Part 16

_June 25._--Last week I undertook to drive about fifty miles across country to attend a picnic. Of course, I didn't finish the drive, but what of that? If I didn't try to do foolish things once in a while I wouldn't have any fun. Those perfectly correct people who always know the right thing to do and how to do it--oh, well, what's the use? I could lecture at them from now until next election and couldn't make even a dent on their self-satisfied complacency. And after a fellow has been at a really enjoyable picnic is no time to start scolding. As intimated above, I did not finish the drive. At Watford the automobiles became altogether too plentiful, and after I had been given my choice of driving the horse over an eight-rail fence or plunging down a fifteen-foot embankment, I lost all my enthusiasm about sight-seeing from a buggy. The driver was even more fussed up about it than I was, but the man with the automobile was more considerate than most of those I have encountered. He stopped his snorting contraption until the horse was led past, and, after patching up a breeching strap, I was able to proceed. I make no attempt to tell what my feelings were at the time. I simply purred gently and thanked the owner of the car for being so kind. I am unable to understand the exact point of view of the driver in regard to motor cars. She will let four or five pass without doing more than dropping one ear forward, and then when the next one comes along she goes into hysterics. As the crop of motor cars this year is unusually heavy, I seldom move abroad without moments of excitement, and the things I say under my breath remind people who go out with me of the odour that a motor car leaves trailing behind it. If it were not for the automobiles nothing could be pleasanter than a ride through the country at this season of the year. The weather was not too hot, there were clouds drifting over, and the air was deliciously pure and clear. When we approached Watford, the flat plain gave way to gentle undulations and the farmhouses had the home-like appearance one finds only in old settlements. The roads were better--and--and the automobiles were more plentiful.

After a night of kindly hospitality near Watford, the picnic people took pity and came after me with an automobile. When the time came for me to embark, I felt much the same as Mazeppa did when they tied him on the wild horse.

"Bring forth the car!" The car was brought. In truth it was a nifty make, Such as a financier would take; It seemed as if the speed of thought Were in its wheels; but it was wild. Wild as a grafter when he's caught, Or wild as----when he's riled. 'Twas but a month it had been bought, And snorting, likewise raising Cain, And struggling fiercely, but in vain, In the full foam of wrath and dread, To me the choo-choo car was led. They loosed it with a sudden crash-- And banged the door and laughed aloud. Away, away, and on we dash! Torrents less rapid and less rash!

A swift turn around an unexpected corner brought my heart into my mouth so suddenly that it knocked the cigar out of my teeth and when I collected myself my thoughts were parodying Dickens instead of Byron.

Honk! Honk! Past fields of alsike and red clover that give forth a perfume inviting enough to make a man envy Nebuchadnezzar, who ate grass like an ox. Past orchards innocent alike of the pruning knife and the sweet influences of lime-sulphur. Over a culvert that catapults the passenger so high in the air that he gets a bird's-eye view of half of Warwick township.

Honk! Honk! The road slips beneath us like a flowing stream. A woman hoeing in a field of sugar-beets straightens her back to look at us for a moment and waves her hand--or did she shake her fist at us? I really didn't have time to see.

Honk! Honk! On, ever on, at a speed that makes it easier to imagine what Lambton will be than to see what it looks like now. I discreetly avoided looking at the speedometer to see how fast we were going. No, your honour, I do not know what our speed was. We might have been going ten miles an hour. In fact, I feel pretty sure we were. You say the constable says we were exceeding the speed limit? I really cannot say. Honk! Honk!

Honk! Honk! Through the leafy town of Forest, past the fine new school and out into the country again. Past fields of tomatoes planted under contract with the benign Canners' combine. Past new orchards that give glorious promise for the future. Past old orchards that are thoughtfully cared for. Over stretches of fertile soil that needs only a press agent to make it rank with the best boomed sections of the west. Around a corner and into a lane that winds along the crest of a gully brimming with trees, past a cosy farmhouse, through a barn yard and out over the sod to the top of the embankment, where we stop dazzled by a first view of Lake Huron and the wonderful lake shore valley, where they have orchards equal to those of the Niagara Peninsula. High above the orchards of apples and peaches we admired their foliage and guessed at their treasures of fruit. It was a wonderful trip, through a wonderful country, and the view of the lake and the valley gave it a fitting climax.

