In Pastures Green

I am glad I undertook to plant those trees in the woodlot this year. It is so satisfyingly ridiculous a thing to do that wise people have no time to criticise the way I am putting in the rest of my crops. It is more amusing than having the orchard attended to by the latest scientific methods. But I must be fair on this point. Although there were a few people who laughed noisily when they heard that I was going to place the orchard in the hands of experts, there are many others who are anxious to know just how the work is being done, and who openly envy me for having been able to arrange with the Department of Agriculture to give the demonstration. Some have gone so far as to prune their trees this year, and several professional pruners found all the work they wanted to do in this district. But I am afraid this will not help the cause of orcharding very much, for none of the trees are being sprayed, and the result is likely to be of a kind that would need the pen of Joel the son of Pethuel to describe properly. What the codling worm leaves, the caterpillar will destroy, and so on, and so on. You will remember the text.

The glorious spring we are having just now makes me feel in my bones that there is something about the season of growth that the scientists have not yet discovered. When everything is alive, from the grain of mustard seed to the mighty oak, and everything is bursting into life and bloom, I always feel that there are other forces at work besides heat and moisture. Wherever I turn, things seem to be flooded with life, as if life were a form of force like electricity—something too all-pervading and subtle to be isolated by scientific investigators. Life seems to be something apart from the chemical changes that take place in the seeds—something that compels these changes, but does not enter into the combination itself. At this season of the year the world seems to be flooded with an abounding vitality not noticeable at other times. As yet the scientists have not been able to make any more of it than have the poets, but it seems very real.

May 14.—Last night I had only three hours' sleep, and all on account of that orchard. After an unexpected and wholly unseasonable snowstorm, the weather turned cold, and the signs all pointed to a sharp frost. An hour after sunset the thermometer registered thirty-four degrees above zero—just two degrees above the freezing point. I began to worry at once. I have seldom been more interested in anything than I am in that orchard, and it is not entirely because I am hoping for a profitable crop. This is the first time I have ever had a chance to follow closely the art of fruit-producing, and I am profoundly interested in the work because of the light it throws on man's partnership with nature. Mr. Clement has undertaken his share of the task in such a hearty fashion that I do not want to have anything interrupt us until the demonstration has been completed. So, as I said, when frost threatened I began to worry. It seemed as if the whole experiment might be defeated by a slight change in temperature. Every few minutes I went and consulted the thermometer, and it was slowly but surely edging closer to the danger-point. Not knowing what to do, I decided that I must do something. It was impossible to get after the experts at that hour of the night, and I was perfectly willing to do anything, however foolish, to save the buds so that our work of apple-producing might go on. Racking my memory for something that would give me guidance, I remembered having read somewhere that the vine-growers in France, when threatened by frost, build fires in their vineyards. On mentioning this, some one remembered that one hard summer, in pioneer days, one of our neighbours saved his corn from a June frost by lighting all the brush heaps and stumps in his fields, and that year he was the only man in the district who had corn. Some one else remembered having heard that out West they sometimes save part of their crop by making smudges that will lay a blanket of smoke over the fields. Of course, I hadn't seen anything in the bulletins or farm papers about that sort of thing, but I didn't hesitate. I was perfectly willing to do a dozen fool things, if one of them would by any chance protect the buds from frost. It didn't matter to me if I lit a torch that would cause laughter from Niagara to Lambton. I am getting used to being laughed at, and, as a very prominent Canadian educationist wrote when a fellow professor lost his pet dog,

A little more laughing wouldn't hurt me any, so I hunted up a bundle of rags and the coal-oil can and started for the orchard. Up to that time I had been rather ashamed of the fact that, owing to the rush of work, we hadn't been able to clear away the brush that had been pruned from the trees, but last night I was glad it was still there. It was in neat piles, anyway, and that made it handier to get at. As there was not a breath of air stirring, I selected a spot in the middle of the orchard, where I would not be in danger of scorching any of the trees, started my fire of rags and oil, and began to pile the green brush on it. In a few minutes I had a bonfire that would have been big enough to celebrate a victory of the people over the Big Interests. The night was so still that the flame and smoke went straight up into the air. But there was not enough smoke. Going to the stable, I got a forkful of wet straw and carried it to my bonfire. After throwing it on the fire, I had an excellent illustration of what Milton meant by the phrase:

