A man! A man! There is a man loose in Canada!
A man of heroic mould, a "throwback" of earlier ages,
Vigorous, public-spirited, not afraid of work!
A doer of deeds, not a dreamer and babbler;
A man, simple, direct, unaffected.
Such a one as Walt Whitman would have gloried in,
And made immortal in rugged man-poetry—
Vast polyphloesboean verses such as erstwhile he bellowed
Through roaring storm winds to the bull-mouthed Atlantic.
And yesterday the man passed among us unnoted!
Did his deed and went his way without boasting,
Leaving his act to speak, himself silent!
And I, beholding the marvel, stood for a space astonied,
Then threw up my hat and chortled,
And whooped in dithyrambic exultation.
Hark to my tale!
On the sixteenth sideroad of the township of Ekfrid,
Just south of the second concession line, some rods from the corner,
There was a stone, a stone in the road, a stumbling-block;
A jagged tooth of granite dropped from the jaw of a glacier
In an earlier age when the summers were colder;
A rock that horses tripped on, wheels bumped on, and sleigh-runners
scrunched on,
And no man in all the land had the gumption to dig it out.
Pathmaster after pathmaster, full of his pride of office,
Rode by with haughty brow, and regarded it not,
Seeing only the weeds in the field of the amateur farmer,
And scrawling minatory letters ordering them cut,
But leaving the stone.
Oft in my hot youth I, riding in a lumber waggon,
By that lurking stone was catapulted skyward,
And picked myself up raging and vowing to dig it out—
But dug it not.
I didn't have a spade,
Or, if I had a spade,
I had a lame back—always an excuse.
And the stone stayed.
As passed the years—good years, bad years,
Years that were wet or dry, lean years and fat years,
Roaring election years (mouthing reforms); in short, all years
That oldest inhabitants keep in stock—there grew a tradition
About the stone.
Men, it was said, had tried to move it,
But it was a stubborn boulder, deep sunk in the earth,
And could only be moved by dynamite—at vast cost to the council;
But every councillor was a watchdog of the treasury,
And the stone stayed.
Since the memory of man runneth the stone was there.
It had stubbed the toe of the Algonquin brave, and haply
Had tripped the ferocious, marauding Iroquois.
It had jolted the slow, wobbling ox-cart of the pioneer;
Jolted the lumber waggons, democrats, buggies, sulkies;
Jolted the pungs, crotches, stoneboats, bobsleighs, cutters;
Upset loads of bolts, staves, cordwood, loads of logs and hay;
Jolted threshing machines, traction engines, automobiles,
Milk waggons with cans of whey, envied of querulous swine;
It had shattered the dreams of farmers, figuring on crops;
Of drovers planning sharp deals.
Of peddlers, agents, doctors, preachers;
It had jolted lovers into closer embraces, to their bashful delight;
But mostly it had shaken men into sinful tempers—
A wicked stone, a disturbing stone, a stumbling-block—
A stone in the middle of the road—
Insolent as a bank, obstructive as a merger!
Year after year the road flowed around it,
Now on the right side, now on the left;
But always on dark nights flowing straight over it,
Jolting the belated traveller into a passion black as midnight,
Making his rocking vocabulary slop over
With all the shorter and uglier words.
Boys grew to manhood and men grew to dotage.
And year after year they did statute-labour
By cutting the thistles and golden-rod, milkweeds and burdocks,
But left the stone untouched.
There is a merry tale that I heard in my childhood,
Standing between my father's knees, before the open fireplace,
Watching the sparks make soldiers on the blazing back-log,
While the shadows danced on the low-beamed ceiling;
A pretty tale, such as children love, and it comes to me now;
Comes with the sharp, crisp smell of wood smoke,
The crackle of flaming cordwood on the dockers,
The dancing shadows and the hand on my touzled head—
A clear memory, a dear memory, and ever the stone
As it lay in my path in the roadway brought back the story—
The loving voice, and, at the close, the laughter.
"Once upon a time there was a king, a mighty ruler,
Deep in the lore of human hearts, wise as a serpent,
Who placed a stone in the road in the midst of his kingdom,
On the way to his palace, where all men must pass it.
Straightway the people turned aside, turning to right and to left of it.
Statesmen, scholars, courtiers, noblemen, merchants,
Beggars, labourers, farmers, soldiers, generals, men of all classes
Passed the stone, and none tried to move it—
To clear the path of the travelling multitude.
But one day came a man, a kindly poor man,
Who thought it a shame that the stone should be there,
A stumbling-block to the nation.
Bowing his back He put his shoulder to it, and behold, a marvel!
The stone was but a shell, hollow as a bowl!
A child might have moved it.
And in the hollow was a purse of gold, and with it a writing:
'Let him who hath the public spirit to move the stone
Keep the purse and buy a courtly robe,
And come to the palace to serve the king as prime minister.'
So the kindly poor man who had public spirit
Became the chief ruler of all the nation.
When the news was told to them, all men rushed to the highways
And moved away the stones, but found no purse of gold;
But they cleared the roads of stones, and the 'Good Roads Movement'
Went through without cost because the king was wise
And well understood our weak, human nature."
Ever when passing the stone I remembered this story
And smiled, touched by memories of childhood,
But knew there was no purse under it; there might be an angle-worm,
But I was not going fishing—and the stone stayed.
Now mark the sequel, the conclusion of the matter!
Yesterday a man went by—whether neighbour or stranger,
No man can tell me, though I have questioned widely,
Questioned eagerly, longing to do him honour,
To chant his name in song, or cunningly engrave it
In monumental brass, with dædal phantasies—
To make it a landmark, a beacon to all future ages,
This good man, earnest, public-spirited,
Not fearing work, scorning tradition,
Doing his duty as he saw it, not waiting an order,
Dug out the stone and made it a matter of laughter,
For it was no boulder, deep-rooted, needing dynamite,
But just a little stone about the size of a milkpail.
A child might have moved it, and yet it had bumped us
For three generations because we lacked public spirit.
I blush with shame as I pass the stone now lying
In the roadside ditch where the good man rolled it,
And left it where all men may see it—a symbol, a portent.
Tremble, ye Oppressors!
Quake, ye Financial Pirates!
Your day is at hand, for there is a man loose in Canada!
A man to break through your illegal labyrinths,
A Theseus to cope with your corporate Minotaurs,
A Hercules to clean out your Augean stables of grafters,
A man who moves stones from the path of his fellows!
And makes smooth the way of the Worker!
And such a man may move you! Tremble, I say!
_Aug. 20._--Yesterday I had a chance to do some excellent moralising,
but missed it, because I couldn't keep from laughing. To moralise
properly a man must be very solemn. He must look wise, so that the
things he is saying will seem wise. Although I do not often indulge in
moralising, I have done enough of it to know that its chief value lies
in the satisfaction it gives to the moralist rather than in any good it
does to his hearers. That is why I am sorry I missed my chance
yesterday. It isn't often that I get a chance to feel wise and
self-righteous. But I couldn't keep from laughing and that spoiled
everything.
We were waiting for the horses to finish their dinner before returning
to the cornfield, when one of the boys threw a crust of bread among the
hens. They all made a dive for it and a moment later a nimble Leghorn
broke out of the scrimmage with the crust in her beak. It was too big to
be swallowed at a gulp, and she had to find some quiet place where she
could peck it to pieces and swallow it bit by bit. But to get the
necessary quiet and leisure was the problem. Half a dozen other hens
pursued her across the barnyard snatching at the crust. With neck
outstretched, and a look of vested rights in her eye, she ducked under
the granary still pressed by her relentless pursuers. A moment later she
appeared at the other side, and as they say in the old-fashioned novels,
"The villains still pursued her." Back she came across the yard a neck
ahead of her tormentors. Occasionally one of her pursuers would drop out
of the race, but her place would be taken at once by a fresh plunderer.
