Part 22

"Once upon a time there was a king, a mighty ruler, Deep in the lore of human hearts, wise as a serpent, Who placed a stone in the road in the midst of his kingdom, On the way to his palace, where all men must pass it. Straightway the people turned aside, turning to right and to left of it. Statesmen, scholars, courtiers, noblemen, merchants, Beggars, labourers, farmers, soldiers, generals, men of all classes Passed the stone, and none tried to move it— To clear the path of the travelling multitude. But one day came a man, a kindly poor man, Who thought it a shame that the stone should be there, A stumbling-block to the nation. Bowing his back He put his shoulder to it, and behold, a marvel! The stone was but a shell, hollow as a bowl! A child might have moved it. And in the hollow was a purse of gold, and with it a writing: 'Let him who hath the public spirit to move the stone Keep the purse and buy a courtly robe, And come to the palace to serve the king as prime minister.' So the kindly poor man who had public spirit Became the chief ruler of all the nation. When the news was told to them, all men rushed to the highways And moved away the stones, but found no purse of gold; But they cleared the roads of stones, and the 'Good Roads Movement' Went through without cost because the king was wise And well understood our weak, human nature." Ever when passing the stone I remembered this story And smiled, touched by memories of childhood, But knew there was no purse under it; there might be an angle-worm, But I was not going fishing—and the stone stayed.

Now mark the sequel, the conclusion of the matter! Yesterday a man went by—whether neighbour or stranger, No man can tell me, though I have questioned widely, Questioned eagerly, longing to do him honour, To chant his name in song, or cunningly engrave it In monumental brass, with dædal phantasies— To make it a landmark, a beacon to all future ages, This good man, earnest, public-spirited, Not fearing work, scorning tradition, Doing his duty as he saw it, not waiting an order, Dug out the stone and made it a matter of laughter, For it was no boulder, deep-rooted, needing dynamite, But just a little stone about the size of a milkpail. A child might have moved it, and yet it had bumped us For three generations because we lacked public spirit. I blush with shame as I pass the stone now lying In the roadside ditch where the good man rolled it, And left it where all men may see it—a symbol, a portent.

Tremble, ye Oppressors! Quake, ye Financial Pirates! Your day is at hand, for there is a man loose in Canada! A man to break through your illegal labyrinths, A Theseus to cope with your corporate Minotaurs, A Hercules to clean out your Augean stables of grafters, A man who moves stones from the path of his fellows! And makes smooth the way of the Worker! And such a man may move you! Tremble, I say!

_Aug. 20._--Yesterday I had a chance to do some excellent moralising, but missed it, because I couldn't keep from laughing. To moralise properly a man must be very solemn. He must look wise, so that the things he is saying will seem wise. Although I do not often indulge in moralising, I have done enough of it to know that its chief value lies in the satisfaction it gives to the moralist rather than in any good it does to his hearers. That is why I am sorry I missed my chance yesterday. It isn't often that I get a chance to feel wise and self-righteous. But I couldn't keep from laughing and that spoiled everything.

We were waiting for the horses to finish their dinner before returning to the cornfield, when one of the boys threw a crust of bread among the hens. They all made a dive for it and a moment later a nimble Leghorn broke out of the scrimmage with the crust in her beak. It was too big to be swallowed at a gulp, and she had to find some quiet place where she could peck it to pieces and swallow it bit by bit. But to get the necessary quiet and leisure was the problem. Half a dozen other hens pursued her across the barnyard snatching at the crust. With neck outstretched, and a look of vested rights in her eye, she ducked under the granary still pressed by her relentless pursuers. A moment later she appeared at the other side, and as they say in the old-fashioned novels, "The villains still pursued her." Back she came across the yard a neck ahead of her tormentors. Occasionally one of her pursuers would drop out of the race, but her place would be taken at once by a fresh plunderer. The chase disappeared around the corner of the stable only to appear a few seconds later around the other side. Try as she would, she could not shake off her pursuers. Her steps began to show signs of weariness, but to stop meant to lose her prize. She started towards the house, but her pursuers, fresh ones that had just joined the chase, were just at her shoulder. Her steps began to wobble, for she was about winded, and at last she had to open her beak to pant. The crust fell to the ground, where it was immediately picked up by one of her pursuers. But the new owner was no better off than the one that had been robbed. The change of ownership seemed to increase the energy of the other hens, and the run continued. Back they came to the granary, passed under it, across the yard, around the stable and hen house, and into the orchard where a new bunch of hens took up the chase. While we continued to watch the crust changed ownership three times, and not a morsel of it had been eaten. At one time or another every hen in the flock had taken part in the fruitless pursuit. When we started for the field the crust was being carried by a long-legged Andalusian, but though gifted with more speed she was faring no better than the others, for there was a fresh hen at every turn ready to take up the chase. Now, if you stop to consider the matter could you possibly get a better example of the embarrassment of riches? Just like a man who has acquired a fortune, the hen in possession had to spend all her energy in protecting it and could not take time to enjoy it. And just like wealth, it was constantly changing hands--or beaks. What finally became of the crust we did not learn, as we could not spend the whole afternoon in watching, but at the last glimpse we got the Andalusian was still running strong. Probably the chase was kept up until roosting time. But though I missed the chance to moralise because I could not keep from laughing at the plight of the hen in possession, I may be permitted to score a point with poultry raisers. I understand that to do record laying hens must have plenty of exercise. From what I saw yesterday I learned that a whole flock of hens can be made to exercise to the point of falling from exhaustion by one crust of bread. Here is a scheme for giving hens exercise that beats the usual one of giving them their grain in chaff or straw so that they will have to scratch. One durable crust would keep a flock in motion for a whole day. So you see I learned something even though I missed the chance to enjoy the pleasure of moralising.

Having ventured to give a tip to the scientists about the best methods of exercising hens, I may as well unburden my mind of some more scientific suggestions. I have been watching with interest the wonderful work that is being done in the development of improved strains of grain by selection, and have been wondering if the scientists are not missing something. The work of natural selection is going on all around us, and haven't you noticed what vigorous weeds Nature is producing in spite of our efforts to destroy them. Many weeds seem to be like "The camomile, the more it is trodden the more it grows." Is it not possible that the scientists are coddling the plants they are favouring? They are doing wonders in the way of producing better yields of corn, wheat, oats, etc., and maturing them in shorter time, but all these better products only tend to fasten on us more securely the curse of labour that makes us earn our bread in the sweat of our brows. These improved products require unusually careful cultivation, and that is not Nature's method at all. Nature seems to aim at getting results without cultivation of any kind. Now why should not the scientists make some experiments along the same line. If they were to throw handfuls of corn among weeds and grass it is probable that a few grains would struggle through and mature ears of corn. If the best of these were selected and sown again under the same conditions, a hardier and more vigorous product could be secured. The process of selection could go on by constantly choosing the most vigorous and best-yielding products until in time we might produce a strain of corn that would not only be able to hold its own with the weeds, but would choke them out and still give a noble yield. By following this suggestion they would simply be aiding natural selection instead of developing strains that need artificial conditions to make them do their best. Think of what a boon it would be to have grains that would grow like weeds without cultivation of any kind and still yield good crops. With hired help so scarce this suggestion should not be brushed aside too scornfully. Besides it would make farming possible for amateur farmers who are obeying the impulse to get back to the land. I am afraid that scientific agriculture is suffering from the same defects as our educational system. There is too much coddling. What I want to see is self-producing crops. If we once get that, the farmers can produce more just as they are being urged by the editorial sages of the city papers. Trusting that the scientists will accept this suggestion in the spirit in which it is meant, I offer it for what it is worth.

SEPTEMBER

_Sept. 5._--It had not occurred to me that fall is closing in until some one brought a big ripe pumpkin from the cornfield and placed it by the kitchen door. A handful of red crab-apples happened to be thrown beside it, and, with a white wall for a background, it was a picture to tempt an artist--or a cook. This has been a good year for pumpkins, and, although the one I speak of is merely an average specimen, the children cannot put their arms around it, and to be able to lift it even an inch off the ground is a feat of strength to be "blowed" about with popping eyes and excited faces. There is much speculation as to how many pies it will make. By the way, wouldn't it be a good scheme for some enterprising grocer or baker to put a fine ripe pumpkin in his window and offer a prize to the person who could guess how many pies could be made from it? The prize might take the form of a dozen pumpkin pies, and I miss my guess if grave professional men and magnates who were once country boys would not step in to take a chance. Pumpkin pies are just as good as ever they were, and yesterday at the thrashing I attended I asked for a second piece. Then I came home and clamoured for pumpkin pies and would not be comforted until I saw them being put in the oven.

Of course there are other signs of fall, but they have not forced themselves on my attention. Every night we are serenaded by the crickets that, according to Maeterlinck, are the possessors of a wonderful musical instrument, "whose bow numbers one hundred and fifty triangular prisms that set in motion simultaneously the four dulcimers of the elytron." (School teachers might find it profitable to use this sentence in the Friday spelling match.) I had no idea that the cricket's music was so complex, but the scientists say it is, and we must believe them. Anyway, the music is better than the description of it sounds, and our choir--"The Choir Invisible"--must number several millions, and they are all singing of the fall and harvest home. Many of the summer birds, such as the bobolinks and blackbirds, have flocked and disappeared. A flock of wild ducks that is evidently making its way south has lately been haunting the Government drain and the pond in the gravel-pit. Yesterday the turkeys were lying on the ground with one eye turned towards the sky while they sounded their peculiar note of warning, and after straining my sight for awhile I discovered a flock of hawks circling in the upper air. But in spite of all these signs the country looks more like June than September. The heavy rains during the harvest freshened the pastures and the foliage of the trees; a vigorous growth of weeds or a catch of clover has hidden the harvest stubble, so that everything looks fresh and luxuriantly green. This may be fall, but it is hard to believe it.

While out walking a few days ago I came to a patch of woods that has been enclosed for several years. Sheep, cattle, and hogs have not been allowed to pasture in it, and already it gives a hint of what the country must have been like in the days of the pioneers. Seedling trees are coming up by the thousand, while flowers and plants with strange berries that I cannot remember having seen before are everywhere. The earth under the underbrush is moist and cluttered with rotting vegetation. Even the woodland odours are different from those you notice in ordinary woods from which the underbrush has been cleared, and where the cattle have been allowed to have their will. Many of the birds, too, were unfamiliar, and the change I found on climbing the line fence from a piece of unprotected woods into this patch, which is being protected, reminded me of a passage in one of Darwin's books, in which he told how the flora and fauna of a whole countryside was changed by the enclosing of a piece of forest that had been open to pasture. I wished that I had with me three or four scientists who could have told me all about the wonders I found. As it is, I am determined to take up the study of botany, entymology, and all other 'ologies that will help to acquaint me with all the marvels of such spots as this.

A BALLADE OF APPLES

I sing the apples of my eye And I shall sing with all my might, For here around me, swinging high, They tease my senses with delight. My palate yearns! they charm my sight! My lips with longing overflow-- (Excuse me while I take a bite!) The Apples of Ontario.

From Astrachan to Northern Spy, Alike they rouse my appetite As they were wont in days gone by, When hearts were bold and fingers light; When barefoot pirates sought at night The orchards where they used to grow And filled their shirts ere put to flight-- The Apples of Ontario.

Superb in dumplings! prime in pie! When baked they'd tempt an anchorite! Supreme in "sass," good even dry, But ripe and mellow, peerless quite! I know, good friends, it is not right Of me to tantalise you so! If you're without--I mourn your plight-- The Apples of Ontario!

ENVOI

Prince, do not heed the words of spite Or slurs that envious rivals throw! We have them free from scab and blight, The Apples of Ontario! Especially around Glencoe!

_Sept. 16._--Say, do horse-hairs turn into eels? There was a time when I firmly believed that they did, but it was so long ago that I had forgotten all about it. This morning when they told me that there was a "live horse-hair" in the tub of rain-water beside the cistern I remembered the old belief and proceeded to investigate. The creature certainly did look like a living horse-hair, as it swam around the tub like a sea-serpent. It was about ten inches long and had no head that was visible to the naked eye. It was the slimmest thing for its length that I ever saw. When I was a boy I had seen these creatures in the watering-trough at the barn and firmly believed that they were horse-hairs that had come to life in the water. Furthermore, I believed that if they found their way into the creek they would grow into great eels of the kind from whose skins they make shoe-laces. Of course, the children were quite ready to believe the old explanation of these long, snaky wrigglers, but with a _Century Encyclopædia_ within reach, I could not resist getting at the truth of the matter. After several vain attempts under "eel" and "horse-hair," I finally got a line from "hair-worm," and located the mystery as a specimen of the Gordius aquaticus. They are described as a family of nematoid worms. They have an elongated, filiform body with a ventral cord. The life history of the little creature is interesting:

"In the young stage they live in the body cavity of predatory insects and are provided with a mouth. At the pairing time they pass into the water, where they become mature. The embryos, which are provided with spines, bore through the egg-membrane, migrate into insect larvæ, and there encyst. Water beetles and other predatory aquatic insects eat the encysted young forms, which then develop in the body cavity of their new and larger host to young Gordiidæ."

