Part 12

While planting trees and gardening I went at the work with a grim determination to get it done. Only when the task was completed and I had time and energy to reflect did I realise to what a complete blank I had reduced the most enjoyable season of the year. I remember that on the first day I went to the woods the buds were swelling on the trees. When the work was done the trees were in full leaf and the ground was covered with wild flowers, but I had not noticed the progress of the change. During this strenuous period I observed nothing, enjoyed nothing, thought nothing, read nothing. I reduced myself to a mere machine, capable of nothing but work and weariness. It was only when the rush was over that I realised how insensate and inanimate I had been. While I had been slaving a coronation scene more wonderful than that which is about to take place in London had been in progress, but I had seen nothing of it. Nature was being crowned with flowers, and the fields and trees had put on their wonderful green mantles for the great occasion, but I had been indifferent. As I thought of this I suddenly realised that I had simply reduced myself to the condition that is habitual with nine farmers out of every ten in this beautiful country. I understood for the first time why farmers as a class are so apathetic to the wonders by which they are surrounded. Living more closely in touch with nature than any one else, they probably enjoy her beauty less than any one else. Even the city man who goes for an occasional stroll in the park enjoys nature more than they do.

This point of view suddenly changed my attitude towards a number of things I was inclined to admire. When the report of the Ontario Agricultural College came to me through the mail a couple of days ago I found it hideously practical. It is full of information that if applied will greatly increase the prosperity of the country, but in my present frame of mind I am not sure that that is what we stand most in need of. What is the use of reducing the cow to a butter-fat machine, the hen to an egg machine, and so on, if the men who look after them are to be reduced to work machines? Mr. James' assertion that the products of Ontario can be doubled in ten years does not look so good to me as it did. If he proposed to show how as much as is being produced in Ontario could be produced with half the amount of labour I should like it better. It is this everlasting effort to produce more, instead of to enjoy more, that is robbing life of all its charms. They need a professor of leisure in connection with the Agricultural Department to teach the value of leisure on the farm, how to secure it and how to enjoy it. Work has become a mania and people are trying madly to do more than their share. Instead of saying, "Build thee greater mansions, O my soul!" the farmer is raging to build greater bank barns and the Department of Agriculture is doing all in its power to help him do it and to show him how to fill them. Now I understand why days of idleness are so irksome to so many people. It is not always because they are greedy for gain and cannot bear to think that time is being lost. It is because they habitually stupefy themselves with work as with a powerful narcotic, and find it painful to have their minds awake. When the mind is given a chance it is apt to show how useless so much of our striving is, and we have to stupefy it again so as to escape from its accusations. I am even inclined to suspect that those who are trying to educate the farmers are defeating their own purposes. By showing how to make work more profitable they are inducing people to work harder, and in that way they have their minds less open to new ideas and better methods. The professor of leisure could correct this by forcing home the truth that the end of all work is to win leisure. It is in our hours of leisure that we enjoy ourselves and grow. But the world has been reduced to such a condition by work that we need to be taught how to enjoy ourselves and grow. There is certainly a great field for the new professor.

There is thunder in the air to-day, and everybody is hoping for a good brisk rain--that will not delay the work too much. The spring crops, as well as the gardens, need a good watering, and my trees would be the better of a good warm soaking. I looked them over yesterday, and they seem to be doing pretty well. Practically all the butternut and ash trees are in full leaf, though some of the ash seem to be withering. The walnut buds are swelling, but few of them are in leaf. As for the pine and cedar, I am somewhat puzzled. They are not showing any signs of new growth. In fact they are looking discouragingly like the hang-over Christmas decorations in the Town Hall, but perhaps that is their way, and in due season they will begin to make progress. Anyway, my conscience is clear. I planted them according to instructions, and reduced myself to what Markham calls "a brother to the ox" while doing it. They will probably turn out all right, but I wish they would hurry and put forth the "tender leaves of hope."

It is hard to believe that there are so many wildflowers in the woods, but an hour among the trees with the boy who is engaged in nature study was a liberal education. He had been rooting around making a disturbance of the kind described by the Rocky Mountain guide as having been made by "a wild hawg or a scientist," when I happened along, thirsting for information. He had found twenty-two varieties and he introduced me to all of them, but I am afraid that I shall not be able to recall their college names when I meet them again. I was already familiar with the Indian turnip, which the big boys used to think it was great fun to get the little boys to bite at, and I could still feel my tongue ache and shrivel as I recognised it. I also knew the violet and phlox, but Solomon's seal and mitre-wort and foam-flowers and many others were new to me. Now that it is becoming fashionable to rail at the educational authorities, I want to hand them a little bouquet--of wildflowers. Nature study, at least, is all right, even though it doesn't teach the children to work.

For fear that no one else in this busy world will notice the fact, I want to publish the glorious news that the apple trees are beginning to blossom. The plum and pear trees are already in full bloom, and the fields and woods are fresh and green and flooded with spring perfumes. It is no time for any one to be indoors, or for any one who is outdoors to be oblivious to the beauties by which he is surrounded. Get outdoors and waken up! There is health to be had for the taking, and enjoyment is free to all. Even the birds that are hatching out their eggs in the old-fashioned way, instead of using up-to-date incubators, seem to be getting something out of life, for they insist on singing all the time the sun shines and sometimes they waken up in the night to tell how happy they are. The frogs--but before I forget it there are some things I want to find out about frogs. Does thunder kill tadpoles? The nature student had a lot of frogs' eggs hatching out in an old pan. I noticed them swimming about just before a thunderstorm came up, and after it was over they were all lying dead in the bottom of the pan. Did the thunder kill them? Another thing I noticed was that, although the frogs in the ponds were all indulging in their "Pandean chorus," they suddenly stopped when the storm began to threaten. At the same time the tree-toads began to croak. They never croak except before a storm, I am told. Now that I have rid myself of the curse of work for this spring and have scolded about it for a page or so I shall begin to look into important matters like this and try to enjoy life again.

_May 19._--This letter is going to be written under difficulties. To begin with, I have only a vague idea of what I am going to write about, for a beautiful May morning is altogether too distracting for a man to be able to concentrate his thoughts. All the senses are being delicately catered to by spring delights. A balmy breeze is puffing through the open door, laden with fresh odours; snatches of bird-song assail my ears, and whenever I raise my eyes from the paper the mellow sunlight invites me to wander in the garden or orchard. As for the sense of taste, my briar-root pipe is at its best. By yielding to the allurement of any of the senses I could enjoy myself to the full. In addition to this a clutch of hens' eggs was hatched out last night in a barrel at the foot of the garden, and the duck eggs are chipped. I am not particularly interested in this, but a little boy is more interested than I can pretend to be in anything and he insists on giving me bulletins every few minutes.

"One of the chickens has its head stuck out froo the old hen's fevvers."

"Yes, yes! Run along now. Can't you see that I am busy?"

There are a lot of minnows in the creek a few rods away, and they are dividing his attention somewhat. This morning he had a mess of chub about the size of sardines for breakfast and he thinks I should go fishing to provide food for the family. He is so serious about it all that it is a shame to smile at him, especially when I have nothing better to do than to write nonsense. But there are times when even writing nonsense seems like hard work, and this is one of them. It would be much better if the people who are in the habit of reading newspapers were to go out and devote the time it takes to read a column or so of print to enjoying nature for themselves. Why not stop right now and spend a few minutes in the open air with every sense alert to what is going on around you? I would if I could.

There have been hours this spring when I have felt like criticising Wordsworth, even though he, above all others, is the poet of nature. There is one familiar quotation from his poems that has done more to set nature-lovers wrong than anything else in the language. If I could, I would verify it to make sure that it is quoted as he meant it, but for some unaccountable reason my copy of his poems, which I thought was complete, does not contain "Peter Bell." It is many years since I read the poem, but the impression that sticks in my memory is the popular one that Peter was regarded as an undesirable citizen because:

"A primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more."

Now it seems to me that if Peter realised that, he reached the highest point possible to a poet. A flower in itself is more wonderful than anything that can be imagined about it. It is a beautiful part of the universal mystery--just as wonderful and mysterious as a constellation. The primrose is perfect in itself and its charm is not increased by the fact that men have "sought out many inventions" about it. To the scientist it is a gamopetalous plant, to the politician the emblem of an aristocratic political league, and to the student curious in ancient philosophy a possible key to the Pythagorean system. There you have "inventions" with a vengeance, but in reality it is simply a yellow primrose, and it is nothing more. If Peter Bell was able to look at it in that simple way he achieved an intellectual feat that is almost impossible to us in this age of profound explanations that explain nothing.

"What's that?"

"The chicken that had its head sticking through the fevvers tumbled out, and the old hen pushed it back under her with her beak."

"Good for her. Run along now."

But it will not do to scold Wordsworth too much for this mistake about Peter Bell, for he shows in other poems that when he was at his best he regarded things from Peter's simple point of view:

"My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky; So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die!"

There is nothing in that to suggest that he considered a rainbow as anything but a rainbow. There is no hint of a study of the laws of refraction or of the symbolism which makes the rainbow a pledge that the world will never again be destroyed by water. In fact, we might parody Peter Bell and say:

A rainbow on the horizon's rim A glorious rainbow was to him, And it was nothing more.

Because Wordsworth, the man, accepted the rainbow as he did when a child he gave us a perfect gem of poetry. And everything else in the world is just as poetical if approached in the same childlike spirit. But this is almost impossible because of the "many inventions."

But the primroses and rainbows are not the only things that are made hard to see rightly because of "many inventions." It is no longer possible to see our fellow-men simply as men. Just ask any one to describe some man of his acquaintance for you. You will probably find that he will begin by telling you whether he is well off. Then he will tell you what political party he belongs to. After that he will tell you what church he attends. The man will possibly be described as well-to-do, a Grit and a Presbyterian. Now, that is not a description of a man. Wealth, partisanship, sectarianism are simply "inventions." A man may be a man for a' that.

"What's the trouble now?"

"The old hen stepped on a chicken."

"Well, wrap it up in a cloth and put it in a basket by the kitchen stove and see if it will get better."

Let me see. Where were we at? Oh, yes, we were trying to describe a man. How would it do to go back to Solomon's study of the matter? He said that man was made upright. "But they have sought out many inventions." Wouldn't we get a better idea of a man if he were described as upright, generous, good-natured, neighbourly? These are all qualities, not "inventions." But I do not think I ever heard a man described in that way. We all seem to think of the "inventions" first. It is just as hard to consider a man as a man as it is to consider a primrose as a yellow primrose.

As I read over what I have written I seem to discover a great truth. When a man has nothing else to say he naturally begins to moralise. But I am going to stop. The old hen is squawking and the little boy is calling. She is probably moralising, too, if the tone of her voice tells anything. She is probably saying that since the "invention" of incubators chickens are not what they used to be when she was young. And human children are more troublesome. It is a strange world that we live in and it is hard to get the right attitude towards it. But I think we shall make a great advance towards enjoying it when we realise that things are what they are and not what people imagine they are. The sunshine is good and the warm breeze is good and the flowers are good and the birds are good, and, if possible, for the rest of this glorious day I am not going to bother my head about what they may possibly be on a last analysis or what they perhaps stand for. I am weary of the "many inventions."

_May 20._--If a man could only know as much before he starts a job as he does after it has been finished, work would be a great deal easier. I thought I had everything just right when starting to plant the new orchard, but I learned a few things. We planted cherry trees for fillers, and I thought it would be no trick to get them in right after the apple trees were planted. We made a fairly good job of planting the apple trees. Though the rows are not so straight that a rifle bullet would nick every tree, they are not so bad. Here and there one may be out an inch or two, but the stretched and marked wire kept us fairly straight in spite of the rolling ground. It is only when you look across the field corner-ways that you notice the little mistakes. But the great mistake was in imagining that if I got the apple trees in straight I should have no trouble putting in the fillers by sighting along the rows of apple trees. This had to be done by sighting along the rows that showed corner-ways, and, as they revealed all the mistakes of the apple-tree planting, these mistakes were multiplied in planting the cherry trees. After the first couple of rows of fillers had been put in, I thought they would help me in sighting, but matters kept getting worse steadily. As Nature has not fitted me with enough eyes to enable me to sight in six different directions at once, the problem was too deep for me. I know that we should have planted the fillers after each row of apple trees, and there were twenty-foot marks on the wire for that purpose, but nobody told me. When we found out it was too late to do things right, for the planted trees made it practically impossible to shift the wire for each row. So we put in the cherry trees as best we could, and I danced around like a hen on a hot griddle trying to sight in six different directions without delaying the work of planting. The result is not what you would call a fancy job of planting, but I have seen worse. In fact the trees are in better line than in most of the orchards I know of, but they should be right. Of course, the fillers will be cut out some time in the future and the orchard will then look all right, but I shall have to wait a good many years before it looks as I should like to have it.

