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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT:
COUNTRY LIFE READER
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POUNITRY 2b bE
READER
BY
Or ze STEVENSON, NM-A.;5D.Pap.
ASSISTANT MASTER, NORMAL SCHOOL, TORONTO
ILLUSTRATED
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
NEW YORK CHICAGO BOSTON
CoryricuT, 1916, By
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
hs
JUL 28-1918
Oc 137030
pi,
PREFACE
ONE of the questions to which educationists of the
present day are giving much attention is the problem of
how to make farm life attractive to boys and girls. To
succeed in doing this it is necessary not only to create an
interest in the work of the farm itself, but also to lead
young people to see the value of training and preparation
for farming as a profession. In the selection of material
for a Country Life Reader the editor has tried to keep
in view both these needs. One of the first steps toward
creating an interest in farm life is the teaching of ele-
mentary agriculture. But the science of agriculture is
an abstract study requiring a greater maturity of mind
than most children in the elementary schools possess;
and, manifestly, if it is to be taught at all, it must be
presented in simple form. Accordingly, in this Reader the
editor has attempted to deal only with elementary prin-
ciples of agriculture; and, wherever possible, these prin-
ciples have been embodied in the form of a story. And
furthermore, as this is a Reader, and not a scientific text-
book in agriculture, no attempt has been made to give
detailed information on any subject. The object of the
lessons contained in the Reader is to stimulate the in-
terest of the pupil so that he may be led to observe and
study for himself.
ili
IV PREFACE
In addition to the treatment of purely agricultural sub-
jects, passages have been included in the Reader which
are intended to direct the attention of the pupil to ob-
jects of interest and sources of pleasure in country life,
and to lead him to appreciate the dignity of labor on
the farm. Aes, A
‘Thanks are due to’ both authors and publishers for
permission to use the following selections:
‘A Bird’s Elegy” by Frank: Dempster Sherman, “‘Far-
mer John’ and “An Evening on the Farm” by John
T.. Trowbridge, ‘The Song of. Milo, the Farm-Hand”’
by E: .C. Stedman, “‘A Midsummer Song” by Richard
Watson Gilder, The Houghton Mifflin Company; “The
Farmer and. the Millionaire” from ‘“Adventures in Con:
tentment”’ and ‘‘Paying My Way” from. ‘The Friendly
Road” by. David»Grayson, and.‘ Clean Home Milk” from
“Outdoor :Work”..: by. Mary Rogers. Miller, - Messrs.
Doubleday, Page & Company; ‘The Planting of the
Apple ‘Tree”’ and “The Prairies”. by William Cullen Bryant
and “What. Do. We Plant When: We: Plant the. Tree?”
by. Henry Abbey, Messrs. D. Appleton & Company; ‘‘The
Scythe Song” by Andrew Lang, Messrs. Longmans, Green
&: Company; “The Country. Faith’’..by.: Norman ‘Gale,
Messrs.’ Duffield & Company; ‘‘ Planting Time” by L. H.
Bailey, The Outlook Company; ‘The Poor Man’s Farm”
by David Buffum, The Atlantic Monthly; “The Legend of
the Dandelion” ‘from “For the Children’s Hour” by Caro-
lyn 5. Bailey, The: Milton Bradley Company; ‘‘ The Red-
wing” by Bliss Carman, Messrs. L. C. Page & Company;
‘“Maple-Sugaring” by E. P. Powell and ‘“‘A Day on the
PREFACE Vv
Farm” by Urban Lavery, The Independent; “The Apple
Harvest” and “In the Plum Yard” by E. P. Powell, Out-
ing Publishing Company; “A Flower Lover’s Creed” by
Walter A. Dyer and “The Country Boy” by Vivian
Burnett, The Craftsman; ‘Indian Summer” by Wilfred
Campbell, William Briggs; “A Visit to the Farm” from
“Glengarry School Days” and ‘The Turnip-Hoeing
Match” from “Corporal Cameron” by Ralph Connor,
the Westminster Publishing Company; ‘The Boy Who
Made the Reaper” by John Y. Beaty, Farm and Fireside;
“Apple Time” by Arthur S. Phelps; “Wheat, Flour,
and Bread’? by R. Harcourt, The Ontario Department
of Agriculture; ‘The Country Boy’s Possessions” from
“The Hoosier Folk-Child” by James Whitcomb Riley,
The Bobbs-Merrill Company; ‘In Pioneer Days” by Can-
niff Haight, The Hunter, Rose Company; ‘The Country
Boy’s Creed” by Edwin Osgood Grover; ‘Harvest Time”
by E. Pauline Johnson, The Musson Book Company;
“Getting in the Hay” by Carl Werner, Everybody's Maga-
zine; “A Colony of Honey-Bees”’ by E. R.- Root, The
University of Ohio Agricultural College.
“Morning in the Northwest” by Arthur Stringer and
“September” by Helen Hunt Jackson are published by
special arrangement with Messrs. Little, Brown & Com-
pany.
The author also wishes to thank the Westminster Pub-
lishing Company for permission to reprint the following
articles of his: “A Raccoon Hunt,” “Bubo Virginianus—
the Story of a Great Horned Owl” and “Tommy, the
Story of a Woodchuck”; and also the Presbyterian Pub-
v1 PREFACE
lications for permission to reprint “The Trees on the
Farm,” “The Early Spring Wild Flowers,” “Birds of
the Farm,” ‘‘Welcome and Unwelcome Visitors,”’ “Among
the Evergreens” and ‘‘The Roadside in July,” contributed
to them by the author at various times.
Thanks are also due to Mr. R. S. Cassels, Toronto,
for some of the photographs of wild flowers which appear
in the Reader, to the Eastman Kodak Company for the
photographs which appear on pages 310 and 413, and to
the Ladies’ Home Journal for the illustrations which ap-
pear on pages 310-314.
