Part 27

After all--to be guilty of a bull--the best part of the day was the night. After the sun went down in hazy mildness the full moon swung up in the east to take his place, and almost immediately a fog began to rise from the heated earth. By the time the moon was well clear of the trees all the low places looked like pools of silver water. Towards the east the illusion of a broad river, with the distant woods as the farther bank, was perfect. Although the temperature ceased to be oppressively hot, the thermometer registered over sixty at 9 o'clock. There are weather-wise folk who say that this unusual heat and the screaming of the bluejays in the afternoon mean a sudden change in the weather, so perhaps we may have to wear mits when handling corn after all. But to-day has been sufficient unto itself. And now to sleep--perchance to dream.

The hawk of the summer wind is proud, She circles high at the throne of the sun; When the storm is fierce her scream is loud, And the scorching glance of her eye we shun;

And oftentimes, when the sun is bright, A silence falls on the choirs of song, And the partridge shrinks in wild affright, Where a searching shadow swings along.

The hound of the autumn wind is slow, He loves to bask in the heat and sleep When the sun through the drowsy haze bends low, And frosts from the hills through the starlight creep;

But oftentimes he starts in his dreams, When the howl of the winter wolf draws nigh, Then lazily rolls in the gold-warm beams, While the flocking birds to the south drift by.

_Oct. 24._--At this time of the year we get evenings and nights "that were not meant for slumber." They invite us to lowly self-communion, mental expansion, and serene thoughts. After a busy day the night comes upon us unexpectedly, before the chores are done, and there is an irresistible temptation to sit in the darkness and be at peace. The warm air is heavy with the odour of ripe apples, and the shrill concert of the crickets and other innumerable insects is so steadily maintained that it seems a new phase of silence. One thin note is poured out so insistently that you almost mistake it for a ringing in your ears. Over this beats a ceaseless rhythm that rises and falls in waves of sound as if in obedience to the baton of some invisible leader. Through all rises the irregular shrilling of the crickets. This autumn concert is so constant that the ear becomes unconscious of it, except in moments of attention. Yet it seems to have a stimulating effect on the mind. Sitting idly in the darkness, we find our thoughts becoming active with all manner of themes--the progress of science--the mystery of our political and business organisations--the place and fate of the individual in the scheme of things.

While meditating idly on these things in the darkness under the stars I could not help realising how little we really understand about even the most familiar scientific, business, commercial, or political facts. They seem to be of importance to the race rather than to the individual. The individual is compelled to do his part in carrying out all sorts of ideas of which even the mightiest have no control and perhaps but little understanding. Thinking along this line I looked up at the stars and quite naturally thought of the astronomical facts that are now the commonplaces of our public schools. Where I sat I was facing the "Circle of Constant Apparition" and overhead was the constellation Lyra, towards which the sun and its attendant planets are said to be rushing like a flaming disc sent spinning through space from the hand of some mighty discobolus. My thoughts turned to the motions of the heavenly bodies as they are taught to us in the schools. For years I thought I had a clear conception of the motions of the earth on its axis and around the sun, and with little effort could visualise it as

"A great round marvel, rolling in space."

But when Halley's comet appeared in the sky a few years ago I found that I had no grasp of solar and planetary motions. What puzzled me was that we saw the comet every morning for a while, and then it suddenly changed to the evening sky. Why was this? What caused the sudden jump of about sixteen hours in the time of seeing the comet? Of course I figured it out finally, but in doing so I found that I had never had a clear conception of the movements of the planets, though I had learned about them in school and had taught them in school. Since then I have propounded the question to others, and have yet to find any one who could explain that change of time off-hand. Yet we all know that the earth revolves on its axis and circles the sun. This is probably the most familiar of the great astronomical facts, and though we assent to it few of us understand it in the least. I am inclined to think it is the same with most of the great facts of business and government that we talk about so glibly.

Presently the moon rose serenely and lit up the quiet scene. In the growing light much of the magic of the night disappeared or rather the coming of the moon brought a new and different magic. But I had had enough for one night. Rising to my feet, I paused for a moment to look at the moon, and in spite of all I had been thinking about, life seemed good. The perfume of ripe apples was still in the air, and the little musicians of the night were still giving their concert. In the circumstances it seemed only right to apostrophise the moon, but in my lighter mood I did not recall anything from Tennyson or Browning or Whitman, as I had done earlier. Instead, my memory gave back a whimsical bit from an apostrophe to the moon that had appeared in _Puck_ many years ago and in spite of its flippancy it seemed to fit the situation. After telling his troubles to the moon the poet exclaimed:

"Never you mind! You are a durned good old moon anyhow."

