In Pastures Green

by Peter McArthur

June 22.—This week I have a dog story to tell, and a beautiful moral goes with it. Sheppy, the collie, did something that should give him a high place in the rank of intelligent dogs, but no one will give him credit for it. Unfortunately, Sheppy's range of virtues is very limited. No one had the time or knew how to train him properly, and beyond keeping the hens away from the house and chasing the cows from the wire fence near by, he does nothing of value. It seems impossible to make him understand what is wanted when the cows are to be brought home at milking time, and even when he does go after them he always goes at their heads and turns them back. Taken by and large, Sheppy, although well bred, is just about as useless a dog as there is in the country. And yet he did something out of the ordinary. The other night, when the boys got home from the village, it was found that a parcel had been dropped from the buggy. Besides it was known that it must have been dropped some distance up the road for it was missed quite awhile before they got home. As it was too late and dark for any one to go after it that night it was arranged that a boy should go back over the road before five o'clock in the morning to hunt for the parcel. As Sheppy was around at that time he undoubtedly heard these arrangements being made, but no one thought anything of that. But in the morning we got a surprise. Just as the boy was going to start on his trip Sheppy came to the door with the parcel in his mouth. He usually goes out for a run around the farm when he is turned out in the morning, but he seldom goes any distance along the road, and he has never been trained to fetch and carry like other dogs. Now will some one kindly explain how he came to bring home that parcel at that particular minute. He has never before carried anything home. If he had been one of those wonderful dogs we sometimes hear so much about this achievement would add to his fame. Every one would be sure that he had understood all that was being said and had gone after that parcel, but as there is nothing in his past life to justify such a theory no one will give him credit. As a matter of fact, I do not believe myself that he understood and went after the parcel. The fact remains, however, that he brought it home in his mouth in good condition just as if he were one of the good dogs that always do the right thing at the right time.

Speaking of the intelligence of dumb creatures, I had an exhibition when discing the orchard that is worth recording. When going over the ground for the first time a couple of killdeers made a lot of excitement in one corner of the field. They fluttered ahead of the horses, screaming and pretending to be wounded as is their habit when any one approaches their nests. I left the horses standing and hunted carefully over several lands in the hope that I might find their nest and avoid crushing the eggs, but I could not locate it and finally had to go on with my work without minding their protests. When giving the same corner a stroke of the disc a couple of days ago a killdeer suddenly stood up with outstretched wings and tail, about a foot from the end of the disc. I stopped the horses, and for several minutes that bird stood there and delivered a lecture on squatter rights and the laws of homesteading and the suffragette movement. It was very convincing both to me and to the little boy who was riding on my knee. The bird made no attempt to lead me away from the nest. She simply stood over her eggs and scolded. She even refused to move when I touched her with the end of the buggy whip while trying to point out to the little boy the earth-grey eggs, over which she was standing. Even when we were so close to them it was hard to distinguish them from the clods, and it was no wonder that I missed them in the previous search. It is probable, however, that the disc destroyed the first setting, and that these were new eggs. What impressed me was that I had never seen a killdeer act in this way before. Had she made up her mind that I was probably a reasonable being and only needed to have matters explained to me? Anyway she stuck to her nest and each time I passed with the disc, and later when I came along with the corn marker, she simply stood up and gave me another lecture. Though the disc passed her within a foot on each side she refused to leave, though she made some very pointed remarks about being disturbed so much.

One morning recently I had a lively couple of minutes with a pair of blue jays and other birds that they had called to their assistance. The children had called my attention to a young blue jay that was under one of the apple trees, and I thought I would pick up the youngster to examine him more closely, but as soon as I touched him he started to squawk and things began to happen. One blue jay struck me back of the ear with beak and claws and managed to draw blood. At the same instant the other struck me full in the face. As I beat them away a couple of robins that had evidently been attracted by the noise also began to make swoop at my head. As this was the first time I had ever seen birds of another variety turn in to help I stopped to watch the robins, that were making just as much noise as if I were trying to get one of their fledglings instead of the blue jays'. By the time they had quieted down the blue jays had managed to get their youngsters away to a place of safety. Now I have always had it in my head that the jays and robins are natural enemies, but they seemed to forget all private grudges when a common enemy appeared on the scene. It is interesting to reflect that although these jays would protect their young at the risk of their own lives, in a few weeks, after the brooding season is over, they would probably rob their own young of any dainty morsel just as quickly as they would another bird.

June 23.—All ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, or pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope, who believe that the deficiencies of to-day will be made up by the morrow, and that age will fulfil the promises of youth, attend to the history of a wayfarer dwelling in the country. There's Johnson for you, somewhat "scratched." But what would you? You can't expect a man to remember to a syllable the reverberating "history of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia," but as this letter is addressed to exactly the same class of dreamers as was that ponderous, pot-boiling classic there is a colourable excuse for borrowing its resounding invocation. To be more explicit, it is addressed to all ye who dream of holidays in the country, or pursue with eagerness the hope of a rustic home; who believe that you still have it in you to be successful farmers, or that you will spend your age amid the scenes of your youth. For your benefit and inspiration an attempt will be made to describe life in the country as it is to-day.

To-day the country is at its most wonderful. Nature has "all her bravery on." Every field is full of promise. Wherever the eye turns there is life and beauty. The thick woods are rich with flower-haunted shades that invite to picnics; the clover fields are steaming with perfume and thronged with murmuring bees; the birds are clamorous with their young, and the bland, rain-washed air has a tang of real ozone, not of "that blending of the odours of tarred rope and decaying fish that passes for ozone at seaside resorts." Above all is the blue sky, unfathomably deep and flecked with wind-shepherded clouds that keep the shadows hurrying on their uncharted quest. The leaves are all whispering; flies are droning fitfully, and everything invites to indolence and the unthinking peace that refreshes and revives. It is true that those who work are busy in the fields cultivating the corn or hoeing, and finding the occasional glimpses of the sun uncomfortably hot. But their pride is to "scorn delights and live laborious days," and this year the prospects are that they shall have their reward. The prospects for all kinds of crops are of the best, and the "growing weather" is simply perfect.

At this point there was an interruption in the form of an order to go out into the garden and pick a salad. Breaking off crisp lettuce leaves, pulling young onions—Yes! ONIONS! That's what I said—and rooting out radishes can hardly be classed as work, but the chore involved stooping over in the hot sun for a few minutes, and the discovery was made that a cool breeze cannot be half appreciated unless one's brow is at least reddened with the sweat of honest toil. Besides, a salad always tastes better if one has helped in its preparation.

The visit to the garden revealed prospects of much good eating. The early peas are already heavily podded and in a week or so will be ready to garnish broilers or lamb chops. There is also an excellent promise of butter beans and new potatoes, and the melon and cucumber vines are spreading bravely. The cabbage, cauliflower, and tomato plants are thrifty, and on the whole the time seems opportune for putting to the test the teachings of G. Bernard Shaw. But although he affects to be one of those who elect to

"Sit a guest with Daniel at his pulse,"

he produces an amount of satire that provokes a suspicion that a vegetarian diet is productive of bile. Perhaps it will be as well to exercise moderation in the consumption of vegetables. Besides, those broilers are getting plumper and looking more tempting every day, and the best doctors approve of a mixed diet.