In Pastures Green

by Peter McArthur

If I thought there was any truth in those lines I would lock myself in the house and pull down the blinds, so that I could not see the face of nature. I can enjoy nature only when I feel that nature is enjoying herself. Of course the explanation of Shakespeare's little sermon lies in the fact that the Duke was speaking in character, and he was a stodgy, inefficient person of the kind that are all the time going around spoiling the good things of life by drawing morals from them. That same Shakespeare had a little practice that casts a great light on the workings of his mind. He usually put his wisest philosophy into the mouths of his fools and his noblest sentiments into the mouths of his worst villains. It was the murderous king in Hamlet who mouthed about the divinity that hedges the person of a King, and it was Iago who moralised about the stealing of one's purse being the stealing of trash. Because of this I don't believe that Shakespeare ever meant that "sermons-in-stones" stuff to cast a gloom over my open-air life in this glorious spring weather. It is my private opinion that he accepted life as he found it with more irresponsible joyousness than any other man that ever walked the earth, and if he let some of his characters drool improving sentiments it was because he found people doing such things, and found, moreover, that it was the people whose actions conformed to them the least whose sentiments were the most elevating.

But this is not what I intended talking about at all. However, I warned you in the opening sentences that I might not be able to make my jump after all. To do or say anything definite requires concentration, and how can a man concentrate his mind when the sun is shining and the south wind blowing and the birds singing and the children asking when we are to go fishing? Then there is the garden to be attended to and so many other things to be done that one doesn't know where to start. And all the while, as some poet has sung:

"Nature's calling from the trout-brook,
Calling: 'Whish!
Son, you poor, tired, lazy feller,
Come and fish!'"

But I mustn't go fishing. That would be flying right in the face of public opinion. Everybody is working as everybody should be. Instead of saying, with Hamlet, "I must be idle," I must say with the prosaic people who make up this workaday world, "Get busy! Get busy!"

April 7.—The other day when we were sawing the big maple a little thing happened that put me in a hopeful frame of mind. It was found that the saw did not have enough "set," and that if the work was to be completed with reasonable ease it must be fixed. My recollections of setting saws went back about twenty-five years, when the instrument used was a huge contraption made up of screws, gauges, pincers, and such things that needed the management of an expert. It usually took a couple of hours to set the saw, and unless the thing was skilfully done it did more harm than good. But the situation had to be faced, and I went and got the most up-to-date setting tool. To my surprise it was a little punch that a man might carry in his vest pocket. I was instructed to put it on the end of a tooth and give it a smart tap with a hammer. If I did that to every tooth the saw would be set perfectly. Full of incredulity I undertook the task, and in less than five minutes had the saw in perfect trim. Every tooth had the same amount of set, and the cut we made was as smooth as if it had been planed. Evidently the perfect tool for setting a saw has been developed, and nothing could be simpler. That started me to thinking about all the implements that are in use on the farm, and how simple they are when compared with the first inventions. The first mowers were so big and complex and heavy that they foundered scores of horses every spring. A team could hardly pull them across the field, and they made a noise like a boiler factory. The modern mower is so light and simple that one horse can pull it, and it doesn't make any more noise than a sewing machine. Apparently man makes all his first inventions in the most complex way possible, and it takes him years before he can hit on the simple and obvious way of doing things. A disreputable philosopher once said, "Nothing is so hard to see as the obvious," and I guess he was right. The touch of hope, I found, lay in the fact that whatever a man sets his mind to he will finally simplify, though he may begin with a bewildering tangle. Now, about the only thing that is getting more complex every day is the art of living. When we try to improve it we add something—put in a telephone or something of the kind—and keep on adding until we make life a burden. Perhaps that is because we have not yet given life sufficient thought. When conditions become intolerable perhaps we will begin to give them thought and be able in time to simplify them as we are simplifying everything else. Perfected living may yet be found to be as far from the complex life of the present as the old cumbersome saw-setting tool was from the little punch that I used the other day. It is a cheering thought. Simplicity makes our work easier, and it may yet make our living more enjoyable. That is worth thinking about.

