Part 21
Another city farmer had been having some trouble and wanted to know if I could tell him what it was. His vegetables have been acting freakishly. They grew too fast at first, put on too much top, turned yellow, and then seemed to burn out in spite of watering and much cultivation. When I found out how much fertiliser he had surprised his eight-by-twelve patch of ground with I diagnosed the case as one of water-brash or some similar form of soil indigestion. I advised him to put his garden on a spoon diet till it got back to normal. At the present time it is evidently so strong that it is heaving the roots out of the ground. Another man complained that his troubles were due to a city ordinance that forbade the use of water during the recent hot spell.
"If I had been at home," he explained, "things would have been different. But I went away with my family for a two-weeks' holiday and left the garden to the care of a man who does odd jobs around the neighbourhood. I told him above all things to water it regularly, but as soon as he heard that the city forbade the use of water in that way he shut right off instead of finding some way of doing it at night when no one was looking. It's a corker how careful some people are about the law when it lets them get out of doing work."
But in spite of these occasional failures the crop reports for Toronto are very good. Cucumbers seem to be thriving especially well in captivity, and carrots that are kept in solitary confinement are doing wonderfully. If reciprocity is passed and the yield of canned vegetables is normal Toronto will pull through the winter all right.
Since coming home I have been busy shocking oats and I find that shocking, like every other occupation on the farm, has undergone a change. The shocks of my earliest recollection were works of art in their way. Although I am woefully lacking in specific information regarding these old-time shocks, I have a very distinct impression that they meant more than merely a convenient pile of sheaves set up to dry. Those old shocks, as I remember them, were made in two shapes and sizes. There were ten-sheaf shocks built in a straight line in which two sheaves were braced against each other in a way that is still customary. Then there was a round shock made of thirteen sheaves, twelve in the pile, and the thirteenth placed on the top with both ends spread out so as to make a kind of thatch roof. My impressions are vague, but I am setting them forth in the hope that some one who really knows will set me right so that a bit of information of pioneer days may be preserved. Those old-time shocks invariably had the same number of sheaves made as nearly as possible of the same size, and a definite number of them were supposed to represent a fair day's work, but just how many I cannot say. They served to keep tally as well as to preserve the grain, but these modern shocks of the kind I threw together are not ornamental and no more useful than the law demands. After some of them were put up I held my breath and moved away on tiptoe for fear of shaking them over. The number of sheaves in each one depended on the thickness of the sheaves at the point where I began my building operations. They are altogether too sketchy in appearance to serve as models for an agricultural implement poster, but it doesn't matter much, as there are no signs even of "local thunderstorms," and we intend to begin hauling in to-morrow.
My personal recollection of sheaves covers practically their whole evolution. Although the first reaping I remember was done with a horse-killing machine which carried two men, one of whom swept the sheaves off the table with a rake, I had a chance to see the work of some belated sickle men. In new land that was too stumpy for machines, or even successful work with the cradles, sickles were used. As the sickle men cut the wheat in handfuls, they were able to lay every straw in its place and make sheaves that for square butts and compactness surpassed any that can be turned out by the self-binders. They also made sheaves of practically the same size. Those who followed the cradles were apt to make big sheaves where the crop was heavy and little sheaves where it was light, and the swath would have to be raked for a considerable distance to get a proper bundle. There was also an artistic carelessness about the sheaves made with a self-rake machine, but the binder of to-day makes them all of the same size--a fact which makes the handling of sheaves much more convenient. Before leaving this subject I wish some one would tell me just why binders are made to go in the opposite direction to mowers. I can see no reason for this, and no one of whom I have asked has been able to offer an explanation.
Threshing is now in progress in all parts of the country, and as soon as we have that well in hand you may bring on your politics as fast as you like. The indications are that the yield of speeches is going to be large and weedy, but whether our statesmen will thresh out any No. 1 hard ideas remains to be seen. Already there are indications that flails may be used in the threshing by some of the workers. Moreover, I have noticed that, although it is hard to get good hired men on the farm, political hired men are cheap and plentiful. But enough of this.
_Aug. 15._--"Do bees pay?"
"They do. For the amount of the investment, and the labour required, they pay better than anything else a man can raise."
"Then why doesn't everybody raise bees?"--(At this point the fight begins.)
Those who are able to handle bees successfully always laugh at those who are not--the whole thing seems so simple to them. On the other hand, those who have tried and failed are liable to ruffle up when they hear bees mentioned, as if they could still feel the stings. In such a discussion an enthusiast on bees who has at the time of writing a cauliflower ear due to a bee sting may be expected to tell the truth. Therefore perpend.
