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  THE RED COW
  AND HER FRIENDS


  BY PETER McARTHUR


  AUTHOR OF "IN PASTURES GREEN," "THE PRODIGAL AND
  OTHER POEMS," "TO BE TAKEN WITH SALT," ETC.

  [Illustration: Title page decoration]

  TORONTO: J. M. DENT & SONS, LTD.
  NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
  MCMXIX




  COPYRIGHT, 1919,

  By JOHN LANE COMPANY

  Press of
  J. J. Little & Ives Company
  New York, U. S. A.




  THIS BOOK
  IS DEDICATED
  TO ALL CITY MEN
  WHO FEEL SURE THAT THEY
  COULD FARM AT A PROFIT.
  IF EACH ONE BUYS A COPY I CAN
  AFFORD TO KEEP ON FARMING





                               _PREFACE_


It is always a pleasure to avoid responsibility and it gives me a
feeling of relief to be able to announce that I am not wholly
responsible for this collection of sketches. When it was suggested that
I should put together the articles dealing with the Red Cow, and the
other farm animals, I felt reluctant to trouble the public with a
somewhat frivolous book at the present time. It seemed as if Fate were
with me for when it was decided to go on with the book it was found that
my file of clippings had been lost. But the matter was still urged and,
remembering that at different times readers had written to me saying
that they were in the habit of clipping the articles for future
reference, I published a paragraph telling of my predicament. The result
was that I received clippings from all parts of Canada and some were
even sent from neighbouring States.

Through the kindness of my unknown friends I am able to offer a book
which they have really edited. Some of the sketches used would have been
rejected had I relied on my own judgment, but finding that they had
pleased some readers I decided that they might please others. Having
the chance to shift the responsibility for the book from my own
shoulders, I accepted it joyously. The unknown friends who did me the
honour of preserving these articles as they appeared are the real
editors.

I can further plead in extenuation that the clippings I have used were
all sent to me by people who are familiar with the domestic animals and
their habits. This should protect me from any charge of farm-faking.

Ekfrid, Ontario, January, 1919.


                        CONTENTS


                          COWS
                                                PAGE

        I. A SICK COW                             15

       II. COW TROUBLES                           22

      III. FLY TIME                               26

       IV. THE RED COW'S CALVES                   29

        V. INSURGENT COWS                         31

       VI. COW TROUBLES                           36

      VII. THE BRAN HABIT                         42

     VIII. THE FARROW COW AND OTHERS              43

       IX. COW ENJOYMENT                          50

        X. COW KAISERISM                          52

       XI. A NIGHT SESSION                        55

      XII. A CALF PUZZLE                          58

     XIII. COW CHARACTER                          61

      XIV. CALF FEEDING                           63

       XV. A COW TRICK                            66

      XVI. COW CUSSEDNESS                         72

     XVII. TEACHING A CALF                        75

    XVIII. CALF EXUBERANCE                        77


                        SHEEP

      XIX. OUR FIRST SHEEP                        83

       XX. THE FIRST LAMB                         90

      XXI. SHEEP SURGERY                          93

     XXII. THE PATIENT                            98

    XXIII. SHEARING                              100

     XXIV. VAIN REGRETS                          104

      XXV. SHEEP SCULPTURE                       106

     XXVI. OUR LAWN MOWER                        113


                         PIGS

    XXVII. CLEMENTINE                            117

   XXVIII. FEEDING PIGS                          121

     XXIX. BEATRICE                              124

      XXX. PIG FRIGHTFULNESS                     128

     XXXI. A PIG BATH                            130

    XXXII. IN EXTENUATION                        132

   XXXIII. BEATRICE ANNOUNCES                    134

    XXXIV. RECEIVING                             137

     XXXV. FEEDING TIME                          140

    XXXVI. BEATRICE BELLIGERENT                  144


                        HORSES

   XXXVII. DOLLY'S DAY OFF                       147

  XXXVIII. THE COLT                              154

    XXXIX. HORSE CONTRARINESS                    156

       XL. A GREAT SCHEME                        158


                       TURKEYS

      XLI. THE GOBBLER                           163

     XLII. HIS TROUBLES                          167

    XLIII. HIS DESERTION                         169

     XLIV. HIS BELLIGERENCY                      171

      XLV. HIS CARES                             173

     XLVI. HIS PRUSSIANISM                       175


                         DOGS

    XLVII. A MORAL TALE                          179

   XLVIII. SHEPPY'S FIRST COON HUNT              181

     XLIX. A RABBIT CHASE                        189

        L. FIGHTS AND FEUDS                      192


                         CATS

       LI. A PAGE OF HIGH HISTORY                197

      LII. A SPRING ORGY                         200


                         BIRDS

     LIII. A DISGUSTED BLACKBIRD                 205

      LIV. A VISITOR                             209

       LV. A FAREWELL                            211


                        GENERAL

      LVI. THE WHOLE BUNCH                       215

     LVII. HUMAN NATURE IN DUMB CREATURES        221

    LVIII. EARLY OBSERVATIONS                    227

      LIX. BANTAMS                               232

       LX. A LITTLE TRAGEDY                      234

      LXI. A SCIENTIFIC QUERY                    236

     LXII. A POULTRY NOTE                        238

    LXIII. SPRING AND THE LIVESTOCK              240

     LXIV. FIRST SNOW                            242

      LXV. A "SKIFT" OF SNOW                     244

     LXVI. A SPRING SHOWER                       247

    LXVII. DOING CHORES                          249

   LXVIII. FISHING                               251

     LXIX. A LONESOME SQUIRREL                   255

      LXX. FALL POULTRY TROUBLES                 258

     LXXI. THANKSGIVING DAY                      263

    LXXII. SEPTEMBER NOTES                       270

   LXXIII. "THE DEMON RABBIT"                    273

    LXXIV. THE FATE OF "THE DEMON RABBIT"        278

     LXXV. MY FRIENDS, THE TREES                 282




COWS


A BALLADE OF COWS

    Fenceviewer I. a cow of parts,
      Aggressive, competent and bold,
    At every milking gives twelve quarts
      And doesn't give a--hoot!--(don't scold!)
    My Kerry cow, as good as gold;
      Fenceviewer II.--(boss, they say)
    La Veau, turned three; Beans, two-year-old--
      These are the cows I milk each day!

    When Phœbus shoots his morning darts,
      Or wet or dry, or hot or cold,
    One to the dewy pasture starts
      With clanging pails and pants up-rolled.
    Again when evening doth enfold
      The earth and sky in twilight grey,
    Him at that chore you may behold--
      These are the cows I milk each day!

    Although unskilled in dairy arts
      I've soaked some lore by experts doled,
    With gentle words that win their hearts
      My cows from kicking I've cajoled;
    And of all cattle, horned or polled,
      Pure-bred or grade, own them who may,
    Mine suit me best. They'll not be sold--
      These are the cows I milk each day!


ENVOY

    Prince, if you ever in the wold
      At milking time should chance to stray,
    I'll let you drink all you can hold--
      These are the cows I milk each day!




_I.--A Sick Cow_


This week the monotony of the winter has been broken. I have been
sitting up with a sick cow. Fenceviewer I. has suffered the first check
in her career of rapacity, voracity and capacity. A couple of days ago
it was noticed that she was off her feed--that she only nibbled at the
blue grass when it was put in her manger. Knowing that in her normal
condition she is an incarnate appetite--"A belly that walks on four
legs"--I knew that something was the matter. I could not imagine her
refusing to eat until Death had "clawed her in his clutch," so I took
the matter seriously from the beginning. I also noticed that she did not
take kindly to water, but stood over it and shivered. There was no doubt
about it. She was a sick cow. After a hasty consultation it was decided
to give her a dose of salts, and I commandeered all that we had in the
house--almost a pound. After it had been dissolved in about a quart of
warm water I took some further advice and added to it, for her
stomach's sake, a couple of tablespoonfuls of a sovereign liniment and
embrocation, good for man and beast, and paramount for poultry, a remedy
for all ills that any kind of flesh is heir to, may be used internally
or externally at any time of the day or night without regard to the
phases of the moon or the signs in the almanac. All I know about this
remedy is that it is a red fluid made of red pepper, red whiskey and all
the other red-hot things in the Pharmacopœia. It is the stuff that was
once given to an ailing coloured woman, and when she was offered a
second dose she declared with vigour, "No thankee! Ah've done made up ma
mind never again to take nuttin' that wattah won't squench." Having
added this mixture to the salts I put it in a quart bottle, called for
help, and proceeded to put the red dose into the red cow.

       *       *       *       *       *

We did the trick in the most approved fashion. I caught her by one horn,
slipped my thumb and finger into her nose, and elevated her head so that
the other man could pour the mixture down her throat. After the last
drop had gurgled down I turned her loose and stepped back to watch
results. She shook her head, rattled her chain, lashed her tail,
wriggled her backbone, coughed and sneezed and showed other unmistakable
signs of wrath and discomfort. She did not seem to appreciate our
efforts in her behalf, and after I had thought it over for a minute I
realised what she was objecting to. I put myself in her place. What
would I want to do if any one had forced a dose like that down my
throat? I would want to spit, of course. That was what was the matter
with old Fenceviewer. She wanted to spit, but the limitations of a cow
are such that she couldn't do it. If she were only able to do it she
would spit like a cat. I felt truly sorry for her, but as I had done
everything for the best I didn't do any worrying. While watching her I
noticed that she grunted faintly every time she breathed, so I decided
that we needed some expert advice and called in a neighbour who has had
much experience with cows. After he had pressed his ear to her side for
a while he diagnosed her case as pleuro-pneumonia. It had never occurred
to me before that dumb animals could have diseases with Latin names and
that probably needed high-priced treatment. He advised calling in the
farrier at once, and I dispatched a boy to the nearest telephone to do
this, and we went to the house to await his arrival. The boy reported
that the farrier was out, but that he would come as soon as he could.
While waiting we talked about all the sick cows we had ever known, and
as most of them had died I found the conversation somewhat depressing. I
can honestly say of Fenceviewer I., "With all thy faults I love thee
still." She is the progenitor of the whole flock, and her strain is the
kind I need. She can rustle for herself except when she is chained up,
and if she had to do it she could get through the winter by licking the
moss off the trees. She is no stall-fed exotic, but a hardy annual who
in spite of her good breeding has a touch of the qualities that made the
pioneer cows endure hardships and give rich milk. I could ill afford to
lose her from either a financial or scientific point of view. We whiled
away several hours with gloomy forebodings, occasionally taking the
lantern to go to the stable and look her over. But there was nothing we
could do for her, and she grunted rhythmically every time she breathed,
sometimes standing up and sometimes lying down. About twelve o'clock we
decided that the farrier was not coming, and the neighbour went home and
I went to bed. Just as I got sound asleep the household was aroused by
shrill whistling, and I got up to find that the farrier had come.
Getting into my clothes as quickly as possible I took the lantern and
hurried to the stable. The farrier examined her, confirmed my
neighbour's diagnosis and added that the attack was complicated by a
serious case of "impaction of the rumen." I was glad that he didn't say
that she had appendicitis or adenoids, for I had made up my mind that I
was neither going to pay for a costly operation nor to send her south
for her health.

       *       *       *       *       *

While the farrier was mixing another dose--he had approved of the one I
had given--I enquired cautiously about her ailment. When the big words
had been simplified for me I found that what she was suffering from
chiefly was indigestion and pains in her tripe. This gave me much
relief, for I felt that if there ever was a cow that deserved to have
indigestion it was old Fenceviewer. Some of you may remember that a
couple of years ago she gave me a scare by eating a bushel or so of
corn. But she got away with that without any bad results, so I was
puzzled as to what she could have eaten that had disagreed with her. I
knew that she had not had too much of anything, for she is kept tied up
most of the time. Then I remembered that when feeding the bottom of the
stack of cornstalks I had noticed that the butts of some of the sheaves
were mouldy. As the tops of them were fresh and good I had fed them,
thinking that the brutes would know enough not to eat the parts that
were damaged, but it doesn't do to bank on the intelligence of even the
brightest cows. The farrier agreed that that had probably started the
trouble, and I felt somewhat disgusted with myself. When I didn't know
enough not to feed such stuff I need not expect the cows to know enough
not to eat it. It was a wonder that more of them were not ailing.

After the farrier had filled the quart bottle with a mixture that
smelled suspiciously like doses I have had to take myself when my
stomach has been out of order, we went through the exercise of holding
up her head and pouring it down her throat. This time she tried so hard
to spit that she almost did it and I wished that she had been able, for
I know what nux vomica and such stuff tastes like. The farrier then
mixed a bunch of powders to be given her in a bran mash, every night and
morning, and judging from the way she goes at the bran she has forgiven
him everything. I may say, by the way, that the bran is now about the
most expensive part of the dose, and if prices keep on as they are
going we will soon have to get our bran for sick cows at the drug store
instead of at the flour and feed emporiums. I am glad to be able to
report that at the present writing Fenceviewer I. is taking her feed
standing up, and chewing her cud between times, so I guess she is going
to pull through all right.

[Illustration]




_II.--Cow Troubles_


I know I should have a silo for the cornstalks or at least a cutting
box, but I haven't either, and the result is that I have trouble. How to
get ten-foot stalks into a four-foot manger is a problem that I have to
wrestle with every day and I am no nearer the solution than I was at the
beginning of the winter. I have to stand them on end in front of the
cows and as the soft ears were all left on the stalks, the cattle go at
them wildly and toss them all over the place in their hurry to get the
ears. The result is that every few days I have to clean out the rejected
stalks from the mangers and the front of the stalls and that makes more
trouble. I wish some one would tell me why it is that the tines of a
fork will slip through cornstalks so easily and are so hard to pull out.
I do not find very much trouble in getting a good forkful of the stalks
but when I carry them out to the hole in the barnyard where I am piling
them in the hope that they will rot some time I have a wrestle with
them that starts me quoting poetry:

    "On Astur's throat Horatius
      Right firmly placed his heel;
    And thrice and four times tugged amain,
      Ere he wrenched out the steel."

When I have thrown down my load I find that every tine has three or four
stalks on it so that it looks like Neptune's trident entangled with
seaweeds. But though it is a nuisance clearing out the stalks in this
way I have a vivid recollection of trying to pitch manure that had
cornstalks mixed with it and I have made up my mind that that will never
happen again. I try to keep them out of the manure as far as possible,
even though I may be robbing the "stercoraceous heap" of some of its
most valuable fertilising constituents.

       *       *       *       *       *

The more I work among cows and study their ways the more puzzling they
become to me. Sometimes when I am feeling a bit conceited I think I
understand them pretty well and then something happens that puts me
entirely out of countenance. One warm day last week, when I had let them
out to water, I thought I would let them stand out and sun themselves
for a while before driving them back to their stalls. I half remembered
that the gate to the young orchard had been opened when the snow was
deep and left opened, but I did not give it a thought. The government
drain had been flooded and was covered with slippery ice that I was sure
they could not cross, and I felt that everything was serene for a
pleasant sunbath for the cows. Half an hour later I took a look to see
where they were and every last one of them was in the young orchard
picking at some long grass that had been brought into sight by the thaw.
There was no waiting about starting to get them out, for you know the
way cows have of rubbing their necks against young trees and breaking
off limbs. Luckily they had not started rubbing and had done no damage,
but I had to do some rushing around before I finally got them out of the
orchard. But when I got them back to the icy government drain there was
all kinds of trouble. You never saw such a timid bunch of cows in your
life. It was absurd to think that they could walk on ice like that and
what was more they wouldn't do it. But I knew that they couldn't fly and
that they had crossed that ice on the way to the orchard and I was just
as stubborn as they were. Gritting my teeth with determination I went
at those cows and in a few minutes each one of them had been personally
conducted across the ice by an earnest man who was earnestly twisting
her tail. I then made the discovery that twisting a cow's tail puts a
lot of ginger in her for when the last one was across they began to romp
around the field. I saw that I would have trouble getting them into the
stable and went to the house to get some one to help. I don't think I
was in the house five minutes, but when I went out again with
reinforcements, those wretched cows were on the other side of the
government drain again and headed towards the orchard gate. Apparently
it was no trouble at all for them to cross ice when on the way to
mischief. I may say that on the return trip they did not wait for much
tail twisting. Possibly the second twist hurts more than the first.
Anyway they hustled back and didn't stop to argue with me.




_III.--Fly Time_


As a rule old Fenceviewer hasn't much faith in me. Of course, this is
entirely due to her independent and predatory nature. She is accustomed
to rustling for herself and apparently does not feel the need of
cultivating a thankful spirit for anything I do for her. I even suspect
that she would renig at milking time if it were not more comfortable to
play the game and give down. Up to the present we have continued to live
on the same farm without serious disagreement, and yet without any bond
of affection being established. She goes her way as far as the fences
will allow, and I go my way. But there are signs of a change. During the
past week her actions have indicated that she thinks I may be of some
use after all. This is because the flies are unusually bad this year.
The cattle have been simply covered with them. When we took them into
the stable at milking time they were in such misery and so restless that
it was almost impossible to milk them. They were all the time lashing
their tails, swinging around their heads and trying to paw up hooffuls
of dust and dirt against their sides. Though we have ingenious little
contraptions for holding their tails it seemed positively cruel to use
them when they were being pestered and bitten, so, after due
consideration, we bought a spray pump and a gallon of some coal tar
by-product that smelled like a political investigation. After milking we
proceeded to spray the cows thoroughly with the vile smelling stuff, and
if they had not been thoroughly chained the trick could not have been
managed. But though the operation seemed unpleasant to every one
concerned it was most unpleasant of all for the flies. Hundreds of them
fell to the ground stupefied, and those that kept on the wing kept at a
distance from the cattle. After the cattle had been sprayed a few times
they objected less and less, and old Fenceviewer seemed to get it
through her head that the spraying was being done for her comfort.
Although some of the younger cattle still struggle she lowers her head
and wiggles her ears and stands perfectly still. Apparently she
understands that the spraying rids her of the flies, and the look in her
eye when I come along with the spray pump is positively friendly. In
fact, she doesn't seem happy till she gets it and I suspect that if I
missed it any morning she would bawl for it. But all nonsense aside,
spraying the cattle to keep off the flies strikes me as being not only a
humane but a profitable thing to do. They cannot be expected to do
business as usual in the way of giving milk when they are tormented by
hordes of flies. We are also spraying the calves at feeding time and
they seem much more comfortable.

[Illustration]




_IV.--The Red Cow's Calves_


Talk about excitement! When I came home from the excitements of the city
to enjoy the quiet life on the farm I ran into more excitement than I
had met with on my travels. Although it was after dark when I got home
nothing would do but I should go out to the stable to see the new calf.
Although I wanted to have my supper first I was over-ruled and I
followed the lantern, with the whole family at my side. I might have
suspected that there was something unusual about Fenceviewer's new calf,
but I put down the enthusiasm of the children to the fact that it was a
brand new calf. The little comedy was properly staged. I was not allowed
to see anything until I had reached the calf pen. The lantern was then
swung in front and every one yelled at once. I got the situation at a
glance, and I guess I yelled too. The red cow had given birth to twins!
There they were, as nice a pair of red calves as any one would wish to
see. I couldn't blame the little folks for being excited. According to
those who know, this is the first pair of twin calves that ever was born
on the farm. But what interests me is this further development of the
red cow strain. You may remember that when summing up their good
qualities I recorded the fact that Fenceviewer and her progeny give me
aid in farm work by testing the fences every spring so that I put them
in good shape for the summer. Moreover, they almost invariably bear
heifer calves, so that the flock increases rapidly. To these excellent
qualities is now added the unexpected pair of twins. The strain is
developing steadily, and some day Fenceviewer and her descendants will
force the authorities to give them a corner in the herd book.




_V.--Insurgent Cows_


These are the days when the cattle become discontented with their
pasture and begin to go on a rampage. Fenceviewer I. and her brood are
running true to form and living up to their best traditions, but I have
lived with them too long to be taken entirely unawares. As soon as the
pasture withered with the long drought they began to take an undue
interest in the cornfield. Although it is a comparative failure it still
looks green and succulent compared with everything else on the farm, and
the cattle have been stretching their necks over the fence and bawling.
The first to get through and enjoy a feed were Fenceviewer's twins.
Although they are small they are thrifty and seem to inherit much of
their mother's resourcefulness. Already they are taking a lively
interest in the fences. Although I felt quite safe on that point, it
happened that during the haying a board was broken in a gate. The twins
found it and worked their way through and had their first feed of
stolen corn. After they had been driven out and the gate had been mended
I felt secure again, but it was a false security. A few days later I
happened to notice a commotion among the cows and saw at once that
Fenceviewer II. was beyond the fence and making straight for the corn.
The Government drain was dry and she had managed to push through where
the ice had loosened the wires that were used for a home-made
flood-gate. But would she go out where she got in? Not if she knew it.
She seemed to have an idea that if she fooled us about that hole she
could get through some other time. She was evidently working alone when
she found it for even her piratical mother had not noticed it, and had
failed to follow, though she bawled with surprise to see her daughter so
near the cornfield. After three or four attempts to make her go out
through the ditch we finally had to give up and drive her out through
the gate. Then we fixed the hole and now we are waiting for the next
outbreak.

The cattle had not attracted our attention all summer except at milking
time, but a few days ago the alarm was raised that Mars--the yearling
steer--was in a well, and the whole family had to be assembled to get
him out. The well is not really a well, but a drinking place that has
been fixed so that the cattle can help themselves. There is a low place
in the woods where there is a quicksand bottom about four feet from the
surface and for many years it has furnished an unfailing supply of
water. Many years ago a shallow well was scooped out from which the
cattle can drink at all times simply by having a plank left off the top
so that they can drink as from a trough. As there is a pond nearby which
supplies them during the rest of the season they do not use the well
except when other supplies fail. This year the other supplies failed
completely and the drinking well was fixed for them with scantlings
nailed across the opening a couple of feet apart. It was looked upon as
quite safe, but apparently when a yearling steer ventures to go for a
drink before his betters he is likely to be taught a lesson. Mars must
have been down on his knees drinking when one of the big cows came along
and poked him right through. When found he was not worrying a bit. He
was standing in about two feet of cold spring water contentedly chewing
his cud. He didn't seem to care whether he was rescued or not. As the
day was unusually hot I could understand his feelings exactly. But for
the good of the water supply he had to be disturbed. We found that all
we needed to do was to enlarge the opening, give his tail a twist and
let him do the rest. Then we cleaned out another well of the same kind
so that the water came clear and cold from the quicksand and closed the
first one so that nothing could get in. I know that a quicksand bottom
is not considered a good thing on a farm, but there is only this spot of
it, and in a dry season it seems like a dispensation of Providence.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the way home I had an experience that I had not enjoyed since
returning to the farm. While we were busy cleaning out the well clouds
began to gather, and even though a thunderstorm did not develop, rain
began to fall. It was a sun shower of the kind that used to make
children sing:

    "Rain, rain sunshine!
    Sure to rain to-morrow!"

We had no time to make a dash for the house, so we took shelter under
some spreading beech trees at the edge of the woods. There used to be a
tradition that lightning never strikes a beech tree, but that was not
our reason for choosing them. They had the thickest branches and most
plentiful leaves and offered a better umbrella. At the beginning of the
shower tree-toads began to call, and many kinds of birds sounded notes
that were unfamiliar. Everything seemed too happy to keep still. The
cattle in the pasture stopped eating as if to stand and enjoy the
cooling, shower bath. The sunlight filtered through the falling rain and
altogether the scene was one that offered Nature at her best. But before
long the rain began to drip through our roof and we had to do a lot of
stepping about before we found a comfortably dry spot under the thick
trunk of a leaning maple. As there was no lightning there was no
objection to leaving the beech trees. Presently the shower passed and we
walked home with everything greatly refreshed. But when I looked at the
thermometer and found that it stood at ninety-six in the shade I almost
wilted. If I had known it was so hot I wouldn't have dreamed of
undertaking so strenuous a job as cleaning out a well.




_VI.--Cow Troubles_


Say, what do you do when a cow swallows a rubber ball? I don't mean one
of the hollow kind, but a solid rubber ball about the size of a small
Ben Davis apple--one of the kind that used to sting our fingers when we
played "Long Injun" with them at the old school. I hadn't seen one for
years, but this spring an old one was ploughed up in one of the fields,
and as it still retained its shape and would bounce the children used it
to play with. Well, last night one of the boys went to bring up the
cows, and when a cow strayed apart from the bunch and stood still he
threw the ball at her. He missed her, but as the ball rolled past she
ran after it and grabbed it, apparently under the impression that it was
an apple or a potato, or something good to eat. I was in the stable when
the boy came to tell me about it as a great joke, and I was inclined to
think that the joke was on him, for I felt sure that as soon as the cow
found that she had been fooled she would drop the ball. But when I went
out to the gate to let in the cows I found "Beans," granddaughter of old
Fenceviewer, with her head and neck stretched out, doing her best to
chew and swallow something that was stuck in her throat. She was half
choked, for her eyes were popping out, and she was red in the face--or
at least had the same expression that a human being has when red in the
face. With my customary presence of mind I rushed to her side and began
to slap her on the back the same as we do to the children when they
choke on something or when something "goes down the wrong way." But it
did no good, and the slapping made her bolt to her stall in the stable.
I immediately began to feel her throat, and was not long in discovering
a lump that seemed about the size of the missing rubber ball. I then
followed my usual practice when in real trouble. I sent for a neighbour.