The number of green fields there are, as compared with those that are ruled off with brown furrows, brings up once more the question of the constant migration from the farms of Ontario. But I am coming to the conclusion that we are going about the problem of keeping the boy on the farm in the wrong way. Instead of trying to point out the advantages of farm life, we should devote some of our energy to showing the disadvantages of city life. The cities remind me of sticky fly-paper. They look so inviting from a distance, and when once you get your feet into them it is almost impossible to get out. And those who are already caught make such a great buzzing that every one within hearing thinks that the honey must be plentiful and fine. The buzzing is evidence of excitement, and the young people living the monotonous life of the country are just dying for excitement. Besides, the cities have an unfair advantage. They publish all the important newspapers, and of course a newspaper that does not constantly point with pride to the glories of its home would be lacking in public spirit. They paint everything in attractive colours, and the flies keep on flocking to the centre of attraction. I hope that some day we shall have a paper that will be edited and printed somewhere in the fields, and that will stand up for them as the city papers stand up for the streets.

April 9.—Unless something is done to relieve the scarcity of hired men we may hear of the revival of the press gang, and then the country will be no place for a man whose most strenuous work is done on a typewriter. Farmers are getting positively ravenous for help. And that reminds me that I haven't seen a tramp in two years. They used to be so plentiful along the lines of the railroads that they were a tax on charitably-disposed people, but now I doubt if a tramp could travel a mile in any direction through the country without being gobbled up. He would find every avenue barred with work, and eager employers waylaying him at every corner. A man cannot be idle in the country now unless he has a farm of his own on which to loaf, and even then he must put up "No Trespass" signs. Perhaps that accounts for the migration of the poets to the cities. It would hardly be safe for them to be going around picking flowers, listening to the birds, and rolling up their eyes when the country is full of farm work that is crying to be attended to. And that reminds me that one of them, whose name I shall not betray, has these poignant lines in one of his poems:

"I fear that work before me lies—
Indeed, I see no option,
Unless perhaps I advertise:
'An orphan for adoption.'"

April 12.—It seems that the apple trees get "that tired feeling" in the spring, just like the rest of us, and need a good tonic to put them in shape. As nearly as I could learn from Mr. Clement and Mr. Buchanan, that first application of lime-sulphur wash means much the same to the trees as a dosing of sulphur and molasses does to the boys, and I can tell you right here that it is a whole lot easier to administer. The trees can't squirm and howl and wriggle out of it. They just stand and take their medicine. The lime-sulphur kills the oyster-shell scale, insect eggs, fungi, microbes, etc., and acts as a general constitutional. And it is no particular trick to apply it. As a matter of fact, it looks to me to be about the easiest spring job on the farm. I say "looks," because all I did was to smoke my pipe and look on. Perhaps the other spring jobs seemed harder because I had to put on my overalls and pitch into them myself. But to a man sitting on the fence and smoking while the work is being done spraying doesn't seem a bit hard, even though it may be scientific. And even the science of it is not so very profound. They demonstrated the whole process to me, from carrying the water in buckets to the boiler to spilling what was left over from the barrel when they were done. It was a complete and satisfying exhibition.

To begin with, they unloaded their boiler and explained how to make it and what it cost. It is made from pine boards and a sheet of zinc—the boards for the sides and ends and the zinc for the bottom. Whether it costs $2.50 or $2.80 I cannot remember, and I have lost the envelope on the back of which I made my notes. Anyway, it doesn't matter, for any one who is interested in the work can get the bulletins on "Lime-sulphur Wash" and "Apple Orcharding" from the Department of Agriculture by sending a postal card asking for them. These bulletins contain full and exact explanations of everything that an orchardist needs to know, from preparing the ground for the planting of trees to the packing and marketing of apples. If you have only one tree in the back yard it will pay to get these booklets and they will tell you much more than I intend to take the trouble to tell. But let us get back to our work. After they had set up the boiler they put in it forty gallons of water, which they heated almost to the boiling point. Then they mixed a hundred pounds of sulphur with water till it made a smooth paste and added it to the water in the boiler. After it was thoroughly mixed they began to drop in stone lime until fifty pounds had been added, and the mixture became as much a witch's broth as the one described in Macbeth. I found myself unconsciously repeating: