In Pastures Green

by Peter McArthur

I have not been able to discipline myself sufficiently to confine my enjoyment to stated periods. Besides the time when the work of putting in the crop is done, I thought it looked fine when the first showing of green spread over the field, and every time I have passed it seemed good to see a few inches added to the growth, and it listens fine to have real farmers say with a wise look as they sweep the oat field with a critical eye: "Those oats of yours have a splendid colour." In fact when things are going well it strikes me that a good field of grain looks good at any time. But this dip into real farming is making me see crops with other eyes. In the past I have contented myself with admiring the delicate green and the ripple of the waving grain in the sunshine. Though I can still enjoy that phase, I now catch myself looking at the crops with a calculating eye, using my best judgment as to the probable yield and the prospect of getting back the cost of the labour and seed grain needed to bring the field to its present interesting appearance. Moreover, I am beginning to realise what it must mean to a farmer to have all his capital and hope of profits wrapped up in his fields. His interest cannot help being the keenest of all, and he cannot help noting little changes for good or bad that would escape the eye of the casual observer. He glances at his fields in much the same way as an investor looks at the financial column of the papers; and when the daily paper comes home he looks at the weather reports and the markets before he does at the political news or the editorial page. I am beginning to learn that a man can get no grasp of farm problems until they become vital to him by the actual work of farming. There may be great men who can take columns of crop reports and statistics and figure out the kind of laws that would mean even-handed justice to the farmer, but the nearer I get to the soil the less faith I have in the learned conclusions of our moulders of public opinion. It is impossible to realise all the hopes and fears, benefits and mishaps of farming unless one has done it as farmers are forced to do it—for a living. When his crop shows signs of failure he cannot reorganise, issue a batch of watered stock, and unload his failure on the investing public. All he can do is to gather up all he can and go in debt while waiting for another year.

There are always proverbs in the making in the country. The experience that men have with the changing phases of farm work gradually crystallises into phrases and neat sentences and becomes a part of the folk-wisdom of the world. Yesterday a man favoured me with a bit that seems new and original.

"Corn is a crop that likes company," he said with a smile. Then he went on to explain. "If you want a good crop of corn you must keep company with it most of the summer, and I have noticed that it is very particular about the kind of company it keeps. The kind it seems to like best is that of an intelligent, industrious, able-bodied man who will go out to see it early in the morning and stay with it all day long. If he likes the corn and keeps it well cultivated and keeps down the weeds it will show its appreciation by giving a good crop; but if corn is left too much to itself it will soon begin to look lonesome and discouraged and will not have the heart to put on big ears."

I haven't started with our little corn patch as yet, but after such a talk as that I know what is ahead of me.

There is a little patch of bindweed on the place—a memento of some chicken feed purchased a couple of winters ago—and I have been looking into the question of how to get rid of it. The cultivation I gave it last year when the field was under corn simply encouraged its growth. As nearly as I can find out, the only sure way to kill bindweed is to build a barn with a cellar about eight feet deep on the spot and then put down a solid cement floor. But I am told that unless one is careful it will poke up around the foundations. As we are not ready to put up a bank barn yet, I guess I shall have to go after the pest in some other way. Sowing with salt has been recommended, and covering the patch a couple of feet deep with straw. The last plan appeals to me most, as it does not involve much labour, and the labour is of a clean and easy kind. Anyway I have convinced myself that I shall only be wasting my time to try ordinary cultivation unless I do it every day or two for the whole summer. As I have plans for doing other things besides fighting bindweed I guess the straw cure will be tried.

Among other things I find that farming greatly increases a man's interest in weeds. Almost every day I find a new variety, and, according to the government weed-book, each variety is worse than the last. The Canadian thistle, which used to be spudded in youthful days, no longer seems a pest when compared with some of the other kinds. Thistles can be discouraged by cultivation, and we are so used to them that we know how to go about the job, but the new things that are coming into the country with every batch of mill feed or seed grain are usually mysteries as to their habits until they have been firmly established. Having secured a copy of the government weed-book, the nature-student has been hunting for the plants described, and between the railroad right of way and the neighbouring fields has found almost every noxious weed described. None of them has a serious hold as yet, but they only need a season of neglect to become a nuisance. I hear that the alfalfa seed that was last sown in this section brought with it a new weed that has not been classified, but appears to be in every way undesirable. The farmers are pulling it out on suspicion. With seed grain, chicken feed, and mill feed carrying weed seeds to the farms and the stock cars on the railroads scattering them along the right of way, it is beginning to look as if the weeds would get very evenly distributed through the country. Last summer when travelling between London and Hamilton I was amazed to see wild mustard covering whole farms, and hundreds of them. In this section this weed has been kept confined to one spot for the past fifty years, and, though it is plentiful enough on that spot, it has not been allowed to spread. Even the babies know wild mustard when they see it and never fail to pull it out. That is the way to fight a weed, but with a couple of dozen new kinds making head in the country it is getting beyond the babies.

