Part 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sabrina, fair! Listen, where thou art sitting, Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of thine amber dripping hair."

Of course, the mudturtle didn't have any hair, but otherwise the quotation was satisfactory.

I do not think I have ever seen a comprehensive essay on the turtle, although there is enough scattered information to make a book. Since the earliest times turtle eggs have been the stay of shipwrecked mariners and marooned pirates, though I do not think I should care for them as a steady diet. I remember finding some turtle eggs buried in a sand bank beside a deep hole in the railroad ditch, and they looked like ping-pong balls, though ping-pong was not invented until many years after I had made my find. Though I knew that many of the heroes of my early reading had lived on turtle eggs for years I did not try them. Hen's eggs were too cheap and plentiful at the time. But to go back to the dawn of history, the turtle has at all times appealed to the imagination. The ancients believed that the earth was based on the back of a gigantic turtle--a most comfortable belief, for the turtle moves so slowly and cautiously that there would be no danger that it would be joggled off. It is also interesting to note that turtle soup dates back to prehistoric times. Then, again, we have terrapin, the most aristocratic of turtles, whose flesh is so highly prized by epicures that restaurateurs cannot get enough of it and are compelled to serve stewed muskrat as a substitute. This reflection reminded me of a tale of woe I once heard from a celebrated magazine editor in New York. He and a champion prize-fighter had gone out to dinner together, and in looking over the bill of fare they were startled to see "Terrapin, 25." As neither of them had tasted terrapin before they decided that this was the time to try it, and they ordered two portions. It was so good that they repeated the order. Then they asked for their checks. Each received a check calling for $5. There was a row and explanations, and it turned out that there had been a misprint on the bill of fare. Terrapin cost $2.50 a portion and not twenty-five cents. They had to pay, and as it was a lean time, between fights, with the prize-fighter, and as editors are always poor, their banquet cut deep into their resources. The editor had just got back to his desk when I called on him, and I don't think I ever saw a man with five dollars' worth of epicurean food inside of him who looked so downcast and discouraged. And he was in such an ugly temper that he rejected a poem I offered him without holding it "for further consideration." Just as I had finished chuckling over this recollection and was switching to turtle soup and other phases of the turtle question a young crow lit in a tree a few rods away and squawked. It is needless to go into the details of the tragedy. He is now hanging by one leg in the middle of the cornfield, and the indignant crows are all going to other people's fields for their breakfasts. Strange to say my conscience does not trouble me greatly about this development.

Before starting home with my crow I returned to my study of Sabrina. I wanted her to give me an exhibition of swimming. Besides, it seemed to me that it was a long time since she had breathed. Although turtles are perfectly at home under water, they are forced to come to the surface sometimes to breathe. I do not remember seeing anywhere just how long a turtle can stay under water. I have seen them come up to breathe, and they are very skilful in doing it. They push up their noses beside a lily-pad and make no more disturbance than a rising bubble. But it seemed as if my turtle would never come up. I had been watching it for fully half an hour and it had not stirred. As I had performed my mission to the woods, I finally got impatient and, picking up a stick, I threw it into the water right above the turtle. It never stirred. Then I went closer and made the startling discovery that it was not a turtle after all. It was simply a waterlogged piece of board. But do you think I am going to throw away this nature study of the turtle for that reason? I should say not. You may take it for what it is worth, and I would not be afraid to bet that a lot of the nature studies I have read in the papers have no more foundation in fact than this one.

June 13.--A few days ago I heard a good farmer--one who enjoys farming and has done well at it--say that there are three times when a field looks good.

"The first time is in the spring when you have finished putting in the grain and have run the slip-furrows and have done all you can to make sure of a good crop. The second time is when the crop is all in the shock in good shape, and the third time is when the stubble is bare and you have your harvest safe in the barn."

