Part 18

_July 15._--It is not often that I want to make a speech. As a rule I would rather have a tooth filled than speak a few well-chosen words at a picnic or meeting of the Farmers' Institute, but yesterday afternoon there were some minutes when I yearned to pour forth my perturbed spirit in an adequate oration. If I could have been transported from the cornfield just at the instant when the monkey-wrench slipped and I barked three knuckles of my right hand, and if at that psychological moment I could have been placed on the platform of a meeting of the Manufacturers' Association, I would have addressed a few words to that stall-fed aggregation of Privileged Pirates that would have made Demosthenes against Philip, Cicero against Catiline, and Burke against the despoiler of the Carnatic sound like the commencement exercises at a girls' school. G-rr-r-r-!! (meaning snarls of rage). Why won't some one let me get at them? Their relations with the press are largely confined to the servile approaches of the advertising department, or to the well-fed compliments of the halter-broke editors who respond to the toast of the press at annual banquets. It might do them good to have a run in with a spontaneous and care-free journalistic outlaw when he was in the humour to kick out the tail board of the dictionary, and let the big bouncing adjectives roll down from the sulphur-blue heights of his eloquence. I do not think it was in vain that the poison of asps was put under my lips, and if I could have got at those fellows while the monkey-wrench was in my hand they would have sent in a fire alarm, called the police, wired Colonel the Honourable Sam Hughes for a regiment, and then to a man they would have hidden their fatness under the seats until the lightning and continuous thunder had passed, and the weather began to clear.

Of course, all this demands some explanation, but in making the explanation I want to make a few restrictions. I want it to be understood that I am talking as man to man to farmers who do their own work. What I have to say is not intended for those purse-proud farmers who have hired men, and who feel that because they sold their beef cattle for a few cents above the market it is to them I am referring when I speak of shady operations in High Finance. Do you know I have been finding that when I pay my respects to Sir Jingo McBore there are a lot of farmers who feel that I am attacking the propertied class, and that they are getting kicks out of the overflow? But that is not what I want to talk about to-day. I simply want to explain to the ordinary farmer, who has to scratch gravel with both feet in order to provide for his brood, that I have stumbled on another way in which we are being looted, and it is the meanest and most exasperating trick that has come to my notice in a blue moon. I was placidly cultivating corn in the new orchard, when I noticed that the frame of the cultivator was working loose. The correct thing to do was to tighten the nuts, and I got a wrench for that purpose. Feeling that I was doing the right thing at the right time, just as a real farmer would do it, I began to turn on one of the nuts with the wrench. But it did no good. There was no tightening of the loose frame. A more careful examination showed that the bolt was turning with the nut, and I could keep on turning till the cows came home, and it would make no difference. The head of the bolt was round and flat, and there was no possible way of catching it with another wrench and holding it while the nut was being tightened. I passed on to several other nuts that were working loose, and found the same state of affairs. Every bolt would turn with the nut, and it was impossible for me to tighten anything. It was just after I had made this discovery that it occurred to me that perhaps if I gave the wrench a quick jerk the nut would loosen and begin to turn without the bolt. I tried and the wrench slipped and my knuckles struck on the iron frame. That was the moment when I should have been introduced to the Manufacturers' Association. As it was I merely sat down on the cultivator frame, and, though there was no one but the old grey horse to hear me, I talked about the manufacturer of that cultivator for some minutes. It was about two o'clock in the afternoon, about the time when he would be sipping his coffee after his luncheon, and I shouldn't wonder but he remarked to his wife that his ears were burning and that probably some one was talking about him. If he said that, he was entirely right. Some one was talking about him in a very restrained but exceedingly feverish manner.

As might be supposed there is a reason for having cultivators put together as mine is. The reason is called "Profits." When machinery is properly assembled before being sold, bolts that must be taken out from time to time are fitted with square shoulders under the head, and these fit into square holes. This makes it possible to tighten nuts or remove them as occasion may require. But, under our modern non-competitive system, the sole purpose of the manufacturer is to get his implements put together and sold. If he does not trouble himself to have square-shouldered bolts fit into square holes, he can save the wages of several mechanics who would otherwise put in their time seeing that the implements went together properly and could be taken apart again. By using bolts that are smaller than the holes in the castings they can assemble the implements without bothering to ream out the holes, and then if you want to change the position of, say, a cultivator tooth you may find, even if you are fortunate enough to get out the bolt, the next hole has never been reamed out, and that you must take the cultivator to a blacksmith to get it changed. And all this is due to the fact that thrifty manufacturers want to save the wages of mechanics in assembling their implements. If they can save a few cents it does not matter that they will cause delay and annoyance to the farmers who buy their implements. It is about the meanest, cheapest form of petty graft to which they can stoop, but they are doing it every day. Sir Jingo McBore is on the board of directors, and his one purpose in life is to get more dividends. To meet his insistent clamour, the manufacturer is forced to save at every turn so as to increase profits. Machines are put together in the cheapest way possible, and even though the style and materials may be of the best, they become a source of constant annoyance and loss of time to the man who buys and uses them. When I realised just what was the matter with that cultivator, and that, in order to make a saving of fifteen or twenty cents in the wages of a mechanic who would fit the bolts into their places properly, the manufacturer had sold me an imperfect implement, I just naturally boiled over. For a few vivid moments I lost my grip on the National Policy, and all the great verities of life. While I sat on the cultivator I recalled the appearance of a manufacturer of agricultural implements whom I had the privilege of looking at for fully half an hour one day last spring. He was a mild-looking man with pink whiskers and an air of vested rights, and, judging from his tone of voice when speaking from his place in parliament, he probably contributes regularly to the funds of the Holy Name Society. And yet that man and others like him sell to the farmers implements like my cultivator, that poison the fountains of language at the source. As I recalled the meek looks of this manufacturer and rubbed my barked knuckles, I saw red. It was then that I wanted a chance to address the Manufacturers' Association, and I think I could have said a few things to them that would have been worth while. And I have a sneaking suspicion that in addressing them on this subject I should be voicing the unexpressed and unprintable opinions of thousands of farmers in this fair Canada of ours.

_July 18._--Hurrah! The new bug has come. This morning I found a Perillus Bioculatus--or was it Claudus? And yet again it might have been Circumcinctus. Oh, what's the use? What I am really trying to tell is that I found one of the new beetles that are eating the potato bugs. I had heard that such a beetle exists, but had no hope of ever seeing one. There is a little patch of early potatoes in the corner of the garden, and when looking them over and making up my mind to spray them with Paris green, I noticed the little stranger. At first I thought it was a new enemy of the potato, and was trying to work up a feeling of resignation, when I noticed it had its proboscis sticking into a young potato bug. To make sure that it was really killing the creature, I put my finger close to it, and it ran along the leaf, still carrying its prey with it. It was undoubtedly a true Perillus bioculatus, or claudus, or circumcinctus, though it did not wear a tag giving its Latin name. It is a rather handsome creature, of about the same length and breadth as the hard-shelled potato bug, square-shouldered and attractively marked with yellow stripes on a black ground. I am not much of a hand at telling what any one or anything wears, so you may find it hard to recognise this excellent beetle from my description; but if you find one that has a potato bug speared on its beak, you will know that it is the farmer's friend. When you find one, be good to it, and make it welcome. I think we should get together with our scientists, and give it a better name than it has. I suggest that we call it the "Fun Bug," because, when it gets plentiful, the children can go and have fun, instead of picking the potato bugs. If you do not care for that name, and have a better one to suggest, you may write to me, giving your choice, and enclosing postage stamps as a guarantee of good faith. But above all things, be good to our new friend. To find a bug that is a benefit, and not a pest, is enough to make a man declare a birthday and go out to celebrate it.

Homer tells about a man who "dwelt beside a road and was the friend of mankind." A farmer meditating on that passage might be inclined to remark that in the days when Homer wrote there were no automobiles. If there had been, the gentle soul who dwelt beside the road might have found the milk of human kindness curdling in his bosom. And yet this would hardly be true. In those good old days they had chariots with scythes sticking out from the axles that must have been rather ticklish things to get past, especially when driven by some silken Greek or Trojan noble who was trying to handle a team of wild horses. The only point to this is that we must not run away with the idea that people did not have trouble before our time. I quite realise that there is nothing new to say on the question of automobiles, but there are times when I feel like saying a few old things with much bitterness of heart. Automobiles are more plentiful and more hasty than ever this year. I am told that the latest make cannot be run successfully at less than fifteen miles an hour, and that they can be made to go at the rate of forty and fifty miles an hour without trouble to any one except farmers who may be trying to go about their business on the public road. I frequently see them going by more swiftly than the express trains on the railway. I am told that only Americans crossing from Windsor to Niagara Falls offend in this way, but I have my doubts. It is quite true that the people in near-by towns who own automobiles are commendably considerate when approaching a skittish horse, but that is when they are near home. It is hard to say what they would do if they got out beyond the circle of their acquaintanceship. While travelling where they are known, they have to be careful, for we all know where they live, and if they don't treat us right they are likely to have a rough-necked man drop in at their place of business to talk matters over with them. Visitors of this kind can lean up close to the offending automobilist and say things to him, and if he tries to talk back, they can bite him. I am sorry to say that I have no suggestion to make about improving conditions of mixed travel on the public roads, but still I think it is worth while to keep on saying something about it, "Lest we forget, lest we forget." Some day we shall find a solution of the difficulty. In fact, we must find one, if we are not to be crowded off the roads altogether.

A few days ago I had an illuminating talk with a visiting fish peddler. He told me that it had taken him three years to work up his route, so that he can cover it profitably. People had to be educated to the use of fish. Now that they have become accustomed to his visits, he has no difficulty in selling from twelve hundred to fifteen hundred pounds of fish a week; but if he gets off his beaten track and tries a new district, he finds it hard to sell. This reminds me that I saw in a recent newspaper article a statement that Canadians are becoming much greater users of cheese than they were in the past. It is also said that the home demand for fruit and honey is also increasing--all of which is good news. It does not mean that people are becoming more extravagant in their way of living, but that they are learning the value of variety in their food. Fish, cheese, honey, and fruits are no more expensive than the pork, beef, and so-called plain foods which the majority of people use year in and year out, without change. The medical authorities tell us that variety in our foodstuffs makes for public health; so, besides making profit for themselves, those who are educating the people to use new foods are rendering a public service, and introducing the variety which is said to be "the spice of life."

They have raised a monument to the McIntosh Red apple, and there is talk of raising a fitting memorial to the man who introduced Red Fife wheat. This is a step in the right direction, and I think, when we are at it, we should raise a memorial of some kind to all the people who have done work from which they expected no return. We have only to look at the roads, the cleared fields, and the orchards of Canada to realise that the generations that went before us did not all look to collect for themselves the last cent of profit from their work. I am moved to make these remarks by the fact that I have so frequently heard people say to those who are planting out orchards or making other improvements that cannot be perfected for years to come, "Well, you'll never live to get any good out of it." Of all the discouraging, unprogressive points of view, I think that is easily the worst. The world would practically be at a standstill if men did not undertake anything from which they could not hope to reap the entire profit. Moreover, this matter of getting and having does not seem to be very well understood. Many people who have collected all the profits of their work really have nothing at all, because they get no good from what they have gathered. There is much food for thought in the words of the Frenchman who said on his death-bed, "What I spent I enjoyed, what I gave away I still have, but what I saved I lost completely."

_July 19._--There are young grasshoppers in the field--merry, inconsequent grasshoppers--but in the present state of public opinion in Canada I doubt if it would be wise to say much in their praise. The grasshopper chews tobacco, and fiddles, and I understand that both practices are forbidden by church discipline. And yet there is much about the grasshopper that appeals to me. To parody Sir John (I mean Falstaff, who must not in any way be confused with any of our own Sir Johns): "If to be merry and inconsequent be a sin, then many an old codger I know is going to get into trouble." In spite of his cheerful disposition the grasshopper has been an object of scorn to the moralists and fabulists. They have been fond of comparing him with the bee and the ant, to his disadvantage, and yet, as usual, there is another side to the story. In all the fairy tales, myths, and records of sorcery that I have read only one man was ever transformed into an insect, and he elected to be a grasshopper. When Tithonus, the accepted lover of Eos, goddess of the dawn, began to get old and shrivelled because he neglected to ask for immortal youth instead of immortal life, she got rid of him by changing him into a grasshopper, and I suspect that the change was made by request. Tithonus was no doubt very wise as well as very old. As the favoured lover of Rhododaktulos Eos he must have seen a great deal of life. To begin with, he must have been one of the industrious sort or he would never have been up early enough to make love to the Dawn. Besides, in order to live up to his position he would have to be around at daybreak every morning. So it is no wonder when it was "time for a change," as the politicians say, that he decided to be changed into a grasshopper. This insect neither works nor stores up treasure. He takes his ease until the sun is high every morning, and when danger threatens he clears out of the way with one jump. His life lasts only while the pasture is good, and when he isn't eating he chews tobacco and fiddles. Personally, I prefer a pipe, and those who ought to know tell me that I am not musical, but, still, I have much admiration for old Tithonus, who decided that if he couldn't be a man he wanted to be a grasshopper.

The more I consider insects the more I am convinced that our moralists must give up drawing lessons from them. Although the ant is industrious she never lays up more food than is needed for a hard winter, and no ant hill that I have ever investigated has revealed anything suggestive of the most approved forms of modern thrift. The ants have nothing to correspond with our industrial system, with its mergers and watered stocks. The bee is nearest to man in these matters, and see what a fool she is. She lays up treasures where the moth can corrupt and thieves break in and steal. A great majority of the bees work themselves to death without ever getting a chance to enjoy the treasures they have stored up. If you provide them with comfortable quarters and plenty of white clover blossoms they will go on producing like farmers without ever noticing who is getting the profits of their work. Although the bees have been much favoured by fabulists I think that they should really be regarded as horrible examples.

_July 21._--This is a wonderful year for roses. In the early morning when they are drenched with dew every bush looks like a fairy fountain where the universal life force is bubbling up in beauty of form and colour and perfume. And the roses are not alone. All the other old-fashioned flowers, the marigolds, petunias, larkspurs, poppies, and hyacinths, are sending up their jets of tremulous loveliness. As I look at them with eyes refreshed by sleep I realise the truth of that verse in the Koran which says:

"If I had but one loaf of bread I would sell half of it and buy hyacinths, for beauty is food for the soul."

Not even the fabled

"Beds of amaranth and moly, Where soft winds lull us breathing lowly,"

can surpass a Canadian garden, brimming with the old-fashioned flowers beloved in childhood. As I linger among them the years fall from me like an "envious shadow." I press the delicate blooms to my face, inhale their fragrance, and let my whole being vibrate with the joy of life until my heart joins in the morning chorus of the birds. And then the great sun swings up and the day's work begins.

_July 22._--For the past few days we have been hauling in hay and hustling like a gang of lightning-rod peddlers following up a destructive thunderstorm. And I have built my first stack. That may not seem a very startling statement to a tired business man, but I beg to assure all such that a stack of blue grass and a stack of blues are two entirely different things. The method of building them is not the same, and a stack of blue grass goes farther in feeding the cattle than a stack of blues in feeding the kitty. But sh-h-h! I should not be introducing these esoteric terms of high finance into innocent pastoral scenes.

To return to the stack--I feel fairly proud of it. It is more symmetrical than I thought I could ever make one, and it is settling down on its foundation like a benediction. Having seen real farmers, who are reputed to be good stack-builders, get down off their stack and run for a rail to prop it up so that it would not fall over, it gives me a glow of satisfaction to see my first attempt sitting as upright as a pyramid. Whenever I have nothing else to do when I am smoking my pipe after dinner, I always wander to some spot where I can see and admire my first stack from a new angle, and I find that it looks fairly well from every side. Of course, it is not perfect, and I would not advise people who are busy or have something important to do to come far out of their way to look at it, but still I am not ashamed to have it examined.

In the past I have always had an expert stack-builder to do the building, but this year the boys and I are doing all the farm work, and I had to build myself. Of course, I have often helped at stack-building, keeping the hay in front of the builder or pitching off the loads, but I never before had the courage to act as chief architect. I have also heard good stack-builders discuss the art, and I know that the chief thing is to "keep the middle full." As nearly as possible I made this stack all middle, kept it well tramped and never went too near the edges. Experts who have looked at it say that it will turn the wet all right, but I shall not feel entirely safe until it has been opened next winter. I have no doubt the cows have a proverb to the effect that "the proof of the stack is in the eating."

A real farmer with whom I was discussing my stack with more modesty than I really felt made the disquieting comment: "Your first two or three stacks will probably be all right, for you will be careful. It is after you think that you know how to build stacks that you will get careless and then you will begin to build poor ones." Possibly that is true, but to be forewarned is to be forearmed. I certainly did give my whole attention to the work while building that stack. My mind was on it all the time, and every forkful was placed with considerate care. It irritated me to have any one distract my attention by speaking to me while I was at the work. I was bound to make a good job of it.

To those who have never built stacks it would be surprising to know the amount of concentrated attention that is required. A stack isn't simply a pile of hay, and when it comes to topping off you need a good eye to make all sides slope up evenly. I didn't intend to build it so high, but the slope at which I started kept me going up and up as far as the two boys could pitch. One was throwing hay up as high as he could from the load, and the other was perched precariously on a little ledge, from which he threw it up to me, and when I reached the top I was also pitching the bundles higher than my head. By that time I had become sufficiently accustomed to my work to have a chance to observe and to note that my stack was like

"Some tall cliff vertiginously high."

The boy who was perched on the side of the stack reminded me of the lines:

"Half way down, Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!"