Part 23

The country seems more alive at this time of the year than at any other season. The roads are still good, and, owing to the lull in the work, those who have an excuse for going to town can go. Products of all kinds are being marketed, and instead of watching their crops the farmers are watching their bank accounts grow. The winter shopping has commenced, and the tailors and dressmakers are working overtime. Moreover, this is what the poet calls the season of "mellow fruitfulness." The apple buyer is abroad in the land, and paying as high as a dollar and a quarter a barrel for prime winter apples. Think of that, you who will buy those apples next winter at city prices--after the buyer, commission man, grocer, and other possible middlemen have added their profits. Peaches, plums, and pears are also receiving attention, but those raised in this district are finding their way to the preserving kettle rather than to the market. Pickles and catsup are also adding their pungency to the atmosphere of the farmhouse, and there is abundant promise of good eating during the winter months.

The part that the preserving kettle plays in a properly conducted country home is worthy of a special paragraph. It gathers the best of the summer's luxuries for use during the long winter months. The various small fruits are so distributed through the summer that a few sealers can be put away at a time without the work becoming burdensome. Wild and tame strawberries came first, and were plentiful and cheap. Raspberries, gooseberries, black and red currants came next, and could be had almost for the picking. Now we have the peaches, plums, and pears, and grapes and apples will follow. The housewife who has her cellar shelves stocked with a full variety of fruits can look forward to the winter with the assurance that her table will be bountifully supplied. At this point it may be worth while to ask what city worker having the same income as the farmer can afford to make such provision as this for the table? Nor are the solid parts of the fare lacking. The country worker can have his pork, potatoes, vegetables, etc., at the cost of production, which is an entirely different thing from even the country market price. Even when pork is selling at the present prices the farmer can afford to put by his winter supply because it has not cost him anywhere near its selling price to raise. If the countryman does not live on the best the fault is his own. He has either neglected to give attention to a little garden and orchard at the proper time or is so anxious to make money that he has sold off too much of his produce.

_Sept. 19._--All sorts of strange things are happening in the country. Owls have been heard hooting at mid-day, violets are blooming as they did in the spring, and the other day a black squirrel came from the woods fifty rods away to the oak trees beside the house. What does all this portend? Are these signs of a hard winter, or of the failure of the reciprocity negotiations with the United States? There isn't a witch or a gipsy anywhere in the neighbourhood whom I can consult. Possibly it all means nothing, but it is not so long since wise people would have looked grave and shaken their heads at such unusual happenings. Personally, I have lost no sleep over these matters. I admired the violets, and, as there was no gun handy, allowed the owl to keep on hooting, even though there are reports that neighbouring hen roosts have been raided. The visit of the squirrel was regarded as a treat by every one, and its tameness enabled us all to have a good look at it. Perched on one of the lowest limbs, it curved its fluffy tail over its back in a Hogarth line of beauty and seemed as much interested in looking at us as we were in looking at it. With its shining black eyes and jet fur, it made as pretty a picture among the green leaves as any one could wish to see. In the old evil days it would have been shot or clubbed to death, but a kinder spirit is abroad in the land, and it did us all good to watch it as it frisked about in the branches. But I mustn't say too much about it, or some city hunter who "wears puffed sleeves on his hunting pants" may be moved to come this way and scare the poor thing half to death by shooting at it.

_Sept. 21._--There is a job for Sherlock Holmes over here. When it was decided that I should drive to St. Thomas it was suggested that I should borrow a sulky and ride in it. Now I want to know what secret enemy made that suggestion. In ordinary circumstances I can remember most anything I want to, but last Friday I had all recollection of everything shaken, jarred, and jolted out of me. I am thankful that I am able to remember my name, and I am not sure that I could do that if I didn't see it in the papers once in a while. They tell me that the idea was all my own and that they warned me, but I doubt it. Some one must have urged me to my fate, though I can't remember who it was. If I could--but what's the use, anyway? I drove to St. Thomas in a sulky. It wasn't a regulation sulky of the kind that have no springs and that you ride on with a leg stretched along each shaft so as to keep the horse in place. No, indeed. It was an improved sulky with the seat placed over the most active spring I ever had dealings with. When a wheel struck a clod it would shoot me high into the air, and when I came crashing down it would flatten out on the iron axle and stop me with a jolt that scattered my wits over the landscape. When one of the wheels caught in a rut the whole contraption would jump sideways, forward and up, thereby imparting a spiral motion to my body that I have no doubt was excellent for my liver. The seat was placed high in the air; in fact, it was so high that one of those men who can always see something funny in everything remarked that I might have seen more of the country if the seat hadn't been so high. Moreover, the seat had a little iron railing around it, not so much to keep the rider in his place as to bring home to him the truth that "man was made to mourn." As the driver is full of life and the wild actions of the thing behind seemed to scare her, she let out her speed to the last notch. I was still conscious when crossing the bridge over the Thames below Middlemiss. Then something happened that brought me to in an instant. An unaccountable skeleton tower loomed up in the distance, and my curiosity was aroused. Curiosity always has a tonic effect on me, and for the time I forgot all about the sulky. Perhaps the fact that the horse had slowed down to a walk helped some.

