Prince, do not heed the words of spite
Or slurs that envious rivals throw!
We have them free from scab and blight,
The Apples of Ontario!
Especially around Glencoe!
_Sept. 16._--Say, do horse-hairs turn into eels? There was a time when I
firmly believed that they did, but it was so long ago that I had
forgotten all about it. This morning when they told me that there was a
"live horse-hair" in the tub of rain-water beside the cistern I
remembered the old belief and proceeded to investigate. The creature
certainly did look like a living horse-hair, as it swam around the tub
like a sea-serpent. It was about ten inches long and had no head that
was visible to the naked eye. It was the slimmest thing for its length
that I ever saw. When I was a boy I had seen these creatures in the
watering-trough at the barn and firmly believed that they were
horse-hairs that had come to life in the water. Furthermore, I believed
that if they found their way into the creek they would grow into great
eels of the kind from whose skins they make shoe-laces. Of course, the
children were quite ready to believe the old explanation of these long,
snaky wrigglers, but with a _Century Encyclopædia_ within reach, I could
not resist getting at the truth of the matter. After several vain
attempts under "eel" and "horse-hair," I finally got a line from
"hair-worm," and located the mystery as a specimen of the Gordius
aquaticus. They are described as a family of nematoid worms. They have
an elongated, filiform body with a ventral cord. The life history of the
little creature is interesting:
"In the young stage they live in the body cavity of predatory insects
and are provided with a mouth. At the pairing time they pass into the
water, where they become mature. The embryos, which are provided with
spines, bore through the egg-membrane, migrate into insect larvæ, and
there encyst. Water beetles and other predatory aquatic insects eat the
encysted young forms, which then develop in the body cavity of their new
and larger host to young Gordiidæ."
There you are. Another belief of childhood has been exploded by some
painstaking scientist, who has made a careful study of the "horse-hair
eels."
A walk to the orchard showed me that after all my thinning of apples I
did not take off nearly enough. Half a dozen big, heavily-loaded limbs
were broken off by the last windstorm. I couldn't have propped them up
even if I had tried, for they were all top branches, but it is some
consolation that it was the Ben Davis trees that were affected the most.
In doing the thinning I attended to the Spies most carefully, as they
were the most important, and, though I took off a cruel lot, if I had
the job to do over again I would take off still more. The Spies,
Baldwins, Pippins, and Kings have all the fruit they can carry, and I am
sure the unusual size of the apples is due to the thinning. I thinned
several of the Ben Davis quite severely, and the apples on them are
fully twice the size of those on the trees that were neglected. No, I
haven't sold the apples yet. The regular dealers have not made me an
offer, but I have received offers from various parts of the country
where a number of consumers are willing to club together and take the
whole crop. My only reason for not accepting these offers at once is
that I do not know how I am going to pick and pack the apples by myself.
Experts say that I shall have over two hundred barrels of good shipping
apples, but how am I to get experienced packers? The dealers have
employed every man in the country who knows anything about such work.
The children and I could probably pick them all right, but I hate to
undertake the job of grading them for fear I should be arrested for not
doing the work right. But, like Sentimental Tommy, I hope to "find a
w'y."
When walking through the orchard I was sorry to see a lot of good
apples, Maiden's Blushes and sweet apples, rotting on the ground, but I
can do nothing about them. There is no market for them, and the local
evaporator can take only a limited supply because of the scarcity of
labour. And even if I could sell them to the evaporator the price paid
is so trifling that, I am told, the best a man can do is to earn
day-labourer's wages without counting the value of the apples. It seems
too bad to have good apples rotting when there are thousands of poor
people and apple-hungry children who would be glad to get them. I would
willingly give the apples to any one who wants them rather than see them
waste, but every one in the country has enough, and even town people
near by have friends among the farmers who keep them supplied.
In spite of the high cost of living, I am becoming convinced that there
is enough food of various kinds going to waste every year in Ontario to
relieve the stringency, if there were any way of getting it on the
market. It is the same with the cabbages and tomatoes in the garden. We
have so many that they are wasting, and there is no local market. If I
had more it would be worth while to make an effort to ship them to the
city, but as it is I have a surplus that is simply going to waste. I
guess I'll have to get to work and put up a couple of barrels of
sauerkraut, so that, like the Dutchman in the story, we shall have some
on hand "in case of sickness." The redeeming feature of the situation is
that we have all we want of these things ourselves at a cost of time and
labour that is practically negligible. That is one of the advantages of
being back on the land, but, having lived many years where it was hard
to get fresh garden truck of the best quality at any price, I feel that
there is something wrong about having so much going to waste.
A walk around the farm this morning brought out a few surprises. To
begin with, I found that, in spite of the fact that hay was cut so late,
there is a second crop of clover that is well worth caring for. It is
too late to mature properly for seed, but real farmers whom I consulted
tell me that, if we get a spell of decent weather, about the first of
October I should have several tons of good clover hay. There are others
in the neighbourhood who are looking forward to getting a second crop of
hay from their fields of red clover, and some go so far as to say that
if this second crop can be cured properly it will make better feed than
the earlier crop.
_Sept. 17._--The rush is over. With the harvesting and fall seeding
done, the farmers are easing up on the strenuous life. They are having a
breathing spell that gives them leisure to be thankful for the fine
summer they have had and to enjoy some of the fruits of their labour.
The round of fall fairs is on and those who enjoy looking at prize
cattle and surpassing farm products can indulge their taste. Now that
the big exhibitions, with their hippodrome features, are over, the
county and township shows are having their share of public attention.
They are so arranged that they do not clash with one another, and the
person with the show habit can take in half a dozen if so disposed. This
orderly arrangement, however, has led to a development that is hardly
desirable. It has given a chance for what may be called professionalism
among exhibitors. The chief benefit to be derived from the small fair is
the neighbourly competition it arouses, but of late years those who have
prize-winning products have made a practice of exhibiting at one fair
after another, so that the same exhibits are to be seen at various
places. The man who has cattle, sheep, hogs, or horses that are sure
prize-winners can make money by taking them around from fair to fair.
Because of this the local producer is discouraged from showing, though
the whole purpose of such fairs should be to give him every
encouragement possible.
The country seems more alive at this time of the year than at any other
season. The roads are still good, and, owing to the lull in the work,
those who have an excuse for going to town can go. Products of all kinds
are being marketed, and instead of watching their crops the farmers are
watching their bank accounts grow. The winter shopping has commenced,
and the tailors and dressmakers are working overtime. Moreover, this is
what the poet calls the season of "mellow fruitfulness." The apple buyer
is abroad in the land, and paying as high as a dollar and a quarter a
barrel for prime winter apples. Think of that, you who will buy those
apples next winter at city prices--after the buyer, commission man,
grocer, and other possible middlemen have added their profits. Peaches,
plums, and pears are also receiving attention, but those raised in this
district are finding their way to the preserving kettle rather than to
the market. Pickles and catsup are also adding their pungency to the
atmosphere of the farmhouse, and there is abundant promise of good
eating during the winter months.
The part that the preserving kettle plays in a properly conducted
country home is worthy of a special paragraph. It gathers the best of
the summer's luxuries for use during the long winter months. The various
small fruits are so distributed through the summer that a few sealers
can be put away at a time without the work becoming burdensome. Wild and
tame strawberries came first, and were plentiful and cheap. Raspberries,
gooseberries, black and red currants came next, and could be had almost
for the picking. Now we have the peaches, plums, and pears, and grapes
and apples will follow. The housewife who has her cellar shelves stocked
with a full variety of fruits can look forward to the winter with the
assurance that her table will be bountifully supplied. At this point it
may be worth while to ask what city worker having the same income as the
farmer can afford to make such provision as this for the table? Nor are
the solid parts of the fare lacking. The country worker can have his
pork, potatoes, vegetables, etc., at the cost of production, which is an
entirely different thing from even the country market price. Even when
pork is selling at the present prices the farmer can afford to put by
his winter supply because it has not cost him anywhere near its selling
price to raise. If the countryman does not live on the best the fault is
his own. He has either neglected to give attention to a little garden
and orchard at the proper time or is so anxious to make money that he
has sold off too much of his produce.
_Sept. 19._--All sorts of strange things are happening in the country.
Owls have been heard hooting at mid-day, violets are blooming as they
did in the spring, and the other day a black squirrel came from the
woods fifty rods away to the oak trees beside the house. What does all
this portend? Are these signs of a hard winter, or of the failure of the
reciprocity negotiations with the United States? There isn't a witch or
a gipsy anywhere in the neighbourhood whom I can consult. Possibly it
all means nothing, but it is not so long since wise people would have
looked grave and shaken their heads at such unusual happenings.
Personally, I have lost no sleep over these matters. I admired the
violets, and, as there was no gun handy, allowed the owl to keep on
hooting, even though there are reports that neighbouring hen roosts have
been raided. The visit of the squirrel was regarded as a treat by every
one, and its tameness enabled us all to have a good look at it. Perched
on one of the lowest limbs, it curved its fluffy tail over its back in a
Hogarth line of beauty and seemed as much interested in looking at us as
we were in looking at it. With its shining black eyes and jet fur, it
made as pretty a picture among the green leaves as any one could wish to
see. In the old evil days it would have been shot or clubbed to death,
but a kinder spirit is abroad in the land, and it did us all good to
watch it as it frisked about in the branches. But I mustn't say too much
about it, or some city hunter who "wears puffed sleeves on his hunting
pants" may be moved to come this way and scare the poor thing half to
death by shooting at it.
_Sept. 21._--There is a job for Sherlock Holmes over here. When it was
decided that I should drive to St. Thomas it was suggested that I should
borrow a sulky and ride in it. Now I want to know what secret enemy made
that suggestion. In ordinary circumstances I can remember most anything
I want to, but last Friday I had all recollection of everything shaken,
jarred, and jolted out of me. I am thankful that I am able to remember
my name, and I am not sure that I could do that if I didn't see it in
the papers once in a while. They tell me that the idea was all my own
and that they warned me, but I doubt it. Some one must have urged me to
my fate, though I can't remember who it was. If I could--but what's the
use, anyway? I drove to St. Thomas in a sulky. It wasn't a regulation
sulky of the kind that have no springs and that you ride on with a leg
stretched along each shaft so as to keep the horse in place. No, indeed.
It was an improved sulky with the seat placed over the most active
spring I ever had dealings with. When a wheel struck a clod it would
shoot me high into the air, and when I came crashing down it would
flatten out on the iron axle and stop me with a jolt that scattered my
wits over the landscape. When one of the wheels caught in a rut the
whole contraption would jump sideways, forward and up, thereby imparting
a spiral motion to my body that I have no doubt was excellent for my
liver. The seat was placed high in the air; in fact, it was so high that
one of those men who can always see something funny in everything
remarked that I might have seen more of the country if the seat hadn't
been so high. Moreover, the seat had a little iron railing around it,
not so much to keep the rider in his place as to bring home to him the
truth that "man was made to mourn." As the driver is full of life and
the wild actions of the thing behind seemed to scare her, she let out
her speed to the last notch. I was still conscious when crossing the
bridge over the Thames below Middlemiss. Then something happened that
brought me to in an instant. An unaccountable skeleton tower loomed up
in the distance, and my curiosity was aroused. Curiosity always has a
tonic effect on me, and for the time I forgot all about the sulky.
Perhaps the fact that the horse had slowed down to a walk helped some.
On a hill north of Iona Station there is a tower that seems to be almost
as much of a mystery as the round towers of England and Ireland. It is
merely a square open framework with ladders on the corners and a small
platform on top. It looks like the old observation tower at Coney
Island, and when I first caught sight of it I wondered if I was
approaching some inland pleasure resort. A nearer approach did not help
me any. It was not the right build for an oil-derrick, and I could see
no evidence of any use it might be put to. It was a gaunt, wind-swept
mystery. Stopping at Iona Station, I began to make inquiries.
"What, that thing? Oh, it was put up about three years ago."
"But what is it for?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Who built it?"
"I did hear that it was the Government. It has something to do with the
War Department."
This did not enlighten me much, and perhaps it is just as well.
Competent war departments are always doing mysterious things that the
public must not be allowed to know too much about. Perhaps in speaking
of this tower I am giving away the secret of our national defences.
Still, I wish I knew just what the bare-ribbed thing is for. Surely the
explanation of its building is not the same as the Tammany Alderman gave
of the building of the Pyramids. A friend with whom he was travelling in
Egypt asked how he could account for the building of those wonderful
structures. The Alderman mused for a while and then said:
"Maybe, there wor a divvy."
And didn't Kipling suggest that:
"The secret hid
Under Cheops' pyramid
Was that the contractor did
Cheops out of several millions."
Let us hope that neither of these explanations accounts for the lone
tower of Iona. I am sorry, but I am forced to leave it the same mystery
that I found it.
Some miles beyond Iona the Talbot road was reached, and the drive then
became worth more than all the discomforts it entailed. If there is
anywhere in Canada or America a finer farming country than this I have
yet to see it. I have never passed through a section of country showing
more outward signs of good farming and prosperity. Clean fields, good
fences, up-to-date buildings were to be seen everywhere. The corn and
bean fields showed evidence of careful cultivation, and the promise of
crops was of the best. The cattle in the fields--Holsteins, Jerseys, and
Durhams--all looked to be thoroughbreds. The roads are good, and the
land appeared to be thoroughly drained and cared for. There are old
trees about the houses, some of which must have been planted almost a
century ago. On the whole, this section of the country is really a
show-place where you can see what farming might be made in any part of
Ontario. The credit may not be in any sense due to Colonel Talbot--in
fact, I have heard his memory reviled by descendants of the pioneers in
the settlement--but some one saw to it that the foundations were laid
right. Such sections as this are not accidents, and are not to be
accounted for by the ordinary development of the country. The people
here started right.
The mail boxes of the rural free delivery add a distinct charm to this
country. As one admirable farm after another was passed it was pleasant
for the moment to learn the name of the occupant, even though it was
forgotten immediately after. It seemed almost like an introduction. I
also noticed with pleasure that many of the farms have names on the
gates in the old country fashion. There is something that smacks of long
standing and family pride about a farm that has a name rather than a
number. "Maple Grove" or "Elmhurst" sounds more sociable and human than
Lot 17 or Lot 23. This is a custom that I hope will grow throughout the
country. Another thing that struck me was the absence of new houses. The
houses along the Talbot road have the appearance of having served
several generations, and I trust that they have been generations of the
same family. It was something of a shock to see a sign: "This farm for
sale," on one of the best farms. I cannot imagine how any one having a
farm in this section could possibly want to sell it unless overwhelmed
by some great calamity. I hope that the secret of that sign was not the
too frequent one: "Owner moving to the West."
For two hours I travelled along the old road, feeding fat my pride of
country, and trying to imagine what the Talbot Settlement must have been
like in the days of the first settlers. That the land was heavily
timbered is shown by the patches of forest that still remain. But it was
well worth clearing, and whatever else may be said of the doughty
Colonel, no one can doubt his wisdom in selecting such a place for his
home. He led the people into a land of plenty, and for that his memory
should be revered. But every delight must come to an end. As I
approached St. Thomas I came to a piece of road that was dotted with
cobblestones, and, do my best, I could not avoid having the wheels
strike them. The conduct of that sulky then became absolutely fiendish.
It went down the hill at the outskirts of the city in much the same way
as "the waters went down the Lodore" in the old school readers. When I
finally dismounted at my destination I was suffering from springhalt,
spavins, saddle-galls, splints, and sore shoulders. I felt the need of a
veterinary surgeon rather than a doctor. I hope the man who owns that
sulky never sees this article, but the truth must be told at any cost.
If I owned that instrument of torture I would take it out to some place
in the woods, where no one could hear its cries and I'd go at it with an
axe. That is, I would in a week or two. Just now my joints are so stiff
and my bones are so sore that I don't expect to be able to handle an axe
for some weeks to come. Still, I am glad that I saw the Talbot
Settlement, even though I saw it from a sulky.
_Sept. 23._--I have never seen an authoritative description of the
migration of the hawks, but one day last week when the sun was shining I
had a chance to observe what may be their method of assembling and
taking their departure. I saw half a dozen hawks start circling up from
the woods, and as they rose higher and higher I noticed that they were
making their way up to a flock that was circling around almost out of
sight. It struck me then that perhaps the hawks were gathering for
migration in the upper air. That may account for the fact that we never
see flocks of them near the earth as we do of other birds. And,
possibly, when the migration begins the passing flock is joined by the
scattered hawks of the country that circle up to meet them. At different
times in the fall of the year my attention has been called to flocks of
hawks by turkeys lying on the ground with one eye turned skyward, while
they uttered their warning cry. These flocks were usually so high in the
air that I could see them only by lying on my back and shading my eyes
with my hands. Possibly what the turkeys were watching was the migration
of the hawks.
As a rule at this time of the year the air on sunshiny days glistens
with flying cobwebs, thistledowns, and the silken parachutes of the
milkweed. This year, however, the constant rains seem to have pounded
these frail craft to the earth. Except for a little smokiness, the air
is wonderfully pure and clear. Even the gnats, which sometimes float
around in clouds, have not put in an appearance. The forest trees are
only beginning to show touches of colour, for the dark, wet weather
evidently protected their luxuriant foliage. Apple-packing has commenced
in every orchard except mine, and all the usual fall activities are in
progress, though the look of fall has not appeared in nature and the
feel of it is not in the air. There are a lot of us who have a sneaking
hope that we may yet get a spell of summer weather, but I am afraid we
shall be doomed to disappointment. Strange to say, in spite of the wet
weather, there are no mushrooms in the pastures, though there were
plenty some weeks ago. I wonder if the season has been too wet for
mushrooms.
These are the days when the Thanksgiving turkey is accumulating
succulent flesh and fatness. Even the flocks that are regularly fed in
the farm yards take to the fields and woods to pursue the nimble and
inconsequent grasshopper. They travel in open formation like an invading
army, and whenever a grasshopper hops a turkey hops. Sometimes a
grasshopper gets a chance to make a second hop, but not often. He
usually finds the open beak of a turkey waiting for him the moment he
lights, and is not given time to draw up his legs for a second jump. It
not infrequently happens that he is gobbled while still in the air. This
sort of exercise develops the turkeys, and grasshoppers are said to be
fattening. Anyway, they seem to be appetising, for if a grasshopper
intent on his life of pleasure jumps singing into the air near where the
turkeys are being fed they will desert even a ration of corn to capture
him. The prophet's fare of locusts, even without the wild honey, seems
to be just what the turkey yearns for. Despite the fact that turkeys are
native here, and to the manner born, they are the hardest of all fowls
to bring to maturity. During the first few weeks of their lives, unless
they are fed with scientific care, they drop off like flies, and
although they are only a few generations removed from the wild turkeys
that lived in the woods, they need constant protection from the weather.
One good drenching will destroy a flock of young turkeys, and unless
kept free from insects they sicken and die. Injuries and accidents that
other birds would survive are almost invariably fatal to them. In short,
it is a wonder that so many of them survive to grace the Thanksgiving
and Christmas table.
_Sept. 24._--The driver is a thoroughly dependable animal, gentle, no
bad tricks, can be driven by a child, and no one complains, even though
she resembles certain Canadian financiers of whom J. J. Hill said that
they "wouldn't stand without being hitched." On the whole, I could give
her an excellent character if she had to pass into the service of some
one else. But I hate to think what I might have done to her yesterday
afternoon if I could have caught her. Never once have I deceived her on
the question of oats, or salt, or an apple, when trying to catch her.
No, indeed! Once, when a little boy, I read a moral story about a farmer
who used to fool his horse by holding out a hat that had nothing in it
until the wise animal lost all faith in him and refused to be caught,
even when he came bearing carrots and other rich gifts. I laid the story
to heart, and never once have I gone to the pasture field without
something to tickle her palate. But yesterday she went back on me. When
I went out to the field I had a dish of oats in one hand and a bridle in
the other. The autumn sunshine was warm and the air bracing, and I felt
at peace with all the world. I dawdled towards the corner where she was
feeding with the leisurely air of one who was enjoying life, and
intended to enjoy it still more by taking a lazy drive to the post
office. But the driver had other views. Without notifying the Department
of Labour, or otherwise conforming to the requirements of the Lemieux
Act, she went on strike. When I was within about a rod of her, she
raised her head, snorted, kicked up her heels, and galloped across the
field. She didn't even sniff at the oats. I was surprised, of course,
but not discouraged. It was a fine day, and I was not in much of a
hurry, so I strolled along after her. She had stopped at the farthest
corner, and had started to eat as if she were starving. She fairly mowed
down the scorched grass. I don't think I ever saw a horse that seemed so
hungry. When I approached her, she started to walk away with her head
down, still eating as if her life depended on it. I whistled a soft
imitation of a whinny and rattled the oats invitingly, and called her
pet names, but when I was almost within touching distance she snorted
again, and, with tail up, galloped back to the original corner. It was a
beautiful exhibition of animal vitality. As I watched her doing her
stunts, jumping over furrows as if they were Government drains, kicking
up her heels, shying at bits of paper, I positively envied her abundance
of fool energy. What wouldn't I give to have so much superfluous steam.
And then, the action she was showing! I never thought she had it in
her. If I could only make her show up like that in harness, she would
take all the prizes at the fall fair. Still, she must be caught, so I
tempered my admiration. Evidently, she didn't feel the need of oats. She
had been getting altogether too many since harvest time. Going back to
the house, I got a lump of salt and a couple of apples. Apples would
catch her, if anything would. Approaching cautiously, I whistled
coaxingly, and displayed the apples to the best advantage. She was
interested at once, but she didn't walk straight up to me as is her
usual custom. She started to walk around me, with ears laid back. I
stood where I was, and turned slowly as she walked around. The apples
were held out temptingly, and she never took her eye off them for a
second. Gradually the circle became smaller, and my heart bounded with
hope when she finally stopped and stretched her nose towards an apple. I
let her close her teeth on it before I started to move my hand towards
her head. It was a fatal move. Instantly she was off across the field,
giving imitations of Maud S. and Salvator. Right there I lost my temper,
and shied the apple at her. She saw it bounce past, applied the brakes,
reversed her engines, and came to a full stop within twice her own
length. Then she gobbled the apple. I thought the time a good one to
make further approaches, but it was no use. She frisked away, showing in
every line of her body how much she was enjoying her freedom. This was
her day off, and, besides, she had fooled me out of an apple. Sputtering
with wrath, I called the family to help. We would corner the brute. Oh,
yes, we would, would we? Not if she knew it! It would have been just
about as easy to corner a jack-rabbit on the prairie. We could get her
headed towards a corner once in a while, but, as the scientists say,
"The angle of reflection was equal to the angle of incidence." She would
gallop in at one side and gallop out at the other "just as easy." I am a
little ashamed to remember how I raged around that field, but what can
you do when the people who are supposed to be helping you duck behind a
tree when they see the horse coming, instead of getting in her way and
waving their aprons and jumping up and down and yelling like wild
Indians. She just had fun with us until we decided to stop. Then the
family went back to the house, feeling offended at the directness of my
remarks, and I went to cut corn so that I could work off my lust for
slaughter. At milking time the exasperating beast came up to the gate
and hung her head across and whinnied for apples or anything else we
might have to offer. She submitted to being caught as if she had never
done anything wrong in her life. When she was finally hitched to the
buggy she wiggled her ears to shake off flies, and let her under lip
droop, and looked about as spirited as a dowager cow.
After all, the driver was right. The evening is the pleasantest time of
the day for driving. As we turned out on the road, the sun was going
down, big and red, behind a thin cover of trees that made a sort of
grill-work across its face. For a little while it seemed to reach from
the tops of the trees to the earth, and then it smouldered down, leaving
a few lines of bright cloud in the sky. The last crows were straggling
off to some distant swamp to roost, and a flock of killdeer ran across
the road on invisible legs that made them seem to be swimming a few
inches above the ground. It was still light enough to see the first
blades of wheat that were showing, in spite of the dry weather, and here
and there we passed fields that were pleasantly dotted with black
bundles of seed clover. I am told that the wheat has been put in with
especial care this year, and most of it has been heavily fertilised. The
ground has been so well worked that it held enough moisture to start the
grain. If we only get a good rain soon, everything will be all right. We
passed farm yards where milking was in progress, and occasional bursts
of fierce squealing announced the feeding of pigs. It was the hour of
doing chores, and the day's work being done, farmers were not afraid to
stop to talk with passing neighbours and discuss the weather. There was
a freight train busily shunting and puffing at the next village, but
otherwise everything was still. The wind had died down at sunset. As the
shadows began to close, the crickets, or whatever little creatures make
the noise, began to chirp rhythmically. I am told that it is not the
cricket that makes the sound, but a green insect that looks like a
grasshopper. They never seem to make it when one is near them, so I have
never managed to see one in action. I have often seen a cricket rubbing
out his tune on his hind leg, and must say the sound is different.
Whatever makes the sound that beats through the still autumn air, it is
about the most characteristic music we have in the country just now.
Presently a screech-owl whistled in an orchard, and I felt that it was
the voice of solitude. When I looked up from the shadow-blurred earth, I
found that the stars were all at their appointed stations.
It is all very well for excellent people who live in cities or barren
parts of the country to have high notions about property rights and
petty thieving. What I want to know is how the majority of these same
people would act if they happened to be driving or walking through the
country at night, and came to an orchard where the perfume of the ripe
fall pippins overflowed the road. I came to such a spot, and it was very
dark, and the tantalising odour "set my pugging tooth on edge." I wanted
to be comforted with apples right there and then, and human nature is
very weak. It was so dark, no one could see, and the road was
deserted--but I escaped the temptation. As I told you in the first
sentence, the driver will not stand without being hitched, and there
were deep ditches on both sides of the road. Besides, I knew that I
could get plenty of apples at home. But what if I had been walking, and
there were no apples at home. I hate to think of it. While I was
meditating on these things, and vowing to be easy with the next boy I
caught with his blouse full of apples, I had to swerve the horse
suddenly to avoid a collision with another buggy.
"Half the road, and all the ditch, please," said a girlish voice. She
wanted to show the young man who was driving how clever and witty she
was. No Sherlock Holmes was needed to detect that when she spoke she had
a large bite of an apple tucked in her cheek. But far be it from me to
give evidence against them. Had I not been sorely tempted myself a
moment before I and perhaps these young people needed to be comforted
with apples even more than I did, and were in condition to quote the
rest of the text about being "sick of love." Having escaped the
collision, I hurried home and unharnessed the driver in the dark. As I
was turning her into the pasture, I patted her shoulder and held no
grudges for the cutting-up of the afternoon.