CONTENTS
PART I—AUTUMN
The Country Boy’s Possessions James Whitcomb Riley . . a
The Wonderful World. . . W.B. Rands . 3
eter Aten satin < caer ee, ee AE el, eel ee 4
Pammes Joh” 2)... 3. 4 )2.) SohnT. Trowbridge . 8
The Smallest Plants on the
Ae eee Nortel) PAM iid oh ERS TMS cite! kung, mae soem dad Seely tae
Pera hene: Ca Got Uae te SNE na) eee ee), eer
The Country Boy’s Creed . Edwin Osgood Grover . . 19
MEDLEMIBEE fat! 0 3 helen Hunt Jacksons: ; < °) 20
OE Se a ra ar
Seed-Time and Harvest . . Henry Wadsworth Longfl
low (adapted) . . eee
The Spring Valley Corn Club
CREME OTT CUS fone) ihn x |) at Raha Miah fF ONO oy baa fans
ocket-vioney et vets et 2) oes AD. Bi Stepensotire 3) eS) 333
DET ST Garhi 01 5 (a ec ea ot ae Me TAL ee.
PES ACCOOM ELIA ok Saas Sea} Tre ioe tether
pee rory Ol COLO. “ot dsc. jeg d Perit Pete hai Mar aol | raha ee
Brawreiames Are Fed. 6.550 35 Moone Be ee el Tag
Indian Summer... . Wilfred Campbell . . . 48
The Campaign (to be con-
CO SN, SE Ie SO ST eA cy Oe On en Sen a
RSE Re Ahsan Titel tes tee pee CIB. Og.) on ge de RON
vii
Vill CONTENTS
WINTER
PAGE
Back to the soul. ye) | a. 3 Sl ae) eee ana
Jack Frost...) ..«... = Hannah Goal eee
eemme Up the Soil. 399 0 Ses hel Sie eee ee oe
The Spring es Corn Club
(continued) . RR sar NPE a IN
whe/Treeson the Farm)... \.c)"4' ses Cea ia al elena a a
The Snow-Storm . . . . John Greenleaf Whittier. . 73
A Visit tothe Farm ©... ‘... Ralph Connor 2g) 2 ees
A Barn-Yard Meeting Sa a ee
ihe ‘Horse’s' Prayer oie st) gee yee ee rr
In Pioneer Days .>~.. . .. ‘Canniff. Haight (adapted) sg iay
Whe Campaign (copnyed). 2 2 4) a> 2 6.8) 6 Se ee
SPRING
mroong of Spring £' > ; 2. Psalm-1og: 2 = eee
The Song-Sparrow’. =... Henry van Dyke. °° 2 Pie
PVC EPacia Wes): oi hwphyelisi bate ase te » eo
he arly. Spring Wild Flowers: -. . =. °° ~) eg)
The Legend of the Dandelion. Carolyn S. Bailey . . . 118
Preparing the Seed-Bed \...0 0) (8) = 4c ee
The Sower . . St. Matthew XID: :.: i 2 pas
The Spring Walley Corn Club
lomeluded) . 9... Meare een
The Apple Tree... BO" GR cot aA a ek oat
The Planting of the hee Tree William Cullen Bryant . . 132
Mie Campaign (concluded). © 6) 8 DR a 134
aGie Redwing. .' sss .>) Bliss Cotman a
CONTENTS
Birds of the Farm: Orchard
and Garden
The Farmer’s Friends... ao Wadsworth Longs
low .
Nature’s Song. . . . . Madison Cawein .
Tom’s Bicycle
Tommy—the Story of a Wood-
chuck . ahah
“What Do We Plant When
We -Plant‘a Tree?” cw ddenry: Abbey ..
SUMMER
A Song of Wheat :
Round and Round the Farm .
Breakme in the Colt... < 2..4 M@:B, Stevenson .
peyone Song. * .. . “.4....2 Andrew Lang .
The Cotton-Plant TAA se, yn) ame
The Turnip-Hoeing Match . Ralph Connor
A Midsummer Song... Richard Watson Gilder
A Day onthe Farm . . . Urban Lavery
Evening atthe Farm . . . John T. Trowbridge .
Clean Home Milk . . . . Mary Rogers Miller .
go-the: Plum: Yard « Ys'.. %... P: Powell
Mine Host... 2°. .-,.. ¢..—Phomas Westwood
PaboOy s SOng .<". + os . James Hogg
Ceres and Proserpina ..
PART , II—AUTUMN
‘The Country. Boy’s Inheritance Charles Lounsberry
Bad Like to Ge |). ... >. 2. Kugene Field ..
210
ee Ue
ae CONTENTS
The Country Boy .
Acid Soils
A Field of Mustard
Harvest Song
The Boy Who Made the Reaper
The Farmer’s Creed
The Corn Song .
An Acre of Wheat .
The Song of Milo, the Farm-
Hand . eee aamegs
The Apple Harvest
Apple Time .
Threshing
The Plough .
The Grain Robbers
Autumn .
The Wanderers .
A Thanksgiving ;
Making Over the Cotton Farm
A Better House (to be con-
tinued)
Vivian Burnett
Richard Dehmel (trans.,
Jethro Bithell) .
John Y, Beaty
Frank I. Mann :
John Greenleaf Whittier .
E. C. Stedman
E. P. Powell .
Arthur L. Phelps
M.B. Stevenson .
Will Ogilvie
M. B. Stevenson .
Edmund Spenser .
Robert Herrick
WINTER
The Farm Creed
The Farmer and the Million-
‘ aire ;
A Field of Rice .
Out in the Fields
Henry Ward Beecher
David Grayson (adapted)
PAGE
25-2
214
216
222
223
227
228
220
234
235
238
239
243
246
248
249
253
254
258
264
265
268
271
CONTENTS
Two Pictures . . . . . Anmie Douglas Robinson
Bubo Virginianus—the Story
of a Great Horned Owl
Peter Vale’s Skates p
Making the Dairy-Farm Pay .
