power of an ordinary man to foresee or provide for. When the new stable
was built the corner came within less than a foot of the corner of the
granary. Of course it was intended to nail a board in the opening so as
to make a complete shelter for the cattle in the winter, but somehow we
never got around to doing it, and in the meantime the opening was handy
for the children to squeeze through sideways. No one ever thought that
any of the livestock, except the cats, would ever attempt the passage,
and that mistaken idea almost cost us a calf. When the cattle were being
put in last night one of the calves felt altogether too frisky to go in
to be tied, even though the manger was full of choice hay. He ran away
into the orchard, and when brought back made a break into the pasture
field. When rounded up once more we were all on hand to shoo him through
the stable door. A boy had him by the tail to steer him straight, but
at the last second he made a jump sideways, dragging the boy with him,
and plunged head-first through the opening between the stable and
granary. His head and shoulders went through easily, showing that he has
the wedge shape valued by breeders, but his hip bones were too wide.
When I reached him he had pulled through so that he couldn't be backed
up because of his spreading ribs and couldn't go through all the way
because of the hip bones. He was as firmly fixed as one of those
bass-wood plugs the boys used to force through a board when boiled soft.
They used to offer it as a puzzle, and ask you to get out the plug. It
had been put in, so why couldn't it be taken out? When I examined that
calf I almost made up my mind that he would have to be boiled before he
could be taken out. At least he would have to be taken out in sections
or we would have to move one of the buildings. Before taking desperate
measures, however, I examined things carefully and decided that by
prying a couple of the siding boards off the granary there was a bare
chance that there would be room to get him through. This was done by the
expenditure of much man and boy power, and he got through by a hair's
breadth. In fact, I think it was a closer shave than that, for there
are hairs on the corners of both buildings. The experience took the
foolishness out of him, and as soon as he was free he meekly allowed
himself to be driven into the stable. And that reminds me that I haven't
nailed a board on that opening yet. I must attend to it at once or one
of the bigger animals will be trying the passage, and I shall have real
trouble.
_XIII.--Cow Character_
It is when a fellow settles down to do the chores twice a day and every
day that he gets thoroughly acquainted with his livestock. When the
cattle are in the pasture field they look pleasant and pose for their
pictures when people come along with cameras, but when they are put in
stalls and waited on hand and--I mean foot and mouth, they develop all
sorts of little meannesses--just like human beings. One little cow
starts to shake her head until her horns are simply a dangerous blur
every time I go to loosen her chain to let her out to water. I have had
several narrow escapes from being prodded, but it is useless to yell at
her, or even to use the whip on her. She will start shaking her head as
soon as I lay my hand on the chain, and she keeps it up until the chain
drops from her neck. Another brute has the habit of swinging quickly
towards me as soon as she feels the chain loosen, and I have to
side-step like a prize-fighter to get out of the way of her horns. But
I am glad to record that the Red Cow, variously known as Calamity and
Fenceviewer I., can be untied safely, even by a child. When the chain is
opened she backs quietly from the stall and walks to the stable door in
a dignified manner--unless there happens to be a pail standing around
where she can poke an investigating nose into it. She is always on the
lookout for something to eat, and she always enjoys it better if it is
something she should not have.
[Illustration]
_XIV.--Calf Feeding_
After all, it is the things that we see every day that are the hardest
to see. Here we have been feeding the calves by a method of our own all
summer without realising that there was anything unusual or amusing
about it. It was a city visitor who finally opened our eyes, or at least
partly opened them, to the comedy of our calf feeding. Frankly, I can't
see that there is anything very funny about it yet, but as he persists
in throwing fits over it every time the calf feeding occurs I am going
to describe it in the hope that some one else may get a good,
health-giving laugh. All summer we have had three calves that came to
the orchard fence twice a day to get their ration of skim milk and
feeding flour. When feeding time came the pails of feed were placed
beside the fence and the calves stuck their heads through between the
wires and helped themselves. As the work settled down to part of the
regular daily routine Sheppy was also taught to attend to one of the
details.
As all who have had dealings with calves are aware, they will stand
around for half an hour after feeding time and suck one another's ears
in a vain attempt to get more nourishment. In order to break them of
this practice it was Sheppy's part to wait until they had finished their
meal and then scatter them to different sides of the pasture. The whole
business became quite a matter of fact. Sheppy wouldn't bother the
calves while they were waiting for their feed or while they were
feeding, but just as soon as they lifted their heads from the pails
Sheppy jumped for them, and with tails in the air they scattered over
the pasture at no ordinary rate of speed. Our city visitor regarded it
as the most remarkable combination of a quick lunch counter meal
superintended by a saloon bouncer that he had ever witnessed. He would
point out as well as he could between fits of laughter that the bouncer
added to the free lunch counter was a wonderful improvement, and that he
was going to recommend it to the managers of city cafeterias as soon as
he got home. Such places sometimes get crowded at lunch hour by people
who will linger over their coffee, but if an efficient bouncer were
employed who would send them on their way as Sheppy sends the calves,
fewer people would have to wait in line for their "sinkers" and coffee.
Moreover, the patrons would be startled into taking an amount of
exercise that would probably help their digestion. Now you have the
whole story and can decide for yourselves whether the city visitor had
any cause for his unhallowed mirth. We certainly regard it as part of
the daily routine, and Sheppy goes about his part of the work as
solemnly as if the whole management of the farm depended on it.
[Illustration]
_XV.--A Cow Trick_
I hate to revive the old-fashioned cow-poke, but I don't know what else
to do. Fenceviewer II., eldest daughter of the Red Cow, has discovered
that even a wire fence can't stand the pressure of a little over half a
ton of muscular beef. Part of the wire fencing on the farm is of a kind
that was popular a number of years ago. It consists of seven strands of
wire tightly stretched along the posts, with upright slats fastened
every few feet. It is a presentable-looking fence, and for all ordinary
purposes is entirely satisfactory, but this cow has discovered that by
pushing her head through between the wires and throwing her weight
against the fence she can break the wooden uprights and walk right
through. The result is that unless she is watched she helps herself to
apples in the orchard whenever she feels like it. She can go through the
fence anywhere whenever she wants to. But, though the other cows see her
do it, they do not seem to learn the trick. This convinces me that the
Red Cow is not quite so intelligent as I thought. When her daughter
pushes through the fence, and is helping herself to the apples, the red
pirate sticks her head over the top wire and bawls enviously. Of course,
as long as she approaches the fence in that way it turns her
successfully. Fenceviewer II. pokes her head through about half way up
on the height of the fence. When she pushes forward she is able to step
over the lower wires, throwing the top wires over her back after the
upright slats are broken. She shows some intelligence in the way she
attacks the fence, but what interests me is that she knows enough to
exercise her whole strength in getting through.
If our domestic animals once learned to use their strength in this way
there would be no controlling them. They would cross the country, in
spite of fences, like the new "tanks" they are using in battle. The
little tricks of cunning the animals develop, such as throwing down rail
fences and working gates open, can be defeated by a little care, but if
they once learned how strong they are and the effect of their whole
weight when thrown against an obstacle we would not be able to manage
them. They could break through the walls of their stables, and no
ordinary fence could withstand them. Of course, I know that if I put an
old-fashioned poke on this brute it would probably beat her, because the
pole in front would go under the lower wires and bring them against her
chest, so that she would have to break the wires to get through. But
pokes haven't been seen in this part of the country for years, and I am
afraid that if I made one and put it on this insurgent cow it would
cause an awful lot of talk. People going past in automobiles would see
it, and they would talk also. As it is getting near the end of the
season I shall get over the difficulty by keeping the cow in at night
and putting her out to pasture in the daytime in a field that has proper
woven fences. I know the poke would do the trick, but really, though you
may not believe it, there are some things that I haven't the nerve to
do.
* * * * *
When Fenceviewer II. is on her depredations she indulges in one cow
trick that I should like to have the scientists explain to me. After she
has eaten all the apples she wants she makes for the hay stacks and
proceeds to root at them with her horns and to push herself along
against them as if she were trying to knock them over. I have no doubt
she does this to brush off the flies and scratch herself pleasantly,
but when I see her at it she looks to me to be enjoying herself in a way
not wholly accounted for by the fly and itching theory. When attacking
the stack with her horns she flings her tail in the air and prances as
if she were trying a new tango step. Then she hurls herself against the
stack and rubs along against it until she reaches the other end, where
she throws up her head, with a wisp of hay on her horns, and looks as if
she were enjoying life to the full. All cows will do this when they get
a chance--at least all cows I have had dealings with. Perhaps purebreds
that have their names in the herd book may be above such tricks, but I
doubt it. Anyway, cows are the only animals that do this. I have never
known horses, pigs or sheep to do it, though the flies no doubt bother
them too, and they also must feel itchy at times. But if you let cows
get at a stack they will rub against it until it looks like a monster
mushroom. I have even known cows to keep on rubbing against a strawstack
until the central stem got worn so small that the heavy top tumbled over
on them, and they had to be dug out with much labour. I wish some
scientist who isn't busy would tell me why cows go at stacks in this
way. They didn't have stacks to rub against in their wild state, and I
never see them rub against trees or buildings. And when the scientists
are at it I wish they would tell me why it is that a horse when rolling
seems to prefer a soft spot where he can get all muddy, so that you will
have to put in an extra half-hour when currying him before driving to
town.
Drat that cow! She must have known that I was writing about her and
decided to give a demonstration. When I stepped out a few minutes ago I
found her helping herself to apples from the lower branches, and as I
had my mind on the present price of apples I didn't call to her to make
herself at home or tell her that she was welcome. Quite the contrary.
And when Sheppy and I started to put her out she made for the nearest
haystack with a joyous little bawl and almost upset it as she ploughed
along the side of it. I am afraid I must resort to a poke, no matter
what people may think or say about it. And you may be sure that when any
more fencing is done on the farm I shall use woven wire, or rather
fencing that is fastened together without the use of brittle wooden
slats. This cow will probably be a nuisance until we either sell her or
put up new fences. She knows too much, and as she has inherited a full
portion of her mother's impudence there will be no controlling her.
[Illustration]
_XVI.--Cow Cussedness_
Much as I hate to admit it, Fenceviewer and her tribe have me beaten to
a standstill--or, to be more exact, they have been keeping me on the run
all the time. Some weeks ago I told how Fenceviewer II. had solved the
mystery of the wire fence that is made of separate strands of wire
strengthened by upright slats. She found that by poking her head through
between the wires and throwing her weight against it she could force her
way through wherever she wanted to. At the time I threatened to make a
poke for her, but as it was the orchard she was breaking into the need
for keeping her out disappeared when the apples were packed and shipped.
But a couple of days ago the carrots and beets in the garden were dug
and the red brute immediately took advantage of the fact that one side
of the garden is fenced with slatted wire. After she had reached the
carrots a couple of times I listened to advice and fastened a board on
her face--a sort of wooden veil.
Making cow-pokes is quite a job, and the art has been lost in this
neighbourhood, where they have well-bred cows that lack ambition. But I
was told that a board on her face would do the trick just as well. They
did not know the Fenceviewer strain. After dressing her in her new
costume I turned her loose and watched through a knothole in the
drive-shed. She walked straight to the fence near the carrots and began
to experiment. The board bothered her, for she couldn't make a head-on
attack on the fence, but it didn't bother her long. She soon found that
by approaching sideways she could see well enough to swing her head
between the wires and then push through. I interrupted her before she
reached the carrots, and then Sheppy drove her to the other side of the
field so that I could get time to cool off and think things over. But I
didn't cool off. I had noticed that while the brute was working her way
through the fence she was being watched by her mother, Fenceviewer I.,
the original red cow of the lot, but as the old pirate had not learned
the trick sooner I did not think she would learn. Ten minutes later I
found her at the carrots. It had finally dawned on her how the trick was
done. I drove her out with sticks and harsh cries, but I had barely
closed the gate before she was poking through the fence again in the
most approved manner of her daughter.
That settled it. I rounded up the flock and drove them into a field that
is surrounded by woven wire fences and left them there. The pasture
doesn't amount to much, but it is not likely that the weather will make
it possible for us to pasture them more than a week or two longer, so
they will have to be given extra feed night and morning and have their
run confined to the cow-proof field. Next year, if they have not
forgotten the trick, they will have to be sold or I will be forced to
put up new fences such as would not be needed for reasonable and
right-minded cows.
_XVII.--Teaching a Calf_
When I got home I found a fresh calf waiting to be taught how to drink
out of a pail. Now that several days have passed, I feel that I can
mention the subject in proper language. Breaking in young calves is just
the same job now as it was when the world was young. I dare say there is
really nothing new that one can say about it, but there seems to be a
sort of relief in saying some of the same old things over again. This is
a particularly lusty and likely calf, grandson of Fenceviewer I., "that
serpent of Old Nile," familiarly known as the Red Cow. He proves that
there is something in the law of atavism, for he takes after his
unregenerate and belligerent grandmother rather than after his gentle,
though somewhat sneaky, mother. Anyway, when I took the pail of milk and
started in to nourish him I found him more stiff-necked than a Cabinet
Minister. Still, the line of approach was better. I straddled his neck
and pushed his head into the milk so that he was forced either to drink
it or inhale it. One could hardly treat a Cabinet Minister in that way,
much as he would like to. But to our calf. Once more the lesson has been
forced on me that when feeding a calf one should not be arrayed in the
glory of Solomon, or in other words that he should not wear the clothes
he wore to the city especially if he ever expects to wear them there
again. Even a commodious pair of overalls is not a sufficient
protection. The boy who was hovering on the outskirts of the trouble and
pretending to help was properly dressed for the occasion in a
three-piece suit--shirt, pants, and one suspender. When that calf gave a
sporadic bunt that squirted milk into my eye and variously plastered me,
I wanted to give him a six months' hoist with the toe of my boot, but I
restrained myself. (You will notice that Parliamentary phrases stick in
my vocabulary after a visit to Ottawa.) However, I am glad to report
that the calf is now so much subdued that the boy in the three-piece
suit is able to attend to him.
_XVIII.--Calf Exuberance_
Last night Juno got loose, and for a few minutes there was excitement
around the stable. Juno is a fall calf, daughter of Fenceviewer II., and
owing to the scarcity of stable room she is being pampered and fed up
for veal. At the time of her arrival the children named her Jupiter, but
on second thought it was considered that Juno would be more appropriate.
Up to last night she had lived in a small calf pen at the end of the
stable, but the fastening on the gate came loose and she discovered what
her legs were for. She shot out through the stable door in a way that
sent the hens flying over the hay stacks. Then she tripped over a sheaf
of cornstalks that I had dropped on the ground while preparing to feed
the cows, sprawled at full length, bounced right up and rushed ahead
until she was brought to a standstill by a wire fence in a way that
almost telescoped her neck into her body. Finding that the wire fence
would not yield she said "Bah-wah" and started in another direction.
Sheppy was coming around the corner of the granary in his most sedate
manner, when the pop-eyed avalanche almost stepped on him. When last
seen Sheppy was plunging blindly between two haystacks with his tail
between his legs. A flock of hens that were enjoying their evening bran
mash next attracted her attention, and she made an offensive straight at
them. When they were thoroughly scattered she rushed the ducks from a
mud puddle, and the squawking they made startled her so that she applied
the brakes and threw on the reverse. It was a wonderful exhibition of
vitality, and showed what a milk diet can do for one. The next I heard
of Juno was when I was stooping over to pick up a sheaf of cornstalks,
and if you can picture to yourself a dignified man in that attitude with
a lusty calf prancing behind him and going through the motions of
getting ready to bunt you can understand the joyous laughter with which
the children shouted a warning. I sidestepped in the nick of time and
shooed Juno away to the orchard, where she could enjoy herself without
getting into trouble. After the chores were done I took a pail that was
as empty as a political platform and she followed me right back into
the pen just like an intelligent voter. I could do a little moralising
right here, but it is not considered good form to talk politics just
now.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SHEEP
[Illustration]
_XIX.--Our First Sheep_
A great event has happened on the farm. Obeying the urgent appeals of
the Food Controller, the littlest boys decided to go into sheep-raising.
Having ideas of my own about sheep, I did not presume to advise them in
their plans. If I were going in for sheep my inclination would be to
invest in the old pioneer variety that were half goat and half
greyhound. Those sheep were entirely capable of taking care of
themselves. You never had to worry lest they should get cast in a
furrow. They were much more likely to get marooned on the ridge pole of
the barn while pursuing some of their adventures. Fences meant nothing
in their lives, and no matter where they strayed you could trust them to
"come home, bringing their tails behind them." But so many scientists
call to see us that even the children are getting high-toned notions and
nothing would do them but properly registered, pedigreed sheep from a
prize-winning flock. They made their own negotiations, drew their
savings from the bank and started into business with four ewe lambs. My
first active interest in the new venture occurred when the sheep were
brought home. I was called out to help get them into the sheep pen that
had been built for their reception. When I appeared on the scene the
sheep all had their backs to the door, and in their eyes there was an
expression that suggested the popular song: "Where Do We Go From Here?"
It was quite evident that they had no intention of going through the
door. As we crowded in on them I spread myself out so as to cover as
wide an area as possible, feet well apart and arms outstretched. I am
not exactly clear as to what happened, but the sensation I had was that
one sheep went under each arm, one between my legs and the other over my
head. Anyway, by the time I had recovered my scattered wits they were in
a far corner of the orchard, bleating pathetically.
* * * * *
The children rounded them up once more, while Sheppy, though a
thoroughbred Collie, hovered around wondering what these creatures were.
I don't believe he ever before had a close view of a sheep, but if
Darwin is right, he would very soon show inherited instinct, and know
just what to do in order to handle them. But the children had no faith
in Sheppy. They threw clods and told him to "go home, sir!" which he did
in a humiliated manner. As the sheep were again approaching the pen I
had a chance to observe their startling efficiency in the control of
burrs and weeds. I have been assured that if we had kept sheep the farm
would have been in a much tidier condition, and I am inclined to think
that the statement is true. One of the sheep, on its way back to the
pen, saw a well-loaded burdock that had been overlooked. It stopped to
nibble a few burrs, and when it was shooed on, it didn't stop to walk
around the obstruction. It simply walked straight over it, and when it
had passed there was not a burr left on the stalks. Every solitary one
had been caught in the sheep's wool, much to the disgust of the youthful
owners, but I felt a certain amount of relief, because there is now no
danger that the neighbourhood of that burdock will be seeded down for
next year. It appears that what the sheep do not eat in the way of burrs
they gather in their wool, and in that way clean up the farm. I am not
quite sure that the scientists will approve of this method of weed
control, but that is how the matter stands at the present writing. After
several attempts at driving the sheep into the pen we finally decided
to corner them and catch them one by one. This was done, and the
perspiring family was presently in a position to take a good look at the
little flock in their pen. Far be it from me to dash the optimism of the
youthful shepherds, but I could not bring myself to verify the belief
that triplets are almost as frequent as twins among lambs. Still, wool
promises to be a good price and the speculators stand a good chance of
realising on their venture. Best of all, they will be helping the work
of food production, which is now so urgent.
* * * * *
The human inhabitants of the farm were not the only ones that were
interested in the advent of the sheep. The young cattle ran for their
lives when they saw them, and you could hear the colts snort for at
least a mile. The Red Cow did not get excited but she bestowed a
disdainful glance on them that reminded me of the lady in Tennyson, who
"Stretched a vulture neck
And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile."
She is too blasé to get excited about anything except another cow, with
whom she might have to fight for the leadership of the herd, but she
shewed in every line of her face and form that sheep were something new
to her and that she didn't think much of them. The colts were the most
excited of all. They ran around the sheep in large circles, snorting and
shying. Whenever they crossed the tracks of the sheep they seemed to
catch the unaccustomed scent like hound dogs and their excitement
increased amazingly. Finally they got the sheep frightened, and in order
to prevent trouble, we had to put the colts in another field. Though
several days have passed the colts do not seem to get used to their new
neighbours, and they snort with terror whenever they have to pass the
sheep pen. It is quite evident that they cannot be allowed to run
together for some time.
* * * * *