trick of the prize-ring. While I stood behind Mary Belle he caught her
under the chin in such a way that her back and rump looked broader and
fuller than ever. Then as I walked around in front of her he changed his
position and with a skilful flick of his toe separated her feet so that
she stood with feet well apart. This made her breast look broader and
plumper than any breast of lamb could possibly be. All of which made me
wonder if the fall fairs influence sheep-breeding as much as they do the
art of sheep-showing. I wonder if all the other animals of the show-ring
are handled in the same expert way.
_XXVI.--Our Lawn Mower_
Once more opportunity has knocked at my door and I failed to take
advantage, and now it is too late. When the lamb had his leg broken he
and his mother and sister were kept in the orchard, so that he wouldn't
have to run about so much. The orchard includes the lawn around the
house, and as the spring advanced the lawn naturally was the first spot
to offer inviting pasture. The result was that the sheep came right up
to the door to nibble the young and juicy grass. Mary Belle pushed her
way through the fence so that she could be with her young friends and
the flock were able to make quite a showing in their attacks on the
grass. I was not long in noticing how well they did the work that I
usually have to do with a lawn mower, and I saw where I could have some
freedom from this irksome task this summer, simply by turning the sheep
to graze on the lawn from time to time. From this discovery it was only
a logical step to think of having the sheep patented as lawn mowers so
that any one who used my idea would be obliged to pay me a royalty that
might grow to such proportions that it would attract the attention of
the Minister of Finance. It was a beautiful idea, for if I could only
get all the lawns in the country paying tribute to me there would be no
end to my income. But while I was talking about it and telling people
how they could sit around wearing diamonds when I made my fortune by my
new idea the papers brought the news that President Wilson had just
bought a dozen Shropshire sheep to clip the lawn at the White House.
This makes the great idea public property. It is too late to get a
patent on it now. Still there is some satisfaction in remembering that
great minds run in the same channel. The busy President has hit on the
same trick as I have to get out of the tiresome job of running the
early-rising lawn mower.
PIGS
[Illustration]
_XXVII.--Clementine_
In spite of the prevailing atmosphere of laziness there is one brisk
thing on the place. Clementine, the pet pig, broke out of her pen this
morning, and as the children are at school she is allowed to roam at
will. She is positively brisk in hustling for apples in the orchard and
for heads of oats around the oat stack. And wherever she goes Sheppy
follows her, growling and barking. He knows that she should not be
running loose, but he hasn't the courage to put her in her place. There
were no pigs about when Sheppy was receiving his somewhat skimpy
education, so he doesn't know what to do with Clementine. Apparently she
understands this, for she pays no attention to him except when he gets
too tiresome with his barking and growling. At such times she opens her
mouth and runs at him, and Sheppy almost falls over himself in his
attempts to get out of the way. Of course, it looks absurd to see a big
dog running out of the way of a little pig, roasting size, but I think
the secret is that Sheppy feels ashamed to snap at so little a creature.
But some day she will get a terrible surprise. If she comes around when
Sheppy is having his dinner and tries to help herself there will be
immediate trouble. That is where friendship ceases with Sheppy. I have
known him to kill a pet kitten in about two seconds because it tried to
help itself from his dish. Clementine will be sure to try it if she is
around when he is being fed and then there will be doings. She will be
even more surprised than she was in the stable last night. When we were
milking Clementine strayed in, grunting pleasantly, to see what she
could find. The kittens had also come for their evening portion of fresh
milk. Presently Clementine, like her namesake in the song,
"Stubbed her toe upon a kitten,
Drefful sorry, Clementine!"
The kitten let out a yeowl when the pig stepped on it that would have
done credit to a full-grown cat. Its mother, Lady Jane Grey, rushed to
the rescue and raked Clementine from shoulder to hip with distended
claws. "Whee! Whee!" said Clementine as she shot through the door. She
may think herself capable of bossing dogs, but she has no illusions
about cats.
* * * * *
While sitting in the hammock after dinner I had a chance to observe
Clementine closely as she nosed around to see if any pears had fallen
lately. While looking at her I was haunted by a sense of something
familiar. Where had I seen that smile before? You know that the pig is
the one thing in nature that has the "smile that won't come off." The
corners of its mouth are permanently turned up so that it can hardly
stop smiling even when it is squealing for swill. And when it is
contented it seems to be smiling from the corners of its mouth to the
jaunty little curl in its tail. While watching Clementine I realised
that I had seen that smile before somewhere. After cudgelling my memory
for a while I suddenly remembered. Her smile is exactly like that of the
get-rich-quick promoter, the newly appointed office-holder, and other
men who have been selfishly successful. As I realised this I called up
pictures of scores of men with smoothly-shaven jowls and the pink cheeks
of eupeptic high feeding--and all of them had the same smile as
Clementine. From dealings I have had with them I know that they also
have much of her nature. It may seem to serious-minded people that I
might be better employed than in studying the smile of a pet pig, but I
do not think so. In future I shall be on my guard against sleek citizens
who habitually wear Clementine's smile. You know I have been misled in
the past by Shakespeare's lines:
"Let me have about me men that are fat,
Sleek headed men and such as sleep o' nights."
I had an idea that fat men are usually good-natured and honest, and that
that was why Cæsar wanted them in his Cabinet. But when I recall the
actors who played with Booth I remember that most of the conspirators
who killed Cæsar were fat. Moreover, I remember that in his recent book
on dieting Vance Thompson asserts that most of the men guilty of the
crimes of high finance are fat men. Though he didn't say so, I am
willing to bet a cookie that they all had a smile like Clementine's.
Come to think of it, there are a distressing lot of fat men with that
kind of smile to be seen around the hotel lobbies in our big cities just
now, but I have made a careful study of the pet pig and shall be on my
guard.
_XXVIII.--Feeding Pigs_
Consarn a pig anyhow. I know how important pigs are just now, and we are
making arrangements to raise our share of them, but that doesn't make me
like them a bit better. Until this year we have contented ourselves with
raising an occasional pig for our own use, but when preparing for this
year's meat supply I felt expansive and bought a couple of plump little
pigs. I admit that I like little pigs--both alive and roasted. Their
perpetual smile, which even a session in the oven can't take off,
appeals to me. But a full-grown, able-bodied pig is another
matter--especially at feeding time. The two that we have finishing for
winter pork have long since passed from the innocent, engaging suckling
pig stage and have developed all the disagreeable mannerisms of the
full-grown hog. To make matters worse, our arrangements for keeping hogs
are of the old-fashioned kind that bring out all the bad qualities of
the pig. When making necessary changes about the barn the old pigpen
was torn down and this year's pen is a makeshift of the kind that you
find among backward farmers--a small pen for them to sleep in and a
larger pen built of rails, where they get their feed and take the air.
The trough is a light affair made of a couple of boards, and they have
no trouble in rooting it all over the pen, so that it has to be pulled
around and turned right side up every time the brutes are fed. Things
were not so bad until the pigs grew up, but now I dread feeding them
more than any chore on the place. They can see me mixing the chop feed
and the whole neighbourhood can hear the abuse they heap on me for being
so slow. The remarks that they make in hog language about the Food
Controller on this farm would not look well in print. When I start
towards the pen with their rations my two fat friends are always
standing up with their front feet hooked over the top rail of their pen
and their mouths wide open and squalling. I have a club handy so that I
can beat them back while I pull the trough into shape, but I have to
drop it when I go to put the feed before them. This job is a regular
fight. I have to hold the pail as high as I can and try to tilt a little
of the feed into one end of the trough, in the hope of occupying them
while I spread the rest evenly. I am lucky if I manage the trick without
spilling the feed, and the racket is deafening. By the time I am done I
am "all het up" and feel like taking the club and giving them a good
mauling. I know I am to blame myself for having things in such shape,
but that doesn't make me like the pigs a bit more. However, the trouble
will be over in about a week, and we shall have a new pen and a proper
trough for the next batch of pigs that we are arranging to raise for the
good of the country. A man can fight a couple of pigs at meal times, but
a whole litter would probably prove unmanageable.
_XXIX.--Beatrice_
The big sow that has been added to the farm live stock is making herself
quite at home. She doesn't expect us to make company of her. She is
willing to help herself and seems to feel hurt when we insist on
superintending her helpings. The children have named her Beatrice,
though I can't figure out just why. Beatrice suggests to me something
slim and gracile rather than two hundred pounds of hump-backed and
enterprising pork. They couldn't have picked up the name from anything
they have heard me calling her since her arrival on the farm. I have
called her many names, but I am quite certain that none of them sounded
anything like Beatrice. It must have been an inspiration on their part,
and we shall see how it works out. As Beatrice is not being fed up for
pork but just being given a ration calculated to keep her in good
health, she has a wide margin of unappeased appetite. Whenever she hears
any one stirring she is up and about at once, and to cross the barnyard
with a pail of anything is quite a feat. Occasionally I take a pail of
swill to the granary to add a few handfuls of chop-feed before giving it
to Beatrice and I find the experience rather exciting. She makes a
squealing rush at me as soon as I open the gate and tries to get her
nose into the pail. I kick her out of my way and then cross the yard to
the granary door, kicking back like a horse at every few steps. I have
heard at different times about educated pigs, but I seriously doubt if
any trainer has been able to teach a pig table manners. You can teach a
dog or a cat or a horse to beg for a dainty morsel, but I don't believe
any one could teach a pig to wait when food is in sight. Beatrice wants
what she wants when she wants it, and she doesn't care who hears her
asking for it.
* * * * *
When Beatrice arrived she was put in the pen in which we kept the two
pigs that we fattened for home-cured pickled pork and bacon, but it
didn't seem to give her a chance for sufficient exercise, so we decided
to shift around the pigpen so that it would give her an entrance to the
barnyard. Since that has been done there has been nothing but trouble.
Not a door or gate can be left open for a moment, or the marauding
Beatrice will be in mischief. As a matter of fact, she no sooner got
access to the barnyard than she deserted the pigpen altogether. Although
her sleeping room was filled with nice clean straw, she wouldn't look at
it. Instead, she began to root around the strawstack and to gather a big
pile of loose straw on the south side. She chose the side that was
sheltered from the prevailing northwest wind, and constructed a nest
that is entirely to her own taste. When she gives up hope of getting any
more food each day she burrows her way into her pile of straw and tucks
it around her like a blanket. When I go to the barnyard after night I
can hear her grunting rhythmically under about four feet of straw.
As long as I do not bang a pail or make a noise like something eatable
she remains at rest, but if anything happens that conveys to her the
idea that something to eat is about, there is an instant earthquake in
the pile of straw, and Beatrice emerges with open mouth and complaining
lungs. Then the business of kicking and name-calling is resumed. We are
hopeful that Beatrice will do her part in the urgent business of
meeting the pork shortage, and for that reason are willing to put up
with her bad manners, but we do not expect to learn to love her very
much.
_XXX.--Pig Frightfulness_
Beatrice continues to make her presence felt on the farm. A few days ago
a boy whose mind was not synchronising properly with his body was doing
chores. While his body was getting oats for the horses his mind was
tilting with Wilfrid of Ivanhoe or "running a course with grinded
lances" with Richard the Lionheart, or the knight of the Couchant
Leopard. As he was away back in the Dark Ages his mind could not be
expected to make his body attend to such trivial things as shutting
granary doors in the last days of 1917. He left the granary door open.
Beatrice saw her opportunity and heaved up her bulk among the bags and
the bins. Shortly afterwards another boy of a tidy nature happened to be
passing the granary. As his mind was right up to the needs of the minute
he shut the door--without looking inside. Presently word was brought to
me that Beatrice was lost. I ordered a search on the sideroad and
concession line, but not a trace of her could be found. It was fully
four hours later that some one went to the granary and she was
discovered. The granary looked like the scene of a Hun raid. Beatrice's
frightfulness was astounding. She had torn open bags of beans, shorts,
bran, chop-feed and cotton-seed meal. Apparently she had sampled
everything in the granary and was so full that she couldn't grunt. When
kicked out she gave a little protesting squeal, but she had an extra
curl in her tail that showed how happy she was. She was so full that we
were afraid to give her the usual ration of swill for fear she would
swell up and burst. But there have been no evil effects, and when I go
to the barnyard she gets under my feet and grunts with friendly
impudence. But it is likely to be some time before she finds an open
door again. We have had our lesson.
_XXXI.--A Pig Bath_
Beatrice, like myself, was inclined to rush the season. She seemed to
think as I did that spring, or even summer, was back. On the perfect day
I have been talking about she hunted up a sunlit puddle and indulged in
the first wallow of the season. I am afraid it must have been a rather
cold bath, for there is still ice in the bottom of all the puddles
around the barnyard. But Beatrice must have felt the heat, for she made
a thorough job of her mud-bath. When she got through she was just about
as piggy a pig as you would want to see. She was plastered with black
mud from head to foot, and the tone of her grunting expressed about the
top note of contentment. She wandered into the field where the ploughing
had commenced and began to root in a hopeful spirit. As her nose has
never been restrained with a ring she was able to throw her whole vigour
into the work, but I imagine that it was merely a spring rite rather
than a food conserving effort. She might be able to find a reddock root
that would be good for her blood, but I doubt if there was anything else
available. She didn't stick to the job long, probably coming to the
conclusion that it is more profitable to stick around the granary door.
A while later I saw her sunning herself on the south side of the
strawstack, where the mud could dry on her sides. Now that she has had
her bath she looks surprisingly fresh and clean. The mud must have
scaled off as soon as it was dry, and when it crumbled away it took with
it all the winter's accumulations. She may have done some rubbing
against the gate post or other convenient object, but I did not see her
at it. Anyway her mud bath has left her whiter than she has been all
winter, with a tinge of pink showing that suggests a proper tubbing. The
spring seems to have an improving effect on her temper. Of course she is
always hungry, but she is not so clamorous about it.
_XXXII.--In Extenuation_
Letters that reach me these days usually conclude with a word of
solicitude for Beatrice. Tender-hearted people appear to be shocked by
my references to kicking her out of the way when passing through the
barnyard. I really wish they would tell me what to do when she comes
over the top at me when I am carrying a pail of swill to which the
chop-feed has not been added. It is entirely useless to try to explain
to her that if she will wait a minute she will get a much better dinner.
She wants it right away or sooner, and my kicks simply make her say,
"Whoof! whoof!" As soon as I lower my guard she rushes to the attack
again, and it takes skilful work to get into the granary with the pail
of swill without having it spilled. At present the net result of our
combats is that I have a stubbed toe. I haven't managed to make any
impression on her, mentally or physically. One correspondent urges that
I am doing injury to the "keep-a-pig" campaign by expatiating on her
undesirable qualities. I don't think it is quite so bad as that. I
merely show that pigs should be interned. No one has a deeper
appreciation of a pig as a public duty or as a possible source of
profit, but I don't think I need be blamed if I wish she had better
table manners. I think the littlest boy hit the nail on the head when he
confided to me: "I guess folks call pigs pigs because they are so
piggish." As we have never gone in for hog-raising he had learned the
meaning of piggishness before he learned anything about pigs.
Consequently he thought the name very appropriate. Although Beatrice
raises a "pathetic plaint and wailing cry" whenever there is food in
evidence that she can't get at, she is still a highly esteemed member of
the live stock. The trouble is that I have not learned enough about
Froebelism to be able to "punish her in love."
_XXXIII.--Beatrice Announces_
"Woof! woof! woof!"
Translated and properly censored, this means that Beatrice presents her
compliments to the Food Board and announces the arrival of nine hungry
little bacon producers.
"Woof! woof! woof!"
She also announces that she is food controller for her family and
doesn't care a "woof" for regulations that are made at Ottawa. She
recognises only the law of supply and demand, and if she doesn't get her
full rations of swill, bran and similar necessities she is not afraid to
express her opinions of everything and everybody, including the
censorship. She now has to do the eating for ten, and the job is one for
which she is fitted by both personal inclinations and hereditary
instincts.
"Woof! woof! woof!"
She furthermore announces that she is ready to bite the head off any one
who lays a finger on any member of her family. She stands ready to fight
for them instead of expecting them to fight for her. Good for Beatrice!
"Woof! woof! woof!"
* * * * *
In spite of her high state of belligerency, Beatrice is evidently very
proud of her interesting family. Others may be able to boast larger
families, but none can boast a plumper or lustier brood. (Nine seems to
be the right and mystic number with swine. Hasn't Shakespeare something
about a sow and "her nine farrow"?) They were ready to fight for their
rights and squeal their protests for fair play before they were an hour
old. Every one who has approached the pen to have a peep at them
acknowledges that they are little beauties. They have the irresistible
charm of youth--which can make even the young of a rattlesnake
interesting if not lovable. Beatrice has every reason to be proud of
them, though there doesn't seem to be any reason for being so gruff
about it. A couple of weeks ago _The Globe_ accused me editorially of
being lacking in love for Beatrice. I admit the charge, but claim that
this is a merciful provision of nature. Pigs are only lovable when they
are small and plump and roly-poly. Our love for them does not endure.
"At length the pig perceives it die away
And fade into the light of common day."
If it were not so we would not have the heart to slaughter our pigs and
turn them into necessary bacon. By the time they are full-grown they
have developed their piggish instincts to such an intolerable degree
that we are glad to be rid of them. Instead of berating me for being
lacking in affection, the editor should have drawn a lesson from the
fact that when the time comes to turn our hogs into bacon we are
mercifully enabled to do it without any wrench to our finer feelings. I
protest that at the present time I view the little pigs with tenderness
and affection, but when they are finally fattened I shall have no
compunctions about loading them into a car and shipping them to
Toronto--the place where every good Ontario pig goes when he dies.
_XXXIV.--Receiving_