There you are. Another belief of childhood has been exploded by some painstaking scientist, who has made a careful study of the "horse-hair eels."

A walk to the orchard showed me that after all my thinning of apples I did not take off nearly enough. Half a dozen big, heavily-loaded limbs were broken off by the last windstorm. I couldn't have propped them up even if I had tried, for they were all top branches, but it is some consolation that it was the Ben Davis trees that were affected the most. In doing the thinning I attended to the Spies most carefully, as they were the most important, and, though I took off a cruel lot, if I had the job to do over again I would take off still more. The Spies, Baldwins, Pippins, and Kings have all the fruit they can carry, and I am sure the unusual size of the apples is due to the thinning. I thinned several of the Ben Davis quite severely, and the apples on them are fully twice the size of those on the trees that were neglected. No, I haven't sold the apples yet. The regular dealers have not made me an offer, but I have received offers from various parts of the country where a number of consumers are willing to club together and take the whole crop. My only reason for not accepting these offers at once is that I do not know how I am going to pick and pack the apples by myself. Experts say that I shall have over two hundred barrels of good shipping apples, but how am I to get experienced packers? The dealers have employed every man in the country who knows anything about such work. The children and I could probably pick them all right, but I hate to undertake the job of grading them for fear I should be arrested for not doing the work right. But, like Sentimental Tommy, I hope to "find a w'y."

When walking through the orchard I was sorry to see a lot of good apples, Maiden's Blushes and sweet apples, rotting on the ground, but I can do nothing about them. There is no market for them, and the local evaporator can take only a limited supply because of the scarcity of labour. And even if I could sell them to the evaporator the price paid is so trifling that, I am told, the best a man can do is to earn day-labourer's wages without counting the value of the apples. It seems too bad to have good apples rotting when there are thousands of poor people and apple-hungry children who would be glad to get them. I would willingly give the apples to any one who wants them rather than see them waste, but every one in the country has enough, and even town people near by have friends among the farmers who keep them supplied.

In spite of the high cost of living, I am becoming convinced that there is enough food of various kinds going to waste every year in Ontario to relieve the stringency, if there were any way of getting it on the market. It is the same with the cabbages and tomatoes in the garden. We have so many that they are wasting, and there is no local market. If I had more it would be worth while to make an effort to ship them to the city, but as it is I have a surplus that is simply going to waste. I guess I'll have to get to work and put up a couple of barrels of sauerkraut, so that, like the Dutchman in the story, we shall have some on hand "in case of sickness." The redeeming feature of the situation is that we have all we want of these things ourselves at a cost of time and labour that is practically negligible. That is one of the advantages of being back on the land, but, having lived many years where it was hard to get fresh garden truck of the best quality at any price, I feel that there is something wrong about having so much going to waste.

A walk around the farm this morning brought out a few surprises. To begin with, I found that, in spite of the fact that hay was cut so late, there is a second crop of clover that is well worth caring for. It is too late to mature properly for seed, but real farmers whom I consulted tell me that, if we get a spell of decent weather, about the first of October I should have several tons of good clover hay. There are others in the neighbourhood who are looking forward to getting a second crop of hay from their fields of red clover, and some go so far as to say that if this second crop can be cured properly it will make better feed than the earlier crop.

_Sept. 17._--The rush is over. With the harvesting and fall seeding done, the farmers are easing up on the strenuous life. They are having a breathing spell that gives them leisure to be thankful for the fine summer they have had and to enjoy some of the fruits of their labour. The round of fall fairs is on and those who enjoy looking at prize cattle and surpassing farm products can indulge their taste. Now that the big exhibitions, with their hippodrome features, are over, the county and township shows are having their share of public attention. They are so arranged that they do not clash with one another, and the person with the show habit can take in half a dozen if so disposed. This orderly arrangement, however, has led to a development that is hardly desirable. It has given a chance for what may be called professionalism among exhibitors. The chief benefit to be derived from the small fair is the neighbourly competition it arouses, but of late years those who have prize-winning products have made a practice of exhibiting at one fair after another, so that the same exhibits are to be seen at various places. The man who has cattle, sheep, hogs, or horses that are sure prize-winners can make money by taking them around from fair to fair. Because of this the local producer is discouraged from showing, though the whole purpose of such fairs should be to give him every encouragement possible.