the winter. The
question of wintering the bees is the one that causes the beginner the
most trouble, as a hive may be so weakened that it will not survive the
winter, or will not be thrifty enough to do well in the spring. As for
being on friendly terms with the bees, full instructions are given on
that point. It is said that any one can acquire the knack of handling
them without being stung; but the writer will listen to these stories
with a more open mind when his ear feels better.
It seems only a few years since the man who had bees got his honey by
smothering the hive. A hole was dug in the ground, and in the bottom a
number of twigs were placed so as to hold up a bunch of cotton rags
coated with melted sulphur. At night, when the bees were all in the
hive, the sulphur was lit. The hive was then lifted cautiously and
placed over the hole. A blanket was thrown over it to keep in the fumes,
and the bees were quickly smothered. Even when such destructive methods
were in vogue bee-keeping was considered profitable. It should be much
more profitable now when nothing is wasted and the bees are carefully
preserved.
The conclusion of the whole matter--the sting, if you like--is that
bee-keeping is light, interesting, and profitable work for those who
master its secrets; but the fact remains that most people are afraid of
bees, and not without reason. Whether one can become a successful
bee-keeper can only be learned by experience. Fortunately that
experience can be gained easily, and can be gained in town almost as
readily as in the country, for bees will travel far to find the blossoms
from which to gather their honey. There is no reason why hardy
suburbanites should not go in for bee culture as well as
farmers--but--but--in spite of all the nice things that enthusiasts
write about them bees do sting.
_Aug. 17._--Yesterday I pitched oat-sheaves and it seemed so pleasant a
form of exercise I am surprised that any one would call it work. But
some people can make work of anything. I have even known people to wear
themselves out counting up their money--but I didn't know them very
well. If I had, I would have offered to help and to share their burdens.
I am inclined to believe that they have a finer harvesting spirit in the
older countries than we have here. Once when passing a harvest field in
England I thought there was a picnic of some kind in progress. Children
were playing among the sheaves, girls wearing their brightest ribbons
were wandering about among the workers, and those who were pitching and
loading acted as if they were enjoying themselves instead of drudging.
The jolly farmer whose crop was being taken to his barns called to me
cheerily, and asked if I would come in and have a drink of hard cider.
Every one acted as if nature's bounty were appreciated, and as if the
harvest were a natural time of rejoicing. Here it is different.
Everything is rush and hurry. I have even known a good farmer to fume
and rage because the minister was so thoughtless as to make a pastoral
call during the harvest and had delayed matters by asking a blessing at
dinner. When folks get in a hurry here in Ontario, they make the fur
fly. But I gave up being in a hurry long since, and yesterday the
children were among the sheaves, and they rode on the loads, and we had
a good time together that we'll probably talk about years afterwards.
Mushrooms are in. The wet weather has brought them up in the fields
fully a month earlier than usual, and we have had several luxurious
feeds. After all, I am not sure that the hand-raised mushrooms are any
better than those that come up naturally in the fields. Of course, the
cultivated ones are good and you can have them at any season of the
year, but the pink-fleshed field mushrooms, when you are lucky enough to
see them before the worms do, are just about as good as anything can be.
Besides, there is something that appeals to one's sporting instinct in
finding them out in the pasture. Getting field mushrooms compares with
taking them from a bed as winging a partridge does with potting a fat
domestic hen. But picking mushrooms is not an entire joy to me just yet.
I know only two kinds: the common field mushroom and the inky mushroom,
both of them delicious. But during the past few days I have found nine
different varieties, some of them very tempting-looking, and I don't
know whether they are poisonous or fit to eat. They are plentiful both
in the fields and the woods, and it would be easy to get basketfuls if
one only knew the right kinds. I have studied all the attractive-looking
ones carefully, and the next time I go to Toronto I am going to hunt up
J. McPherson Ross and find out all about them. He tells me that there
are one hundred and twelve edible varieties and only six that are
poisonous. It will be just my luck that six out of my nine will be
poisonous ones. Anyway, I am taking no chances, even though I may be
losing some of the best fungi that grow. Better to be safe than to be
sick and sorry.
The bobolinks have changed colour, and, judging by their appearance,
they are as fat as butter. In a few weeks they will be appearing at the
best restaurants in New York, nicely spitted, as broiled rice birds, and
if you try them you will find that a couple are fully worth the sixty
cents you will be charged. When I see about a hundred of them (they are
gathering in flocks now) stretched along a wire fence after they have
been scared away from the oat shocks, I can't help wishing that I could
defy the Insectivorous Birds Act and pot enough to make a good meal. I
admit it would be a sin and a shame to shoot bobolinks. But what would
be wrong about shooting a few rice birds? It seems odd that our musical
and law-protected bobolinks, after a flight of a few hundred miles, will
be the destructive and toothsome rice birds of the south. I fancy they
would taste just as good here as they do down there if one only dared to
try them.
This is an unusual year for black thimbleberries. Not only is the fruit
more plentiful than usual, but the briers seem to be longer and sharper
and the mosquitoes that protect them more plentiful and savage. Still we
are picking all we can of them.