In Pastures Green

by Peter McArthur

But when Halley's comet appeared in the sky a few years ago I found that I had no grasp of solar and planetary motions. What puzzled me was that we saw the comet every morning for a while, and then it suddenly changed to the evening sky. Why was this? What caused the sudden jump of about sixteen hours in the time of seeing the comet? Of course I figured it out finally, but in doing so I found that I had never had a clear conception of the movements of the planets, though I had learned about them in school and had taught them in school. Since then I have propounded the question to others, and have yet to find any one who could explain that change of time off-hand. Yet we all know that the earth revolves on its axis and circles the sun. This is probably the most familiar of the great astronomical facts, and though we assent to it few of us understand it in the least. I am inclined to think it is the same with most of the great facts of business and government that we talk about so glibly.

Presently the moon rose serenely and lit up the quiet scene. In the growing light much of the magic of the night disappeared or rather the coming of the moon brought a new and different magic. But I had had enough for one night. Rising to my feet, I paused for a moment to look at the moon, and in spite of all I had been thinking about, life seemed good. The perfume of ripe apples was still in the air, and the little musicians of the night were still giving their concert. In the circumstances it seemed only right to apostrophise the moon, but in my lighter mood I did not recall anything from Tennyson or Browning or Whitman, as I had done earlier. Instead, my memory gave back a whimsical bit from an apostrophe to the moon that had appeared in Puck many years ago and in spite of its flippancy it seemed to fit the situation. After telling his troubles to the moon the poet exclaimed:

"Never you mind!
You are a durned good old moon anyhow."

Oct. 26.—Packing apples is an ideal job for an Indian-summer day. The year seems to be as ripe as the fruit and a poet might pick off perfect days to store in song for future meditation just as we pick and store the apples for future use. Last night there was a sharp frost and when "the sun, new risen, looks through the horizontal misty air shorn of his beams," the fields were white with rime. While the air was being warmed and the south wind began to stir was a good time to carry apple barrels from the shed to the orchard. Having been shown how to carry two at a time by placing them against my hips and catching the outer rims, I felt as if I were trying to fly. I would gladly have employed a professional packer to do the work, but being unable to get any one to help, a demonstrator of the Fruit Branch showed me how the job should be done, and I tackled it myself. He assured me that after I get through with the Peewaukees it will be fun, as the Spies and Baldwins are all over No. 1 size, and all I shall have to watch for will be the culls. In the Peewaukees the side worms were particularly active and did a lot of damage. Wherever apples touched one another or touched a leaf the worms burrowed around in the skin and made culls of what would otherwise have been prime fruit. The cut made by this worm "is not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve." I have heard it said that experienced packers can tell a defective apple by the touch and go on picking up three apples in each hand and looking at the scenery at the same time. I am not yet an experienced packer, and though I wore my glasses and did not handle more than a couple of apples at a time, defective ones would still get past me. I would find them in the sorting basket, and later on in the barrel when I was racking it after emptying each basket. Those first barrels caused me a lot of work and worry, and though I did my best, I am haunted by the fear that some culls have got past me. This leads me to sympathise with at least some of the farmers who get into trouble by packing improperly branded fruit. Unless one is skilled at the work, he is almost certain to make mistakes, and the man from the Fruit Branch told me that culls were so sure to get in that one might as well forget about the ten per cent. allowed by law. You may do your level best and the ten per cent. will still be there. This goes to prove that packing apples is a thoroughly artistic job. Art critics tell us that no work of art is great if it does not contain some slight error. If it is mathematically perfect it is beyond human sympathy. But the artist need not take the trouble to deliberately put in the error. Being human, he is bound to do that in spite of all his skill. Only machine-made art objects can be absolutely perfect, and they never appeal to a cultivated taste. But let us get back to the apples.

There is always something to learn about apple-growing. This summer I learned more about the work than I thought there was to know before I began, and as each expert I meet tells me something new, I am being forced to the conclusion that as yet I haven't got rightly started. The last thing I have learned is that if a man is not careful when picking this year's crop he may pick next year's crop along with it. When apples are pulled too green, as altogether too many have been this season, the twigs on which they grow are liable to break off with the stems. As these twigs are the ones that have the fruit buds for next year's crop, careless picking can do a great deal of damage. When an apple is properly matured, the stem separates from the twig naturally without breaking close to the apple or pulling off the twig. As the fruit on one Peewaukee tree was somewhat green, I had a chance to see just what this destruction amounts to, and it was surprising. This leads me to wonder if there will be much fruit next year on orchards where the fruit was picked at least a month ago, when the apples were decidedly green. It is bad enough to have to sell this year's crop for a small price without destroying next year's at the same time.

Although the apples are being packed, they are not definitely sold, but the probability is that they will be shipped to Edmonton, where people's mouths seem to be watering for choice Ontario apples. As I know with whom I am dealing, I feel sure of fair treatment, and the prices suggested are so amazing that I am compelled to take a chance. Arrangements are being made to get a fruit car that will be heated if necessary, and every precaution will be taken to insure the delivery of the apples in good condition. It looks as if we would have a carload of No. 1 fruit, about one-half Spies and Baldwins, and, according to the information I have received, Ben Davises will rank as first-class apples in the West. If the venture turns out well, others may be encouraged to act independently, and if I do not realise the wonderful prices that are being suggested, I shall be like the man who was kicked by a mule, I shall not be as pretty as I was, but I'll know more.

Oct. 27.—It was all a mistake about those ducks. I might have studied them and written them up any time since they came out of the shell, but I got an idea into my head that ducks are so active that I should have to be feeling particularly fit and to be prepared to take a day off for the job. Now that I have looked into the matter I find that the old hen that hatched them misled me entirely. She kept up such a continual clacking and scolding because those ducks didn't act like chickens that I got to thinking that they must be unusually trying creatures. And all the while those young ducks were probably living their duck lives in a quiet, contented way, and there was no reason in the world why they should be reformed into chickens. Fortunately, the old hen finally gave up in despair, and after loudly prophesying that the whole place was going to the dogs just because those ducks couldn't be taught to roost in an apple tree, and because they were all the time getting their feet wet, she went back to laying eggs, and the last I heard of her she was in solitary confinement, because she wanted to start hatching again at this time of the year. All of which goes to show that there is a great deal of unnecessary fussing going on in this world, and that it is possible for well-meaning people to make a nuisance of themselves. The old hen meant well, but she had tackled an entirely unnecessary job.

This morning I hunted up the ducks for the purpose of trying to get a sympathetic understanding of their view of life. I had no trouble finding them. Ever since the oats have been hauled in they haven't wandered very far from the stack. Besides getting all the heads that were exposed within reach, they rob the hens whenever they manage to scratch loose a few grains. As the wet weather has filled all the puddles around the barn yard they do not have to go far for water, and I would give something to be as contented with my lot as they are. I found them lying under the granary with their heads tucked under their wings, and the first thing that struck me about them was the satisfying way in which they lie down. They seem to be built for just that kind of restfulness. When a duck lies down it does it in a whole-souled way that leaves nothing to be desired. It touches the ground from its crop to its tail and gives an exhibition of perfect rest that is worthy of a poem. Come to think of it, there is nothing surprising about this. Ducks are water birds, and the attitude of swimming is the one that they naturally take. Nature intended them to lie at full length in their own element, and now that they have been civilised into living on land, out of their element, they keep to the old habit. If the ground had not been so wet I would have sprawled down at full length to watch them, and would have shown them that when it comes to taking a rest they have nothing on me. When the conditions are right I can assume a restful attitude and rest as completely as anything in nature. But some people do not regard this as resting. They have another unpleasant word to describe it.

To begin with, I shooed the ducks from under the granary. Though I was loath to disturb them duty must be done. The whole flock rose with a simultaneous "quack" and squattered through a near-by puddle. "Squattered" is exactly the right word, and I have the authority of Burns for using it:

"Awa' ye squattered like a drake
On whistling wings."