"If I had a stick I'd—'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack.'
"Shut up, you—'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack'—"
"Oh, what's the use—'quack,' 'quack,' 'quack.'"
Then as I started to the house to find out what was wanted of me, those ducks quacked as exultingly and flapped their wings as foolishly as a political party that has managed to howl down its opponents in debate. And I have no doubt that it is that victory they jabber to one another about every time I go to the barn, but they'll not enjoy their triumph long. They are eating their heads off every day, and presently we will all get together and eat their bodies off. "Quack!" "Quack!" "Quack!"——He quacks best who quacks last.
This morning, while sawing wood with a bucksaw, I began to remember vaguely that when I was a boy we had a playful name of some kind for this convenient implement, but, do my best, I could not remember it. As some one has said, the name "kept tickling my memory with the tip of its tail," but I couldn't catch it. I tried to get it back by every system of association of ideas that I could think of, but they were all of no use. I tried to recall every kind of work that a bucksaw can be used for in the hope that that would suggest the name, but I failed. Naming over the alphabet slowly, and thinking of as many familiar words as possible, beginning with each letter, failed to locate also. Of course, I knew it was of no importance, but when one starts his mind working on even a foolish problem it is hard to stop. That missing name bothered me for a couple of hours before something more important drove it out of my mind. And along in the afternoon, when I was looking up something in the encyclopædia, the name popped into my head with surprising suddenness. "Corporation Fiddle!" Have you ever heard it? That is what all the boys called a bucksaw when I went to school. I wonder why. Nowadays if I were going to call anything a "corporation fiddle" I would probably apply the name to some great newspaper, for I have noticed that the corporations generally manage to play whatever tunes they please on them. But in boyhood days the village or town corporation was the only one heard of. I wonder if it was ever the custom to sentence tramps to saw wood for the jail or town hall, and that the name "corporation fiddle" originated in that way. I seem to have heard some explanation of this kind long ago. But, now that the name has come back to me, I feel that we should find a use for it. Most of our leading papers proudly proclaim themselves "party organs." Would it be a good idea to name those that serve the Big Interests "Corporation Fiddles"? It sounds satisfying to me. I wonder which one we should apply it to first?
A good-natured correspondent writes that he wishes he could drop in on me or that I could drop in on him, so that we could have a good talk. I wish we could. He says he is tired of talking about fat steers and the price of hogs and such things. How can that be? I can't get any one who is skilled in those subjects to talk to me about them. They do not seem to take my views on the proper feeding of steers and hogs seriously. It is quite true I have no steers or hogs, but is that any reason why I should not have opinions? Still, though the real farmers refuse to take me into fellowship on these matters, I have no hard feelings. I have my own way of getting even. For instance, I do not take their political opinions seriously. Honestly, I do not think there is anything funnier in life than watching people acquire views on a public question. If the question is one that comes up unexpectedly, the caution of the people is something wonderful. They frown and shake their heads and appear to be thinking with both lobes of their brains. But wild horses could not drag an opinion out of them. They must think and think. Then some fine morning the party organ or "corporation fiddle" they patronise comes out with its opinions. Now, behold the change! Thinking has stopped and talking has commenced. All the fogs have cleared away and they have settled opinions on the troublesome question. They know just what should be done. Yes, indeed, and their fathers before them knew just what should be done, and any one who doesn't agree with them is more kinds of a fool than they could mention in half a day. To save my peace of mind, I agree with them entirely, whatever their views may be. Still, I have a sneaking suspicion that their views on public questions are no more worthy of respect than my disrespected opinions on fat steers.
Dec. 9.—Long winter evenings are a reality in the country. At this time of the year they begin about 5 o'clock and last while the lamp holds out to burn. How to put them in without yawning one's head off is something of a problem. The children no longer tallow their boots in the evening so that they will be warm on the next day. No, indeed! They must have overshoes, so that they can make themselves felt in the family by wearing out two pairs of shoes at the same time. As no teaming is done, it is seldom that there is any harness to be patched, and whittling wooden spiles to be ready for the sugar-making in the spring passed out of vogue at least a generation ago. Of course they have papers to read—loads of them, from the local weekly with its neighbourhood news to the city daily with fiery cables about the Budget. There is material in them for all kinds of talk from gossip to philosophising. But the average man can't read and talk for five mortal hours at a stretch with any degree of satisfaction. This leads the observer to regret that the art of sitting before the fire and twiddling one's thumbs has also gone out of fashion in these days of strenuosity. It is pleasant to remember the old-timers who used to sit before the open fireplaces twiddling their thumbs and staring at the coals. Being ignorant of "the three r's," except perhaps enough arithmetic to enable them to keep track of their money, they were unable to feed their minds with the latest sensational news. They therefore sat and twiddled their thumbs; but let no one despise this seemingly futile occupation. One of the shrewdest critics of life known to modern times asserted that "doing nothing is the hardest and most intellectual of all occupations." It was among such that Whitman found his "great uneducated" men, and Touchstone his "natural philosopher," who knew that "the more one sickens the worse at ease he is, and he that wants money, means, and content is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet and of fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun." Where is one to find such men now? Packed full of information of all kinds by their favourite newspapers, even the humblest can "profess apprehension" and have opinions on all manner of subjects.
If Canada should produce a Burns among its multitude of poets and he tried to do a "Farmer's Saturday Night" he would be forced to go at it somewhat in this fashion:—