Well, I have wandered and the day is spent,
My morning vow forgotten and the throng
Of fancies vanished that I truly meant
To spread before you as I went along—
Showing what beauty with the day was blent—
Minting the gold of sunset into song—
Pouring my heart in rapture or in mirth—
Singing with pride the land that gave me birth.
But though I fail I shall not be ashamed;
My brothers of the fields will understand
The patriot ardour in my heart that flamed
And by what breath that sacred fire was fanned;
The blood still courses in our veins that tamed
The waste to fruitfulness at His command,
And ye all feel as I have felt to-day—
Born of this soil and kneaded of its clay.
Nov. 25.—Is there such a thing as an official score-card for marking up the points of a cow? If there is I should like to see one. I want to know just how many marks are given for powers of digestion. This week the red cow did something that almost lifts her out of the cow class and places her with the ostrich and boa-constrictor. The other day after the cows had been turned out to water she was somehow left untied. True to her predatory instincts, as soon as she discovered her freedom she started to nose around for something she could steal and had the luck to find a tub full of corn in the ear, from which the hens were being fed. She promptly began to wrap herself around it and before being interrupted in her feast she had eaten over a bushel. Now, The Farmer's Advocate has never published any "First Aid to the Gluttonous," and I didn't know what to do. When I asked for advice people told me sad stories of the death of cows from over-feeding. Some had been killed by eating tailings after a threshing, others by bloating after eating clover, others by a surfeit of chop feed. It was all very disheartening for a fresh cow that gives eight quarts of milk rich in butter-fat at each milking is a valuable asset in these days when the bank act is being revised so as to allow farmers to raise money on their cattle. I couldn't call up the veterinarian for we have no telephone, and with the roads in their present condition I did not feel like driving three miles to consult one. Still I was not so much worried as I might have been. The look in her eye was reassuring. She looked more like the cat that had eaten the canary than anything else. She wore an air of unmistakable satisfaction and when she began to eat some clover hay that was in her manger as dessert to her banquet I felt that she might pull through. Her previous raids on the swill-barrel, soft-soap, apples, and other things gave me confidence in her powers of digestion, so, after murmuring a few words, "more in sorrow than in anger," I gave her Shakespeare's blessing—"Let Good Digestion Wait on Appetite"—and left her to her fate.
At milking time she was still perfectly normal though kind of lazy about standing over and "histing." Acting on advice, I cut out her evening ration of unthreshed oats, so that her stomach would recover from the surprise she had given it in the afternoon. Her gastric juices had their work cut out for them without having their troubles increased. But she made no protest when the other cows were fed and she was skipped. In fact she reminded me of the bereaved fowl described by "Pet Marjory," the little girl whose rhymes and sayings were recorded by Sir Walter Scott:
"She was more than usual calm.
She did not give a single dam."
And yet, though she was in such good form I couldn't keep from worrying. All evening I listened to tales about cows that had come to untimely ends through over-eating, and look at it in any way I tried, a bushel or more of corn seemed a big dose for any cow. So after the others had gone to bed I lit the lantern and went out to the stable to see how she was doing. As I opened the door she heaved a sigh of repletion, like an alderman after a banquet. Then she stretched out her neck, brought up a cud, and began to chew placidly. Still, I was not entirely easy in my mind. If I could only get to see her tongue, or to feel her pulse, or take her temperature, I would be more satisfied. But how to get her to put out her tongue was the problem. The only way I could think of would be to hold an ear of corn before her nose and let her reach out her tongue for it, just as I had seen her try to lick grain through a knothole in the granary. But I was afraid to try that scheme for I knew by experience that she would probably get the start of me and add that ear of corn to the pile she had already accumulated. When it came to feeling her pulse I was stumped worse than in trying to get her to put out her tongue. How do you feel a cow's pulse anyway? The longer I live on a farm and grapple with its problems the more I find I have to learn. And all the time I was fussing and worrying she kept on contentedly chewing her cud. Restraining an impulse to give her a kick for looking so exasperatingly comfortable, when in the best judgment of the neighbourhood she should be dying, I closed the door and left her to her job of digesting a bushel of corn. And she did it to the king's taste. In the morning I went to see her before I gathered the duck eggs and found her bawling for her morning feed. She never batted an eyelid—never turned a hair. And at milking time she gave a brimming pail of milk, just as if nothing unusual had happened. Later in the day, when she was turned out for water, she bolted for the spot where she had found the corn on the previous day and seemed ready to repeat her exploit. It is not because she is starved either, for she is beef-fat.
[DECEMBER]
Dec. 1.—Here is a chance for the Weather Bureau and the oldest inhabitant. In their records, real and imaginary, have they noted a first day of December like this? Last night there was a sharp still frost, but this morning the sun is shining "on both sides of the fence." A south wind that is balmy and yet has a tang to it like hard cider is dawdling over the fields. The day is perfect, and as I view it through the open window the typewriter becometh a burden. There is a haze in the air that makes the woods look dreamy and inviting. This seems to be a case of Indian summer lingering in the lap of winter, and nobody has the slightest objection to make. Those who work are still busy ploughing and getting ready for next summer's crops. Even the bees are out for an airing, and our Christmas dinners are in the woods filling their crops with beechnuts. Every once in a while I hear a shotgun banging, and know that a city hunter is scaring our corn-fed black squirrels. A couple of days ago one of these powder-burners fired seventeen shots at a squirrel on the beech knoll until the little animal got ashamed of being a party to such a rumpus and retired disdainfully into his hole. There doubtless are city hunters who can shoot, but they are not taking their holidays at present. Possibly the fellows who are tramping through the woods just now are doing it for their health, but, though they may work up excellent appetites, they will never be able to satisfy their hunger with the game they kill. Those I have had a chance to observe in action couldn't hit a "No Trespassing" sign at ten paces. The country boys say they couldn't hit a barn even if they were standing inside of it.