In a few minutes there was a most satisfying blanket of smoke hanging over the trees and rolling through their branches. Of course, I knew that there was no frost as yet, but I had demonstrated to my own satisfaction that if it did come I could make all the smoke that was necessary. By this time it was almost twelve o'clock, so I set the alarm for three a.m., and turned in with an easy conscience. It is always just before sunrise that a frost strikes hardest, and I would get up and be ready for it. At three o'clock the alarm went off with a wholly unnecessary jangle, and after I had explained to the aroused and protesting family what the rumpus was all about, I took a peep at the thermometer. The mercury stood exactly at the freezing point. In a few minutes I had four bonfires, half smothered with wet straw, throwing up clouds of smoke. By the time the dawn began to appear in the east, the thermometer had shaded below the freezing point, and water in a pan by the door was slightly coated with ice. This made me redouble my efforts, and I certainly did get up a glorious fog. If those buds could be saved, I was going to save them. I kept up the good work until six o'clock, when the sun's heat began to be felt. Then I had breakfast and waited for Mr. Clement, like a little curly-headed boy who had done all his homework. I forgot to mention that to-day was the day decided on for the second spraying of the trees.

When Mr. Clement finally came, I couldn't wait to get his horses unhitched until I had told him what I had done, and what do you think? He just roared and laughed! Now I don't think that's fair. Scientific farmers have no business laughing at the rest of us. It is their business to do fussy things and let us laugh at them. Still, he wasn't so very bad about it. He soon let me see that what amused him was my enthusiasm about the work. He assured me that the situation might have been one where what I had done would have been exactly the right thing. At this stage, however, there is little danger of the blossoms being destroyed by frost. It is usually a frost that comes after the fruit is set that causes trouble, and, if two weeks from now there should be a cold snap, I should be doing exactly the right thing in making a blanket of smoke for the trees. It was very kind of him to spare my feelings in this way, but still I wish he hadn't been quite so much amused, and that his eyes didn't twinkle every time the matter was referred to during the day. Although I am getting pretty thoroughly seasoned, I still have feelings.

I don't care even if my bonfires were not needed, and if I did lose a few hours' sleep. I have done a whole lot of more foolish things than that, and got away with them by simply looking solemn. Moreover, I have more than once lost a night's sleep, and it wasn't always by sitting up with a sick friend, either. Any time during the early summer, if you waken up before daylight and see a big light in the sky down in this direction, you needn't imagine that somebody's buildings are being burned. It will probably be me having bonfires in my orchard. Mr. Clement admitted that it would be all right, and I don't care a bit if he did grin a little at the time. We are going to make a success of that orchard if it is humanly possible, and I had my reward for last night's exploit in another way. I had a chance to hear the wonderful concert of the birds that greets the dawn, long before even the most industrious of us humans is stirring. But I am not going to say much about that just now. I am too much hurried to deal with anything so poetic. It will serve as a subject for a special article later on.

May 16.—Last week I made up my mind to write an article founded on experience, but I found that The Farmer's Advocate has to some extent anticipated me. It has an editorial dealing with the subject I had in view, but, instead of giving up my article, I shall quote what The Advocate says, and then proceed with my own thoughts on the same point:

"One of the greatest mistakes a farmer can make is yielding to that insidious tendency to dull his mental energy by sheer physical exhaustion. There are so many things to do about a farm, and so few hands to do them, that, unless one is careful, he finds himself working on into the night, when he should be resting, if not sleeping. Morning comes apace, finding his senses heavy; but necessity, that stern prompter, opens his eyelids and drives him through another round of duty. Day after day this continues, till unconsciously he slips into a routine, and, despite natural inclinations and resolutions to the contrary, gradually settles into ruts. He loses his mental grasp and outlook, becomes the slave of his own work, drags through it as best he may, with dulled perception, flagging enterprise, and dull-grey outlook, where nothing matters much but grimly holding on. The future holds nothing of promise, and only the old ways are safe."

Farm papers are usually so unrelentingly practical that it is good to find one sounding so healthy a note of warning.

While planting trees and gardening I went at the work with a grim determination to get it done. Only when the task was completed and I had time and energy to reflect did I realise to what a complete blank I had reduced the most enjoyable season of the year. I remember that on the first day I went to the woods the buds were swelling on the trees. When the work was done the trees were in full leaf and the ground was covered with wild flowers, but I had not noticed the progress of the change. During this strenuous period I observed nothing, enjoyed nothing, thought nothing, read nothing. I reduced myself to a mere machine, capable of nothing but work and weariness. It was only when the rush was over that I realised how insensate and inanimate I had been. While I had been slaving a coronation scene more wonderful than that which is about to take place in London had been in progress, but I had seen nothing of it. Nature was being crowned with flowers, and the fields and trees had put on their wonderful green mantles for the great occasion, but I had been indifferent. As I thought of this I suddenly realised that I had simply reduced myself to the condition that is habitual with nine farmers out of every ten in this beautiful country. I understood for the first time why farmers as a class are so apathetic to the wonders by which they are surrounded. Living more closely in touch with nature than any one else, they probably enjoy her beauty less than any one else. Even the city man who goes for an occasional stroll in the park enjoys nature more than they do.