The Promise of Bread . Seta iar dena
Wheat, Flour, and Bread . . R. Harcourt (adapted)
Among the Evergreens lt Uk RES ae a
A Better House (concluded) . M.B. Stevenson .
The Awakening of Spring . Alfred, Lord Tennyson
SPRING
Whe First Garden . .. - . *Gevesis
A Flower Lover’s Creed . . Walter A. Dyer laisten’
A Good Start
The Gardener’s eo Hand
lair M. B. Stevenson .
Poblesugsting a Sh “Se eee ee Powell-*.
The Ploughman . . . . Oliver Wendell Holmes
Ploughing
Birds of the Farm: The Fields eh Se hpaee
Planting Time <2: ¢ “ee Bailey...
Morning in the Wane . Arthur Stringer
Clover and Timothy cpap Pal geee os
@ song of Clover. .. < . Saxe Holm
Paying My Way. . ... David Grayson
Contentment
Welcome and Unwelcome Vis-
itors
The Tobacco- isnt
Xl
PAGE
272
273
285
289
295
297
393
308
316
318
319
320
322
325
334
336
339
344
346
348
350
352
358
359
367
Xi
The Country Faith
The Prairies
Alfalfa—‘‘The Best Fodder ”’
A Colony of Honey-Bees
The Song of the Bee
Getting in the Hay
Harvest Time :
The Old Pasture-Field
A Bird’s Elegy .
The Poor Man’s Farm
Nature and the Child .
The Roadside in July .
Consider the Lilies
The Office or the Farm
Good Night
CONTENTS
SUMMER
Norman Gale .
William Cullen Bryant
E. R. Root (adapted)
Marian Douglas .
Carl Werner
E. Pauline Johnson .
Frank Dempster Sherman
David Buffum ,
John Lancaster Spalding
Christina Rossetti
M. B. Stevenson .
Victor Hugo
PAGE
372
eH
376
379
385
386
395
396
402
403
406
407
412
413
418
COUNTRY. ‘LIFE, READER
PART J
AUTUMN
——s :
———$
THE COUNTRY BOY’S POSSESSIONS
He owns the bird-songs of the hills,—
The laughter of the April rills;
And his are all the diamonds set
In Morning’s dewy coronet,—
And his the Dusk’s first minted stars
That twinkle through the pasture-bars,
And litter all the skies at night
With glittering scraps of silver light; —
The rainbow’s bar, from rim to rim,
In beaten gold, belongs to him.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
aa)
3
ECR OEE SR SRD. MRARETSs OY
THE WONDERFUL WORLD
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast—
‘World, you are beautifully drest.
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree;
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the top of the hills.
You, friendly Earth! how far do you go,
With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that
flow,
With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?
Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,
I tremble to think of you, World, at all;
And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,
A whisper within me seemed to say—
“You are more than the Earth, though you are such
a dot;
You can love and think, and the Earth can not!”
W. B. Ranps.
There was nothing on it but a small log house.
GRANDFATHER’S FARM
When grandfather was alive he was very proud of his
farm. When he first bought the place there was nothing
on it but a small log house and a tumble-down barn. The
fields were divided off by stone walls or by “‘snake”’ fences.
The land was not drained, and the whole place was over-
run with weeds. But grandfather was a young man
then, and was not afraid of hard work. The farm was
cheap, and he knew that if he were to set to work to make
it over, it would increase very much in value and would
more than repay him for his labor.
Grandfather did not believe much in luck, and he knew
that hard work in itself would not accomplish much un-
less it was properly planned. Indeed, one of the chief
4
GRANDFATHER’S FARM 5
reasons why he got along so well was that before under-
taking anything new he always carefully counted the
cost.
In those days farmers had to endure many more hard-
ships than they do now, and grandfather and grandmother
certainly had their own share. They could not think of
a new barn until they had better crops to pay for it, and
a new house was less important than a new barn.
The first thing to consider was how to improve the
crops, and that meant at least three things. First of all,
the soil had to be enriched, then it had to be drained,
and at the same time it had to be cleared of weeds. All
these things took time and labor and a great deal of
patience. Then, when the soil itself was getting into
better shape, grandfather began to make other improve-
ments. His farm contained one hundred acres, and at
first he could not afford to keep a hired man. But there
are many things that one man working alone cannot do,
and grandfather decided that it would pay him better to
have a little more land and keep a hired man to help.
It happened that the fifty-acre farm across the road from
his own was for sale, and he decided to buy it.
Now that he had a larger farm and a man to help him,
he was able to plan his work better, and he began to make
some important changes in the lay-out of the farm. Among
the first things that he had to consider were the size and
shape of the different fields and the improvements in the
fences. Instead of having ten or twelve fields of different
sizes and shapes, he made up his mind to divide the farm
up into six divisions of about twenty acres each, reserving
twenty-five acres for woods and pasture, and five for the
6 COUNTRY LIFE READER
house, barn, orchard, garden, and lanes. He had made
up his mind to replace the old stone and stump fences with
neat wire fencing, and he knew that, the larger the fields,
the less the fencing would cost. The shape of the fields
was not quite so easy to decide, for several things had to
be considered—the nearness to the barn, the kind of soil,
and the number of turns required in going up and down
the field. He had decided to build his new house and
barn next to the main road in the centre of his farm, and
he found now that if he made his fields oblong—about
twice as long as wide, he could reach them easily from
the barn, and besides they could be worked with less
labor than fields that were more nearly square.
It was a good deal of work to take out the stump and
stone fences, but the farm was improved in every way by
the change, and out of these stone fences he obtained more
than enough stone for the foundation of the barn.
I shall not attempt to describe the new stable barn.
It was not possible in those days to have cement floors,
water-pipes, etc., but grandfather knew at least that the
stables should be roomy and provided with plenty of light
and air, and should be kept very clean; and he made the
best provision possible for these things.
