In Pastures Green

by Peter McArthur

Aug. 17.—Yesterday I pitched oat-sheaves and it seemed so pleasant a form of exercise I am surprised that any one would call it work. But some people can make work of anything. I have even known people to wear themselves out counting up their money—but I didn't know them very well. If I had, I would have offered to help and to share their burdens.

I am inclined to believe that they have a finer harvesting spirit in the older countries than we have here. Once when passing a harvest field in England I thought there was a picnic of some kind in progress. Children were playing among the sheaves, girls wearing their brightest ribbons were wandering about among the workers, and those who were pitching and loading acted as if they were enjoying themselves instead of drudging. The jolly farmer whose crop was being taken to his barns called to me cheerily, and asked if I would come in and have a drink of hard cider. Every one acted as if nature's bounty were appreciated, and as if the harvest were a natural time of rejoicing. Here it is different. Everything is rush and hurry. I have even known a good farmer to fume and rage because the minister was so thoughtless as to make a pastoral call during the harvest and had delayed matters by asking a blessing at dinner. When folks get in a hurry here in Ontario, they make the fur fly. But I gave up being in a hurry long since, and yesterday the children were among the sheaves, and they rode on the loads, and we had a good time together that we'll probably talk about years afterwards.

Mushrooms are in. The wet weather has brought them up in the fields fully a month earlier than usual, and we have had several luxurious feeds. After all, I am not sure that the hand-raised mushrooms are any better than those that come up naturally in the fields. Of course, the cultivated ones are good and you can have them at any season of the year, but the pink-fleshed field mushrooms, when you are lucky enough to see them before the worms do, are just about as good as anything can be. Besides, there is something that appeals to one's sporting instinct in finding them out in the pasture. Getting field mushrooms compares with taking them from a bed as winging a partridge does with potting a fat domestic hen. But picking mushrooms is not an entire joy to me just yet. I know only two kinds: the common field mushroom and the inky mushroom, both of them delicious. But during the past few days I have found nine different varieties, some of them very tempting-looking, and I don't know whether they are poisonous or fit to eat. They are plentiful both in the fields and the woods, and it would be easy to get basketfuls if one only knew the right kinds. I have studied all the attractive-looking ones carefully, and the next time I go to Toronto I am going to hunt up J. McPherson Ross and find out all about them. He tells me that there are one hundred and twelve edible varieties and only six that are poisonous. It will be just my luck that six out of my nine will be poisonous ones. Anyway, I am taking no chances, even though I may be losing some of the best fungi that grow. Better to be safe than to be sick and sorry.

The bobolinks have changed colour, and, judging by their appearance, they are as fat as butter. In a few weeks they will be appearing at the best restaurants in New York, nicely spitted, as broiled rice birds, and if you try them you will find that a couple are fully worth the sixty cents you will be charged. When I see about a hundred of them (they are gathering in flocks now) stretched along a wire fence after they have been scared away from the oat shocks, I can't help wishing that I could defy the Insectivorous Birds Act and pot enough to make a good meal. I admit it would be a sin and a shame to shoot bobolinks. But what would be wrong about shooting a few rice birds? It seems odd that our musical and law-protected bobolinks, after a flight of a few hundred miles, will be the destructive and toothsome rice birds of the south. I fancy they would taste just as good here as they do down there if one only dared to try them.

This is an unusual year for black thimbleberries. Not only is the fruit more plentiful than usual, but the briers seem to be longer and sharper and the mosquitoes that protect them more plentiful and savage. Still we are picking all we can of them.

BERRY-PICKING

Berry-pickers! Berry-pickers!
Rising with the sun,
Think that you are working, don't you?
I just think it fun!
Every brier is black with berries,
Loaded, bending down;
I will race you for a pailful!
Then away to town.

Pretty faces, bonnet-shaded,
Brightly-glowing cheeks,
Crimsoned lips that tell of eating,
Hands with ruddy streaks!
Where have all the children wandered?
"Ho, yo-ho, o-ho!"
There they answer, shouting, laughing,
Through the patch they go.

Hot and weary, richly laden
With delicious spoil,
At the spring we bathe our faces,
Drink and rest from toil.
Who will buy our fresh, ripe berries?
If you haggle—well,
We may change our minds and keep them;
They're too good to sell.

THE STONE

A man! A man! There is a man loose in Canada!
A man of heroic mould, a "throwback" of earlier ages,
Vigorous, public-spirited, not afraid of work!
A doer of deeds, not a dreamer and babbler;
A man, simple, direct, unaffected.
Such a one as Walt Whitman would have gloried in,
And made immortal in rugged man-poetry—
Vast polyphloesboean verses such as erstwhile he bellowed
Through roaring storm winds to the bull-mouthed Atlantic.

And yesterday the man passed among us unnoted!
Did his deed and went his way without boasting,
Leaving his act to speak, himself silent!