This point of view suddenly changed my attitude towards a number of things I was inclined to admire. When the report of the Ontario Agricultural College came to me through the mail a couple of days ago I found it hideously practical. It is full of information that if applied will greatly increase the prosperity of the country, but in my present frame of mind I am not sure that that is what we stand most in need of. What is the use of reducing the cow to a butter-fat machine, the hen to an egg machine, and so on, if the men who look after them are to be reduced to work machines? Mr. James' assertion that the products of Ontario can be doubled in ten years does not look so good to me as it did. If he proposed to show how as much as is being produced in Ontario could be produced with half the amount of labour I should like it better. It is this everlasting effort to produce more, instead of to enjoy more, that is robbing life of all its charms. They need a professor of leisure in connection with the Agricultural Department to teach the value of leisure on the farm, how to secure it and how to enjoy it. Work has become a mania and people are trying madly to do more than their share. Instead of saying, "Build thee greater mansions, O my soul!" the farmer is raging to build greater bank barns and the Department of Agriculture is doing all in its power to help him do it and to show him how to fill them. Now I understand why days of idleness are so irksome to so many people. It is not always because they are greedy for gain and cannot bear to think that time is being lost. It is because they habitually stupefy themselves with work as with a powerful narcotic, and find it painful to have their minds awake. When the mind is given a chance it is apt to show how useless so much of our striving is, and we have to stupefy it again so as to escape from its accusations. I am even inclined to suspect that those who are trying to educate the farmers are defeating their own purposes. By showing how to make work more profitable they are inducing people to work harder, and in that way they have their minds less open to new ideas and better methods. The professor of leisure could correct this by forcing home the truth that the end of all work is to win leisure. It is in our hours of leisure that we enjoy ourselves and grow. But the world has been reduced to such a condition by work that we need to be taught how to enjoy ourselves and grow. There is certainly a great field for the new professor.

There is thunder in the air to-day, and everybody is hoping for a good brisk rain—that will not delay the work too much. The spring crops, as well as the gardens, need a good watering, and my trees would be the better of a good warm soaking. I looked them over yesterday, and they seem to be doing pretty well. Practically all the butternut and ash trees are in full leaf, though some of the ash seem to be withering. The walnut buds are swelling, but few of them are in leaf. As for the pine and cedar, I am somewhat puzzled. They are not showing any signs of new growth. In fact they are looking discouragingly like the hang-over Christmas decorations in the Town Hall, but perhaps that is their way, and in due season they will begin to make progress. Anyway, my conscience is clear. I planted them according to instructions, and reduced myself to what Markham calls "a brother to the ox" while doing it. They will probably turn out all right, but I wish they would hurry and put forth the "tender leaves of hope."

It is hard to believe that there are so many wildflowers in the woods, but an hour among the trees with the boy who is engaged in nature study was a liberal education. He had been rooting around making a disturbance of the kind described by the Rocky Mountain guide as having been made by "a wild hawg or a scientist," when I happened along, thirsting for information. He had found twenty-two varieties and he introduced me to all of them, but I am afraid that I shall not be able to recall their college names when I meet them again. I was already familiar with the Indian turnip, which the big boys used to think it was great fun to get the little boys to bite at, and I could still feel my tongue ache and shrivel as I recognised it. I also knew the violet and phlox, but Solomon's seal and mitre-wort and foam-flowers and many others were new to me. Now that it is becoming fashionable to rail at the educational authorities, I want to hand them a little bouquet—of wildflowers. Nature study, at least, is all right, even though it doesn't teach the children to work.

For fear that no one else in this busy world will notice the fact, I want to publish the glorious news that the apple trees are beginning to blossom. The plum and pear trees are already in full bloom, and the fields and woods are fresh and green and flooded with spring perfumes. It is no time for any one to be indoors, or for any one who is outdoors to be oblivious to the beauties by which he is surrounded. Get outdoors and waken up! There is health to be had for the taking, and enjoyment is free to all. Even the birds that are hatching out their eggs in the old-fashioned way, instead of using up-to-date incubators, seem to be getting something out of life, for they insist on singing all the time the sun shines and sometimes they waken up in the night to tell how happy they are. The frogs—but before I forget it there are some things I want to find out about frogs. Does thunder kill tadpoles? The nature student had a lot of frogs' eggs hatching out in an old pan. I noticed them swimming about just before a thunderstorm came up, and after it was over they were all lying dead in the bottom of the pan. Did the thunder kill them? Another thing I noticed was that, although the frogs in the ponds were all indulging in their "Pandean chorus," they suddenly stopped when the storm began to threaten. At the same time the tree-toads began to croak. They never croak except before a storm, I am told. Now that I have rid myself of the curse of work for this spring and have scolded about it for a page or so I shall begin to look into important matters like this and try to enjoy life again.

May 19.—This letter is going to be written under difficulties. To begin with, I have only a vague idea of what I am going to write about, for a beautiful May morning is altogether too distracting for a man to be able to concentrate his thoughts. All the senses are being delicately catered to by spring delights. A balmy breeze is puffing through the open door, laden with fresh odours; snatches of bird-song assail my ears, and whenever I raise my eyes from the paper the mellow sunlight invites me to wander in the garden or orchard. As for the sense of taste, my briar-root pipe is at its best. By yielding to the allurement of any of the senses I could enjoy myself to the full. In addition to this a clutch of hens' eggs was hatched out last night in a barrel at the foot of the garden, and the duck eggs are chipped. I am not particularly interested in this, but a little boy is more interested than I can pretend to be in anything and he insists on giving me bulletins every few minutes.

"One of the chickens has its head stuck out froo the old hen's fevvers."

"Yes, yes! Run along now. Can't you see that I am busy?"

There are a lot of minnows in the creek a few rods away, and they are dividing his attention somewhat. This morning he had a mess of chub about the size of sardines for breakfast and he thinks I should go fishing to provide food for the family. He is so serious about it all that it is a shame to smile at him, especially when I have nothing better to do than to write nonsense. But there are times when even writing nonsense seems like hard work, and this is one of them. It would be much better if the people who are in the habit of reading newspapers were to go out and devote the time it takes to read a column or so of print to enjoying nature for themselves. Why not stop right now and spend a few minutes in the open air with every sense alert to what is going on around you? I would if I could.

There have been hours this spring when I have felt like criticising Wordsworth, even though he, above all others, is the poet of nature. There is one familiar quotation from his poems that has done more to set nature-lovers wrong than anything else in the language. If I could, I would verify it to make sure that it is quoted as he meant it, but for some unaccountable reason my copy of his poems, which I thought was complete, does not contain "Peter Bell." It is many years since I read the poem, but the impression that sticks in my memory is the popular one that Peter was regarded as an undesirable citizen because:

Now it seems to me that if Peter realised that, he reached the highest point possible to a poet. A flower in itself is more wonderful than anything that can be imagined about it. It is a beautiful part of the universal mystery—just as wonderful and mysterious as a constellation. The primrose is perfect in itself and its charm is not increased by the fact that men have "sought out many inventions" about it. To the scientist it is a gamopetalous plant, to the politician the emblem of an aristocratic political league, and to the student curious in ancient philosophy a possible key to the Pythagorean system. There you have "inventions" with a vengeance, but in reality it is simply a yellow primrose, and it is nothing more. If Peter Bell was able to look at it in that simple way he achieved an intellectual feat that is almost impossible to us in this age of profound explanations that explain nothing.

"What's that?"

"The chicken that had its head sticking through the fevvers tumbled out, and the old hen pushed it back under her with her beak."

"Good for her. Run along now."

But it will not do to scold Wordsworth too much for this mistake about Peter Bell, for he shows in other poems that when he was at his best he regarded things from Peter's simple point of view:

There is nothing in that to suggest that he considered a rainbow as anything but a rainbow. There is no hint of a study of the laws of refraction or of the symbolism which makes the rainbow a pledge that the world will never again be destroyed by water. In fact, we might parody Peter Bell and say:

Because Wordsworth, the man, accepted the rainbow as he did when a child he gave us a perfect gem of poetry. And everything else in the world is just as poetical if approached in the same childlike spirit. But this is almost impossible because of the "many inventions."

But the primroses and rainbows are not the only things that are made hard to see rightly because of "many inventions." It is no longer possible to see our fellow-men simply as men. Just ask any one to describe some man of his acquaintance for you. You will probably find that he will begin by telling you whether he is well off. Then he will tell you what political party he belongs to. After that he will tell you what church he attends. The man will possibly be described as well-to-do, a Grit and a Presbyterian. Now, that is not a description of a man. Wealth, partisanship, sectarianism are simply "inventions." A man may be a man for a' that.

"What's the trouble now?"

"The old hen stepped on a chicken."

"Well, wrap it up in a cloth and put it in a basket by the kitchen stove and see if it will get better."

Let me see. Where were we at? Oh, yes, we were trying to describe a man. How would it do to go back to Solomon's study of the matter? He said that man was made upright. "But they have sought out many inventions." Wouldn't we get a better idea of a man if he were described as upright, generous, good-natured, neighbourly? These are all qualities, not "inventions." But I do not think I ever heard a man described in that way. We all seem to think of the "inventions" first. It is just as hard to consider a man as a man as it is to consider a primrose as a yellow primrose.

As I read over what I have written I seem to discover a great truth. When a man has nothing else to say he naturally begins to moralise. But I am going to stop. The old hen is squawking and the little boy is calling. She is probably moralising, too, if the tone of her voice tells anything. She is probably saying that since the "invention" of incubators chickens are not what they used to be when she was young. And human children are more troublesome. It is a strange world that we live in and it is hard to get the right attitude towards it. But I think we shall make a great advance towards enjoying it when we realise that things are what they are and not what people imagine they are. The sunshine is good and the warm breeze is good and the flowers are good and the birds are good, and, if possible, for the rest of this glorious day I am not going to bother my head about what they may possibly be on a last analysis or what they perhaps stand for. I am weary of the "many inventions."

May 20.—If a man could only know as much before he starts a job as he does after it has been finished, work would be a great deal easier. I thought I had everything just right when starting to plant the new orchard, but I learned a few things. We planted cherry trees for fillers, and I thought it would be no trick to get them in right after the apple trees were planted. We made a fairly good job of planting the apple trees. Though the rows are not so straight that a rifle bullet would nick every tree, they are not so bad. Here and there one may be out an inch or two, but the stretched and marked wire kept us fairly straight in spite of the rolling ground. It is only when you look across the field corner-ways that you notice the little mistakes. But the great mistake was in imagining that if I got the apple trees in straight I should have no trouble putting in the fillers by sighting along the rows of apple trees. This had to be done by sighting along the rows that showed corner-ways, and, as they revealed all the mistakes of the apple-tree planting, these mistakes were multiplied in planting the cherry trees. After the first couple of rows of fillers had been put in, I thought they would help me in sighting, but matters kept getting worse steadily. As Nature has not fitted me with enough eyes to enable me to sight in six different directions at once, the problem was too deep for me. I know that we should have planted the fillers after each row of apple trees, and there were twenty-foot marks on the wire for that purpose, but nobody told me. When we found out it was too late to do things right, for the planted trees made it practically impossible to shift the wire for each row. So we put in the cherry trees as best we could, and I danced around like a hen on a hot griddle trying to sight in six different directions without delaying the work of planting. The result is not what you would call a fancy job of planting, but I have seen worse. In fact the trees are in better line than in most of the orchards I know of, but they should be right. Of course, the fillers will be cut out some time in the future and the orchard will then look all right, but I shall have to wait a good many years before it looks as I should like to have it.

Planting the young orchard was not the joyous job I had expected, for there was less hope in the work than I would have liked. The trees arrived in such condition that it seems hardly possible that even a decent percentage of them will live. The box in which they were packed was broken, most of the packing had fallen out, and they were as dry as last year's brush. They had been twelve days coming from Welland, and had been exposed to the hottest weather of the season. They might have been delivered with a wheel-barrow as quickly as they were delivered by the railways. People who saw them at the station advised me not to accept delivery, but I called up the nurseries and the manager asked me to try to save the trees. He advised soaking them over night, and then heeling them in a wet place. This was done, and with the help of two men who have had experience in planting we put in the trees according to the directions of the nurserymen. I was anxious to give the trees a chance, not only because I did not want to see so large a shipment destroyed, but because we have been preparing to plant this orchard for the past year. Last fall a clover sod was ploughed under, and preparations made to give the young orchard every chance. If I rejected the trees a whole year would be lost, and the work would have to be done over again. The nurserymen promised me fair treatment if I would plant the trees, and now I am waiting to see the result. Though the trees were thoroughly soaked before planting, ten days ago, and have had two good showers of rain since they were planted, I cannot find a bud that has even swollen. If they do not grow it will mean a lot of wasted work.

May 23.—Getting out to grass is certainly the event of the year for the animals on the farm. I know, because I have a strong fellow-feeling for them. When the sun begins to get warm, and the grass starts to grow, I get impatient for the time when I can fling myself at full length on the sod without being scolded for taking chances of catching cold. When the cows were allowed out for the first time they could hardly wait to go through the gate before they started to graze, and for a couple of hours they kept at it as if their lives depended on getting a good meal. But presently something stampeded the young cattle, and the whole bunch began running, bunting one another, and jumping around as if indulging in a foolish sort of sun dance to celebrate their freedom. When this was over, the red cow started on her annual inspection of the fences. The thorn hedge, woven with barbed wire, baffled her, as it did last year, and I thought everything was all right. The next time I looked she was in the clover field. The spring flood had loosened things around the government drain. After driving her out I fixed this break in the fence, only to find that she was in the field again. She had found a place where the wire fence had been cut to haul out wood and had managed to push through. Turning her out again I made a thorough job of mending this, and that ended the trouble. She made a complete round of the field, stuck her head over every fence and bawled, but that was all. Now I can go about my work without giving a thought to the fences. The red cow and I examined and tested them thoroughly on the first day and fixed them for the summer. Really, the red cow is a great help. If it were not for her I might be bothered with fences all season, but one day is enough. She examines the fences thoroughly and after she finds the weak spots I fix them up. If her calves take after her I shall be able to advertise a new strain of useful stock. No farmer should be without one of these fence-testing cows to help him keep his farm in shape and protect his crops.

For a few days everything was quiet in the pasture field, and then, all of a sudden, there was a noise like a general election. All the cattle began to bawl defiance. A big, slab-sided two-year-old steer began to lead the herd towards the line fence. He had his head down, his mouth open, and he walked catercorner, roaring like one of the bulls of Bashan. A neighbour had just turned out his cattle, and they were approaching the line fence, and putting up the same warlike bluff. I should have had more respect for the dehorned two-year-old and his war talk had it not been that on the previous evening I had seen him being prodded across the field by a sharp-horned little yearling heifer. He grunted and got out of her way like a fat man getting beyond the reach of a suffragette's elbow in a street-car rush. But he certainly did make an awful noise. I don't know why it is, but I always find something in the actions of cattle to remind me of politics. There is the same tendency to go in flocks, to make a wholly unnecessary amount of noise, and then to accomplish nothing. When the two roaring herds finally met at the line fence they merely stuck their noses through the wires and sniffed at one another for a few minutes, and then went back to pasture. The crisis was over.

When the driver got out for the first time she went through the gate on the run. She ate quietly for a couple of minutes, then lay down and had a most satisfactory roll. When she got up she took a look around the field, squealed, jumped into the air, and began to give an exhibition of energy that I didn't think was in her system. She must have had it in cold storage all winter, for she hadn't been using much of it on the road. She galloped, kicked, and snorted, and I sat down and tried to figure out whether she was snorting at the kick or kicking at the snort. But like many another problem I have tackled, it was too deep for me. There were times when she had all four feet in the air at once, and looked as if she could have kept four more going. She would gallop round in a circle, then come to a sudden stop and snort. When the echo of the snort came back from the woods, it would scare her so that she would start off on the gallop again. After she had relieved herself and galloped around the field in this way about a dozen times, she finally settled down and began to eat. After watching this exhibition I made up my mind that there will be more speed in my drives to the post office in the future. I thought she was troubled with "that tired feeling" that comes to all of us in the spring, but now I shall have no compunction about using the whip. She has simply been loafing on me.

JUNE

June 4.—Everything that has been done in the orchard has been wonderfully interesting, but the third spraying was a revelation. When Mr. Clement began "squirting Death through a hose" at the blossoms, I regarded the operation as part of the ordinary routine, and little suspected that back of the work lay one of those romances of science that are lost in commonplace reports, instead of glowing on the pages of a poet. As usual, a chance question brought out the wonderful fact that kindled my imagination. A teacher had asked the nature student to bring to school a specimen of the codling moth, and when I tried to help him, and looked up the literature on the subject, I found that the codling moth flies by night, and that many experienced orchardists have never seen one. Then I asked if it would be possible to capture a codling moth at this time of the year.

"No. They do not begin to lay their eggs until about the end of June."

