Chapter IV: Part 4

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

_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.

_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.

_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.

_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.

DOGS

_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.

_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.

_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.

_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

_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.

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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.

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