Bees certainly pay, if given a ghost of a show. Any one who keeps an eye on the farmer's sales in the spring can buy good, strong hives for five dollars each. If he has the proper appliances, and gives the necessary attention at the right time, such a hive may reasonably be expected to yield ten dollars' worth of honey, at least two swarms, that, if properly hived, will each be as valuable for another year as the parent hive, and that may yield in the first year another ten dollars' worth of honey. As a handy man can make his own hives and can buy the fittings (frames for the honeycomb, pound sections, etc.) very cheaply, the actual money investment need not be large. The time investment is so small that it need not be taken into account--it can be credited to that indefinite part of farm work called "chores." Let us now see how this figures out. Expenses:--Parent hive, $5; extra hives, appliances, etc. (say), $5. Returns:--Honey, $20; three colonies of bees worth $5 each, $15, total $35; profit, $25. Can you beat it? If a company were formed to handle bees on that basis the prospectus would be excluded from the mails, and very properly, for the business seldom works out that way. A successful bee-handier seems to be born, not made.
"Don't you feel frightened when bees light on your hands and face?" a successful bee-keeper was asked.
"No, but I sometimes feel uncomfortable. Their feet tickle me when they walk about."
A farmer to whom this was repeated, snorted: "That's just it. There are some folks that bees will walk all over without stinging, and others that they'll sting all over without walking."
For two weeks the writer moved about fearlessly and unharmed among ten hives of bees, and indulged in the beautiful moral reflections that the thrifty colonies are supposed to inspire. Their constant industry recalled in an improved version the words of the poet:--
How do the busy little bees Improve the shining hours By making honey all the day From other people's flowers.
In spare moments he put together pound sections, fitting into each a strip of "starter"--wax foundations for combs--and similarly prepared frames for the larger boxes from which the honey will be extracted later on. At last the fateful day arrived when the pound sections were to be put on some of the hives, and the boxes with frames on others. A demonstration in practical bee-handling was to be given for his benefit. The demonstrator took the usual precaution of wearing thick woollen gloves and an ample gauze veil. The cautious observer, who never could see the use of taking unnecessary chances, viewed the proceedings from behind a screen door. Very simple the work seemed. The top of the hive was lifted off, a box of frames or pound sections put in place, and the top put on again. All went merrily until an old and somewhat imperfect hive was reached. It was found that the top had been gummed down by the bees, and a chisel was needed to pry it loose. This fussing angered the bees, but everything would have gone off right had not a sudden gust of wind blown the veil against the demonstrator's face. Instantly three bees got in their fine work. At this point another veil must be drawn.
When bees have once been angered, as were the inhabitants of this hive, it takes them some days to settle down--as the writer knows to his cost. On the morning after the demonstration he was standing fifty yards from the hive admiring a fine plump broiler, and wondering if he would have him served fried, with brown gravy, broiled, or à la Maryland, when a scouting bee lit for one hot moment on the Darwin tip of his ear. A wild slap that almost knocked his head off, a jump of two feet straight up in the air, and a staccato yell that roused the whole neighbourhood did no good. It was everlastingly too late--hence the cauliflower ear referred to above. This morning, three days later, an attempt to split some kindling wood within twenty yards of the hive led to another attack. Fortunately the bee was killed at the first swipe, and splitting kindling wood is a nuisance that one is only too glad of a good excuse for being rid of.
Bees are so scientific in their methods that it is easy for the skilled bee-keeper to meet them half-way and get the best results. The literature on the subject is so copious and precise that any one can have expert knowledge with a little study, and then, if he keeps on good terms with his colonies, he can handle them with ease and profit. He can be fully instructed just when to give them extra working room fitted with proper appliances, how to take the honey from them and induce them to do the greatest possible amount of work, and how to feed them with sugar in the fall so that they will be well prepared for the winter. The question of wintering the bees is the one that causes the beginner the most trouble, as a hive may be so weakened that it will not survive the winter, or will not be thrifty enough to do well in the spring. As for being on friendly terms with the bees, full instructions are given on that point. It is said that any one can acquire the knack of handling them without being stung; but the writer will listen to these stories with a more open mind when his ear feels better.