_Oct. 26._--Packing apples is an ideal job for an Indian-summer day. The year seems to be as ripe as the fruit and a poet might pick off perfect days to store in song for future meditation just as we pick and store the apples for future use. Last night there was a sharp frost and when "the sun, new risen, looks through the horizontal misty air shorn of his beams," the fields were white with rime. While the air was being warmed and the south wind began to stir was a good time to carry apple barrels from the shed to the orchard. Having been shown how to carry two at a time by placing them against my hips and catching the outer rims, I felt as if I were trying to fly. I would gladly have employed a professional packer to do the work, but being unable to get any one to help, a demonstrator of the Fruit Branch showed me how the job should be done, and I tackled it myself. He assured me that after I get through with the Peewaukees it will be fun, as the Spies and Baldwins are all over No. 1 size, and all I shall have to watch for will be the culls. In the Peewaukees the side worms were particularly active and did a lot of damage. Wherever apples touched one another or touched a leaf the worms burrowed around in the skin and made culls of what would otherwise have been prime fruit. The cut made by this worm "is not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve." I have heard it said that experienced packers can tell a defective apple by the touch and go on picking up three apples in each hand and looking at the scenery at the same time. I am not yet an experienced packer, and though I wore my glasses and did not handle more than a couple of apples at a time, defective ones would still get past me. I would find them in the sorting basket, and later on in the barrel when I was racking it after emptying each basket. Those first barrels caused me a lot of work and worry, and though I did my best, I am haunted by the fear that some culls have got past me. This leads me to sympathise with at least some of the farmers who get into trouble by packing improperly branded fruit. Unless one is skilled at the work, he is almost certain to make mistakes, and the man from the Fruit Branch told me that culls were so sure to get in that one might as well forget about the ten per cent. allowed by law. You may do your level best and the ten per cent. will still be there. This goes to prove that packing apples is a thoroughly artistic job. Art critics tell us that no work of art is great if it does not contain some slight error. If it is mathematically perfect it is beyond human sympathy. But the artist need not take the trouble to deliberately put in the error. Being human, he is bound to do that in spite of all his skill. Only machine-made art objects can be absolutely perfect, and they never appeal to a cultivated taste. But let us get back to the apples.

There is always something to learn about apple-growing. This summer I learned more about the work than I thought there was to know before I began, and as each expert I meet tells me something new, I am being forced to the conclusion that as yet I haven't got rightly started. The last thing I have learned is that if a man is not careful when picking this year's crop he may pick next year's crop along with it. When apples are pulled too green, as altogether too many have been this season, the twigs on which they grow are liable to break off with the stems. As these twigs are the ones that have the fruit buds for next year's crop, careless picking can do a great deal of damage. When an apple is properly matured, the stem separates from the twig naturally without breaking close to the apple or pulling off the twig. As the fruit on one Peewaukee tree was somewhat green, I had a chance to see just what this destruction amounts to, and it was surprising. This leads me to wonder if there will be much fruit next year on orchards where the fruit was picked at least a month ago, when the apples were decidedly green. It is bad enough to have to sell this year's crop for a small price without destroying next year's at the same time.

Although the apples are being packed, they are not definitely sold, but the probability is that they will be shipped to Edmonton, where people's mouths seem to be watering for choice Ontario apples. As I know with whom I am dealing, I feel sure of fair treatment, and the prices suggested are so amazing that I am compelled to take a chance. Arrangements are being made to get a fruit car that will be heated if necessary, and every precaution will be taken to insure the delivery of the apples in good condition. It looks as if we would have a carload of No. 1 fruit, about one-half Spies and Baldwins, and, according to the information I have received, Ben Davises will rank as first-class apples in the West. If the venture turns out well, others may be encouraged to act independently, and if I do not realise the wonderful prices that are being suggested, I shall be like the man who was kicked by a mule, I shall not be as pretty as I was, but I'll know more.

_Oct. 27._--It was all a mistake about those ducks. I might have studied them and written them up any time since they came out of the shell, but I got an idea into my head that ducks are so active that I should have to be feeling particularly fit and to be prepared to take a day off for the job. Now that I have looked into the matter I find that the old hen that hatched them misled me entirely. She kept up such a continual clacking and scolding because those ducks didn't act like chickens that I got to thinking that they must be unusually trying creatures. And all the while those young ducks were probably living their duck lives in a quiet, contented way, and there was no reason in the world why they should be reformed into chickens. Fortunately, the old hen finally gave up in despair, and after loudly prophesying that the whole place was going to the dogs just because those ducks couldn't be taught to roost in an apple tree, and because they were all the time getting their feet wet, she went back to laying eggs, and the last I heard of her she was in solitary confinement, because she wanted to start hatching again at this time of the year. All of which goes to show that there is a great deal of unnecessary fussing going on in this world, and that it is possible for well-meaning people to make a nuisance of themselves. The old hen meant well, but she had tackled an entirely unnecessary job.