       *       *       *       *       *

By the time my neighbour had arrived the cow had stopped her frantic
swallowing, and I had become suspicious that the lump I had been feeling
in her throat was not a lodged rubber ball, but the end of her
wind-pipe. My neighbour confirmed this suspicion, but he could not
suggest what I should do under the circumstances. That is the trouble
with my cattle. They are all the time doing things that are outside of
the common fund of experience. Other people's cattle seem to confine
themselves to ailments that can be treated according to recipes given in
the Veterinary Guide, or in the back numbers of "The Farmer's Advocate,"
but mine are all the time doing something unexpected. Still, I got a
line on what was an entirely new wrinkle to me. A person of experience
brought me a beetle ring and told me that the way to dislodge a
substance from a cow's throat was to open her mouth and keep it open
with the beetle ring. Then I could slip my hand through the ring and
remove the obstruction with my fingers, or take a piece of rubber hose
and poke it down her throat. That sounds to me like a very plausible
method, but as the little cow had stopped gagging and had commenced
chewing her cud, it was considered unnecessary to try the operation. And
speaking of her cud--she should not be in any danger of "losing her cud"
in the near future. That rubber ball should provide her with just about
the most serviceable cud that a cow ever had. Whenever the pasture gets
short she can bring up her reserve rubber cud and keep herself
contented with it until the pasture grows. Seeing that most of our young
people seem to find it necessary to provide themselves with cuds of
durable, rubbery gum on which they chew during most of their waking
hours, isn't it just possible that our cows would be more contented and
give more milk if we provided them with rubber cuds? If I could only get
scientific endorsement for the scheme I would have no trouble in
promoting a company to supply rubber cuds for cows. Anyway, "Beans"
seems to have suffered no inconvenience from having swallowed that
indurated knob of gutta percha. When I was driving her back to the field
after milking she hastily picked up a nice clean corn-cob and put it
down as dessert to the rubber ball--all of which leads me to believe
that she inherits her grandmother's digestion as well as her appetite. I
am willing to bet that a post mortem on Fenceviewer would reveal a
collection of junk that would give impaction of the rumen to an ostrich.
Still, if any authority on cows thinks that having a rubber ball in her
midst may be injurious to "Beans," I wish he would write and tell me
what I should do.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now having asked for help, there should be no objection if I
offered a couple of suggestions that seem to me to be valuable. Of
course, they may be quite well known, but there are sure to be a few
backward farmers like myself who will be glad to be enlightened. The
first deals with the value of the old-style wire fences when feeding
calves. The most annoying thing about feeding calves in a pen is that
when trying to teach a new calf to feed without the finger a man usually
has to step inside. While he is wrestling with the beginner other calves
will try to get into the pail or to get nourishment from his coat-tail,
occasionally administering a bunt to express dissatisfaction with the
taste of the cheap dyes they now use in cloth. If you have the right
kind of wire fence around your calf pasture you can keep on your side of
it and let the calf stick his head through. As his head is the part you
really have to deal with you can gradually teach him to take his milk
without inhaling too much, and at the same time you have less trouble in
slapping interfering calves on the nose. The wire fence has robbed
calf-feeding of half of its terrors for me. So much for that suggestion.
The other has to do with greedy horses. One of our horses usually tries
to get all her oats in one mouthful, and, when she tries to chew them
she scatters them all over her manger and stall. On advice, we have put
several corn cobs in her feeding box, and now when she is given her oats
she has to take reasonably sized mouthfuls and there is no waste.

[Illustration]




_VII.--The Bran Habit_


I am once more in trouble. Fenceviewer the Third, direct descendant of
Fenceviewer the First, has acquired the bran habit. For the past month I
have been giving her a bran mash every milking time but when I was away
on a trip those in charge had cut off her supplies and as nearly as I
can judge she is suffering from a sort of bran delirium tremens. She
comes to the gate of the pasture field whenever she sees any one around
and bawls and bawls. When we bring her in to milk she whines and bawls
during the whole milking time, and judging from her tones her sufferings
are really acute. With bran at its present price I feel that she must be
cured of the bran habit, though I hardly know what to do in the case.
She is so nervous and unhappy that I think something should be done, and
if any reader knows how to cure a cow of the bran habit I shall be
delighted to receive instructions.




_VIII.--The Farrow Cow and Others_


I don't know that I ever sat down to write an article when feeling so
full of improving thoughts as I do at this blessed minute. A lot of
things have happened lately, and all of them were of the kind that seem
designed "To point a moral and adorn a tale." To begin with, the boy and
I were working in the garden yesterday, when I happened to notice some
dark object on the ground between two of the cows that were lying down
in the pasture, up near the woods. I ventured the opinion that it was a
newly arrived and not unexpected calf. The boy took a look and said it
was a stone. I could not remember having seen a stone in that place, but
I was busy and did not stop to argue the matter. After a while I chanced
to look up again and saw that all the cattle in the pasture had gathered
around the dark object on the ground and were sniffing at it. Once more
I ventured the opinion that it was a calf.

"But that is not where the cows were when you were looking at them
before."

"Why, yes it is."

"I am sure it isn't."

"Don't talk nonsense. Don't you think I can remember where the cows were
when I was looking at them? And that calf, or whatever it is, is lying
exactly where it was when I spoke to you about it."

"But it was not there they were at all. And now I can see the stone that
was between them as clear as can be."

My temper was rising but I looked and saw a stone about ten rods to the
east of the object I was looking at. A couple of questions brought out
the fact that we had not been looking at the same couple of cows, nor at
the same object on the ground. That explained everything, and while we
were settling the matter the dark object I had been looking at got up
and began to stagger around on wobbly legs. It was certainly a calf. But
you can see the lesson to be learned from the incident, can't you?
Before you get into a red-hot argument with any one be sure that you are
talking about the same thing. Thus endeth the first lesson.

       *       *       *       *       *

The calf belonged to the purposeful and strong-minded red cow. Of
course, she was very proud of her calf, and mooed solicitously when we
approached to examine it. But strange to say she was not nearly so
excited about it as her oldest daughter, a quiet and hitherto
well-behaved cow that has been milking all winter and is farrow this
season. Judging from her actions she had adopted the new calf, and had
taken out adoption papers before we arrived on the scene. She ran around
and bawled and acted silly as soon as I began to push the calf towards
the barn. By the way, pushing a young calf that braces its front legs
and insists on lying down every couple of rods while its real mother and
an idiotic farrow cow are threatening to run over you all the time, is a
job that is rather trying on the temper. But I finally got it through
the gate, and proceeded to push it along towards the drive shed where I
could get it out of sight. The mother objected, of course, and bawled
her protest as loudly and ineffectively as a loyal Opposition when a
Government is putting through a railway subsidy. But the farrow cow made
as much noise as a self-elected reformer. She stood by the gate and
pumped up basso-profundo bawls from her second or lower stomach. Every
time she bawled she humped her back and moved her tail up and down like
the handle of an old-fashioned wooden pump. But I paid no attention to
her. I could not see where her feelings were being lacerated, and I kept
right on picking up the calf and setting him on his wobbly legs and
pushing him towards the drive-shed. But just as I reached the door and
the calf had gone down again I was startled by a yell behind me. I
turned hastily, just in time to see the farrow cow in the act of
shredding herself through a tight barbed wire fence. I was too late to
head her off, and, as I watched her struggles, I felt that when she got
through she would be of no use for anything but Hamburg steak, and I
reflected with some satisfaction that the new onions in the garden are
ready to be used for a meat garnish. But when she got through she did
not sink on the earth in a pile of little pieces as I expected, but ran
like a deer, bawling like a fog-horn, to where a calf that had been
weaned the day before was bleating for its mother. By this time the red
cow had become excited and was threatening to follow her fool daughter
through the barbed wire fence. And the cow whose calf had been taken the
day before also went into hysterics. I don't believe there was ever so
much noise and excitement on the farm as there was for the next few
minutes. The boy kept the red cow from going through the fence, and I
opened the door of the drive-shed and hurled the calf under the buggy,
where it lay down once more with a little grunt of satisfaction. Then I
went after the farrow cow to see how much she was damaged. It seems
incredible, but there was not a scratch visible on her silly carcase.
Now, will some learned man please explain how that could be possible.
Whenever I try to go through a barbed wire fence, even though I go at it
with the greatest circumspection and care, the barbs catch in my hat,
coat, trousers and stockings, and even catch the rag on my sore
finger--not to mention the bias patches they tear out of the most
sensitive skin in Middlesex County. And yet that cow ripped through that
fence by brute force and didn't get a scratch that was visible to the
naked eye. Before I got peace restored on the place I had to capture
each cow and lead her into the stable. I had to put in the three of them
before they would stop threatening to commit hari-kari on the barbed
wire fence. As I think over the occurrence the lesson that sticks in my
mind is that the farrow cow was wonderfully like a professional
reformer. Though her interests were not involved in any way she made a
bigger disturbance and got more thoroughly worked up than the cow that
was really bereaved. And nobody thanked her or gave her a word of
praise. I admit that this lesson came home to me with great force.

       *       *       *       *       *

Though I got the cows in the stable the excitement was by no means over.
The cow that had lost her calf the day before is a kicker by nature, but
after getting excited she simply refused to be touched when milking time
came around. When she was being broken in last year sympathetic friends
sent me many receipts for conquering a kicking cow, but in the state she
was in none of them was of any use. Though I could keep her from kicking
by tying a strap around her hind legs and another around her body in
front of the udder, my friends neglected to tell what to do when a cow
tries to lie down on top of the milker. But just when I was in the thick
of this trouble an experienced milker came along and gave me a plan that
was so simple that it seemed silly. I took off the leg and body straps
and then took a rope and looped it loosely across the cow's back in
front of the hip bones and then tied it behind so that the rope rested
loosely against her knees. There was no pressure of any kind. The rope
simply hung around her rump and lay against her hind legs. This plan had
not been recommended by any of my correspondents, but it worked like a
charm. She would lift her feet but would not kick and she gradually
quieted down. Apparently that loose rope gave her much the same feeling
that we humans have when our clothes begin to come undone in some public
place. We do not feel like putting forth violent efforts of any kind.
Anyway, it was the conquering scheme and I pass it along to all who may
be having trouble with kicking cows. And the lesson to be learned from
that is--Pshaw I forget just what lesson I was going to draw from the
kicking cow.

[Illustration]




_IX.--Cow Enjoyment_


Did any one say that a cow has no sense of humour? I am not sure that
any one did, but cows, as a rule, are regarded as very serious-minded.
When Bill Nye tried to emphasise the fact that he could occasionally be
serious, he wrote: "There are times when I can be as serious as a cow."
He might also have written that there were times when he could be as
happy as a cow having her will with a stack. Just let a cow get free
swing at a stack and she can have more solid enjoyment than anything
else on the farm. Up goes her tail, down goes her head, and she rushes
at it as if she were going to pitch it over the moon. Then she will
throw herself against it sideways and rub against it like a tom-cat in a
catnip bed. If it happens to be a stack of sheaves, and she comes out of
her merry bout with a sheaf hanging rakishly from one horn, she will
look as happy as a woman coming out of a bargain-counter scrimmage with
a new hat. As there is a stack between the stable door and the gate of
the pasture field the cows manage to have considerable fun every night
and morning in spite of wild yells and the use of a buggy whip.
Sometimes, when driving through the country, I see straw-stacks to which
the cows are allowed free access, and most of them are so rubbed out at
the bottom that they look like big mushrooms. I shouldn't wonder but it
is a good thing for the cows, too. There is an old proverb which says,
"Laugh and grow fat," and who knows but the cows might lay on beef more
rapidly if allowed to enjoy themselves in this way. I offer this
suggestion to the scientific department for mature consideration.
Although they have done well, there may be a few tricks about
beef-raising that may have escaped their attention, because they have
been considering the matter so seriously.

[Illustration]




_X.--Cow Kaiserism_


Feeding a dozen head of cattle, watering them, cleaning out the stable,
milking four cows twice a day and separating the cream take up a lot of
time, and when the thermometer is hovering around zero it is none too
pleasant. And besides the regular routine there are bound to be
incidents that try the temper. For instance, when I was doing the chores
one day last week, with the thermometer at six below, I cut the ice on
the Government drain and turned out the cows to water. When I had
finished cleaning the cornstalks out of the mangers and had put in a
fresh supply of feed I noticed that only the red cow and her eldest
daughter, who never leaves her side, had returned to the barnyard. An
investigation showed the rest of the herd standing around the
water-hole. I started down to find out what was the matter, and found
the Jimmy-cow standing over the hole in the ice keeping the rest of the
cattle away. She had her fill of ice-water and was shivering with cold,
but she was in possession of the visible water supply and was bound to
show her authority, even if she fr-fr-froze. She got out of the way of
the swinging kick I launched at her, and my leg almost pulled itself out
by the roots. Such conduct on the part of a cow leads me to believe just
the opposite to Gratiano, who was inclined

    "To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
    That souls of animals infuse themselves
    Into the trunks of men."

I incline to the belief the souls of men infuse themselves into the
trunks of animals, for it does not seem possible that by any process of
evolution animals should develop such human meanness. I have often seen
human beings play just such tricks as that cow played, and it strikes me
as being of wholly human origin. In the same way I have always doubted
the "dog in the manger" story. I have never seen the trick of keeping
another animal from using something that was of no use to itself played
by any dog of my acquaintance. The trait is wholly human, and can be
accounted for only on a theory of transmigration. The Jimmy-cow must be
occupied by the spirit of some gripping old miser, for she has other
traits that are entirely human. She is so discontented with her lot that
she bawls whiningly even when she has her mouth full, and in that way
contradicts a verse in Job, which I cannot locate this morning, which
asks if the ox "loweth over its manger." If I can only manage to sell
the Jimmy-cow to some back-to-the-lander next spring he will learn much
by studying her exasperating little ways.




_XI.--A Night Session_


The cattle seem to suffer from insomnia occasionally, and the hot nights
rouse their predatory instincts. Last night as I was gasping on the
floor besides a screen door I heard something stirring on the lawn.
Glancing out I saw one of the calves investigating a bed of poppies as
if meditating a dose of laudanum to induce sleepfulness. Further
investigation found all the cattle and the horses in the orchard.
Dressing lightly and hurriedly, I called Sheppy and started to drive
them out. For almost an hour we raged around the orchard and the
buildings before we got the brutes back into the pasture. I found that
the pasture gate was open and at once jumped to the conclusion that the
boy who put out the cows after milking had left it open. While running
around in the moonlight and under the shadows of the apple trees,
getting tripped by furrows and switched in the face by branches, I
thought of a number of interesting things to say to the boy about his
carelessness. At first I intended to waken him and tell them to him
while they were fresh in my mind, but when I got a drink of cold water
at the well I thought better of it and decided to let the matter rest
until morning. The evidence was all against him, for he was the last one
through the gate, and as the gate was a new hardware-store gate of steel
tubing and wire, with a regulation catch, I felt sure it couldn't have
come open accidentally. But it was just as well that I decided to let
things stand over until morning. About 3 o'clock, when I was again
snoozing fitfully on my sofa-pillow by the door, Sheppy began to bark
and a cow rushed past. They were in again. Without waiting to dress I
joined Sheppy, and we took the Kneipp cure together while rounding up
the cows and getting them back into the pasture. The new hardware store
gate was open again, and my thoughts shifted to the hardware man. I
pictured myself leaning over the counter and saying things to him about
that gate and the fastenings on it. Yet that would hardly do. He did not
make the gate; and, anyway, it was of the kind used by all other
farmers. The real trouble was with the gifted Red Cow and her unhallowed
progeny. I knew from experience that if there was any way of getting
into mischief they would know it. The gate fastenings that were good
enough for listless and pampered pure-bred cows were no defence against
their enterprising energy. So if any one was to blame for the night's
trouble it was myself--for owning that particular strain of cows.

[Illustration]




_XII.--A Calf Puzzle_


The things that a spirited and energetic calf will do are beyond the
power of an ordinary man to foresee or provide for. When the new stable
was built the corner came within less than a foot of the corner of the
granary. Of course it was intended to nail a board in the opening so as
to make a complete shelter for the cattle in the winter, but somehow we
never got around to doing it, and in the meantime the opening was handy
for the children to squeeze through sideways. No one ever thought that
any of the livestock, except the cats, would ever attempt the passage,
and that mistaken idea almost cost us a calf. When the cattle were being
put in last night one of the calves felt altogether too frisky to go in
to be tied, even though the manger was full of choice hay. He ran away
into the orchard, and when brought back made a break into the pasture
field. When rounded up once more we were all on hand to shoo him through
the stable door. A boy had him by the tail to steer him straight, but
at the last second he made a jump sideways, dragging the boy with him,
and plunged head-first through the opening between the stable and
granary. His head and shoulders went through easily, showing that he has
the wedge shape valued by breeders, but his hip bones were too wide.
When I reached him he had pulled through so that he couldn't be backed
up because of his spreading ribs and couldn't go through all the way
because of the hip bones. He was as firmly fixed as one of those
bass-wood plugs the boys used to force through a board when boiled soft.
They used to offer it as a puzzle, and ask you to get out the plug. It
had been put in, so why couldn't it be taken out? When I examined that
calf I almost made up my mind that he would have to be boiled before he
could be taken out. At least he would have to be taken out in sections
or we would have to move one of the buildings. Before taking desperate
measures, however, I examined things carefully and decided that by
prying a couple of the siding boards off the granary there was a bare
chance that there would be room to get him through. This was done by the
expenditure of much man and boy power, and he got through by a hair's
breadth. In fact, I think it was a closer shave than that, for there
are hairs on the corners of both buildings. The experience took the
foolishness out of him, and as soon as he was free he meekly allowed
himself to be driven into the stable. And that reminds me that I haven't
nailed a board on that opening yet. I must attend to it at once or one
of the bigger animals will be trying the passage, and I shall have real
trouble.




_XIII.--Cow Character_


It is when a fellow settles down to do the chores twice a day and every
day that he gets thoroughly acquainted with his livestock. When the
cattle are in the pasture field they look pleasant and pose for their
pictures when people come along with cameras, but when they are put in
stalls and waited on hand and--I mean foot and mouth, they develop all
sorts of little meannesses--just like human beings. One little cow
starts to shake her head until her horns are simply a dangerous blur
every time I go to loosen her chain to let her out to water. I have had
several narrow escapes from being prodded, but it is useless to yell at
her, or even to use the whip on her. She will start shaking her head as
soon as I lay my hand on the chain, and she keeps it up until the chain
drops from her neck. Another brute has the habit of swinging quickly
towards me as soon as she feels the chain loosen, and I have to
side-step like a prize-fighter to get out of the way of her horns. But
I am glad to record that the Red Cow, variously known as Calamity and
Fenceviewer I., can be untied safely, even by a child. When the chain is
opened she backs quietly from the stall and walks to the stable door in
a dignified manner--unless there happens to be a pail standing around
where she can poke an investigating nose into it. She is always on the
lookout for something to eat, and she always enjoys it better if it is
something she should not have.

[Illustration]




_XIV.--Calf Feeding_


After all, it is the things that we see every day that are the hardest
to see. Here we have been feeding the calves by a method of our own all
summer without realising that there was anything unusual or amusing
about it. It was a city visitor who finally opened our eyes, or at least
partly opened them, to the comedy of our calf feeding. Frankly, I can't
see that there is anything very funny about it yet, but as he persists
in throwing fits over it every time the calf feeding occurs I am going
to describe it in the hope that some one else may get a good,
health-giving laugh. All summer we have had three calves that came to
the orchard fence twice a day to get their ration of skim milk and
feeding flour. When feeding time came the pails of feed were placed
beside the fence and the calves stuck their heads through between the
wires and helped themselves. As the work settled down to part of the
regular daily routine Sheppy was also taught to attend to one of the
details.

As all who have had dealings with calves are aware, they will stand
around for half an hour after feeding time and suck one another's ears
in a vain attempt to get more nourishment. In order to break them of
this practice it was Sheppy's part to wait until they had finished their
meal and then scatter them to different sides of the pasture. The whole
business became quite a matter of fact. Sheppy wouldn't bother the
calves while they were waiting for their feed or while they were
feeding, but just as soon as they lifted their heads from the pails
Sheppy jumped for them, and with tails in the air they scattered over
the pasture at no ordinary rate of speed. Our city visitor regarded it
as the most remarkable combination of a quick lunch counter meal
superintended by a saloon bouncer that he had ever witnessed. He would
point out as well as he could between fits of laughter that the bouncer
added to the free lunch counter was a wonderful improvement, and that he
was going to recommend it to the managers of city cafeterias as soon as
he got home. Such places sometimes get crowded at lunch hour by people
who will linger over their coffee, but if an efficient bouncer were
employed who would send them on their way as Sheppy sends the calves,
fewer people would have to wait in line for their "sinkers" and coffee.
Moreover, the patrons would be startled into taking an amount of
exercise that would probably help their digestion. Now you have the
whole story and can decide for yourselves whether the city visitor had
any cause for his unhallowed mirth. We certainly regard it as part of
the daily routine, and Sheppy goes about his part of the work as
solemnly as if the whole management of the farm depended on it.

[Illustration]




_XV.--A Cow Trick_


I hate to revive the old-fashioned cow-poke, but I don't know what else
to do. Fenceviewer II., eldest daughter of the Red Cow, has discovered
that even a wire fence can't stand the pressure of a little over half a
ton of muscular beef. Part of the wire fencing on the farm is of a kind
that was popular a number of years ago. It consists of seven strands of
wire tightly stretched along the posts, with upright slats fastened
every few feet. It is a presentable-looking fence, and for all ordinary
purposes is entirely satisfactory, but this cow has discovered that by
pushing her head through between the wires and throwing her weight
against the fence she can break the wooden uprights and walk right
through. The result is that unless she is watched she helps herself to
apples in the orchard whenever she feels like it. She can go through the
fence anywhere whenever she wants to. But, though the other cows see her
do it, they do not seem to learn the trick. This convinces me that the
Red Cow is not quite so intelligent as I thought. When her daughter
pushes through the fence, and is helping herself to the apples, the red
pirate sticks her head over the top wire and bawls enviously. Of course,
as long as she approaches the fence in that way it turns her
successfully. Fenceviewer II. pokes her head through about half way up
on the height of the fence. When she pushes forward she is able to step
over the lower wires, throwing the top wires over her back after the
upright slats are broken. She shows some intelligence in the way she
attacks the fence, but what interests me is that she knows enough to
exercise her whole strength in getting through.

If our domestic animals once learned to use their strength in this way
there would be no controlling them. They would cross the country, in
spite of fences, like the new "tanks" they are using in battle. The
little tricks of cunning the animals develop, such as throwing down rail
fences and working gates open, can be defeated by a little care, but if
they once learned how strong they are and the effect of their whole
weight when thrown against an obstacle we would not be able to manage
them. They could break through the walls of their stables, and no
ordinary fence could withstand them. Of course, I know that if I put an
old-fashioned poke on this brute it would probably beat her, because the
pole in front would go under the lower wires and bring them against her
chest, so that she would have to break the wires to get through. But
pokes haven't been seen in this part of the country for years, and I am
afraid that if I made one and put it on this insurgent cow it would
cause an awful lot of talk. People going past in automobiles would see
it, and they would talk also. As it is getting near the end of the
season I shall get over the difficulty by keeping the cow in at night
and putting her out to pasture in the daytime in a field that has proper
woven fences. I know the poke would do the trick, but really, though you
may not believe it, there are some things that I haven't the nerve to
do.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Fenceviewer II. is on her depredations she indulges in one cow
trick that I should like to have the scientists explain to me. After she
has eaten all the apples she wants she makes for the hay stacks and
proceeds to root at them with her horns and to push herself along
against them as if she were trying to knock them over. I have no doubt
she does this to brush off the flies and scratch herself pleasantly,
but when I see her at it she looks to me to be enjoying herself in a way
not wholly accounted for by the fly and itching theory. When attacking
the stack with her horns she flings her tail in the air and prances as
if she were trying a new tango step. Then she hurls herself against the
stack and rubs along against it until she reaches the other end, where
she throws up her head, with a wisp of hay on her horns, and looks as if
she were enjoying life to the full. All cows will do this when they get
a chance--at least all cows I have had dealings with. Perhaps purebreds
that have their names in the herd book may be above such tricks, but I
doubt it. Anyway, cows are the only animals that do this. I have never
known horses, pigs or sheep to do it, though the flies no doubt bother
them too, and they also must feel itchy at times. But if you let cows
get at a stack they will rub against it until it looks like a monster
mushroom. I have even known cows to keep on rubbing against a strawstack
until the central stem got worn so small that the heavy top tumbled over
on them, and they had to be dug out with much labour. I wish some
scientist who isn't busy would tell me why cows go at stacks in this
way. They didn't have stacks to rub against in their wild state, and I
never see them rub against trees or buildings. And when the scientists
are at it I wish they would tell me why it is that a horse when rolling
seems to prefer a soft spot where he can get all muddy, so that you will
have to put in an extra half-hour when currying him before driving to
town.

Drat that cow! She must have known that I was writing about her and
decided to give a demonstration. When I stepped out a few minutes ago I
found her helping herself to apples from the lower branches, and as I
had my mind on the present price of apples I didn't call to her to make
herself at home or tell her that she was welcome. Quite the contrary.
And when Sheppy and I started to put her out she made for the nearest
haystack with a joyous little bawl and almost upset it as she ploughed
along the side of it. I am afraid I must resort to a poke, no matter
what people may think or say about it. And you may be sure that when any
more fencing is done on the farm I shall use woven wire, or rather
fencing that is fastened together without the use of brittle wooden
slats. This cow will probably be a nuisance until we either sell her or
put up new fences. She knows too much, and as she has inherited a full
portion of her mother's impudence there will be no controlling her.

[Illustration]




_XVI.--Cow Cussedness_


Much as I hate to admit it, Fenceviewer and her tribe have me beaten to
a standstill--or, to be more exact, they have been keeping me on the run
all the time. Some weeks ago I told how Fenceviewer II. had solved the
mystery of the wire fence that is made of separate strands of wire
strengthened by upright slats. She found that by poking her head through
between the wires and throwing her weight against it she could force her
way through wherever she wanted to. At the time I threatened to make a
poke for her, but as it was the orchard she was breaking into the need
for keeping her out disappeared when the apples were packed and shipped.
But a couple of days ago the carrots and beets in the garden were dug
and the red brute immediately took advantage of the fact that one side
of the garden is fenced with slatted wire. After she had reached the
carrots a couple of times I listened to advice and fastened a board on
her face--a sort of wooden veil.

Making cow-pokes is quite a job, and the art has been lost in this
neighbourhood, where they have well-bred cows that lack ambition. But I
was told that a board on her face would do the trick just as well. They
did not know the Fenceviewer strain. After dressing her in her new
costume I turned her loose and watched through a knothole in the
drive-shed. She walked straight to the fence near the carrots and began
to experiment. The board bothered her, for she couldn't make a head-on
attack on the fence, but it didn't bother her long. She soon found that
by approaching sideways she could see well enough to swing her head
between the wires and then push through. I interrupted her before she
reached the carrots, and then Sheppy drove her to the other side of the
field so that I could get time to cool off and think things over. But I
didn't cool off. I had noticed that while the brute was working her way
through the fence she was being watched by her mother, Fenceviewer I.,
the original red cow of the lot, but as the old pirate had not learned
the trick sooner I did not think she would learn. Ten minutes later I
found her at the carrots. It had finally dawned on her how the trick was
done. I drove her out with sticks and harsh cries, but I had barely
closed the gate before she was poking through the fence again in the
most approved manner of her daughter.

