writing fishing is at high tide, though we are still living on the same
old fare. Although fish-lines and hooks have been bought, fishing-poles
trimmed to shape with the butcher-knife and loads of bait dug, I have
yet to see an actual fish. I cannot deny that years ago I used to get
plump chub in the Government drain, and one year some carp weighing five
pounds and over came up with the spring flood, but it is long since I
have seen anything bigger than a minnow. Still, the littlest boys know
that there were fish in the drain once, so why not now? There is a spot
about half a mile away where willows were allowed to grow on the bank
and the spring floods scooped out holes in which driftwood accumulated.
In these mysterious depths fish are supposed to hide, and a baited hook
will be stripped of its bait in a few minutes. There is no lack of
nibbles that appear to give the old-time thrill, but it is no use
explaining that minnows less than two inches long, that are too small to
be hooked, are the fish most active in this kind of work. I know that
they are just as likely to catch a finnan haddie or dried codfish or
canned salmon as a fish of any size, but I wouldn't dampen their ardour
for anything. As a matter of fact, I am inclined to approve of their
enthusiasm, for I find that the chores go through with a rush since the
fishing began. All I need to do is to let them wring a reluctant promise
from me that if they hurry through with the chores they can go fishing.
After offering enough opposition to make the favour seem great I give a
grudging consent and the chores go through with a rush. And at bedtime
(new time) a couple of wet and muddy boys come home, very tired and very
hungry. Though they bring no fish they have had such monstrous bites
that they are sure there are big fish there, only they are too cute to
swallow the baited hooks. Some day they are going to catch a whale, and
then they will show me. What would youth be without its faith in the
possibilities of fishing and such things?
Right here an interruption has occurred. I might have known when I was
writing that first paragraph in such a superior way that something
would happen, but the truth must be told even though wisdom be
confounded. A few minutes ago a boy bulged through the kitchen door
waving a string of fish and registering triumph. He found the right
fishing-hole at last and caught eight, and one big one--Oh, a
beauty--got away. I hadn't a word to say. I examined them and was forced
to admit that he had eight as fine chub as I had ever seen taken in this
district. The longest measured seven and a half inches and the shortest
six inches. Fishing is now on a firm basis and the food outlook has
greatly improved. There is a fish banquet being arranged, and the titled
cat was so excited at the prospect of getting eight heads to chew at
that he had to be put out. But though my predictions have all gone wrong
and the faith of the boys has been justified, I am not without
compensations. The chores will now be done with more steam than ever and
the fishing season may last all summer. If they can only catch a few now
and then to keep up their interest, they will not need to be driven to
any kind of work. The promise of permission to go fishing as soon as a
job is done will be enough to get them to do their best. I hate driving
them and it will be a real pleasure to have their minds so set on
fishing that they will do their work eagerly so as to win their freedom.
I hope the fish supply lasts right through the corn-hoeing season. By
the way, I am not sure but it would be a good plan to have the drain
stocked with fish so that there would be a sure supply every spring. I
must think about it.
_LXIX.--A Lonesome Squirrel_
One wet morning recently I happened to be passing through the wood-lot,
when I heard the squawking of a black squirrel. I rejoiced to think that
perhaps the squirrels were coming back, but investigation revealed only
one lone specimen, and, judging by its size and actions, it had wandered
far from its mother. It was crying from pure lonesomeness, and it didn't
care who heard it. At the best the cry of a black squirrel is about the
saddest thing in nature, but to hear it when the trees are dripping and
the woods gloomy it is the last note of sorrow and pessimism. I have
never seen an attempt to render this sound in letters, but what of that?
We shall try it now. As nearly as I can arrive at it, the sound should
be represented somewhat as follows:
"ku-ku-kwanh-h-h!"