On a hill north of Iona Station there is a tower that seems to be almost as much of a mystery as the round towers of England and Ireland. It is merely a square open framework with ladders on the corners and a small platform on top. It looks like the old observation tower at Coney Island, and when I first caught sight of it I wondered if I was approaching some inland pleasure resort. A nearer approach did not help me any. It was not the right build for an oil-derrick, and I could see no evidence of any use it might be put to. It was a gaunt, wind-swept mystery. Stopping at Iona Station, I began to make inquiries.

"What, that thing? Oh, it was put up about three years ago."

"But what is it for?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Who built it?"

"I did hear that it was the Government. It has something to do with the War Department."

This did not enlighten me much, and perhaps it is just as well. Competent war departments are always doing mysterious things that the public must not be allowed to know too much about. Perhaps in speaking of this tower I am giving away the secret of our national defences. Still, I wish I knew just what the bare-ribbed thing is for. Surely the explanation of its building is not the same as the Tammany Alderman gave of the building of the Pyramids. A friend with whom he was travelling in Egypt asked how he could account for the building of those wonderful structures. The Alderman mused for a while and then said:

"Maybe, there wor a divvy."

And didn't Kipling suggest that:

"The secret hid Under Cheops' pyramid Was that the contractor did Cheops out of several millions."

Let us hope that neither of these explanations accounts for the lone tower of Iona. I am sorry, but I am forced to leave it the same mystery that I found it.

Some miles beyond Iona the Talbot road was reached, and the drive then became worth more than all the discomforts it entailed. If there is anywhere in Canada or America a finer farming country than this I have yet to see it. I have never passed through a section of country showing more outward signs of good farming and prosperity. Clean fields, good fences, up-to-date buildings were to be seen everywhere. The corn and bean fields showed evidence of careful cultivation, and the promise of crops was of the best. The cattle in the fields--Holsteins, Jerseys, and Durhams--all looked to be thoroughbreds. The roads are good, and the land appeared to be thoroughly drained and cared for. There are old trees about the houses, some of which must have been planted almost a century ago. On the whole, this section of the country is really a show-place where you can see what farming might be made in any part of Ontario. The credit may not be in any sense due to Colonel Talbot--in fact, I have heard his memory reviled by descendants of the pioneers in the settlement--but some one saw to it that the foundations were laid right. Such sections as this are not accidents, and are not to be accounted for by the ordinary development of the country. The people here started right.

The mail boxes of the rural free delivery add a distinct charm to this country. As one admirable farm after another was passed it was pleasant for the moment to learn the name of the occupant, even though it was forgotten immediately after. It seemed almost like an introduction. I also noticed with pleasure that many of the farms have names on the gates in the old country fashion. There is something that smacks of long standing and family pride about a farm that has a name rather than a number. "Maple Grove" or "Elmhurst" sounds more sociable and human than Lot 17 or Lot 23. This is a custom that I hope will grow throughout the country. Another thing that struck me was the absence of new houses. The houses along the Talbot road have the appearance of having served several generations, and I trust that they have been generations of the same family. It was something of a shock to see a sign: "This farm for sale," on one of the best farms. I cannot imagine how any one having a farm in this section could possibly want to sell it unless overwhelmed by some great calamity. I hope that the secret of that sign was not the too frequent one: "Owner moving to the West."