The house, when it was built, was not pretentious, but
it was substantial and comfortable. It had a good kitchen
and living-room, a fine cellar and storeroom, and clean,
airy bed-rooms; and it had a good orchard and garden be-
hind it, and a pretty bit of lawn in front.
My brother Jim works the farm now, and of course a
good many changes have taken place since grandfather’s
time. Jim and his wife do not have to work so hard, and
GRANDFATHER’S FARM 7
they have a much easier life in every way than grand-
father and grandmother—but I am not sure, after all,
that they really enjoy life much better than grandfather
and grandmother did when they lived in the little log
house and planned the farm.
If you have no money at all you must fight it out some-
how, whether in country or in town. But if you have a
little—just a very little—you can make it amount to some-
thing in the country. . . . And I for one prefer the farm.
To stand on your own hilltop, looking across your own
orchard and meadow, with your own grain greening in
the July sun, with your own cattle standing knee-deep in
your own brook—that is the simple life that satisfies. . . .
And when winter comes and the stubble-fields lie sleeping
beneath their white mantle there is time for books and
talk and dear old friends. . . . Time and room to think,
to enjoy, to live. Don’t you hunger and thirst for it?
WALTER A. DYER.
FARMER JOHN
Home from his journey, Farmer John
Arrived this morning, safe and sound.
His black coat off, and his old clothes on,
“Now I’m myself!” says Farmer John;
And he thinks: ‘‘T’ll look around.”
Up leaps the dog: ‘‘Get down, you pup!
Are you so glad you would eat me up?”
The old cow lows at the gate to greet him;
The horses prick up their ears to meet him:
“Well, well, old Bay!
Ha, ha, old Gray!
Do you get good feed when I am away?
“Vou haven’t a rib!” says Farmer John;
_ “The cattle are looking round and sleek;
The colt is going to be a roan,
And a beauty too: how he has grown!
We'll wean the calf next week.”
Says Farmer John: ‘When I’ve been off,
To call you again about the trough,
And watch you, and pet you, while you drink,
Is a greater comfort than you can think!”
And he pats old Bay,
And he slaps old Gray;
“Ah, this is the comfort of going away !’”
f
FARMER JOHN
“For, after all,” says Farmer John,
“The best of a journey is getting home.
I’ve seen great sights; but would I give
This spot, and the peaceful life I live,
For all their Paris and Rome?
These hills for the city’s stifled air,
And big hotels all bustle and glare,
Land all houses, and roads all stones,
That deafen your ears and batter your bones?
Would you, old Bay?
Would you, old Gray?
That’s what one gets by going away!
“There Money is king,” says Farmer John;
‘‘And Fashion is queen; and it’s mighty queer
To see how sometimes, while the man
Is raking and scraping all he can,
The wife spends, every year,
Enough, you would think, for a score of wives,
To keep them in luxury all their lives!
The town is a perfect Babylon
To a quiet chap,” says Farmer John.
“You see, old Bay—
You see, old Gray—
I’m wiser than when I went away.
“T’ve found out this,” says Farmer John,
“That happiness is not bought and sold,
And clutched in a life of waste and hurry,
In nights of pleasure and days of worry;
And wealth isn’t all in gold,
IO COUNTRY LIFE READER
Mortgage and stocks and ten per cent.—
But,in simple ways and sweet content,
Few wants, pure hopes, and noble ends,
Some land to till, and a few good friends,
Like you, old Bay,
_And you, old Gray!
That’s what I’ve learned by going away.”
And a happy man is Farmer John—
O, a rich and happy man is he!
He sees the peas and pumpkins growing,
The corn in tassel, the buckwheat blowing,
And fruit on vine and tree;
The large, kind oxen look their thanks
As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks;
The doves light round him, and strut and coo.
Says Farmer John: “Tl take you too—
And you, old Bay,
And you, old Gray,
Next time I travel so far away!”
Joun T. TROWBRIDGE.
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THE SMALLEST PLANTS ON THE FARM
“What do you suppose I have in this pail?” asked
Clark, as he came up the garden walk with a small pail
. and a cnild’s spade in his hand.
“T don’t know,” said Ruth. ‘‘Isn’t it just earth?”
“Just earth! Pooh! Maybe you won't believe me.
I’ve a hundred million plants in this pail.”
“A hundred million plants!” and Ruth laughed loudly
in derision. ‘‘Who’s been filling your head with that
nonsense ?”’
“It’s no nonsense, I tell you,” replied Clark. ‘Father
told me, and he knows.”
“Let me see them,” asked Ruth, peering into the pail
with just a touch of curiosity. ‘‘There! Didn’t I tell
you? It’s just plain, ordinary earth!”’
“Listen,” said Clark, ‘and I'll tell you what father
says. He says that all this earth on our farm, if it’s any
good for growing things, is just packed full of the tiniest
little plants, so small that you can’t see them unless you
jook through a kind of glass that makes things look bigger !”’
‘Oh,’ interrupted Ruth, ‘‘isn’t that dreadful! It’s no
wonder that weeds grow so fast, is it?”
“No,” continued Clark; “they’re not that kind of
plants at all. Father called them bacteria, and he says
they’re the best kind of plants on the farm—some of them
are, anyway. Do you know what they do? When father
ploughs up the ground and covers up the dead leaves
EE
12 COUNTRY LIFE READER
and grass and all the other dead things, there are millions
and millions of bacteria there to feed on them, and that’s
what makes them rot and makes the earth rich. And
there’s another kind of bacteria that helps, too, in a dif-
; ferent way. Just wait till
I show you!”
Just across the lane was
a clover-field, and in a
moment Clark was back
with a clover plant, root
and all, in his hand.
‘“See here,” he contin-
ued. “Do you! seesthose
little bags that are hang-
ing to the roots? Father
says they’re full of a thing
called nitrogen that helps
the clover to grow.”
“Tsn’t that curious!”’
Root showing nodules. exclaimed Ruth, unable
any longer to restrain her
show of interest. ‘‘How do the little bags get there?”
