_Nov. 1._--The gentle rain that Portia commended so highly as dropping
from heaven did not blow up with an east wind. B-r-r-r! Ever since, and
probably before, it blasted the ears of corn in Pharaoh's dream the east
wind has been spreading desolation. At this time of the year it carries
the coldest, wettest brand of rain known to suffering humanity, and can
make it beat on the inside of an umbrella as readily as on the outside.
In fact carrying an umbrella when an east wind is blowing is simply a
form of exercise. A bedraggled man with an umbrella that had been turned
inside out told me, in a peevish tone of voice, that the east rain we
have been having had drenched every part of his anatomy except under his
porous plaster, and it had lifted a corner of that. The storm that is
now raging--no, I mean whining, for the east wind is altogether too
ornery and mean-spirited to rage--has put the world out of joint, and
what it has done to the roads "would not be good to hear." Nevertheless
I met a cheerful soul who had a good word to say for it. He has a
windmill and he assured me that an east wind is the most dependable of
all when one wants to grind chop-feed. It blows more steadily than any
other wind. Oh, yes, it is steady all right. It usually blows for three
days at a stretch, and when it is done a man has become so sour on life
that he hates his best friends. Even though I respect my informant, I
refuse to give the east wind credit for good intentions in the matter.
It can't understand the use of windmills. It must think that when it
gets them creaking and clacking it is doing mischief.
The creatures of the barn yard contend with the storm in different
ways. When the cattle and horses are driven out to be watered they turn
their backs to the pelting wind and rain and drift to the nearest
shelter. The turkeys, on the contrary, stand and face the storm with
their heads huddled down on their breasts at the point where the carver
inserts the fork. The turkey, by the way, is the true weathercock. When
roosting in the open he invariably faces the wind. The reason for this
is plain. The wind blowing on his breast packs his feathers down closer
and so makes their protection complete. If it were allowed to strike in
the opposite direction it would ruffle up the feathers and leave the
bird practically naked to the elements. As for the chickens--well, if
there is anything in nature more disconsolate-looking than a wet hen the
tragedy of its existence has never been adequately described. The hogs
are the weather prophets of the barn yard, and those that are not penned
up began to burrow into the strawstacks even before the newspapers
reported the coming storm. When called to the feed-trough they respond
reluctantly in spite of their much-maligned appetites, and when the east
wind strikes them they let out a concert of squeals that makes one
understand just what the good Sir Walter meant when he described the
singing at a conventicle as sounding "like a hog in a high wind." But
enough of this, lest some patient reader should be tempted to exclaim
with Job: "Should a wise man utter vain knowledge and fill his belly
with the East Wind!"
Last Sunday afternoon there were a couple of black squirrels on the
beech knoll, and I was glad it was Sunday, because the sight roused in
me certain predatory feelings that I thought I had outlived. In the old
evil days to see a black squirrel was to run for a gun, and there is no
knowing of what might have happened if it hadn't been Sunday in a
community where there is a proper regard for the Lord's Day Alliance.
Still, the squirrels were comparatively safe. My own rifle is twenty
miles away and the nearest shotgun that might be borrowed is in a
farmhouse at a distance of three miles. But although circumstances made
it possible for me to restrain myself, it will probably make little
difference to the squirrels. They will almost certainly go into the bag
of some city hunter. At the present time these gentry are ranging
through the country, shooting up everything from chipmunks to stray
hens, and no doubt imagining that, like Nimrod of old, they are "mighty
hunters before the Lord." Why can't they stick to clay pigeons and spare
the feelings of those who haven't got guns handy? It is really no wonder
that the farmers are beginning to disfigure the country with "No
shooting" and "No trespassing" signs. The few squirrels and quail that
remain are farm pets rather than wild game. A few more seasons of the
city hunter, and the boys in this district will know nothing about black
squirrels, except what they learn from Sam Wood's vivid article in the
new Fourth Reader.
Let no one imagine that, although winter is at hand, the country is
without its hours of excitement. The first storm is the signal for tying
up the young cattle in the stable for the first time, and any one who
officiates at such a function will not lack an overflow of emotions. You
can't take a dehorned yearling by the ear and tell him persuasively that
a well-bedded stall and a full manger are much to be preferred to the
pelting rain and the scorn of the outer dark. Whatever else has changed
on the farm, the young cattle are just the same as ever and just as
stubborn. The method of handling them, however, is changed somewhat. The
old way used to be to take a stake out of the cordwood rack and try to
make them see the light. At the present time the buggy-whip seems the
handiest thing to use, and the whole family is called out to enjoy a
game of "bull-in-the-ring." In spite of the best efforts of every one,
including the collie dog, some of them will break away to the far end of
the lane. Even after they have been driven one by one into the stable it
is hard to make them understand that only one should go into a stall.
They seem to prefer to go in bunches, and sometimes the language of the
inside workers whose task it is to tie them up is feverish and painful.
_Nov. 7._--We were starting to town to have the children's photograph
taken for Christmas when some one shouted:
"Look at the turkeys!"
Sure enough the turkeys were coming home. All fall they have been living
in a coop at the woods where they could have plenty of territory to
range over and live the semi-wild life in which they thrive best. They
were so placed that they could forage in the woods or steal from the
cornfield, besides getting their regular rations, and life for them was
one grand sweet song. Every time the gobblers gobbled they did it so
lustily that those who heard involuntarily murmured "Merry Christmas!"
They had not visited the home buildings since being put at the woods,
but now they were coming all together as fast as they could run. First,
they would run a little to the left, then a little to the right, like
the merry villagers approaching the front of the stage in a musical
comedy. You would almost imagine that they were dodging between
invisible trees. When they reached the barn yard the gobblers all
gobbled and gave every evidence of being glad to be home again. We might
have suspected that there was something going to happen when the turkeys
acted in this way, but, being mere human beings depending on reason for
guidance instead of instinct, we bundled ourselves into the buggy and
went to town.
Having photographs taken, like everything else in this progressive age,
has become a commonplace affair. We went about it without any more
excitement than if we were buying groceries. After the group was placed,
not posed--for it is no longer necessary to take a fixed position and
hold it for a time exposure until all the feeling of a human being
leaves one--the photographer squeezed a little rubber bulb, the shutter
clicked, and the operation was over. Of course, there was the little
matter of father getting down on all fours in a far corner of the studio
and making believe that he was a bear so as to make the serious-minded
baby smile, but we will not go into that. Still, it was a task requiring
considerable artistic skill. The acting had to be finely shaded, with
just enough realism to make the baby smile without making the older
children laugh. While I have never set much store by my histrionic
abilities, I venture to think that if the critics had seen my
performance they would have given me press notices that would be worth
preserving. As it was there were those present who mourned because they
could not get a snapshot of me in that character. I think I played the
bear just about as well as Bully Bottom would have played the lion. I
roared "as gently as a sucking dove." As I have suggested, the act was
very brief, and perhaps that was as well. I might not have been able to
sustain the character for any length of time. I couldn't help
remembering how different it was the first time I "had my picture took."
I had a new home-made suit of which I felt duly proud and somehow got
the necessary funds to have a tintype taken. I was placed in the most
awkward position I have ever been in, and under the orders of the
photographer I gazed steadily at a feather duster until the tears came
into my eyes while he held his watch and counted like the referee at a
prize-fight. Years afterwards it took two strong men to hold me when
that tintype was brought out for the edification of a mixed company.
When we came out of the photographer's we realised what had ailed the
turkeys. The snowstorm of the season was in progress. A strong wind was
blowing from the east and driving the big flakes before it. It would
have been an interesting sight if it were not that we were over three
miles from home and would have to face it all the way. There was nothing
to do, however, but to pile into the buggy and start for home. There
were no woods anywhere to break the force of the storm, and soon we were
all as white as Santa Claus. The children began to get cold, and
father--oh, well, it was a trying situation. There seemed to be twice as
many people in the buggy as when we were going down, but now that I
think it over in a serene frame of mind I can see that nothing makes
cramped quarters seem so over-crowded as a little touch of temper. Of
course we got home safely, though cold and storm-beaten, and we finally
got thawed out. Hereafter when the turkeys begin to act up in an unusual
way I shall stay at home to see what happens. The ancients used to
foretell the success of journeys by the flight of birds and I am
inclined to think there may have been something in it. Those turkeys
certainly seemed to know that our journey would be made uncomfortable by
a storm.
Some people are trying hard to believe that we have sleighing, but I
have no delusions on that point. An inch or two of light fluffy snow on
a lumpy gravel road isn't sleighing. For the past week it has been
threatening snow every day, and some has fallen, but it will take a lot
more to make good sleighing. The temperature has ranged from zero to
twenty-two above during the past week, and we have had real winter
weather. From what I have heard about the temperature from others who
own thermometers I am beginning to believe that watching the weather is
something like fishing. People like to get an unusual record. I have
heard four degrees below zero reported, but my thermometer is a prosy,
unimaginative instrument that seems inclined to record things as it
finds them. I also find that there are people who do not hesitate for a
moment to dispute the thermometer. When the mercury is standing at
twenty above I have heard them assert vehemently: "I don't care what
your old thermometer says; it is colder to-day than it has been since
the storm started. I guess I know when I feel cold, don't I?" Of course
it is not the function of a thermometer to warm people up when it rises
in the tube. If they choose to go out without enough clothes it does not
record that fact, but they do. The use of thermometers seems to be
having an influence on the climate. Judging by the stories one hears, we
don't have such cold winters as they had before thermometers came into
use. The effect seems to be the opposite of that reported by the
Irishwoman who was asked how far it was to a certain town.
"It used to be only three miles, but one day a surveyor came along and
measured the road and it has been five weary miles ever since." In that
case science made things harder, but the reading of the thermometer in
this section makes the climate seem less severe.
Driving to school with the children these mornings is a task full of
interest. The white page of the snow is scribbled over with all sorts of
stories. I never knew rabbits and quail to be so plentiful as they are
this year. Their tracks are everywhere, though where they hide
themselves is a mystery. I have seen only one rabbit this year. That one
was poked out of a culvert, and I saw it only for the three or four
seconds it took to get under a stack, yet the whole neighbourhood is
tracked by them as if mobs of them played about at night. There are
three flocks of quail on the farm and yet I have never seen them except
when I set out to search for them diligently. I hear them whistling in
different directions almost every morning and evening, but they manage
to keep themselves out of sight. This makes me wonder a little about the
sharp-sighted heroes of modern nature stories who can't walk through a
page of printed text without seeing game and making observations that
would take me hours of hunting and watching. If it were not for the
snow, which reveals every movement of the little creatures, we should
hardly know that there is life of any kind in the fields. To the
children these tracks are a never-ending source of wonder and delight.
They are sure that the rabbits or quail are under every bush to which
the tracks lead, if I would only stop the buggy long enough to let them
go and see. But I looked too often years ago when trudging through the
fields and woods with a gun to feel much enthusiasm. These winter tracks
seem to lead everywhere and nowhere. One almost imagines that they are
purposely confused so as to conceal the hiding-places.
_Nov. 9._--The turkeys in Appin district are not wild, but their owners
are. This is the season of the annual round-up, and if it were not that
Canadians are a peaceable and law-abiding people the results might be
disastrous. The confusion is equal to that of a round-up of wild cattle
in Texas in the old evil days. Flocks are inextricably mixed. It is
true that some of the tough stringy old gobblers and hens are marked
with bits of gaudy rags tied on their wings, but the young, plump,
edible birds are unbranded. Hence the confusion and heart-burnings.
Turkeys are native here, and they do not seem to understand that the
world has become civilised since the time when their ancestors roamed
through the woods in mighty flocks. They are the only important
survivors of the wild life of other days, and they still retain many of
their wild instincts. Although they are hatched out in the barns or
poultry houses, they take to the woods as soon as they have the use of
their legs, and live the wild life until full grown.
The great trouble is that, like the Indians, they are unable to
understand property rights in land. Line fences mean nothing to them,
and they will range wherever food is plentiful. Flocks sometimes wander
miles from home in quest of grasshoppers in the summer time, and of
beechnuts in the fall. While the weather is mild the flocks keep apart,
but when a cold snap comes on they rush together, and then the trouble
begins.
"My turkeys were hatched early in June," says one farmer's wife.
Sixty gobblers gobble together as at a signal, while an equal number of
hens stretch their necks and look worried.
"Mine were July birds, but they are of a big breed, and fast growers."
The gobblers comment on this statement with a clamorous, simultaneous
gobble.
"Mine were July birds, too, but I fed them on oatmeal for a couple of
weeks, and that gave them a good start."
Once more the gobblers in convention assembled gobble furiously.
Here you have all the elements of a neighbourhood row. Each woman is
convinced in her own soul that all the really big turkeys belong to her
by rights, and that the runts that have pulled through an attack of roup
or blackhead belong to some one else.
"When my hens were setting I noticed that all their eggs were
sharp-pointed, and I've heard it said that gobblers always hatch out of
that kind."
After this remark the gobblers gobble their worst. They seem to have a
mania for gobbling after every remark made by people who are viewing
them. At the same time the other two women sniffed, for they knew just
what the remark about sharp-pointed eggs and gobblers means. It means
that the speaker thinks she should come out of the round-up with a flock
wholly composed of gobblers. They would like to do the same, but it is
manifestly impossible. There are fully fifty hens, and they must belong
to somebody.
At last, in desperation, it is suggested that each owner drive out her
own marked old hens and turkeys and see if the young ones will follow
their parents. Only people who have tried to drive turkeys know what
this means. Make a pass at a gobbler with a switch and he sidesteps out
of range. Then he stands to await further developments. As no two
turkeys by any possibility sidestep in the same direction the progress
that can be made in driving them is evident. It is asserted on good
authority that the more people know about turkeys the better they like
geese.
In order to facilitate the division of the flocks the owners make wild
rushes at them, each trying to cut out towards her own nucleus the
finest-looking birds. Full of a sense of the wrongs they are enduring,
they keep at it until each has the number of birds in her original
flock. Then each makes her way home to tell her husband how she was
imposed upon and cheated, and each vows she will never speak to either
of her greedy and over-reaching neighbours as long as she lives--no,
never.
The turkeys are then fed on grain for a few days and rushed to the
Christmas market. The only good turkey is a dead one, but it is so very
good that much may be forgiven.
_Nov. 11._--During the past couple of days I have had a chance to give
some close study to the hen. It was decided to shift one of the flocks
to another house. This was done at night--the time when so many hens are
shifted. They were picked from their roosts, stuffed into canvas bags,
and carried squawking to their new home. Chicken-thieves must have a
knack that I cannot discover, or they would be caught every time they
make a raid. It doesn't matter whether I catch a hen by the legs or by
the neck, or by both at once, she is sure to squawk, and after she is
put in a bag she keeps right on "searching her soul for sounds to tell
how scared she is." Merely as a matter of scientific interest, I should
like to know how the chicken-thieves manage their work so quietly. If
there happen to be any among the readers of this page, I wish they would
write me a line privately, telling how the trick is done. Communications
will be treated as strictly confidential, and I promise not to make bad
use of the information given. I really want to know, for it is an
irritating mystery how a creature so full of assorted noises can be
taken away in silence. Those who know will please write, instead of
coming and giving a practical demonstration. They need not disclose name
and address as a guarantee of good faith. Write soon.
The only thing in the first night of the moving that seems worth
recording was the conduct of the sporty Leghorn rooster. He had been
plunged head-first into a bag, squawking like the most chicken-hearted
pullet, but when he had been dumped on the floor of his new home he
began to strut around and talk hen talk just as if everything had turned
out as he had expected. He crooned and clucked to his flock, and acted
for all the world like the leader of an Opposition that had suffered a
humiliating defeat. He seemed to be telling his followers not to be
discouraged, for when the right time came he would rip things wide open
and crow over the wreck of the Government. On the day after the moving
the old chicken-house was taken away, or every hen would have been back
in it next night. As the phrenologists used to say, "The hen has a
wonderfully developed bump of locality." When she gets settled in one
place she becomes very much attached to it. Unless carried beyond her
bearings, she will come back as inevitably as a cat. Knowing this, we
were not surprised, on going out with the lantern on the second night,
to find a lot of the hens huddled where the chicken-house had stood. The
snow was pelting down on them, but they seemed to prefer the tender
associations of the old place to the warmth and shelter of the new.
There was nothing to be done but to grab them by the legs and carry them
to their new home again. Wishing to get through with the job as quickly
as possible, I put one under each arm, took two in each hand, and
carried the lantern with my teeth. I was just about as fully occupied as
a man could well be, but it is always at such times that things begin to
happen. I hadn't walked two rods before my nose got itchy. Wow! It
wasn't a gentle little tickling, but a wild, exasperating, fiery agony
that made me wrinkle up my face till my eyes were shut. I couldn't raise
my hands without dropping chickens, and I couldn't get comfort from the
wire fence because the lantern was in the way. For the next few seconds
I was as busy as Rex Beach's "one-armed paper-hanger with the hives."
But it was no use. Luckily the hen-house was not far away, and I rushed
towards it. As soon as I reached the door I scattered chickens all over
the place and clutched my nose. It is all right for you to laugh, but if
you were the right kind of person you would rub your nose in sympathy as
you read this. I wonder how many of you did.
Among the chickens that had to be carried were four pure-bred Brahma
cockerels and a pullet. They interested me, and from now on I am going
to cultivate their acquaintance. All fall they have been ranging over
the whole farm, and even trespassing on neighbouring farms in search of
sunflower seeds and other delicacies. This had caused me some surprise,
for my early recollections of Brahmas were that they were exceedingly
sedentary fowls, slow movers, and without ambition, save the
overmastering ambition of the hens to set. As I remember them they were
setting all the time and all over the place. If they were thrown off the
nests they would cuddle down contentedly on a door-knob or piece of
broken crockery, apparently with the idea of hatching out some egg-cups.
When approached they would ruffle up their feathers and snarl, but they
wouldn't move unless lifted. It was useless to hold them under the spout
and pump on them, for that only seemed to make them mad--which justifies
the proverb, "Mad as a wet hen." It was practically impossible to break
them of setting. But I am assured that these up-to-date Brahmas are
non-setters. They can't be induced to set. I can't help wondering how
the strain was developed. As these are July chickens and there is only
one pullet, I haven't had a chance to see if the marvellous change has
been really accomplished. But I do know that they range around as no
old-time Brahma ever did. When they hear a beechnut fall in the woods
they stretch out their long necks, unlimber their long legs, and almost
seem to shake the earth as they bounce across the fields to get it. As
yet they are all feathers and skeleton. They look as big as turkeys, but
they have no meat on them, though each one has enough neck and feet to
make a boarding-house chicken fricassee. They seem to be like Sir John
Macdonald's Holstein cattle: "The more you feed them the more bone they
grow." I am assured that it takes them about a year to get their growth
and fill out, and I am curious to see what they will be like when ready
for the table. They didn't look very dignified the other night when I
found them standing where their old home used to be, trying to protect
themselves from the snowstorm by sticking their heads under one another
while the wind seemed to be whistling through their ribs. But I am going
to make a sympathetic study of them if they will only stay at home long
enough to let me.
_Nov. 14._--We have now reached that part of the harvest which I most
thoroughly understand and enjoy. Earlier in the season we changed work
with the horses, so as to provide the food needed for them and the
cattle during the winter, and the surplus was sold for "rascal
counters," with which we can get the things not grown on the farm that
we need for ourselves. Now, however, we are putting away that part of
the produce which we shall need for home consumption. Apples are being
stored, potatoes pitted, celery and cabbage trenched, and other
vegetables protected for the winter. I say that I understand this part
of the harvest better than the other and I'll tell you why. We are all
the time being told to go to the ant for an example of wisdom. Well--one
time I went, and I am afraid that the lesson I learned was one that my
teachers did not intend. Instead of having money invested in bonds or a
good bank account, the ant simply had a plentiful store of provisions.
As I put away these vegetables I have a comfortable feeling that I have
learned the lesson of the ant as it was intended to be taught. Food is
the most important form of wealth and to have a plentiful supply stored
away is the highest form of wisdom. In more primitive times the wealth
of kings consisted of full granaries and countless herds, and they were
considered rich because they had ample food for themselves and all who
were dependent on them. I suppose if I sold the celery, which is a
somewhat costly luxury in the cities, I could put money in the bank, but
I am fond of celery, and the wisdom of the ant is good enough for me.
There is no knowing what may happen to the banks when the Bank Act comes
up for revision, but I feel moderately secure regarding the vegetables.
Speaking of celery, there is one thing I should like to know, and
perhaps some gardener who reads _The Farmer's Advocate_ can tell me. I
have no doubt that the trouble is due to some mistake I have made, but I
wish to be set right, so that I can do better next year. When trenching
the celery I found that part of it had grown very rank, and was so pithy
that it is practically useless. The celery was grown in an old barn
yard, where the ground was just about as rich as it could possibly be,
having been used as a barn yard since the land was first cleared. I am
inclined to think that this is about the first crop ever raised on this
bit of soil, and that the original fertility is still there, as well as
what has been accumulating during the past seventy years. Most of the
celery is just about as fine as it could possibly be, large stalks,
crisp and tender and as sweet as a nut. Besides, the stalks are about
the largest I have ever seen, but some of the very largest are almost
useless. What is the trouble? Has the growth been too rank or have I
neglected something that should be done? Most of the trouble is with the
Giant Golden Heart variety. The White Plume is all firm and sound, and
both kinds were cultivated in the same way. Should I have treated the
two kinds differently?
Two correspondents have asked me to give in _The Farmer's Advocate_ the
receipts for Force Meat and Dried Beef, which I described in an article
elsewhere about a year ago. We prepared the dried beef, which proved to
be excellent, according to the following receipt:
"Take the best of beef, or that part which will be the most lean and
tender. The tender part of the round is a very good piece. For every
twenty pounds of beef use one pint of salt, one teaspoonful of
saltpetre, and a quarter of a pound of brown sugar. Mix them well
together and rub the beef well with one-third of the mixture for three
successive days. Let it lie in the liquor it makes for six days, then
hang up to dry. A large crock or jar is a good vessel to prepare the
meat in before drying it."
This dried beef is good either when cut in thin slices and fried or made
up in the various ways in which "chipped beef" is used.
The force meat I had reference to is an old-fashioned country dish, and
not the kind that usually goes under that name in the cook books. It
strikes me as being more like pemmican than anything else. Take any
convenient quantity of lean beef. The better the cut, the better the
result will be, but any part may be used from porter-house steak to the
neck. Chop this beef as finely as possible with a chopping-knife, but do
not put it through a meat-chopper. Take about one-third the amount of
suet and chop it in the same way, then mix the two and add salt and
pepper to taste. When the beef and suet have been thoroughly mixed and
flavoured, press it into small cakes by hand and put it away in a crock.
It is ready to use at once, and is fried like steak. If there is any
better eating for cold weather I have yet to find it. This is a truly
pioneer dish and one of the best. Some day I may gather and put in shape
the pioneer receipts that I have come across while gathering information
about the first settlers. Quite a number of the dishes they used are no
longer in vogue, but most of them that I have sampled have been good,
though rather strong food for palates that are trained to sweets and
delicacies.
_Nov. 17._--This morning I did something so foolish that I hate to tell
about it, but duty must be done. How are the young and the city people
who are moving back to the land to be properly warned of dangers unless
some one tells of things that happen on a farm with shameless
truthfulness? It would not be so bad if I didn't know better, but I did,
and now most emphatically do.
You have all heard of the foolish man who got a fall by sawing off the
limb he was sitting on. The story was one of the favourites of my youth,
and I have seen it used scores of times in political cartoons. It
illustrates human foolishness better than any joke I know of, and yet I
did exactly the same thing as the man in the story. I cut off the limb I
was standing on. Looking at it thoughtfully, I have a humble feeling
that there is no form of foolishness of which I am not capable. Of
course, there were extenuating circumstances. There always are. A man
does such a thing as that only when he is feeling that he is wiser and
smarter than other men, and I thought I was altogether too skilful and
cautious to let that limb get out from under me. I would cut to the
right point and then stop. That's what they all say, but, as usual, the
scheme didn't work out right.
This is how it happened. I went to the woodlot to forage for stove-wood,
and noticing that the heavy sleet last February had broken down a number
of big branches, I decided to use them. They were resting on the ground,
but still connected with the trees by a few splinters. I had to climb
to cut the splinters and bring the branches down. All went well until I
came to a big beech, from which a branch about a foot in diameter was
hanging by a stout slab. The break was about fifteen feet from the
ground, and there were no other branches at that point. When I had
climbed the tree, I found that the split-end of the branch made a good
platform to stand on, and, after figuring out the situation, I decided
that the easiest way to do the trick would be to chop nearly through the
connecting slab while standing where I was, and then get close to the
trunk and finish the job by swinging the axe with one hand and clinging
to the trunk with one arm. But I had forgotten that the sapwood of the
beech gets brittle when it has been drying for a year, and I had not
given more than half a dozen strokes before there was a sudden snap, and
the excitement began. I hadn't time to think, so must have acted on
instinct, or from reflex action. I grabbed at the trunk of the tree with
both arms and both legs. I just splashed myself against it, while the
axe went flying. But before I could get my brakes adjusted, I had
slipped about six feet down, and the legs of my trousers and sweater had
slipped about two feet up. And the bark of that old beech was
rough--very rough. After coming to a stop, I surveyed the scene, and
felt thankful that I was not mixed up with the axe and the big limb on
the ground. Then I shinned down the rest of the distance with a
chastened spirit and a sprained thumb.
While chopping the branch into stove-lengths I meditated much on the
foolishness of what I had done, and felt properly ashamed of myself. If
one of the boys had done such a thing, I would never have stopped
laughing at him. And now I had done it myself. Oh, well, I have a
suspicion that most men do things that are just as foolish, when no one
is looking, and have the reputation of being wise and careful just
because they escape and keep quiet about it. Sometimes I think that
there is something in us that makes us try to do things that we know are
foolish. It helps to keep us humble, if we are wise enough to learn the
lesson. To-night I am feeling very humble. I don't think I should laugh,
even if the baby took a spoonful of salt in mistake for granulated
sugar. It is a mistake that might be made by any of us.
Whoever worked out the plan of planting young trees that is given by the
Department of Forestry certainly knew what he was about. I doubt if it
could be improved upon. Lifting a sod and turning it back kills all the
grass and weeds around the seedling, and gives it a chance to get a good
start. To-day I looked over the trees I planted in the spring, and found
that they are all beautifully mulched. The little hollow from which the
sod was taken, and in which the tree was planted served as a trap for
the drifting leaves. Around each tree there is a mulch of packed leaves
three or four inches deep, and the work could not have been done better
by hand. I don't think they mentioned that result in the bulletin on
Reforestation, so it came to me as a surprise which aroused my
admiration. The trees should come through the winter safely with such
protection, and the rotting leaves should furnish them with the food
they need next spring. Of the thousand and eighty trees I planted, at
least eight hundred came through the scorching summer safely, and I
expect that they will make quite a showing next year. The pine suffered
the most. Though I have always understood that walnuts are very
delicate, I find that almost all of mine lived. I was also pleased to
find that thousands of young maples got a good start this year because
the cattle had been kept out of the woods. Little as they are, these
seedlings help to keep the leaves from drifting, and it looks as if the
sod that had made such headway before replanting was attempted will soon
disappear. Next spring, if the Forestry Department is kind, and I am
feeling equal to the task, I shall plant out a couple of thousand more
young trees, and try to get at least five acres back to natural woods.
Of course, I know there are plenty of wise people who will say that I am
foolish to be planting out trees in the garden land of Ontario, instead
of clearing away those that remain; but, as I told you in the first
paragraph, I am now convinced that I am capable of any kind of
foolishness. Still, there is a saving remnant of the people who believe
that reforestation is a wise thing. I do not think I am making a mistake
in casting in my lot with them.
First let me tell you how the whole thing started
(For I have seldom troubled you with rhyme),
I woke this morning feeling happy-hearted,
Lulled by the dreams of a supernal clime,
And ere the drowsy glamour had departed
I heard soft music, like an elfin chime;
It seemed as if the old house had begun
Like Memnon's statue to salute the sun.
An Indian Summer dawn of amber haze
Along the east was glowing luminous,
Ushering one of those Canadian days
Of rare perfection, warm and languorous,
That well deserve such mystic strains of praise
As still were rising faint, mysterious--
Although their source I sought in vain, until
I chanced to look upon the window-sill,
And there a child's harmonica was lying,
Just where the south wind on the reeds could blow;
It roused the music with its fitful sighing,
Æolian chords, sweet, tremulous, and low.
Finding what set the elfin music flying
"My lungs like Chanticleer began to crow."
Meanwhile the sun had risen, red as blood,
And poured its light, a ruby-tinted flood.
I tell all this because it made me vow
To weave the doings of the day in song,
From dawn till dark, as I am doing now;
Jotting down verses as I go along,
Hoping some Muse will with her charm endow
The flying fancies to my brain that throng.
Whether it is worth the doing we shall see,
For I shall give you what the gods give me.
The fire was blazing and I started calling
The little sleepers, and the morning noise
Began at once, with giggling, tickling, squalling,
Laughing, romping, yelling, such as boys
And girls delight in. Now, there's some one bawling!
'Tis sweet domestic music, but it cloys!
I think I'll do the chores and 'scape the pother
And leave the task of dressing to their mother.
The air is frosty, but a south wind purrs
Across my ears, and though all else is still
A flock of sparrows in a spruce confers
With much politic chirping. Now a mill
Blows its loud whistle and the world bestirs
Itself to work, of which it has its fill.
(Although of work I am not quite a hater,
I'll have some things to say about it later.)
The Collie greets me, romping wildly round,
Barking and fawning for his morning petting;
The gobblers gobble (joyous Christmas sound),
"Their little hour" so proudly strutting, fretting;
The roosters cluck, some muddy titbit found,
Each for his dames an early breakfast getting;
The driver whinnies and the lonesome calf
Bawls with a peevishness that makes me laugh.
I feed them all and then, the milking done,
Go in to breakfast with an appetite
For eggs and bacon, that I feast upon
With earthly, unpoetical delight.
When satisfied, the day's work is begun--
Winter is coming, all things must be right--
And though the day is fine I still remember
To make due haste for it is now November.
Corn to haul in and stalks to bind and stack,
Potatoes and apples to be snugly pitted;
Of urgent work to-day there is no lack;
To every hour a needful task is fitted.
To honest labour I must bow my back,
But still that back is cheerfully submitted;
And what is more, if I could spare a minute,
I'd show you that there's philosophy in it.
Driving afield, the splendour of the day
Charms like a mighty masterpiece of art:
The fields and woods all stripped to sober grey,
The golden sunshine flooding every part.
Surely the hours will blithely slip away
And joy of life will throb in every heart--
So chants the poet, but the toiler knows
The world he works in is a world of prose.
All day with diligence that men applaud
I picked the golden ears and bore them in;
The world was fair, the south wind was abroad
Offering me joys I could not stop to win.
Yet was I well contented to defraud
My soul of all the beauty there had been;
This heavy price it is our fate to pay
To win our freedom for another day.
Poets there are who sing with frenzied passion
Of endless toil, who never felt its bane;
To call it glorious is now the fashion,
Drowning with song man's wretchedness and pain
My Pegasus I'll never lay the lash on,
Pursuing such a folly-bitten strain;
I say, and say it boldly to your face,
That needless labour is a foul disgrace.
Labour that knows the seedtime and its hope,
And waits the harvest with a trusting soul--
Strong in its faith with every ill to cope,
Trusting in God and his benign control--
Scorning the slavery in which they grope,
Blind and defeated, who make wealth their goal--
Such would I sing for he who looks may see
The end of labour is to make men free.
And being free, with clothing, food, and shelter,
What, that is toil-bought, would you envy more?
Why should you struggle in the human welter?
Why should you sink when you were meant to soar?
Life has been made a hurried helter-skelter
Of aimless effort without guiding lore.
Believe me, friend, though you have wealth past measure,
Living itself is life's completest treasure.
If some good people would but take the time
To look about them they would be surprised
To find their house of life is more sublime
Than poet ever feigned or sage surmised.
Stop and look forth! It will not be a crime!
And if you think I have not well advised--
Preferring some one who of toiling proses--
Back to the grindstone with your stupid noses.
Our fathers toiled, but in a glorious fight,
The God of nations led them by the hand,
With pillared smoke by day and fire by night
They wrought like heroes in their Promised Land;
The wilderness was conquered by their might,
They made for God the marvel he had planned--
A land of homes where toil could make men free,
The final masterpiece of Destiny.
How can I rest when they will not be still?
When every wind is vocal and their sighs
Breathe to my ear from every funeral hill
And from each field where one forgotten lies?
They haunt my steps and burden me until
I plead with hands outstretched and streaming eyes:
"I am not worthy! Let my lips be dumb!
The mighty song and singer yet shall come!"
The well-greaved Greeks and Priam's savage brood
Were not more worthy of immortal song
Than these in homespun, who alone withstood
Hunger and Fear to make our Freedom strong;
But till the singer comes, at least the good
They wrought we must from age to age prolong:
Learning from them, let this our watchword be:
Free from all tyrants from yourselves be free!
Well, I have wandered and the day is spent,
My morning vow forgotten and the throng
Of fancies vanished that I truly meant
To spread before you as I went along--
Showing what beauty with the day was blent--
Minting the gold of sunset into song--
Pouring my heart in rapture or in mirth--
Singing with pride the land that gave me birth.
But though I fail I shall not be ashamed;
My brothers of the fields will understand
The patriot ardour in my heart that flamed
And by what breath that sacred fire was fanned;
The blood still courses in our veins that tamed
The waste to fruitfulness at His command,
And ye all feel as I have felt to-day--
Born of this soil and kneaded of its clay.
_Nov. 25._--Is there such a thing as an official score-card for marking
up the points of a cow? If there is I should like to see one. I want to
know just how many marks are given for powers of digestion. This week
the red cow did something that almost lifts her out of the cow class and
places her with the ostrich and boa-constrictor. The other day after the
cows had been turned out to water she was somehow left untied. True to
her predatory instincts, as soon as she discovered her freedom she
started to nose around for something she could steal and had the luck to
find a tub full of corn in the ear, from which the hens were being fed.
She promptly began to wrap herself around it and before being
interrupted in her feast she had eaten over a bushel. Now, _The Farmer's
Advocate_ has never published any "First Aid to the Gluttonous," and I
didn't know what to do. When I asked for advice people told me sad
stories of the death of cows from over-feeding. Some had been killed by
eating tailings after a threshing, others by bloating after eating
clover, others by a surfeit of chop feed. It was all very disheartening
for a fresh cow that gives eight quarts of milk rich in butter-fat at
each milking is a valuable asset in these days when the bank act is
being revised so as to allow farmers to raise money on their cattle. I
couldn't call up the veterinarian for we have no telephone, and with the
roads in their present condition I did not feel like driving three miles
to consult one. Still I was not so much worried as I might have been.
The look in her eye was reassuring. She looked more like the cat that
had eaten the canary than anything else. She wore an air of unmistakable
satisfaction and when she began to eat some clover hay that was in her
manger as dessert to her banquet I felt that she might pull through. Her
previous raids on the swill-barrel, soft-soap, apples, and other things
gave me confidence in her powers of digestion, so, after murmuring a few
words, "more in sorrow than in anger," I gave her Shakespeare's
blessing--"Let Good Digestion Wait on Appetite"--and left her to her
fate.
At milking time she was still perfectly normal though kind of lazy about
standing over and "histing." Acting on advice, I cut out her evening
ration of unthreshed oats, so that her stomach would recover from the
surprise she had given it in the afternoon. Her gastric juices had their
work cut out for them without having their troubles increased. But she
made no protest when the other cows were fed and she was skipped. In
fact she reminded me of the bereaved fowl described by "Pet Marjory,"
the little girl whose rhymes and sayings were recorded by Sir Walter
Scott:
"She was more than usual calm.
She did not give a single dam."
And yet, though she was in such good form I couldn't keep from worrying.
All evening I listened to tales about cows that had come to untimely
ends through over-eating, and look at it in any way I tried, a bushel or
more of corn seemed a big dose for any cow. So after the others had gone
to bed I lit the lantern and went out to the stable to see how she was
doing. As I opened the door she heaved a sigh of repletion, like an
alderman after a banquet. Then she stretched out her neck, brought up a
cud, and began to chew placidly. Still, I was not entirely easy in my
mind. If I could only get to see her tongue, or to feel her pulse, or
take her temperature, I would be more satisfied. But how to get her to
put out her tongue was the problem. The only way I could think of would
be to hold an ear of corn before her nose and let her reach out her
tongue for it, just as I had seen her try to lick grain through a
knothole in the granary. But I was afraid to try that scheme for I knew
by experience that she would probably get the start of me and add that
ear of corn to the pile she had already accumulated. When it came to
feeling her pulse I was stumped worse than in trying to get her to put
out her tongue. How do you feel a cow's pulse anyway? The longer I live
on a farm and grapple with its problems the more I find I have to learn.
And all the time I was fussing and worrying she kept on contentedly
chewing her cud. Restraining an impulse to give her a kick for looking
so exasperatingly comfortable, when in the best judgment of the
neighbourhood she should be dying, I closed the door and left her to her
job of digesting a bushel of corn. And she did it to the king's taste.
In the morning I went to see her before I gathered the duck eggs and
found her bawling for her morning feed. She never batted an
eyelid--never turned a hair. And at milking time she gave a brimming
pail of milk, just as if nothing unusual had happened. Later in the day,
when she was turned out for water, she bolted for the spot where she had
found the corn on the previous day and seemed ready to repeat her
exploit. It is not because she is starved either, for she is beef-fat.