For two hours I travelled along the old road, feeding fat my pride of country, and trying to imagine what the Talbot Settlement must have been like in the days of the first settlers. That the land was heavily timbered is shown by the patches of forest that still remain. But it was well worth clearing, and whatever else may be said of the doughty Colonel, no one can doubt his wisdom in selecting such a place for his home. He led the people into a land of plenty, and for that his memory should be revered. But every delight must come to an end. As I approached St. Thomas I came to a piece of road that was dotted with cobblestones, and, do my best, I could not avoid having the wheels strike them. The conduct of that sulky then became absolutely fiendish. It went down the hill at the outskirts of the city in much the same way as "the waters went down the Lodore" in the old school readers. When I finally dismounted at my destination I was suffering from springhalt, spavins, saddle-galls, splints, and sore shoulders. I felt the need of a veterinary surgeon rather than a doctor. I hope the man who owns that sulky never sees this article, but the truth must be told at any cost. If I owned that instrument of torture I would take it out to some place in the woods, where no one could hear its cries and I'd go at it with an axe. That is, I would in a week or two. Just now my joints are so stiff and my bones are so sore that I don't expect to be able to handle an axe for some weeks to come. Still, I am glad that I saw the Talbot Settlement, even though I saw it from a sulky.

_Sept. 23._--I have never seen an authoritative description of the migration of the hawks, but one day last week when the sun was shining I had a chance to observe what may be their method of assembling and taking their departure. I saw half a dozen hawks start circling up from the woods, and as they rose higher and higher I noticed that they were making their way up to a flock that was circling around almost out of sight. It struck me then that perhaps the hawks were gathering for migration in the upper air. That may account for the fact that we never see flocks of them near the earth as we do of other birds. And, possibly, when the migration begins the passing flock is joined by the scattered hawks of the country that circle up to meet them. At different times in the fall of the year my attention has been called to flocks of hawks by turkeys lying on the ground with one eye turned skyward, while they uttered their warning cry. These flocks were usually so high in the air that I could see them only by lying on my back and shading my eyes with my hands. Possibly what the turkeys were watching was the migration of the hawks.

As a rule at this time of the year the air on sunshiny days glistens with flying cobwebs, thistledowns, and the silken parachutes of the milkweed. This year, however, the constant rains seem to have pounded these frail craft to the earth. Except for a little smokiness, the air is wonderfully pure and clear. Even the gnats, which sometimes float around in clouds, have not put in an appearance. The forest trees are only beginning to show touches of colour, for the dark, wet weather evidently protected their luxuriant foliage. Apple-packing has commenced in every orchard except mine, and all the usual fall activities are in progress, though the look of fall has not appeared in nature and the feel of it is not in the air. There are a lot of us who have a sneaking hope that we may yet get a spell of summer weather, but I am afraid we shall be doomed to disappointment. Strange to say, in spite of the wet weather, there are no mushrooms in the pastures, though there were plenty some weeks ago. I wonder if the season has been too wet for mushrooms.

These are the days when the Thanksgiving turkey is accumulating succulent flesh and fatness. Even the flocks that are regularly fed in the farm yards take to the fields and woods to pursue the nimble and inconsequent grasshopper. They travel in open formation like an invading army, and whenever a grasshopper hops a turkey hops. Sometimes a grasshopper gets a chance to make a second hop, but not often. He usually finds the open beak of a turkey waiting for him the moment he lights, and is not given time to draw up his legs for a second jump. It not infrequently happens that he is gobbled while still in the air. This sort of exercise develops the turkeys, and grasshoppers are said to be fattening. Anyway, they seem to be appetising, for if a grasshopper intent on his life of pleasure jumps singing into the air near where the turkeys are being fed they will desert even a ration of corn to capture him. The prophet's fare of locusts, even without the wild honey, seems to be just what the turkey yearns for. Despite the fact that turkeys are native here, and to the manner born, they are the hardest of all fowls to bring to maturity. During the first few weeks of their lives, unless they are fed with scientific care, they drop off like flies, and although they are only a few generations removed from the wild turkeys that lived in the woods, they need constant protection from the weather. One good drenching will destroy a flock of young turkeys, and unless kept free from insects they sicken and die. Injuries and accidents that other birds would survive are almost invariably fatal to them. In short, it is a wonder that so many of them survive to grace the Thanksgiving and Christmas table.

