Honk! Honk! Through the leafy town of Forest, past the fine new school and out into the country again. Past fields of tomatoes planted under contract with the benign Canners' combine. Past new orchards that give glorious promise for the future. Past old orchards that are thoughtfully cared for. Over stretches of fertile soil that needs only a press agent to make it rank with the best boomed sections of the west. Around a corner and into a lane that winds along the crest of a gully brimming with trees, past a cosy farmhouse, through a barn yard and out over the sod to the top of the embankment, where we stop dazzled by a first view of Lake Huron and the wonderful lake shore valley, where they have orchards equal to those of the Niagara Peninsula. High above the orchards of apples and peaches we admired their foliage and guessed at their treasures of fruit. It was a wonderful trip, through a wonderful country, and the view of the lake and the valley gave it a fitting climax.
After the picnic was over the trip was repeated with the very material difference that comes from being familiar with an automobile. I was able to revel in the speed and the sense of freedom one gets from being in a conveyance that makes miles seem trifles. I cannot understand why men should want airships when they can have automobiles. The only trouble was with farmers who will persist in getting in the way with their skittish horses. I had a chance to see that an automobile driver can be considerate and yet not be able to do much good. Some horses are so cranky that they should never be taken out of a box stall. Why can't horses be trained to pass automobiles without trying to wriggle out of the harness? Well, here we are. And now we must start home in the buggy. I am hardly in my seat before I begin looking behind and before to see if there are any of those confounded automobiles in sight. Who owns the roads, anyway, the farmers or the men with cars?
I quite realise that I got somewhat mixed in my emotions by changing from a buggy to an automobile and then back again. The gist of the matter is that no country can stand that is half horse and half car. If the farmers could all afford cars the problem would be solved. How would it do to cut out the special privileges that enable others to afford automobiles at the expense of the farmers? Then the farmers could have them. The question is respectfully suggested for the consideration of the gentlemen of the Automobile Club.
June 30.—This is the strawberry season, and the jam-kettles are bubbling odorously and cheerfully. Both children and grown-ups are putting in their spare time in the berry patches, and aching backs and sun-blistered necks are the subjects of much conversation and the objects of much tender attention. The tame berries are plentiful and well flavoured, and as for the wild berries—um—er—well, the weather is too hot for one to drop into poetry. But right here shall be recorded a real live item of news. According to some newspapers, and all cheap magazines, our railroads produce no fruit but melons. All wrong! The Grand Trunk Railroad produces wild strawberries that are all substance and flavour, and have less water than an old-fashioned issue of stock. But if there is any place this side of Death Valley where the sun beats hotter than on the railroad banks, let that place be desolate. And as for railroad mosquitoes, they are as hungry as cormorants, and so big that when they suck blood you can feel your heart shrivel. As lobbyists they would be a success.
Speaking of big mosquitoes reminds me of a scare I got a few nights ago. I was just falling asleep, after a day of light work and heavy eating, when a mosquito began to hum about my head. I fanned it away gently, hoping it would go and bite some one else and leave me in peace, but it still persisted. As I tried to sleep the humming grew louder, louder, louder, until I began to wonder drowsily if there were any winged elephants in the neighbourhood. Memory, half aroused, brought up a tag from Milton about "the gryphon" that "with winged speed pursues the Arimaspian," and still the humming grew louder and louder. At last I started bolt upright, wide awake, only to find that what I was listening to was a passing freight train. I also found that under cover of the noise the mosquito had bitten me on the side of the neck.
A couple of nights ago a weasel visited one of the chicken brooders, and now, as Mark Twain suggests about certain people, he is "under the ground inspiring the cabbages." His fate was richly deserved. After glutting himself with blood he kept on from mere lust of killing, until he had destroyed twenty-six young chickens. A sharp bite at the base of the skull did the work, and then he had the impudence to curl up and go to sleep in a cosy corner of the brooder. When disturbed in the morning he sought refuge under the floor of a chicken house, and there was a hurried call for the shotgun. A minute or two later his evil head and long, snaky neck appeared from a hole in a corner, and a charge of bird-shot, properly distributed, put an end to his depredations. Fortunately this kind of vermin is not plentiful or chicken-raising would be impossible, as a weasel is said to be able to squeeze himself through any crack that is not air-tight. At first there was some talk of making a purse from his skin, for there is an old superstition that a weasel-skin purse will never be empty, but the odour of the creature was discouraging. Money kept in a purse made from its skin would certainly be "tainted money," so the idea was abandoned.
At this point it may as well be confessed that chicken-farming does not grow in favour under continued observation. It pays, of course, but the amount of attention required becomes tiresome. The grown hens are all right, needing food and water only three times a day, and the task of gathering the eggs is only a pastime, but young chickens are a constant source of worry and bother. They must be fed five or six times a day on a varied diet and they require different food at different stages of their growth. The result is that when there have been several settings some one must be busy all the time preparing food or feeding them. If their brooders are not kept at exactly the right temperature they may "bunch" and trample one another to death, just like a mob of intelligent human beings. Their brooders need constant cleaning, and they must be looked after when it storms, for they don't know enough to go in when it rains; in short some one must be pottering about among them all the time.
Bee-keeping, on the contrary, grows in favour the more it is studied. Bees are clean, orderly, and industrious. They require attention only when swarming, and hiving a swarm is interesting rather than troublesome. If provided with plenty of room they will gather honey with a singleness of purpose that leaves no excuse for the enterprising Yankee who tried to cross his bees with fire-flies so that they would work all night. Some of the colonies under observation have gathered fully fifty pounds of honey already this season and they are to be provided with more space for their activities. So many stories are current, all of them well authenticated, about men achieving prosperity through keeping bees, it is a wonder that more people do not go into the business. This may be due to the fact that some localities are not so favourable to bee-keeping as others, but wherever white clover is plentiful bee-keeping can be made an easy source of profit. A bee-keeper may get stung physically once in a while, though the danger of this can be reduced to a minimum by proper care, but he is in little danger of being "stung" financially.