_Dec. 1._--Here is a chance for the Weather Bureau and the oldest
inhabitant. In their records, real and imaginary, have they noted a
first day of December like this? Last night there was a sharp still
frost, but this morning the sun is shining "on both sides of the fence."
A south wind that is balmy and yet has a tang to it like hard cider is
dawdling over the fields. The day is perfect, and as I view it through
the open window the typewriter becometh a burden. There is a haze in the
air that makes the woods look dreamy and inviting. This seems to be a
case of Indian summer lingering in the lap of winter, and nobody has the
slightest objection to make. Those who work are still busy ploughing and
getting ready for next summer's crops. Even the bees are out for an
airing, and our Christmas dinners are in the woods filling their crops
with beechnuts. Every once in a while I hear a shotgun banging, and know
that a city hunter is scaring our corn-fed black squirrels. A couple of
days ago one of these powder-burners fired seventeen shots at a squirrel
on the beech knoll until the little animal got ashamed of being a party
to such a rumpus and retired disdainfully into his hole. There doubtless
are city hunters who can shoot, but they are not taking their holidays
at present. Possibly the fellows who are tramping through the woods just
now are doing it for their health, but, though they may work up
excellent appetites, they will never be able to satisfy their hunger
with the game they kill. Those I have had a chance to observe in action
couldn't hit a "No Trespassing" sign at ten paces. The country boys say
they couldn't hit a barn even if they were standing inside of it.
With the last roots and potatoes pitted and the cattle stabled the world
is waiting for winter. The trees are stripped to bare poles, so that
they may not be broken by clinging snow. It is interesting to note how
much character the trees retain after they have parted with their
foliage. The accustomed eye can pick out the elms, oaks, maples,
beeches, and hickories as far as it can see, by their form and the
distribution of their branches and twigs. Even where they are crowded
together in the forest they are as easy to recognise as individuals in a
crowd of people you know. Thoreau speaks somewhere of making friends
with the trees, and to one who has been neighbouring with them for some
months the idea is attractive. Just now it seems as if it would be
easier to scrape an acquaintance with them than at any other time of the
year. Although they look dignified and self-sufficient they are without
the pride and pre-occupation of summer. It is in the winter that they
perform for us their friendliest office in breaking the wind. The trees
on the farm are the last thing we see when leaving home and the first
thing we see on our return, so it is just possible many of us are
friends with them without knowing it. Anyway, it is comfortable to be
back among them after one has been away, whether they share the feeling
or not.
Outside of the trees, about the only other things encountered on country
walks just now that are of interest are the fences, and these are
sufficiently varied to satisfy either an artist or an antiquary. Many of
them are picturesque and all mark a stage in the development of the
country. It is still possible to find examples of the stone, log, and
stump fences of the pioneers which served the double purpose of bounding
a field and clearing the land. The stone fences were built from
necessity rather than choice. Something had to be done with the stones
that were picked from the land in some districts, and the obvious thing
to do was to throw them in the fence corners or make fences of them. The
latter course was usually adopted where they were sufficiently
plentiful. Stump fences were usually made of pine, and some may be found
that are over fifty years old. When properly put together and blocked
they made a fence that would turn the "breachiest" horse or cow that
ever made life a burden to the farming community. But under no
circumstances could a stump fence be considered ornamental. "As homely
as a stump fence" is still a current simile in the country. As suggested
above, the building of a stump fence served a double purpose. It was the
same with the log fences that are now somewhat rare. They were made of
such timber as would be used in building houses and barns. These fences
were practically straight, the ends of the logs being connected and held
together by short cross pieces, on which each tier rested. The rail
fences that are still plentiful were made of free-splitting timber
ranging from black ash to black walnut. It is probably some years since
rails were split in any quantity, owing to the value of timber. As
sound, well-seasoned rails will last almost a century, it is probable
that they will be plentiful in the country for some time to come, though
in some places the farmers are finding that they can sell their old rail
fences for fuel at a price that will pay for wire fences. On the farms
where rails are still in use many styles of fence are to be seen,
varying from the stake-and-rider snake fence to straight fences with
posts, to which the rails are fastened with wire. Almost every farmer
has a scheme of his own to make his old rails go as far as possible, and
the results are sometimes absurd. To make a fence that is horse high and
hog proof with insufficient material requires more than ordinary
ingenuity.
Board fences were once quite the fashion, but they have practically
passed out because of the price of lumber. Wire fences of infinite
variety are now being put up, but, judging from the criticisms of the
farmers, the ideal fence has not yet been invented. Properly constructed
wire fences are serviceable, but there are so many kinds of wire and so
many ways of building them it is quite evident that there is still
confusion in the public mind regarding them. Hedges have been tried in
some parts--and thereby hangs a tale. Some years ago a number of
smooth-talking agents went through the country taking orders for hedge
fences at what seemed most reasonable terms. The finished hedge was to
cost, say, one dollar a rod. It would attain its growth in three years,
and the hedge-builders were to attend to it each year until it was
completed. If the farmer agreed to buy fifty rods of hedge he was to pay
for it in three instalments. On the first year he was to prepare the
ground for the seedlings and pay $20. A second payment of $10 was to be
made on the second year when the hedge-makers returned to replant any
spots that had been missed. On the third year the hedge was to be
trimmed, splashed, and completed and the farmer was to pay $20. It
looked like a reasonable arrangement, and many farmers signed contracts
for the new hedge. In the spring of the first year the hedge-makers
appeared with waggonloads of seedlings, which they dropped in a furrow
made by the farmer, who then covered them with another furrow. The job
was just about as hard as planting a row of potatoes. The schemers then
collected the first instalment. Next year they were prompt in calling
for the second instalment and making the trifling additions to the
planting that were required. The kind of thorn they had planted grew
like Canada thistles, and the prospects of a good hedge looked
promising. But on the third year the little joker in the scheme was
discovered. Trimming, splashing, and completing the hedge meant work,
and the hedge-makers never came back. They had already received two
liberal payments for practically no work, and they took no interest in
the last payment that would have to be more than earned. Because of this
raid on the unsuspecting farmers, one sees occasional hedges that are
forty feet high and still growing. Hedges will, doubtless, be used in
the country as it grows older, but the man who undertakes to promote the
industry will have to hit on a new scheme before he can make it popular.
A drive through the country at night is one of the dreariest experiences
imaginable. Every house appears to be deserted. Not a light is to be
seen anywhere. The front parts of many farm houses seem to be built for
outward show, and not for inward use. Some of those who have the finest
houses persist in living in their kitchens. The kitchen is also the
dining room and living room. This no doubt saves fuel, but one cannot
help wondering what is the use of having a parlour or sitting room with
plush furniture, crayon portraits, and vases filled with dried flowers
if it is never to be used. In the daytime the prospect is not much more
alluring. A house that has smoke issuing from only one chimney does not
look hospitable, but in most country houses they do not light a fire in
the parlour unless they are expecting a call from the minister. All of
which goes to prove the truth of the comment made by the Indian, who
said: "Indian builds a hut and lives in it. White man builds a big house
and lives in the kitchen." Moreover, in some cases the kitchen is simply
an addition to the house proper, so that he really does not live in his
big house at all.
_Dec. 5._--"Every man to his taste," as the old woman said when she
kissed the cow. That good old maxim applies everywhere, even to the dumb
creatures on the farm. I was reminded of it last night while doing the
chores. While poking around with the lantern I came across the
ducks--the waddling, fat, all-consuming ducks. They were resting and
carrying on a light conversation in a sheltered corner where there was
plenty of straw and where they had what most creatures would consider a
chance to be comfortable. I did not disturb them in any way, but
presently, after a few vigorous remarks, they started off in Indian file
across the yard and out into "the great big dark." As they were nowhere
in sight when I had finished my chores, I had the curiosity to hunt them
up. Following the direction they had taken when leaving the yard, I soon
found them in an old creek bed. They were huddled together on the ice,
with their heads tucked under their wings, and apparently settled for
the night. On telling of this when I got to the house, I found that this
little pond has been their roosting place at night ever since they
deserted the indignant hen that mothered them. They even kept a hole
open in the middle of the pond until the frost became altogether too
severe. I have often seen the wild ducks flying from the Niagara River
out across the ice into Lake Ontario, and have been told that they were
going out to roost, or sleep, or whatever it is that ducks do on the
open water. Probably our hand-raised ducks are acting in obedience to
some ancestral instinct. I wonder if I ought to try to break them off
it? As a matter of fact, I have never looked into the question of how to
raise ducks, having always contented myself with the instructions given
in the cook book on "how to carve ducks."
Those ducks will never know how near they were to a general slaughter
one day last week. I was working at the barn when some one at the house
called a question to me. Before it was half finished, six ducks flapped
their wings, drew deep breaths, and spontaneously exploded with a
"quack," "quack," "quack!" When they had quieted, I tried to ask what
was wanted, but this was about the way my question reached the house:
"What do you--'quack,' 'quack'--"
Then a noise might have been heard from the barn yard which sounded
something like this:
"Get out of that, you waddling--'quack'--'quack'--'quack.'
"If I had a stick I'd--'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack.'
"Shut up, you--'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack'--"
"Oh, what's the use--'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack.'"
Then as I started to the house to find out what was wanted of me, those
ducks quacked as exultingly and flapped their wings as foolishly as a
political party that has managed to howl down its opponents in debate.
And I have no doubt that it is that victory they jabber to one another
about every time I go to the barn, but they'll not enjoy their triumph
long. They are eating their heads off every day, and presently we will
all get together and eat their bodies off. "Quack!" "Quack!"
"Quack!"----He quacks best who quacks last.
This morning, while sawing wood with a bucksaw, I began to remember
vaguely that when I was a boy we had a playful name of some kind for
this convenient implement, but, do my best, I could not remember it. As
some one has said, the name "kept tickling my memory with the tip of its
tail," but I couldn't catch it. I tried to get it back by every system
of association of ideas that I could think of, but they were all of no
use. I tried to recall every kind of work that a bucksaw can be used for
in the hope that that would suggest the name, but I failed. Naming over
the alphabet slowly, and thinking of as many familiar words as possible,
beginning with each letter, failed to locate also. Of course, I knew it
was of no importance, but when one starts his mind working on even a
foolish problem it is hard to stop. That missing name bothered me for a
couple of hours before something more important drove it out of my mind.
