Part 30

And there a child's harmonica was lying, Just where the south wind on the reeds could blow; It roused the music with its fitful sighing, Æolian chords, sweet, tremulous, and low. Finding what set the elfin music flying "My lungs like Chanticleer began to crow." Meanwhile the sun had risen, red as blood, And poured its light, a ruby-tinted flood.

I tell all this because it made me vow To weave the doings of the day in song, From dawn till dark, as I am doing now; Jotting down verses as I go along, Hoping some Muse will with her charm endow The flying fancies to my brain that throng. Whether it is worth the doing we shall see, For I shall give you what the gods give me.

The fire was blazing and I started calling The little sleepers, and the morning noise Began at once, with giggling, tickling, squalling, Laughing, romping, yelling, such as boys And girls delight in. Now, there's some one bawling! 'Tis sweet domestic music, but it cloys! I think I'll do the chores and 'scape the pother And leave the task of dressing to their mother.

The air is frosty, but a south wind purrs Across my ears, and though all else is still A flock of sparrows in a spruce confers With much politic chirping. Now a mill Blows its loud whistle and the world bestirs Itself to work, of which it has its fill. (Although of work I am not quite a hater, I'll have some things to say about it later.)

The Collie greets me, romping wildly round, Barking and fawning for his morning petting; The gobblers gobble (joyous Christmas sound), "Their little hour" so proudly strutting, fretting; The roosters cluck, some muddy titbit found, Each for his dames an early breakfast getting; The driver whinnies and the lonesome calf Bawls with a peevishness that makes me laugh.

I feed them all and then, the milking done, Go in to breakfast with an appetite For eggs and bacon, that I feast upon With earthly, unpoetical delight. When satisfied, the day's work is begun-- Winter is coming, all things must be right-- And though the day is fine I still remember To make due haste for it is now November.

Corn to haul in and stalks to bind and stack, Potatoes and apples to be snugly pitted; Of urgent work to-day there is no lack; To every hour a needful task is fitted. To honest labour I must bow my back, But still that back is cheerfully submitted; And what is more, if I could spare a minute, I'd show you that there's philosophy in it.

Driving afield, the splendour of the day Charms like a mighty masterpiece of art: The fields and woods all stripped to sober grey, The golden sunshine flooding every part. Surely the hours will blithely slip away And joy of life will throb in every heart-- So chants the poet, but the toiler knows The world he works in is a world of prose.

All day with diligence that men applaud I picked the golden ears and bore them in; The world was fair, the south wind was abroad Offering me joys I could not stop to win. Yet was I well contented to defraud My soul of all the beauty there had been; This heavy price it is our fate to pay To win our freedom for another day.

Poets there are who sing with frenzied passion Of endless toil, who never felt its bane; To call it glorious is now the fashion, Drowning with song man's wretchedness and pain My Pegasus I'll never lay the lash on, Pursuing such a folly-bitten strain; I say, and say it boldly to your face, That needless labour is a foul disgrace.

Labour that knows the seedtime and its hope, And waits the harvest with a trusting soul-- Strong in its faith with every ill to cope, Trusting in God and his benign control-- Scorning the slavery in which they grope, Blind and defeated, who make wealth their goal-- Such would I sing for he who looks may see The end of labour is to make men free.

And being free, with clothing, food, and shelter, What, that is toil-bought, would you envy more? Why should you struggle in the human welter? Why should you sink when you were meant to soar? Life has been made a hurried helter-skelter Of aimless effort without guiding lore. Believe me, friend, though you have wealth past measure, Living itself is life's completest treasure.

If some good people would but take the time To look about them they would be surprised To find their house of life is more sublime Than poet ever feigned or sage surmised. Stop and look forth! It will not be a crime! And if you think I have not well advised-- Preferring some one who of toiling proses-- Back to the grindstone with your stupid noses.

Our fathers toiled, but in a glorious fight, The God of nations led them by the hand, With pillared smoke by day and fire by night They wrought like heroes in their Promised Land; The wilderness was conquered by their might, They made for God the marvel he had planned-- A land of homes where toil could make men free, The final masterpiece of Destiny.

How can I rest when they will not be still? When every wind is vocal and their sighs Breathe to my ear from every funeral hill And from each field where one forgotten lies? They haunt my steps and burden me until I plead with hands outstretched and streaming eyes: "I am not worthy! Let my lips be dumb! The mighty song and singer yet shall come!"

The well-greaved Greeks and Priam's savage brood Were not more worthy of immortal song Than these in homespun, who alone withstood Hunger and Fear to make our Freedom strong; But till the singer comes, at least the good They wrought we must from age to age prolong: Learning from them, let this our watchword be: Free from all tyrants from yourselves be free!

Well, I have wandered and the day is spent, My morning vow forgotten and the throng Of fancies vanished that I truly meant To spread before you as I went along-- Showing what beauty with the day was blent-- Minting the gold of sunset into song-- Pouring my heart in rapture or in mirth-- Singing with pride the land that gave me birth.

But though I fail I shall not be ashamed; My brothers of the fields will understand The patriot ardour in my heart that flamed And by what breath that sacred fire was fanned; The blood still courses in our veins that tamed The waste to fruitfulness at His command, And ye all feel as I have felt to-day-- Born of this soil and kneaded of its clay.

_Nov. 25._--Is there such a thing as an official score-card for marking up the points of a cow? If there is I should like to see one. I want to know just how many marks are given for powers of digestion. This week the red cow did something that almost lifts her out of the cow class and places her with the ostrich and boa-constrictor. The other day after the cows had been turned out to water she was somehow left untied. True to her predatory instincts, as soon as she discovered her freedom she started to nose around for something she could steal and had the luck to find a tub full of corn in the ear, from which the hens were being fed. She promptly began to wrap herself around it and before being interrupted in her feast she had eaten over a bushel. Now, _The Farmer's Advocate_ has never published any "First Aid to the Gluttonous," and I didn't know what to do. When I asked for advice people told me sad stories of the death of cows from over-feeding. Some had been killed by eating tailings after a threshing, others by bloating after eating clover, others by a surfeit of chop feed. It was all very disheartening for a fresh cow that gives eight quarts of milk rich in butter-fat at each milking is a valuable asset in these days when the bank act is being revised so as to allow farmers to raise money on their cattle. I couldn't call up the veterinarian for we have no telephone, and with the roads in their present condition I did not feel like driving three miles to consult one. Still I was not so much worried as I might have been. The look in her eye was reassuring. She looked more like the cat that had eaten the canary than anything else. She wore an air of unmistakable satisfaction and when she began to eat some clover hay that was in her manger as dessert to her banquet I felt that she might pull through. Her previous raids on the swill-barrel, soft-soap, apples, and other things gave me confidence in her powers of digestion, so, after murmuring a few words, "more in sorrow than in anger," I gave her Shakespeare's blessing--"Let Good Digestion Wait on Appetite"--and left her to her fate.

At milking time she was still perfectly normal though kind of lazy about standing over and "histing." Acting on advice, I cut out her evening ration of unthreshed oats, so that her stomach would recover from the surprise she had given it in the afternoon. Her gastric juices had their work cut out for them without having their troubles increased. But she made no protest when the other cows were fed and she was skipped. In fact she reminded me of the bereaved fowl described by "Pet Marjory," the little girl whose rhymes and sayings were recorded by Sir Walter Scott:

"She was more than usual calm. She did not give a single dam."

And yet, though she was in such good form I couldn't keep from worrying. All evening I listened to tales about cows that had come to untimely ends through over-eating, and look at it in any way I tried, a bushel or more of corn seemed a big dose for any cow. So after the others had gone to bed I lit the lantern and went out to the stable to see how she was doing. As I opened the door she heaved a sigh of repletion, like an alderman after a banquet. Then she stretched out her neck, brought up a cud, and began to chew placidly. Still, I was not entirely easy in my mind. If I could only get to see her tongue, or to feel her pulse, or take her temperature, I would be more satisfied. But how to get her to put out her tongue was the problem. The only way I could think of would be to hold an ear of corn before her nose and let her reach out her tongue for it, just as I had seen her try to lick grain through a knothole in the granary. But I was afraid to try that scheme for I knew by experience that she would probably get the start of me and add that ear of corn to the pile she had already accumulated. When it came to feeling her pulse I was stumped worse than in trying to get her to put out her tongue. How do you feel a cow's pulse anyway? The longer I live on a farm and grapple with its problems the more I find I have to learn. And all the time I was fussing and worrying she kept on contentedly chewing her cud. Restraining an impulse to give her a kick for looking so exasperatingly comfortable, when in the best judgment of the neighbourhood she should be dying, I closed the door and left her to her job of digesting a bushel of corn. And she did it to the king's taste. In the morning I went to see her before I gathered the duck eggs and found her bawling for her morning feed. She never batted an eyelid--never turned a hair. And at milking time she gave a brimming pail of milk, just as if nothing unusual had happened. Later in the day, when she was turned out for water, she bolted for the spot where she had found the corn on the previous day and seemed ready to repeat her exploit. It is not because she is starved either, for she is beef-fat.

