THE RED COW

AND HER FRIENDS

By PETER McARTHUR

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

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

COPYRIGHT, 1919,

By JOHN LANE COMPANY

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

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

PREFACE

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

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

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

Ekfrid, Ontario, January, 1919.

CONTENTS

COWS

A BALLADE OF COWS

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

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

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

ENVOY

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

[I.—A Sick Cow]

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

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

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

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

[II.—Cow Troubles]

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

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

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

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

[III.—Fly Time]

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

[IV.—The Red Cow's Calves]

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

[V.—Insurgent Cows]

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

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

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

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

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

[VI.—Cow Troubles]

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

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

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

[VII.—The Bran Habit]

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

[VIII.—The Farrow Cow and Others]

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

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

"Why, yes it is."

"I am sure it isn't."

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

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

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

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

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

[IX.—Cow Enjoyment]

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

[X.—Cow Kaiserism]

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

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

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

[XI.—A Night Session]

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

[XII.—A Calf Puzzle]

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

[XIII.—Cow Character]

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

[XIV.—Calf Feeding]

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

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

[XV.—A Cow Trick]

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

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

When Fenceviewer II. is on her depredations she indulges in one cow trick that I should like to have the scientists explain to me. After she has eaten all the apples she wants she makes for the hay stacks and proceeds to root at them with her horns and to push herself along against them as if she were trying to knock them over. I have no doubt she does this to brush off the flies and scratch herself pleasantly, but when I see her at it she looks to me to be enjoying herself in a way not wholly accounted for by the fly and itching theory. When attacking the stack with her horns she flings her tail in the air and prances as if she were trying a new tango step. Then she hurls herself against the stack and rubs along against it until she reaches the other end, where she throws up her head, with a wisp of hay on her horns, and looks as if she were enjoying life to the full. All cows will do this when they get a chance—at least all cows I have had dealings with. Perhaps pure-breds 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.

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

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

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

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

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

[XX.—The First Lamb]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[XXI.—Sheep Surgery]

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

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

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

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

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

[XXII.—The Patient]

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

[XXIII.—Shearing]

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

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

[XXIV.—Vain Regrets]

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

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

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

[XXV.—Sheep Sculpture]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[XXVI.—Our Lawn Mower]

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

PIGS

[XXVII.—Clementine]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[XXVIII.—Feeding Pigs]

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

[XXIX.—Beatrice]

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

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

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

[XXX.—Pig Frightfulness]

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

[XXXI.—A Pig Bath]

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

[XXXII.—In Extenuation]

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

[XXXIII.—Beatrice Announces]

"Woof! woof! woof!"

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

"Woof! woof! woof!"

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

"Woof! woof! woof!"

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

"Woof! woof! woof!"

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

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

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

[XXXIV.—Receiving]

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

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

[XXXV.—Feeding Time]

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

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

[XXXVI.—Beatrice Belligerent]

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

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

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