The last syllable is long drawn out in a most desolating manner. Come to
look at it, this attempt to render the cry of the black squirrel has a
sort of pluperfect look, and I have no doubt that a skilled philologist
could trace it back to an Aryan root--but I digress. Anyway, my squirrel
was squawking and bawling in the universal language of childhood. In the
words of the poet, he had "no language but a cry." After spying him I
began to edge closer to observe his actions. He frisked about as I
approached, and whenever I stood still he began to cry again. When
crying he always clung to the tree, with his head downwards, and with
every syllable he gave his tail a little jerk. I might say that he was
scolding at me, if it were not for the plaintiveness of the noise he was
making. Every few minutes I took a few steps nearer, until at last I was
within twenty feet of the half-dead maple from which he was pouring his
woe. Although I was quite evidently "viewed with alarm" in the most
approved editorial manner, he shifted his feet a little from time to
time and kept up his wailing. Finally I sat down under the shelter of a
tree trunk and continued to watch him. He scolded and squawked and then
began to come down the tree, inch by inch, precariously moving
headforemost. I kept perfectly still for some minutes--keeping a
position of absolute rest is about the easiest thing I do--and inch by
inch he slipped down the tree until he was so close that I could see his
beady black eyes and see half way down his throat when he opened his
mouth to squawk. At last he got as far down as he cared to come, and
continued to tell me about his troubles. I was sorry that I couldn't
think of anything to say or do that would assuage his lonesomeness and
grief, but when I heard the call for dinner at the house, and knew that
I should be stirring, I flung a little parody at him:
"Is it weakness of intellect, Blackie?" I cried,
"Or a rather tough nut in your little inside?"
With a shake of his poor little head he replied,
"Ku-ku-kwanh! Ku-ku-kwanh!"
When I rose to my feet he rushed headlong into a nearby hole. But let no
one imagine that my time was wasted while sitting watching that
squirrel. Although he was unable to say anything of importance to me,
and I was unable to say anything of importance to him, you may note that
the interview was good for one extra long paragraph. I could have gone
out and interviewed some eminent human without getting any more copy
than I did from my lonesome little black squirrel.
_LXX.--Fall Poultry Troubles_
Why is it that hens always want to roost over the cows and horses in the
winter time? Perhaps they want company in the long, lonesome nights, but
probably it is because the cattle generate a certain amount of warmth
that makes the beams above them pleasanter roosting places than the
hen-house. Anyway there is always a week or two at the beginning of each
winter when a bunch of ambitious hens must be trained to roost in their
own quarters instead of in the stable. Every night at milking time I
shoo them out until they finally get it into their heads they are not
wanted. But they are almost as hard to convince as the New England
farmer who went to a dance to which he had not been invited. He
overlooked the lack of invitation, and was even willing to overlook the
fact that he was told that he was not wanted, but when he was finally
thrown outdoors and kicked through the front gate, "He took the hint and
went away." After being thrown out of the stalls about a dozen times
the hens finally took the hint, and they now stay in their own quarters.
But just as I got rid of the hens the guinea fowl decided that the
weather was getting altogether too severe for outdoor life. All summer
and fall they have been living in the fields, and any one who happened
to see them reported the fact much as if they had seen a flock of quail.
They really seem more like wild than domesticated fowl, and if they live
entirely on insects and weed seeds they must have a distinct value in
keeping pests of various kinds in check. But when the cold weather came
on they began attending the chicken feedings, not only at home but at
neighbouring farms. They seem to have good ears as well as wonderful
appetites, for whenever they hear other fowls squabbling over their feed
they take to their wings and never touch the earth until they light
right in the middle of the banquet. And they never miss a feeding time
at home either. They should be fat enough for the table before long.
* * * * *
But what I started to tell about is the persistence the guinea fowl show
in adopting the stable as a home. On the first cold night I found the
whole twenty of them ranged decoratively on the partitions between the
stalls. I couldn't shoo them away like the hens. I had to touch each
one, and as I touched it it gave a shrill squeak and flew blindly until
it brought up against the wall at the far end of the stable. Usually
they fell to the floor, but sometimes they would beat their wings and
work their feet and apparently walk up the wall like flies until the
roof checked them, and then they would sink to the floor with a final
discouraged squeak. Once I caught one of them to see how heavy it was,
and it squealed like a rat. I dropped it instinctively, for I felt that
anything that could squeal like that would be likely to bite. And they
can bite--or at least use their bills. I have noticed that at feeding
time they can whip even the rooster away from the choicest bits, and I
am told that when there were young chickens about, the old pair of
guinea fowl thought nothing of grabbing them in their beaks and shaking
them as a terrier shakes a rat. Sometimes, if they were not interrupted
in committing these atrocities they even killed the chickens. I do not
think the nature and habits of guinea fowl have been studied by the
experts, and some time when the rush is over I may prepare a bulletin on
the subject. At present, however, I am chiefly interested in making
them understand that they are not wanted in the stable at night. But it
seems hard to convince them. Every night I find them in exactly the same
position as on the first night, and every evening I startle twenty
squeaks out of the flock before I get them to move elsewhere. It is
getting to be a regular chore.
* * * * *
But it is as fabricators of new and fiendish noises that the guinea fowl
are in a class by themselves. They are at it all the time. The mildest
noise they make reminds you of the filing of a saw with a bungling
mechanic dragging the file on the back stroke. The noises they make when
they set to work to show what they can do are beyond description. I have
heard noises something like them in sawmills when the circular saw
happened to strike a sliver. And they are ready to give an impromptu
serenade at any time. I used to think that the ducks were the noisiest
thing about the barnyard, but they only squawk when I am trying to talk.
The guinea fowl keep at it when I am trying to think so that I cannot
bear the thoughts that are trying to whisper their way into my brain.
They rasp out wild noises when they are eating and when they are
fasting, when they are walking and when they are flying; and their idea
of a nice, quiet time seems to be to lie down in some spot where they
are sheltered from the wind by a clump of weeds or something of the
sort, and try to outdo each other in the range and volume of their
cries. When we start eating these guinea fowl I am going to dissect one
to find out what its vocal cords are made of. I don't think they could
possibly make such noises without metal contrivances of some kind that
can be rasped together and banged and thumped on. Perhaps I'll discover
a new metal that would be valuable in making phonographs, and be able to
organise a company to mine it out of the guinea fowl. Then I'll sell
stock to the farmers. Judging by their noises there are great and
unknown possibilities in these creatures. And yet I have heard people
say they rather liked having them around because they keep up such a
constant clatter that they keep one from getting lonesome. It strikes me
that the person who would not rather be alone than have a flock of
guinea fowl for company must have a bad conscience.
_LXXI.--Thanksgiving Day_
Here is Thanksgiving Day right on top of us, and I am all in a fluster.
I am not sure that I am going to be thankful about anything. Isn't that
dreadful? But the truth is that in my usual improvident fashion I forgot
all about it. While other people were carefully saving up their thankful
feelings for the official day, Oct. 20th, I just went along carelessly
pouring out my thankfulness whenever it welled up within me. But that is
not the way well-conducted people do. They are as methodical about their
thanks as the woman in the story was about baths. When she had a
stationary tub put in the house she exclaimed to an admiring friend, "It
looks so nice I can hardly wait till Saturday night." As nearly as I can
judge the world is full of just such careful people, and they never let
a speck of thankfulness escape them until the right day comes around.
They keep it in through all the long dreary year, and, then on the 20th
of October, they will go about expressing it in a careful and
business-like way. Since we have a Thanksgiving Day that is naturally
the day to be thankful on. People who look at things in that way
simplify matters for the Recording Angel. They turn over their thanks in
one neat bunch, and the matter is over with for another year. But much
as I may admire people who are able to restrain themselves in this way I
have no hope of attaining their perfection. Having formed the habit of
living each day as I come to it, I may run the whole gamut of moods from
boiled down pessimism to overflowing thankfulness between sunup and
sundown. And yet--and yet--this way has its compensations. I am not sure
that I would change if I could.