This morning I hunted up the ducks for the purpose of trying to get a sympathetic understanding of their view of life. I had no trouble finding them. Ever since the oats have been hauled in they haven't wandered very far from the stack. Besides getting all the heads that were exposed within reach, they rob the hens whenever they manage to scratch loose a few grains. As the wet weather has filled all the puddles around the barn yard they do not have to go far for water, and I would give something to be as contented with my lot as they are. I found them lying under the granary with their heads tucked under their wings, and the first thing that struck me about them was the satisfying way in which they lie down. They seem to be built for just that kind of restfulness. When a duck lies down it does it in a whole-souled way that leaves nothing to be desired. It touches the ground from its crop to its tail and gives an exhibition of perfect rest that is worthy of a poem. Come to think of it, there is nothing surprising about this. Ducks are water birds, and the attitude of swimming is the one that they naturally take. Nature intended them to lie at full length in their own element, and now that they have been civilised into living on land, out of their element, they keep to the old habit. If the ground had not been so wet I would have sprawled down at full length to watch them, and would have shown them that when it comes to taking a rest they have nothing on me. When the conditions are right I can assume a restful attitude and rest as completely as anything in nature. But some people do not regard this as resting. They have another unpleasant word to describe it.

To begin with, I shooed the ducks from under the granary. Though I was loath to disturb them duty must be done. The whole flock rose with a simultaneous "quack" and squattered through a near-by puddle. "Squattered" is exactly the right word, and I have the authority of Burns for using it:

"Awa' ye squattered like a drake On whistling wings."

The word seems to describe both their appearance and the sounds they make. As soon as they reached a place of safety they all stopped and began wiggling their tails. Then I saw a great light. Duck language is not expressed with the tongue, but with the tail. There is a sameness about the sounds they utter that would make it impossible for them to carry on a connected conversation. With their tails it is different. They seem able to give an infinite variety to the way in which they wiggle them. They can express joy, satisfaction, contempt, surprise, or any other emotion, by the simple wiggling of their tails. Did you ever see a duck dive into the water in such a way as to leave only its tail exposed? If you have you could never fail to tell when it managed to get a good juicy root or a snail by the happy way it would wiggle its tail. Sometimes when they are very happy they can wiggle their tails so fast that all the eye can catch is a sort of hazy blur. At other times, when they are attending to their toilet and rubbing themselves down with the backs of their heads, they will give their tails a little flirt that is just as proud as proud. I think if I set myself to it I could write a bulletin on the language of duck tails. After I had disturbed them they stood and wiggled their tails at one another in a way that seemed to be entirely disrespectful to me. They seemed to be saying, "Humph! I wonder what he thinks he wants now. Did you ever see such a looking creature? How on earth does he manage to balance himself up on end in that way when every duck knows that the true, graceful position for a creature's body is to be hung between two legs horizontally! I wonder how he manages to convey his ideas, if he has any, without having a gaudy little bunch of feathers to wiggle the same as we have. Those sounds he makes with his mouth when the children are around can't have any more meaning than our quacking. It must be terrible to be a poor dumb creature like that." Then they all said "Quack" and gave their tails a most superior wiggle. At this point an unwary cricket started to move past about ten feet away, and instantly every neck in the flock was stretched out full length and every tail wig-wagged: "My meat!" I don't know which one got it, though I think it must have been the brown drake from the contented way he wiggled his tail for some minutes afterwards.

Now, don't be offended, but there are really lessons to be learned from the ducks. Their faculty for flocking together is something that farmers might study with profit. Whether sleeping or feeding it would be possible almost at any time to cover the whole flock with a tablecloth, and when they make up their minds to travel they move in Indian file behind a chosen leader like a band of Iroquois braves. And yet it is possible for the poison of class distinction to find its way even among ducks. I remember that one day when I was moving a pile of boards I uncovered a fair-sized frog. Instantly the ducks swooped down on it, and before I had time to interfere the frog had gone head-first to his doom. He must have made just about as satisfactory a meal as that duck had ever had. And what was the result? While the other ducks went foraging around for crickets and angleworms, the one that had swallowed the frog squatted on the shady side of the stable and crooned to itself and wiggled its tail as if it were the most superior duck in the country. It was easy to see that it felt itself above all the others. (Wiggle.) It was made of finer clay. (Wiggle--Wiggle--Wiggle.) It was really disgraceful the way those common ducks squattered around after grubs and such refuse as collects in the bottom of puddles. (Wiggle--Wiggle.) All afternoon it lay there meditating and digesting and refusing to associate with common ducks. And yet--and yet--even that superior duck will probably figure at a Christmas dinner just like the others. It is a strange world. Even the most gifted ducks cannot long maintain a superior position.