I am beginning to wonder if sports and games are epidemic. Last winter the country was devastated by an attack of checkers that still rages in obscure corners, and now the good old game of horse-shoes is with us. It may be that people have been playing it all along and I did not notice, but, anyway, it is being played everywhere just now. They are pitching horse-shoes in the villages after six o'clock, and in driving through the country one can see the boys and hired men at it on the farms. In these later days the hired man stops work at six o'clock, and has time to play horse-shoes while his employer milks the cows. This no doubt seems unnatural to farmers of the old school, but hired men are now so scarce that they are able to insist on working regular hours—which is entirely just and proper. Perhaps, after a while, farmers will come to regard milking as part of the farm work instead of a chore, and will have it done during the regular working hours. It would be a good thing if they would, and then they could try their hands at horse-shoes themselves. It is a good old game, derived from the disc-throwing of the ancients, and it furnishes a healthful relaxation from heavy work. I haven't heard of any tournaments as yet, but no doubt prizes will be offered at the fall fairs where prizes are given for sports. It is good to see some one in the country taking time to have some fun, even though it may be left to the hired men to set the necessary good example.

June 15.—Last week a correspondent wrote: "I am trying to live the simple life as you do." Then he went on to describe his little garden and lawn and trees, so that I positively envied him. Then the humour of the situation began to dawn on me. Here is a worthy fellow-countryman who is trying to live my life as he gathers it from these letters. That is surely a terrible responsibility to put on me, but it shows an almost universal tendency. Apparently everybody thinks that some one else is getting more out of life than he is. We are all trying to live some one else's life instead of our own, but I don't like the feeling that any one else is trying to live mine. If I had a chance to whisper a few things to this man in confidence he might change his mind. Anyway, he had better try living his own life, and not be trying to imitate what he imagines is the life of another man. That other man has troubles of his own.

How many farmers know the full extent of their possessions? Most of them know how many acres they own and the probable value of their crops, stock, and investments, but that is only a small part of their heritage. The laws of property deal only with such things as can be handled and trafficked in, but the farmer is rich in many things besides these. His powers of enjoyment are not "fobbed with the rusty curb of old Father Antic, the law." Every sense is catered to by things that are as free to him as the air. The sunshine, the cooling breeze, the odour of flowers and the music of birds have no regard for line fences, however carefully they may be surveyed, and the view from the hilltop that takes in a score of farms and the little village with its church spires belongs to him as surely as if he had a deed for it properly registered. The ownership of his senses extends beyond the boundaries of his farm in every direction. The ancient philosopher who thanked the rich man for sharing his wealth with him when he showed him his stores of gold and jewels uttered a truth whose full significance we should all try to appreciate. The farmer who has a beautiful clump of trees by his house or a well-cared-for piece of woodland shares it with every one whose eye it pleases. The country girl who has a garden of flowers confers a favour on every one who passes that way, whether friend or stranger. In the same way the man who has an untidy farm with tumbled-down buildings and ragged fences does an injury to the whole countryside. He maintains an eyesore that offends every one of taste who is forced to see it.

The man does not really own his farm who does not know all its pleasant places and its possibilities of enjoyment. He should know the shadiest tree under which to read a book or spend an hour in day-dreaming. It would do him no harm to know where the hepaticas bloom first and what green aisles of the woods are heavy with the incense of phlox. He should be acquainted with the robins that return to the same nest year after year, and should be familiar with every view worth pausing to look at when driving about the country attending to his affairs. They all belong to him, and it is his own fault if he does not enjoy them. The greatest advantage of owning a farm is that it gives a man the freedom of the whole country. The "no trespass" signs have no terrors for the eye that is open to beauty, and the enjoying mind takes its own wherever it finds it. It is all very well to have everything on your farm as it should be, so that you will get the best results from your labour, but if you value the piece of ground that you own merely for the crops it will yield you should not be encumbering it, but, as Mark Twain said, "should be under it, inspiring the cabbages."