“T was just going to tell you,” continued Clark. “It’s
the bacteria that makes them grow. You see, it’s this
way. The bacteria make their way into the roots, and
father says they start up little nitrogen factories there.
When they begin to gather nitrogen the roots swell up into
these little balloons and the clover gets all the nitrogen it
needs. Father says that if the ground didn’t have any
bacteria you couldn’t grow clover or peas or beans or
plenty of other things, because there wouldn’t be any
THE SMALLEST PLANTS ON THE FARM 13
nitrogen factories for the roots. When father ploughs up
this clover-field there’ll be plenty of nitrogen in the ground,
and he’s going to take a load of earth from this field and
sprinkle it on the field down by the woods so as to be sure
there are bacteria in the ground before he plants his peas.”
“Bacteria,” repeated Ruth. ‘“Isn’t it wonderful! How
do you spell it?”’
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Clark, as he moved away.
“T must go down and help father now. Mother’ll tell you
how to spell it. Father says the bacteria make the bread
rise and the preserves ferment. Mother knows about
that. Ask her about it.”
Red clover in both pots.
Bacteria were used in pot at right.
THE ANIMAL TENT
Chris had been at the circus, and, like all small boys, he
was interested in the animal tent. It happened, besides,
that just the previous week the teacher had been telling
the class in nature study about the animals on the farm—
where they had come from, how they had been tamed,
and a great many other interesting things about their life
and habits. At all events, as a result of the circus Chris
had come home very tired; but, weary as he was, he in-
sisted on going out with his father to the barn to do the
chores. By this time it was quite dark, and when his
father was busy with the lantern fixing up the cattle for
the night, Chris lay down to rest on a pile of straw which
was lying temptingly in one corner of the stable.
He had not lain there very long before it seemed to
him that the stable around him was somehow undergoing
a mysterious change. Instead of his father’s lantern
there appeared to be a myriad dazzling lights ; the dingy
walls of the stable took the form of a spacious tent; and
instead of the stalls of the cattle and horses there were
rows and rows of raised seats crowded with people who
were waiting eagerly for the circus to begin.
And then a great door at one end of the tent opened
and the strangest sort of procession began to come in.
First of all came a drove of queer-looking animals that
Chris might have taken for horses, only they were smaller
and had toes instead of hoofs, and were striped something
14
THE ANIMAL TENT 15
like the zebras that he had seen at the circus that very
day. Close behind these wild horses came a pack of
wolves, which were strangely tame, Chris thought—but
of course these were animals in a circus—and then as he
looked at them he remembered what his teacher had told
him about dogs being descended from wolves. The wolves,
too, were followed by the queerest kind of cattle that
Chris had ever seen—some with humps on their shoulders,
some that looked like the buffalo that he had seen in pic-
tures, and one that looked like the yak, which Chris’s
teacher had described as “‘a cross between a cow, a horse,
and a load of hay.”
Then came the different members of the sheep family,
with some of their far-away cousins—slow-plodding camels,
“bighorn”? mountain-sheep, goats, llamas, and merinos—
fine old patriarchs with great, curled horns and fleecy,
wrinkled necks.
The pit of the tent was by this time getting pretty well
crowded; but the strangest company of all was still to
come. Chris had seen the elephant and the rhinoceros and
the hippopotamus and the tapir in the animal tent, and if
any one had told him then that all these animals were
members of the pig family, he would have found it hard
to believe—but, sure enough, here they were; and in the
same company there was a wild boar with great, fierce
tusks; and a deer-hog that looked very much like a pig |
on stilts; and a queer-looking animal called a peccary,
which came from Brazil; and, last of all, a whole drove of
little Chinese pigs from which, as Chris had been told,
his own barn-yard family had mainly descended.
And now that they were all in the tent and the doors
16 COUNTRY LIFE READER
fast shut, Chris began to feel a little anxious, for some of
them looked, indeed, very wild and fierce. But at this
moment another wonderful thing happened. A _ door
opened in a little cave at one side of the tent, and out
crawled the strangest looking man that Chris had ever
seen—a hairy creature, with a low forehead and a dull,
stupid face, and carrying in his hand a heavy club. Chris
never rightly knew what happened next, but it seemed to
him that the cave-man waved his club over the heads of
all the animals, and suddenly, to Chris’s astonishment, in
a twinkling all the animals were changed. Instead of the
herd of wild horses there appeared a splendid group of
modern breeds, fine Belgian draught-horses, fiery Percherons
from France, Clydesdales from Scotland and Shires from
England, American trotters and English thoroughbreds,
and fine carriage-horses of every possible kind.
When Chris looked to see what had become of the pack
of wolves, he could scarcely believe his eyes. Such an
assortment of dogs he had never seen before! It seemed
to him that every imaginable size and breed of dog must
be there, for he could not even begin to distinguish all the
varieties, much less to name them.
The buffalo, too, had gone, and all the other queer-
looking “cattle” with them, and their place was taken
now by Holsteins, Ayrshires, and Jerseys and Guernseys,
and beef breeds such as Shorthorns, Herefords, and Gallo-
ways, which Chris had seen with his father at the fall
fair.
And beyond them, where the camels and llamas and
mountain-sheep had appeared only a moment before,
there were gathered now a flock of sheep and lambs,
It looked like the old barn-yard at home.
18 COUNTRY LIFE READER
Southdowns, Shropshires, and Cheviots; long-woolled
Leicesters and Cotswolds, and wrinkled Merinos, and half
a dozen other kinds which Chris had never seen before.
The tent seemed less crowded now, too, for the elephant
and rhinoceros and all the other big animals had gone and
in place of them there appeared a drove of grunting swine—
black Berkshires and Poland-Chinas, red-haired Duroc-
Jerseys, and large-boned Chester-Whites, and other well-
known breeds.
During all this time Chris had been so interested in
what was going on in the pit that he had forgotten all
about the other people who were looking on. And now
when he looked around, you may imagine his surprise to
find that the crowd were all gone, and that his father
and he were left alone; and, stranger still, when Chris
looked back to the pit it was quite empty. The splendid
horses and cattle and dogs and sheep and swine had all
disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as they had come.
And now Chris was quite ready to go home; but before he
could move, the tent suddenly changed again, and it
seemed to him now that it looked like the old barn-yard
at home; and when the gate opened at the far end, in
there marched, in single file, all the creatures that Chris
knew and loved—Old Bess, with her colt; and Dan and
Bill, the plough-horses; and Brindle and Beauty and all
the other cows in the herd; and Nan, the tame sheep; and
the flock of Southdowns from the back pasture; and the
old mother pig with her litter—and Rover,—where was
Rover? Ah, yes, here he comes. ‘‘Here, Rover, Rover,
Rov as
And as Rover bounded forward he gave a joyous bark.
THE COUNTRY BOY’S ‘CREED 19
At this the lights of the circus suddenly went out, and
Chris awoke to find himself in the dimly-lighted stable,
with Rover, good old dog, sticking his cold nose affection-
ately in his face.
THE COUNTRY BOY’S CREED
I believe that the Country which God made is more
beautiful than the City which man made; that life out
of doors and in touch with the earth is the natural life of
man. I believe that work is work wherever we find it,
but that work with Nature is more inspiring than work
with the most intricate machinery. I believe that the
dignity of labor depends not on what you do, but on how
you do it; that opportunity comes to a boy on the farm as
often as to a boy in the city, that life is larger and freer
and happier on the farm than in the town, that my suc-
cess depends not upon my location, but upon myself—not
upon my dreams, but upon what I actually do, not upon
luck, but upon pluck. I believe in working when you
work and in playing when you play and in giving and
demanding a square deal in every act of life.
EDWIN OsGoop GROVER.
SEPTEMBER
The goldenrod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.
The gentian’s bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusky pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.
The sedges flaunt their harvest
In every meadow nook
And asters by the brookside
Make asters in the brook.
From dewy lanes at morning
The grape’s sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather
And autumn’s best of cheer.
HELEN Hunt JACKSON.
20
THE SOIL
In order that you may know how to make a good garden
you ought to know something of the different kinds of
soil that you may find on your farm and what kinds of
plants will grow best in each. One way to learn about
soil is to get samples of various kinds and study them;
another way is to visit different places in the neighbor-
hood and see for yourself the kinds of soil and what kinds
of plants the different soils produce. In order that we
may learn something about soils I am going to ask you
this morning to visit with me in turn the sandy lake shore,
a field of heavy clay, a swamp, and lastly, one of the fields
on a farm: where you find a mixture of sand and clay.
Along the lake shore you are likely to find little else but
pure sand. Examine a handful of this sand and you will
see that it is made up of small particles of stone. Indeed,
if you were able to take great rocks, of the kind that are
known as sandstone, and grind them up very fine, the
rock-powder or rock-dust would be simply pure sand.
Men who have studied this subject tell us that ages ago
much of the surface of the earth was covered with rock;
but in various ways, chiefly by the action of water, the
rock has been worn down and ground into sand.
If you look at the ridges of sand along the shore, you
will not find many plants or shrubs growing on them, for,
as you know, plants depend on the soil for the greater part
of their food; and although pure sand contains most of
2f
20 COUNTRY LIFE READER
the mineral foods which the plant requires, yet it lacks
some of the things which the plant needs. Besides, you
will notice that, as it has not rained for several days, the
sand is very dry. The coarse particles do not hold the
water, and the sandy soil does not contain the amount of
| moisture that
plants require
for their growth.
Let us, aires
leaving the lake
shore, Visit a
field where the
soil is made up
of heavy clay.
The soil on the left had humus added and held water, Ti be could ex-
while the soil on the right had not. amine a lump of
this clay under
a microscope you would find that it, too, is made up of
very fine particles of stone, so small that it 1s not easy to
distinguish them with the naked eye. Since these parti-
cles are so small, the water does not pass through them
easily, and as a result in wet weather clay is very sticky,
and in dry weather it bakes and becomes hard and
white. If the weather is favorable and if the ground is
thoroughly worked, it is possible to grow excellent crops on
clay soil; but no farmer can hope to have the best re-
sults from clay land unless he uses some means to loosen
and soften his soil.
Both pure sand and pure clay are made up of mineral
matter; but if we visit a swamp or marsh we are almost
certain to find soil of an entirely different kind. If you
THE SOIL 23
examine the soil in the swamp, you will find that it is very
wet and black, and that it seems to produce an abundant
growth of certain kinds of plants. If you were to take a
pailful of this black earth home with you and dry it out
and then put it in a shallow pan over a hot fire, you would
find that a good part of it would smoulder away into
ashes. As a matter of fact, it is composed almost wholly
of dust of decayed plants and animals, and contains very
little of the gritty substance found in clay or sand. This
black material in the soil, which is due to the decay of
dead leaves, grass, etc., is- known as humus. Humus
contains a large amount of plant food, and when it is added
to soils that are composed of sand or of clay it helps to
enrich them. But its chief value lies in the fact that it
makes sandy soil more compact, and helps to make clay
- soil loose and mellow so that it is less likely either to be-
come sticky in wet weather or to become hard and caked
when the weather is dry. It sometimes happens that
both sandy and clay soils contain a good deal of humus;
but it is wise for the farmer, whenever possible, to add to
the supply by ploughing in the grass, leaves, stubble, and
other material that will take the form of humus when it
decays. |
In some parts of the country the soil is very sandy, in
others it is composed chiefly of clay. But, as a rule, the
best farm land consists of a mixture of sand and clay.
