In Pastures Green

by Peter McArthur

But here was a worker who expressed himself by an ordinary piece of farm work. He had laid creative hands on a tree, and it would take form as a picture might under the brush of an artist, or a song on the lips of a poet. He had put into it his conception of what it should be. In that way he gave expression to his own soul, and was willing that the world should look and see. He had enjoyed the task because he had a definite purpose and knew just what he was doing. He got the effect he was after, just as an artist might when working under the stimulus of an urgent inspiration. I looked with new-found admiration, and now the tree has a new meaning to me. I feel that he has revealed to me something of himself, just as did the artists and the poets.

How's that?

Since getting this little flash of light, farm work has looked very good. Farming is a great art, and the artist works with life, rather than with pigments or words. He gets his effects by working in accord with Nature. Surely that is greater than merely imitating Nature, or describing it. And, though I look at farming in this way, I do not regard it any the less as a science or as a money-making proposition. In fact, it should be all the more scientific and profitable by making it artistic. The art puts the joy into it and elevates it above mere drudgery. Mark Twain said that "Play is work that a man enjoys," and I see no reason why many kinds of farm work should not have the charm of play. If we could only go at it in that way, we would accomplish more, and life would be more worth living.

Of course, I quite realise that I am only a beginner at real farming, and that I should remember the text: "Let not him that girdeth on his harness boast himself as he that putteth it off." There is a job of ditching to do that it will be hard to make joyous, but never mind. I have at least seen that farm work can be made fine and ennobling, instead of being a sordid drudgery, and that is worth while, even though I may have to write a poem to express what I mean, instead of cultivating a field so that it will tell what I want to say as clearly as would the verses. I know that a true farmer who was master of the possibilities of the art he practises could do it, and for that reason I shall have a higher respect for farming. I may not be able to do it myself, but my failure will not prove that I am wrong. It will only prove that I cannot do the work as it should be done. Perhaps I have been hating work too long to take it in the right spirit, even after I have discovered its possibilities. But knowing what I do, I shall in future have nothing but pity for the man who can make of farm work nothing better than a dreary round of grinding work, and I am afraid I shall have little respect for the young man who starts at the present time if he develops into a slave. He has a chance that his father never had to make his life worth while. In the meantime, I am going at farm work with the feeling that it is a great art, in which a man can find enjoyment and self-expression, and if I find that I am wrong, I shall not be afraid to tell you so and to shoulder the blame. But if I find that there is both joy and profit in it, I shall certainly have my proper laugh at you who think that my fancies are absurd. I have much to get even for, and I shall not fail to rub it in if I get a chance.

Feb. 21.—George Grossmith has a story that never fails to delight his audiences—in England. He tells, with affected sympathy, of a conversation he once had with an American lady who had seen better days.

"We had everything the heart could wish for," she told him, "until my husband was caught in the panic of '93. His business went to smash in a day. It took every cent we had to satisfy the creditors; but what hurt me the most was that we had to give up the old family mansion." Here she heaved a desolating sigh. "Yes, we had to give up the family mansion. It had been in the family for twelve years."

If you once heard an old British audience laugh at that you would never again doubt that the good people at the seat of empire have a sense of humour. To the solid citizen who can trace back the ownership of his home to some follower of William the Conqueror, who slew the original Saxon owner on the threshold so as to clear the title, all new world pretensions to pride of ancestry and estate are wildly funny. Yet a word may be said in all seriousness in defence of landed pride here in Canada.

No one who has made a study of the pioneers of Ontario can doubt for a moment the inspiration of their toil. They wanted homes. They knew, as generations before them knew, what it meant to be tenants—subject to the whims and oppressions of landlords or their agents. They wanted homes that would be their own, and that would be inherited by their descendants. Their first aim was to secure shelter, food, and clothing for their families. Money-making was not only a secondary matter, but, in most cases, was out of the question. Until the railroads came there were no means of transportation and no markets. What the new clearings produced beyond the needs of the settlers was used to barter for necessities, or was given in payment for labour that cleared more land. In fact, some of the pioneers were as land-hungry as the farmer described by Henry Ward Beecher. His sole purpose in life was to "raise more hogs, to make more money, to buy more land, to raise more hogs, to make more money, to buy more land, to raise more hogs," etc.

An evidence of the home-making purpose of all this toil is the nature of the wills made by the pioneers. In almost every case they left to their descendants tracts of land, rather than money, even though, in many instances, their farms had to be divided into small sections to attain their end. One of the earliest recollections of the writer is hearing some of the old pioneers regretting that it was no longer possible to entail their land so that it would always remain in the family.

How the work of the pioneers went astray is shown by an examination of the present ownership of the land. An inquiry into the history of fifty farms in one district brought out the fact that only eight are owned by descendants of the original settlers. The children raised on these farms have scattered to every part of the earth and their heritage has passed into the hands of strangers. If an old-home-week could bring back all who are living, there would be a notable gathering of lawyers, doctors, merchants, business men, and at least two multi-millionaires; but if the sturdy old home-makers could rise from the graveyard where they lie with their feet to the east, it is doubtful if they would be as cordial to those who sold their birthright, even to advantage, as they would be to those who clung to the land and cherished the name and memory of their forefathers. It is among the latter that one finds the pride of home that makes patriots. Their land means more to them than a source of profit. They know the history of every field, the kind of timber that was on it, and the toil with which it was cleared. They know where the deer runs were, and the beaver dams, and the knolls where the Indians used to camp. There is not an acre but has its little tradition, and they are bound to it all by the sentiments that unite to make a national sentiment. They are not able to trace back their titles to a Domesday Book. But what of it? Their homes have been in their families since they were homes, and perhaps ten generations hence that will be as much a source of pride as if they had been the spoils of warlike conquest.