Sometimes the contending sides indulge in a game of baseball if there is still time and they feel like exerting themselves after their full meal. Not infrequently the day ends with a dance—not old-fashioned square dances, but up-to-date waltzes with music provided by a graduate of some ladies' college presiding at one of those grand pianos that appear like mushrooms after a season of good crops. The old fiddler rasping out "The Irish Washerwoman" has gone "glimmering down the dust of days that were," with so many other country institutions.
Then comes the drive home through the moonlight, along the country roads and past the sweet-smelling clover fields. As the young men are always heroic and the girls bewitching on these occasions, there is no telling how many romances take definite form at barn-raisings. What have the cities to offer in comparison with this for excitement, fun, and sentiment? Nothing—absolutely nothing!
July 27.—The fat steers are now occupying the centre of the stage. They are being shipped from this district, not simply in carload lots, but in trainloads. It is sad to think that they will so soon lose their colonial identity and begin to masquerade on imperial tables as the roast beef of Old England. For some months past they have been making a glorious showing in the pasture fields. A drive along the roads in any direction would be sure to bring into evidence herds of from twenty to thirty feeding in dehorned peace or chewing the cud under the shade trees. They gave an air of prosperity to the landscape fully as satisfying as the wheatfields of the hustling junior provinces. If old Ontario is being forced by changed conditions to let her fields run to pasture, she has fat steers to show for it that equal the best. The old scrub stock descended from the pioneer cattle that used to get through the winters by eating buds and licking the moss off the trees has entirely disappeared. In its place we have cattle that are bred for meat production, and the farmer who sells a herd of these gets in exchange a roll of bills that is too big to be hidden in a stump or hollow log. Nothing but a chartered bank will hold it. Like almost everything else the farmers have to sell nowadays, fat steers command a high price that makes one sympathise with the poor city people who must buy. But when the farmers are prosperous, business booms and the city people get their share—especially those who are in any way affected by the piano trade.
Fat hogs are also playing an important part in this year's drama of prosperity—in fact they are getting their feet right into the financial trough. At the present price—eight cents a pound, live weight—they have reached a point that is the despair of men whose memory runs back to the time of the American war and other periods of forced prices. In this connection it is amusing to note how little some people care for the cause, so long as they can get good prices. One old Presbyterian elder, who has long since gone to his reward, made his fortune during the Crimean war, and ever after he used to exclaim with heartfelt emphasis on every possible occasion, "I wish there would be another war with Roosha, so the price of wheat would go up." It didn't matter to him how many people were killed or what suffering was endured, so long as he got a fancy price for his wheat. Another worthy of the same period kept his wheat for three years after the war closed hoping to be able to sell it at war prices. The state of the market weighed so heavily on his mind that when he met an acquaintance his invariable form of greeting was: "Isn't the wheat cheap? How are the wife and children?" But to return to hogs. They, too, have undergone a transformation. The old-fashioned swift-footed, long-nosed variety that could reach the third row of potatoes through a snake fence has disappeared—as has the snake fence. The hog of the present day really resembles his portrait in the advertisements in the agricultural papers. He lives a brief life of full-fed inactivity, has a clean pen, plenty of pure water and wholesome chopped feed. If offered the old-fashioned ration of swill, he would no doubt turn up his nose in disgust and ask the farmer to bring him the bill of fare.
Calves and lambs are also in demand with the buyers—they used to be called drovers—and bring good prices. But sheep-raising is not so important a business in this district as it might be. There are a few sheep—prize-winners at that—in the neighbourhood, but the industry is not flourishing, and the good old joke about taking the annual bath at the time of sheep-washing has fallen into disuse. The sheep they have are excellent to look upon. They even surpass the one described by the schoolboy as having "four legs on the under side, one at each corner." Their feet are set far towards the middle, and are so overhung with fatness that if a sheep gets cast on her side she cannot regain her footing, but will die unless found and rescued. So many sheep are lost in this way that farmers who raise them find it necessary to look over their flocks and count them at least twice a day so as to be sure that none of them is missing. But though the sheep have changed, the buyers are still the same as they were in the days of Solomon. Here is a sample deal reported from life. The buyer has just driven up to the barn from the road.
"Good-morning, Jim."
"Good-morning, Bob."
"Awful dry weather we have been having lately."
"It is; but it looks a little like rain this morning."
"Yes, but it has been looking like rain every day for the past couple of weeks, and I have always noticed that when it looks like rain and doesn't, we usually have a long dry spell."