Chapter V: Part 5

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

* * * * *

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

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

_LVII.--Human Nature in Dumb Creatures_

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

_LVIII.--Early Observations_

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

_LIX.--Bantams_

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

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

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

_LX.--A Little Tragedy_

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

_LXI.--A Scientific Query_

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

_LXII.--A Poultry Note_

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

_LXIII.--Spring and the Livestock_

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

_LXIV.--First Snow_

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

_LXV.--A "Skift" of Snow_

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

* * * * *

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

_LXVI.--A Spring Shower_

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

_LXVII.--Doing Chores_

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

_LXVIII.--Fishing_

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

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

_LXIX.--A Lonesome Squirrel_

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

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

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

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

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

_LXX.--Fall Poultry Troubles_

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

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

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