After dinner the clouds began to hang lower and almost without warning it began to rain. It was a real "growing shower," the rain seeming to ooze out of the warm air and fall without storming. It began from a wispy cloud that did not seem of much importance, gathered rapidly, and poured steadily for half an hour. It lacked the majesty of a June thunderstorm, but had distinct charms of its own. The birds chirped and sang throughout the downpour and the cattle pastured as if they found it refreshing. When it had passed and drifted away with a broken rainbow on its back it left a world wonderfully bejewelled and "bedewed with liquid odours." Those who had been driven to the shelter of the shade trees in the cornfield protested that they could see the corn growing during the shower. Anyway, the already fresh fields were made still fresher and the delights of the morning were multiplied.
"There will be wild strawberries along the railroad," was the announcement after the shower, and an investigation brought results. The berrypickers got a couple of quarts of small but juicy and full-flavoured berries, and now there is a "trifling, foolish" shortcake "toward"—not one of those with layers of cake laid on rows of white indurated knobs that passes for strawberry shortcake at our best restaurants, but a fat shortcake made of biscuit dough, split open, buttered, filled and smothered with crushed wild strawberries, each of which has more flavour than a basketful of your big, watery, tame berries. Also there will be plenty of fresh cream—but why make you envious!
Wherefore, all ye who were addressed in the opening sentence and have pursued the narrative thus far, you may rest assured that the country is still all that you have dreamed. In fact it is probably more. Not only has it all its olden joys, but many of its discomforts and drawbacks have disappeared. There is nothing of value in the city that you cannot have in the country, and even the cities themselves have been brought near by improved transportation. The village stores and groceries now sell fruits and delicacies that could be secured a few years ago only in the best city markets. There are churches and good schools everywhere and facilities for every reasonable enjoyment. And above all there is the glorious country itself, with its fresh air, green fields, cool woods, and stainless summer skies. Days like this make one forget the storms and winter weather, but modern homes and good roads are making these less trying. Every year conditions are improving and every year the farmers are enjoying more and more "the glorious right of being independent." Those who dream of a country life do well, and it is to be hoped that some day their dreams may come true. A few days like this can make up for years in the city.
June 25.—Last week I undertook to drive about fifty miles across country to attend a picnic. Of course, I didn't finish the drive, but what of that? If I didn't try to do foolish things once in a while I wouldn't have any fun. Those perfectly correct people who always know the right thing to do and how to do it—oh, well, what's the use? I could lecture at them from now until next election and couldn't make even a dent on their self-satisfied complacency. And after a fellow has been at a really enjoyable picnic is no time to start scolding. As intimated above, I did not finish the drive. At Watford the automobiles became altogether too plentiful, and after I had been given my choice of driving the horse over an eight-rail fence or plunging down a fifteen-foot embankment, I lost all my enthusiasm about sight-seeing from a buggy. The driver was even more fussed up about it than I was, but the man with the automobile was more considerate than most of those I have encountered. He stopped his snorting contraption until the horse was led past, and, after patching up a breeching strap, I was able to proceed. I make no attempt to tell what my feelings were at the time. I simply purred gently and thanked the owner of the car for being so kind. I am unable to understand the exact point of view of the driver in regard to motor cars. She will let four or five pass without doing more than dropping one ear forward, and then when the next one comes along she goes into hysterics. As the crop of motor cars this year is unusually heavy, I seldom move abroad without moments of excitement, and the things I say under my breath remind people who go out with me of the odour that a motor car leaves trailing behind it. If it were not for the automobiles nothing could be pleasanter than a ride through the country at this season of the year. The weather was not too hot, there were clouds drifting over, and the air was deliciously pure and clear. When we approached Watford, the flat plain gave way to gentle undulations and the farmhouses had the home-like appearance one finds only in old settlements. The roads were better—and—and the automobiles were more plentiful.
After a night of kindly hospitality near Watford, the picnic people took pity and came after me with an automobile. When the time came for me to embark, I felt much the same as Mazeppa did when they tied him on the wild horse.
"Bring forth the car!" The car was brought.
In truth it was a nifty make,
Such as a financier would take;
It seemed as if the speed of thought
Were in its wheels; but it was wild.
Wild as a grafter when he's caught,
Or wild as——when he's riled.
'Twas but a month it had been bought,
And snorting, likewise raising Cain,
And struggling fiercely, but in vain,
In the full foam of wrath and dread,
To me the choo-choo car was led.
They loosed it with a sudden crash—
And banged the door and laughed aloud.
Away, away, and on we dash!
Torrents less rapid and less rash!
A swift turn around an unexpected corner brought my heart into my mouth so suddenly that it knocked the cigar out of my teeth and when I collected myself my thoughts were parodying Dickens instead of Byron.
Honk! Honk! Past fields of alsike and red clover that give forth a perfume inviting enough to make a man envy Nebuchadnezzar, who ate grass like an ox. Past orchards innocent alike of the pruning knife and the sweet influences of lime-sulphur. Over a culvert that catapults the passenger so high in the air that he gets a bird's-eye view of half of Warwick township.
Honk! Honk! The road slips beneath us like a flowing stream. A woman hoeing in a field of sugar-beets straightens her back to look at us for a moment and waves her hand—or did she shake her fist at us? I really didn't have time to see.
Honk! Honk! On, ever on, at a speed that makes it easier to imagine what Lambton will be than to see what it looks like now. I discreetly avoided looking at the speedometer to see how fast we were going. No, your honour, I do not know what our speed was. We might have been going ten miles an hour. In fact, I feel pretty sure we were. You say the constable says we were exceeding the speed limit? I really cannot say. Honk! Honk!