In Pastures Green

by Peter McArthur

While chopping the branch into stove-lengths I meditated much on the foolishness of what I had done, and felt properly ashamed of myself. If one of the boys had done such a thing, I would never have stopped laughing at him. And now I had done it myself. Oh, well, I have a suspicion that most men do things that are just as foolish, when no one is looking, and have the reputation of being wise and careful just because they escape and keep quiet about it. Sometimes I think that there is something in us that makes us try to do things that we know are foolish. It helps to keep us humble, if we are wise enough to learn the lesson. To-night I am feeling very humble. I don't think I should laugh, even if the baby took a spoonful of salt in mistake for granulated sugar. It is a mistake that might be made by any of us.

Whoever worked out the plan of planting young trees that is given by the Department of Forestry certainly knew what he was about. I doubt if it could be improved upon. Lifting a sod and turning it back kills all the grass and weeds around the seedling, and gives it a chance to get a good start. To-day I looked over the trees I planted in the spring, and found that they are all beautifully mulched. The little hollow from which the sod was taken, and in which the tree was planted served as a trap for the drifting leaves. Around each tree there is a mulch of packed leaves three or four inches deep, and the work could not have been done better by hand. I don't think they mentioned that result in the bulletin on Reforestation, so it came to me as a surprise which aroused my admiration. The trees should come through the winter safely with such protection, and the rotting leaves should furnish them with the food they need next spring. Of the thousand and eighty trees I planted, at least eight hundred came through the scorching summer safely, and I expect that they will make quite a showing next year. The pine suffered the most. Though I have always understood that walnuts are very delicate, I find that almost all of mine lived. I was also pleased to find that thousands of young maples got a good start this year because the cattle had been kept out of the woods. Little as they are, these seedlings help to keep the leaves from drifting, and it looks as if the sod that had made such headway before replanting was attempted will soon disappear. Next spring, if the Forestry Department is kind, and I am feeling equal to the task, I shall plant out a couple of thousand more young trees, and try to get at least five acres back to natural woods. Of course, I know there are plenty of wise people who will say that I am foolish to be planting out trees in the garden land of Ontario, instead of clearing away those that remain; but, as I told you in the first paragraph, I am now convinced that I am capable of any kind of foolishness. Still, there is a saving remnant of the people who believe that reforestation is a wise thing. I do not think I am making a mistake in casting in my lot with them.

First let me tell you how the whole thing started
(For I have seldom troubled you with rhyme),
I woke this morning feeling happy-hearted,
Lulled by the dreams of a supernal clime,
And ere the drowsy glamour had departed
I heard soft music, like an elfin chime;
It seemed as if the old house had begun
Like Memnon's statue to salute the sun.

An Indian Summer dawn of amber haze
Along the east was glowing luminous,
Ushering one of those Canadian days
Of rare perfection, warm and languorous,
That well deserve such mystic strains of praise
As still were rising faint, mysterious—
Although their source I sought in vain, until
I chanced to look upon the window-sill,

And there a child's harmonica was lying,
Just where the south wind on the reeds could blow;
It roused the music with its fitful sighing,
Æolian chords, sweet, tremulous, and low.
Finding what set the elfin music flying
"My lungs like Chanticleer began to crow."
Meanwhile the sun had risen, red as blood,
And poured its light, a ruby-tinted flood.

I tell all this because it made me vow
To weave the doings of the day in song,
From dawn till dark, as I am doing now;
Jotting down verses as I go along,
Hoping some Muse will with her charm endow
The flying fancies to my brain that throng.
Whether it is worth the doing we shall see,
For I shall give you what the gods give me.

The fire was blazing and I started calling
The little sleepers, and the morning noise
Began at once, with giggling, tickling, squalling,
Laughing, romping, yelling, such as boys
And girls delight in. Now, there's some one bawling!
'Tis sweet domestic music, but it cloys!
I think I'll do the chores and 'scape the pother
And leave the task of dressing to their mother.

The air is frosty, but a south wind purrs
Across my ears, and though all else is still
A flock of sparrows in a spruce confers
With much politic chirping. Now a mill
Blows its loud whistle and the world bestirs
Itself to work, of which it has its fill.
(Although of work I am not quite a hater,
I'll have some things to say about it later.)

The Collie greets me, romping wildly round,
Barking and fawning for his morning petting;
The gobblers gobble (joyous Christmas sound),
"Their little hour" so proudly strutting, fretting;
The roosters cluck, some muddy titbit found,
Each for his dames an early breakfast getting;
The driver whinnies and the lonesome calf
Bawls with a peevishness that makes me laugh.

I feed them all and then, the milking done,
Go in to breakfast with an appetite
For eggs and bacon, that I feast upon
With earthly, unpoetical delight.
When satisfied, the day's work is begun—
Winter is coming, all things must be right—
And though the day is fine I still remember
To make due haste for it is now November.