* * * * *
I was reminded of the fact that Thanksgiving Day is at hand by seeing
some ducks being fed up for the occasion, and by being asked whether the
celery will be fit to use on the 20th. As the indications are that both
these excellent comestibles will be in prime condition by that time, I
find myself bubbling over with thankfulness almost two weeks before the
specified time. But I know that is all wrong, and I have set to work to
figure out just how to be thankful like other people. To do this I am
forced to review the happenings of the year, my hopes, ambitions and
enterprises. While at this task I was struck by the thought that if we
had a Grumble-giving Day as well as a Thanksgiving Day, it would be much
more carefully celebrated. The first thing I thought of was the bugs,
blights, pests, weeds and such things that I have been fighting with all
summer. As I thought of them Thanksgiving Day seemed very far away. But
that mood did not last long. After all they did not injure anything
which I was over-poweringly interested in. Life itself is what I am
chiefly interested in, and, while we have food, clothing and shelter, it
is as good one day as another. I can be just as much alive mentally,
physically, spiritually on one day as another. A rainy day is just as
good as a sunny day if we manage to get in tune with it. And having got
a fairly good hold of the truth that yesterday is dead and to-morrow
unborn, I find that I really can not go away from the present day and
the present moment to seek the sources of thankfulness. It will be the
same on the 20th of October, I must find in it all that I shall be
thankful for. I do not think I shall be disappointed.
* * * * *
In order to celebrate Thanksgiving Day in the popular fashion, one would
need to keep books and strike a balance of good and evil. Let me try
this plan. First, there is the orchard. The frost killed most of the
blossoms; there was a plague of green aphids in the spring; over half of
the apples we have are scabby and deformed. Wow! If I were depending on
that orchard for my happiness Thanksgiving Day would be a day of gloom.
But let us look at the other side of the ledger. We have sold our apples
for a topnotch price; we are getting more for our thirds than people
used to get for their firsts; we even have a chance to sell our culls at
a good price to a vinegar factory; the indications are that after all
the orchard will yield a larger cash return than in any year of its
existence, except last year, when we had a bumper crop of clean fruit
and got top prices. Looking at things in that way I guess I can squeeze
out a little thankfulness for the 20th after all. Then there is the
young orchard. First let me grumble. The young trees came late in the
spring; they were all dried out, and wise people said they would not
grow; I was so late getting them planted and getting the ground
thoroughly cultivated, that I did not get the corn planted between the
rows until the middle of June. Now let us look at the other side. Over
ninety per cent of the trees grew and put out a strong growth. The
nurserymen did not ask to be paid except for those that grew. The corn
escaped the frost and ripened splendidly. It is now being husked, and is
proving to be the best crop of corn that has been on the farm in years.
Tut, Tut! It looks as if I would eat those ducks in a cheerful spirit
after all.
* * * * *
There are times when I think that a spirit of thankfulness is born in
one rather than cultivated. When looking at things in this way I find it
profitable to study the animals on the place. Somehow they seem to be
very human in their emotions.
Their feelings are not complicated by efforts at reasoning, and in their
every day conduct they reveal their true spirits most amazingly. Take
the Red Cow for instance. Nothing seems to discourage her. She is too
full of ambition to grumble about anything. If she doesn't manage to
steal a march on me to-day she is quite sure that she will be able to do
it to-morrow, and that keeps her in a constantly cheerful frame of mind.
This year she had set her heart on getting into the corn field which was
just across the fence from the pasture, but never once did she find an
open gate or a break in the fence. She saw it grow from the first green
sprouts to matured corn and never got a bite. It is now in the shock and
being husked, but she still stretches her neck over the fence in the
same hopeful way. She is going to get a feed out of that field before
the year is out or know the reason why. Even if she doesn't manage it
before the stalks are hauled in she'll find a gate open before the snow
falls, and dig up the roots that were left by the hoe before she will
give up her purpose. A cow like that is really an inspiration on the
farm.
She was born that way and life always looks bright to her, because she
always has something to hope for. Now, with the new cow, the one I
bought, the case is entirely different. She must have come into the
world feeling discouraged. She has faith in nothing, hopes for nothing,
and is always in a mournful frame of mind. Though she gets all the
pumpkins she can eat and a good bunch of corn stalks every night, she
simply can't cheer up. When we open the pasture gate the Red Cow makes a
rush for the stable and gets into the wrong stall and eats all she can
of some other cow's feed before she is driven to her place. But the new
cow stands mournfully in the pasture. It is quite true that there were
pumpkins last night and the night before and many nights before that,
but she knows there will be none to-night and she bawls dismally at the
thought. Finally some one has to go out into the field and drive her in,
and when she gets to her stall she no sooner starts to eat than she
looks over at what the other cows are having, and as well as she can
with her mouth full, bawls complainingly that she didn't get as much as
the rest, or that her pumpkins are not as yellow as the others. There is
no satisfying her because she was born that way. It'll be the same on
the 20th of October as on all other days. I wonder how many people in
the country will be like her? As for me, I think I'll put a pumpkin just
beyond the red cow's reach and cultivate a cheerful spirit while
watching the hopeful way she will go after it.
