Jan. 24.—Some recent discoveries have made me wish to publicly abase myself—to admit that in at least some respects I am an old fogy, unobservant and far from being up-to-date. Ever since coming to the country I have been waiting patiently for some of the good old swindles to turn up and to observe just how they are worked. I have been positively yearning for a visit from a book agent who would try to get me to subscribe for the first volume of some one's Compendium of Useless Information in sixty-seven volumes. The first volume would be only a sample, of course, but there would be a little joker in the order form that would make it a contract for the whole sixty-seven. I hankered to see an order for a force-pump that would later turn out to be an order for a whole crate. After months of waiting I was coming to the conclusion that the men who used to prey on the farmers and rob them of their earnings have either died or reformed. And all the time evidence was lying about me and I couldn't see it. I take refuge under the assertion of a great wit that "Nothing is so hard to see as the obvious." But at last I am wise. Years of city life had dulled my ears to the siren song of the promoter and I did not realise when I heard the same voice in the country that it indicated an old industry in a new form. The fact is that the modern farmer is a business man, and when swindled the work must be done in a business-like way instead of by trickery. He will not consent to be separated from his money except by the methods that are used in the city. When he has a bunch of money that is burning a hole in the stocking—I mean bank—in which it is kept he listens to the glozings of the get-rich-quick man or to the silvery persuadings of the mining promoter. He buys stocks, forsooth, and loses his money like a business man. I am reliably informed that there are successful farmers who could paper the spare bedroom with nicely lithographed little squares of paper, the sight of which would make the house tomcat arch his back and spit because of their wild-cat complexion. When I hear young men discussing the price of wheat, I no longer regard the conversation as a sign of the interest they take in their work, but begin to wonder mildly what bucket-shop they are patronising. Assuredly the times have changed and I had not changed with them, but my eyes are opened. I am no longer waiting for the double-dealing book agent or the deceitful peddler. Instead, I am culling alluring prospectuses from my daily mail and revelling in their financial humour. I thought they were part of the penalty I had to pay for having once lived in the city, but I find they are part of the present features of country life. Thus do we live and learn.
Jan. 25.—Is an open winter a blessing after all? I have heard many people rejoicing because the mild weather made it unnecessary to feed their stock heavily, and those who, like myself, cut their own wood find that there is a great saving in fuel. They say that a winter like the one we have been having is "not so hard on the poor" and that is a good thing, but there is another side to the story. The weather is so changeable that colds and sickness are very prevalent, and because of the bad roads the social life of the country has been at a standstill. There are days when hardly a rig passes, even on a road that lies between two villages, and not since I have come to the country have there been so few public entertainments of any kind. The mild and wet weather leaves the country roads impassable, and that keeps people at home when there is little work to be done. It would be much better if they could be refreshing themselves with the natural enjoyments of visiting and parties. Although most of us dread the steady cold of the old-fashioned winters, I am inclined to think that the steady severe weather is better for us than the kind we are getting. The old-fashioned winters have plenty of sleighing that makes travelling about a luxury, and it always freshens people to mix with their fellows. Although the weather has been mild, this winter threatens to seem unusually long because people are practically prisoners on their farms.
Jan. 27.—Yesterday I saw the largest flock of quail it has ever been my pleasure to look at. I counted twenty-two, and they made a pretty picture as they scurried across a stubble-field feeding on the seeds of weeds that had not been buried by the snow. They all looked plump and vigorous, and unless something untoward happens they should winter all right. I know where there are nine more flocks and all are within a mile of where this is being written. As I was at one time an enthusiastic hunter of quail it gives me a pleasant glow to realise that, with such abundant opportunities at hand, I came through the hunting season without being tempted to do them harm. Of course there is a little matter of rabbits, but rabbits are something of a nuisance, given to girdling young trees and rose bushes. They rest lightly on my conscience.
I am beginning to wonder what the hunters are after. Every day I hear shooting in the woods, and I am at a loss to know what game is being pursued. It is now the close season for quail, partridge, and black squirrels, but the guns are banging away as merrily as in the early fall. Once in a while the wind brings evidence that skunks are being killed, and that reminds me that skunk-hunting seems to have risen to the dignity of a profession. One day last fall I saw a couple of well-dressed hunters with guns and dogs passing through a field, and fearing that they might be after quail I went out to warn them off. The one I interviewed was dressed to the minute in puttees, khaki hunting jacket, and prospector's boots. He told me that they were hunting for skunk, and were having a very successful season. They had taken seven on the previous day, and as I understand that good skins are worth from three to four dollars each, the occupation is not unprofitable. They had a tent located a couple of miles away, and were travelling through the country hunting carefully through each district. As neither the dogs nor the hunters gave my nose any evidence of their occupation, there must be some way of killing skunks and "trammelling up the consequences." When an ordinary man undertakes the task it is usually months before either he or his dogs are received in good society. Yesterday a hunter passed through the neighbourhood looking for mink. He said that their skins are worth twelve dollars each this year. This recalls the fact that while in the village recently I saw a young man getting a lot of empty packing boxes, and was told that he was going in for breeding mink and wanted the boxes to make dens for them. With skins at that price, mink farming should rank with the fox farming of Prince Edward Island. Strange to say, although the woods are so nearly cleared off, I have been told that the catch of fur-bearing animals in Southern Ontario is almost as great as it was in the days of the Indians and the Hudson Bay Company. It is some time since I have seen a coon skin tacked up on the end of a wood-shed, but every once in a while I hear a farmer complain that coon hunters have cut down a tree worth more than many coons. As a matter of fact the beavers seem to be the only important kind of fur-bearing animals that have entirely disappeared from the country. It does not increase one's respect for the law of the survival of the fittest to find that such vermin as skunks, weasels, and mink have survived the deer and all the other wild creatures that were in the original forests. I wonder if it is the same with human beings, and that the harder the struggle for existence becomes the more likely we shall be to find the meaner, more cunning and despicable types prospering? Sometimes when I am feeling bilious I am inclined to think that the law of the survival of the fittest works out among human beings the same as it does among skunks.
It is surprising to find how few of the things that were native to the country have really disappeared. Last fall I was asked to write a Christmas story, and in the course of it tried to describe a dinner where pioneer dishes were used. I found it was possible to get all of them except one. Nowhere could I get a trace of the old wild crab apples that grew in the thick woods. The pioneers used to put them away in pits until spring, and then would cook them in maple syrup. I felt quite safe in saying that these wild crab apples had disappeared with the original forest, but when the story was published I found that a housewife living within a mile of me had been putting up wild crab apple jelly about the time I was writing the story. It seems that there is a thrifty wild crab apple tree about three miles from here on the banks of the creek that flows through this farm. This is another thing that shows how foolish it is to be sure about anything. Emerson, in his biographical sketch of Thoreau, tells that the naturalist-philosopher had found, in the neighbourhood of Walden Pond, specimens of practically every kind of plant produced on the continent. He was even able to duplicate samples that had been brought to him from the Arctic circle, and that were not supposed to exist in the temperate zone at all.
Jan. 31.—Last week I opened another silo—I mean trench—of celery, and was surprised to find that I was altogether too hasty in complaining about the pithy growth of the plants. When the work of trenching the celery was being completed we trenched the pithy stuff on general principles, and because we had noticed a few good hearts in the huge bundles of stalks. On opening the trench I stripped away the pithy outer stalks and found in almost all of them large sound hearts. The celery I grumbled about turns out to be the best we have had this year. It is crisp, and tender, and better flavoured than the kind we had been using earlier in the season. But this has been a bad year for trenching celery as it was almost impossible to keep the water drained away from it, and the mice got into some of the trenches. At the same time I am inclined to think that trenched celery, if handled successfully, retains its flavour, and is much more appetising than that which is kept in cellars.
Apples that we kept for the winter are proving interesting in several ways. They were packed in barrels just like those that were shipped, and instead of being put in a cellar were buried in a side hill. Although I hear complaints that apples kept in pits and cellars are rotting badly, ours are coming out as sound as when they were put away. We opened a barrel of Spies last week, and I found only one rotten apple. They were as sound as when they were packed, and it was interesting to find that, although they were tightly pressed, they were not injured. The bruises caused by the pressing had all dried instead of rotting, and the only damage done was to the shape of the apples. As the barrel we opened had been filled with culls, I am inclined to think that the apples shipped must have been of pretty good quality, because these were good enough for any one. The ink spot and scabs, which made it necessary to cull them, have not affected the eating or keeping qualities of the apples, and now when there is no choice fruit with which to compare them they seem more like Fancy No. 1's than like culls. So far I have not found a single worm, and "we eats them cores and all."