And along in the afternoon, when I was looking up something in the
encyclopædia, the name popped into my head with surprising suddenness.
"Corporation Fiddle!" Have you ever heard it? That is what all the boys
called a bucksaw when I went to school. I wonder why. Nowadays if I were
going to call anything a "corporation fiddle" I would probably apply the
name to some great newspaper, for I have noticed that the corporations
generally manage to play whatever tunes they please on them. But in
boyhood days the village or town corporation was the only one heard of.
I wonder if it was ever the custom to sentence tramps to saw wood for
the jail or town hall, and that the name "corporation fiddle" originated
in that way. I seem to have heard some explanation of this kind long
ago. But, now that the name has come back to me, I feel that we should
find a use for it. Most of our leading papers proudly proclaim
themselves "party organs." Would it be a good idea to name those that
serve the Big Interests "Corporation Fiddles"? It sounds satisfying to
me. I wonder which one we should apply it to first?
A good-natured correspondent writes that he wishes he could drop in on
me or that I could drop in on him, so that we could have a good talk. I
wish we could. He says he is tired of talking about fat steers and the
price of hogs and such things. How can that be? I can't get any one who
is skilled in those subjects to talk to me about them. They do not seem
to take my views on the proper feeding of steers and hogs seriously. It
is quite true I have no steers or hogs, but is that any reason why I
should not have opinions? Still, though the real farmers refuse to take
me into fellowship on these matters, I have no hard feelings. I have my
own way of getting even. For instance, I do not take their political
opinions seriously. Honestly, I do not think there is anything funnier
in life than watching people acquire views on a public question. If the
question is one that comes up unexpectedly, the caution of the people is
something wonderful. They frown and shake their heads and appear to be
thinking with both lobes of their brains. But wild horses could not drag
an opinion out of them. They must think and think. Then some fine
morning the party organ or "corporation fiddle" they patronise comes out
with its opinions. Now, behold the change! Thinking has stopped and
talking has commenced. All the fogs have cleared away and they have
settled opinions on the troublesome question. They know just what should
be done. Yes, indeed, and their fathers before them knew just what
should be done, and any one who doesn't agree with them is more kinds of
a fool than they could mention in half a day. To save my peace of mind,
I agree with them entirely, whatever their views may be. Still, I have a
sneaking suspicion that their views on public questions are no more
worthy of respect than my disrespected opinions on fat steers.
_Dec. 9._--Long winter evenings are a reality in the country. At this
time of the year they begin about 5 o'clock and last while the lamp
holds out to burn. How to put them in without yawning one's head off is
something of a problem. The children no longer tallow their boots in the
evening so that they will be warm on the next day. No, indeed! They
must have overshoes, so that they can make themselves felt in the family
by wearing out two pairs of shoes at the same time. As no teaming is
done, it is seldom that there is any harness to be patched, and
whittling wooden spiles to be ready for the sugar-making in the spring
passed out of vogue at least a generation ago. Of course they have
papers to read--loads of them, from the local weekly with its
neighbourhood news to the city daily with fiery cables about the Budget.
There is material in them for all kinds of talk from gossip to
philosophising. But the average man can't read and talk for five mortal
hours at a stretch with any degree of satisfaction. This leads the
observer to regret that the art of sitting before the fire and twiddling
one's thumbs has also gone out of fashion in these days of strenuosity.
It is pleasant to remember the old-timers who used to sit before the
open fireplaces twiddling their thumbs and staring at the coals. Being
ignorant of "the three r's," except perhaps enough arithmetic to enable
them to keep track of their money, they were unable to feed their minds
with the latest sensational news. They therefore sat and twiddled their
thumbs; but let no one despise this seemingly futile occupation. One of
the shrewdest critics of life known to modern times asserted that "doing
nothing is the hardest and most intellectual of all occupations." It was
among such that Whitman found his "great uneducated" men, and Touchstone
his "natural philosopher," who knew that "the more one sickens the worse
at ease he is, and he that wants money, means, and content is without
three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet and of fire to
burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep and that a great cause of the
night is lack of the sun." Where is one to find such men now? Packed
full of information of all kinds by their favourite newspapers, even the
humblest can "profess apprehension" and have opinions on all manner of
subjects.
If Canada should produce a Burns among its multitude of poets and he
tried to do a "Farmer's Saturday Night" he would be forced to go at it
somewhat in this fashion:--
The honest farmer, when his chores are done.
Pulls off his boots and sits beside the fire;
Toasteth his toes and holdeth forth upon
The little things that have aroused his ire.
He mourneth for the men he used to hire--
Great brawny giants, who would work all day,
Then do the chores and never loaf or tire--
And wait a year at least to get their pay.
Thus peevishly he frets and wears the night away.
Or else he takes his weekly paper down
And reads it--even the editorial page;
Talks of the wicked things they do in town,
Where financiers in pirate schemes engage.
Or works himself into a sputtering rage
About the things that politicians do,
Disgracing both their country and the age--
Believing all he reads as being true.
O _Globe_, and _Mail_, I fear some things are "up to you."
Their homework done, the children from the loft
Bring down the nuts and have their nightly feed;
The noise they make their mother chideth oft,
To which, alas, they give but little heed.
Then rings the telephone, and you may read
On Jenny's cheek the old, eternal tale--
She answereth it with startled, nimble speed,
Feigneth surprise and striveth hard to veil
The converse that she hath with some adoring male.
Somehow the telephone doesn't seem to harmonise with words ending in
"eth." The future Burns will be wise to choose some measure more
tripping and up-to-date than the stately and rumbling Spenserian stanza.
Do the quail and black squirrels keep posted on the game laws and know
when it is safe to appear in public? Kipling says that the wild
elephants know to a day when the hunting season ends, and celebrate the
occasion with a dance. Our wild game must have knowledge of the same
kind. All summer and fall I saw but two flocks of quail, and I wouldn't
have seen them if I hadn't happened to walk right among them. Since the
shooting season closed I can't cross a field without scaring up a flock,
and "their tameness is fearful to me." The black squirrels are
positively impudent when one goes walking through the woods. Since the
snow fell, rabbit tracks are to be seen everywhere, but the rabbits
themselves manage to keep out of sight. They are not protected by the
game laws; at least that is the belief in the country, and they are
liable to be potted at any time. Some boys not more than a hundred miles
from here have been trying to snare rabbits. So far, they have managed
to snare two cats and a pullet without disastrous results to any of the
victims. Having snares out is strongly recommended to distracted mothers
as a means of getting schoolboys quickly dressed in the morning. The
snares must be visited just at daylight, and a normal boy can be
warranted to jump out of bed and into all his clothes in less than five
minutes if he wants to visit them. Apparently, it does no harm to the
rabbits, so you must not accuse the boys of cruelty. The cats need
exercise anyway, and no doubt a copper wire snare can give the huskiest
tom cat a busy five minutes that will work up an appetite for his
breakfast.
_Dec. 14._--No matter what happens, we have had a spell of old-fashioned
winter. The January thaw may come and be followed by open weather, as so
many are prophesying, but we have had sleighing and everything else
worth while that winter can offer. First we had a week of cold weather
ranging from zero to twenty above. Every day it was cloudy and
threatening snow, and enough fell to cover the ground. Then the papers
predicted a warm wave and the trouble began. On the morning when the
change was due snow began to fall in big flakes, and there was a
moderate wind from the south-west. While there was no thawing the snow
was soft enough to stick to everything it touched, and soon the
buildings, fences, and tree trunks were white with it. I was driving
along the road when the change came. Without a moment's warning the wind
began to blow a hurricane from the north, and the temperature must have
fallen ten degrees in less than a minute. Under the lashing of the wind
the snow on the ground rose in blinding drifts. The driver was brought
almost to a standstill by the force of the wind. The robe was nearly
whisked off my knees, and a loose corner of the curtain on the buggy top
flapped and snapped with a sound like pistol shots. For half an hour the
air was a smother of drifting and falling snow. All the while the wind
steadily increased in violence, then it died down as suddenly as it
came, and the sky cleared. The mercury had fallen to eight above zero,
and it stayed there. All afternoon the weather continued about the same,
with occasional flurries of dry, powdery snow, but at nightfall it began
to snow in earnest. Not a breath of wind was stirring, and the fine, dry
snow came down as quietly as a mist. It covered everything. It rested on
all the branches of the trees, and even on the little twigs. On the
following morning there was a blanket of snow four inches deep, and big,
glittering frost-flakes were sifting down from an almost cloudless sky.
The thermometer registered two above zero, and it was an ideal morning
to take out the cutter. While driving to school to the music of bells it
was almost impossible to look towards the sun, everything was so
blinding white. But everything was beautiful. The distant woods were
picked out in white and brown, and every weed, thistle, and stalk of
grass was fluffy with snow. There was a little white cap on every fence
post, and here and there the snow rested on the wires, the air was so
still. The stillness, hardly broken by a sound, continued all day. The
snow rested where it fell, feathery light and sparkling like diamond
dust. The sun went down through a cold, coppery haze. It had been a
perfect winter day. About eight o'clock the mercury suddenly began to
fall, and kept on going down until it touched six below. In the still,
glistening moonlight the world was a frozen fairyland. Then the sky
clouded over, and the weather began to moderate. Since then we have had
moderate temperatures, ranging from ten above to twenty-eight, and the
sleighing has been of the best. There have been cutter-rides both by
night and by day, snowballing, sliding on the government drain, and such
coasting as an almost flat country affords. No matter what the future
has in store for us, we have had a taste of the best that a Canadian
winter can give.
One night when it was too beautiful for one to be indoors there was a
walk across the still fields to visit a neighbour. The full moon was
swinging up in the east, and there were more stars sparkling underfoot
than overhead. The snow was so light that it was kicked aside at every
step without being felt. The light wind that was stirring from the west
was so cold that it made the nostrils sting and frost gathered even on
our eyelashes. Though the fields were white and the moon was shining the
shadows under the trees and behind every tuft of grass or weed were dead
black. Sleigh-bells could be heard in the distance, and every now and
then a gust of laughter and young voices singing would be wafted to our
ears. An owl was hooting dismally in the woods, and the sound echoed
away until it was lost in the distance. After a brisk walk we were soon
warming ourselves beside a roaring wood fire, and the talk began about
pioneer days. "A sad tale's best for winter," and there is always
sadness in the stories of the old days. As I listened, the impression
that grew on me was of heart-breaking isolation and homesickness, and
the stifling, imprisoning wilderness. Though the pioneers hewed out
homes for themselves, Canada was never their home. Their true homes were
in the lands from which they came and to which they never returned. To
us who were born to inherit what they won Canada is a true home, and it
is hard for us to realise what they felt in the long years it took to
transform the wilderness to one of the garden spots of the world. The
struggles and weariness and heartache of the pioneers are to me a tale
of never-ending interest. They toiled and walked apart from the world,
fretted over the past and hoped for the future, but--
"This, all this, was in the olden
Time long ago."
While the talk progressed there were apples and winter pears to eat, and
then came the walk home through the frosty moonlight, with the snow
crunching faintly underfoot. On the road we met others who had been
lured away to neighbourly visits by the beauty of the night, and it was
good to feel that, instead of killing sociability, the winter weather
had really aroused it to more activity. Winter weather and winter
pleasures at their best are very good.
_Dec. 17._--A few nights ago the boys were testing their skates, and the
familiar ringing sound seemed good in the frosty moonlight. And yet it
was sporting under difficulties. All the ice they had to practise on was
a frozen puddle about three rods long and a rod wide. As a matter of
fact, skating, like everything else, has moved to town. I can remember
when we had whole fields for skating ponds, but that was before the days
of government drains and underdrainage. Now there are very few ponds or
swamps left, and skating is no longer a country sport, except in
specially-favoured localities. But every town and practically every
village has its skating rink, where they hold carnivals on the solid ice
in the winter time, and political meetings in the summer, when statesmen
skate on thin ice. Of course, I am not regretting the fact that the
country is too well drained for skating. I am merely noting the fact
that this change has taken place, and I am afraid that skating is not
the only sport that is lost to us. Baseball also seems to have retreated
to the cities and towns, and hockey has taken the place of shinny, and
is played almost entirely on the town rinks. But there may be another
reason for this. Where could a boy find a shinny stick nowadays? The
average woodlot in which cattle have been pasturing hasn't a stick left
in it that is under thirty or forty years old. It is getting rather hard
for country boys and girls to have fun of any kind without going to town
for it and paying an admission fee. This may not seem of much importance
to serious-minded people, but I am inclined to think it is very
important. Most of us like to remember the homes of our childhood by the
games we played in them, and to have no games is to have fewer ties
binding the children to the land. I am afraid the country is getting
altogether too practical and joyless. In the big cities they now have
"play-masters," who teach the children how to play in the parks and
vacant lots, and it has been found that they work better and behave
better because of the good times they have. It seems to me that
something should be done in the schools to interest the children in
suitable sports that will take the place of those that made life richer
for their fathers and mothers.
_Dec. 26._--"The country looks just like a Christmas card," said an
enthusiast of city breeding, which goes to prove the truth of Whistler's
observation that "Nature is looking up." The sleighing came with
Christmas and made it perfect. There had been flurries of snow before
that had drifted to the hollows and fence-corners, and had given the
country a sketchy, unfinished look, but on Christmas morning the fields
and roads were covered several inches deep with an even layer of crisp
snow. Cutters were dusted and brought out, and before noon there was a
constant jingling of bells on the country roads. Ever since there has
been good sleighing, and holiday visiting has been worth while, if for
no other reason than the drive through the clear, cold air. Even the
turkeys and mince-pies and plum-puddings seemed to taste better after an
appetising outing with the thermometer at fifteen above. Since the
sleighing began the towns have been crowded with visitors from the
farms, who were out more for the drive than for any shopping they had to
do. As a matter of fact, sleighing is now simply one of the pleasures of
the country. There is no more heavy teaming to do, and really practical
farmers who look at things from a business point of view would be just
as well pleased if we did not have sleighing at all. As long as there is
enough snow to protect the wheat they are satisfied. Sleighing makes it
necessary to have sleighs and cutters instead of waggons and buggies,
and that is an added expense. Thank heaven, there are still enough
inconsequential people living to like sleighing just for the fun of it.
They hitch up their roadsters and go out for a spin because they like
to feel the exhilaration it gives. May their tribe increase.
As if not satisfied with giving us perfect winter weather, Nature
started in yesterday afternoon to show what she can do, when in the
mood, to make the world bewilderingly beautiful. Early in the afternoon,
wisps of fog began to float across the field and the raw cold proved the
truth of the old doggerel:
"A winter fog
Will freeze a dog."
As the fog floated past a fine hoarfrost began to settle everywhere and
the sun went down red as in Indian summer. The straggling fog-banks on
the horizon began to glow, and we said:
"The low, red rim
Of a winter's twilight, crisp and dim."
Then came an hour of darkness and when the full moon rose it lighted a
fairyland. Every twig, weed, and exposed blade of grass was frosted to
three times its usual thickness with feathery hoarfrost of dazzling
whiteness. Only the trunks and larger limbs of the trees remained black.
As the stars were blotted out by the light, all except the larger ones
and a planet that hung in the west like a drop of liquid silver, the
snow began to light up with infinite constellations. There was moonlight
and snow "Fur's you cud look or listen." Not a breath of air disturbed
the tense stillness. Presently, an owl--who, no doubt, "for all his
feathers, was a-cold"--hooted in the ghostly woods and the sound boomed
and echoed weirdly.
"Whoo-hoo-hoo-whoo-oo!"
It seemed the only sound that would be appropriate in that frozen
stillness. As the moon rose higher a perfect storm circle that almost
broke into rainbow colours formed around it. All night the spectacle
lasted, but the wind that came with the dawn scattered the light frost
flakes and mingled them with the drifting snow, but all who loved beauty
had a chance to see the matchless artistry of
"The goblins of the Northland
That teach the gulls to scream,
That dance the autumn into dust,
The ages into dream."
It is worth while to take a trip along the side roads where they still
have rail fences to see the snowdrifts. The briars and withered
golden-rod stalks form shelters where the drifts can form and be carved
into wonderful shapes by the driving wind. Along the main roads where
wire fences are in use the drifts do not have a chance, but on the
side-lines they can gather and lie undisturbed, save for the tracking of
the wild creatures that now more than at any other season "do seek their
meat from God." Sprawling rabbit-tracks abound everywhere, and here and
there the loosely-woven lacework of quail-tracks may be seen. Where the
briars and weeds are thick they bend down under the weight of the
drifts, but hold them up sufficiently to provide hiding-places for the
rabbits and quail, and shelter them from the cold. Occasionally one sees
the jumping track of a weasel or mink that finds in the drifts an ideal
hunting-ground. Everywhere flocks of snowbirds swoop down among the
weeds to feed, and add their tiny tracks to the strangely-written
history of the winter struggle for existence.
A few mornings ago the predatory members of the family, who, if there be
truth in Spencer's lucid observation that the ontogenesis may be traced
in the philogenesis, must now be in the stone age, came in with the news
that there were rabbit-tracks in the garden. Of course, that meant a
rabbit hunt to be organised at once. With outward signs of reluctance,
but secret joy, I took a squirrel rifle and joined in the chase. While
we were trying to unravel the tangle of tracks and find the freshest, a
neighbour told us where a rabbit had been seen not five minutes ago.
Following the direction we found the tracks, and started wolfishly on
the trail, giving the best imitation we could of
"The long, hard gallop which can tire
The hound's deep hate, the hunter's fire."
We had not travelled far before it was apparent from the tracks that the
rabbit was frightened about something. His easy lope had changed to
frenzied jumps. In some places he had cleared fully fifteen feet at a
spring. We increased our pace, climbed fences impetuously, floundered
through snow-filled ditches, and tried to get through a thorn hedge, but
after due consideration, induced by some ugly scratches, decided to walk
around the end of it. Finally we came to the tracks of three people, and
found that the rabbit had started along this broken path. Just then we
realised that the tracks were our own, and that the rabbit had led us
around a circle. Although we had not seen him, he had seen us, and it
was at our pursuit he had been frightened. Feeling sure that he could
not be far ahead of us we kept on, and finally he left the circle and
loped off through the woods. But the pack was on his trail and would not
be shaken. By actual count we climbed eleven wire fences, floundered
through a government drain twice, crossed three farms, and then found
that the rabbit was leading us around a larger circle. Once more we
followed our own tracks to where he branched off again. This time he ran
into brush heaps and then doubled back on his own trail to throw us off.
At last he struck off across a field, and, observing the curve of his
path, I made a hasty calculation and decided that he was going to
circumnavigate the earth on his next circle. So I pantingly called a
halt, and led my protesting young barbarians straight home. We had not
seen hide or hair of the rabbit during the chase, though he had
certainly seen us. It was disappointing, of course, but the
disappointment was forgotten in the ravenous appetites we had developed.
In a Toronto restaurant we would have been bankrupted before being
satisfied, but in the country they like to see one eat heartily. It is
proof that the food offered is being appreciated. Having no ill-will
against the rabbit, we hoped that he found a good supper and enjoyed it
as much as we did ours.
_Dec. 28._--"Eben," said Mrs. Summersox in the tone of settled
resignation which she adopted on the day they had moved into the
country. "The cook has gone away to visit her mother, and you will have
to look after the fires."
"Yes, my dear," said Mr. Summersox brightly, without moving his paper.
"The kitchen fire went out while you were at the post office, and I
don't understand the draughts on the heater, and----"
"You don't tell me," said Mr. Summersox, putting down his paper, and
taking up his rôle of spontaneous joy-maker. In order to square himself
with his wife, the world, and his own conscience, he had to see the rosy
side of everything.