DECEMBER

_Dec. 1._--Here is a chance for the Weather Bureau and the oldest inhabitant. In their records, real and imaginary, have they noted a first day of December like this? Last night there was a sharp still frost, but this morning the sun is shining "on both sides of the fence." A south wind that is balmy and yet has a tang to it like hard cider is dawdling over the fields. The day is perfect, and as I view it through the open window the typewriter becometh a burden. There is a haze in the air that makes the woods look dreamy and inviting. This seems to be a case of Indian summer lingering in the lap of winter, and nobody has the slightest objection to make. Those who work are still busy ploughing and getting ready for next summer's crops. Even the bees are out for an airing, and our Christmas dinners are in the woods filling their crops with beechnuts. Every once in a while I hear a shotgun banging, and know that a city hunter is scaring our corn-fed black squirrels. A couple of days ago one of these powder-burners fired seventeen shots at a squirrel on the beech knoll until the little animal got ashamed of being a party to such a rumpus and retired disdainfully into his hole. There doubtless are city hunters who can shoot, but they are not taking their holidays at present. Possibly the fellows who are tramping through the woods just now are doing it for their health, but, though they may work up excellent appetites, they will never be able to satisfy their hunger with the game they kill. Those I have had a chance to observe in action couldn't hit a "No Trespassing" sign at ten paces. The country boys say they couldn't hit a barn even if they were standing inside of it.

With the last roots and potatoes pitted and the cattle stabled the world is waiting for winter. The trees are stripped to bare poles, so that they may not be broken by clinging snow. It is interesting to note how much character the trees retain after they have parted with their foliage. The accustomed eye can pick out the elms, oaks, maples, beeches, and hickories as far as it can see, by their form and the distribution of their branches and twigs. Even where they are crowded together in the forest they are as easy to recognise as individuals in a crowd of people you know. Thoreau speaks somewhere of making friends with the trees, and to one who has been neighbouring with them for some months the idea is attractive. Just now it seems as if it would be easier to scrape an acquaintance with them than at any other time of the year. Although they look dignified and self-sufficient they are without the pride and pre-occupation of summer. It is in the winter that they perform for us their friendliest office in breaking the wind. The trees on the farm are the last thing we see when leaving home and the first thing we see on our return, so it is just possible many of us are friends with them without knowing it. Anyway, it is comfortable to be back among them after one has been away, whether they share the feeling or not.

Outside of the trees, about the only other things encountered on country walks just now that are of interest are the fences, and these are sufficiently varied to satisfy either an artist or an antiquary. Many of them are picturesque and all mark a stage in the development of the country. It is still possible to find examples of the stone, log, and stump fences of the pioneers which served the double purpose of bounding a field and clearing the land. The stone fences were built from necessity rather than choice. Something had to be done with the stones that were picked from the land in some districts, and the obvious thing to do was to throw them in the fence corners or make fences of them. The latter course was usually adopted where they were sufficiently plentiful. Stump fences were usually made of pine, and some may be found that are over fifty years old. When properly put together and blocked they made a fence that would turn the "breachiest" horse or cow that ever made life a burden to the farming community. But under no circumstances could a stump fence be considered ornamental. "As homely as a stump fence" is still a current simile in the country. As suggested above, the building of a stump fence served a double purpose. It was the same with the log fences that are now somewhat rare. They were made of such timber as would be used in building houses and barns. These fences were practically straight, the ends of the logs being connected and held together by short cross pieces, on which each tier rested. The rail fences that are still plentiful were made of free-splitting timber ranging from black ash to black walnut. It is probably some years since rails were split in any quantity, owing to the value of timber. As sound, well-seasoned rails will last almost a century, it is probable that they will be plentiful in the country for some time to come, though in some places the farmers are finding that they can sell their old rail fences for fuel at a price that will pay for wire fences. On the farms where rails are still in use many styles of fence are to be seen, varying from the stake-and-rider snake fence to straight fences with posts, to which the rails are fastened with wire. Almost every farmer has a scheme of his own to make his old rails go as far as possible, and the results are sometimes absurd. To make a fence that is horse high and hog proof with insufficient material requires more than ordinary ingenuity.

