In spite of the high cost of living, I am becoming convinced that there is enough food of various kinds going to waste every year in Ontario to relieve the stringency, if there were any way of getting it on the market. It is the same with the cabbages and tomatoes in the garden. We have so many that they are wasting, and there is no local market. If I had more it would be worth while to make an effort to ship them to the city, but as it is I have a surplus that is simply going to waste. I guess I'll have to get to work and put up a couple of barrels of sauerkraut, so that, like the Dutchman in the story, we shall have some on hand "in case of sickness." The redeeming feature of the situation is that we have all we want of these things ourselves at a cost of time and labour that is practically negligible. That is one of the advantages of being back on the land, but, having lived many years where it was hard to get fresh garden truck of the best quality at any price, I feel that there is something wrong about having so much going to waste.
A walk around the farm this morning brought out a few surprises. To begin with, I found that, in spite of the fact that hay was cut so late, there is a second crop of clover that is well worth caring for. It is too late to mature properly for seed, but real farmers whom I consulted tell me that, if we get a spell of decent weather, about the first of October I should have several tons of good clover hay. There are others in the neighbourhood who are looking forward to getting a second crop of hay from their fields of red clover, and some go so far as to say that if this second crop can be cured properly it will make better feed than the earlier crop.
Sept. 17.—The rush is over. With the harvesting and fall seeding done, the farmers are easing up on the strenuous life. They are having a breathing spell that gives them leisure to be thankful for the fine summer they have had and to enjoy some of the fruits of their labour. The round of fall fairs is on and those who enjoy looking at prize cattle and surpassing farm products can indulge their taste. Now that the big exhibitions, with their hippodrome features, are over, the county and township shows are having their share of public attention. They are so arranged that they do not clash with one another, and the person with the show habit can take in half a dozen if so disposed. This orderly arrangement, however, has led to a development that is hardly desirable. It has given a chance for what may be called professionalism among exhibitors. The chief benefit to be derived from the small fair is the neighbourly competition it arouses, but of late years those who have prize-winning products have made a practice of exhibiting at one fair after another, so that the same exhibits are to be seen at various places. The man who has cattle, sheep, hogs, or horses that are sure prize-winners can make money by taking them around from fair to fair. Because of this the local producer is discouraged from showing, though the whole purpose of such fairs should be to give him every encouragement possible.
The country seems more alive at this time of the year than at any other season. The roads are still good, and, owing to the lull in the work, those who have an excuse for going to town can go. Products of all kinds are being marketed, and instead of watching their crops the farmers are watching their bank accounts grow. The winter shopping has commenced, and the tailors and dressmakers are working overtime. Moreover, this is what the poet calls the season of "mellow fruitfulness." The apple buyer is abroad in the land, and paying as high as a dollar and a quarter a barrel for prime winter apples. Think of that, you who will buy those apples next winter at city prices—after the buyer, commission man, grocer, and other possible middlemen have added their profits. Peaches, plums, and pears are also receiving attention, but those raised in this district are finding their way to the preserving kettle rather than to the market. Pickles and catsup are also adding their pungency to the atmosphere of the farmhouse, and there is abundant promise of good eating during the winter months.
The part that the preserving kettle plays in a properly conducted country home is worthy of a special paragraph. It gathers the best of the summer's luxuries for use during the long winter months. The various small fruits are so distributed through the summer that a few sealers can be put away at a time without the work becoming burdensome. Wild and tame strawberries came first, and were plentiful and cheap. Raspberries, gooseberries, black and red currants came next, and could be had almost for the picking. Now we have the peaches, plums, and pears, and grapes and apples will follow. The housewife who has her cellar shelves stocked with a full variety of fruits can look forward to the winter with the assurance that her table will be bountifully supplied. At this point it may be worth while to ask what city worker having the same income as the farmer can afford to make such provision as this for the table? Nor are the solid parts of the fare lacking. The country worker can have his pork, potatoes, vegetables, etc., at the cost of production, which is an entirely different thing from even the country market price. Even when pork is selling at the present prices the farmer can afford to put by his winter supply because it has not cost him anywhere near its selling price to raise. If the countryman does not live on the best the fault is his own. He has either neglected to give attention to a little garden and orchard at the proper time or is so anxious to make money that he has sold off too much of his produce.
Sept. 19.—All sorts of strange things are happening in the country. Owls have been heard hooting at mid-day, violets are blooming as they did in the spring, and the other day a black squirrel came from the woods fifty rods away to the oak trees beside the house. What does all this portend? Are these signs of a hard winter, or of the failure of the reciprocity negotiations with the United States? There isn't a witch or a gipsy anywhere in the neighbourhood whom I can consult. Possibly it all means nothing, but it is not so long since wise people would have looked grave and shaken their heads at such unusual happenings. Personally, I have lost no sleep over these matters. I admired the violets, and, as there was no gun handy, allowed the owl to keep on hooting, even though there are reports that neighbouring hen roosts have been raided. The visit of the squirrel was regarded as a treat by every one, and its tameness enabled us all to have a good look at it. Perched on one of the lowest limbs, it curved its fluffy tail over its back in a Hogarth line of beauty and seemed as much interested in looking at us as we were in looking at it. With its shining black eyes and jet fur, it made as pretty a picture among the green leaves as any one could wish to see. In the old evil days it would have been shot or clubbed to death, but a kinder spirit is abroad in the land, and it did us all good to watch it as it frisked about in the branches. But I mustn't say too much about it, or some city hunter who "wears puffed sleeves on his hunting pants" may be moved to come this way and scare the poor thing half to death by shooting at it.
Sept. 21.—There is a job for Sherlock Holmes over here. When it was decided that I should drive to St. Thomas it was suggested that I should borrow a sulky and ride in it. Now I want to know what secret enemy made that suggestion. In ordinary circumstances I can remember most anything I want to, but last Friday I had all recollection of everything shaken, jarred, and jolted out of me. I am thankful that I am able to remember my name, and I am not sure that I could do that if I didn't see it in the papers once in a while. They tell me that the idea was all my own and that they warned me, but I doubt it. Some one must have urged me to my fate, though I can't remember who it was. If I could—but what's the use, anyway? I drove to St. Thomas in a sulky. It wasn't a regulation sulky of the kind that have no springs and that you ride on with a leg stretched along each shaft so as to keep the horse in place. No, indeed. It was an improved sulky with the seat placed over the most active spring I ever had dealings with. When a wheel struck a clod it would shoot me high into the air, and when I came crashing down it would flatten out on the iron axle and stop me with a jolt that scattered my wits over the landscape. When one of the wheels caught in a rut the whole contraption would jump sideways, forward and up, thereby imparting a spiral motion to my body that I have no doubt was excellent for my liver. The seat was placed high in the air; in fact, it was so high that one of those men who can always see something funny in everything remarked that I might have seen more of the country if the seat hadn't been so high. Moreover, the seat had a little iron railing around it, not so much to keep the rider in his place as to bring home to him the truth that "man was made to mourn." As the driver is full of life and the wild actions of the thing behind seemed to scare her, she let out her speed to the last notch. I was still conscious when crossing the bridge over the Thames below Middlemiss. Then something happened that brought me to in an instant. An unaccountable skeleton tower loomed up in the distance, and my curiosity was aroused. Curiosity always has a tonic effect on me, and for the time I forgot all about the sulky. Perhaps the fact that the horse had slowed down to a walk helped some.
On a hill north of Iona Station there is a tower that seems to be almost as much of a mystery as the round towers of England and Ireland. It is merely a square open framework with ladders on the corners and a small platform on top. It looks like the old observation tower at Coney Island, and when I first caught sight of it I wondered if I was approaching some inland pleasure resort. A nearer approach did not help me any. It was not the right build for an oil-derrick, and I could see no evidence of any use it might be put to. It was a gaunt, wind-swept mystery. Stopping at Iona Station, I began to make inquiries.
"What, that thing? Oh, it was put up about three years ago."
"But what is it for?"