guest book and requesting all callers to register. Certainly her family
is worth looking at, and up to the present there have been no
casualties. The whole nine are feeding and frisking and laying on fat.
It is really amazing how fast they are growing. They are not only
plumper, but more certain on their feet. Most of them can now stand on
three legs and scratch an ear with a hind foot without losing their
balance. And fight!--I am really ashamed of them. If a couple of the
little rascals meet when wandering around the pen they promptly rush at
each other with open mouths. Of course they are not able to do any
damage, and they may really be playing, but their actions look
bloodthirsty and they manage to raise weals and welts on each other's
skins with their little teeth. All of them have red marks along their
sides, faintly visible, that were caused by embryo tusks in these
little battles that are probably due to an instinct inherited from
fierce old tuskers of the jungle. When not fighting, most of their
waking hours are spent in efforts to root, though their big, floppy ears
seem to overbalance them and they fall on their noses when they try to
put steam in their work. But most of their time is devoted to sleep,
which also has its activities. They huddle together side by side and on
top of one another, and look like a pile of plump sausages. Every few
seconds one of them gives a convulsive little jump as if suffering from
nightmare, and the pile is never still. While watching them yesterday I
had a chance to verify an observation made by a friend. He told me that
in cold weather the little fellows at the end of the pile get chilled
and at once get up and root their way into the middle of the pile, where
they will be warm. At present the air is mild and they were not troubled
much in that way, but once when a draft from an open door struck them
the fellow on the outside felt a chill along his spine. He promptly got
up and pushed his way into the centre by lying on top of the others and
gradually wriggling down. Presently the one that was left exposed felt a
similar chill and followed the example of the first. One after another
went through the performance, and while I was watching them the sleeping
pile moved across the pen, as the changes were all being made from one
end. If it were really cold, so that the fellows on both ends would be
getting chilled and constantly pushing into the centre, their sleeping
hours would be almost as active as the waking hours. Beatrice has
quieted down since the first day and does not seem so much alarmed when
any one approaches. In fact, if one of the family is picked up and makes
a protesting squeal she merely grunts inquiringly. She is very proud of
her family, and already it is evident that she has her favourites. One
little fellow with a cow-lick on his back gets Benjamin's portion at
feeding time, and whenever he comes poking around her head she seems to
caress him with her nose instead of rooting him out of the way. But in a
few weeks she will bite their heads off if they come around her when she
is feeding. As soon as they are able to root for themselves her
affection for them will disappear.
With half a squeal and half a howl
At mealtimes Beatrice starts to prowl;
Her family following close at her heels--
Nine little pigs with nine little squeals.
_XXXV.--Feeding Time_
Pig feeding is now the noisiest function on the farm. The little pigs
are taking their share of skim milk and chop feed from the trough, and
when their complaining falsetto is added to the guttural roar of their
mother there is an intolerable racket on the place. Being every bit as
greedy as she is, they pile into the trough so that it is almost
impossible to get the feed before them. As Beatrice is always consumed
by an ambition to get her nose into the pail while the food is being
poured the work of feeding is accompanied by much kicking and language.
As this interesting family has the run of the barnyard its members have
considerable scope for enjoyment. The recent rains have made possible a
number of satisfactory wallows, and the little pigs get as thoroughly
plastered as their mother. I am not sure whether their care-free
condition excites envy, but I do know that they are not obliged to have
their ears washed and they can go to bed without having their feet
scrubbed--priceless privileges. Although it would be better if they had
a bit of pasture to run in, they are not entirely deprived of green
food. At noon every day they are allowed a run in the orchard with a boy
to watch them and keep them out of mischief. (N.B.--I must cheer up the
boy who has the job by telling him the history of the royal family of
Serbia, which is descended from a swineherd. Also I must encourage him
to read Ivanhoe and get acquainted with Gurth, the swineherd.)
* * * * *
Of course it is a nuisance to have Beatrice and her family at large in
the barnyard, but the world must have bacon, even if we are not properly
equipped for hog-raising. All gates and doors must be kept closed at all
times or there is sure to be trouble. Still, her alert presence
disciplines us to tidiness and occasionally develops a bit of comedy.
Yesterday morning I arrived at the barnyard just in time to witness an
exciting little scene. The boy who looks after the hens had neglected to
take a pail with him when he went to the granary for chicken feed, and
thought he could carry it safely in a straw hat. With his hatful of oats
he turned to close the latch on the granary door, and Beatrice saw her
chance. With a quick rush she grabbed the hat by the crown. The boy
turned with a yell, but he was too late. For a couple of seconds there
was a tug-of-war--pull boy, pull pig, and then the hat tore apart. The
boy had the brim and Beatrice had the crown with its load of oats.
