In Pastures Green

THE STONE

A man! A man! There is a man loose in Canada!
A man of heroic mould, a "throwback" of earlier ages,
Vigorous, public-spirited, not afraid of work!
A doer of deeds, not a dreamer and babbler;
A man, simple, direct, unaffected.
Such a one as Walt Whitman would have gloried in,
And made immortal in rugged man-poetry—
Vast polyphloesboean verses such as erstwhile he bellowed
Through roaring storm winds to the bull-mouthed Atlantic.

And yesterday the man passed among us unnoted!
Did his deed and went his way without boasting,
Leaving his act to speak, himself silent!

And I, beholding the marvel, stood for a space astonied,
Then threw up my hat and chortled,
And whooped in dithyrambic exultation.
Hark to my tale!
On the sixteenth sideroad of the township of Ekfrid,
Just south of the second concession line, some rods from the corner,
There was a stone, a stone in the road, a stumbling-block;
A jagged tooth of granite dropped from the jaw of a glacier
In an earlier age when the summers were colder;
A rock that horses tripped on, wheels bumped on, and sleigh-runners scrunched on,
And no man in all the land had the gumption to dig it out.
Pathmaster after pathmaster, full of his pride of office,
Rode by with haughty brow, and regarded it not,
Seeing only the weeds in the field of the amateur farmer,
And scrawling minatory letters ordering them cut,
But leaving the stone.
Oft in my hot youth I, riding in a lumber waggon,
By that lurking stone was catapulted skyward,
And picked myself up raging and vowing to dig it out—
But dug it not.
I didn't have a spade,
Or, if I had a spade,
I had a lame back—always an excuse.
And the stone stayed.
As passed the years—good years, bad years,
Years that were wet or dry, lean years and fat years,
Roaring election years (mouthing reforms); in short, all years
That oldest inhabitants keep in stock—there grew a tradition
About the stone.
Men, it was said, had tried to move it,
But it was a stubborn boulder, deep sunk in the earth,
And could only be moved by dynamite—at vast cost to the council;
But every councillor was a watchdog of the treasury,
And the stone stayed.
Since the memory of man runneth the stone was there.
It had stubbed the toe of the Algonquin brave, and haply
Had tripped the ferocious, marauding Iroquois.
It had jolted the slow, wobbling ox-cart of the pioneer;
Jolted the lumber waggons, democrats, buggies, sulkies;
Jolted the pungs, crotches, stoneboats, bobsleighs, cutters;
Upset loads of bolts, staves, cordwood, loads of logs and hay;
Jolted threshing machines, traction engines, automobiles,
Milk waggons with cans of whey, envied of querulous swine;
It had shattered the dreams of farmers, figuring on crops;
Of drovers planning sharp deals.
Of peddlers, agents, doctors, preachers;
It had jolted lovers into closer embraces, to their bashful delight;
But mostly it had shaken men into sinful tempers—
A wicked stone, a disturbing stone, a stumbling-block—
A stone in the middle of the road—
Insolent as a bank, obstructive as a merger!

Year after year the road flowed around it,
Now on the right side, now on the left;
But always on dark nights flowing straight over it,
Jolting the belated traveller into a passion black as midnight,
Making his rocking vocabulary slop over
With all the shorter and uglier words.
Boys grew to manhood and men grew to dotage.
And year after year they did statute-labour
By cutting the thistles and golden-rod, milkweeds and burdocks,
But left the stone untouched.

There is a merry tale that I heard in my childhood,
Standing between my father's knees, before the open fireplace,
Watching the sparks make soldiers on the blazing back-log,
While the shadows danced on the low-beamed ceiling;
A pretty tale, such as children love, and it comes to me now;
Comes with the sharp, crisp smell of wood smoke,
The crackle of flaming cordwood on the dockers,
The dancing shadows and the hand on my touzled head—
A clear memory, a dear memory, and ever the stone
As it lay in my path in the roadway brought back the story—
The loving voice, and, at the close, the laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEPTEMBER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But what is it for?"

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

"Who built it?"

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

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

"Maybe, there wor a divvy."

And didn't Kipling suggest that:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After all, the driver was right. The evening is the pleasantest time of the day for driving. As we turned out on the road, the sun was going down, big and red, behind a thin cover of trees that made a sort of grill-work across its face. For a little while it seemed to reach from the tops of the trees to the earth, and then it smouldered down, leaving a few lines of bright cloud in the sky. The last crows were straggling off to some distant swamp to roost, and a flock of killdeer ran across the road on invisible legs that made them seem to be swimming a few inches above the ground. It was still light enough to see the first blades of wheat that were showing, in spite of the dry weather, and here and there we passed fields that were pleasantly dotted with black bundles of seed clover. I am told that the wheat has been put in with especial care this year, and most of it has been heavily fertilised. The ground has been so well worked that it held enough moisture to start the grain. If we only get a good rain soon, everything will be all right. We passed farm yards where milking was in progress, and occasional bursts of fierce squealing announced the feeding of pigs. It was the hour of doing chores, and the day's work being done, farmers were not afraid to stop to talk with passing neighbours and discuss the weather. There was a freight train busily shunting and puffing at the next village, but otherwise everything was still. The wind had died down at sunset. As the shadows began to close, the crickets, or whatever little creatures make the noise, began to chirp rhythmically. I am told that it is not the cricket that makes the sound, but a green insect that looks like a grasshopper. They never seem to make it when one is near them, so I have never managed to see one in action. I have often seen a cricket rubbing out his tune on his hind leg, and must say the sound is different. Whatever makes the sound that beats through the still autumn air, it is about the most characteristic music we have in the country just now. Presently a screech-owl whistled in an orchard, and I felt that it was the voice of solitude. When I looked up from the shadow-blurred earth, I found that the stars were all at their appointed stations.

It is all very well for excellent people who live in cities or barren parts of the country to have high notions about property rights and petty thieving. What I want to know is how the majority of these same people would act if they happened to be driving or walking through the country at night, and came to an orchard where the perfume of the ripe fall pippins overflowed the road. I came to such a spot, and it was very dark, and the tantalising odour "set my pugging tooth on edge." I wanted to be comforted with apples right there and then, and human nature is very weak. It was so dark, no one could see, and the road was deserted—but I escaped the temptation. As I told you in the first sentence, the driver will not stand without being hitched, and there were deep ditches on both sides of the road. Besides, I knew that I could get plenty of apples at home. But what if I had been walking, and there were no apples at home. I hate to think of it. While I was meditating on these things, and vowing to be easy with the next boy I caught with his blouse full of apples, I had to swerve the horse suddenly to avoid a collision with another buggy.

"Half the road, and all the ditch, please," said a girlish voice. She wanted to show the young man who was driving how clever and witty she was. No Sherlock Holmes was needed to detect that when she spoke she had a large bite of an apple tucked in her cheek. But far be it from me to give evidence against them. Had I not been sorely tempted myself a moment before I and perhaps these young people needed to be comforted with apples even more than I did, and were in condition to quote the rest of the text about being "sick of love." Having escaped the collision, I hurried home and unharnessed the driver in the dark. As I was turning her into the pasture, I patted her shoulder and held no grudges for the cutting-up of the afternoon.