And I, beholding the marvel, stood for a space astonied,
Then threw up my hat and chortled,
And whooped in dithyrambic exultation.
Hark to my tale!
On the sixteenth sideroad of the township of Ekfrid,
Just south of the second concession line, some rods from the corner,
There was a stone, a stone in the road, a stumbling-block;
A jagged tooth of granite dropped from the jaw of a glacier
In an earlier age when the summers were colder;
A rock that horses tripped on, wheels bumped on, and sleigh-runners scrunched on,
And no man in all the land had the gumption to dig it out.
Pathmaster after pathmaster, full of his pride of office,
Rode by with haughty brow, and regarded it not,
Seeing only the weeds in the field of the amateur farmer,
And scrawling minatory letters ordering them cut,
But leaving the stone.
Oft in my hot youth I, riding in a lumber waggon,
By that lurking stone was catapulted skyward,
And picked myself up raging and vowing to dig it out—
But dug it not.
I didn't have a spade,
Or, if I had a spade,
I had a lame back—always an excuse.
And the stone stayed.
As passed the years—good years, bad years,
Years that were wet or dry, lean years and fat years,
Roaring election years (mouthing reforms); in short, all years
That oldest inhabitants keep in stock—there grew a tradition
About the stone.
Men, it was said, had tried to move it,
But it was a stubborn boulder, deep sunk in the earth,
And could only be moved by dynamite—at vast cost to the council;
But every councillor was a watchdog of the treasury,
And the stone stayed.
Since the memory of man runneth the stone was there.
It had stubbed the toe of the Algonquin brave, and haply
Had tripped the ferocious, marauding Iroquois.
It had jolted the slow, wobbling ox-cart of the pioneer;
Jolted the lumber waggons, democrats, buggies, sulkies;
Jolted the pungs, crotches, stoneboats, bobsleighs, cutters;
Upset loads of bolts, staves, cordwood, loads of logs and hay;
Jolted threshing machines, traction engines, automobiles,
Milk waggons with cans of whey, envied of querulous swine;
It had shattered the dreams of farmers, figuring on crops;
Of drovers planning sharp deals.
Of peddlers, agents, doctors, preachers;
It had jolted lovers into closer embraces, to their bashful delight;
But mostly it had shaken men into sinful tempers—
A wicked stone, a disturbing stone, a stumbling-block—
A stone in the middle of the road—
Insolent as a bank, obstructive as a merger!

Year after year the road flowed around it,
Now on the right side, now on the left;
But always on dark nights flowing straight over it,
Jolting the belated traveller into a passion black as midnight,
Making his rocking vocabulary slop over
With all the shorter and uglier words.
Boys grew to manhood and men grew to dotage.
And year after year they did statute-labour
By cutting the thistles and golden-rod, milkweeds and burdocks,
But left the stone untouched.

There is a merry tale that I heard in my childhood,
Standing between my father's knees, before the open fireplace,
Watching the sparks make soldiers on the blazing back-log,
While the shadows danced on the low-beamed ceiling;
A pretty tale, such as children love, and it comes to me now;
Comes with the sharp, crisp smell of wood smoke,
The crackle of flaming cordwood on the dockers,
The dancing shadows and the hand on my touzled head—
A clear memory, a dear memory, and ever the stone
As it lay in my path in the roadway brought back the story—
The loving voice, and, at the close, the laughter.

"Once upon a time there was a king, a mighty ruler,
Deep in the lore of human hearts, wise as a serpent,
Who placed a stone in the road in the midst of his kingdom,
On the way to his palace, where all men must pass it.
Straightway the people turned aside, turning to right and to left of it.
Statesmen, scholars, courtiers, noblemen, merchants,
Beggars, labourers, farmers, soldiers, generals, men of all classes
Passed the stone, and none tried to move it—
To clear the path of the travelling multitude.
But one day came a man, a kindly poor man,
Who thought it a shame that the stone should be there,
A stumbling-block to the nation.
Bowing his back He put his shoulder to it, and behold, a marvel!
The stone was but a shell, hollow as a bowl!
A child might have moved it.
And in the hollow was a purse of gold, and with it a writing:
'Let him who hath the public spirit to move the stone
Keep the purse and buy a courtly robe,
And come to the palace to serve the king as prime minister.'
So the kindly poor man who had public spirit
Became the chief ruler of all the nation.
When the news was told to them, all men rushed to the highways
And moved away the stones, but found no purse of gold;
But they cleared the roads of stones, and the 'Good Roads Movement'
Went through without cost because the king was wise
And well understood our weak, human nature."
Ever when passing the stone I remembered this story
And smiled, touched by memories of childhood,
But knew there was no purse under it; there might be an angle-worm,
But I was not going fishing—and the stone stayed.

Now mark the sequel, the conclusion of the matter!
Yesterday a man went by—whether neighbour or stranger,
No man can tell me, though I have questioned widely,
Questioned eagerly, longing to do him honour,
To chant his name in song, or cunningly engrave it
In monumental brass, with dædal phantasies—
To make it a landmark, a beacon to all future ages,
This good man, earnest, public-spirited,
Not fearing work, scorning tradition,
Doing his duty as he saw it, not waiting an order,
Dug out the stone and made it a matter of laughter,
For it was no boulder, deep-rooted, needing dynamite,
But just a little stone about the size of a milkpail.
A child might have moved it, and yet it had bumped us
For three generations because we lacked public spirit.
I blush with shame as I pass the stone now lying
In the roadside ditch where the good man rolled it,
And left it where all men may see it—a symbol, a portent.

Tremble, ye Oppressors!
Quake, ye Financial Pirates!
Your day is at hand, for there is a man loose in Canada!
A man to break through your illegal labyrinths,
A Theseus to cope with your corporate Minotaurs,
A Hercules to clean out your Augean stables of grafters,
A man who moves stones from the path of his fellows!
And makes smooth the way of the Worker!
And such a man may move you! Tremble, I say!