_Sept. 24._--The driver is a thoroughly dependable animal, gentle, no bad tricks, can be driven by a child, and no one complains, even though she resembles certain Canadian financiers of whom J. J. Hill said that they "wouldn't stand without being hitched." On the whole, I could give her an excellent character if she had to pass into the service of some one else. But I hate to think what I might have done to her yesterday afternoon if I could have caught her. Never once have I deceived her on the question of oats, or salt, or an apple, when trying to catch her. No, indeed! Once, when a little boy, I read a moral story about a farmer who used to fool his horse by holding out a hat that had nothing in it until the wise animal lost all faith in him and refused to be caught, even when he came bearing carrots and other rich gifts. I laid the story to heart, and never once have I gone to the pasture field without something to tickle her palate. But yesterday she went back on me. When I went out to the field I had a dish of oats in one hand and a bridle in the other. The autumn sunshine was warm and the air bracing, and I felt at peace with all the world. I dawdled towards the corner where she was feeding with the leisurely air of one who was enjoying life, and intended to enjoy it still more by taking a lazy drive to the post office. But the driver had other views. Without notifying the Department of Labour, or otherwise conforming to the requirements of the Lemieux Act, she went on strike. When I was within about a rod of her, she raised her head, snorted, kicked up her heels, and galloped across the field. She didn't even sniff at the oats. I was surprised, of course, but not discouraged. It was a fine day, and I was not in much of a hurry, so I strolled along after her. She had stopped at the farthest corner, and had started to eat as if she were starving. She fairly mowed down the scorched grass. I don't think I ever saw a horse that seemed so hungry. When I approached her, she started to walk away with her head down, still eating as if her life depended on it. I whistled a soft imitation of a whinny and rattled the oats invitingly, and called her pet names, but when I was almost within touching distance she snorted again, and, with tail up, galloped back to the original corner. It was a beautiful exhibition of animal vitality. As I watched her doing her stunts, jumping over furrows as if they were Government drains, kicking up her heels, shying at bits of paper, I positively envied her abundance of fool energy. What wouldn't I give to have so much superfluous steam. And then, the action she was showing! I never thought she had it in her. If I could only make her show up like that in harness, she would take all the prizes at the fall fair. Still, she must be caught, so I tempered my admiration. Evidently, she didn't feel the need of oats. She had been getting altogether too many since harvest time. Going back to the house, I got a lump of salt and a couple of apples. Apples would catch her, if anything would. Approaching cautiously, I whistled coaxingly, and displayed the apples to the best advantage. She was interested at once, but she didn't walk straight up to me as is her usual custom. She started to walk around me, with ears laid back. I stood where I was, and turned slowly as she walked around. The apples were held out temptingly, and she never took her eye off them for a second. Gradually the circle became smaller, and my heart bounded with hope when she finally stopped and stretched her nose towards an apple. I let her close her teeth on it before I started to move my hand towards her head. It was a fatal move. Instantly she was off across the field, giving imitations of Maud S. and Salvator. Right there I lost my temper, and shied the apple at her. She saw it bounce past, applied the brakes, reversed her engines, and came to a full stop within twice her own length. Then she gobbled the apple. I thought the time a good one to make further approaches, but it was no use. She frisked away, showing in every line of her body how much she was enjoying her freedom. This was her day off, and, besides, she had fooled me out of an apple. Sputtering with wrath, I called the family to help. We would corner the brute. Oh, yes, we would, would we? Not if she knew it! It would have been just about as easy to corner a jack-rabbit on the prairie. We could get her headed towards a corner once in a while, but, as the scientists say, "The angle of reflection was equal to the angle of incidence." She would gallop in at one side and gallop out at the other "just as easy." I am a little ashamed to remember how I raged around that field, but what can you do when the people who are supposed to be helping you duck behind a tree when they see the horse coming, instead of getting in her way and waving their aprons and jumping up and down and yelling like wild Indians. She just had fun with us until we decided to stop. Then the family went back to the house, feeling offended at the directness of my remarks, and I went to cut corn so that I could work off my lust for slaughter. At milking time the exasperating beast came up to the gate and hung her head across and whinnied for apples or anything else we might have to offer. She submitted to being caught as if she had never done anything wrong in her life. When she was finally hitched to the buggy she wiggled her ears to shake off flies, and let her under lip droop, and looked about as spirited as a dowager cow.