I have not been able to discipline myself sufficiently to confine my enjoyment to stated periods. Besides the time when the work of putting in the crop is done, I thought it looked fine when the first showing of green spread over the field, and every time I have passed it seemed good to see a few inches added to the growth, and it listens fine to have real farmers say with a wise look as they sweep the oat field with a critical eye: "Those oats of yours have a splendid colour." In fact when things are going well it strikes me that a good field of grain looks good at any time. But this dip into real farming is making me see crops with other eyes. In the past I have contented myself with admiring the delicate green and the ripple of the waving grain in the sunshine. Though I can still enjoy that phase, I now catch myself looking at the crops with a calculating eye, using my best judgment as to the probable yield and the prospect of getting back the cost of the labour and seed grain needed to bring the field to its present interesting appearance. Moreover, I am beginning to realise what it must mean to a farmer to have all his capital and hope of profits wrapped up in his fields. His interest cannot help being the keenest of all, and he cannot help noting little changes for good or bad that would escape the eye of the casual observer. He glances at his fields in much the same way as an investor looks at the financial column of the papers; and when the daily paper comes home he looks at the weather reports and the markets before he does at the political news or the editorial page. I am beginning to learn that a man can get no grasp of farm problems until they become vital to him by the actual work of farming. There may be great men who can take columns of crop reports and statistics and figure out the kind of laws that would mean even-handed justice to the farmer, but the nearer I get to the soil the less faith I have in the learned conclusions of our moulders of public opinion. It is impossible to realise all the hopes and fears, benefits and mishaps of farming unless one has done it as farmers are forced to do it--for a living. When his crop shows signs of failure he cannot reorganise, issue a batch of watered stock, and unload his failure on the investing public. All he can do is to gather up all he can and go in debt while waiting for another year.

There are always proverbs in the making in the country. The experience that men have with the changing phases of farm work gradually crystallises into phrases and neat sentences and becomes a part of the folk-wisdom of the world. Yesterday a man favoured me with a bit that seems new and original.

"Corn is a crop that likes company," he said with a smile. Then he went on to explain. "If you want a good crop of corn you must keep company with it most of the summer, and I have noticed that it is very particular about the kind of company it keeps. The kind it seems to like best is that of an intelligent, industrious, able-bodied man who will go out to see it early in the morning and stay with it all day long. If he likes the corn and keeps it well cultivated and keeps down the weeds it will show its appreciation by giving a good crop; but if corn is left too much to itself it will soon begin to look lonesome and discouraged and will not have the heart to put on big ears."

I haven't started with our little corn patch as yet, but after such a talk as that I know what is ahead of me.

There is a little patch of bindweed on the place--a memento of some chicken feed purchased a couple of winters ago--and I have been looking into the question of how to get rid of it. The cultivation I gave it last year when the field was under corn simply encouraged its growth. As nearly as I can find out, the only sure way to kill bindweed is to build a barn with a cellar about eight feet deep on the spot and then put down a solid cement floor. But I am told that unless one is careful it will poke up around the foundations. As we are not ready to put up a bank barn yet, I guess I shall have to go after the pest in some other way. Sowing with salt has been recommended, and covering the patch a couple of feet deep with straw. The last plan appeals to me most, as it does not involve much labour, and the labour is of a clean and easy kind. Anyway I have convinced myself that I shall only be wasting my time to try ordinary cultivation unless I do it every day or two for the whole summer. As I have plans for doing other things besides fighting bindweed I guess the straw cure will be tried.

Among other things I find that farming greatly increases a man's interest in weeds. Almost every day I find a new variety, and, according to the government weed-book, each variety is worse than the last. The Canadian thistle, which used to be spudded in youthful days, no longer seems a pest when compared with some of the other kinds. Thistles can be discouraged by cultivation, and we are so used to them that we know how to go about the job, but the new things that are coming into the country with every batch of mill feed or seed grain are usually mysteries as to their habits until they have been firmly established. Having secured a copy of the government weed-book, the nature-student has been hunting for the plants described, and between the railroad right of way and the neighbouring fields has found almost every noxious weed described. None of them has a serious hold as yet, but they only need a season of neglect to become a nuisance. I hear that the alfalfa seed that was last sown in this section brought with it a new weed that has not been classified, but appears to be in every way undesirable. The farmers are pulling it out on suspicion. With seed grain, chicken feed, and mill feed carrying weed seeds to the farms and the stock cars on the railroads scattering them along the right of way, it is beginning to look as if the weeds would get very evenly distributed through the country. Last summer when travelling between London and Hamilton I was amazed to see wild mustard covering whole farms, and hundreds of them. In this section this weed has been kept confined to one spot for the past fifty years, and, though it is plentiful enough on that spot, it has not been allowed to spread. Even the babies know wild mustard when they see it and never fail to pull it out. That is the way to fight a weed, but with a couple of dozen new kinds making head in the country it is getting beyond the babies.

I am beginning to wonder if sports and games are epidemic. Last winter the country was devastated by an attack of checkers that still rages in obscure corners, and now the good old game of horse-shoes is with us. It may be that people have been playing it all along and I did not notice, but, anyway, it is being played everywhere just now. They are pitching horse-shoes in the villages after six o'clock, and in driving through the country one can see the boys and hired men at it on the farms. In these later days the hired man stops work at six o'clock, and has time to play horse-shoes while his employer milks the cows. This no doubt seems unnatural to farmers of the old school, but hired men are now so scarce that they are able to insist on working regular hours--which is entirely just and proper. Perhaps, after a while, farmers will come to regard milking as part of the farm work instead of a chore, and will have it done during the regular working hours. It would be a good thing if they would, and then they could try their hands at horse-shoes themselves. It is a good old game, derived from the disc-throwing of the ancients, and it furnishes a healthful relaxation from heavy work. I haven't heard of any tournaments as yet, but no doubt prizes will be offered at the fall fairs where prizes are given for sports. It is good to see some one in the country taking time to have some fun, even though it may be left to the hired men to set the necessary good example.

June 15.--Last week a correspondent wrote: "I am trying to live the simple life as you do." Then he went on to describe his little garden and lawn and trees, so that I positively envied him. Then the humour of the situation began to dawn on me. Here is a worthy fellow-countryman who is trying to live my life as he gathers it from these letters. That is surely a terrible responsibility to put on me, but it shows an almost universal tendency. Apparently everybody thinks that some one else is getting more out of life than he is. We are all trying to live some one else's life instead of our own, but I don't like the feeling that any one else is trying to live mine. If I had a chance to whisper a few things to this man in confidence he might change his mind. Anyway, he had better try living his own life, and not be trying to imitate what he imagines is the life of another man. That other man has troubles of his own.

How many farmers know the full extent of their possessions? Most of them know how many acres they own and the probable value of their crops, stock, and investments, but that is only a small part of their heritage. The laws of property deal only with such things as can be handled and trafficked in, but the farmer is rich in many things besides these. His powers of enjoyment are not "fobbed with the rusty curb of old Father Antic, the law." Every sense is catered to by things that are as free to him as the air. The sunshine, the cooling breeze, the odour of flowers and the music of birds have no regard for line fences, however carefully they may be surveyed, and the view from the hilltop that takes in a score of farms and the little village with its church spires belongs to him as surely as if he had a deed for it properly registered. The ownership of his senses extends beyond the boundaries of his farm in every direction. The ancient philosopher who thanked the rich man for sharing his wealth with him when he showed him his stores of gold and jewels uttered a truth whose full significance we should all try to appreciate. The farmer who has a beautiful clump of trees by his house or a well-cared-for piece of woodland shares it with every one whose eye it pleases. The country girl who has a garden of flowers confers a favour on every one who passes that way, whether friend or stranger. In the same way the man who has an untidy farm with tumbled-down buildings and ragged fences does an injury to the whole countryside. He maintains an eyesore that offends every one of taste who is forced to see it.

The man does not really own his farm who does not know all its pleasant places and its possibilities of enjoyment. He should know the shadiest tree under which to read a book or spend an hour in day-dreaming. It would do him no harm to know where the hepaticas bloom first and what green aisles of the woods are heavy with the incense of phlox. He should be acquainted with the robins that return to the same nest year after year, and should be familiar with every view worth pausing to look at when driving about the country attending to his affairs. They all belong to him, and it is his own fault if he does not enjoy them. The greatest advantage of owning a farm is that it gives a man the freedom of the whole country. The "no trespass" signs have no terrors for the eye that is open to beauty, and the enjoying mind takes its own wherever it finds it. It is all very well to have everything on your farm as it should be, so that you will get the best results from your labour, but if you value the piece of ground that you own merely for the crops it will yield you should not be encumbering it, but, as Mark Twain said, "should be under it, inspiring the cabbages."

June 17.--It is all right to go and hook your chin over the top wire of the fence and do mental arithmetic about how much corn a five-acre field should yield, and how many chickens the corn will feed, and what the cornstalks will be worth for cattle fodder, and what crop should be put in after the corn, but if you are going to have a crop of any kind you must drain the land. After the heaviest of that series of showers we had last week I went out to look at the field where the corn had been trying for the past two weeks to get through the ground while the crows and blackbirds have been doing all they can to help it, when I noticed that one of the slip furrows had not been cleaned out. The rain had started the water flowing from the woods, and if there was to be any corn on the piece of flat land through which the furrow passes it must be cleaned out so that the water would drain off and not drown the crop. Like Davy Crockett, "I seen my duty and I done it." The long-handled shovel was hunted up, and presently I was returning to the field quoting that classic which every schoolboy once knew:--

"Honest John Tompkins, the hedger and ditcher, Who, though he was poor, never wished to be richer."

Memory also gave back the fine moral tale about John Adams and his Latin grammar. The President in embryo found ditching so hard that to get away from it he started off with a rush that finally landed him in the White House. Because of this, ditching has long been regarded as one of the finest things in the world to urge young men to higher things. They have been known to work so hard to get away from ditching that they have become multi-millionaires and ministers and school teachers and such like.

The land through which the slip furrow passes is dead level, and, having been loosened by ploughing and harrowing, about an acre of it was as soft as mortar and as sticky as a bad reputation. Some one had told me once that when ditching one should begin at the top of the drain and work down with the water. That enabled me to start from the strip of sod at the edge of the woods. The first little dam of sod and earth in the furrow was as far out as I could reach with the long-handled shovel while standing dry shod. After making a couple of foolish pokes I straightened up to consider the situation. It was much the same kind of position you find yourself in when your golf ball falls in the water hazard that an unfeeling greens committee has located somewhere about the sixth hole. (Farmers who play golf will understand just what I mean.) You make a swipe or two at it with your niblick and only manage to get mud on your face and drive it deeper among the grass roots. Then you forget about your nice new golf shoes and wade in to root it out and you say things that no one would print and think things that no one would say, and when you finally get the ball into play again you wonder whether you will leave your shoes there and go home barefoot or wear them home and let your wife plant ferns in them as part of her scheme of ornamental gardening. Before getting back to the ditching I want to suggest to the rules committees of all golf clubs that there are times and places when a duffer at least should be allowed to use a long-handled shovel. But, to resume, I saw that there was no dainty way to do ditching and stepped in. The removal of a couple of shovelfuls set free a pond that flowed down into another, greatly adding to its size. The obstruction that held this pond was removed in its turn and a still larger one was formed. After this process had been repeated several times I saw that I would either have to swim or get a boat, so I decided to pull for the shore. It was then I noticed my new shoes for the first time. When I looked down I could still see the knots on the laces. Every time I stepped I seemed to be tearing myself up by the roots, but at last the wire fence was reached. Some one ought to get out a patent on wire fences as mud scrapers. They are worth ten times as much as the kind you usually find rusting with disuse beside the farmhouse door. Housewives would do well to have the yard fenced with wire and then the men folks would have no excuse for going into the house without cleaning their boots. But this will never do. All the time we're talking that pond out in the field is getting to look more and more like a lake. Feeling very light-footed, I pranced down to the outlet of the furrow and began operations from that end. Each little pond as it was opened flowed away, and I was able to finish the job without swimming. Possibly the drain-viewers would not report favourably on my kind of ditching, but it is one of the peculiarities of water that it will flow crooked just as readily as it will flow straight.