That settled it. I rounded up the flock and drove them into a field that
is surrounded by woven wire fences and left them there. The pasture
doesn't amount to much, but it is not likely that the weather will make
it possible for us to pasture them more than a week or two longer, so
they will have to be given extra feed night and morning and have their
run confined to the cow-proof field. Next year, if they have not
forgotten the trick, they will have to be sold or I will be forced to
put up new fences such as would not be needed for reasonable and
right-minded cows.




_XVII.--Teaching a Calf_


When I got home I found a fresh calf waiting to be taught how to drink
out of a pail. Now that several days have passed, I feel that I can
mention the subject in proper language. Breaking in young calves is just
the same job now as it was when the world was young. I dare say there is
really nothing new that one can say about it, but there seems to be a
sort of relief in saying some of the same old things over again. This is
a particularly lusty and likely calf, grandson of Fenceviewer I., "that
serpent of Old Nile," familiarly known as the Red Cow. He proves that
there is something in the law of atavism, for he takes after his
unregenerate and belligerent grandmother rather than after his gentle,
though somewhat sneaky, mother. Anyway, when I took the pail of milk and
started in to nourish him I found him more stiff-necked than a Cabinet
Minister. Still, the line of approach was better. I straddled his neck
and pushed his head into the milk so that he was forced either to drink
it or inhale it. One could hardly treat a Cabinet Minister in that way,
much as he would like to. But to our calf. Once more the lesson has been
forced on me that when feeding a calf one should not be arrayed in the
glory of Solomon, or in other words that he should not wear the clothes
he wore to the city especially if he ever expects to wear them there
again. Even a commodious pair of overalls is not a sufficient
protection. The boy who was hovering on the outskirts of the trouble and
pretending to help was properly dressed for the occasion in a
three-piece suit--shirt, pants, and one suspender. When that calf gave a
sporadic bunt that squirted milk into my eye and variously plastered me,
I wanted to give him a six months' hoist with the toe of my boot, but I
restrained myself. (You will notice that Parliamentary phrases stick in
my vocabulary after a visit to Ottawa.) However, I am glad to report
that the calf is now so much subdued that the boy in the three-piece
suit is able to attend to him.




_XVIII.--Calf Exuberance_


Last night Juno got loose, and for a few minutes there was excitement
around the stable. Juno is a fall calf, daughter of Fenceviewer II., and
owing to the scarcity of stable room she is being pampered and fed up
for veal. At the time of her arrival the children named her Jupiter, but
on second thought it was considered that Juno would be more appropriate.
Up to last night she had lived in a small calf pen at the end of the
stable, but the fastening on the gate came loose and she discovered what
her legs were for. She shot out through the stable door in a way that
sent the hens flying over the hay stacks. Then she tripped over a sheaf
of cornstalks that I had dropped on the ground while preparing to feed
the cows, sprawled at full length, bounced right up and rushed ahead
until she was brought to a standstill by a wire fence in a way that
almost telescoped her neck into her body. Finding that the wire fence
would not yield she said "Bah-wah" and started in another direction.
Sheppy was coming around the corner of the granary in his most sedate
manner, when the pop-eyed avalanche almost stepped on him. When last
seen Sheppy was plunging blindly between two haystacks with his tail
between his legs. A flock of hens that were enjoying their evening bran
mash next attracted her attention, and she made an offensive straight at
them. When they were thoroughly scattered she rushed the ducks from a
mud puddle, and the squawking they made startled her so that she applied
the brakes and threw on the reverse. It was a wonderful exhibition of
vitality, and showed what a milk diet can do for one. The next I heard
of Juno was when I was stooping over to pick up a sheaf of cornstalks,
and if you can picture to yourself a dignified man in that attitude with
a lusty calf prancing behind him and going through the motions of
getting ready to bunt you can understand the joyous laughter with which
the children shouted a warning. I sidestepped in the nick of time and
shooed Juno away to the orchard, where she could enjoy herself without
getting into trouble. After the chores were done I took a pail that was
as empty as a political platform and she followed me right back into
the pen just like an intelligent voter. I could do a little moralising
right here, but it is not considered good form to talk politics just
now.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




SHEEP

[Illustration]




_XIX.--Our First Sheep_


A great event has happened on the farm. Obeying the urgent appeals of
the Food Controller, the littlest boys decided to go into sheep-raising.
Having ideas of my own about sheep, I did not presume to advise them in
their plans. If I were going in for sheep my inclination would be to
invest in the old pioneer variety that were half goat and half
greyhound. Those sheep were entirely capable of taking care of
themselves. You never had to worry lest they should get cast in a
furrow. They were much more likely to get marooned on the ridge pole of
the barn while pursuing some of their adventures. Fences meant nothing
in their lives, and no matter where they strayed you could trust them to
"come home, bringing their tails behind them." But so many scientists
call to see us that even the children are getting high-toned notions and
nothing would do them but properly registered, pedigreed sheep from a
prize-winning flock. They made their own negotiations, drew their
savings from the bank and started into business with four ewe lambs. My
first active interest in the new venture occurred when the sheep were
brought home. I was called out to help get them into the sheep pen that
had been built for their reception. When I appeared on the scene the
sheep all had their backs to the door, and in their eyes there was an
expression that suggested the popular song: "Where Do We Go From Here?"
It was quite evident that they had no intention of going through the
door. As we crowded in on them I spread myself out so as to cover as
wide an area as possible, feet well apart and arms outstretched. I am
not exactly clear as to what happened, but the sensation I had was that
one sheep went under each arm, one between my legs and the other over my
head. Anyway, by the time I had recovered my scattered wits they were in
a far corner of the orchard, bleating pathetically.

       *       *       *       *       *

The children rounded them up once more, while Sheppy, though a
thoroughbred Collie, hovered around wondering what these creatures were.
I don't believe he ever before had a close view of a sheep, but if
Darwin is right, he would very soon show inherited instinct, and know
just what to do in order to handle them. But the children had no faith
in Sheppy. They threw clods and told him to "go home, sir!" which he did
in a humiliated manner. As the sheep were again approaching the pen I
had a chance to observe their startling efficiency in the control of
burrs and weeds. I have been assured that if we had kept sheep the farm
would have been in a much tidier condition, and I am inclined to think
that the statement is true. One of the sheep, on its way back to the
pen, saw a well-loaded burdock that had been overlooked. It stopped to
nibble a few burrs, and when it was shooed on, it didn't stop to walk
around the obstruction. It simply walked straight over it, and when it
had passed there was not a burr left on the stalks. Every solitary one
had been caught in the sheep's wool, much to the disgust of the youthful
owners, but I felt a certain amount of relief, because there is now no
danger that the neighbourhood of that burdock will be seeded down for
next year. It appears that what the sheep do not eat in the way of burrs
they gather in their wool, and in that way clean up the farm. I am not
quite sure that the scientists will approve of this method of weed
control, but that is how the matter stands at the present writing. After
several attempts at driving the sheep into the pen we finally decided
to corner them and catch them one by one. This was done, and the
perspiring family was presently in a position to take a good look at the
little flock in their pen. Far be it from me to dash the optimism of the
youthful shepherds, but I could not bring myself to verify the belief
that triplets are almost as frequent as twins among lambs. Still, wool
promises to be a good price and the speculators stand a good chance of
realising on their venture. Best of all, they will be helping the work
of food production, which is now so urgent.

       *       *       *       *       *

The human inhabitants of the farm were not the only ones that were
interested in the advent of the sheep. The young cattle ran for their
lives when they saw them, and you could hear the colts snort for at
least a mile. The Red Cow did not get excited but she bestowed a
disdainful glance on them that reminded me of the lady in Tennyson, who

    "Stretched a vulture neck
    And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile."

She is too blasé to get excited about anything except another cow, with
whom she might have to fight for the leadership of the herd, but she
shewed in every line of her face and form that sheep were something new
to her and that she didn't think much of them. The colts were the most
excited of all. They ran around the sheep in large circles, snorting and
shying. Whenever they crossed the tracks of the sheep they seemed to
catch the unaccustomed scent like hound dogs and their excitement
increased amazingly. Finally they got the sheep frightened, and in order
to prevent trouble, we had to put the colts in another field. Though
several days have passed the colts do not seem to get used to their new
neighbours, and they snort with terror whenever they have to pass the
sheep pen. It is quite evident that they cannot be allowed to run
together for some time.

       *       *       *       *       *

The arrival of the sheep on the farm caused me to give them some
attention, and the more I meditate on them the more I regret that we did
not go in for sheep-raising long ago. They have opened to me an entirely
new field for articles. I had never realised how completely and
intimately sheep are bound up with the history and literature of
mankind. In symbolism they date back to the earliest chapters of
Genesis. It might even be shown that we owe much of our civilisation and
learning to the care of sheep. Shepherds have been poets since the time
of David and earlier, and they have even figured among the rulers of the
world. The Biblical patriarchs were all shepherds, and in the history of
Egypt we have the Hyksos dynasty--the fierce shepherd kings, who ruled,
I think, for six hundred years. One has only to let his mind wander over
literature and art to realise that man and sheep have been companions
from the dawn of history. Pastoral poetry is a distinct branch of
literature, and what would landscape painting be without woolly bunches
in the middle distance to represent sheep? I understand that it is to
the shepherds we owe the sciences of astronomy and algebra, and they
have also made contributions to medicine and botany. It was of a
shepherd that Touchstone said: "Such an one is a natural philosopher."
Perhaps the most up-to-date contribution to civilisation that we owe to
the shepherds is the ancient and royal game of golf. It began with the
shepherds who whiled away their hours knocking about a woollen ball with
their shepherd's crook. Assuredly the sheep will furnish me with an
ample field for research, investigation, experiment and nonsense of all
kinds. I may even be able to get some political hints from them, because
of their habit of following a leader. I look forward to a pleasant and
profitable winter studying the children's sheep.

[Illustration]




_XX.--The First Lamb_


In spite of the persistent cold weather there has been enough excitement
on the farm to send up the temperature several degrees. One day last
week, when the mercury was sulking at zero, three lambs arrived on the
place. Alas only one survived, in spite of tender care and the best
advice of all the experienced sheep-raisers in the neighbourhood. One
died at once and another followed a few hours later, though it was
carefully fed and tucked in a warm nest beside the kitchen stove. The
mother sheep could not be induced to take any interest in the weakling.
One of her lambs was strong and vigorous, and to it she gave her whole
care, seeming to know by instinct that nothing could save the others.
And it is doubtful if she could have saved the one we have if we had not
shared the cares of motherhood with her. At nightfall the thermometer
went down and down until it reached 12 below, and the new lamb began to
lose interest in this cold world. The frost penetrated to the snug
box-stall, and the poor little lamb shivered and refused to pay
attention to its mother. She pawed at it to make it get up, but it
couldn't get on its feet. So we wrapped it in a horse-blanket and took
it to the nest beside the stove. For the next couple of days we kept it
warm and carried it to its mother for brief visits at meal times. In
that way we kept it from being chilled to death, and now that the
weather has moderated it is living with its mother and being much
admired. But I am afraid that some of the interest taken in it is rather
sordid. When the excitement was at its highest I found a boy studying
the market reports. He was looking up the price of wool.

       *       *       *       *       *

Like all the other live stock on the farm, the lamb has a name of its
own. Its owner informed me that it is to be called Mary Belle. Why he
was so superfluous as to give it two names I did not inquire. The name
sounded good to me--the sound of it reminded me of how:

      "Winking Mary buds begin
    To open their golden eyes,
      With everything that pretty bin----"

Mary Belle--Mary buds. There is a distinct assonance, but it is a slim
one on which to hang a quotation. Still, the "Mary buds" reminded me of
spring--and that led to results. Lambs are always associated with spring
in literature, and why shouldn't they be in fact? My personal
recollections of lambs all coincide with days:

    "Whan that Aprille with his showres soote,
    The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote."

So what on earth was a lamb doing in this world in January? On inquiry I
learned that one must expect such things if he goes in for pure-bred,
pedigreed sheep that may take prizes at the fall fairs. Any lamb that is
born after 12 p.m. of December 31 of the preceding year is entitled to
rank as a spring lamb. When the fall fairs come round Mary Belle will
have the advantage of several months' growth over the lambs that come in
the springtime--"the only pretty ring time." This makes it look to me as
if prize-winning were rather more important than sheep-breeding. Poor
Mary Belle will have to spend the most frisky months of her life in a
little pen, instead of skipping about among the flowers, as a lamb
should. She is being robbed of her youth in the hope that she may win a
blue ribbon.




_XXI.--Sheep Surgery_


When I got home from the village a couple of evenings ago a bareheaded
delegation met me at the road gate with bad news.

"Strafe's leg--was chased by a dog--was broken--and I must set it--Oh,
the dog was a stranger--Strafe couldn't----"

At least that is what it sounded like. One thing is certain, and that is
that two excited boys can't tell a bit of news as quickly as one. After
both had blown off steam at the same time, I questioned them and found
that Strafe, one of the twin lambs, had his leg broken. It seems that a
stranger dog followed one of the children from the village in the
afternoon, and in spite of being told to "Go home, sir," he persisted in
following. But he no sooner reached the farm than he began chasing the
sheep. To escape him they rushed to the barnyard, and as the gate was
only partly opened they got jammed, and poor little Strafe, in spite of
his warlike name, had his leg broken. The dog was promptly chased away.
None of the family had seen him before, and they did not know who owned
him. Evidently he was a stranger. I was distressed to hear the news, for
there is something so gentle about lambs that one hates to think of them
suffering. In spite of his belligerent name, Strafe is an unusually
gentle creature that is ready to stand and be petted whenever any one is
in the humour to fuss with him. It almost seemed as if one of the family
had been hurt.

       *       *       *       *       *

My first thought was that the lamb might have to be killed to put him
out of his misery. That is what usually happens to a colt that gets his
leg broken, and having heard of several that had suffered in this
way--or was it that they had a tendon cut on a wire fence?--I began to
see the gloomy side of the matter at once. Still, on second thought, I
reflected that a lamb with a limp might raise just as much wool and
mutton as one with the use of all his legs, but it was quite evident
that his prospects of figuring in the blue-ribbon class at the Fall Fair
were probably ended. This was quite a calamity in itself, for he is
pure-bred and the children had hopes of him. As quickly as possible I
got to the sheep-pen and looked over the little patient. He was lying
down in a comfortable attitude, though it was easy to see that his leg
was broken below the knee, as the crook in it was quite noticeable. He
made no objection to having me examine his leg, though it must have hurt
to have the broken bone handled. What surprised me was that there was no
evidence of swelling, though the bone had been broken for some hours.
Another strange thing was that the bones lay so loose. The parts barely
touched each other, though in cases of human fracture the bones
sometimes get drawn past. It was no comminuted fracture I had to deal
with, but a very simple case of simple fracture. Of course, the whole
family gathered around to make comments and give advice, and I quickly
found that I was expected to play the surgeon and give Strafe a leg that
would be as good as new. Though surgery had never come within my
experience in the past, I felt that this was no time for false modesty,
and prepared for action.

       *       *       *       *       *

While making inquiries among persons of experience as to the best way to
proceed, I brought out the curious bit of information that surgeons use
only three splints when setting a human broken leg. My own instinct was
to use four, but being assured that the doctors use only three I felt
that there might be some mystic reason for it that was beyond the lay
mind and made my preparations accordingly. Strafe had been placed on a
bench, where he lay quite composedly while I took his measure for his
new set of splints, which I was whittling from a shingle. Apparently he
was not a bit frightened or distressed. Judging from his appearance he
seemed to think he was coming in for an extra lot of petting from the
boy who was holding him, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. Finally,
I got my splints ready, packed a bunch of loose wool around the broken
leg and then began to wind a cotton bandage around my somewhat clumsy
looking attempt at surgery. A visitor held the bones straight while I
was doing this and Strafe did not struggle a particle. Evidently a
lamb's sense of pain cannot be as acute as that of a human being. Though
I was as gentle as possible I am sure that my touch was clumsy and that
a broken bone in the human body if handled so inexpertly would have
caused acute suffering. The lamb neither struggled nor protested, but
allowed me to move the leg about and do what I liked with it. After it
was carefully bandaged he was set down on the ground, and hopped away on
three legs to where his anxious mother was waiting for him. Yesterday he
was feeding as usual, and as the splints were firmly in place I am
hopeful of a perfect cure. By the way, I wonder if they give prizes for
animal bone-setting at the Fall Fairs. I must find out.




_XXII.--The Patient_


The progress of Strafe, the lamb that had his leg broken, is about the
most surprising thing I have seen in a long time. One naturally thinks
of a broken leg as a serious thing, and it is to a human being, but it
doesn't seem to cause so very much discomfort to a lamb. Two days after
the accident I saw him taking part in a brisk game of "King of the
Castle" with Clarissa and Mary Belle. Of course he was hampered by his
game leg, which was bound up in the splints I had put on it, but he
found little difficulty in climbing to the top of a pile of hay that had
been thrown from the top of a stack and defending his position against
assaulting forces. Though he carried his leg in the air he could still
bunt vigorously, and though he sometimes got knocked over, he would
immediately return to the fray. Evidently the nervous system of a lamb
is not so sensitive as that of a human being. A child with a broken leg
could not be taking part in games so soon after the accident. Although
it is only a week since he was hurt I notice that he is already using
his leg, though with a very decided limp. It is still too soon to take
off the splints, so I cannot tell whether my attempt at bone-setting has
been a success, but folks of experience who have looked at him assure me
that his chances of figuring in the blue-ribbon class are ended. It will
be his destiny to figure as mutton. This is not only a disappointment,
but a considerable loss.




_XXIII.--Shearing_


The sheep changed their flannels this week and as the weather changed at
the same time, I am afraid they are not feeling very comfortable. With
wool at present prices, they were given a very thorough clip, and in
spite of the pleasant proverb the wind has not been tempered to them. We
have had the reliable north wind with which we have become quite
familiar this spring, and I was sure they would catch their death of
cold. I investigated to see that we had a proper supply of mustard and
goose-oil in case I should have to put plasters on their chests and give
them the proper dosing. But up to the present writing they seem to be
doing very well, though they keep on the lee side of the buildings and
of the hedge that runs along the road. They almost look uncanny in their
present condition of undress. It is surprising to see what a small sheep
emerges from the fleece when the shearing is done. The mother sheep look
very little bigger than their lambs. By the way, as those lambs already
have noticeable fleeces, I am afraid the warm weather will be rather
hard on them. One warm day last week I noticed Mary Belle, with her
mouth open, panting after a short run. What will it be like for her in
August, when we have real heat? While speaking of the lambs, I am glad
to report that my attempt at bone-setting proved fairly satisfactory.
Strafe is able to gambol about much as usual, though he limps a little
and is thinner for his experience. There is a lump on his leg where the
bone knit and those who speak with authority say that although he is a
fine lamb he must now be considered in the mutton class. But I am proud
of the fact that my efforts preserved his leg for everyday use if not
for show purposes.

       *       *       *       *       *

As this has been the first sheep-shearing we have had on the farm in
many years, I was interested to note the improvement. When the boys
brought word that the shearers had arrived and were shearing the sheep I
hurried to the barn to view the operation. As I approached I heard a
sound like that of a cream separator, and was surprised to find that the
shearing was being done by machinery. With these tame, modern sheep
shearing is not the exciting process it used to be. The legs of the
creatures were not tied up in a bunch with a hame-strap to keep them
quiet. The shearer merely made the sheep sit on her hind-quarters, while
he tucked her head under his arm. He had a contrivance that looked like
a small mowing machine, and was busily cutting swaths of wool along her
sides. It was doubtless a great improvement on the old shears--the kind
that memory associates with boyish haircuts. I have always thought of
the shears by its Gaelic name, but it is past my power to spell it. It
was imitative of the sound made by the shears when in use. If you take a
pair of shears, close and open them and then try to pronounce the sound
you hear, you will have the Gaelic name. It sounds something like
"dwnguist." Pronouncing it is just as hard as it looks. One needs to be
born to it. I found that they had an old-fashioned shears with them to
clip off spots that the mower could not be put over safely, but it was
very little used. I noticed that the new method of shearing leaves the
sheep free from the ridges that used to be prominent features of
old-time shearings--and haircuts. I shouldn't wonder but they could cut
hair with these new machines, but as I have never seen anything like
them in even the most up-to-date barber shops they cannot be practical
for hair-cutting. But they are certainly the proper caper for
sheep-shearing.




_XXIV.--Vain Regrets_


John Milton was a noble poet, but he was not a safe guide in matters
pertaining to animal husbandry. For the ordinary man, the bulletins of
the Department of Agriculture are safer reading than the masterpieces of
literature. If it were not for John Milton I might to-day have a bank
account that would outshine "the wealth of Ormuz or of Ind." Just listen
to this piece of foolishness that I have been cherishing all these
years:

    "Alas! what boots it with incessant care
    To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,
    And strictly meditate the thankless muse?"

You couldn't expect me to go in for sheep-raising while giving that
quotation a place of honour in my memory, could you? The boys, not
caring for poetry, and caring much for the practical bulletins, obtained
my permission to go in for sheep-raising. Remembering the kind of sheep
we had when I was a boy, I thought they wouldn't be much trouble, as
they would pasture most of the time with the neighbours anyway. But the
boys didn't go in for that kind. They got pure-bred registered sheep,
and started under the best auspices, with a little flock that was partly
bought and partly taken on shares. I admired the addition to the farm
live stock, but did not get excited. These quiet, plump sheep did not
seem to promise adventure of any kind. The sheep I used to know were
more like Ancient Pistol's "damned and luxurious mountain goat" than
they were like these pampered pets of the show-ring. Of course. I
recorded the arrival of Mary Belle and Clarissa and Strafe, and told
something about their doings, but felt no inclination to take up "the
homely, slighted shepherd's trade." And now see what has happened. Last
week a buyer of fancy sheep came along, gave the flock the once over,
and then bought Mary Belle. When they told me the price he was paying,
my wrath against John Milton boiled over. "Slighted shepherd's trade,"
indeed! That buyer paid sixty-five dollars for Mary Belle! You could
have bought a whole flock of the sheep I used to know for that price.
Why, O why, didn't I go in for sheep when I came back to the land?




_XXV.--Sheep Sculpture_


There are no such sheep as those that take the prizes at the Fall Fairs
and have their pictures printed in the papers. I never believed that
such sheep really existed, "so large and smooth and round," and now I
know that they do not. At least they do not exist as a natural product
of the farm. They are just as much a manufactured article as the little
woolly "baa-baas" in the baby's Noah's Ark. I know this, because I saw a
show sheep manufactured. When Mary Belle was sold it was stipulated by
the buyer that she was to be clipped before being delivered. In my
innocence of the guile of the show-ring I thought that this meant that
she was to be trimmed a little around the edges so that her little
fleece wouldn't look too ragged and ill-kept. When an experienced
showman came to do the clipping, I naturally stuck around to see what
would happen. I knew Mary Belle was a pure-bred sheep of some kind, but
I thought it was an ordinary kind. I had seen sheep and lambs in
pasture fields that looked much like our sheep, so I did not think there
was anything unusual about them. I supposed that the show sheep, with
their wonderful points, must be specially bred and must belong to kinds
that do not run in ordinary mortal pastures. But I know better now. I
saw Mary Belle transformed from an ordinary playful scamp of a lamb to a
primped and perfect darling of the show-ring. I have learned that
sheep-raising and sheep-showing are two entirely different things, and I
have been forced to the conclusion that Touchstone's shepherd didn't
know much about the possibilities of shepherding. He was only a "natural
philosopher," but the modern shepherd is an artist. I suppose it
wouldn't do for me to say "fakir."

       *       *       *       *       *

When Mary Belle was captured she acted much as an untamed youngster
might when about to have his hair combed and neck washed before being
exhibited to company. She jumped wildly and blatted for her mother, but
it was no use. A strong man held her by the wool around her neck, while
the experienced showman looked her over with a critical eye. He admitted
that she had many good points--but there were a few little
things--still it didn't matter--they wouldn't show when he got done.
After these cryptic remarks he took a couple of carding combs--I am not
sure that that is the right name, but they were the kind of thing I used
to see in my youth in the hands of old pioneer women who carded their
own wool. They look like curry-combs. They are made of wire teeth, set
in leather on a wooden frame. They look and feel something like a cockle
burr. Anyway the showman took these instruments and started at Mary
Belle's fleece. The process was much like combing a particularly snarly
head of hair and was received in the same spirit. The lamb jumped and
called for mother, but as I did not regard the operation any more cruel
than many a hair-combing I had witnessed I did not protest. With these
carding combs the lamb's fleece was all pulled out so that she suddenly
looked twice her usual size. But there was no improvement in her
appearance. In fact she looked shaggier than ever. But presently her
wool was all pulled out on end, and into separate strands, and the real
work of trimming or clipping was ready to begin.

Taking an especially sharp pair of shears, the showman tried their edge
on his thumb in quite the old shepherd manner that I could remember
from earlier days, and looked over the unkempt mass of wool before him
with a critical eye. Though I didn't realise it at the time, his
attitude was much the same as that of Michael Angelo before the mass of
marble from which he hewed his David or of Canova when he stood before
the lump of butter from which he carved the lion. The showman was really
a sheep sculptor, and he was going to snip and clip a prize-winning lamb
out of the mass of wool before him. With a sure hand he mowed a slight
swath of wool along Mary Belle's back. Where there were humps he cut
fairly deep, and where there were depressions he skimmed lightly. The
result was a back-line that was as smooth and straight as if cut to a
ruler. Swiftly but carefully the shears went snipping along her back and
down the sides. What surprised me most was the surface left by this
skilful shearing. It looked like a fine felt. If I didn't know better, I
would say that the lamb had been clipped right to the skin. Yet there
were probably two inches of wool under that deceiving surface in some
places. The sculptor proceeded with his work with artistic sureness of
touch. He had in his mind an ideal lamb, and he proceeded to cut to
that ideal. As he worked there began to emerge just the kind of lamb one
sees in the show ring or pictured in the agricultural papers. The new
lamb was not the harum-scarum Mary Belle in any sense of the word. She
looked twice the size, and her smooth coat, entirely free from snarls
and elf-locks, made her look as fat as a seal. I had to poke at her new
coat in order to convince myself that it was not really a convict-clip,
right close to the skin. The surface seemed to show the movement of the
flesh underneath, and her sides palpitated to every breath, just as if
there was no covering of wool.

As the expert worked she took on a wonderful smoothness and roundness.
Her hams looked like legs of lamb such as had never been. Her back
became broad and plump and her breast was a delight to look at. I
watched admiringly while an entirely new Mary Belle was carved from the
raw material of the old. And the strange thing of it was that she seemed
to like the transformation. Before the work was half done there was no
need of a strong man to hold her. She stood with her chin resting in the
showman's hand while he snipped and clipped her to shape. Finally he
turned her over to the other man to hold and then stood back as a
sculptor might to view his work. He walked around her and looked her
over from every angle--occasionally stepping up to trim some point to a
more desired shape. When she was finally done I half-expected him to go
over her with a piece of sandpaper, but that was not necessary. The
shears had left her smooth enough. When the art work was completed she
looked exactly like the impossible sheep they have at the shows and she
seemed proud of the change. She stood to have her picture taken just
like a belle who was dressed for some grand occasion. Her nature seemed
to undergo a transformation as well as her figure. I could not imagine
her romping and playing king of the castle with Strafe and Clarissa. In
fact, I doubt if her mother would have known her when she was turned
back into the pasture if it were not that sheep know their offspring by
the sense of smell. Everything was changed about her except her
characteristic odour. She looked to be fully as big and much heavier
than her mother, who had recently been subjected to a skin-tight
shearing. As I looked her over I felt that the time had come to add
another stanza to the many parodies of "Mary Had a Little Lamb":

    Mary had a little lamb--
      They took her to the show,
    And though she had a perfect shape
      It really wasn't so.

After seeing her in her finished form I have no doubt that Mary Belle
will win prizes in the show ring, but I feel that the prizes should not
go to her, but to the sculptor who fashioned her. She is more of a work
of art than any of the lambs and sheep we see in pastoral paintings.

P.S.--I almost forgot to tell that the showman enlightened me on another
trick of the prize-ring. While I stood behind Mary Belle he caught her
under the chin in such a way that her back and rump looked broader and
fuller than ever. Then as I walked around in front of her he changed his
position and with a skilful flick of his toe separated her feet so that
she stood with feet well apart. This made her breast look broader and
plumper than any breast of lamb could possibly be. All of which made me
wonder if the fall fairs influence sheep-breeding as much as they do the
art of sheep-showing. I wonder if all the other animals of the show-ring
are handled in the same expert way.




_XXVI.--Our Lawn Mower_


Once more opportunity has knocked at my door and I failed to take
advantage, and now it is too late. When the lamb had his leg broken he
and his mother and sister were kept in the orchard, so that he wouldn't
have to run about so much. The orchard includes the lawn around the
house, and as the spring advanced the lawn naturally was the first spot
to offer inviting pasture. The result was that the sheep came right up
to the door to nibble the young and juicy grass. Mary Belle pushed her
way through the fence so that she could be with her young friends and
the flock were able to make quite a showing in their attacks on the
grass. I was not long in noticing how well they did the work that I
usually have to do with a lawn mower, and I saw where I could have some
freedom from this irksome task this summer, simply by turning the sheep
to graze on the lawn from time to time. From this discovery it was only
a logical step to think of having the sheep patented as lawn mowers so
that any one who used my idea would be obliged to pay me a royalty that
might grow to such proportions that it would attract the attention of
the Minister of Finance. It was a beautiful idea, for if I could only
get all the lawns in the country paying tribute to me there would be no
end to my income. But while I was talking about it and telling people
how they could sit around wearing diamonds when I made my fortune by my
new idea the papers brought the news that President Wilson had just
bought a dozen Shropshire sheep to clip the lawn at the White House.
This makes the great idea public property. It is too late to get a
patent on it now. Still there is some satisfaction in remembering that
great minds run in the same channel. The busy President has hit on the
same trick as I have to get out of the tiresome job of running the
early-rising lawn mower.




PIGS

[Illustration]




_XXVII.--Clementine_


In spite of the prevailing atmosphere of laziness there is one brisk
thing on the place. Clementine, the pet pig, broke out of her pen this
morning, and as the children are at school she is allowed to roam at
will. She is positively brisk in hustling for apples in the orchard and
for heads of oats around the oat stack. And wherever she goes Sheppy
follows her, growling and barking. He knows that she should not be
running loose, but he hasn't the courage to put her in her place. There
were no pigs about when Sheppy was receiving his somewhat skimpy
education, so he doesn't know what to do with Clementine. Apparently she
understands this, for she pays no attention to him except when he gets
too tiresome with his barking and growling. At such times she opens her
mouth and runs at him, and Sheppy almost falls over himself in his
attempts to get out of the way. Of course, it looks absurd to see a big
dog running out of the way of a little pig, roasting size, but I think
the secret is that Sheppy feels ashamed to snap at so little a creature.
But some day she will get a terrible surprise. If she comes around when
Sheppy is having his dinner and tries to help herself there will be
immediate trouble. That is where friendship ceases with Sheppy. I have
known him to kill a pet kitten in about two seconds because it tried to
help itself from his dish. Clementine will be sure to try it if she is
around when he is being fed and then there will be doings. She will be
even more surprised than she was in the stable last night. When we were
milking Clementine strayed in, grunting pleasantly, to see what she
could find. The kittens had also come for their evening portion of fresh
milk. Presently Clementine, like her namesake in the song,

    "Stubbed her toe upon a kitten,
      Drefful sorry, Clementine!"

The kitten let out a yeowl when the pig stepped on it that would have
done credit to a full-grown cat. Its mother, Lady Jane Grey, rushed to
the rescue and raked Clementine from shoulder to hip with distended
claws. "Whee! Whee!" said Clementine as she shot through the door. She
may think herself capable of bossing dogs, but she has no illusions
about cats.

       *       *       *       *       *

While sitting in the hammock after dinner I had a chance to observe
Clementine closely as she nosed around to see if any pears had fallen
lately. While looking at her I was haunted by a sense of something
familiar. Where had I seen that smile before? You know that the pig is
the one thing in nature that has the "smile that won't come off." The
corners of its mouth are permanently turned up so that it can hardly
stop smiling even when it is squealing for swill. And when it is
contented it seems to be smiling from the corners of its mouth to the
jaunty little curl in its tail. While watching Clementine I realised
that I had seen that smile before somewhere. After cudgelling my memory
for a while I suddenly remembered. Her smile is exactly like that of the
get-rich-quick promoter, the newly appointed office-holder, and other
men who have been selfishly successful. As I realised this I called up
pictures of scores of men with smoothly-shaven jowls and the pink cheeks
of eupeptic high feeding--and all of them had the same smile as
Clementine. From dealings I have had with them I know that they also
have much of her nature. It may seem to serious-minded people that I
might be better employed than in studying the smile of a pet pig, but I
do not think so. In future I shall be on my guard against sleek citizens
who habitually wear Clementine's smile. You know I have been misled in
the past by Shakespeare's lines:

      "Let me have about me men that are fat,
    Sleek headed men and such as sleep o' nights."

I had an idea that fat men are usually good-natured and honest, and that
that was why Cæsar wanted them in his Cabinet. But when I recall the
actors who played with Booth I remember that most of the conspirators
who killed Cæsar were fat. Moreover, I remember that in his recent book
on dieting Vance Thompson asserts that most of the men guilty of the
crimes of high finance are fat men. Though he didn't say so, I am
willing to bet a cookie that they all had a smile like Clementine's.
Come to think of it, there are a distressing lot of fat men with that
kind of smile to be seen around the hotel lobbies in our big cities just
now, but I have made a careful study of the pet pig and shall be on my
guard.




_XXVIII.--Feeding Pigs_


Consarn a pig anyhow. I know how important pigs are just now, and we are
making arrangements to raise our share of them, but that doesn't make me
like them a bit better. Until this year we have contented ourselves with
raising an occasional pig for our own use, but when preparing for this
year's meat supply I felt expansive and bought a couple of plump little
pigs. I admit that I like little pigs--both alive and roasted. Their
perpetual smile, which even a session in the oven can't take off,
appeals to me. But a full-grown, able-bodied pig is another
matter--especially at feeding time. The two that we have finishing for
winter pork have long since passed from the innocent, engaging suckling
pig stage and have developed all the disagreeable mannerisms of the
full-grown hog. To make matters worse, our arrangements for keeping hogs
are of the old-fashioned kind that bring out all the bad qualities of
the pig. When making necessary changes about the barn the old pigpen
was torn down and this year's pen is a makeshift of the kind that you
find among backward farmers--a small pen for them to sleep in and a
larger pen built of rails, where they get their feed and take the air.
The trough is a light affair made of a couple of boards, and they have
no trouble in rooting it all over the pen, so that it has to be pulled
around and turned right side up every time the brutes are fed. Things
were not so bad until the pigs grew up, but now I dread feeding them
more than any chore on the place. They can see me mixing the chop feed
and the whole neighbourhood can hear the abuse they heap on me for being
so slow. The remarks that they make in hog language about the Food
Controller on this farm would not look well in print. When I start
towards the pen with their rations my two fat friends are always
standing up with their front feet hooked over the top rail of their pen
and their mouths wide open and squalling. I have a club handy so that I
can beat them back while I pull the trough into shape, but I have to
drop it when I go to put the feed before them. This job is a regular
fight. I have to hold the pail as high as I can and try to tilt a little
of the feed into one end of the trough, in the hope of occupying them
while I spread the rest evenly. I am lucky if I manage the trick without
spilling the feed, and the racket is deafening. By the time I am done I
am "all het up" and feel like taking the club and giving them a good
mauling. I know I am to blame myself for having things in such shape,
but that doesn't make me like the pigs a bit more. However, the trouble
will be over in about a week, and we shall have a new pen and a proper
trough for the next batch of pigs that we are arranging to raise for the
good of the country. A man can fight a couple of pigs at meal times, but
a whole litter would probably prove unmanageable.




_XXIX.--Beatrice_


The big sow that has been added to the farm live stock is making herself
quite at home. She doesn't expect us to make company of her. She is
willing to help herself and seems to feel hurt when we insist on
superintending her helpings. The children have named her Beatrice,
though I can't figure out just why. Beatrice suggests to me something
slim and gracile rather than two hundred pounds of hump-backed and
enterprising pork. They couldn't have picked up the name from anything
they have heard me calling her since her arrival on the farm. I have
called her many names, but I am quite certain that none of them sounded
anything like Beatrice. It must have been an inspiration on their part,
and we shall see how it works out. As Beatrice is not being fed up for
pork but just being given a ration calculated to keep her in good
health, she has a wide margin of unappeased appetite. Whenever she hears
any one stirring she is up and about at once, and to cross the barnyard
with a pail of anything is quite a feat. Occasionally I take a pail of
swill to the granary to add a few handfuls of chop-feed before giving it
to Beatrice and I find the experience rather exciting. She makes a
squealing rush at me as soon as I open the gate and tries to get her
nose into the pail. I kick her out of my way and then cross the yard to
the granary door, kicking back like a horse at every few steps. I have
heard at different times about educated pigs, but I seriously doubt if
any trainer has been able to teach a pig table manners. You can teach a
dog or a cat or a horse to beg for a dainty morsel, but I don't believe
any one could teach a pig to wait when food is in sight. Beatrice wants
what she wants when she wants it, and she doesn't care who hears her
asking for it.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Beatrice arrived she was put in the pen in which we kept the two
pigs that we fattened for home-cured pickled pork and bacon, but it
didn't seem to give her a chance for sufficient exercise, so we decided
to shift around the pigpen so that it would give her an entrance to the
barnyard. Since that has been done there has been nothing but trouble.
Not a door or gate can be left open for a moment, or the marauding
Beatrice will be in mischief. As a matter of fact, she no sooner got
access to the barnyard than she deserted the pigpen altogether. Although
her sleeping room was filled with nice clean straw, she wouldn't look at
it. Instead, she began to root around the strawstack and to gather a big
pile of loose straw on the south side. She chose the side that was
sheltered from the prevailing northwest wind, and constructed a nest
that is entirely to her own taste. When she gives up hope of getting any
more food each day she burrows her way into her pile of straw and tucks
it around her like a blanket. When I go to the barnyard after night I
can hear her grunting rhythmically under about four feet of straw.

As long as I do not bang a pail or make a noise like something eatable
she remains at rest, but if anything happens that conveys to her the
idea that something to eat is about, there is an instant earthquake in
the pile of straw, and Beatrice emerges with open mouth and complaining
lungs. Then the business of kicking and name-calling is resumed. We are
hopeful that Beatrice will do her part in the urgent business of
meeting the pork shortage, and for that reason are willing to put up
with her bad manners, but we do not expect to learn to love her very
much.




_XXX.--Pig Frightfulness_


Beatrice continues to make her presence felt on the farm. A few days ago
a boy whose mind was not synchronising properly with his body was doing
chores. While his body was getting oats for the horses his mind was
tilting with Wilfrid of Ivanhoe or "running a course with grinded
lances" with Richard the Lionheart, or the knight of the Couchant
Leopard. As he was away back in the Dark Ages his mind could not be
expected to make his body attend to such trivial things as shutting
granary doors in the last days of 1917. He left the granary door open.
Beatrice saw her opportunity and heaved up her bulk among the bags and
the bins. Shortly afterwards another boy of a tidy nature happened to be
passing the granary. As his mind was right up to the needs of the minute
he shut the door--without looking inside. Presently word was brought to
me that Beatrice was lost. I ordered a search on the sideroad and
concession line, but not a trace of her could be found. It was fully
four hours later that some one went to the granary and she was
discovered. The granary looked like the scene of a Hun raid. Beatrice's
frightfulness was astounding. She had torn open bags of beans, shorts,
bran, chop-feed and cotton-seed meal. Apparently she had sampled
everything in the granary and was so full that she couldn't grunt. When
kicked out she gave a little protesting squeal, but she had an extra
curl in her tail that showed how happy she was. She was so full that we
were afraid to give her the usual ration of swill for fear she would
swell up and burst. But there have been no evil effects, and when I go
to the barnyard she gets under my feet and grunts with friendly
impudence. But it is likely to be some time before she finds an open
door again. We have had our lesson.




_XXXI.--A Pig Bath_


Beatrice, like myself, was inclined to rush the season. She seemed to
think as I did that spring, or even summer, was back. On the perfect day
I have been talking about she hunted up a sunlit puddle and indulged in
the first wallow of the season. I am afraid it must have been a rather
cold bath, for there is still ice in the bottom of all the puddles
around the barnyard. But Beatrice must have felt the heat, for she made
a thorough job of her mud-bath. When she got through she was just about
as piggy a pig as you would want to see. She was plastered with black
mud from head to foot, and the tone of her grunting expressed about the
top note of contentment. She wandered into the field where the ploughing
had commenced and began to root in a hopeful spirit. As her nose has
never been restrained with a ring she was able to throw her whole vigour
into the work, but I imagine that it was merely a spring rite rather
than a food conserving effort. She might be able to find a reddock root
that would be good for her blood, but I doubt if there was anything else
available. She didn't stick to the job long, probably coming to the
conclusion that it is more profitable to stick around the granary door.
A while later I saw her sunning herself on the south side of the
strawstack, where the mud could dry on her sides. Now that she has had
her bath she looks surprisingly fresh and clean. The mud must have
scaled off as soon as it was dry, and when it crumbled away it took with
it all the winter's accumulations. She may have done some rubbing
against the gate post or other convenient object, but I did not see her
at it. Anyway her mud bath has left her whiter than she has been all
winter, with a tinge of pink showing that suggests a proper tubbing. The
spring seems to have an improving effect on her temper. Of course she is
always hungry, but she is not so clamorous about it.




_XXXII.--In Extenuation_


Letters that reach me these days usually conclude with a word of
solicitude for Beatrice. Tender-hearted people appear to be shocked by
my references to kicking her out of the way when passing through the
barnyard. I really wish they would tell me what to do when she comes
over the top at me when I am carrying a pail of swill to which the
chop-feed has not been added. It is entirely useless to try to explain
to her that if she will wait a minute she will get a much better dinner.
She wants it right away or sooner, and my kicks simply make her say,
"Whoof! whoof!" As soon as I lower my guard she rushes to the attack
again, and it takes skilful work to get into the granary with the pail
of swill without having it spilled. At present the net result of our
combats is that I have a stubbed toe. I haven't managed to make any
impression on her, mentally or physically. One correspondent urges that
I am doing injury to the "keep-a-pig" campaign by expatiating on her
undesirable qualities. I don't think it is quite so bad as that. I
merely show that pigs should be interned. No one has a deeper
appreciation of a pig as a public duty or as a possible source of
profit, but I don't think I need be blamed if I wish she had better
table manners. I think the littlest boy hit the nail on the head when he
confided to me: "I guess folks call pigs pigs because they are so
piggish." As we have never gone in for hog-raising he had learned the
meaning of piggishness before he learned anything about pigs.
Consequently he thought the name very appropriate. Although Beatrice
raises a "pathetic plaint and wailing cry" whenever there is food in
evidence that she can't get at, she is still a highly esteemed member of
the live stock. The trouble is that I have not learned enough about
Froebelism to be able to "punish her in love."




_XXXIII.--Beatrice Announces_


"Woof! woof! woof!"

Translated and properly censored, this means that Beatrice presents her
compliments to the Food Board and announces the arrival of nine hungry
little bacon producers.

"Woof! woof! woof!"

She also announces that she is food controller for her family and
doesn't care a "woof" for regulations that are made at Ottawa. She
recognises only the law of supply and demand, and if she doesn't get her
full rations of swill, bran and similar necessities she is not afraid to
express her opinions of everything and everybody, including the
censorship. She now has to do the eating for ten, and the job is one for
which she is fitted by both personal inclinations and hereditary
instincts.

"Woof! woof! woof!"

She furthermore announces that she is ready to bite the head off any one
who lays a finger on any member of her family. She stands ready to fight
for them instead of expecting them to fight for her. Good for Beatrice!

"Woof! woof! woof!"

       *       *       *       *       *

In spite of her high state of belligerency, Beatrice is evidently very
proud of her interesting family. Others may be able to boast larger
families, but none can boast a plumper or lustier brood. (Nine seems to
be the right and mystic number with swine. Hasn't Shakespeare something
about a sow and "her nine farrow"?) They were ready to fight for their
rights and squeal their protests for fair play before they were an hour
old. Every one who has approached the pen to have a peep at them
acknowledges that they are little beauties. They have the irresistible
charm of youth--which can make even the young of a rattlesnake
interesting if not lovable. Beatrice has every reason to be proud of
them, though there doesn't seem to be any reason for being so gruff
about it. A couple of weeks ago _The Globe_ accused me editorially of
being lacking in love for Beatrice. I admit the charge, but claim that
this is a merciful provision of nature. Pigs are only lovable when they
are small and plump and roly-poly. Our love for them does not endure.

    "At length the pig perceives it die away
    And fade into the light of common day."

If it were not so we would not have the heart to slaughter our pigs and
turn them into necessary bacon. By the time they are full-grown they
have developed their piggish instincts to such an intolerable degree
that we are glad to be rid of them. Instead of berating me for being
lacking in affection, the editor should have drawn a lesson from the
fact that when the time comes to turn our hogs into bacon we are
mercifully enabled to do it without any wrench to our finer feelings. I
protest that at the present time I view the little pigs with tenderness
and affection, but when they are finally fattened I shall have no
compunctions about loading them into a car and shipping them to
Toronto--the place where every good Ontario pig goes when he dies.




_XXXIV.--Receiving_


Beatrice is having so many visitors that we are thinking of having a
guest book and requesting all callers to register. Certainly her family
is worth looking at, and up to the present there have been no
casualties. The whole nine are feeding and frisking and laying on fat.
It is really amazing how fast they are growing. They are not only
plumper, but more certain on their feet. Most of them can now stand on
three legs and scratch an ear with a hind foot without losing their
balance. And fight!--I am really ashamed of them. If a couple of the
little rascals meet when wandering around the pen they promptly rush at
each other with open mouths. Of course they are not able to do any
damage, and they may really be playing, but their actions look
bloodthirsty and they manage to raise weals and welts on each other's
skins with their little teeth. All of them have red marks along their
sides, faintly visible, that were caused by embryo tusks in these
little battles that are probably due to an instinct inherited from
fierce old tuskers of the jungle. When not fighting, most of their
waking hours are spent in efforts to root, though their big, floppy ears
seem to overbalance them and they fall on their noses when they try to
put steam in their work. But most of their time is devoted to sleep,
which also has its activities. They huddle together side by side and on
top of one another, and look like a pile of plump sausages. Every few
seconds one of them gives a convulsive little jump as if suffering from
nightmare, and the pile is never still. While watching them yesterday I
had a chance to verify an observation made by a friend. He told me that
in cold weather the little fellows at the end of the pile get chilled
and at once get up and root their way into the middle of the pile, where
they will be warm. At present the air is mild and they were not troubled
much in that way, but once when a draft from an open door struck them
the fellow on the outside felt a chill along his spine. He promptly got
up and pushed his way into the centre by lying on top of the others and
gradually wriggling down. Presently the one that was left exposed felt a
similar chill and followed the example of the first. One after another
went through the performance, and while I was watching them the sleeping
pile moved across the pen, as the changes were all being made from one
end. If it were really cold, so that the fellows on both ends would be
getting chilled and constantly pushing into the centre, their sleeping
hours would be almost as active as the waking hours. Beatrice has
quieted down since the first day and does not seem so much alarmed when
any one approaches. In fact, if one of the family is picked up and makes
a protesting squeal she merely grunts inquiringly. She is very proud of
her family, and already it is evident that she has her favourites. One
little fellow with a cow-lick on his back gets Benjamin's portion at
feeding time, and whenever he comes poking around her head she seems to
caress him with her nose instead of rooting him out of the way. But in a
few weeks she will bite their heads off if they come around her when she
is feeding. As soon as they are able to root for themselves her
affection for them will disappear.

    With half a squeal and half a howl
    At mealtimes Beatrice starts to prowl;
    Her family following close at her heels--
    Nine little pigs with nine little squeals.




_XXXV.--Feeding Time_


Pig feeding is now the noisiest function on the farm. The little pigs
are taking their share of skim milk and chop feed from the trough, and
when their complaining falsetto is added to the guttural roar of their
mother there is an intolerable racket on the place. Being every bit as
greedy as she is, they pile into the trough so that it is almost
impossible to get the feed before them. As Beatrice is always consumed
by an ambition to get her nose into the pail while the food is being
poured the work of feeding is accompanied by much kicking and language.
As this interesting family has the run of the barnyard its members have
considerable scope for enjoyment. The recent rains have made possible a
number of satisfactory wallows, and the little pigs get as thoroughly
plastered as their mother. I am not sure whether their care-free
condition excites envy, but I do know that they are not obliged to have
their ears washed and they can go to bed without having their feet
scrubbed--priceless privileges. Although it would be better if they had
a bit of pasture to run in, they are not entirely deprived of green
food. At noon every day they are allowed a run in the orchard with a boy
to watch them and keep them out of mischief. (N.B.--I must cheer up the
boy who has the job by telling him the history of the royal family of
Serbia, which is descended from a swineherd. Also I must encourage him
to read Ivanhoe and get acquainted with Gurth, the swineherd.)

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course it is a nuisance to have Beatrice and her family at large in
the barnyard, but the world must have bacon, even if we are not properly
equipped for hog-raising. All gates and doors must be kept closed at all
times or there is sure to be trouble. Still, her alert presence
disciplines us to tidiness and occasionally develops a bit of comedy.
Yesterday morning I arrived at the barnyard just in time to witness an
exciting little scene. The boy who looks after the hens had neglected to
take a pail with him when he went to the granary for chicken feed, and
thought he could carry it safely in a straw hat. With his hatful of oats
he turned to close the latch on the granary door, and Beatrice saw her
chance. With a quick rush she grabbed the hat by the crown. The boy
turned with a yell, but he was too late. For a couple of seconds there
was a tug-of-war--pull boy, pull pig, and then the hat tore apart. The
boy had the brim and Beatrice had the crown with its load of oats.
Holding her head aloft, as pigs do when trying to escape with some
tidbit, she held up the crown of the hat and rushed into her pen. She
didn't spill a grain and had a good feed all to herself in a dark
corner. The boy's first impulse was to cry, but when he saw me he began
to scold about having Beatrice loose in the barnyard. The joke was
spoiled for me later in the day when I found that it was my
cow-breakfast hat that had provided the sow breakfast. The boy had worn
it by mistake.




_XXXVI.--Beatrice Belligerent_


Yesterday I received from a correspondent a little jingle that deserves
wide publicity at a time when every one is interested in pigs.

    "A little pig with a curly tail
    As soft as satin and pinky pale
    Is a very different thing by far
    From the lumps of iniquity the big pigs are."

That expresses the situation to a T. The nine little pigs on the place
are playful, winsome and amusing, but their able mother, Beatrice, is a
loathsome creature. Among other depredations she put the finishing touch
on our lane. This lane is of evil repute among auto drivers who visit
us, on account of the twists and bumps in it. Well, Beatrice selected a
spot where a defective drain had left the ground soft and trenched it
with a luxurious wallow. Several visitors did not dare to take a chance
on her bathing beach when approaching the house, so left their autos in
the lane and came afoot. Beatrice has also made a couple of sudden
raids on the border of flowers beside the lawn, and managed to get a few
bulbs--whereat much lamentation. Really, it will be a relief when she
finally goes into retirement in a pen to prepare her for doing her bit
on some Allied breakfast table. But her family is still at the lovable
stage.




HORSES

[Illustration]




_XXXVII.--Dolly's Day Off_


I wonder if any scientist has figured out the exact properties of blue
grass. I don't remember seeing anything on the subject, but I am going
to look it up, for blue grass hay seems to have food qualities that are
not suspected by ordinary farmers. Besides being hay it must have the
protein content, fat, starch and all other things that are to be found
in a ration of alfalfa, rolled oats, oilcake and condition powders. It
seems to be as potent as that brand of old English ale of which it was
said that a quart contained "meat, drink and a night's lodging." Anyway,
our dowager driver has had nothing but blue grass to eat all winter, and
instead of developing "that tired feeling" as spring approaches she is
so full of "pep" that she is teaching mischief to her own colts. Of
course, she hasn't had much to do this winter, having convinced us that
trotting was too great a strain on her constitution, and that even
walking must be indulged in cautiously and slowly. In short, she had
managed by her conduct in the harness to have all the driving done by
the other horse, which is a willing if rough-gaited traveller. As we
couldn't spend a whole day on the road when it became necessary to go to
the village we stopped trying to use the old malingerer. And it is not
that she is so old, for she isn't. But whenever the harness was put on
her back she seemed to develop sleeping sickness or some other obscure
ailment, so we gave up using her except for farm work. But blue grass
will out, and now we have fathomed her deep duplicity. She has simply
been imposing on our good nature and there are strenuous days ahead for
her.

       *       *       *       *       *

A couple of days ago she and her colts were turned out for a run while
the chores were being attended to. They seemed to enjoy their freedom
and galloped around the field until they appeared to be tired. By the
time the chores were done they were all standing at the barnyard gate,
waiting to be let through, and I suspected nothing. When I opened the
gate I reached for Dolly's halter, but she wheeled in her tracks and let
fly at me with both heels. At the same instant the two-year-old crowded
up and I caught him instead. I led him to the stable door and started
him in and then turned to head off his mother, who had started towards
the lane. Instantly she squealed and started towards the road with the
yearling at her heels. The two-year-old heard her and popped out of the
stable.

A moment later the three of them were off towards the road, where the
gate had been left open on account of the snowdrifts. Not suspecting
anything more than an ordinary frolic, I stood by the stable and
whistled for them and called, "Cob Dolly" in my most seductive tones.
But it was useless. When they reached the road they rushed north until
checked by the drifts. Then they stopped, wheeled round and rushed
south, passing the gate as if they had no interest in it. Before
reaching the corner they slowed up. I whistled coaxingly and they
stopped to look back. At this critical point a man with a horse and
buggy turned the corner and started south. At once the three truants
started after him, Dolly in the lead, with her tail in the air. I
watched until they were almost a mile away, and then harnessed the other
horse, conscripted a boy into active service and started in pursuit of
the runaways. By the time we reached the road they were nowhere in
sight, having turned a corner about a mile away. The chase was now on in
earnest.

When we reached the corner we saw the frisky trio nosing along the road
and moving slowly to the east. Approaching cautiously as near as we
dared the boy started on a wide circuit through a wheat field so as to
get ahead of them. To any casual observer it would appear that he was
cutting across the field towards the village to the north, but Dolly is
no mean tactician herself, and she was not to be fooled. Before he had
time to swing towards the road she snorted defiance and galloped away,
with the colts at her heels. The boy came back to the road, climbed into
the buggy, and we started a stern chase. Presently the three turned in
at an open gate, and hope revived. If I could only get past that gate we
could head them off. But the farmer whose property they had invaded
thought he would help by "sicking" the dog on them. I drove wildly, but
it was no use. They beat me to the gate and raced along the road ahead
of me.

At this point I released about seven thousand calories of language, but
it didn't help any. It merely raised my personal temperature to about
one hundred and four. With tails up they galloped along until they came
to a little road that cut across a gore that had been left by the
original surveyors of the township. I saw a chance, and sent the boy
across the fields to head them off. As the little road had rail fences
on both sides it was choked with snowdrifts, so it looked as if this
manœuvre would work. They stopped, and the boy climbed over the fence
ahead of them. In the meantime I drove along until I had passed the
little road and took up a strategic position where I could head them off
and start them towards home as the boy drove them back. Alas for the
vanity of human wishes! The mail carrier had let down the fence a few
rods down the little road so as to avoid the drifts by crossing through
a field. Dolly saw the opening and took advantage of it at once. Into
the field they went.

       *       *       *       *       *

I admit that it was a beautiful sight to see them cavort around that
ploughed field. It reminded me of a passage in Mazeppa:

    "They stop, they snort, they sniff the air,
    Gallop a moment here and there,
    Approach, retire, wheel round and round,
    Then plunging back with sudden bound,
    They snort, they foam, neigh, swerve aside!"

But I didn't meditate on the poetry. Instead, I meditated fondly on a
blacksnake whip we used to own when I was a boy. It had a weighted
handle, and a long, snaky lash, and it was said that a man could draw
blood with it. If I had that whip and had Dolly where I could get at
her---- But it was no use thinking what I would do. Dolly had seen the
gap opening out of the far side of the field on to another road and she
led the way to it in high fettle. I believe they would have been going
yet had not a kind-hearted farmer who saw the approaching cavalcade
stepped out on the road and headed them off. This enabled the boy to get
ahead of them with the buggy whip. He started them towards home and I
managed to get them past my corner. Then they went into a pasture field
through an open gate they had missed on their outbound trip. Noticing
that they were hemmed in by a sheet of slippery ice I took an ear of
corn that we had brought along, and by cornering her and tempting her at
the same time I managed to catch her. But I didn't give her that ear of
corn, even though I know one should never fool a horse in that way. I
was afraid she might take it as a reward for her exploit.

When I led her back to the buggy I found that the rope we had taken
along had been lost in the excitement, but I was too mad to say anything
about it. For a dreary mile I led the brute along the road, and when we
reached the home corner I let her go and laid the buggy whip along her
ribs. Really there is little satisfaction in the cheap, light buggy
whips they make nowadays. I merely raised dust from her hide as if I
were beating a carpet, but I didn't feel that the cut I gave her had any
sting to it. When we reached the lane gate she went right past it. She
didn't intend to live with us any more. But another neighbour headed her
off and we finally got her home. This morning I hitched her up to drive
to the village. She started off slowly, picking her steps like a cat,
but I began signalling to her with the buggy whip that I was looking for
some of the speed she had shown the day before. Her hide is an excellent
non-conductor, but I finally made an impression. She eventually caught
my meaning and made a record trip to the village--I mean a record for
her. Now what I am wondering is what she would do if she were fed on
oats as well as blue grass. Anyway, I am going to cure her of the
sleeping sickness, even if I have to invest in a blacksnake whip.




_XXXVIII.--The Colt_


When I got home from the city I found that a great event had happened. A
colt had arrived, and although it was almost eleven o'clock on a cloudy
night, there was great disappointment because I would not take a lantern
and hunt through a fifteen-acre meadow to get a look at the little
stranger. I was firm on the point, however, and denied myself the
pleasure until the following morning. But we all went out to see the
colt before breakfast, much to the distress of Dolly, who thought we had
come to take him away and was ready to defend him with her life. She
circled around him with her ears laid back, and when any one approached
too near she unlimbered her heels for action. I foresee quite a job when
she must be caught and put into harness again. Considering the matter
from an artistic point of view, I fail to see why she should be so proud
of her offspring. At present he seems to be all neck and legs--like the
chickens they use to make boarding-house fricassees. His appearance
reminded me of a remark I once heard: "We shall soon have a horse, for
we already have the frame up." And besides being all legs, his legs are
all joints. Still, "he has his mother's eyes," and I suppose that makes
up for everything else. Real framers who have looked at him say that he
is the makings of a fine horse, and they have seen lots of colts at his
age that were more gangling and wobbly. Just now there is a fierce
discussion raging as to what he shall be named, but there is a strong
probability that he will be called "Brownie," though I am assured that
in a few years he will be called "The Old Grey."




_XXXIX.--Horse Contrariness_


It is bad enough to have wells go dry, but to have a horse complicate
matters by refusing to drink good, pure water when it is offered to her
and threaten to die of thirst unless given access to one particular
pond, is an added exasperation. One of the horses used to be quite well
satisfied with the somewhat inferior water in a tank at the barn, but
when it went dry she became as nifty and pernickety as a connoisseur of
rare wines. Although she goes to the village almost every day she
declines absolutely to drink village water--even pure, cold rock water
drawn from an artesian well. In the same way she sniffs superior at the
water from the house well--the water that we use every day for drinking
and cooking. It is not good enough for her. But there is a somewhat
disreputable pond at the other side of the wood lot and as far from the
stable as the farm will allow, and from this pond she is willing to
drink until she almost bursts. When she gets busy with it you would
think she was half camel and trying to lay up a supply that would last
at least four and a half days. The other horses are quite willing to
take a refreshing drink from the Government drain when nothing else is
handy, and this brought to light a strange peculiarity of the finicky
one. She is willing to drink from the Government drain sometimes, but
only from one particular spot in it. Lead her to any other part of the
drain and she will stand over the water without tasting it, but let her
get to her favourite spot and she will drink with relish even from a cow
track. As the water in the drain is flowing steadily I cannot see how it
can possibly taste better in one place than another. It is just a case
of pure cussedness on the part of that tiresome horse. I have trouble
enough doing the chores without catering to her whims. I am afraid that
some day I shall get real peevish and let her go dry till she is willing
to drink any decent water that is offered to her. I know there is a
proverb which says that "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't
make him drink," but I think if I set my mind to it I can make her
drink. Anyway, I have no intention of leading her to her favourite pond
twice a day when the weather gets below zero.




_XL.--A Great Scheme_


I have just discovered a new and effective way of gathering burrs, which
I take pleasure in passing along to farmers who may happen to read this
column. Along the Government drain at the end of the young orchard there
was a luxuriant growth of burdocks this year. I never saw them without
making up my mind to cut them--some other time. They throve lustily, and
as I was always a week behind my work I never found time to cut them, so
in due season they ripened and developed a crop of especially clinging
burrs. Occasionally I gathered a few of these burrs when hunting for
rabbits, and Sheppy gathered quite a few, but not enough to lessen the
supply very materially. But one day last week the two horses and two
colts got into the orchard because some one had carelessly left the gate
open. They had been there some time before they were discovered--but
their work was done. They had gathered every burr in the orchard. Those
that they did not get with their tails, manes and forelocks they got
with their fetlocks. The youngest colt, having longer hair than the
others, also managed to get quite a few on his sides. But between them
they managed to make a complete job. I doubt if you could find a burr in
the whole orchard, even if you made a careful search. When we got the
brutes in the stable all we had to do was to pick the burrs off them and
the job I had been intending to do all summer was done. At least it was
in a fair way to being done. By much diligence we got the horses that
must appear in public free from burrs, but the colts still carry some of
their trophies. Still I think we should get the job finished soon if we
have a few rainy days. Besides, the children can help on Saturdays. Real
farmers may not approve entirely of this method of gathering the burrs
on the farm, but I defy them to tell of any way in which the job can be
done more thoroughly. A lively colt will gather more burrs in ten
minutes than an industrious man can pick out of its mane and tail in a
day. I offer this plan to farmers for what it is worth, and I wouldn't
mind a bit if some of them called and helped me to pick the burrs from
the colt's tail. He is inclined to kick.




TURKEYS

[Illustration]




_XLI.--The Gobbler_


There are times when I wish that I had a proper scientific education.
For instance, I would like to know just now whether turkey gobblers ever
suffer from speaker's sore throat. None of the bulletins I have on hand
throws any light on the matter. It would cheer me considerably to learn
that gobblers occasionally suffer from aphonia or speechlessness. It
sometimes seems to me that our bubblyjock is getting hoarse, though he
is still able to gobble with vigour and authority. But unless he loses
his voice before long I shall have to wring his neck--no easy job--or do
without my usual amount of sleep. The trouble is all due to the fact
that when the turkey hen tried to hide her nest she selected a bunch of
long grass at the foot of a tree not far from the house. As she had been
put off the cluck a couple of times to make her lay the proper amount of
eggs it was decided to let her keep this nest. When she finally got
broody she was given seventeen eggs and allowed to settle down to the
task of incubating Christmas dinners. As far as she was concerned this
was all right, for she is a modest, quiet bird, whose presence would
never be noticed. But this is not the case with her lordly spouse. Every
morning at about a quarter to four he comes down from his perch on the
ridge-pole of the stable and struts down to see if his lady has passed a
comfortable night. As the grass is long and wet with dew he comes to the
lawn and sends her his morning greetings, and I can tell you that a
forty-pound gobbler can let out a very considerable amount of noise. He
gets right under my window and explodes into assorted sounds. Once a
minute, or oftener, he lets out a gobble, until I get up and throw a
shoe or a hairbrush at him. Then I go back to bed and try to sleep until
it is time to get up. If there is any way of treating his vocal cords so
as to stop this morning charivari I wish some scientist would write and
tell me about it. And, by the way, I can give him a little interesting
information in return. After she was given her eggs the turkey hen
evidently became dissatisfied with her nest and moved to a new location
about four feet away. In order to do this she had to move her eggs
through the long grass, but she didn't leave one behind. How did she
manage it?

       *       *       *       *       *

There is an interesting fact about turkeys that I think I have referred
to before, but as it has a political application at the present time I
am going to refer to it again. When the wilderness was conquered by the
pioneers the turkeys were the only important wild creatures that were
conquered with it. Apparently they believed in "peace at any price."
While the timid deer fled to more remote districts, and the wolves "died
in silence, biting hard," the turkeys allowed themselves to be deported
to the farmyards, and proceeded to eat from the hands of their
conquerors. But their spineless policy did them no good. Although they
are fed and pampered they have lost their wild freedom and every year
they are fattened for the tables of their masters. Those who believe in
peace at any price would do well to meditate on this. The peace that is
won at the price of submission is not worth having. Even though we may
hate war and regard it as a criminal folly, the only way to end it and
to secure a peace worth while is to fight heroically to put an end to
war. Before dismissing this analogy it is worth noting that the turkeys
are not the only wild creatures that survived the conquest of the
wilderness. The vermin, the skunks, and weasels also survived, but they
are not respected. There is probably a moral attached to this also, for
those who will take the trouble to study it out.

[Illustration]




_XLII.--His Troubles_


Last night when we were milking there was a sudden racket on the roof of
the cow-stable that scared the cows so that they stopped giving down.
You would think that a man with a wooden leg was having a fit on the
shingles right over our heads. The pounding, flopping and scratching on
the hollow roof made the stable resound like the big drum in an Orange
parade. I couldn't imagine what on earth was happening, but it only took
a step to get out doors and then the cause of the trouble was plain. The
old turkey gobbler had decided to roost on the ridge-board of the stable
and he was having the time of his life getting up the roof. He was using
his wings and his tail to balance himself as he clawed for a toe-hold,
and he showed none of the stately gracefulness that marks his movements
when he is strutting around the barnyard and proclaiming his
over-lordship. When he reached the ridge and caught his balance with a
final flip-flap of his broad tail he stretched his neck and looked
around to see if any of the young gobblers were grinning at him. They
were already quietly at roost with the mother hen at the far end of the
roof, and the noisy approach of their lord and king made them huddle
together in squeaking terror. Seeing that their attitude was respectful
he settled down on his wishbone for the night. Being young and light
they had flown gracefully to their chosen roost and doubtless could not
understand what was ailing him when he sprawled around like that. I
could sympathise with him better than they could, for when a man gets
heavy and gets chalky deposits in his joints the climbing stunts he did
as a boy become impossible. Time was when I could have walked up that
roof as jauntily as if I were on parade on an asphalt sidewalk, but I
suspect that if I tried it now I would make more noise than the old
gobbler.




_XLIII.--His Desertion_


Yesterday the old gobbler disappeared on a war expedition and did not
return last night. This morning I must organise a rescue party and go
after him. The party will be organised not to rescue him, but to rescue
the neighbour on whom he has billeted himself. No one has any idea which
direction he took, so we may have quite a hunt. But I am not afraid of
losing him. An apoplectic gobbler of his size is easy to identify. But
the old pirate should be at home, looking after his family, which is at
present breaking through the shell. Last season he was a most devoted
parent and looked after his family with unflagging care. He took them to
the woods to get beechnuts and still kept one eye on the granary door,
so that they could be on hand when the chickens were being fed. This
year he will not have so large a flock to look after, but that does not
excuse him for desertion and neglect. He must be rounded up, brought
home and reminded of his duties. Much of the time during the past month
he stood, in a very dignified manner, near the nest where his mate has
been brooding, so I am surprised that he should have deserted just when
his family is breaking from the shell. But a thought strikes me. Perhaps
the old rounder is away celebrating.

[Illustration]




_XLIV.--His Belligerency_


Now that his mate is hopefully hatching on a promising nestful of eggs,
the old gobbler finds time hanging heavy on his hands and by way of
diversion is proceeding to beat up all other gobblers in the
neighbourhood. Whenever he hears another gobbler, no matter how faintly,
he lets out a wrathful gobble and starts across the fields to trample on
his rival. Neighbours have had to drive him home in order to save their
flocks, for he is in the heavyweight class, and no ordinary country bird
has any show with him. Of course, when we found out what he was up to we
penned him in, but occasionally he makes his escape, and it takes quick
work to keep him from crossing the fields and committing mayhem and tort
and doing grievous bodily harm to well-meaning gobblers that venture to
gobble their opinions about things. I wouldn't mind so much if he headed
down the road on one of his foraging expeditions, for there is an ecru
gobbler suffering from delusions of grandeur that I have a grudge
against. One day when I was driving to the village with the colt this
earth-coloured gobbler seemed to rise out of the road in front of us,
with a great spreading of tail, fluffing of feathers and rubbing of
wings. His appearance was so startling that the colt shied, and in less
than five seconds we were all piled in the ditch. The colt didn't get
away and nothing was smashed, but things were pretty lively while the
disturbance lasted. If I could only give our warlike bubblyjock the
address of that particular gobbler, and he would go after him, I
wouldn't mind his offensives.

[Illustration]




_XLV.--His Cares_


The big gobbler is a changed bird these days. The cares of fatherhood
are weighing heavily upon him. A few days ago he came across a Plymouth
Rock hen that had hatched out a clutch of turkeys. Although they are
barely able to toddle around, the gobbler recognised them at once as
part of his family and took up his duties as parent in a most
commendable manner. With a subdued and responsible air he follows the
old hen and the little poults wherever they go, stepping softly and
refraining from noisy gobbling. But I am afraid he is not entirely
satisfied with the foster mother of his family. After the last big
thunderstorm he came up to the door where I was sitting and was
evidently very much put out about something. He was wet to his last
feather and I have seldom known him to be in such a bad humour. Possibly
the old Plymouth Rock didn't act as a turkey mother should during a
thunderstorm. Anyway, he seemed to hold me responsible for whatever
went wrong, for he stood out on the lawn and swore at me for half an
hour. When I began to get tired of the rumpus and was reaching for a
copy of Hansard to throw at him Sheppy came around the corner of the
house. The bubblyjock discreetly sidestepped behind the lilac bushes,
for one thing that Sheppy can't endure is a hen, turkey or other fowl on
the lawn. In spite of his complaints the gobbler is still looking after
his duties as a father. A little while ago when the sun was hot I saw
him standing beside his flock tail down, head pulled in like a turtle's
and his wings spread out. He had converted himself into a sort of
feathered pergola, under which his children might have taken shelter.
But they paid no attention to him. Under the busy and clucking guidance
of the old hen they were pursuing the elusive fly and other appetising
insects.




_XLVI.--His Prussianism_


I don't see how the children failed to name the turkey gobbler. He is
the most distinct character on the farm just now, but they have not
given him a name. Perhaps they felt that they were not equal to the
task. He is in a constant state of belligerency. As he is a
super-turkey, weighing at least forty pounds, he is able to make quite a
stir. Apparently he has laid to heart Nietzsche's advice and proposes to
"Live dangerously." His mildest moments are threatening, and when he
gobbles and rubs his wings on the ground he is an embodied offensive.
This morning he renewed a trick that was a favourite with him last
summer. At daybreak he began to air his grandeurs under my bedroom
window and there was no more sleeping from that time. But as it is
necessary to be up betimes in this spring weather I did not object. But
if he keeps it up in the summer, when daybreak comes shortly after 3
o'clock, there will be trouble.

[Illustration]




DOGS

[Illustration]




_XLVII.--A Moral Tale_


The general slipperiness of things has been a great boon to Sheppy.
Although I have seen him lose his footing several times, he gets along
much better than the cows or the colts. As it is his daily chore to
start the animals on their way to the Government drain to get their
drink, he is now able to satisfy some old grudges. In ordinary weather
he has to be very watchful for flying heels and prodding horns, but just
now the animals have to concentrate their minds on keeping their feet
under them, and are at a disadvantage when it comes to self-defence.
Sheppy is now able to slip in on them and nip their heels, and they do
not dare to take a chance on kicking at him. They find it hard enough to
navigate with all four feet under them and their toe nails all in use,
and an attempt to balance on two feet, or even three, would almost
surely mean disaster. He was having such a high old time that I was
thinking of scolding him away at watering time, but this morning
something happened that gave me an excellent hint, and, besides, gives
me a chance to moralise wisely. A few minutes before the cattle were
turned out some one gave Sheppy a bone. It was a nice fresh bone that
offered much palatable gnawing, and he was taking no chances on losing
it. When he started to do his morning chore he carried the bone in his
mouth, and the result was that he drove the animals without nipping them
or making them wiggle too wildly over the ice. Ah, my friends, how often
have I seen an ardent reformer, who was in the habit of herding the
unregenerate, abate his passion for reform when he happened to get a
nice juicy bone in his mouth! Yea, I have even known newspapers and
political parties to be made much more temperate in their expressions of
opinion by the timely contribution of a few bones. Here assuredly is a
lesson for all of us.

[Illustration]




_XLVIII.--Sheppy's First Coon Hunt_


Last night Sheppy was initiated into the mysteries of coon-hunting. The
opinion has prevailed in the neighbourhood for some time past that coons
are becoming plentiful again. Their tracks have been seen along the
government drains and around watering ponds where they probably went to
hunt for frogs. Moreover, before the corn was cut ears were found partly
stripped and gnawed, and the work was pronounced by experts who had been
coon-hunters in the old days as the work of coons. The matter was
brought to a head yesterday when I saw coon tracks on the sideroad while
driving home from the village. It was unquestionable that there were
coons in the neighbourhood, and a coon hunt was quite in order. Of
course, we had no reason to believe that Sheppy would prove to be a good
coon-dog, but he has a hasty way of dealing with woodchucks and muskrats
that he manages to catch at a distance from their holes, and more than
once he has tracked rabbits though he has never managed to catch one.
The only way to find out whether he had in him the makings of a coon-dog
would be to try him. After discussing the matter with an eager boy it
was decided that we would sneak away from the house after all the chores
were done and give Sheppy a tryout. We would have to sneak in order to
keep the younger children from begging to be taken along. Having laid
our plans we managed to sneak away about half past eight, after giving a
warning whisper in the right quarter that we might be away for a couple
of hours. Sheppy seemed doubtful about the wisdom of taking a night
ramble, but after some coaxing he decided to come along.

       *       *       *       *       *

We took the dog to our own cornfield first and were gratified to see how
thoroughly he entered into the game. It was a dim night with the moon
almost hidden by thin clouds, but there was enough light for us to see
Sheppy racing over the cornfield in the most approved manner of the
coon-dogs of a bygone age. He crossed and recrossed it thoroughly
without finding even a mouse--if he had found one we should have known
for he is a gifted mouser and often gets a mouse when crossing the
pasture. When he had done the cornfield thoroughly we decided to put
him through the wood-lot, and after starting him in with an encouraging
"Hunt him up, sir," we sat on the bars in the fence and waited. We had
not been waiting long before a sound of distress was heard. A cat was
meowing piteously along the path over which we had just walked. There
was no doubt about it. "Lady Jane Grey" had noticed us starting out and
had decided to share in the fun. But she was evidently in distress and
the boy started back to see what was the matter. He found her in the
branches of a shade-tree in which she had evidently sought refuge from
Sheppy, who would not recognise her so far away from home at night.
After she had been rescued and "scatted" back to the house we sat on the
bars and waited patiently for the dog. At last he returned to us panting
as if he had run for miles. There was no doubt about it. He was working
splendidly and would probably need only a little training to make him a
first rate coon-dog. But he had not managed to locate anything on the
home farm so we decided to visit a neighbour's corn-patch which backs
against the largest wood-lot in the neighbourhood. The wood-lots on four
farms happen to be on four corners where the line fences cross, and the
result is a wood-lot about four times as large as can be found on
ordinary farms. Besides there are still some big elms left in this patch
and if there would be coons anywhere it would be there. We started
towards this happy hunting ground with Sheppy in the lead. We climbed
over two wire fences in crossing the road and the second one was too
tight for Sheppy. He could not get through so he ran along the road
until he came to a rail fence and then he travelled parallel with us on
the other side of another wire fence that would not let him through. We
were sorry for this at first but afterwards we were glad. When we had
travelled about twenty rods through the field towards the other wood-lot
Sheppy suddenly began to show signs of excitement. He began to run round
with his nose to the ground and was quite evidently following a trail of
some kind. Presently he started away across the pasture field he was in
and was lost to sight. A moment later there were a series of sharp
snarling barks and the boy was filled with sudden alarm. He remembered
that there were sheep in that field so I whistled for Sheppy. After a
bit we saw him coming--he is largely marked with white--and his nose was
to the ground. In fact he seemed to be fairly ploughing it through the
long grass. We debated for a moment whether he had been molesting the
sheep and then things began to happen. The boy was nearer to the wire
fence than I was and Sheppy tried to get as close to him as possible.
Suddenly the boy yelled, "Wow! Whew!" and began to act as if he had
taken an emetic. I had no time to solve the mystery before the wind blew
on me and I understood. Sheppy had not been bothering the sheep. No
indeed. Sheppy had been having an argument with a skunk and there was
strong reason--very strong--to suppose that he got the worst of it. It
was then that we were glad that there was a tight wire fence between us
and Sheppy. After failing to get the sympathy he was looking for he
proceeded to wipe his nose on the grass. Then he found a hole of water
and wallowed in it. He evidently felt a wild need of a bath. I don't
think I ever saw a dog so earnest about his toilet. When he got out of
the water hole he wiped himself dry on the grass by lying on his side
and pushing himself along with his feet. Then he rolled over and wiped
the other side. Still he was not satisfied. He rubbed his nose with his
paws for a while and then plunged into the water hole again. And all the
time we mingled wild laughter with words of mourning and wondered what
on earth we would do. At last we decided that we might as well call off
the hunt as he couldn't trail an automobile, much less a coon, after
getting such a dose. So we started towards the road with Sheppy still on
the other side of the fence. He kept abreast of us as we moved homeward,

    "An amber scent of odorous perfume
    His harbinger."

When we reached the road Sheppy came along like a comet with a tail of
odour streaming out behind him. He seemed to be trying to run away from
it, but it was no use. If he could quote Milton he would no doubt have
said:

    "Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell."

After noisily repulsing his attempts to nuzzle against us for sympathy
we sat on another set of bars and moodily reviewed the situation. It was
far from probable that our home-coming would be the signal for
rejoicing. Sheppy is the family pet and now his usefulness as a pet was
seriously impaired. While we were talking this over Sheppy came and
stood right under us. That ended the talk. We went away from there.
Finally, after many hesitations, we reached the house and through the
kitchen window looked at a scene of domestic peace. The family was
assembled around the table reading. The temptation was too great for the
boy. Sheppy was standing at the door, and stepping forward the boy
opened it and quietly let him in. For a few seconds there was no change
in the peaceful scene. Then arose a wild cry of dismay. The family
bulged out of the kitchen through both doors. It was a good thing that
there were two doors or someone might have been trampled on. Every one
wanted fresh air. In fact I never knew fresh air to be so much in favour
as it was for a few minutes. Poor Sheppy came out again to see what all
the excitement was about and seemed hurt that his best friends went back
on him so unanimously. When peace was restored and the house aired, we
were allowed to enter, though insinuations were cast out that we smelled
about as bad as the dog. This was a libel, however. This morning Sheppy
found himself so unpopular that he went out to the cornfield to catch
mice when the shocks were overturned for husking. When he came home at
noon he looked hurt and humiliated and stood about a rod away from me
and looked as if he thought I was to blame for all the trouble. I am
not sure but he was right. Anyway he and I know that there is truth in
the political maxim: "When you fight with a skunk it doesn't matter
whether you win or lose; you are bound to stink after it." We are hoping
that it will wear off before spring.

[Illustration]




_XLIX.--A Rabbit Chase_


This morning after the chores were done I decided that I should take a
look at the young orchard to see that mice and rabbits were not damaging
the little trees. The sun was shining, and as most of the snow
disappeared in the recent thaw it was the best day for a ramble that we
have had since winter began. And I am glad that I went, for I not only
enjoyed the fresh air but had a few minutes of excitement that started
the blood coursing in my veins. Sheppy decided that he would like a
ramble too, and thereby hangs a tale. While I was examining the trees he
made little excursions about the field nosing for mice. While I was
rejoicing that there were none for him to find and because there were no
rabbit tracks I almost stepped on a little cotton-tail that had a form
in a bunch of wild grass that was shaded by a big weed. The rabbit
popped out, and at the same instant I yelled, "Sic him!" Sheppy was a
few rods away, but when he saw the game he let out one quick, yapping
bark and gave chase. The rabbit had started towards a haystack at the
other side of the field, but when the dog took after him he changed his
mind and began to circle towards the south. He looked like a streak of
brown fur, and about four rods behind him Sheppy looked like a streak of
black and white. Both stretched themselves out until their bellies
seemed to touch the ground, but my eye could not detect any change in
the distance between them. Neither seemed to gain an inch. They kept it
up for about thirty rods and then Sheppy stumbled over a corn stubble
and lost a few feet. The race went on in absolute silence until they
reached the wire fence at the road. The rabbit slipped through and
Sheppy had to stop. He ran around and barked with rage as his quarry
scooted up a neighbour's lane and disappeared among some piles of rails.
I then had time to examine the cosy form where the rabbit had been
resting. After noting how nicely it was lined with grass I ruthlessly
kicked it to pieces, for rabbits are not to be encouraged in a young
orchard. I could not find that he had done any damage, but I am not
taking any chances, and this afternoon I am going to take the rifle and
Sheppy and hunt through the orchard carefully. After the race was over
Sheppy was so much ashamed of his failure that he went back to the house
without coming near me. When I got home he thrust his muzzle into my
hand and wagged his tail and tried to make me understand that rabbits
are not in his line. A slow-footed woodchuck suits him better. But I am
going to train him to chase rabbits, even if he cannot catch them, for
if he keeps them moving they may decide that they are not popular here
and move away to some one else's orchard.

[Illustration]




_L.--Fights and Feuds_


I don't know why it is, but every time there is something interesting
going on, like a political meeting or a dog-fight, I am always away from
home or I have a previous engagement of some kind. Here is Sheppy having
a whole series of fights to maintain the supremacy of the farm, the
freedom of the concession line, and his place in the sun, and I haven't
seen one of them. According to the uncensored and detailed reports I
have received, the fights were well worth seeing, and Sheppy acquitted
himself in a creditable manner. The trouble is all due to a couple of
dogs belonging to a gang of ditchers working in the neighbourhood. These
dogs--a big hound and a little terrier--have done so much coon-hunting
in their day that they consider themselves at liberty to roam wherever
they please. Several times they insolently crossed our fields and that
is something that Sheppy will not stand for. Any dog that ventures on
this farm has to put up a fight for the privilege. Up to date Sheppy
has defended his dominions successfully, but in all previous battles he
has had to deal with one dog at a time. But it seems that the present
invaders have learned in many coon-fights that team play is best and
their tactics have been surprising and somewhat discomfiting. Sheppy
scorns to attack the terrier, which wouldn't make a decent mouthful for
him, but when he grapples with the hound the terrier catches him by a
hind leg or by the tail, and as I guess a little dog's bite hurts just
as much as a big one's, Sheppy can't give his undivided attention to the
hound. I am told that in the first scrap he kept whirling around
distributing his bites impartially and managed to chase both the other
dogs off the farm, but in later attacks they worried him some. When I
came home he whimpered around me and showed me his scratched nose and
tried his best to tell me about his troubles. He had done his best to
protect the farm during my absence at the village, and it was quite
evident from his manner that he thought he deserved some praise and
petting. I sympathised with him entirely, but I half regret that the
ditchers have moved on with their dogs. I shall not have a chance to see
Sheppy in action with two dogs. But I never have any luck.

Sheppy has a standing feud with a neighbour's dog that is amusing rather
than bloodthirsty. Though they have been barking at each other and
threatening each other with much bad language for three or four years, I
don't think they have come to grips yet. Whenever either of them starts
barking at anything the other immediately flies into a rage and begins
to make disparaging remarks in a loud tone of voice. Sometimes Sheppy
goes half way across the field towards his enemy, barking defiance, but
when his enemy finally gets mad and runs towards him he rushes back to
the house to safety. In the same way the neighbour's dog sometimes comes
half-way across the field, making insulting remarks, until Sheppy
finally gets so mad that he starts after him. The neighbour dog then
makes a strategic retreat. I don't think I have ever seen them nearer
than ten rods to each other, and I don't think they have ever had a
fight, but they keep up their quarrelling every day. I suspect that each
has so impressed the other with his prowess that if they ever met
accidentally they would both run for their lives. On moonlight nights
they keep up such a rumpus that no one in the neighbourhood can get any
sleep until both are taken indoors and ordered to be quiet.




CATS




_LI.--A Page of High History_


This is the story of a "harmless, necessary cat." I think I told you
some time ago that the children make it a practice to name their cats
after prominent personages in history and public life. Lady Jane Grey is
a gentle, domesticated cat of many admirable qualities and her name
seems very appropriate. Her fur is grey, her table manners perfect, and
in disposition she is kind and affectionate. The other cats have been
named with equal judgment and discretion, but I dare not mention their
names for fear that public men who have not been honoured might feel
jealous. I had become quite accustomed to the high sounding names of the
household pets, and had acquired the habit of inquiring every night at
bedtime for the whereabouts of certain distinguished persons. Often and
often when shutting up the house for the night I have kicked out some of
our most honoured names just as ruthlessly as if I were an office-hungry
Opposition returning to power. And now it is my privilege to record a
great event. New Year's Day there was great news. The children learned
with pride and delight that their favourite cat had been honoured with a
title. Instantly there was wild excitement. The distinguished cat was
called by his familiar name, and finally was found in a shed, where he
was trying to think up some scheme for commandeering a quarter of beef
that hung beyond his reach. He was hurried into the house for the
ceremony of dubbing, and while the preparations were being made he
purred as contentedly as if he knew just what was happening. I was
really surprised to see how well the children understood what to do.
While one held him in a respectful attitude in front of a Morris chair
another got the carving knife and prepared to administer the accolade.
There was only a moment's pause while they asked me to indicate the
exact spot on his neck that should be smitten by the ennobling sword.
Then they completed the ceremony with

    "a ribband to stick in his coat."

       *       *       *       *       *

As cats are by nature the most aristocratic of animals, this one took
his new honours with the air of one who was used to them, though he
caused some criticism by switching his tail in an unknightly fashion.
Seated high on a sofa cushion, he purred contentedly and received the
homage of his loyal retainers. He closed his eyes, bristled up his
whiskers and smiled like a Cheshire cat. Even Sir Jingo McBore could not
have given him any pointers on noble and knightly conduct. I am afraid
that if he receives much more homage of this kind he will become too
haughty to associate with the other cats and will pose as "the cat that
walks alone." Still his nature may not be changed entirely by his
new-found honours. I noticed that once in a while he would stretch out a
paw in a sleepy way and spread his claws as if he were dreaming of mice,
for he has been a famous mouser. I hate to think that he may become a
social butterfly on account of his title, but a stanza from Calverly
haunts my memory. As nearly as I can remember it runs like this:

    "In vain they set the cream jug out
      And cull the choice sardine,
    I fear he never more will be
      The cat that he has been."




_LII.--A Spring Orgy_


Yesterday the children called me to see an amusing exhibition that
breathes the spirit of spring. The house cat, fat and lazy, had found a
little patch of catnip that had started showing signs of growth. He was
biting at it as if he were going to eat grass like an ox. After he
managed to get some fragments of leaves into his mouth and had swallowed
them he lay down and began to roll over. He kicked his legs into the
air, rolled around, wallowed and otherwise acted foolishly. The catnip
seemed to fill him with a spring madness that induced all kinds of
foolish excesses. Finally he jumped into the air with the playfulness of
a kitten and rushed around the corner of the house, switching his tail
and acting as if he had renewed his youth. By the way, I may as well
record an observation about this cat while I am at it. He is inclined to
be pampered in the matter of food, for he is always around begging when
any one is eating, but in spite of this fact he is a famous mouser.
Hardly a day passes that I do not see him coming out of the orchard with
a mouse, and some days he gets two or three. I have heard it said that
only well-fed cats are good mousers, and I think there may be something
in it. They go mousing just as a well-fed sportsman goes hunting.




BIRDS

[Illustration]




_LIII.--A Disgusted Blackbird_


I know it was a low-down thing to do, but I did it with the best of
intentions--though I am afraid the blackbirds will never understand.
They will probably think that after the good work they did in eating
white grubs, cut-worms and other pests while I was preparing the corn
ground, I should have treated them differently. But it was just because
they did so much good work that I treated them so badly. I was so
grateful to them that I did not want to treat them in the usual way when
the corn came up. In past years it was the custom to loaf around with a
double-barrelled shot-gun about the time the corn was coming through the
ground, but this year the blackbirds were unusually plentiful, and as
the season was late they probably had many broods of young to feed.
Anyway they came to the corn field in flocks and followed the plough,
disc and harrow, picking up every worm and bug that came in sight. They
demonstrated the fact that they are true friends of the farmer, even
though they may have faults. So when it came time to plant the corn we
gave the seed grain a good coating of tar, and then rolled it in ashes
to dry it. This used to be a common practice many years ago, though I
haven't seen any one doing it of late years. It certainly made the corn
about as unappetising as anything possibly could, so I was not
surprised, when I went to the corn field a few mornings after the
planting, to find a blackbird sitting on the fence, coughing and
spitting and using unparliamentary language. But I will take part of
that back. Some of the language used by parliamentarians during the past
few months has been of a kind that makes me wonder if any kind of
language can possibly be unparliamentary. But to get back to the
blackbird. He evidently thought I had played it low down on him after
the way he had helped me in the matter of grubs, and I had no way of
telling him that like a lot of human beings who do disagreeable things
to one another I had done it "for his own good." A little tar and ashes
in his beak was a greater kindness to him than a charge of bird shot.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now, I dare say there will be some scientific persons who will sniff
superior and say that my remarks about the blackbird coughing, spitting
and cussing are only nonsensical romancing. That is the trouble with
scientists. They observe things in nature in so matter-of-fact a way
that they never get at the real truth. Moreover, I have long been
convinced that only the observations we make about ourselves are of any
use in trying to get at the feelings of others. For instance, I can
remember a time when I would loaf along and observe a man digging in a
ditch. Seeing him at so excellent and necessary a task I would imagine
that he was full of fine ideas about the nobility of labour and the
great virtue of the work he was doing, and I might even try to write a
song of ditching to express what he felt but was unable to voice. Lately
I did some ditching, and I know that my earlier observations were all
wrong. If a man came along wearing summer flannels and paused to observe
me and tried to understand my emotions and thoughts while doing a very
necessary piece of ditching, my thoughts would have run somewhat as
follows: "I wonder what that pop-eyed rabbit means by standing there
gaping at me. I wonder if I couldn't accidentally splash him with some
of this mud." And all the time I was doing a noble piece of work and
knew it, but that was the way I felt about it. I am willing to bet a
cookie that when I was doing my observing in comfort on the dry bank the
thoughts of the man sloshing around in the ditch were much like those
expressed above. And I am by no means inclined to confine this method of
interpretation and observation to human beings. My dealings with birds
and animals have convinced me that each of them has as distinct a
character and personality as any human being. So when I try to imagine
the emotions of a blackbird that has sampled a grain of tarred corn,
that he has dug up with much labour, I merely try to imagine what I
would do and say if some one whom I had helped with his work had put
coal tar in my salad. I am afraid that having more capacity for spitting
I would spit harder than the blackbird, and having command of a larger
vocabulary I would use worse language and more of it. Making my
observations in this way I have no compunctions about explaining the
state of mind of the blackbird as I did, and I defy any scientist in the
lot to prove that I am wrong. And the best of it all is that the
blackbirds soon got wise and stopped trying to dig out my corn.




_LIV.--A Visitor_


Yesterday morning a distinguished visitor spent a few minutes with me in
the sugar bush. To be exact, I was aware of his presence for a few
minutes. He may have been with me for quite a while, though I didn't
notice him. When I got to the wood-lot I had only one idea, and that was
to save sap. It had been running all night. Some buckets were
overflowing and others brimming dangerously, and I had to hustle around
with a pail before giving attention to anything else. When I put a stop
to the waste I lit the fire under the pan and got the work of boiling it
properly started. Then I had leisure to notice that the crows were
making a racket. Glancing towards the centre of the disturbance, I was
surprised to see a huge bird sitting in the top of the biggest maple,
about fifteen rods from where I was working. My first thought was that
it was a great horned owl, but it was altogether too large. Although the
crows were noisy they did not approach very near the object of their
wrath, which seemed royally unconscious of their clamour. I walked
towards the tree--the sole remnant of the original forest, a huge maple
that is over three feet in diameter at the base, and which reaches fully
thirty feet above the second-growth trees by which it is surrounded.
When I was within about forty yards of the tree my visitor stretched his
neck and turned to look at me. It was a magnificent bald eagle--the
first I had ever seen outside of a zoological garden. I was near enough
to catch the glint of his fierce eye. He gave me "the once-over" with an
expression of haughty disdain, such as I have seen on the face of a bank
President who has been forced to look at something that has spoiled his
day. Then he turned toward the rising sun, leaned forward as if making
obeisance, and launched himself into the morning with a wide beat of
wings. He paid no attention to the pursuing crows. After a few powerful
strokes he swung up on a vast spiral and sailed away to the east.
Although he was so unsociable, I was glad to have seen him, and I had a
really exciting story to tell the children when they got home from
school in the evening.




_LV.--A Farewell_


I feel safe in announcing that the great blue heron that spent the
summer spearing for frogs and tonging for clams in the Government drain
has finally gone south. By this time he is probably toning up his
digestion on a diet of young alligators and electric eels while

          "Hid from view
    By the tall, liana'd, unsunned boughs
      O'erbrooding the dark bayou."

For a time it looked as if he intended staying with us all winter. The
bird books say that the blue herons leave for the south about the middle
of September, and I was ready to bid him good-bye about the time we were
picking the apples, but he lingered on through October. When November
came and he was still wading in the drain or flapping slowly across the
fields, with Sheppy trying frantically to bite his trailing toes, I
began to be afraid that something ailed him. But he flew strong at all
times, and some other explanation must be found for his lingering in
the lap of winter. And he lingered in winter's lap all right. Every week
in November he was seen quite as frequently as during the summer. Even
the first flurries of snow did not drive him away. As the streams were
still free from ice he probably found no difficulty in getting his
living, and he put off the trip south as long as he dared. The last time
I saw him was on the 5th of December, when he crossed over, flying high
and headed due south. Something about him, as they say in novels, told
me that this would be positively his last appearance for the season.
There was a snowstorm in progress at the time, and it was freezing.
Canada was no place for a bird that, according to the best scientific
authorities, should have gone south almost three months ago. He has not
been seen since that last flight, and as the streams are not only frozen
over but drifted full of snow, it is not likely that we shall see him
again. Sheppy now has to take his exercise by chasing sparrows.


GENERAL




A BALLAD OF BUGS


    My Dooley potatoes have bugs on their tops,
      Hard ones and soft ones that eat day and night;
    There is something the matter with all of my crops--
      A bug or a worm or a pest or a blight.
    My orchard of apples, in which I delight,
      Is a codling moth heaven--my cherries have slugs--
    O pity the farmer who works with his might--
      Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs.

    The tomato worm crawls, the grasshopper hops,
      The aphid sucks juice, the rose chafers bite,
    The curculio stings till the little plum drops
      And the damage they do on the farm is a fright.
    In vain we seek help from the fellows who write
      Of "Production and Thrift"--intellectual mugs--
    The farmer must hustle and keep up the fight--
      Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs.

    The bug on the farm with his appetite stops,
      When his "tummy" is filled he is ready for flight,
    But the Big Bugs who work in the law-making shops
      Are grabbing for all that is lying in sight.
    They have tariffs and tricks like good old "vested right"
      And the voter they lead by his long hairy lugs.
    They are the pests that I want to indict--
      Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs.


ENVOY.

    Prince, our exploiters, with insolent spite,
      Picture the farmers as mossbacks and thugs,
    But you, if you knew them, would pity their plight,
      Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs.




_LVI.--The Whole Bunch_


All the signs seem to be right for doing a bulletin on the farm live
stock. During the past week three correspondents have asked me about
Sheppy and old Fenceviewer, and last night at milking time the whole
aggregation forced themselves on my attention. It happened this way: In
the afternoon two little pigs that are taking the rest cure and
fattening for winter pork, managed to break out of their pen in the
orchard and raid the shed where the chop feed and skim-milk are kept. As
no one had time to fix their pen they were put in the cow-stable for
safe keeping. That started the whole chain of circumstances. When it
came milking time we couldn't put in the cows because of the pigs. We
had to milk in the field. While the milking was in progress the colts
came galloping up to nose around for salt and they scared the cows. I
started to throw clods and sticks at the colts to drive them away, and
that started the turkey gobbler swearing at me. By the time I got the
colts scattered and the cows gathered again I found that a titled cat
was helping himself from the pail of milk that I had incautiously placed
on the ground. Just because there was a nail loose in the pigpen I got
in trouble with all the live stock. Hence this article. I have a feeling
that there is a moral connected with that--let me see. Isn't there an
improving tale about the horseshoe nail that was lost which caused the
horseshoe to be lost, which caused the horse to be lost, which caused
the man to be lost, etc.? Anyway, I didn't stop to puzzle out the moral.
I simply kicked the cat in the wishbone and resumed the task of milking
a fly-bitten cow with an active tail. In the humour I was in she was
mighty lucky that I didn't kick her, too.

       *       *       *       *       *

I don't like to accuse cows of being interested in politics, but they
are acting very much like it. For the past week they have been doing a
lot of bawling, both by day and by night, and I can't for the life of me
make out what they are bawling about. That sounds as if they were
indulging in political discussions, doesn't it? Besides, one day last
week Fenceviewer II. bolted the convention. Word was brought to the
house that she was missing from the pasture field. As I was busy at
something else I sent the two littlest boys to hunt for her. Not being
versed in the guile of cows and being full of youthful pity they went to
the well in the woods to see, if by any chance, she had fallen in. When
I got through with my chore I joined the hunt, but I didn't go to look
in the well. No, indeed. I headed straight for the oat field. I didn't
know how she could get in, but as the oat field was the nearest point
where she could get into mischief I knew she would be there. And I was
not disappointed. As soon as I reached the field I saw her horns and the
red line of her back above the waving heads. A hurried investigation
showed that she had entered by the Government drain. The last time the
drain had been flooded a lot of grass got caught on the barbed wires
that served as a water fence, and not only covered the barbs, but
weighed down the wires so that she could step through. Calling the boys
to help me, we drove her out and fixed the fence. Now, wouldn't you
regard the action of that cow as having a political colouring? She left
the others to get into a place where the pasture was better--a customary
political move. But I hope the cows do not become too political, for I
have noticed that political leaders are so confused that they no longer
favour us with illuminating interviews, and I am afraid that if the cows
get too much mixed up they will not give down either.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course, I may be wrong in accusing the turkey gobbler of cursing, but
I do not think so. No matter what language man uses, if he speaks as
earnestly as that gobbler and in the same tone of voice, it is perfectly
safe for a policeman to run him in on a charge of using "profane and
abusive language," and the court interpreter will show that he was
right. Moreover, the gobbler has had family troubles to try his temper
this summer. Two flocks of his children were raised by hens, and in
spite of his strutting and blandishments they refuse to have anything to
do with him. Instead they obey the clucking of the mother hen, and
"tweet" disdainfully at their haughty sire. In addition, his lawful
spouse doesn't seem to care to have him around while she is looking
after her flock. She is apparently a suffragette and quite competent to
look after her own affairs. Even when a thunderstorm comes up the
youngsters do not turn to the old man for protection. That led to a
rather pathetic picture a short time ago. A sudden storm roused the
paternal instinct in the old fellow. Taking his place near the little
flock he spread out his tail and ample wings so that they touched the
ground and offered an excellent shelter, but the ungrateful creatures
refused to notice him. No wonder his temper seems to have gone bad. He
is forced to flock by himself and the lonely life leads him to brood on
his wrongs. Since the beginning of the hay harvest he has roosted on the
front ladder of the hayrack, and when either man or beast has passed him
he has gobbled viciously and "cursed them by their gods." If there is
any truth in the old saying that curses, like chickens, come home to
roost, that turkey will have a terrible time of it if the curses he has
uttered this summer ever decide to hold an old home week. Though he is a
big bird, only a small percentage of them will be able to find a
roosting place.

Even though Sheppy did not figure in the rumpus when I was chasing away
the colts that scared the cows and led to my kicking the titled cat, he
was in the offing, with his tongue hanging out. He had done his work of
bringing the cows to the pasture gate, and was in a position to watch
the disturbance with the air of one who had done his work properly and
did not need to concern himself with vulgar rows. At the present time
Sheppy lacks something of his customary steam owing to a rather serious
blood-letting. One afternoon he came to the door with blood dripping
freely from the end of his tail. I thought he would be competent to look
after his wounds, but I was mistaken. When next I looked at him the
blood was still flowing freely. On catching him I found that he had
somehow severed an artery in his tail, and I had to improvise a
tourniquet to stop the flow. Everything was satisfactory until next day,
when the tight cord seemed to hurt him. He worried it off with his
teeth, and the blood started to spurt again. After I had bound up his
wound again I started to investigate to find out how the accident
occurred. Happening to remember that the mowing machine was standing in
the barnyard, with the mowing-bar in the air, I examined it. Between a
guard and a blade of the knife I found a bunch of Sheppy's hair.
Evidently when passing the mower he had wagged an affable tail against
the knife and it had got caught. In getting away he almost clipped a
couple of inches off the end of his tail. He hasn't seemed so spunky
since losing so much blood, but if there is anything in ancient medical
lore, he probably stands the heat better.




_LVII.--Human Nature in Dumb Creatures_


It is a mistake to suppose that any quality, habit, trick, failing,
weakness, virtue or other characteristic is peculiar to mankind. The
dumb creatures about the place have every one of them. If I were to
watch them carefully I feel sure that I could find instances of
everything from the Seven Deadly Sins to the Seven Cardinal Virtues, and
that without leaving the barnyard. It is all very well for us to talk
about getting rid of our animal natures as if that would mark an upward
step in our development but what interests me is how to rid the dumb
creatures of what can only be described as their human natures. It is
always the human things they do that arouse my wrath or make me laugh.
For instance, our old gobbler gives every evening one of the most human
exhibitions of over-bearing meanness that I have ever witnessed. I
thought it was only society people, and a particularly annoying brand of
them at that, who had the habit of waiting until other people were
comfortably seated at a concert or theatre and then walking in,
disturbing every one and perhaps making quite a few get up to make way
for them as they progressed towards their seats. I thought this trick
was confined to people who wished to show their importance, and new
clothes and didn't mind how much they bothered other people. But since
watching our gobbler going to roost I have come to the conclusion that
this kind of conduct on the part of society people at public
entertainments is not due to vanity or a desire to show off but to
fundamental cussedness and a wicked delight in causing as much
discomfort as possible to other people.

       *       *       *       *       *

The old gobbler has become expert at ascending the roof of the stable
and not only does the trick with ease but puts frills on it. When
roosting time comes round each evening, the mother hen and her flock of
young gobblers and hens go to roost quietly and circumspectly like
ordinary folks. The old gobbler, on the contrary, waits around and picks
up grains of oats about the stacks and hunts for crickets and keeps up
an air of being busy until it is almost dark and the rest of his tribe
are settled for the night--or think they are. When he finally makes up
his mind that it is bedtime he stretches his neck a few times, first in
one direction and then in another, and takes a look at the top of the
stable with one eye and then with the other and at last makes a flying
leap or a leaping fly that lands him on the ridge-board. That would be
all right if he were satisfied after he got there, but he is not. He
insists on roosting on the extreme north end of the ridge-board and he
always flies up on the south end. There is no reason why he should not
fly up at the north end but he never does it and I am inclined to think
from watching his actions that he flies up on the south end on purpose.
Anyway, as soon as he gets up and gets his balance he starts to walk
towards the north along the ridge-board. As soon as he comes to the
first of his offspring he gives a sharp peck with his bill and the
youngster gets up squeaking and moves along ahead of him. Presently he
has them all huddled on the ridge-board along the north end and the fun
begins. The polite thing for him to do would be to step down on the
shingles and walk around them, but does he do it? I should say not. He
gives the nearest youngster a vicious peck that makes him jump in the
air and land sprawling a few feet down on the shingles. In rapid
succession he deals with the fourteen youngsters and their mother in
the same way and for a few minutes the roof is covered with squeaking,
sprawling, protesting turkeys. As he pecks them out of his way he walks
along the ridge-board to his chosen roosting place and when he finally
reaches it he stretches his neck arrogantly while the others scramble
back to the top and settle down for the night. When they have settled
down the old bully settles down also with as much dignity as a dowager
who has disturbed a whole seatful of music lovers at a concert or opera.
You needn't tell me that there isn't something human about a gobbler
that does such things as that.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then there is the little cow--the one whose praises I have sung as the
Kerry cow. You would think to look at her that butter wouldn't melt in
her mouth. She looks like a pet and to a large extent has been a pet. At
first she wouldn't allow any one but me to milk her and would bawl if I
attended to any of the other cows first. You never saw a more demure,
harmless and even helpless looking bit of a thing in your life. Yet she
is a base deceiver. She needs more watching than any cow on the place.
Not only is she more prone to mischief than old Fenceviewer I., but she
sneaks into it instead of doing it boldly like that competent and
fearless old pirate. My pampered pet is an exasperating little sneak
that cannot be trusted for a minute. Not only will she get through gates
and doors whenever she gets a chance but if she happens to get into the
stable when another cow is tied she will immediately start to put a horn
through her. When putting in the cattle at night we have to be on the
watch lest our demure little cow should happen to get another in a
corner and start prodding her. And when you catch her at her tricks she
jumps to her own stall and looks so meek that you can almost imagine she
is saying "I didn't do nuthin'." If that kind of conduct on the part of
a cow is not human I should like to know what it is.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sheppy, being an intelligent dog, has a lot of characteristics that we
flatter ourselves by calling human. For instance, he has an orderly way
of doing things that often attracts my admiration. Now that he has
settled down and outgrown the freaks of puppyhood he acts as if he felt
himself one of the family, with quite a lot of responsibility on his
shoulders. Every morning when he is turned out he takes a trip around
the farm, apparently to see that everything is right. When the chores
are being attended to he is always on hand to help drive the cows and
after the calves have been fed he doesn't have to be told to drive them
away from the fence and scatter them over the field. As soon as the last
of them has bunted over the pail from which it has been fed he starts
them on their way. All day he is around to do his part in whatever is to
be done and when the driver is away he watches till she is coming back
and goes down the road to meet her. Just how he knows when she is coming
is something of a mystery. Long before any one else can see her behind
the trees half a mile down the road, Sheppy will trot off to meet her.
And he never makes a mistake about it. When we see him starting for the
corner we can be sure that the driver is coming. But there is one bit of
his daily routine that is something of a mystery to me. I do not need
him and I have nothing for him to do when I go after the mail when the
postman has put it in the box, but every morning he is waiting for me
and marches to the mail box ahead of me. I cannot make out why he does
it unless he is hoping that some day he will get a letter--a letter with
a bone in it.




_LVIII.--Early Observations_


On mornings when I happen to be wakeful the observations I make are not
always through the tent flap. Many of them are through the sides of the
tent, and I hear them instead of seeing them. As you might expect, the
first morning sound is the crowing of the roosters, and let me tell you
that it is no trifling sound on the farm at present. Between thirty and
forty broilers are practising crowing and there seems to be a very sharp
rivalry among them. Some of the older ones can crow almost as lustily as
the father of the flock, while a lot of young fellows cannot manage
anything better than a hasty mixture of a squeak and a squawk. You know,
of course, that the scientists are unable to offer any explanation of
the foolishness of roosters in crowing like this and telling their
enemies where they are. One morning recently I was awakened by the
crowing of the young roosters about an hour before dawn. The racket they
were making recalled to my mind the fact that we were expecting
visitors that day and that broilers would be in order for dinner. I
"obeyed that impulse" at once, got up, lit the lantern, and started on a
raid. All I needed to do was to listen and locate the lustiest crowers
where they were roosting in the apple trees. Then I went around and
picked them off the branches until I had half a dozen plump ones stowed
away in a coop. If they hadn't reminded me of their existence by their
fool crowing they might still be alive and scratching gravel with both
feet for admiring young pullets.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the first light of dawn appears the young ducks begin to jabber,
where they are spending the night in a packing box under an apple tree.
A few minutes later I have a chance to make my first observations
through the tent flap as they march loquaciously past in single file.
Now that the mornings are getting cool, sometimes with a touch of hoar
frost, the crickets, beetles and other innumerable insects are sluggish,
and the ducks seem to know just where to look for them in the long
grass. That reminds me that the wise old fellows who made up our
proverbs were not always careful observers of natural phenomena. We have
been told that it is the "early bird that catches the worm," but the
observations I have made lead me to believe that for one worm that
suffers for his folly in being out late a thousand bugs and beetles are
captured. The proverb should read, "It is the early bird that catches
the bug," and different birds have different ways of going about it.
When a duck goes after a bug he acts much like a ball player trying to
steal a base. He throws himself forward so suddenly that he lands on his
stomach, and at the same time shoots out his neck full length. When I
umpire such an action through the tent flap it is very seldom that I
could announce the bug "safe." If ducks could only be taught to play
baseball they would beat Ty Cobb at stealing bases. Shortly after the
ducks the turkeys come marching past on their morning bug hunt. Instead
of moving in Indian file they walk abreast in extended formation, and
their method of taking the unwary bug is entirely different from that of
the duck. When a turkey sees his prey he stops still, sometimes with one
foot in the air. Slowly and almost imperceptibly he moves his head
towards the luckless bug, and when his beak is within a couple of inches
of it he makes a quick grab that is invariably fatal. In this connection
I sometimes wonder if my attitude as a nature lover is entirely
correct. The bug probably enjoys life just as much as the turkey, and I
wonder if the bug should not have my sympathy rather than the birds. But
that is a delicate point which I am willing to leave to professors of
ethics and other subtle reasoners.

       *       *       *       *       *

Although the roosters are apparently the first of the domestic fowls to
waken in the morning, they are usually the last to get up, or, to be
more exact, to get down. When they start to lead out their pullets in
the twilight I have a chance to see that at least one maker of proverbs
was a close observer of nature. I have heard it said of ladies who walk
with a mincing gait that "she steps out like a hen before day." As I
observe the hens through the tent flap I notice that their gait differs
from the gait they use later in the day. They pick up their feet
carefully, and hold them poised for a moment before putting them down
daintily, and they hold their heads up in a way that looks very haughty.
The philosopher who originated that simile must have been an early
riser, or perhaps he also made his observations through a tent flap,
with the blankets tucked cosily up to his chin. But some mornings I make
observations through the tent flap that I cannot stay in bed to
meditate on. Through the tent flap I have an excellent view of the
haystacks and the stack of oat sheaves. One morning when I opened a lazy
eye in the early dawn I was suddenly brought wide awake and sitting up,
as the Red Cow and her progeny were among the stacks. The sleepy
inhabitants of the tent were immediately rousted out, and for the next
few minutes we took the Kneipp cure together while sending Fenceviewer
I. and her family back through the gate she had managed to work open. On
another morning my first observation was of a team of horses that had
come in from the road and were trying to founder themselves on our
fodder. Luckily Sheppy was loose and he attended to their case without
making it necessary for me to do anything more than whistle for him and
yell, "Sic 'em!"

[Illustration]




_LIX.--Bantams_


During the Christmas season a friend sent the littlest boy a pair of
bantams, and there is now more spunk on the farm than there has been
since my boyhood days, when I used to own a sassy little hen that bore
the Gaelic name of "Prabbach." I don't know exactly what the name meant,
but it seemed to fit her exactly. These modern bantams appear to be of
aristocratic descent, with feathers down to their toes, and the rooster
has a haughty bearing that makes me take liberties with "Will
Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue," in order to describe him properly:--

    "The Cock was of a prouder egg
      Than modern poultry drop,
    Stept forward on a firmer leg,
      And crammed a plumper crop.
    Upon an ampler dunghill trod,
      Crowed lustier late and early,
    Sipped wine from silver, praising God,
      And raked in golden barley."

The little bantam can crow quicker, oftener and with more ginger than
any other rooster on the place. He has so much steam that I imagine he
must have the spirit of a full-sized Brahma or Cochin compressed into
the size of a pigeon. He is so cocky that his very appearance seems a
challenge. The first time he stepped out into the barnyard the turkey
gobbler challenged him to mortal combat and unlimbered for action
without waiting for his challenge to be accepted. But, try as he would,
the gobbler could not land on the brisk bantam. The little fellow
sidestepped every swipe that was made at him, and went on picking up
grain as if it were only a fly that was bothering him. And when he
scratches in the straw for grain he does it with a vim that seems to say
to all the world, "When I scratch gravel mind your eye." But if I could
speak hen language I would feel it my duty to warn him about his little
mate. She looks so demure that I suspect her of being a flirt.

[Illustration]




_LX.--A Little Tragedy_


Of all the youngsters in the barnyard the chickens are the most
attractive. They are fluffy little balls of down of most engaging
appearance, and I don't blame Beatrice very much because she shows a
longing to eat them. She is allowed out for a run with "her nine farrow"
every day, and she has to be watched carefully to keep her away from the
chicken coops. Yesterday she went over beside the road to pasture, and
the boy who was watching her thought she was safe, but as soon as he
took his eye off her, she made off to a neighbour's barnyard, attacked a
chicken coop and got a couple of chickens. I haven't faced the music
about that yet, but Beatrice will get me into trouble unless we hurry
and make a proper pig run, where she and her greedy little wretches can
get around without getting into trouble. The little pigs are now
beginning to eat out of the trough with their mother, and sometimes she
chases them off with a howl of rage that hasn't a trace of maternal
tenderness in it. In a few weeks she will rob her own children of their
feed unless she is restrained, for "pigs is certainly pigs." As soon as
her flock is weaned she will be an outcast with none so poor to do her
reverence. No one will have any compunctions about putting her in a pen
and fattening her for bacon. But as long as swill and chop-feed are
plentiful she will not mind the lack of affection. She will grunt
contentedly when she is full and complain bitterly when she is hungry,
and she won't care a hoot whether she is loved or not.

[Illustration]




_LXI.--A Scientific Query_


Can any one tell me why it is that hens always sing when fed on corn on
the cob. We had been feeding them oats, bran, and occasionally wheat,
and they took to it in a matter-of-fact way, but when a few cobs of corn
were thrown out to them they pecked at it and sang as if their hearts
were overflowing with joy. Since noticing this peculiarity I have
watched them at every feeding, and it is only the corn that arouses them
to music. I also had a chance to make a further observation on the
ducks. One of them got a small ear in its bill and started away on a
swift waddle with the rest of the flock trailing behind. Instead of
trying to find a quiet corner where it could enjoy its meal it made
straight for the mud-puddle and dropped the ear in the center of it. The
corn immediately sank out of sight and the whole flock of ducks crowded
around to get at it. Judging from the noise they made they must have
been enjoying themselves hugely, and I am led to do a little
speculating of a scientific character. We are told that hens should be
fed in straw or chaff so that they will get plenty of exercise with
their meals. I wonder if it wouldn't be a good idea to feed the ducks in
a convenient mud-puddle so that they can develop themselves properly. I
await an authoritative verdict from some one who knows.

[Illustration]




_LXII.--A Poultry Note_


When the chickens that were rounded up from the apple trees last week
had served the necessary time in confinement to make them get accustomed
to their new roosts they were turned loose, and there was more
excitement. A young cockerel thought he would celebrate the occasion by
crowing, but immediately seven young gobblers started for him on the
jump. Every time he would start to crow the gobblers would rush in on
him, and the last I saw of him he was going over the fence into the
pasture field with the gobblers after him, but he looked as if he were
going to crow even if he died for it. By the way, I have lost the
address of the man with whom I swapped gobblers last fall, but if this
should meet his eye I wish to tell him that the "Bubblyjock" he sent has
developed into a noble bird. Nothing of his size in the turkey line has
ever been seen on the farm, and as he is always first in whenever the
chickens or ducks are being fed he is in prime condition. Some day when
I feel equal to the task I shall try to catch him and weigh him, but I
have considerable respect for the wings of a turkey-gobbler ever since
one managed to give me a sideswipe across the bridge of the nose some
years ago. He not only knocked off a bias patch of skin, but gave me a
couple of black eyes that kept me at home for a week. As the present
lord of the barnyard is such a husky specimen I am not anxious to take
any chances.

[Illustration]




_LXIII.--Spring and the Livestock_


The winter certainly appears to be over, and neither man nor beast is
sorry. We have all been penned in altogether too long, and it feels good
to be out in the open again. I notice that it affects the farm creatures
in different ways. The cattle seemed unusually lazy, and during the heat
of the day most of them lay down where they could let the sunshine soak
into their skins. The colts started on a wild scamper around the fields
and threw up mud in a way that made it necessary to close them up in the
barnyard again, as they were cutting up the pasture. As they abused
their freedom they had to be deprived of it. The sheep took things
quietly, as might be expected, and I noticed that after a little run fat
little Mary Belle stood panting with her mouth open. She and Clarissa
and Strafe made a start at playing king of the castle on an ant-hill,
but their mothers kept so close to them that they spoiled the fun.
Beatrice seemed to like the heat about as well as anything on the farm.
She picked out a snug spot on the south side of what is left of the
straw stack, and grunted pleasantly, while the sunshine tickled her fat
sides. During the cold weather she made frequent investigating trips
around the farm, but the heat seems to make her lazy. The most
belligerent creature on the place is the turkey cock. He struts and
gobbles and makes thunder with his wings in a most awesome way. Those
who do the chores have suggested that if he continues to be so
threatening we shall have to put a ring in his nose and lead him around
on a chain. He is certainly a noble bird.




_LXIV.--First Snow_


The snow was a surprise to all the youngsters of the barnyard. There had
been flurries earlier in the season, but nothing to compare with the
depth that now covers everything. When the colt was turned out he left
the stable door at a run. His hoofs threw up a cloud of snow that
frightened him, and he ran through the gate to the pasture field. The
more he ran the more snow he threw up and the more scared he got. He
galloped around the field until he was winded or decided that there was
nothing to be frightened about. Then he obeyed an old instinct, pawed
away a little patch of snow and began to eat the frozen grass. It was
his first experience of snow, but he knew what to do in case he should
be obliged to live on the pasture it covered. The colt was not the only
youngster to have a first experience of snow on that morning. A flock of
young pullets that have been accustomed to ranging freely over the farm
were completely flabbergasted by the situation. They huddled at the
door of the hen-house, and whenever they tried to travel they did it
a-wing. As they were not used to this method of locomotion they
misjudged distances and fell protesting into the snow, where they stayed
for a while before trying to walk. The young ducks that sleep under the
granary did not venture on the snow until Sheppy routed them out on one
of his investigating excursions. Even though nature has provided them
with snowshoes in their web feet they preferred to try their wings, but
they are so fat and heavy that their flying was a flat failure. They
quacked across the barnyard with heads up and wings beating wildly, but
their cute little tails and flat feet were still in the snow. The young
turkeys also took to flying, and though they were more expert than any
of the others the result was the same. They landed in snowdrifts and
looked unhappy. One young gobbler landed on top of a haystack, where he
stood up to his wishbone in the snow, waiting for a thaw to come and
rescue him. I left him until the chores were done and then rescued him
by pelting him with snowballs. Of course, this trouble about the snow
lasted for only a day or so. Ducks, hens and turkeys now get around much
as usual.




_LXV.--A "Skift" of Snow_


Last night we had a "skift" of snow, and it was interesting to notice
the effect on the summer-born creatures of the farm. A plump young
kitten that had not seen the pesky stuff before came to meet me from the
stable, jumping like a rabbit. At the end of every jump she would stop
and say "Muhr-reowr!" in tones that seemed several times too large for
her body. When I reached her she stood lifting one foot after another
and shaking off the clinging flakes, only to get a fresh supply every
time she put a foot down. Of course it was mean to roll her over in the
snow, but I have no doubt it gave her an appetite for breakfast and
could be defended on the best hygienic grounds. About the first thing I
noticed about the snow was that my new winter boots do not promise much
comfort, for as the snow melted on them my toes got so cold that I had
to step cautiously for fear they would snap off like icicles. The young
turkeys were complaining noisily from the apple tree where they roost
at night, but evidently thinking that my appearance at the barn meant
the near approach of feeding time, they started to fly the full
distance. They seemed to realise that the white stuff on the ground
meant cold toes for them, but they didn't improve matters much by
flying. They landed on top of the hay stacks where the snow seemed to
lie the deepest, and on top of the granary, where they clawed around on
the slippery surface and mussed themselves up generally. A chilly turkey
is just about as unattractive looking a bird as any one would wish to
see. They fluffed up their feathers so as to get a layer of entangled
air around their bodies, hunched up their shoulders and pulled in their
necks. Really they looked more like turkey buzzards than like Christmas
dinners, but a month of high living on corn meal and shorts will
doubtless make them fit for the market.

       *       *       *       *       *

The colt had an especially good reason to be grouchy about the sudden
change in the weather, for he had been out in it all night, and the soft
snow had frozen into lumps on his back. He was so bad tempered about it
that he even let his heels fly at his mother when she came near him, and
the way he lay back his ears at the approach of the yearling showed
that he was willing to fight him at a moment's notice. The yearling,
however, seemed to know what to do in such a case. When the sun began to
rise he started to gallop around the field snorting and kicking at
imaginary enemies. As I watched his exhibitions of speed I couldn't help
wondering if he could be made to show any of it under a harness. His
mother is a sedate dowager who often shows plenty of speed when I go to
catch her in the pasture field, but in the harness nothing short of a
black snake whip can get her off the "cord-wood trot." The colt was
watching the yearling's antics, and at last he couldn't help joining the
fun. With tail in the air he started after his big brother, and they
galloped all over the pasture, kicking at one another and snorting. When
they tired of their play they were comfortably warm, and went to the
bank of the Government drain, where there was long grass that was free
from snow, and proceeded to have breakfast. After this the colt will
probably know that when the ground is white the finest thing in the
world to make him feel comfortable will be a good, brisk run.




_LXVI.--A Spring Shower_


A few days ago we had an ideal shower, warm, still and occasionally shot
with sunshine. The necessity of doing the chores drove me out of it and
I was glad. Putting on an old overcoat that did not owe me any money,
and an old felt hat, long innocent of the block--it showed a quarter
pitch from the peak to the brim--I slopped around for a happy half hour.
But, though I was happy, the ducks were happier. They were not only in
their element, but they were enjoying a banquet. The frost had come out
of the ground and the angle-worms had come to the surface. I don't think
the ducks missed one of them--all of which made me try to remember
whether Darwin in his study of earthworms noted their economic value as
poultry food. The hens are every bit as fond of them as the ducks, but
they are not so fond of the rain. But there are other things that like
to feel the warm, splashy drops. I had to turn out the cows for a drink,
and the day seemed to suit them exactly. While old Fenceviewer I. was
waiting to have her stall cleaned and her bed made up she humped her
back against the shower and chewed her cud, and if she could have had a
couple of hands stuck into pockets she would have made a perfect picture
of contentment. And all the while I could hear the birds twittering and
calling in the rain, and making different music from the kind we hear
while the sun is shining. I was really sorry when the work was done and
I had to clean my boots and put off my wet things and listen to a
lecture on the chances I had taken of catching cold.

[Illustration]




_LXVII.--Doing Chores_


Doing chores is a routine job, and even the animals seem to be getting
it down to a system. When I go out to feed the cattle in the morning
Sheppy meets me at the door and insists on having a play, which consists
mostly of jumping up against me as if he were a wolf trying to catch me
by the throat and drag me down. My part of the game is to catch him off
his guard when his feet are off the ground and give him a push that
bowls him down. After he has had a few tumbles he is satisfied, and
begins running around in wide circles. When I get near the stable the
kitten that the children have named after an eminent statesman gets on
the path in front of me, purring and rolling on his back so that I can
tickle him with the toe of my boot. As soon as I begin to open the
stable door the driver whinnies "Good-morning," and a moment later the
Jimmie-cow bawls complainingly, and says in part: "Why------are you so
late coming out to feed us this morning? Get a wiggle on you with those
cornstalks!" Of course, it is all very foolish, but when one is
attending to the wants of a lot of animals he gets about as well
acquainted with them as he does with people, and, as I have remarked
before, they all have very human attributes. Human nature can be studied
in farm animals just as easily as in city crowds--and you do not have to
be so extravagant with your expense account.




_LXVIII.--Fishing_


What would spring be to a small boy without fishing? At the present
writing fishing is at high tide, though we are still living on the same
old fare. Although fish-lines and hooks have been bought, fishing-poles
trimmed to shape with the butcher-knife and loads of bait dug, I have
yet to see an actual fish. I cannot deny that years ago I used to get
plump chub in the Government drain, and one year some carp weighing five
pounds and over came up with the spring flood, but it is long since I
have seen anything bigger than a minnow. Still, the littlest boys know
that there were fish in the drain once, so why not now? There is a spot
about half a mile away where willows were allowed to grow on the bank
and the spring floods scooped out holes in which driftwood accumulated.
In these mysterious depths fish are supposed to hide, and a baited hook
will be stripped of its bait in a few minutes. There is no lack of
nibbles that appear to give the old-time thrill, but it is no use
explaining that minnows less than two inches long, that are too small to
be hooked, are the fish most active in this kind of work. I know that
they are just as likely to catch a finnan haddie or dried codfish or
canned salmon as a fish of any size, but I wouldn't dampen their ardour
for anything. As a matter of fact, I am inclined to approve of their
enthusiasm, for I find that the chores go through with a rush since the
fishing began. All I need to do is to let them wring a reluctant promise
from me that if they hurry through with the chores they can go fishing.
After offering enough opposition to make the favour seem great I give a
grudging consent and the chores go through with a rush. And at bedtime
(new time) a couple of wet and muddy boys come home, very tired and very
hungry. Though they bring no fish they have had such monstrous bites
that they are sure there are big fish there, only they are too cute to
swallow the baited hooks. Some day they are going to catch a whale, and
then they will show me. What would youth be without its faith in the
possibilities of fishing and such things?

Right here an interruption has occurred. I might have known when I was
writing that first paragraph in such a superior way that something
would happen, but the truth must be told even though wisdom be
confounded. A few minutes ago a boy bulged through the kitchen door
waving a string of fish and registering triumph. He found the right
fishing-hole at last and caught eight, and one big one--Oh, a
beauty--got away. I hadn't a word to say. I examined them and was forced
to admit that he had eight as fine chub as I had ever seen taken in this
district. The longest measured seven and a half inches and the shortest
six inches. Fishing is now on a firm basis and the food outlook has
greatly improved. There is a fish banquet being arranged, and the titled
cat was so excited at the prospect of getting eight heads to chew at
that he had to be put out. But though my predictions have all gone wrong
and the faith of the boys has been justified, I am not without
compensations. The chores will now be done with more steam than ever and
the fishing season may last all summer. If they can only catch a few now
and then to keep up their interest, they will not need to be driven to
any kind of work. The promise of permission to go fishing as soon as a
job is done will be enough to get them to do their best. I hate driving
them and it will be a real pleasure to have their minds so set on
fishing that they will do their work eagerly so as to win their freedom.
I hope the fish supply lasts right through the corn-hoeing season. By
the way, I am not sure but it would be a good plan to have the drain
stocked with fish so that there would be a sure supply every spring. I
must think about it.




_LXIX.--A Lonesome Squirrel_


One wet morning recently I happened to be passing through the wood-lot,
when I heard the squawking of a black squirrel. I rejoiced to think that
perhaps the squirrels were coming back, but investigation revealed only
one lone specimen, and, judging by its size and actions, it had wandered
far from its mother. It was crying from pure lonesomeness, and it didn't
care who heard it. At the best the cry of a black squirrel is about the
saddest thing in nature, but to hear it when the trees are dripping and
the woods gloomy it is the last note of sorrow and pessimism. I have
never seen an attempt to render this sound in letters, but what of that?
We shall try it now. As nearly as I can arrive at it, the sound should
be represented somewhat as follows:

     "ku-ku-kwanh-h-h!"

The last syllable is long drawn out in a most desolating manner. Come to
look at it, this attempt to render the cry of the black squirrel has a
sort of pluperfect look, and I have no doubt that a skilled philologist
could trace it back to an Aryan root--but I digress. Anyway, my squirrel
was squawking and bawling in the universal language of childhood. In the
words of the poet, he had "no language but a cry." After spying him I
began to edge closer to observe his actions. He frisked about as I
approached, and whenever I stood still he began to cry again. When
crying he always clung to the tree, with his head downwards, and with
every syllable he gave his tail a little jerk. I might say that he was
scolding at me, if it were not for the plaintiveness of the noise he was
making. Every few minutes I took a few steps nearer, until at last I was
within twenty feet of the half-dead maple from which he was pouring his
woe. Although I was quite evidently "viewed with alarm" in the most
approved editorial manner, he shifted his feet a little from time to
time and kept up his wailing. Finally I sat down under the shelter of a
tree trunk and continued to watch him. He scolded and squawked and then
began to come down the tree, inch by inch, precariously moving
headforemost. I kept perfectly still for some minutes--keeping a
position of absolute rest is about the easiest thing I do--and inch by
inch he slipped down the tree until he was so close that I could see his
beady black eyes and see half way down his throat when he opened his
mouth to squawk. At last he got as far down as he cared to come, and
continued to tell me about his troubles. I was sorry that I couldn't
think of anything to say or do that would assuage his lonesomeness and
grief, but when I heard the call for dinner at the house, and knew that
I should be stirring, I flung a little parody at him:

    "Is it weakness of intellect, Blackie?" I cried,
    "Or a rather tough nut in your little inside?"
    With a shake of his poor little head he replied,
      "Ku-ku-kwanh! Ku-ku-kwanh!"

When I rose to my feet he rushed headlong into a nearby hole. But let no
one imagine that my time was wasted while sitting watching that
squirrel. Although he was unable to say anything of importance to me,
and I was unable to say anything of importance to him, you may note that
the interview was good for one extra long paragraph. I could have gone
out and interviewed some eminent human without getting any more copy
than I did from my lonesome little black squirrel.




_LXX.--Fall Poultry Troubles_


Why is it that hens always want to roost over the cows and horses in the
winter time? Perhaps they want company in the long, lonesome nights, but
probably it is because the cattle generate a certain amount of warmth
that makes the beams above them pleasanter roosting places than the
hen-house. Anyway there is always a week or two at the beginning of each
winter when a bunch of ambitious hens must be trained to roost in their
own quarters instead of in the stable. Every night at milking time I
shoo them out until they finally get it into their heads they are not
wanted. But they are almost as hard to convince as the New England
farmer who went to a dance to which he had not been invited. He
overlooked the lack of invitation, and was even willing to overlook the
fact that he was told that he was not wanted, but when he was finally
thrown outdoors and kicked through the front gate, "He took the hint and
went away." After being thrown out of the stalls about a dozen times
the hens finally took the hint, and they now stay in their own quarters.
But just as I got rid of the hens the guinea fowl decided that the
weather was getting altogether too severe for outdoor life. All summer
and fall they have been living in the fields, and any one who happened
to see them reported the fact much as if they had seen a flock of quail.
They really seem more like wild than domesticated fowl, and if they live
entirely on insects and weed seeds they must have a distinct value in
keeping pests of various kinds in check. But when the cold weather came
on they began attending the chicken feedings, not only at home but at
neighbouring farms. They seem to have good ears as well as wonderful
appetites, for whenever they hear other fowls squabbling over their feed
they take to their wings and never touch the earth until they light
right in the middle of the banquet. And they never miss a feeding time
at home either. They should be fat enough for the table before long.

       *       *       *       *       *

But what I started to tell about is the persistence the guinea fowl show
in adopting the stable as a home. On the first cold night I found the
whole twenty of them ranged decoratively on the partitions between the
stalls. I couldn't shoo them away like the hens. I had to touch each
one, and as I touched it it gave a shrill squeak and flew blindly until
it brought up against the wall at the far end of the stable. Usually
they fell to the floor, but sometimes they would beat their wings and
work their feet and apparently walk up the wall like flies until the
roof checked them, and then they would sink to the floor with a final
discouraged squeak. Once I caught one of them to see how heavy it was,
and it squealed like a rat. I dropped it instinctively, for I felt that
anything that could squeal like that would be likely to bite. And they
can bite--or at least use their bills. I have noticed that at feeding
time they can whip even the rooster away from the choicest bits, and I
am told that when there were young chickens about, the old pair of
guinea fowl thought nothing of grabbing them in their beaks and shaking
them as a terrier shakes a rat. Sometimes, if they were not interrupted
in committing these atrocities they even killed the chickens. I do not
think the nature and habits of guinea fowl have been studied by the
experts, and some time when the rush is over I may prepare a bulletin on
the subject. At present, however, I am chiefly interested in making
them understand that they are not wanted in the stable at night. But it
seems hard to convince them. Every night I find them in exactly the same
position as on the first night, and every evening I startle twenty
squeaks out of the flock before I get them to move elsewhere. It is
getting to be a regular chore.

       *       *       *       *       *

But it is as fabricators of new and fiendish noises that the guinea fowl
are in a class by themselves. They are at it all the time. The mildest
noise they make reminds you of the filing of a saw with a bungling
mechanic dragging the file on the back stroke. The noises they make when
they set to work to show what they can do are beyond description. I have
heard noises something like them in sawmills when the circular saw
happened to strike a sliver. And they are ready to give an impromptu
serenade at any time. I used to think that the ducks were the noisiest
thing about the barnyard, but they only squawk when I am trying to talk.
The guinea fowl keep at it when I am trying to think so that I cannot
bear the thoughts that are trying to whisper their way into my brain.
They rasp out wild noises when they are eating and when they are
fasting, when they are walking and when they are flying; and their idea
of a nice, quiet time seems to be to lie down in some spot where they
are sheltered from the wind by a clump of weeds or something of the
sort, and try to outdo each other in the range and volume of their
cries. When we start eating these guinea fowl I am going to dissect one
to find out what its vocal cords are made of. I don't think they could
possibly make such noises without metal contrivances of some kind that
can be rasped together and banged and thumped on. Perhaps I'll discover
a new metal that would be valuable in making phonographs, and be able to
organise a company to mine it out of the guinea fowl. Then I'll sell
stock to the farmers. Judging by their noises there are great and
unknown possibilities in these creatures. And yet I have heard people
say they rather liked having them around because they keep up such a
constant clatter that they keep one from getting lonesome. It strikes me
that the person who would not rather be alone than have a flock of
guinea fowl for company must have a bad conscience.




_LXXI.--Thanksgiving Day_


Here is Thanksgiving Day right on top of us, and I am all in a fluster.
I am not sure that I am going to be thankful about anything. Isn't that
dreadful? But the truth is that in my usual improvident fashion I forgot
all about it. While other people were carefully saving up their thankful
feelings for the official day, Oct. 20th, I just went along carelessly
pouring out my thankfulness whenever it welled up within me. But that is
not the way well-conducted people do. They are as methodical about their
thanks as the woman in the story was about baths. When she had a
stationary tub put in the house she exclaimed to an admiring friend, "It
looks so nice I can hardly wait till Saturday night." As nearly as I can
judge the world is full of just such careful people, and they never let
a speck of thankfulness escape them until the right day comes around.
They keep it in through all the long dreary year, and, then on the 20th
of October, they will go about expressing it in a careful and
business-like way. Since we have a Thanksgiving Day that is naturally
the day to be thankful on. People who look at things in that way
simplify matters for the Recording Angel. They turn over their thanks in
one neat bunch, and the matter is over with for another year. But much
as I may admire people who are able to restrain themselves in this way I
have no hope of attaining their perfection. Having formed the habit of
living each day as I come to it, I may run the whole gamut of moods from
boiled down pessimism to overflowing thankfulness between sunup and
sundown. And yet--and yet--this way has its compensations. I am not sure
that I would change if I could.

       *       *       *       *       *

I was reminded of the fact that Thanksgiving Day is at hand by seeing
some ducks being fed up for the occasion, and by being asked whether the
celery will be fit to use on the 20th. As the indications are that both
these excellent comestibles will be in prime condition by that time, I
find myself bubbling over with thankfulness almost two weeks before the
specified time. But I know that is all wrong, and I have set to work to
figure out just how to be thankful like other people. To do this I am
forced to review the happenings of the year, my hopes, ambitions and
enterprises. While at this task I was struck by the thought that if we
had a Grumble-giving Day as well as a Thanksgiving Day, it would be much
more carefully celebrated. The first thing I thought of was the bugs,
blights, pests, weeds and such things that I have been fighting with all
summer. As I thought of them Thanksgiving Day seemed very far away. But
that mood did not last long. After all they did not injure anything
which I was over-poweringly interested in. Life itself is what I am
chiefly interested in, and, while we have food, clothing and shelter, it
is as good one day as another. I can be just as much alive mentally,
physically, spiritually on one day as another. A rainy day is just as
good as a sunny day if we manage to get in tune with it. And having got
a fairly good hold of the truth that yesterday is dead and to-morrow
unborn, I find that I really can not go away from the present day and
the present moment to seek the sources of thankfulness. It will be the
same on the 20th of October, I must find in it all that I shall be
thankful for. I do not think I shall be disappointed.

       *       *       *       *       *

In order to celebrate Thanksgiving Day in the popular fashion, one would
need to keep books and strike a balance of good and evil. Let me try
this plan. First, there is the orchard. The frost killed most of the
blossoms; there was a plague of green aphids in the spring; over half of
the apples we have are scabby and deformed. Wow! If I were depending on
that orchard for my happiness Thanksgiving Day would be a day of gloom.
But let us look at the other side of the ledger. We have sold our apples
for a topnotch price; we are getting more for our thirds than people
used to get for their firsts; we even have a chance to sell our culls at
a good price to a vinegar factory; the indications are that after all
the orchard will yield a larger cash return than in any year of its
existence, except last year, when we had a bumper crop of clean fruit
and got top prices. Looking at things in that way I guess I can squeeze
out a little thankfulness for the 20th after all. Then there is the
young orchard. First let me grumble. The young trees came late in the
spring; they were all dried out, and wise people said they would not
grow; I was so late getting them planted and getting the ground
thoroughly cultivated, that I did not get the corn planted between the
rows until the middle of June. Now let us look at the other side. Over
ninety per cent of the trees grew and put out a strong growth. The
nurserymen did not ask to be paid except for those that grew. The corn
escaped the frost and ripened splendidly. It is now being husked, and is
proving to be the best crop of corn that has been on the farm in years.
Tut, Tut! It looks as if I would eat those ducks in a cheerful spirit
after all.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are times when I think that a spirit of thankfulness is born in
one rather than cultivated. When looking at things in this way I find it
profitable to study the animals on the place. Somehow they seem to be
very human in their emotions.

Their feelings are not complicated by efforts at reasoning, and in their
every day conduct they reveal their true spirits most amazingly. Take
the Red Cow for instance. Nothing seems to discourage her. She is too
full of ambition to grumble about anything. If she doesn't manage to
steal a march on me to-day she is quite sure that she will be able to do
it to-morrow, and that keeps her in a constantly cheerful frame of mind.
This year she had set her heart on getting into the corn field which was
just across the fence from the pasture, but never once did she find an
open gate or a break in the fence. She saw it grow from the first green
sprouts to matured corn and never got a bite. It is now in the shock and
being husked, but she still stretches her neck over the fence in the
same hopeful way. She is going to get a feed out of that field before
the year is out or know the reason why. Even if she doesn't manage it
before the stalks are hauled in she'll find a gate open before the snow
falls, and dig up the roots that were left by the hoe before she will
give up her purpose. A cow like that is really an inspiration on the
farm.

She was born that way and life always looks bright to her, because she
always has something to hope for. Now, with the new cow, the one I
bought, the case is entirely different. She must have come into the
world feeling discouraged. She has faith in nothing, hopes for nothing,
and is always in a mournful frame of mind. Though she gets all the
pumpkins she can eat and a good bunch of corn stalks every night, she
simply can't cheer up. When we open the pasture gate the Red Cow makes a
rush for the stable and gets into the wrong stall and eats all she can
of some other cow's feed before she is driven to her place. But the new
cow stands mournfully in the pasture. It is quite true that there were
pumpkins last night and the night before and many nights before that,
but she knows there will be none to-night and she bawls dismally at the
thought. Finally some one has to go out into the field and drive her in,
and when she gets to her stall she no sooner starts to eat than she
looks over at what the other cows are having, and as well as she can
with her mouth full, bawls complainingly that she didn't get as much as
the rest, or that her pumpkins are not as yellow as the others. There is
no satisfying her because she was born that way. It'll be the same on
the 20th of October as on all other days. I wonder how many people in
the country will be like her? As for me, I think I'll put a pumpkin just
beyond the red cow's reach and cultivate a cheerful spirit while
watching the hopeful way she will go after it.




_LXXII.--September Notes_


Did you ever stop (slap!) to consider the mosquito? Did it ever occur to
you that if a boy had an appetite in proportion to his size like that of
a mosquito (slap!) he would eat a whole ox at a meal? Perhaps you think
a mosquito too small a thing to occupy your thoughts. If so (slap!) you
have another guess coming. Until science made a few epoch-making
discoveries the mosquito prevented some of the mightiest works. Because
it carries the germs of yellow fever it delayed the building of the
Panama canal for years and increased the cost of all kinds of public
works. By carrying the germs of malaria and giving people the ague it
made the clearing of many parts of Canada doubly hard. (Slap! slap!) And
this year it is a temper-rousing, sleep-destroying pest. With every
cow-track full of water it has breeding places everywhere and you can
hear its hum wherever you go. (Slap! Missed again!) Even though we have
screens on the windows and doors we cannot keep them out of the house
because they come in riding on people's backs while waiting for a chance
to bite. And did you ever consider how naturally mean the mosquito is?
Not content with driving its beak into a fellow it injects a poison and
possibly some disease germs. Of all created things the mosquito is about
the most useless and irritating. Its snarling hum--(Slap! Whoop! Got him
that time and now I can talk about something else.)

       *       *       *       *       *

About the first sign of fall is to have the cattle get into new fields.
During the earlier months they are confined to the pasture but as the
crops are taken off they are allowed a wider range. As soon as they find
a new field open to them they rush into it as eagerly as if they were
getting into mischief and do not rest until they have wandered to every
corner. Even though the new field may offer them many bits of good
pasture they do not stop to eat them but go around the fences and poke
their heads through wires to get what they can from the adjoining field.
The pasture they have never seems to satisfy them. It is the pasture in
the other field that interests them. In this they are very human. But
giving them a wider range makes the chore of bringing them home at
milking time more important and this summer I undertook to train Sheppy
to the work with a rather peculiar result. As he is a pure-bred sheep
dog he always goes to the farthest off in the bunch as soon as he is
sent after them. This is usually enough to start the herd towards the
barn and as soon as he has started them I call him off so that he walks
quietly behind them. When the cattle became used to being brought home
by Sheppy they apparently learned something. The dog is usually
wandering away somewhere with the children and when I need him I have to
whistle for him. During the past couple of weeks as soon as I began to
whistle for Sheppy the cows started for the barn. Now I can get them
home whether the dog is around or not simply by whistling. All of which
goes to show that old Fenceviewer I. and her progeny are not like other
cows.




_LXXIII.--"The Demon Rabbit"_


I am almost convinced that there is, or was, a demon rabbit in this
neighbourhood. You all know the stories that come from far countries
about ghostly tigers and phantom lions that seem to bear charmed lives,
and to be invulnerable to the bullets of the most skilled marksman.
According to the talented liars who tell the stories they are the actual
bodies of dead and gone lions and tigers that "revisit the glimpses of
the moon" to torment hunters. The rabbit I have been having experiences
with seems to be of this kind. He appears in the open with insulting
indifference, and so far we have no evidence that he has been seriously
injured by our attempts to get him. But before proceeding with my story
perhaps I had better say a few words to put myself on the right side of
the law. I have a hazy recollection that the game laws protect rabbits,
but I make my appeal to an older code which asserts that
"self-protection is the first law of Nature." I do not mean this in the
sense in which it was used by the sheep thief, who, when caught
red-handed, protested indignantly, "I'll kill every doggoned sheep that
tries to bite me." I am not afraid that the rabbits will bite me, but,
besides the young orchard, between two and three thousand seedling
forest trees have been planted in the wood-lot and I do not want to have
them all girdled. Game laws or no game laws, we have been obliged to
begin a war of extermination against the rabbits on the place. Perhaps
that is why we are being tormented by this unshootable rabbit.

       *       *       *       *       *

For some weeks past a particularly large rabbit has been reported almost
every day as crossing the road into the hedge and heading towards the
orchard. At different times when I was driving to the post-office he
squatted by the fence and stared at me. He seemed so tame that I thought
we would have no trouble with him until the boys had missed him a few
times. Then I took the rifle and went after him myself. Of course I do
not claim to be an unerring marksman, but still my record for picking
off such small game as English sparrows is fairly good and in trying for
rabbits during the fall I did not make many misses and I never had such
a chance as I have had at the demon. The first morning I went after him
I spied him sitting up on his hind legs at the corner of a stack. It was
as pretty a shot as a pot hunter could ask for, and as we were treating
rabbits as vermin rather than as game, I felt no scruples about the lack
of sportsmanship in shooting at him when standing still. As a matter of
fact I am not sure but it is entirely sportsmanlike to shoot at a
standing rabbit with the rifle. I never managed to stop but one with a
bullet when it was on the run and the attempts I have made since have
convinced me that that shot was an accident. Anyway, Mr. Rabbit was
sitting up offering a provokingly good target when I drew a bead on him
and fired. Zip! He whirled and disappeared around the stack in two
jumps. As I approached the place where he had been standing I saw
something floating in the air and grabbed it. It proved to be a bunch of
rabbit fur and on the ground where he had been there was a lot more.
Next day I found him squatted beside the trunk of an apple tree, took
deliberate aim and fired. Just one jump and a little white tail flirted
saucily under a rail fence and disappeared. On the ground where he had
been standing I found enough rabbit fur to stuff a pin-cushion,
evidently I had made another of those near-hits. Next day we were
driving past the place where I had shot at him and one of the boys was
carrying the rifle. Suddenly, I spied Mr. Rabbit among some tall grass
under the roadside fence. Grabbing the gun I took careful aim and fired
once more. He seemed to be badly frightened, but that was all, and this
time there was enough fur where he had been sitting to stuff two
pin-cushions. I couldn't have been more than a rod from him this time
and it hardly seems possible that if he were a normal rabbit that I
shouldn't have hit him fair and square. However, he hasn't been seen
since and it is just possible that he decided that things were getting a
little too hot for him. If he appears again I think I shall have to try
him with a silver bullet for that is said to be the only thing that will
kill a demon of this kind. But perhaps, instead of using the silver to
shoot with I should offer a quarter to a boy who is a better shot than I
am to get him for me. Anyway, I have no need to fear the game wardens
about this rabbit for I did no more to him than the Western desperado
did to the Tenderfoot. I just shot him through the thin places around
the edges. And yet--and yet--it is just possible that it was not my
bullets that knocked out the fur after all. This may be the season of
the year when rabbits are changing their hair and he might have been
merely attending to his toilet when I disturbed him by shooting at him.
But demon or no demon, we must get him before he gets the little trees.




_LXXIV.--The Fate of "The Demon Rabbit"_


The demon rabbit is no more, and the manner of his passing is as
mysterious as anything else in his enchanted life. As nearly I can
determine he died of heart disease or from rupturing an artery through
sudden fright. This is how it happened. A couple of days after my last
futile shot at him I was driving to the village. After turning out of
the lane I came to the spot haunted by the rabbit, and there he was "as
big as life and twice as natural." He was sitting under a branch that
had been blown from an apple tree about a rod from the road. The three
younger children were with me, and as soon as they saw him they began to
yell, but he never wiggled an ear. Pulling up the horse I looked at him
carefully, and seeing that he showed no signs of moving I yelled at the
top of my voice for a boy to come with the rifle. Still the rabbit did
not stir. I had to yell four or five times before the boy heard me, and
though I made a noise that roused the echoes over half the township the
rabbit sat where he was. It took the boy fully five minutes to come with
the rifle, and in the meantime the children and I were all talking at
once while the demon sat and listened. Only when the boy was within a
few rods of the buggy did he show any signs of nervousness. He slapped
his hind feet on the snow a couple of times and I thought he was going
to run, but he quieted down again. Then I drove on, for the horse is
inclined to be gun-shy, and the boy dropped on one knee in the most
approved Theodore Roosevelt fashion and took aim. When he fired the
rabbit gave a jump that sent the snow flying and loped away across the
orchard. The boy complained bitterly because I had not held the horse
and allowed him to take a rest on the hind wheel of the buggy, and,
while I watched the rabbit disappearing, I made a few restrained remarks
appropriate to the occasion. But just as he was passing out of sight he
suddenly jumped into the air, fell to the ground, kicked wildly and then
lay still. I sent the boy running to where he was, and he picked up Mr.
Rabbit stone dead. Then we proceeded to examine him. The first thing we
noticed was a round bullet hole through his right ear that was partly
healed. Across his back there was a furrow through his fur, and a long
scab where a bullet had raked him. Under his chin there was a similar
furrow and scab. Beyond a doubt he was the rabbit from which I had been
knocking the fur. But what mystified us completely was the fact that we
could not find a mark to show where the last bullet had hit him. Not a
sign of blood or a wound could we find. After I got back from the
village I held a post mortem on that rabbit, and though he was full of
blood, having bled internally, the closest examination could not
discover a trace of a wound. He must have ruptured a blood-vessel in his
wild jumping. In no other way can I account for his sudden taking off.
Of course the boy was anxious to prove that he had hit the rabbit, but
he was unable to find a bullet mark any more than I was. And now there
is something else to prove that he was not an ordinary rabbit. When I
passed his haunts yesterday I saw two more rabbits. Isn't that the
popular belief about evil things? If you kill one two more will come to
take his place. Now I am going after the two new rabbits to see if four
will come to take their place. I tried the rifle on some English
sparrows at the granary and find that my shooting eye is just as good
as ever. Surely if I can hit such little targets as sparrows I should
not miss rabbits if they are of mortal breed. Altogether it is a great
mystery, and, in a more superstitious age, the incident would have given
rise to a myth, but in this sceptical age I suppose most people will
explain the matter by insinuating that we are a family of poor shots.
Yet the boy and I can both pick off sparrows just as easy as easy.




_LXXV.--My Friends, the Trees_


Near the house there is a sturdy oak tree that I always think of as one
of the oldest of my friends. I grew up with it. Of course, that is not
exactly true, for I stopped growing many years ago while it kept on
growing, and it may keep on growing for centuries to come. But when I
was a growing boy it was just the right kind of a tree for me to chum
with. It was not too big to climb, and yet it was big enough to take me
on its back and carry me into all the dreamlands of childhood. Among its
whispering branches I found lands as wonderful as Jack climbed to on his
beanstalk. And it had a stout right arm that was strong enough to hold
up a swing on which I swung and dreamed for more hours than the teachers
of to-day would consider right. When it whispered to me I whispered to
it, and told it more secrets than I have ever told any one in the world.
It became a part of my life, and no matter how far I wandered in later
years my thoughts would always return to the tree in times of sickness
and trouble. I always felt that I would be well and happy again if I
could only get back to the tree and throw myself at full length on the
grass that it shaded and listen to its never-ending gossip with the
breezes that are forever visiting it. At last I came back from the outer
world and made my home beside the tree. During my absence it had pushed
up higher and had spread its branches wider, but it was still the same
companionable tree. The grass still made a carpet over its roots,
inviting me to sprawl at full length and renew our voiceless communion.
While I was away I may have learned some things, but the tree had been
in harmony with the universe from the moment it began to emerge from the
acorn, and knew all that I so sorely needed to learn.

       *       *       *       *       *

Although the oak is my particular friend among the trees on the farm,
there are others with which I can claim at least an acquaintanceship.
There is a maple at the edge of the wood-lot that always makes me feel
uncomfortable, because I have a feeling that it has a joke on me. It
stands on what would be called rising ground--which means an elevation
that does not deserve to be called a hill--and while lying on the grass
in its shade I can see over several farms to the south and east. It used
to be a favourite of my boyhood, and once I composed a poem while lying
in its shade. If you bear in mind the fact that I was seventeen years of
age at the time you will understand why the tree has a joke on me. Here
is the only stanza I can remember of the little poem I composed to
express the "unmannerly sadness" of youth.

    It long has been my cherished hope
      Upon my dying day
    To lie down on some sunny slope
      And dream my life away.

At that age I could not have cherished the hope so very long, and the
old tree must have chuckled to its last twig at my absurdity. Anyway, I
never see the tree without recalling that wretched stanza, and I
immediately hurry away to some other part of the woods.

       *       *       *       *       *

But there is one tree on the place with which I can never establish a
feeling of intimacy. It is the one remaining specimen of the original
forest--a giant maple over three feet in diameter, whose spreading top
rises far above the other trees in the wood-lot. Even though it stands
beside the public road, it seems to retain some touch of the shyness of
the wilderness, and does not invite the fellowship of man. Its first
branches are so high in the air that it has never been profaned by the
most venturesome climbers, and its great roots start out from the trunk
in a way that seems to thrust back all attempts at familiarity. The
second growth maples by which it is surrounded appear to be domesticated
by comparison with this wildling, and when they are tapped at
sugar-making time they yield sap as lavishly as a dairy cow gives milk.
But the giant gives grudgingly, as if it resented the wound it had
received. Its companionship seems to be with the wildest winds and
storms, that alone have the power to rouse its huge branches to motion.

       *       *       *       *       *

I sometimes wonder that I should be fond of trees, for when I was a boy
trees were regarded almost as enemies. The land had to be cleared of
them before crops could be sown, and they multiplied the labour of the
pioneers. I learned to swing an axe by cutting down saplings, and ran
"amuck" among them just as my elders did among the larger trees. In
those far days trees were things to be destroyed, and no one thought of
sparing them. But when I came back to the farm and found that the noble
forest had dwindled to a small wood-lot that had no young trees in
it--because the cattle had nibbled down all seedlings for many years--I
was seized by a rage for planting. Finding that the government was
willing to supply seedlings to any one who would plant them out, I
immediately began the work of reforestation and planted thousands so
that when the present trees mature and are cut out there will be others
to take their place. These little trees are now thriving lustily, but
they seem to regard me with an air of aloofness, and I feel when among
them as if they were looking at me furtively and trying to decide
whether I am to be trusted. Perhaps there is still a tradition in the
wood-lot of the havoc I wrought in my youth with just such tender
saplings as these.

       *       *       *       *       *

Yesterday while I was sitting at some distance from the home oak,
admiring the curved spread of its branches, a bare-foot boy came out of
the house. Without seeing me he walked straight to the tree and then
looked up at its inviting branches. After a while he got a piece of a
rail and placed it against the trunk. Then with clutching fingers and
spreading toes he worked his way up to the lowest branch. Through the
higher branches he clambered as if going up a ladder, and finally when
he found one to his liking he bestrode it, with his back to the trunk,
and looked away to the south. For a long time, with childish gravity, he
gave himself up to the "long, long thoughts" of a boy. At last his eyes
began to rove around and presently they rested on me, where I was
watching him. He laughed in a shame-faced way as if he had been
surprised in doing something that he would have kept secret, but I
laughed back joyously and we understood. I am glad that there is another
of my name who will love the old oak and the other trees and to whom
they will perhaps give their friendship even more fully than they have
given it to me.





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    | Transcriber's Note:--                                            |
    |                                                                  |
    | Punctuation errors have been corrected.                          |
    |                                                                  |
    | The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed.    |
    |                                                                  |
    | Page 37. arived changed to arrived.                              |
    | (my neighbour had arrived)                                       |
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    | Page 108. combling changed to combing.                           |
    | (combing a particularly snarly head)                             |
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    | Page 121. sucking changed to suckling.                           |
    | (suckling pig stage)                                             |
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    | Page 286. reforestration changed to reforestation.               |
    | (the work of reforestation)                                      |
    |                                                                  |
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Red Cow and Her Friends, by Peter McArthur