Planting the young orchard was not the joyous job I had expected, for there was less hope in the work than I would have liked. The trees arrived in such condition that it seems hardly possible that even a decent percentage of them will live. The box in which they were packed was broken, most of the packing had fallen out, and they were as dry as last year's brush. They had been twelve days coming from Welland, and had been exposed to the hottest weather of the season. They might have been delivered with a wheel-barrow as quickly as they were delivered by the railways. People who saw them at the station advised me not to accept delivery, but I called up the nurseries and the manager asked me to try to save the trees. He advised soaking them over night, and then heeling them in a wet place. This was done, and with the help of two men who have had experience in planting we put in the trees according to the directions of the nurserymen. I was anxious to give the trees a chance, not only because I did not want to see so large a shipment destroyed, but because we have been preparing to plant this orchard for the past year. Last fall a clover sod was ploughed under, and preparations made to give the young orchard every chance. If I rejected the trees a whole year would be lost, and the work would have to be done over again. The nurserymen promised me fair treatment if I would plant the trees, and now I am waiting to see the result. Though the trees were thoroughly soaked before planting, ten days ago, and have had two good showers of rain since they were planted, I cannot find a bud that has even swollen. If they do not grow it will mean a lot of wasted work.

_May 23._--Getting out to grass is certainly the event of the year for the animals on the farm. I know, because I have a strong fellow-feeling for them. When the sun begins to get warm, and the grass starts to grow, I get impatient for the time when I can fling myself at full length on the sod without being scolded for taking chances of catching cold. When the cows were allowed out for the first time they could hardly wait to go through the gate before they started to graze, and for a couple of hours they kept at it as if their lives depended on getting a good meal. But presently something stampeded the young cattle, and the whole bunch began running, bunting one another, and jumping around as if indulging in a foolish sort of sun dance to celebrate their freedom. When this was over, the red cow started on her annual inspection of the fences. The thorn hedge, woven with barbed wire, baffled her, as it did last year, and I thought everything was all right. The next time I looked she was in the clover field. The spring flood had loosened things around the government drain. After driving her out I fixed this break in the fence, only to find that she was in the field again. She had found a place where the wire fence had been cut to haul out wood and had managed to push through. Turning her out again I made a thorough job of mending this, and that ended the trouble. She made a complete round of the field, stuck her head over every fence and bawled, but that was all. Now I can go about my work without giving a thought to the fences. The red cow and I examined and tested them thoroughly on the first day and fixed them for the summer. Really, the red cow is a great help. If it were not for her I might be bothered with fences all season, but one day is enough. She examines the fences thoroughly and after she finds the weak spots I fix them up. If her calves take after her I shall be able to advertise a new strain of useful stock. No farmer should be without one of these fence-testing cows to help him keep his farm in shape and protect his crops.

For a few days everything was quiet in the pasture field, and then, all of a sudden, there was a noise like a general election. All the cattle began to bawl defiance. A big, slab-sided two-year-old steer began to lead the herd towards the line fence. He had his head down, his mouth open, and he walked catercorner, roaring like one of the bulls of Bashan. A neighbour had just turned out his cattle, and they were approaching the line fence, and putting up the same warlike bluff. I should have had more respect for the dehorned two-year-old and his war talk had it not been that on the previous evening I had seen him being prodded across the field by a sharp-horned little yearling heifer. He grunted and got out of her way like a fat man getting beyond the reach of a suffragette's elbow in a street-car rush. But he certainly did make an awful noise. I don't know why it is, but I always find something in the actions of cattle to remind me of politics. There is the same tendency to go in flocks, to make a wholly unnecessary amount of noise, and then to accomplish nothing. When the two roaring herds finally met at the line fence they merely stuck their noses through the wires and sniffed at one another for a few minutes, and then went back to pasture. The crisis was over.

When the driver got out for the first time she went through the gate on the run. She ate quietly for a couple of minutes, then lay down and had a most satisfactory roll. When she got up she took a look around the field, squealed, jumped into the air, and began to give an exhibition of energy that I didn't think was in her system. She must have had it in cold storage all winter, for she hadn't been using much of it on the road. She galloped, kicked, and snorted, and I sat down and tried to figure out whether she was snorting at the kick or kicking at the snort. But like many another problem I have tackled, it was too deep for me. There were times when she had all four feet in the air at once, and looked as if she could have kept four more going. She would gallop round in a circle, then come to a sudden stop and snort. When the echo of the snort came back from the woods, it would scare her so that she would start off on the gallop again. After she had relieved herself and galloped around the field in this way about a dozen times, she finally settled down and began to eat. After watching this exhibition I made up my mind that there will be more speed in my drives to the post office in the future. I thought she was troubled with "that tired feeling" that comes to all of us in the spring, but now I shall have no compunction about using the whip. She has simply been loafing on me.

JUNE