The chase disappeared around the corner of the stable only to appear a
few seconds later around the other side. Try as she would, she could not
shake off her pursuers. Her steps began to show signs of weariness, but
to stop meant to lose her prize. She started towards the house, but her
pursuers, fresh ones that had just joined the chase, were just at her
shoulder. Her steps began to wobble, for she was about winded, and at
last she had to open her beak to pant. The crust fell to the ground,
where it was immediately picked up by one of her pursuers. But the new
owner was no better off than the one that had been robbed. The change
of ownership seemed to increase the energy of the other hens, and the
run continued. Back they came to the granary, passed under it, across
the yard, around the stable and hen house, and into the orchard where a
new bunch of hens took up the chase. While we continued to watch the
crust changed ownership three times, and not a morsel of it had been
eaten. At one time or another every hen in the flock had taken part in
the fruitless pursuit. When we started for the field the crust was being
carried by a long-legged Andalusian, but though gifted with more speed
she was faring no better than the others, for there was a fresh hen at
every turn ready to take up the chase. Now, if you stop to consider the
matter could you possibly get a better example of the embarrassment of
riches? Just like a man who has acquired a fortune, the hen in
possession had to spend all her energy in protecting it and could not
take time to enjoy it. And just like wealth, it was constantly changing
hands--or beaks. What finally became of the crust we did not learn, as
we could not spend the whole afternoon in watching, but at the last
glimpse we got the Andalusian was still running strong. Probably the
chase was kept up until roosting time. But though I missed the chance to
moralise because I could not keep from laughing at the plight of the hen
in possession, I may be permitted to score a point with poultry raisers.
I understand that to do record laying hens must have plenty of exercise.
From what I saw yesterday I learned that a whole flock of hens can be
made to exercise to the point of falling from exhaustion by one crust of
bread. Here is a scheme for giving hens exercise that beats the usual
one of giving them their grain in chaff or straw so that they will have
to scratch. One durable crust would keep a flock in motion for a whole
day. So you see I learned something even though I missed the chance to
enjoy the pleasure of moralising.
Having ventured to give a tip to the scientists about the best methods
of exercising hens, I may as well unburden my mind of some more
scientific suggestions. I have been watching with interest the
wonderful work that is being done in the development of improved strains
of grain by selection, and have been wondering if the scientists are not
missing something. The work of natural selection is going on all around
us, and haven't you noticed what vigorous weeds Nature is producing in
spite of our efforts to destroy them. Many weeds seem to be like "The
camomile, the more it is trodden the more it grows." Is it not possible
that the scientists are coddling the plants they are favouring? They are
doing wonders in the way of producing better yields of corn, wheat,
oats, etc., and maturing them in shorter time, but all these better
products only tend to fasten on us more securely the curse of labour
that makes us earn our bread in the sweat of our brows. These improved
products require unusually careful cultivation, and that is not Nature's
method at all. Nature seems to aim at getting results without
cultivation of any kind. Now why should not the scientists make some
experiments along the same line. If they were to throw handfuls of corn
among weeds and grass it is probable that a few grains would struggle
through and mature ears of corn. If the best of these were selected and
sown again under the same conditions, a hardier and more vigorous
product could be secured. The process of selection could go on by
constantly choosing the most vigorous and best-yielding products until
in time we might produce a strain of corn that would not only be able to
hold its own with the weeds, but would choke them out and still give a
noble yield. By following this suggestion they would simply be aiding
natural selection instead of developing strains that need artificial
conditions to make them do their best. Think of what a boon it would be
to have grains that would grow like weeds without cultivation of any
kind and still yield good crops. With hired help so scarce this
suggestion should not be brushed aside too scornfully. Besides it would
make farming possible for amateur farmers who are obeying the impulse to
get back to the land. I am afraid that scientific agriculture is
suffering from the same defects as our educational system. There is too
much coddling. What I want to see is self-producing crops. If we once
get that, the farmers can produce more just as they are being urged by
the editorial sages of the city papers. Trusting that the scientists
will accept this suggestion in the spirit in which it is meant, I offer
it for what it is worth.