_Oct. 28._--Isn't there an old fable about an ass that wrapped himself in a lion's skin and tried to ramp and roar like the king of beasts, and got himself laughed at and kicked in the diaphragm and otherwise subjected to "grievous bodily harm"? I seem to remember such a fable, but I cannot lay my hands on it, and the children, who are at the fable-reading stage of education, are all in bed and I cannot ask them. Anyway it doesn't matter, for I do not want to quote it. I simply want to have the moral of the thing in the back of my head to keep me on the right track, while I indulge in an old-fashioned grumble. This morning I got a letter from a correspondent that finally brought to a head a number of things that I have been feeling peevish about ever since coming back to the country. Broadly speaking I have been mourning the disappearance of all kinds of country amusements. There is no encouragement for local talent of any kind, either for the intellectual talent for reciting and singing, or the physical talent for jumping or catching the greased pig. If we have an entertainment we import singers and elocutionists, and if we have a fall fair it must be an imitation World's Fair. The lion's skin of city attractions is being stretched out in every direction, and we can see long ears peeping from under every corner of it. Every town and village must be citified in everything it does, and the result is a lot of low-grade attractions entirely lacking in the old-fashioned and forever-artistic merit of sincerity. I do not think I am peculiar in my tastes, but if I cannot see the best I want to see what is honest and sincere. It has been my good fortune to hear some of the world's best entertainers, but when I cannot hear them I prefer the honest sing-song recitations of a schoolboy or school-girl to the conceited caterwauling of some half-baked elocutionist. In the same way if I cannot see a real world's fair I can enjoy myself thoroughly at an old-fashioned country fair where the exhibits are those of honest people who are trying to excel in their own way. But when we have an entertainment nowadays we must import talent, and when we have a fall fair we must have a midway and circus stunts by hamfatters, who would be hooted in the places where such performances really belong. We must be citified at any cost, and the result is tawdry entertainments and fairs, when by employing local talent and encouraging local effort we could have entertainments and fairs that would be wholesome and helpful.

But say, do you remember the old-time country fall fairs before the days of vaudeville turns and hand-painted chickens? Every day when going to the post office, I pass the spreading tree from whose branches I watched my first horse-race. I would climb that tree right now and not care who was looking if I thought I could feel again the thrills and excitement of that bygone day. I not only knew the jockeys, but I knew the horses--all except one. My favourite was a bay mare somewhat given to what the society reporters call "om-bong-pong" on account of living on pasture, and her rider was one of my youthful heroes, perhaps because he was said to be "a leetle wild." But in spite of high hopes and a blue-beech gad our horse didn't win. The stranger took the prize, but I never felt that it was fair, and I leave it to you. For three weeks or a month before the show the stranger kept in his mare and fed her on dry timothy and oats, and had her all "ganted up." And he had a real raw-hide riding whip. Still it was a great race even if we did lose, and never since have I seen a race by which I was so deeply moved. And after the races there was a baseball match, and when the catcher got "het up" and excited he threw his vest on top of the Temperance Hall, and after the game was over had to put up a rail and climb after his vest. And the winning team won by at least twenty runs. And then there was the fat pig--so fat he couldn't stand up and took his meals in bed, like a person of leisure. But I mustn't get started on the exhibits or I'll never know when to stop. It was a few years after this that the "Pride of the Valley" man began coming to our fair. What a wonderful man he was, with that eloquent voice and long flowing hair. They don't make medicine like "Pride of the Valley" any more. It was good for man and beast, and indispensable to fowls. It toned your muscles, stimulated your circulation, and renovated your liver. It brightened your eye, restored your complexion, and stopped your hair from falling out. And all it cost was twenty-five cents, one quarter, or two York shillings a box. One fall I was feeling low and I bought a box. The stuff looked as if it had been culled from the Ontario weed book, but I made a tea from it as instructed, and took a dose. My recovery was instantaneous. I forgot everything except the taste in my mouth. No, they don't make medicines like that any more, and there are no gifted orators like the man who sold the incomparable and universal panacea. Both medicine and vendor belonged to a more robust age. We are living in an age of soft speech, and sugar-coatings, and vaudeville stunts. Ehue! ehue!

_Oct. 29._--"Blaa-aa-aa-aa-umph!"