"The fire is out, you say. Well, well. Now you mustn't think, my dear, I
induced you to come out here to live without foreseeing just such little
troubles as this. Nothing will please me better than to look after the
fires. Fires are one of the few things I know all about. I have lit all
kinds of them, from a clay pipe to a political bonfire. Lighting the
fires will take me back to my happy youth when I used to light the wood
fires every morning. Gee, it fairly makes me shiver to think of some of
the mornings I used to get up in, and I didn't wear pyjamas then either.
I remember lots of times when I left the kettle boiling on the stove
when I went to bed, and got up to find it full of ice. Those were the
happy days when I laid the foundations of my constitution. And the stove
I used to light was no halter-broke coal stove, with all the modern
improvements, but a rip-snorting, bucking high-oven stove, with a back
draught that would blow out the kindling, and I never used coal oil to
light it, either. Now you just watch me renew my youth with that fire."
"You had better light it now so that it will be ready to turn off when
we go to bed."
"Nonsense. I'll lay the fire to-night, and to-morrow morning I'll pop
out of bed, touch a match to it, and then rush back between the blankets
as I used to when a boy."
"Very well," said Mrs. Summersox with a little sigh.
Taking up a lamp Mr. Summersox went down cellar and broke up a packing
box for kindling. Then he returned to the kitchen, and while he
slithered off slivers with the carving knife he sang "Old Dan Tucker,"
for his mind was in the past. Then followed much banging of the
stove-lids and rattling of coal, while he laid the fire. When the task
was done to his satisfaction he returned to the sitting-room, and took
up the tale.
"I tell you this life just makes a new man of me. There is nothing like
having to do things for oneself once in a while. It was the
self-reliance that I cultivated when a boy in the country that made me
get along so well in the city that we are now in a position to retire
modestly. You just mark my words, Verbena, when you have been here a
year you can't be hired to go back to the city to live."
Mrs. Summersox smothered a sigh, and her husband resumed his paper.
Next morning when the alarm clock went off at six o'clock the
thermometer had lost its grip on the higher register. But Mr. Summersox
was not to be daunted. Flinging back the blankets with an energy that
uncovered his patient wife, he bounded out on the floor as well as the
chalky deposits in his joints would allow.
"You'd better put on some clothes or you'll catch your death of cold,"
said Mrs. Summersox in a tone as crisp as the atmosphere.
"Tut, tut," said Mr. Summersox as he groped his way towards the kitchen.
Mrs. Summersox tucked the blankets into the small of her back, and
awaited developments. Presently Mr. Summersox called in a restrained
voice:
"Where in--in this igloo do you keep the matches?"
"Under the pantry shelf."
"Under which shelf, Bezonian?"
Mr. Summersox rarely paraphrased Shakespeare except under the stress of
deep emotion.
"Under the bottom shelf."
There was some stumbling, a gratified grunt as the matches were found,
and after a pause a sharp exclamation of pain. Mrs. Summersox didn't
need to be told what had happened. In spite of all her protests he would
insist on lighting matches on his trousers, and now he had forgotten
that all he had on was a thin pair of pyjamas. She stuffed a corner of
the blanket in her mouth and began to take an interest in life.
"Did you light this fire last night?" came from the icy kitchen.
"Indeed, I did not," was the reply from the cosy depths of the blankets.
The cheerfulness of her tone was not lost on Mr. Summersox.
"Well, it is burned out," he bawled.
"Hadn't you better come back and put on your clothes?" she asked in a
choking voice. "Probably there was a live coal in the ashes and it
started the fire after we went to bed. Do be sensible and come and put
on your clothes."
If the world was one vast storehouse of fur-lined overcoats Mr.
Summersox wouldn't have put on another stitch after realising that she
was laughing at him. No, by thunder. He would show her. Disdaining to
make any reply to her chirpy explanation of the calamity, he went down
cellar for more kindling. For a couple of minutes he made a noise like a
railroad wreck, and as he returned to the kitchen he was whimpering to
himself:
"You needn't tell me! I don't believe C-Cook or P-Peary ever went to the
P-Pole. B-r-r-r!"
In the darkness of the parlour bedroom Mrs. Summersox laughed a
noiseless laugh. She hadn't had so good a time since she had left the
city. She could already see visions of a detached house in Rosedale,
with a subdued husband, who was thoroughly cured of his foolish
hankering for the country. Meanwhile, the lids banged, paper rustled,
and coal rattled. Despite the condition of the temperature Mr. Summersox
was evidently working with feverish haste. After a pause, during which
he watched the lighted paper flare up and die out, he suddenly yelled in
desperation:
"Where do you keep the coal oil?"
"In a wicker-covered carboy in the cellar entrance."
Once more the lids banged and Mr. Summersox splashed the contents of the
carboy lavishly over the paper, kindling wood, and coal. Then he struck
a match and applied it to the soaked paper. It spluttered once and went
out. He lit another match. Same fate. As the last vestiges of his
self-control were slipping away he lit a third match. He waited until it
was burning brightly and then plunged it into the midst of the paper and
kindling. It went out quicker than the others. Then Mr. Summersox lifted
up his voice and tore a passion into tatters.
"Confound the greedy, griping, soulless Standard Oil Company anyway. If
I didn't want it to light that confounded oil would explode at the sight
of the cook's red hair, and here I can't light it with a forced draught.
The whole cursed corporation ought to be rooted out and drowned in its
own incombustible product. What is the flash point of this condemned
coal oil anyway?" Not being a swearing man, Mr. Summersox was greatly
handicapped in dealing with so universal a sinner as the Standard Oil.
Just as he was going to start on a second outburst his wife called
softly:
"Eben, dear. Are you sure you didn't take the carboy of vinegar? It
stands beside the coal oil."
"Vinegar, woman? Did you say vinegar?" He sniffed at the fluid, and then
his whiskers began to bristle with rage.
"What in blazes do you think I am trying to do? To make a salad? If I
didn't have more sense than to put the vinegar beside the coal oil I'd
go and run a junk shop, instead of pretending to be a housekeeper."
Mrs. Summersox was altogether too happy to resent the attack. The cosy
bed shook with her silent laughter. Meanwhile her husband put fresh
paper under the kindling and poured on so much oil to neutralise the
vinegar that when he touched a match to it it started with a blaze that
singed off his eyebrows. Banging the door shut he started for the
parlour bedroom with chattering teeth, and feet so numb with cold that
he hobbled rather than ran.
"Turn on the draughts on the heater," shouted his wife.
"It's out!" he snarled as he still approached rapidly like a runaway
iceberg on the high seas. Mrs. Summersox was filled with sudden alarm.
"Eben Summersox! Don't you dare to come bouncing into this bed and
giving me my death of cold. If you touch me with your cold hands or feet
I'll----" But she never told what she would do. With a wild, despairing
scramble her husband clawed at the clothes with numb fingers, and then
plunged between the blankets like a hunted thing.
"Well, I hope you are satisfied," said Mrs. Summersox tartly. "If this
is the way the joys of your youth are going to turn out I should think
this would cure you."
"W-what are y-you talking about? The whole trouble is that we tried to
bring city conveniences with us to the cu-country. A man needs a course
in a technical college before trying to run one of those coal stoves. I
am going down town to-day to get a couple of wood stoves, and I'll throw
those confounded coal stoves on the scrap heap. The country is all
right, but if you are going to live in it and enjoy it you must live as
country people do. I am going to root out of this house everything that
has to do with city life, and then I can live as a man should."
At this point Mrs. Summersox resumed her air of resignation and sighed
deeply. There was silence for a while, and then a knock sounded from the
kitchen door. Mr. Summersox blazed with wrath.
"What miserable idiot is knocking at this hour of the morning? He can
just knock till he is tired, and then come back at a reasonable hour."
The knock sounded again, louder than before. Mr. Summersox sulked. His
wife sighed once more and stirred as if about to get up, but was careful
not to uncover herself.
"Oh, well, I suppose I must get up and see who it is."
Mr. Summersox threw back the clothes and went to the door intending to
work off his wrath on the intruder. When he came back he was almost
cheerful.
"It's the cook," he volunteered.
"Well, I am glad she had the kitchen fire lit when she came in out of
the cold."
"She hadn't. It went out," snapped Mr. Summersox.
Then silence reigned in the parlour bedroom until the warmth from the
newly-lighted heater began to take the chill off the air.
_Dec. 31._--I want to fulfil a promise I made some time ago that I would
sum up the results of my experiment at farming before the end of the
year and tell frankly what it means to get back to the land. I cannot do
that in facts and figures because I have not received the returns for my
shipment of apples, and yet I feel that I got enough from it to justify
me in saying something. But what I got is not the sort of thing that a
man can store in his granary or deposit in a bank. It can be set down
only in terms of personal satisfaction with the world we live in. What I
am treasuring is chiefly the memory of spacious days, serene hours, and
emotions that were not even productive of thought. That seems rather
hazy, does it not? And yet it seems everlastingly worth while. After
having felt the grip and grind of the world it is something to feel
peaceful and secure for a few hours.
And now let us get back to the real advantages of farming and country
life. The prevailing idea with many people is that it is monotonous and
lonely. It has never struck me in that way, and I take much satisfaction
in quoting what Thoreau replied when questioned about the loneliness of
his life.
"What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and
makes him solitary? I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring
two minds much nearer to one another. What do we want most to dwell near
to? Not to many men, surely--but to the perennial source of our life,
whence in all our experience we have found it to issue, as the willow
stands near the water and sends out its roots in that direction. This
will vary with different natures, but this is the place where a wise man
will dig his cellar."
There are joys surpassing the joys of any success, of good harvests, of
fat steers, or anything that most farmers desire and take account of,
but these joys cannot be set down in words. I can only ask the poets to
suggest them for you. Whitman says in one of those seemingly egotistical
passages where he is really voicing the soul of things:
"I will never translate myself at all only to him or her who privately
stays with me in the open air."
In the supreme hours of the open life of the country those who are able
to feel and see and enjoy reap a harvest that is beyond all sordid
dreams. At such times they care little for your trusts and mergers, or
for what the future may have in store. And though these days cannot last
those who have once enjoyed them feel that they counterbalance all the
failures and worries and bitterness of life.