Instantly I became a living interrogation mark, and during the next few minutes learned a story that illustrates better than anything I have yet found the patient work that is being done by our scientists, and the wonderful skill with which they adapt their methods to the processes of Nature in order to accomplish results. Here is a case where they meet Nature on her own ground, and conquer her by a subtlety equal to her own. It is a triumph of science that should be observed by Faber and described by Maeterlinck. Having studied out the processes of an apple's development and the codling worm's method of attack, they prepare a death-trap for an insect that is as yet unborn. While the calyx of the blossom is open, they saturate it with a spray of arsenate of lead. As the young apple develops, the calyx closes and folds within itself the charge of poison where it cannot be washed out by the rain. Weeks later the young codling worm is hatched from the egg deposited on some near-by twig by the moth, and, obeying a compelling instinct, crawls up the stem of the little apple, makes its way to the calyx, and begins to eat its way into the fruit. Then it meets with the lurking death that has been placed in its path by the ingenuity of man. Could anything be more skilful or more carefully thought out? The orchardist makes Nature herself "commend the ingredients of the poisoned chalice" to the lips of her destroying creatures. Here is something that surpasses the craft of the poisoners of the Dark Ages. It is fabled that they could administer their death-dealing "Aqua Tofana" in the perfume of a rose, and that Cæsar Borgia could destroy an enemy by poisoning one side of a knife, dividing a peach with it, and then eating his own half with relish, while his unsuspecting guest took certain death from the other. But the Borgias, de Medicis, and Brinvilliers were clumsy poisoners when compared with the scientists who protect the bounties of Nature from the ravages of her prodigal hordes. Poisoning the blossom for the unborn insect that would prey on the fruit is surely the masterpiece of protective science. In my excitement, I forgot to ask if it is known who devised this plan, but probably it was developed bit by bit, scientist after scientist adding his portion, until the scheme was perfect. This marvel is now one of the commonplaces of farm work. I wonder how many more stories just like it are back of the methods and formulas by which man is slowly learning to control the forces of Nature for his profit.

The orchard is right up to date. It has been given its three sprayings, and has been fertilised and ploughed. Of course, I have never watched an orchard closely until now, but those who should know assure me that there has never been such a showing for apples as there is this year. The little apples are now formed, and it is easy to find trees on which four and five blossoms out of each cluster of six have been fertilised. If even a small percentage of the apples that are already formed reach maturity, practically every tree in the orchard will be loaded. In fact, it has been suggested that there are so many apples the fruit will be small unless it is thinned out later in the season. If the insects that prey on the young fruit only worked with discretion they might be helpful in thinning it out. I wonder if the scientists cannot find some way of training the larvæ that feed on the blossoms to take only a just proportion of them. Nature provides enough for them and for man if they could only work in unison. But I am afraid that the war of extermination must go on, for I doubt if they can do anything along this line, even though they are so wonderfully skilful.

A couple of days ago a sharp-eyed boy found something on the apple trees to which he called my attention. There were little clusters of eggs on the under side of the branches—little yellow things about the size of pin-points. I am so anxious to find out what they are that I am going to clip off a few pieces of bark, put them in a pill-box, and send them over to Mr. Clement. But perhaps, instead of being the eggs of some injurious insect, they may be the eggs of something useful. I wonder if I should take all the eggs when sending them, or should I leave a nest-egg? In doing these scientific things, the ordinary man is always afraid he may not be right. But as the eggs seem fairly plentiful, I guess I can risk it. Anyway, I want to find out all about everything that is happening to those trees.

This has been a great year for gardening. Although it has been a late spring, we are already having plenty of lettuce, radishes, and young onions, and the work needed to make a garden was not missed. One thing that interests me is to find that the cabbage, cauliflower, and tomato plants I am getting from seeds sown in the open are growing so rapidly that they promise to do better than the hothouse plants that were put out for an early crop. Apparently, there is little to be gained by forcing plants for ordinary gardening, though it may be useful in market gardening when every day counts in getting the high prices at the beginning of the season. We have over thirty varieties of vegetables in the garden this year, ranging from the bulky squash to the small, savoury herbs, and when vegetarians call to see us this summer we shall always be ready to give them a dinner fit for a cow—I mean a king.