Soil that is composed of sand and clay is called loam. If
it is composed more largely of sand than of clay, the soil
is said to be a sandy loam, but if the clay forms the larger
part of the soil it is said to be a clay loam. If now you
visit a well-kept field where the soil is loam you will find
24 COUNTRY LIFE- READER
that the earth is rich and mellow, that it is easily worked,
and that it holds a proper amount of moisture. As we
shall see later, different kinds of soils are suited to dif-
ferent kinds of crops; but, on the whole, the farm which is
composed of a rich loam soil, well supplied with humus
and properly drained, is the one which is most likely to
return an abundant harvest to the farmer.
Have you a lawn in front of your farmhouse? If so,
no doubt you take a pride in keeping it in good condition.
If it is neglected and needs attention, how are you to im-
prove it? The first thing to do is to dig the weeds out
with a sharp knife. This is a tedious task; but do it lit-
tle by little, and see how your lawn is improved in appear-
ance. Is the grass thin in some parts of the lawn? After
it is free from weeds, scratch the surface with a rake to
the depth of half an inch and sow some grass seed. A
mixture of redtop, blue-grass, and white Dutch clover,
in equal parts, will produce a good sod. After the seed
is sown, the ground should be watered, and then rolled.
Before winter sets in, treat your lawn with a top-dressing
of well-rotted manure; but do not cover the sod too
thickly or leave it on too long in the spring.
SEED-TIME AND HARVEST *
I. THE GRAVE OF MONDAMIN
Faint with famine, Hiawatha
Started from his bed of branches,
From the twilight of his wigwam
Forth into the flush of sunset
Came, and wrestled with Mondamin;
At his touch he felt new courage
Throbbing in his brain and bosom,
Felt new life and hope and vigor
Run through every nerve and fibre.
Thrice they wrestled there together
In the glory of the sunset,
Till the darkness fell around them,
Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From her nest among the pine trees,
Uttered her loud cry of famine,
And Mondamin paused to listen.
Tall and beautiful he stood there,
In his garments green and yellow;
To and fro his plumes above him
Waved and nodded with his breathing,
And the sweat of the encounter
Stood like drops of dew upon him.
And he cried, ‘‘O Hiawatha!
*“ Hiawatha,” from which the following passage is taken, is the story of a legendary
Iroquois hero, who gave to the Indians the arts of peace and civilization. According to the
Indian myth, he taught them agriculture, navigati
over the forces of nature In the following passage the story of Hiawatha’s victory over
Mondamin is the poet’s way of telling us how Hiawatha first planted maize, or Indian corn,
and how it was harvested for the use of man.
25
gation, and medicine, and gave them control
26
COUNTRY LIFE READER
Bravely have you wrestled with me,
And the Master of Life, who sees us,
He has given to you the triumph!
Make a bed for me to lie in,
Where the rain may fall upon me,
Where the sun may come and warm me;
Strip these garments, green and yellow,
Strip this nodding plumage from me,
Lay me in the earth, and make it
Soft and loose and light above me.
Let no hand disturb my slumber,
Let no weed nor worm molest me,
Let not Kahgahgee, the raven,
Come to haunt me and molest me,
Only come yourself to watch me,
Till I wake, and start, and quicken,
Till I leap into the sunshine.”
And victorious Hiawatha
Made the grave as he commanded,
Stripped the garments from Mondamin,
Stripped his tattered plumage from him,
Laid him in the earth, and made it
Soft and loose and light above him;
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From the melancholy moorlands,
Gave a cry of lamentation,
Gave a cry of pain and anguish!
Homeward then went Hiawatha
To the lodge of old Nokomis,
And the seven days of his fasting
Were accomplished and completed.
SEED-TIME AND HARVEST
But the place was not forgotten
Where he wrestled with Mondamin;
Nor forgotten nor neglected
Was the grave where lay Mondamin,
Sleeping in the rain and sunshine,
Where his scattered plumes and garments
Faded in the rain and sunshine.
Day by day did Hiawatha
Go to wait and watch beside it;
Kept the dark mould soft above it,
Kept it clean from weeds and insects,
Drove away, with scoffs and shoutings,
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens.
Till at length a small green feather
From the earth shot slowly upward,
Then another and another,
And before the summer ended
Stood the maize in all its beauty,
With its shining robes about it,
And its long, soft, yellow tresses;
And in rapture Hiawatha
Cried aloud, “‘It is Mondamin !
Yes, the friend of man, Mondamin !”’
II. THE HARVEST OF THE CORNFIELDS
All around the happy village
Stood the maize-fields, green and shining,
Waved the green plumes of Mondamin,
Waved his soft and sunny tresses,
Filling all the land with plenty.
27
28
COUNTRY LIFE READER
And the maize-field grew and ripened,
Till it stood in all the splendor
Of its garments green and yellow,
Of its tassels and its plumage,
And the maize-ears full and shining
Gleamed from bursting sheaths of verdure.
Then Nokomis, the old woman,
Spake, and said, to Minnehaha:
“Tis the moon when leaves are falling;
All the wild rice has been gathered,
And the maize is ripe and ready;
Let us gather in the harvest,
Let us wrestle with Mondamin,
Strip him of his plumes and tassels,
Of his garments green and yellow !”
And the merry Laughing Water
Went rejoicing from the wigwam,
With Nokomis, old and wrinkled,
And they called the women round them,
Called the young men and the maidens,
To the harvest of the cornfields,
To the husking of the maize-ear.
On the border of the forest,
Underneath the fragrant pine trees,
Sat the old men and the warriors
Smoking in the pleasant shadow.
In uninterrupted silence
Looked they at the gamesome labor
Of the young men and the women;
Listened to their noisy talking,
To their laughter and their singing,
SEED-TIME AND HARVEST
Heard them chattering like the magpies,
Heard them laughing like the blue-jays,
Heard them singing like the robins.
And whene’er some lucky maiden
Found a red ear in the husking,
Found a maize-ear red as blood is,
““Nushka !”’ cried they all together,
“Nushka! you shall have a sweetheart,
You shall have a handsome husband!”
