In some instances there is too much liberty in Ontario. In this wise the general public think nothing of tramping over fields, either in crop or not, as the case may be, for short cuts, rather than follow the highways. Some of us are endeavoring to preserve a grove of trees, but there are those who, whenever they are in want of any especial stick for poles, or axe handles, or what not, think nothing of cutting and taking away one or more of the trees of a prized grove. No doubt heretofore it has been thoughtlessness on the part of the public, and the example handed down from the time when timber could be got anywhere for the cutting. But that has passed from us, never to return, and in the future we shall necessarily have to be more strict, as our country is increasing in population. To prevent persons walking over fields is not the idea. I well recollect an anecdote told me in England when I was over there a year or two ago. A man was walking along a stream through a pasture, when he was met by the owner, who asked, “Do you know whose land you are walking on?” “No, I do not.” “Well, it is mine, and you have no business to walk on my land.” “But I have no land of my own to walk on, and where shall I walk?” And the poor man was correct. In Ontario we do not wish even to restrain the poor man to that extent, but the thoughtless and lawless trespass upon crops and timber, and the tearing down of fences cannot much longer be allowed. Those living in the vicinity of large towns keenly feel the need of change in this particular.
Aside from all reasons of utility, it is a very great pity that all our trees are disappearing in the older portions of Ontario. It has been felt that our trees would never be all cut away, and it was thought fifteen years ago that we would not have to rely upon coal. The beauty of England is largely made up by her small groves of trees interspersed throughout the country, and if not great in extent, they relieve the eye and serve as wind-breaks. We have been too prodigal of our forests, but since we have had to go to coal we begin to realize the use, beauty, and benefit of even a few acres of woods here and there upon our farms. I heard an owner of a 200-acre farm near here last year say, that if it were possible he would give $300 per acre to have the ten acres of woods replaced upon the north end of his farm. And this farmer had to draw what wood he did use ten miles, but he wanted the forest on his farm to serve as a wind-break and a thing of beauty.
CHAPTER XVII.
Book farmers and their ways—Some Englishmen lack adaptiveness—Doctoring sick sheep by the book—Failures in farming—Young Englishmen sent out to try life in Canada—The sporting farmer—The hunting farmer—The country school-teacher.
Book farmers come to us now and again. These are usually persons from Britain, possessing some means, but not sufficient to make them gentlemen at home. They have had no particular knowledge of farming at home, but since farming is supposed to be so easy a matter in Canada, they do not for a moment doubt their ability to get on with a farm. They resort to the best works on agriculture; and after the perusal of a few volumes really begin to flatter themselves that they have a very superior knowledge of farming, and are able to teach the Canadian on his native heath just how it ought to be done. Such a man purchases his farm and usually pays the cash down for it, and for his stock as well. Searching over the community he finds a pair of the heaviest horses he can, for the light Canadian horses, he knows, will be of no use to him, and he gets some long poles made at the nearest carpenter shop, and hires the village painter to paint them in black and red sections that he may set them up for his man to strike out his lands by in ploughing.
Light, strong, durable Canadian harness is not to his mind, for he recollects seeing the plough horses in England return from the fields with great broad back-bands on their harness, to which were attached immense iron chains of traces, and he follows suit. And he sets John to ploughing, properly equipped, not for a moment doubting the result of all this preparation. And after a proper method of ploughing he does raise fair crops as a rule, for our lands are ordinarily so rich that if they have even a fair show at all they will produce. Harvest-time coming on, many other hands are brought into requisition, and he follows up the old time-honored custom in England of serving up the quart of beer per day to each hand. In due time his harvest is all garnered properly, and his work nicely done. His man comes in in the morning and tells him, about the time the first few rains come on, that “one of the sheep is sick.” “All right, John, I will attend to it,” for, of course, he can, for he knows he has at his elbow, upon the shelf, somebody’s treatise on the sheep, which is the best extant. The sheep volume is brought down and closely scanned, and the right page describing the disease sheep ought to have at this time of the year found. With the volume under arm he sallies forth to view the sheep, while John follows with the remedies. Arrived at the sheep he adjusts his spectacles at the proper angle upon his nose, and intently examines his sick patient The more he examines his patient and gets at its symptoms the more he is in doubt if the symptoms really correspond with those mentioned on the particular page of the treatise.
Shoving the spectacles up just a little closer on his nose he re-examines his patient, and glances from the patient to the book, the quandary all the time deepening in his mind. John is not allowed to suggest that the sheep has caught cold by lying in some exposed place through the last storm, and that he only wants warmth and food. It would never do to give in to John, for “what has John read about sheep?” The proper remedy is at last hit upon. There can possibly be no doubt about it, but to make assurance doubly sure he re-reads the page and looks his patient over again. No doubt this time, and John is sent to the house for a bottle, from which he will administer the proper remedy internally. John returns with the bottle, with a little water in it, and our book farmer adds the proper remedy and shakes it up thoroughly. All being ready, John makes the poor sheep swallow the mixture, much against its will, for it’s the most noxious stuff it ever had in its life, and the book farmer quietly awaits the result, his spectacles gradually continuing to slip away from the bridge of his nose, and to run an imminent risk of falling off the extreme end of that important organ. Some twenty minutes now elapse and John says the sheep is worse.
Back upwards again the spectacles are pushed, and the patient critically examined. While the examination is going on the sheep dies under his gaze. “Dear me; how can that be? I must have got the wrong page. Oh, yes, I see, I did get the wrong page. Never mind, John, I will fix the next one up all right in case it becomes ill.” And he closes the book with a snap, and goes back again to his library.
Such book farmers invariably have failed in Ontario. I defy any reader to fix on any one such book farmer who has succeeded. When he comes to strike his balances, after his crops have been marketed, and has taken an inventory of stock, he finds that his crops have cost him more than they brought back in cash. Another year will remedy that, however, and he tries it again, only to find the balance on the wrong side once more. Usually two years suffice to teach this book farmer that he is not a farmer, but he may possibly hold on for three seasons. Then he calls a sale, sells or rents his farm, and gets a neat, comfortable little dwelling in some neighboring town, which is quite sufficient for him and his household, even if it be not palatial in its appointments. From his retirement he writes back to England that farming won’t pay in Canada, for he has tried it, and it certainly will not pay.
This does a great deal of harm, and our country gets in bad odor among many persons at home, when the book farmer alone is to blame, and not the country.