Board fences were once quite the fashion, but they have practically passed out because of the price of lumber. Wire fences of infinite variety are now being put up, but, judging from the criticisms of the farmers, the ideal fence has not yet been invented. Properly constructed wire fences are serviceable, but there are so many kinds of wire and so many ways of building them it is quite evident that there is still confusion in the public mind regarding them. Hedges have been tried in some parts--and thereby hangs a tale. Some years ago a number of smooth-talking agents went through the country taking orders for hedge fences at what seemed most reasonable terms. The finished hedge was to cost, say, one dollar a rod. It would attain its growth in three years, and the hedge-builders were to attend to it each year until it was completed. If the farmer agreed to buy fifty rods of hedge he was to pay for it in three instalments. On the first year he was to prepare the ground for the seedlings and pay $20. A second payment of $10 was to be made on the second year when the hedge-makers returned to replant any spots that had been missed. On the third year the hedge was to be trimmed, splashed, and completed and the farmer was to pay $20. It looked like a reasonable arrangement, and many farmers signed contracts for the new hedge. In the spring of the first year the hedge-makers appeared with waggonloads of seedlings, which they dropped in a furrow made by the farmer, who then covered them with another furrow. The job was just about as hard as planting a row of potatoes. The schemers then collected the first instalment. Next year they were prompt in calling for the second instalment and making the trifling additions to the planting that were required. The kind of thorn they had planted grew like Canada thistles, and the prospects of a good hedge looked promising. But on the third year the little joker in the scheme was discovered. Trimming, splashing, and completing the hedge meant work, and the hedge-makers never came back. They had already received two liberal payments for practically no work, and they took no interest in the last payment that would have to be more than earned. Because of this raid on the unsuspecting farmers, one sees occasional hedges that are forty feet high and still growing. Hedges will, doubtless, be used in the country as it grows older, but the man who undertakes to promote the industry will have to hit on a new scheme before he can make it popular.

A drive through the country at night is one of the dreariest experiences imaginable. Every house appears to be deserted. Not a light is to be seen anywhere. The front parts of many farm houses seem to be built for outward show, and not for inward use. Some of those who have the finest houses persist in living in their kitchens. The kitchen is also the dining room and living room. This no doubt saves fuel, but one cannot help wondering what is the use of having a parlour or sitting room with plush furniture, crayon portraits, and vases filled with dried flowers if it is never to be used. In the daytime the prospect is not much more alluring. A house that has smoke issuing from only one chimney does not look hospitable, but in most country houses they do not light a fire in the parlour unless they are expecting a call from the minister. All of which goes to prove the truth of the comment made by the Indian, who said: "Indian builds a hut and lives in it. White man builds a big house and lives in the kitchen." Moreover, in some cases the kitchen is simply an addition to the house proper, so that he really does not live in his big house at all.

_Dec. 5._--"Every man to his taste," as the old woman said when she kissed the cow. That good old maxim applies everywhere, even to the dumb creatures on the farm. I was reminded of it last night while doing the chores. While poking around with the lantern I came across the ducks--the waddling, fat, all-consuming ducks. They were resting and carrying on a light conversation in a sheltered corner where there was plenty of straw and where they had what most creatures would consider a chance to be comfortable. I did not disturb them in any way, but presently, after a few vigorous remarks, they started off in Indian file across the yard and out into "the great big dark." As they were nowhere in sight when I had finished my chores, I had the curiosity to hunt them up. Following the direction they had taken when leaving the yard, I soon found them in an old creek bed. They were huddled together on the ice, with their heads tucked under their wings, and apparently settled for the night. On telling of this when I got to the house, I found that this little pond has been their roosting place at night ever since they deserted the indignant hen that mothered them. They even kept a hole open in the middle of the pond until the frost became altogether too severe. I have often seen the wild ducks flying from the Niagara River out across the ice into Lake Ontario, and have been told that they were going out to roost, or sleep, or whatever it is that ducks do on the open water. Probably our hand-raised ducks are acting in obedience to some ancestral instinct. I wonder if I ought to try to break them off it? As a matter of fact, I have never looked into the question of how to raise ducks, having always contented myself with the instructions given in the cook book on "how to carve ducks."

Those ducks will never know how near they were to a general slaughter one day last week. I was working at the barn when some one at the house called a question to me. Before it was half finished, six ducks flapped their wings, drew deep breaths, and spontaneously exploded with a "quack," "quack," "quack!" When they had quieted, I tried to ask what was wanted, but this was about the way my question reached the house:

"What do you--'quack,' 'quack'--"

Then a noise might have been heard from the barn yard which sounded something like this:

"Get out of that, you waddling--'quack'--'quack'--'quack.'

"If I had a stick I'd--'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack.'

"Shut up, you--'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack'--"

"Oh, what's the use--'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack.'"