June 7.—I have just had an hour of pure enjoyment, and that was worth while, even though the experience did not have a happy ending. The day being fine, and the work being well in hand, I went for a walk about the farm. I was delighted to find the oats doing so well, and had my first thrill when I realised that they were my oats. Then I went to look at the hay—my hay—and found that most of the field gives promise of a good crop. Then I looked at the corn—my corn—and saw that it is coming through the ground in fine style, even though the seed grain used was open to suspicion. The potatoes—my potatoes—are already through the ground, and the pasture—my pasture—is rich and plentiful. The garden—my (I mean our) garden—is already producing daily salads, and we shall have spinach in a few days. By the time I got back to the house my chest measurement was at least six inches greater than when I started out. Then I foolishly took up an account book—her account book—and began to look over the expenses—my expenses. Before I had added them up, I collapsed like a torn balloon and curled up like a codling worm that has sampled the arsenate. I hardly had enough energy left to heave a sigh. The item for labour was appalling. Then, there was seed grain and tools, and a score of other things that I didn't count on when beginning the work. It wouldn't do to show that expense account to people who are thinking of coming back to the land, or they would never come, and the farmers would lose a chance of profitably unloading farrow cows and wind-broken horses on them when they are stocking up. I wish that account book hadn't been lying in so prominent a place. It spoiled the day's enjoyment.

When I am inclined to be despondent about other things, I go and look at the orchard. Thanks to the Department of Agriculture, it is not crushed under an expense account, and the prospects are good for a bumper crop. The little apples—my little apples—are swelling rapidly, and beginning to look like ready money. But I find that on some branches not a single blossom was fertilised. This makes me think that there are a few things that the orchardist will have to do before he will get the fullest results. Depending on insects to do the fertilising seems very haphazard, if not unscientific. I wonder how it would do to collect the pollen from the blossoms with a vacuum cleaner, and then put it where it is needed with a sand-blast? It might be fussy work, but it shouldn't be much worse than spraying. I shall ask Mr. Clement about it the next time I see him. I am hopeful that, if I keep on investigating in the proper spirit, I may yet hit on something that will be a real contribution to the science of farming. The trouble so far has been that the scientists take all my suggestions as jokes. But never mind. A day will come.

June 10.—After the corn had pushed its way through the ground there was urgent need of a dead crow to hang in the cornfield. Since men began to cultivate corn crows have been taking toll of the crops, and many and various have been the scarecrows that have been devised to keep them out of the fields. I have seen stuffed figures made to represent awesome and dangerous men and women, windmills with clappers on them, pieces of tin or mirrors hung so that they would revolve and send out sudden flashes of light, bells hung so that they would ring whenever the wind stirred, and many other frightful contrivances. Indeed, I think that scarecrows might be studied carefully by antiquarians and philosophers, and if one took in at the same time all the social, political, theological, artistic, and financial scarecrows that have been flaunted before mankind it should be possible for a new Teuffelsdroch to compile another Sartor Resartus for the amusement and edification of mankind. But the need for a working scarecrow that would keep the crows from pulling up my corn was so immediate that I had no time to take up this aspect of the problem. Long experience has taught people that no scarecrow can compare with a dead crow hung conspicuously in the field. As soon as the crows see it they call a mass meeting and caw fiercely against the cruelty of farmers. After they have scolded until they are tired and hungry they go away from that field of death and light in the field of some neighbour who uses ordinary scarecrows. This involves a nice question of morals which I leave to more subtle brains and more tender consciences. If scaring the crows from my field sends them to pillage the field of my neighbour am I to blame for the damage they do? This is a point to be thought out in the long winter evenings. At this busy time I simply realised the need of scaring the crows from my own field, and taking the rifle I wandered away to the woods.

It was a beautiful, lazy summer afternoon, with thunder in the air, and I was glad that crow-hunting is about the most leisurely occupation known to man. If you stir around the watchful crows will see you and keep out of range, but if you hide in a good place and keep perfectly still a crow may light in some stag-topped tree and wait long enough for you to get a shot at him. The woodlot is a narrow strip, not too dense, and when hiding in the middle of it I would have almost every tree within range. I could hear young crows cawing and squawking in one corner of the patch, and knew it might be possible to sneak up on them, but that meant an amount of exertion that neither suited the day nor my mood. Selecting a cradle knoll under a shady tree, where I had a good view of the woods, I made myself comfortable and began to wait. A killdeer began to scream and flap around, and that called my attention to the watering pond beside me. It is a hollow scooped out of the earth, with a quicksand bottom, that gives an unfailing supply of fresh, cold water. There were lily pads on the edge, and a couple of dragon-flies were flashing back and forth over the surface. On a muddy spot at the far side there was a cluster of yellow cabbage butterflies, and here and there I could see the staring eyes of a frog. The time, the place, and the materials were all at hand for a nature study, and I could think of no better way of passing the time. Rousing myself to observe the life about me, I was delighted to see a mudturtle on the bottom of the pond. It was partly concealed by some lily pads and to the eyes of a casual observer might pass for a waterlogged piece of board. Although mudturtles have not figured much in literature, I was at once reminded of an almost appropriate quotation: