Part 7

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.

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.

SHEEP

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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.

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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."