Holding her head aloft, as pigs do when trying to escape with some
tidbit, she held up the crown of the hat and rushed into her pen. She
didn't spill a grain and had a good feed all to herself in a dark
corner. The boy's first impulse was to cry, but when he saw me he began
to scold about having Beatrice loose in the barnyard. The joke was
spoiled for me later in the day when I found that it was my
cow-breakfast hat that had provided the sow breakfast. The boy had worn
it by mistake.
_XXXVI.--Beatrice Belligerent_
Yesterday I received from a correspondent a little jingle that deserves
wide publicity at a time when every one is interested in pigs.
"A little pig with a curly tail
As soft as satin and pinky pale
Is a very different thing by far
From the lumps of iniquity the big pigs are."
That expresses the situation to a T. The nine little pigs on the place
are playful, winsome and amusing, but their able mother, Beatrice, is a
loathsome creature. Among other depredations she put the finishing touch
on our lane. This lane is of evil repute among auto drivers who visit
us, on account of the twists and bumps in it. Well, Beatrice selected a
spot where a defective drain had left the ground soft and trenched it
with a luxurious wallow. Several visitors did not dare to take a chance
on her bathing beach when approaching the house, so left their autos in
the lane and came afoot. Beatrice has also made a couple of sudden
raids on the border of flowers beside the lawn, and managed to get a few
bulbs--whereat much lamentation. Really, it will be a relief when she
finally goes into retirement in a pen to prepare her for doing her bit
on some Allied breakfast table. But her family is still at the lovable
stage.
HORSES
[Illustration]
_XXXVII.--Dolly's Day Off_
I wonder if any scientist has figured out the exact properties of blue
grass. I don't remember seeing anything on the subject, but I am going
to look it up, for blue grass hay seems to have food qualities that are
not suspected by ordinary farmers. Besides being hay it must have the
protein content, fat, starch and all other things that are to be found
in a ration of alfalfa, rolled oats, oilcake and condition powders. It
seems to be as potent as that brand of old English ale of which it was
said that a quart contained "meat, drink and a night's lodging." Anyway,
our dowager driver has had nothing but blue grass to eat all winter, and
instead of developing "that tired feeling" as spring approaches she is
so full of "pep" that she is teaching mischief to her own colts. Of
course, she hasn't had much to do this winter, having convinced us that
trotting was too great a strain on her constitution, and that even
walking must be indulged in cautiously and slowly. In short, she had
managed by her conduct in the harness to have all the driving done by
the other horse, which is a willing if rough-gaited traveller. As we
couldn't spend a whole day on the road when it became necessary to go to
the village we stopped trying to use the old malingerer. And it is not
that she is so old, for she isn't. But whenever the harness was put on
her back she seemed to develop sleeping sickness or some other obscure
ailment, so we gave up using her except for farm work. But blue grass
will out, and now we have fathomed her deep duplicity. She has simply
been imposing on our good nature and there are strenuous days ahead for
her.
* * * * *
A couple of days ago she and her colts were turned out for a run while
the chores were being attended to. They seemed to enjoy their freedom
and galloped around the field until they appeared to be tired. By the
time the chores were done they were all standing at the barnyard gate,
waiting to be let through, and I suspected nothing. When I opened the
gate I reached for Dolly's halter, but she wheeled in her tracks and let
fly at me with both heels. At the same instant the two-year-old crowded
up and I caught him instead. I led him to the stable door and started
him in and then turned to head off his mother, who had started towards
the lane. Instantly she squealed and started towards the road with the
yearling at her heels. The two-year-old heard her and popped out of the
stable.
A moment later the three of them were off towards the road, where the
gate had been left open on account of the snowdrifts. Not suspecting
anything more than an ordinary frolic, I stood by the stable and
whistled for them and called, "Cob Dolly" in my most seductive tones.
But it was useless. When they reached the road they rushed north until
checked by the drifts. Then they stopped, wheeled round and rushed
south, passing the gate as if they had no interest in it. Before
reaching the corner they slowed up. I whistled coaxingly and they
stopped to look back. At this critical point a man with a horse and
buggy turned the corner and started south. At once the three truants
started after him, Dolly in the lead, with her tail in the air. I
watched until they were almost a mile away, and then harnessed the other
horse, conscripted a boy into active service and started in pursuit of
the runaways. By the time we reached the road they were nowhere in
sight, having turned a corner about a mile away. The chase was now on in
earnest.