It seems only a few years since the man who had bees got his honey by smothering the hive. A hole was dug in the ground, and in the bottom a number of twigs were placed so as to hold up a bunch of cotton rags coated with melted sulphur. At night, when the bees were all in the hive, the sulphur was lit. The hive was then lifted cautiously and placed over the hole. A blanket was thrown over it to keep in the fumes, and the bees were quickly smothered. Even when such destructive methods were in vogue bee-keeping was considered profitable. It should be much more profitable now when nothing is wasted and the bees are carefully preserved.
The conclusion of the whole matter--the sting, if you like--is that bee-keeping is light, interesting, and profitable work for those who master its secrets; but the fact remains that most people are afraid of bees, and not without reason. Whether one can become a successful bee-keeper can only be learned by experience. Fortunately that experience can be gained easily, and can be gained in town almost as readily as in the country, for bees will travel far to find the blossoms from which to gather their honey. There is no reason why hardy suburbanites should not go in for bee culture as well as farmers--but--but--in spite of all the nice things that enthusiasts write about them bees do sting.
_Aug. 17._--Yesterday I pitched oat-sheaves and it seemed so pleasant a form of exercise I am surprised that any one would call it work. But some people can make work of anything. I have even known people to wear themselves out counting up their money--but I didn't know them very well. If I had, I would have offered to help and to share their burdens.
I am inclined to believe that they have a finer harvesting spirit in the older countries than we have here. Once when passing a harvest field in England I thought there was a picnic of some kind in progress. Children were playing among the sheaves, girls wearing their brightest ribbons were wandering about among the workers, and those who were pitching and loading acted as if they were enjoying themselves instead of drudging. The jolly farmer whose crop was being taken to his barns called to me cheerily, and asked if I would come in and have a drink of hard cider. Every one acted as if nature's bounty were appreciated, and as if the harvest were a natural time of rejoicing. Here it is different. Everything is rush and hurry. I have even known a good farmer to fume and rage because the minister was so thoughtless as to make a pastoral call during the harvest and had delayed matters by asking a blessing at dinner. When folks get in a hurry here in Ontario, they make the fur fly. But I gave up being in a hurry long since, and yesterday the children were among the sheaves, and they rode on the loads, and we had a good time together that we'll probably talk about years afterwards.
Mushrooms are in. The wet weather has brought them up in the fields fully a month earlier than usual, and we have had several luxurious feeds. After all, I am not sure that the hand-raised mushrooms are any better than those that come up naturally in the fields. Of course, the cultivated ones are good and you can have them at any season of the year, but the pink-fleshed field mushrooms, when you are lucky enough to see them before the worms do, are just about as good as anything can be. Besides, there is something that appeals to one's sporting instinct in finding them out in the pasture. Getting field mushrooms compares with taking them from a bed as winging a partridge does with potting a fat domestic hen. But picking mushrooms is not an entire joy to me just yet. I know only two kinds: the common field mushroom and the inky mushroom, both of them delicious. But during the past few days I have found nine different varieties, some of them very tempting-looking, and I don't know whether they are poisonous or fit to eat. They are plentiful both in the fields and the woods, and it would be easy to get basketfuls if one only knew the right kinds. I have studied all the attractive-looking ones carefully, and the next time I go to Toronto I am going to hunt up J. McPherson Ross and find out all about them. He tells me that there are one hundred and twelve edible varieties and only six that are poisonous. It will be just my luck that six out of my nine will be poisonous ones. Anyway, I am taking no chances, even though I may be losing some of the best fungi that grow. Better to be safe than to be sick and sorry.
The bobolinks have changed colour, and, judging by their appearance, they are as fat as butter. In a few weeks they will be appearing at the best restaurants in New York, nicely spitted, as broiled rice birds, and if you try them you will find that a couple are fully worth the sixty cents you will be charged. When I see about a hundred of them (they are gathering in flocks now) stretched along a wire fence after they have been scared away from the oat shocks, I can't help wishing that I could defy the Insectivorous Birds Act and pot enough to make a good meal. I admit it would be a sin and a shame to shoot bobolinks. But what would be wrong about shooting a few rice birds? It seems odd that our musical and law-protected bobolinks, after a flight of a few hundred miles, will be the destructive and toothsome rice birds of the south. I fancy they would taste just as good here as they do down there if one only dared to try them.
This is an unusual year for black thimbleberries. Not only is the fruit more plentiful than usual, but the briers seem to be longer and sharper and the mosquitoes that protect them more plentiful and savage. Still we are picking all we can of them.
BERRY-PICKING
Berry-pickers! Berry-pickers! Rising with the sun, Think that you are working, don't you? I just think it fun! Every brier is black with berries, Loaded, bending down; I will race you for a pailful! Then away to town.
Pretty faces, bonnet-shaded, Brightly-glowing cheeks, Crimsoned lips that tell of eating, Hands with ruddy streaks! Where have all the children wandered? "Ho, yo-ho, o-ho!" There they answer, shouting, laughing, Through the patch they go.
Hot and weary, richly laden With delicious spoil, At the spring we bathe our faces, Drink and rest from toil. Who will buy our fresh, ripe berries? If you haggle--well, We may change our minds and keep them; They're too good to sell.
THE STONE
A man! A man! There is a man loose in Canada! A man of heroic mould, a "throwback" of earlier ages, Vigorous, public-spirited, not afraid of work! A doer of deeds, not a dreamer and babbler; A man, simple, direct, unaffected. Such a one as Walt Whitman would have gloried in, And made immortal in rugged man-poetry— Vast polyphloesboean verses such as erstwhile he bellowed Through roaring storm winds to the bull-mouthed Atlantic.
And yesterday the man passed among us unnoted! Did his deed and went his way without boasting, Leaving his act to speak, himself silent!
And I, beholding the marvel, stood for a space astonied, Then threw up my hat and chortled, And whooped in dithyrambic exultation. Hark to my tale! On the sixteenth sideroad of the township of Ekfrid, Just south of the second concession line, some rods from the corner, There was a stone, a stone in the road, a stumbling-block; A jagged tooth of granite dropped from the jaw of a glacier In an earlier age when the summers were colder; A rock that horses tripped on, wheels bumped on, and sleigh-runners scrunched on, And no man in all the land had the gumption to dig it out. Pathmaster after pathmaster, full of his pride of office, Rode by with haughty brow, and regarded it not, Seeing only the weeds in the field of the amateur farmer, And scrawling minatory letters ordering them cut, But leaving the stone. Oft in my hot youth I, riding in a lumber waggon, By that lurking stone was catapulted skyward, And picked myself up raging and vowing to dig it out— But dug it not. I didn't have a spade, Or, if I had a spade, I had a lame back—always an excuse. And the stone stayed. As passed the years—good years, bad years, Years that were wet or dry, lean years and fat years, Roaring election years (mouthing reforms); in short, all years That oldest inhabitants keep in stock—there grew a tradition About the stone. Men, it was said, had tried to move it, But it was a stubborn boulder, deep sunk in the earth, And could only be moved by dynamite—at vast cost to the council; But every councillor was a watchdog of the treasury, And the stone stayed. Since the memory of man runneth the stone was there. It had stubbed the toe of the Algonquin brave, and haply Had tripped the ferocious, marauding Iroquois. It had jolted the slow, wobbling ox-cart of the pioneer; Jolted the lumber waggons, democrats, buggies, sulkies; Jolted the pungs, crotches, stoneboats, bobsleighs, cutters; Upset loads of bolts, staves, cordwood, loads of logs and hay; Jolted threshing machines, traction engines, automobiles, Milk waggons with cans of whey, envied of querulous swine; It had shattered the dreams of farmers, figuring on crops; Of drovers planning sharp deals. Of peddlers, agents, doctors, preachers; It had jolted lovers into closer embraces, to their bashful delight; But mostly it had shaken men into sinful tempers— A wicked stone, a disturbing stone, a stumbling-block— A stone in the middle of the road— Insolent as a bank, obstructive as a merger!
Year after year the road flowed around it, Now on the right side, now on the left; But always on dark nights flowing straight over it, Jolting the belated traveller into a passion black as midnight, Making his rocking vocabulary slop over With all the shorter and uglier words. Boys grew to manhood and men grew to dotage. And year after year they did statute-labour By cutting the thistles and golden-rod, milkweeds and burdocks, But left the stone untouched.
There is a merry tale that I heard in my childhood, Standing between my father's knees, before the open fireplace, Watching the sparks make soldiers on the blazing back-log, While the shadows danced on the low-beamed ceiling; A pretty tale, such as children love, and it comes to me now; Comes with the sharp, crisp smell of wood smoke, The crackle of flaming cordwood on the dockers, The dancing shadows and the hand on my touzled head— A clear memory, a dear memory, and ever the stone As it lay in my path in the roadway brought back the story— The loving voice, and, at the close, the laughter.