Part 17

As civilisation advanced it was found that it was better to protect a number of producers from others and levy tribute from them. In this way a military aristocracy was developed, and the producers, whose work was really the most important of all in the human problem of existence, became the serfs or slaves of their military over-lords. The fighters gave protection and did the high-toned killing while the serfs produced the necessary food and clothing and attended to all the sloppy work. Developing along these lines it was presently found that killing was too dangerous a matter to leave to individuals, so it was taken over by the state, which organised armies, diplomatic corps, and all the other machinery of good government. The problem of protection was completely solved to the satisfaction of able and peaceful lawyers, and in some cases, when enemies were plentiful and threatening, the government established a system of conscription, by which all the able-bodied men were trained to military service, so that if at any time they should be needed for the protection of their country they could go into service at once. This development has not yet reached the new world, though we are not without military sages who advocate it. Certainly a country where military conscription is enforced is at all times ready to defend itself against encroachments and plunder.

But while the aristocratic and military side of the problem of existence was being solved the business of food production was left to private enterprise. The common people had to produce for their own living, and naturally produced a surplus which went to feed others who made themselves useful in more delightful occupations, and to pay the taxes needed to carry on the government which protected people in their rights. Now a condition is arising in which the amount of food produced is not sufficient to enable the state to progress harmoniously. People in the more delightful occupations find they have to devote altogether too much energy to earning a living. We seem to be reaching a state where men are struggling wildly to earn money with which to buy food that no longer exists. There is much talk of going back to the land, where people are supposed to produce the necessaries of life with the least possible expenditure of energy, but few of us go and still fewer of us like it when we do go. We find that the work of securing the means of subsistence from Nature is heavy and mussy, and, after all, requires an amount of knowledge and training that is surprising to the city man. But if the people now on the land are unable to produce the food of the nation something must be done. We cannot legislate people back to the land, for that would be trespassing on the rights of the individual. But I see no reason why we should not learn a little from the solution of the military and more aristocratic side of the human problem. Protection and production were of equal importance in the beginning, and why should they not be equal now?

Why should we not have economic conscription instead of military conscription, now that the problem of feeding has become more important than the problem of defence? Why should not every young man and woman in the country be compelled to spend, say, three years in the production of the necessaries of life? This would not only help to relieve the present situation, but would undoubtedly increase the number of intelligent producers and restore society to a normal balance. It has been said that "an army travels on its belly," and this is equally true of a nation. If a nation can resort to conscription to keep up its fighting efficiency, what is to prevent it from resorting to the same means to keep up its feeding efficiency? The two ideas are parallel in principle, only the question of feeding has lagged behind that of protection. This seems to be a time to bring them abreast, and the new world, being the field of economic battles rather than of military battles, should face the situation squarely.

Of course there would be objections on the part of the food producers when the state started in rivalry to them, but we have only to glance back over history to see how universal were the objections to the state taking over the business of fighting and killing. Even yet there are nations where the individual claims the right of the duel to avenge his private wrongs, but the state has established a fairly complete monopoly of killing. In the economic work which I propose it would not be so grasping. It would merely undertake to fit every individual for the struggle of existence. In fact this step would be nothing more than the extension of our present system of compulsory education. It was so that each citizen would be better fitted to make his way in the world that schools were established to teach reading, writing and arithmetic, and other things that I cannot name off-hand, as I do not keep track of the latest educational frills. Now that we are realising the fact that we must have more and cheaper food, why not educate young people along food-producing lines? At the present time a great proportion of our able-bodied citizens would be just about as helpless in the presence of food in its crude state as was the Englishman who was found perishing of thirst beside a river. He could not take a drink because he had no glass.

As making a living, reduced to its elements, simply means having a capacity of securing food and shelter from the raw materials of nature, how could any man be better equipped for the vicissitudes of life than by knowing how to get his own living in this way? Having once acquired the needful training, he could enter the struggle of commercial life, and those cleaner occupations which we all desire, with greater confidence because he would know that if he failed he would still know how to make his living. The average man who fails in the struggle of city life is almost helpless if he tries to go back to the land to get his living from it. He barely knows which end of a hoe to take hold of if he undertakes farm work; and a plough and its workings are mysterious beyond words. He may know all about trust bookkeeping that will baffle an investigating committee, but he cannot milk the brindle cow, and as for planting corn he cannot do it until some one invents a corn-planter that will cough and clear its own throat, because he never fails to jab it into the ground with its mouth open. If he had been taught these things in his youth he would step into his place in the army of workers and be worth board and wages from the beginning.

Of course a plan of this kind would need a great deal of thinking out to make it work right, but I think it could be done without interfering with individual liberty as much as military conscription does. A man may have scruples of conscience about learning the art of war and slaughter, but he can have none against raising cabbages and potatoes. The more I think of it the more feasible it seems to me, but I merely offer it as a suggestion and leave it for others to develop.

_July 7._--The children came home from the berry-patch with a stirring account of having seen a skunk--"a pretty striped, little animal," that stood by his hole; conscious of his power and refused to be frightened. Somehow the incident reminded me of coon-hunting, for it is wonderful how many coon-hunts in the old days were brought to an end by a skunk. Even the best trained coon-dogs would sometimes follow a trail that led to a hollow log where a flash of the lantern would reveal a pair of glowing green eyes. As a rule only a formal call was made on Mr. Mephiticus Americanus (the dictionary is not handy, but I think that is his full name), but sometimes the dogs caught him before he reached the log, and for weeks afterwards they were kicked out whenever they tried to lie under the stove, because they smelled like a nicely warmed theatre on a winter evening when the ladies are wearing their costly furs. One encounter with a skunk would ruin a dog's sense of smell for a season and make him so dull scented that he couldn't trail even an automobile (Yes, I know the story about the skunk and the automobile), but if the melons were plentiful coon-hunting went on just the same.

One night the coon-dogs led us into the middle of a tamarac swamp and then lost the trail. As the full dreariness of the situation dawned on us we sat for a breathing spell on a fallen log and talked things over. We were four miles from home, wet, muddy, bruised, and briar-scratched. Moreover, before starting out we had been wearied by a hard day's work at threshing. Presently the man who had suggested the coon-hunt made a little speech befitting the occasion that was interrupted only by frantic slaps at mosquitoes.

"If any one had told me ten years ago," he began in slow, measured tones, "that on the seventeenth of October of this year I would be sitting on a wet log in the middle of a swamp at one o'clock in the morning, I would have called that--man--a--liar."

We all agreed with the sentiment and felt a dull rage against that hypothetical prophet of woe. If he had appeared among us at that moment, he would have been roughly handled. Right here it may as well be confessed that, although I have tramped many miles after some of the most noted coon-dogs the country ever knew, I never was present at the killing of a coon. Yet if this were the right season of the year and some one came along to-night suggesting a coon-hunt, I would go along. There is something about knocking around in the dark woods with a couple of scouting dogs that appeals to some primal instinct that doubtless comes down to us from the days when Nimrod was "a mighty hunter before the Lord."

It will probably be news to most people that trapping is still a means of livelihood in the older parts of Ontario. From Windsor to Niagara there are men who set out their traps every winter as in the pioneer days, and trudge many miles to visit them every week. The catch consists of minks, muskrats, skunks, and weasels, and skins to the value of from one to two hundred dollars are secured in a season by some trappers. Owing to the clearing away of the forests some of the animals have changed their habits in order to accommodate themselves to the new conditions. Muskrats have given up building their houses and live entirely in holes in the banks of the Government drains. Last winter a trapper who was digging out muskrats found a plump coon hibernating in the hole, the lack of hollow trees having driven him to the earth. Skunks by exercising the right of eminent domain now live almost entirely in the holes of ground-hogs. It is generally believed that the ground-hogs extend to them a truly Oriental hospitality--giving them a quit-claim on the premises as soon as they enter. The men who dig out the skunks for profit do not move in our best circles. Even in the churches the right hand of fellowship is grudgingly extended to them.

Of all the wild creatures that "faced the new conditions" the turkey fared the best. As the forests disappeared he simply stepped over the fence into the barn yard, where he lords it like a king who has come to his own. There are more turkeys in the country at the present time than when the white man came, and according to tradition they were plentiful then. The first wheat that was sown in the new clearings had to be protected from their depredations, as corn is now protected from the crows. There are stories told of whole flocks being killed by one discharge of an old army musket loaded to the muzzle with buckshot. As for capturing the birds the trick was ridiculously easy. The pioneers built little huts of logs where the turkeys were plentiful, leaving out the bottom log on one side and covering the top with brush. Then they took some corn and dropped it in a trail over the beech knolls where the turkeys fed and into the hut. When the turkeys found the corn they began eating and followed the trail with heads down until they had entered the hut. When the corn was eaten they lifted their heads and found themselves prisoners, for the silly birds never thought of stooping down and going out by the opening through which they had entered. In this way entire flocks were captured, and from those that were kept with clipped wings the tame turkeys of the present day were developed. In some places the tame turkeys still wander away to the woods at brooding time and do not return to the barn yards until driven home by the cold weather. When their natural food is plentiful these birds are as deliciously gamy as the highly prized wild turkeys.

Fourteen years after the discovery of America turkeys are mentioned in the Court annals of England as being part of the royal fare. It is generally supposed that they received their name through a mistaken notion that they had been brought from the East, though it has been suggested that the name was bestowed on them because of the haughty Sultanic appearance of the gobblers. Since their first appearance on the banquet table their place has been assured, and there is no danger that they will disappear like the other wild game of the new world.

Quail are almost as plentiful this season as the "No Trespassing" and "Shooting Forbidden" signs by which they are protected. In the early mornings and evenings they can be heard whistling "Bob White" or "More Wet," for among the weather wise their whistling is said to be a sure sign of rain. Partridge have entirely disappeared from the older sections of the country, and although an occasional black squirrel may be seen they are practically extinct. In the Niagara Peninsula the golden pheasants are becoming so numerous as to be a nuisance to the farmers. Brown rabbits are fairly plentiful though the hard winters and lack of cover keep them in check. The big, long-legged swamp hares that turn snowy white in the winter are now seldom found, but a few still exist in the irreclaimable swamps and less thickly settled districts. As matters stand the hunter who has friends among the farmers and can get permission to shoot can make an occasional bag. In this connection a story is told of a local hunter. One day in the fall he took his gun and dogs and drove out into the country for a day's shooting. While driving, his dogs suddenly pointed in a field a few rods from the road. The hunter hurriedly tied his horse, took his gun, and climbed over the fence. Before he reached his dogs the farmer came running across the field, shouting at him to get off his place, but the hunter was stubborn and determined to have a shot, so he walked up on the birds. A beautiful flock of quail rose and he tried for them with both barrels. They whirred away without losing a feather. The farmer cooled down instantly.

"That's all right," he shouted. "You can keep right on. They are too tame anyway. If you shoot at them a few times they'll get wilder and it will be harder for some one else to get them when I ain't lookin'. When you have enjoyed yourself enough, come up to the house and have some dinner."

_July 11._--Much human ingenuity has been devoted to the invention of alarm clocks, the purpose being to get a kind that you cannot get used to hearing or silence by knocking the tail feathers out of it with a well-aimed shoe. I have even seen pictures of contrivances that would throw a man out of bed, light the kitchen fire, and turn on the cold water in the bathtub at a stated hour, but they never came into general use. As a matter of fact, the perfect alarm clock has never been invented, but the other night I got an idea. When the beds in the tent had been made up an ordinary tame bee evidently got tangled up in the clothes. At exactly seventeen minutes thirty-eight and one-tenth seconds after two o'clock next morning this bee, in its efforts to escape, stepped on my naked flesh, and, being peevish through loss of sleep, let fly at me. Instantly I was so wide awake you could have heard me a mile. I don't think I was ever more wide awake in my life. There was no yawning and stretching and closing one eye for a catnap about that awakening. It was instantaneous and complete. Now, what is to prevent some genius from inventing an alarm clock that will release a bee at the right minute? Of course it might not work out in practice--few good ideas do. Still I offer it for what it is worth.

Last week I experienced a couple of those coincidences that lead to so much profitless speculation. When in town one day I was looking at a case of stuffed birds and saw one that was a stranger to me. I was told that it was a Carolina rail. I had never seen one in a collection before and had never run across one in the woods or fields. Two days later when I was driving home from the post office a Carolina rail fluttered across the road ahead of me and perched on the top of the fence. It evidently had its young with it, for it kept up a constant twittering, stretching its neck and fluffing up its feathers and acting as if greatly disturbed. I stopped the horse and had a good look at it, and beyond a doubt it was the same kind of bird as I had seen in the collection. Yet I had never seen one before, though I hunted much some years ago, and for the past couple of years have been watching bird-life closely. So much for the first coincidence. The second came when a correspondent wrote asking if there were any cuckoos to keep in check the caterpillars in this section. I had been watching for cuckoos for the past couple of years, but had seen none. Yet on the very afternoon on which I got the letter a pair of cuckoos appeared in the orchard. Of course it was only another coincidence, but I feel like asking, as our nature student does after he has recounted some observation:

"Now, why was that?"

The dry spell has given me a chance to get a collection of all the signs of rain that are popular in the country. When the maple trees showed the white side of their leaves we were sure to have rain; when no dew fell for two nights rain was not far off; the squawking of the geese made rain as certain as if it were already falling; when the tree toads started croaking everybody got ready for a wet spell; when the quails whistled they were simply saying "More wet"--and yet--and yet--it didn't rain. Then came the wisest observation of all: "All signs fail in dry weather." They certainly had failed, every one of them. At last, weather-wise men began to remark, after rain had threatened a few times and nothing had happened:

"I've always noticed that after a dry spell such as we have been having it takes a lot to get the rain started."

According to that the weather must be something like the old wooden pumps we used to have. It needs a thorough priming before we can get rain. Another thing I have noticed is the different language people use about a storm when the weather is dry. In ordinary times they say that a storm "looks threatening." After a spell like this they say of every thunderhead that appears, "That looks promising." It makes all the difference whether rain is wanted or not.

I hope we don't have a mad-dog scare this summer. If we do I am afraid it is all up with Sheppy, the dog. He is so full of irrepressible fool energy that he can't help falling under suspicion of being afflicted with rabies. Every once in a while the steam gets hissing at his safety valve and he simply can't contain himself. He will start running around in wide circles, with head down and tongue lolling out, barking and snapping at everything he passes. I admit that I might be alarmed myself if I had not seen him act in the same way in mid-winter. The explanation seems to be that he gets so full of the joy of life that he simply has to act foolish to express his emotion. Of course I know it is wrong, if not positively immoral, for him to act in that way in a province so sedate and well ordered as Ontario, but I cannot find it in my heart to check him. And he has a wicked habit of taking the end of a stick in his mouth and running around the children until one of them grabs the other end, and they go for a romp together. I know in my heart that this should not be allowed. Sheppy should be taught to work off his superfluous energy on one of those treadmill churns they advertise in the farm papers, and the children should be doing their homework or reading improving books. As for me, I know that I should not be lying on my stomach on the grass, laughing at their antics. I should be doing something to improve my mind, such as sitting on the roadside fence discussing reciprocity with some neighbour who doesn't know any more about it than I do. But I am afraid that I have fallen too much into the way of Carman's St. Kavin, who

"Was something like a gnome, Or a sphinx let out of school-- He could always be at home Just beyond the reach of rule."

With a whole province full of people who are setting me good examples of serious-mindedness and industry and all the virtues, I have become so hardened that I can spend an hour at any time watching the pup and the children at play and never think of reproving them. I know this is very, very wrong, and--and--

"I'm very sorry, very much ashamed, And mean--next winter--to be thoroughly reclaimed."

I have never heard birds accused of having a sense of humour, but there is a killdeer in the pasture field that seems to have glimmerings. Every evening when Sheppy and I go out to milk the cows this bird flutters down in front of the dog and acts like a flying machine that has broken one of its planes or has run out of gasoline. Of course Sheppy takes after it, and the bird will flutter along just ahead of him for a couple of hundred yards and then, with a joyous screech, will rise over the fence and leave him in the lurch. When he starts to trot back the bird will swoop down ahead of him, and the chase will be resumed until another fence is reached, and then the rising and screeching will be repeated. I suppose the killdeer has a nest somewhere in the field, but it doesn't matter what part of the fifteen acres Sheppy appears in the bird will come to tease him. They usually keep up the game all the time I am milking, until the poor dog is so hot and panting so hard you would think he was trying to "step outside of himself and let the wind whistle through his ribs." When the dog finally gives up the chase and starts home with me the bird circles around above us screeching "Look't here! look't here!" in the offensive way that people have when they have got the better of you in a practical joke. Probably sober-minded, scientific persons would say that the killdeer is simply trying to protect its young and keep the dog from approaching them, but I don't believe it. I think that the bird is simply having fun. Our scientific men are all so serious-minded that I am afraid they miss many things when engaged in their nature studies. Perhaps if they cultivated humour a little they would not make so many solemn blunders.