When we reached the corner we saw the frisky trio nosing along the road
and moving slowly to the east. Approaching cautiously as near as we
dared the boy started on a wide circuit through a wheat field so as to
get ahead of them. To any casual observer it would appear that he was
cutting across the field towards the village to the north, but Dolly is
no mean tactician herself, and she was not to be fooled. Before he had
time to swing towards the road she snorted defiance and galloped away,
with the colts at her heels. The boy came back to the road, climbed into
the buggy, and we started a stern chase. Presently the three turned in
at an open gate, and hope revived. If I could only get past that gate we
could head them off. But the farmer whose property they had invaded
thought he would help by "sicking" the dog on them. I drove wildly, but
it was no use. They beat me to the gate and raced along the road ahead
of me.
At this point I released about seven thousand calories of language, but
it didn't help any. It merely raised my personal temperature to about
one hundred and four. With tails up they galloped along until they came
to a little road that cut across a gore that had been left by the
original surveyors of the township. I saw a chance, and sent the boy
across the fields to head them off. As the little road had rail fences
on both sides it was choked with snowdrifts, so it looked as if this
manœuvre would work. They stopped, and the boy climbed over the fence
ahead of them. In the meantime I drove along until I had passed the
little road and took up a strategic position where I could head them off
and start them towards home as the boy drove them back. Alas for the
vanity of human wishes! The mail carrier had let down the fence a few
rods down the little road so as to avoid the drifts by crossing through
a field. Dolly saw the opening and took advantage of it at once. Into
the field they went.
* * * * *
I admit that it was a beautiful sight to see them cavort around that
ploughed field. It reminded me of a passage in Mazeppa:
"They stop, they snort, they sniff the air,
Gallop a moment here and there,
Approach, retire, wheel round and round,
Then plunging back with sudden bound,
They snort, they foam, neigh, swerve aside!"
But I didn't meditate on the poetry. Instead, I meditated fondly on a
blacksnake whip we used to own when I was a boy. It had a weighted
handle, and a long, snaky lash, and it was said that a man could draw
blood with it. If I had that whip and had Dolly where I could get at
her---- But it was no use thinking what I would do. Dolly had seen the
gap opening out of the far side of the field on to another road and she
led the way to it in high fettle. I believe they would have been going
yet had not a kind-hearted farmer who saw the approaching cavalcade
stepped out on the road and headed them off. This enabled the boy to get
ahead of them with the buggy whip. He started them towards home and I
managed to get them past my corner. Then they went into a pasture field
through an open gate they had missed on their outbound trip. Noticing
that they were hemmed in by a sheet of slippery ice I took an ear of
corn that we had brought along, and by cornering her and tempting her at
the same time I managed to catch her. But I didn't give her that ear of
corn, even though I know one should never fool a horse in that way. I
was afraid she might take it as a reward for her exploit.
When I led her back to the buggy I found that the rope we had taken
along had been lost in the excitement, but I was too mad to say anything
about it. For a dreary mile I led the brute along the road, and when we
reached the home corner I let her go and laid the buggy whip along her
ribs. Really there is little satisfaction in the cheap, light buggy
whips they make nowadays. I merely raised dust from her hide as if I
were beating a carpet, but I didn't feel that the cut I gave her had any
sting to it. When we reached the lane gate she went right past it. She
didn't intend to live with us any more. But another neighbour headed her
off and we finally got her home. This morning I hitched her up to drive
to the village. She started off slowly, picking her steps like a cat,
but I began signalling to her with the buggy whip that I was looking for
some of the speed she had shown the day before. Her hide is an excellent
non-conductor, but I finally made an impression. She eventually caught
my meaning and made a record trip to the village--I mean a record for
her. Now what I am wondering is what she would do if she were fed on
oats as well as blue grass. Anyway, I am going to cure her of the
sleeping sickness, even if I have to invest in a blacksnake whip.
_XXXVIII.--The Colt_
When I got home from the city I found that a great event had happened. A
colt had arrived, and although it was almost eleven o'clock on a cloudy
night, there was great disappointment because I would not take a lantern
and hunt through a fifteen-acre meadow to get a look at the little
stranger. I was firm on the point, however, and denied myself the
pleasure until the following morning. But we all went out to see the
colt before breakfast, much to the distress of Dolly, who thought we had
come to take him away and was ready to defend him with her life. She
circled around him with her ears laid back, and when any one approached
too near she unlimbered her heels for action. I foresee quite a job when
she must be caught and put into harness again. Considering the matter
from an artistic point of view, I fail to see why she should be so proud
of her offspring. At present he seems to be all neck and legs--like the
chickens they use to make boarding-house fricassees. His appearance
reminded me of a remark I once heard: "We shall soon have a horse, for
we already have the frame up." And besides being all legs, his legs are
all joints. Still, "he has his mother's eyes," and I suppose that makes
up for everything else. Real framers who have looked at him say that he
is the makings of a fine horse, and they have seen lots of colts at his
age that were more gangling and wobbly. Just now there is a fierce
discussion raging as to what he shall be named, but there is a strong
probability that he will be called "Brownie," though I am assured that
in a few years he will be called "The Old Grey."
_XXXIX.--Horse Contrariness_
It is bad enough to have wells go dry, but to have a horse complicate
matters by refusing to drink good, pure water when it is offered to her
and threaten to die of thirst unless given access to one particular
pond, is an added exasperation. One of the horses used to be quite well
satisfied with the somewhat inferior water in a tank at the barn, but
when it went dry she became as nifty and pernickety as a connoisseur of
rare wines. Although she goes to the village almost every day she
declines absolutely to drink village water--even pure, cold rock water
drawn from an artesian well. In the same way she sniffs superior at the
water from the house well--the water that we use every day for drinking
and cooking. It is not good enough for her. But there is a somewhat
disreputable pond at the other side of the wood lot and as far from the
stable as the farm will allow, and from this pond she is willing to
drink until she almost bursts. When she gets busy with it you would
think she was half camel and trying to lay up a supply that would last
at least four and a half days. The other horses are quite willing to
take a refreshing drink from the Government drain when nothing else is
handy, and this brought to light a strange peculiarity of the finicky
one. She is willing to drink from the Government drain sometimes, but
only from one particular spot in it. Lead her to any other part of the
drain and she will stand over the water without tasting it, but let her
get to her favourite spot and she will drink with relish even from a cow
track. As the water in the drain is flowing steadily I cannot see how it
can possibly taste better in one place than another. It is just a case
of pure cussedness on the part of that tiresome horse. I have trouble
enough doing the chores without catering to her whims. I am afraid that
some day I shall get real peevish and let her go dry till she is willing
to drink any decent water that is offered to her. I know there is a
proverb which says that "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't
make him drink," but I think if I set my mind to it I can make her
drink. Anyway, I have no intention of leading her to her favourite pond
twice a day when the weather gets below zero.
_XL.--A Great Scheme_
I have just discovered a new and effective way of gathering burrs, which
I take pleasure in passing along to farmers who may happen to read this
column. Along the Government drain at the end of the young orchard there
was a luxuriant growth of burdocks this year. I never saw them without
making up my mind to cut them--some other time. They throve lustily, and
as I was always a week behind my work I never found time to cut them, so
in due season they ripened and developed a crop of especially clinging
burrs. Occasionally I gathered a few of these burrs when hunting for
rabbits, and Sheppy gathered quite a few, but not enough to lessen the
supply very materially. But one day last week the two horses and two
colts got into the orchard because some one had carelessly left the gate
open. They had been there some time before they were discovered--but
their work was done. They had gathered every burr in the orchard. Those
that they did not get with their tails, manes and forelocks they got
with their fetlocks. The youngest colt, having longer hair than the
others, also managed to get quite a few on his sides. But between them
they managed to make a complete job. I doubt if you could find a burr in
the whole orchard, even if you made a careful search. When we got the
brutes in the stable all we had to do was to pick the burrs off them and
the job I had been intending to do all summer was done. At least it was
in a fair way to being done. By much diligence we got the horses that
must appear in public free from burrs, but the colts still carry some of
their trophies. Still I think we should get the job finished soon if we
have a few rainy days. Besides, the children can help on Saturdays. Real
farmers may not approve entirely of this method of gathering the burrs
on the farm, but I defy them to tell of any way in which the job can be
done more thoroughly. A lively colt will gather more burrs in ten
minutes than an industrious man can pick out of its mane and tail in a
day. I offer this plan to farmers for what it is worth, and I wouldn't
mind a bit if some of them called and helped me to pick the burrs from
the colt's tail. He is inclined to kick.
TURKEYS
[Illustration]
_XLI.--The Gobbler_
There are times when I wish that I had a proper scientific education.