After the picnic was over the trip was repeated with the very material difference that comes from being familiar with an automobile. I was able to revel in the speed and the sense of freedom one gets from being in a conveyance that makes miles seem trifles. I cannot understand why men should want airships when they can have automobiles. The only trouble was with farmers who will persist in getting in the way with their skittish horses. I had a chance to see that an automobile driver can be considerate and yet not be able to do much good. Some horses are so cranky that they should never be taken out of a box stall. Why can't horses be trained to pass automobiles without trying to wriggle out of the harness? Well, here we are. And now we must start home in the buggy. I am hardly in my seat before I begin looking behind and before to see if there are any of those confounded automobiles in sight. Who owns the roads, anyway, the farmers or the men with cars?

I quite realise that I got somewhat mixed in my emotions by changing from a buggy to an automobile and then back again. The gist of the matter is that no country can stand that is half horse and half car. If the farmers could all afford cars the problem would be solved. How would it do to cut out the special privileges that enable others to afford automobiles at the expense of the farmers? Then the farmers could have them. The question is respectfully suggested for the consideration of the gentlemen of the Automobile Club.

_June 30._--This is the strawberry season, and the jam-kettles are bubbling odorously and cheerfully. Both children and grown-ups are putting in their spare time in the berry patches, and aching backs and sun-blistered necks are the subjects of much conversation and the objects of much tender attention. The tame berries are plentiful and well flavoured, and as for the wild berries--um--er--well, the weather is too hot for one to drop into poetry. But right here shall be recorded a real live item of news. According to some newspapers, and all cheap magazines, our railroads produce no fruit but melons. All wrong! The Grand Trunk Railroad produces wild strawberries that are all substance and flavour, and have less water than an old-fashioned issue of stock. But if there is any place this side of Death Valley where the sun beats hotter than on the railroad banks, let that place be desolate. And as for railroad mosquitoes, they are as hungry as cormorants, and so big that when they suck blood you can feel your heart shrivel. As lobbyists they would be a success.

Speaking of big mosquitoes reminds me of a scare I got a few nights ago. I was just falling asleep, after a day of light work and heavy eating, when a mosquito began to hum about my head. I fanned it away gently, hoping it would go and bite some one else and leave me in peace, but it still persisted. As I tried to sleep the humming grew louder, louder, louder, until I began to wonder drowsily if there were any winged elephants in the neighbourhood. Memory, half aroused, brought up a tag from Milton about "the gryphon" that "with winged speed pursues the Arimaspian," and still the humming grew louder and louder. At last I started bolt upright, wide awake, only to find that what I was listening to was a passing freight train. I also found that under cover of the noise the mosquito had bitten me on the side of the neck.

A couple of nights ago a weasel visited one of the chicken brooders, and now, as Mark Twain suggests about certain people, he is "under the ground inspiring the cabbages." His fate was richly deserved. After glutting himself with blood he kept on from mere lust of killing, until he had destroyed twenty-six young chickens. A sharp bite at the base of the skull did the work, and then he had the impudence to curl up and go to sleep in a cosy corner of the brooder. When disturbed in the morning he sought refuge under the floor of a chicken house, and there was a hurried call for the shotgun. A minute or two later his evil head and long, snaky neck appeared from a hole in a corner, and a charge of bird-shot, properly distributed, put an end to his depredations. Fortunately this kind of vermin is not plentiful or chicken-raising would be impossible, as a weasel is said to be able to squeeze himself through any crack that is not air-tight. At first there was some talk of making a purse from his skin, for there is an old superstition that a weasel-skin purse will never be empty, but the odour of the creature was discouraging. Money kept in a purse made from its skin would certainly be "tainted money," so the idea was abandoned.

At this point it may as well be confessed that chicken-farming does not grow in favour under continued observation. It pays, of course, but the amount of attention required becomes tiresome. The grown hens are all right, needing food and water only three times a day, and the task of gathering the eggs is only a pastime, but young chickens are a constant source of worry and bother. They must be fed five or six times a day on a varied diet and they require different food at different stages of their growth. The result is that when there have been several settings some one must be busy all the time preparing food or feeding them. If their brooders are not kept at exactly the right temperature they may "bunch" and trample one another to death, just like a mob of intelligent human beings. Their brooders need constant cleaning, and they must be looked after when it storms, for they don't know enough to go in when it rains; in short some one must be pottering about among them all the time.

Bee-keeping, on the contrary, grows in favour the more it is studied. Bees are clean, orderly, and industrious. They require attention only when swarming, and hiving a swarm is interesting rather than troublesome. If provided with plenty of room they will gather honey with a singleness of purpose that leaves no excuse for the enterprising Yankee who tried to cross his bees with fire-flies so that they would work all night. Some of the colonies under observation have gathered fully fifty pounds of honey already this season and they are to be provided with more space for their activities. So many stories are current, all of them well authenticated, about men achieving prosperity through keeping bees, it is a wonder that more people do not go into the business. This may be due to the fact that some localities are not so favourable to bee-keeping as others, but wherever white clover is plentiful bee-keeping can be made an easy source of profit. A bee-keeper may get stung physically once in a while, though the danger of this can be reduced to a minimum by proper care, but he is in little danger of being "stung" financially.

With the celebration of Dominion Day this week, and Orange celebrations less than two weeks off, the air is full of athletic talk. Practising Marathon runners are to be seen every evening speeding along the country roads, and the merits of rival baseball pitchers are hotly contested. Scientific baseball now afflicts the country as well as the cities, and the "twirler" who has "a bundle of curves in his mitt" is as much of a hero just now as the successful candidate on the day after election. One local hero is said to squeeze the ball so hard that when he turns it loose on its erratic course it crosses the plate looking no bigger than a huckleberry. Every enterprising country paper now has its baseball reporter, who is as perfect a master of the necessary slang as was N. P. Caylor, who is said to have invented much of the current lingo, when reporting for The _New York Herald_. Personally he was meek and unobtrusive, but to read his reports one would imagine he had a voice like a fog-horn, and ought to be suppressed as a public nuisance. The reports of country matches now show as few runs as reports of the work of league teams, and the old-fashioned lover of excitement sighs for the days when the Longwood road boys held the pasture lot against all comers. In those days there were no score-cards, and the honest man who kept tally did it by making a notch with his jack-knife on the top rail of a snake fence for each run. Sometimes he worked his way along two panels before the game was over. While on this subject there is a fact to be noted that should make men who do the eminent thinking for the editorial pages walk humbly. The most popular daily papers are those whose sporting news is the fullest and most accurate. Let the editors-in-chief think of that

"In silence and alone And weigh against a grain of sand the glory of a throne."

JULY

_July 2._--For some reason I feel it in my bones that I am about due for a comprehensive stinging by the bees. It is not in the nature of things that my present immunity should last forever. As a boy I used blue clay mud and three kinds of leaves chewed together as a cure for bee stings just as often as any boy in the country. Bumble bees jabbed me with or without provocation. On one unforgettable occasion I accumulated twenty-seven yellow-jacket stings by jumping from the top of a log and putting a foot through their nest. One of these stings was on the bony spot back of my right ear, and in my personal annals of pain it takes the first place. In fact, my memory is well stocked with bee, wasp, hornet, and yellow-jacket stings, and yet for the past two years I have been meddling with bees without being stung once. This immunity dates from a day when several hundred thousand bees started to rob some stored honey and I started to head them off by trying to close the holes through which they were getting at it. Being somewhat excited I did not pay any attention to them when they lit on me, and by the time I got the holes closed bees were walking all over me. They were on my hands and face as well as on my clothes and I didn't get stung once. I have been told that when bees are robbing they are so intent on the work in hand that they never sting. Besides, I had not startled them by jumping and trying to brush them off. Anyway, since that experience, I have not been afraid of the bees and have moved among them unscathed, but it seems too good to last.

Day before yesterday the cry rose that the bees from the one hive which escaped winter before last were swarming. When I went out to look at them the air was full of bees, and they were humming like a thrashing machine. Presently they began to cluster on a branch of a spruce tree and I went back to the house to get a veil, coat, and gloves. Though I have been on good terms with the bees, I did not propose to take any unnecessary chances. But by the time I had equipped myself for the task I found that they were all going back into the parent hive. Evidently the queen had forgotten something. Her hat was not on straight or she was not satisfied with her travelling outfit. Anyway, she and her followers went back and the swarming was postponed for that day. After this manifestation the hive was carefully watched, and shortly before noon yesterday they swarmed again. This time they lit on a little plum tree about five feet high. As I had everything ready from the day before I was soon in shape to attend to the hiving. A white sheet was spread on the ground under the tree and a hive that had been well cleaned and provided with honey frames was placed at the edge of the sheet. Then I took the garden rake and shook the tree. The bees tumbled on the sheet and started for the hive, and for a few minutes it looked as if the operation were going to be successful. But after a while the bees that had entered the hive began to crawl out and cluster on the outside. Evidently the hive did not suit them. Perhaps they wanted better ventilation, open plumbing, and stationary bath-tubs. Modern bees are becoming so human that it is hard to satisfy them. I remember the day when bees were satisfied if you offered them a section of gum-tree with a couple of cross-bars in it, but now they turn up their noses at a hive made of planed and matched lumber, nicely painted and furnished with all the modern improvements. And this swarm seemed particularly nifty.

When it became evident that they were not going to accept the hive that had been offered I prepared another and placed it on the edge of the sheet. While this was being done the bees reassembled on the little tree and I shook them down again. By this time I was almost smothered by the veil, and as the bees showed no intention of attacking me I took it off and went at my work bare-faced and bare-handed. I shifted the new hive to a more attractive position and they investigated it as they did the first. It did not suit them at all and they all trooped back to the little tree. While this work was in progress the bees frequently lit on my hands and face but did not sting me, though they made me feel creepy. When they refused the two hives I was completely stumped and sent for an experienced bee-keeper to come and help me. He brought a hive that was filled with comb from which the honey had been extracted last season. He put this in the place of my first hive and shook the tree again. They began to cluster on the sheet at the root of the tree, so he took a broom and swept them gently towards the hive. This time they all went into the hive and everything seemed all right. But it was not. Nothing would satisfy those bees. They probably wanted a hive with a southern exposure and this one faced to the north. Anyway, a few minutes after being hived, they were all in the air and moving in a confused cloud towards the woods. Somebody yelled at me to throw water among them and I went after them with a pail of water and a dipper, but there was no result. Some one began pounding on a tin pan in old-fashioned style and there was racket and excitement to spare. I am told that making a noise does no good, but the fact remains that when the pounding on the pan was at its worst the bees settled on a fence post. We had a council of war and decided to try them with a double hive, empty frames below and the empty comb above. The sheet and hive were placed again and as the post could not be shaken the other man took a tin pail and whisk broom and dusted about a pailful of bees off the post. He poured them in front of the hive like so much corn, and though working without protection of any kind was not stung. This encouraged me so much that when I was asked to take the whisk and dust them off the other side of the post I did not flinch. Of course the fence was between me and the hive, and this gave me a sense of security that lasted until I stopped long enough to think and then I reflected that a wire fence does not amount to much as a protection from bees. But this swarm must have been unusually full-fed and good-natured, for with all the handling they got they did not sting any one. When they were all in the two-story hive we lifted it gently and put an excluder, a sheet of zinc with perforations that will admit workers but not the queen, on the bottom of the hive. This would make it impossible for the queen to get out and they will probably settle down and stay with us. I am told that in a day or so we can investigate and find out which story of the hive the bees have decided to occupy. Then we can remove the other and let them settle down to the job of collecting honey.

If all goes well there should be a great yield of honey in this district, for white clover has never been known to be so plentiful. Every pasture field is white with it, and on still hot afternoons the air is heavy with the sweet, cloying clover perfume. There are quite a number of farmers who are keeping bees as a side-line, and there are some professional bee-keepers in the district who devote their whole time to the work. Personally I think bee-keeping is just about the finest and most profitable form of light occupation that a man or woman can undertake. But perhaps when the time comes to get properly stung I'll change my mind. I know it is altogether against the tenets of the New Thought to even think of such things, for I am vibrating adverse suggestions into the ether and some day they may come home to roost. But with the memory of past stinging in my mind I cannot believe that I am permanently immune. And when I do get stung I feel sure that I can write a spirited article about it. In fact I feel that if I had been stung while hiving these bees there would be more ginger in this article. A bee sting stimulates the language faculty and gives even a man of sluggish disposition a marvellous command of effective words. I quite realise that if I were a true literary artist I should go out and deliberately get stung, but there is a limit to the sacrifices that I am willing to make for art.

_July 4._--The problem of the high cost of living is now acute, and the discussion has become so general that it may be regarded as open to all. For that reason I shall venture to offer a solution.

But before offering my suggestion I propose to clear the ground by calling attention to a few fundamental truths. In spite of the Shorter Catechism, the chief end of man is to make a living. If he is to continue to live he must have food, clothing, and shelter. Moreover, he must be guarded in his right to these necessaries when he has acquired them. In primitive states of society the problem of securing food and then guarding it from plunderers came home to every man. In the brave days when our ancestors "lived upon oysters and foes" the thrifty householder, or cave-dweller, either had to go tonging oysters himself or spearing for some one who had already tonged his winter supply. In this way society gradually became divided into food producers and fighters. The fighters "recognised their own where they saw it" and proceeded to help themselves, and if a few lives were lost in the transaction that only added to their glory. It is simply appalling to read how human life was regarded when fighting and killing was still a private matter. It was a dull day when a mail-clad knight did not slaughter some one, and no one thought of questioning his right. It is only necessary to glance through some of the old romances and histories to understand what I mean. Take the case of Percy, "The Hotspur of the North." "He that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife: 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.'

"'O, my sweet Harry,' says she. 'How many hast thou killed to-day?'

"'Give my roan horse a drench,' says he; and answers, 'Some fourteen'--an hour after; 'a trifle, a trifle.'"