_LXXII.--September Notes_
Did you ever stop (slap!) to consider the mosquito? Did it ever occur to
you that if a boy had an appetite in proportion to his size like that of
a mosquito (slap!) he would eat a whole ox at a meal? Perhaps you think
a mosquito too small a thing to occupy your thoughts. If so (slap!) you
have another guess coming. Until science made a few epoch-making
discoveries the mosquito prevented some of the mightiest works. Because
it carries the germs of yellow fever it delayed the building of the
Panama canal for years and increased the cost of all kinds of public
works. By carrying the germs of malaria and giving people the ague it
made the clearing of many parts of Canada doubly hard. (Slap! slap!) And
this year it is a temper-rousing, sleep-destroying pest. With every
cow-track full of water it has breeding places everywhere and you can
hear its hum wherever you go. (Slap! Missed again!) Even though we have
screens on the windows and doors we cannot keep them out of the house
because they come in riding on people's backs while waiting for a chance
to bite. And did you ever consider how naturally mean the mosquito is?
Not content with driving its beak into a fellow it injects a poison and
possibly some disease germs. Of all created things the mosquito is about
the most useless and irritating. Its snarling hum--(Slap! Whoop! Got him
that time and now I can talk about something else.)
* * * * *
About the first sign of fall is to have the cattle get into new fields.
During the earlier months they are confined to the pasture but as the
crops are taken off they are allowed a wider range. As soon as they find
a new field open to them they rush into it as eagerly as if they were
getting into mischief and do not rest until they have wandered to every
corner. Even though the new field may offer them many bits of good
pasture they do not stop to eat them but go around the fences and poke
their heads through wires to get what they can from the adjoining field.
The pasture they have never seems to satisfy them. It is the pasture in
the other field that interests them. In this they are very human. But
giving them a wider range makes the chore of bringing them home at
milking time more important and this summer I undertook to train Sheppy
to the work with a rather peculiar result. As he is a pure-bred sheep
dog he always goes to the farthest off in the bunch as soon as he is
sent after them. This is usually enough to start the herd towards the
barn and as soon as he has started them I call him off so that he walks
quietly behind them. When the cattle became used to being brought home
by Sheppy they apparently learned something. The dog is usually
wandering away somewhere with the children and when I need him I have to
whistle for him. During the past couple of weeks as soon as I began to
whistle for Sheppy the cows started for the barn. Now I can get them
home whether the dog is around or not simply by whistling. All of which
goes to show that old Fenceviewer I. and her progeny are not like other
cows.
_LXXIII.--"The Demon Rabbit"_
I am almost convinced that there is, or was, a demon rabbit in this
neighbourhood. You all know the stories that come from far countries
about ghostly tigers and phantom lions that seem to bear charmed lives,
and to be invulnerable to the bullets of the most skilled marksman.
According to the talented liars who tell the stories they are the actual
bodies of dead and gone lions and tigers that "revisit the glimpses of
the moon" to torment hunters. The rabbit I have been having experiences
with seems to be of this kind. He appears in the open with insulting
indifference, and so far we have no evidence that he has been seriously
injured by our attempts to get him. But before proceeding with my story
perhaps I had better say a few words to put myself on the right side of
the law. I have a hazy recollection that the game laws protect rabbits,
but I make my appeal to an older code which asserts that
"self-protection is the first law of Nature." I do not mean this in the
sense in which it was used by the sheep thief, who, when caught
red-handed, protested indignantly, "I'll kill every doggoned sheep that
tries to bite me." I am not afraid that the rabbits will bite me, but,
besides the young orchard, between two and three thousand seedling
forest trees have been planted in the wood-lot and I do not want to have
them all girdled. Game laws or no game laws, we have been obliged to
begin a war of extermination against the rabbits on the place. Perhaps
that is why we are being tormented by this unshootable rabbit.
* * * * *