For instance, I would like to know just now whether turkey gobblers ever
suffer from speaker's sore throat. None of the bulletins I have on hand
throws any light on the matter. It would cheer me considerably to learn
that gobblers occasionally suffer from aphonia or speechlessness. It
sometimes seems to me that our bubblyjock is getting hoarse, though he
is still able to gobble with vigour and authority. But unless he loses
his voice before long I shall have to wring his neck--no easy job--or do
without my usual amount of sleep. The trouble is all due to the fact
that when the turkey hen tried to hide her nest she selected a bunch of
long grass at the foot of a tree not far from the house. As she had been
put off the cluck a couple of times to make her lay the proper amount of
eggs it was decided to let her keep this nest. When she finally got
broody she was given seventeen eggs and allowed to settle down to the
task of incubating Christmas dinners. As far as she was concerned this
was all right, for she is a modest, quiet bird, whose presence would
never be noticed. But this is not the case with her lordly spouse. Every
morning at about a quarter to four he comes down from his perch on the
ridge-pole of the stable and struts down to see if his lady has passed a
comfortable night. As the grass is long and wet with dew he comes to the
lawn and sends her his morning greetings, and I can tell you that a
forty-pound gobbler can let out a very considerable amount of noise. He
gets right under my window and explodes into assorted sounds. Once a
minute, or oftener, he lets out a gobble, until I get up and throw a
shoe or a hairbrush at him. Then I go back to bed and try to sleep until
it is time to get up. If there is any way of treating his vocal cords so
as to stop this morning charivari I wish some scientist would write and
tell me about it. And, by the way, I can give him a little interesting
information in return. After she was given her eggs the turkey hen
evidently became dissatisfied with her nest and moved to a new location
about four feet away. In order to do this she had to move her eggs
through the long grass, but she didn't leave one behind. How did she
manage it?
* * * * *
There is an interesting fact about turkeys that I think I have referred
to before, but as it has a political application at the present time I
am going to refer to it again. When the wilderness was conquered by the
pioneers the turkeys were the only important wild creatures that were
conquered with it. Apparently they believed in "peace at any price."
While the timid deer fled to more remote districts, and the wolves "died
in silence, biting hard," the turkeys allowed themselves to be deported
to the farmyards, and proceeded to eat from the hands of their
conquerors. But their spineless policy did them no good. Although they
are fed and pampered they have lost their wild freedom and every year
they are fattened for the tables of their masters. Those who believe in
peace at any price would do well to meditate on this. The peace that is
won at the price of submission is not worth having. Even though we may
hate war and regard it as a criminal folly, the only way to end it and
to secure a peace worth while is to fight heroically to put an end to
war. Before dismissing this analogy it is worth noting that the turkeys
are not the only wild creatures that survived the conquest of the
wilderness. The vermin, the skunks, and weasels also survived, but they
are not respected. There is probably a moral attached to this also, for
those who will take the trouble to study it out.
[Illustration]
_XLII.--His Troubles_
Last night when we were milking there was a sudden racket on the roof of
the cow-stable that scared the cows so that they stopped giving down.
You would think that a man with a wooden leg was having a fit on the
shingles right over our heads. The pounding, flopping and scratching on
the hollow roof made the stable resound like the big drum in an Orange
parade. I couldn't imagine what on earth was happening, but it only took
a step to get out doors and then the cause of the trouble was plain. The
old turkey gobbler had decided to roost on the ridge-board of the stable
and he was having the time of his life getting up the roof. He was using
his wings and his tail to balance himself as he clawed for a toe-hold,
and he showed none of the stately gracefulness that marks his movements
when he is strutting around the barnyard and proclaiming his
over-lordship. When he reached the ridge and caught his balance with a
final flip-flap of his broad tail he stretched his neck and looked
around to see if any of the young gobblers were grinning at him. They
were already quietly at roost with the mother hen at the far end of the
roof, and the noisy approach of their lord and king made them huddle
together in squeaking terror. Seeing that their attitude was respectful
he settled down on his wishbone for the night. Being young and light
they had flown gracefully to their chosen roost and doubtless could not
understand what was ailing him when he sprawled around like that. I
could sympathise with him better than they could, for when a man gets
heavy and gets chalky deposits in his joints the climbing stunts he did
as a boy become impossible. Time was when I could have walked up that
roof as jauntily as if I were on parade on an asphalt sidewalk, but I
suspect that if I tried it now I would make more noise than the old
gobbler.
_XLIII.--His Desertion_