“Ugh!” the old men all responded
From their seats beneath the pine trees.
And whene’er a youth or maiden
Found a crooked ear in husking,
Found a maize-ear in the husking
Blighted, mildewed, or misshapen,
Then they laughed and sang together,
Crept and limped about the cornfields,
Mimicked in their gait and gestures
Some old man, bent almost double,
Singing singly or together:
“Wagemin, the thief of cornfields !
Paimosaid, who steals the maize-ear !”’
Till the cornfields rang with laughter,
Till from Hiawatha’s wigwam
Kahgahgee, the king of ravens,
Screamed and quivered in his anger,
And from all the neighboring tree tops
Cawed and croaked the black marauders.
“Ugh!” the old men all responded,
From their seats beneath the pine trees!
29
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (ADAPTED).
After the corn has been cut.
THE SPRING VALLEY CORN CLUB
The Spring Valley Corn Club now consists of more than
twenty boys and girls. But when it was first formed
there were only four boys in it. It happened one Oc-
tober evening when we four—Harry Parker, Jim Collins,
George Brown, and myself—were. over at Parker’s,
that we got to talking about the growing of corn and
arguing as to why Mr. Parker’s corn crop that year was a
failure. Sam Parker, Harry’s older brother, it seems,
didn’t like our talk, and he remarked—rather sarcastically,
I thought: :
“Humph! A lot you know about corn. Better try it
yourselves, if you think you can do it any better.”
That remark of Sam’s—though it doesn’t appear in the
minutes of the club—was really the thing that gave us
the first thought of forming a corn club. Before we left
39
THE SPRING VALLEY: CORN CLUB 31
for home that night we had gone so far as to agree to ask
our fathers for an acre of ground each, in which to grow
corn, and we had agreed also to work together in order to
learn all we could about corn, and to help each other with
our one-acre plots when the proper time came.
When I got home and explained the scheme to father
he was just as eager about it as any of the boys, and I
think if we.had let him he would have joined the club,
too. It was he who suggested the idea of holding meet-
ings of the club during the winter for the sake of finding
out all we could about corn. And Mrs. Parker, too,
made the suggestion that at some of our meetings we
should have some one there to give us a talk about
corn-growing. The boys thought that this was a capital
idea, and we decided to ask Miss Stuart, the teacher
in the Spring Valley school, to give us a talk at our first
meeting.
I forgot to mention that George Brown’s father raised
objections at first; and before he would agree to our plans
we had to make arrangements about our seed-corn, our
ploughing and other expenses, and our returns. This
_Was, of course, a good thing for us, for it made us think
of some of our difficulties; and after these arrangements
were made we were better satisfied, and Mr. Brown was
interested in our plans and anxious to help. It was at
his home that we held our first meeting, and we were
surprised and not a little pleased to find that some of
the neighbors had come in also to be present as ‘‘visitors.”’
At the first meeting of the club Miss Stuart had taken
for her subject, ‘‘The Foods That Corn Needs.” In order
_ to make her explanation clear she put up before us a large
22 COUNTRY LIFE READER
sheet of cardboard on which she had marked the different
kinds of foods and how they are provided:
Corn Foop How. PROVIDED
GarGMtee tcc! tees nn Carbon dioxide breathed in by the leaves.
NEL ORRe Tae Aye ee ce eT Supplied by legume crops.
Gta s Mae. o. dechaeer eet ee In manure.
Phosphorus’, Gere ates In manure.
Water and Air...........Provided by proper tillage.
Carbon, Miss Stuart explained, forms over sixty per
cent. of the substance in dry seed-corn. It is breathed in
by the plant in the form of gas, through the breathing
spaces in the stalks and leaves. These stalks and leaves
will not grow unless the ground contains plenty of mois-
ture. The best way to be sure that the ground contains
the right amount of moisture is to plough deep, so that
the roots will have plenty of space to spread and take up
moisture from the soil. The soil, too, must contain an
abundance of nitrogen, and for this reason it is best to
plant corn in a field in which a crop of legumes, such as
peas or clover, has been grown the previous year. Besides
containing nitrogen, the soil must be provided also with
potash and phosphoric acid, which are most easily supplied
by manuring the ground properly. Miss Stuart’s expla-
nation was so simple that we could easily understand it, and
when I went home I jotted down in the note-book father
had given me, the three important things I had learned:
1. Corn should follow legumes.
2. Manure the ground well.
3. Plough deep and till the soil well, so as to supply both
air and moisture.
(To be continued.)
A happy family.
POCKET-MONEY
When a city boy wishes to earn pocket-money he sells
newspapers, becomes a delivery boy, or runs errands.
What can a country boy do if he, too, aims at having a
little bank account of his own? He has a way that is
quicker and easier and much more interesting than any
of the means the city boy has. He can raise poultry!
The cost of feeding poultry on a farm is low, and the
labor of caring for it is lighter than that connected
with other farm animals. The profits are certain and
quick, since the demand for eggs and for chickens suit-
able for table use is large and continuous.
But to make it pay to keep hens you must give them
33
fee COUNTRY LIFE READER
attention and not leave them to take care of themselves.
If you are to get good returns you must know how to take
care of them at all seasons of the year. It is true that a
hen left to herself on a farm will pick up her own living
and lay perhaps seventy-five eggs in a year; but a hen
that is well cared for will lay at least three or four times
that number of eggs. If you are to be a success in this
business of making hens pay, you must work in a business-
like way and not trust to “‘hit-or-miss’’ methods.
First of all, decide which breed of hen you are going to
keep. There are over one hundred varieties from which
to choose. Some are general-purpose breeds, that is, they
are good fowl for the table and yet are good layers. Others
are meat breeds, that is, they are large, grow rapidly, and
fatten easily. Others, again, are egg breeds, that begin
laying while younger and continue for a longer period
than other varieties. Then there are ornamental breeds,
such as game-birds; but these are of no practical use on
the farm.
Having chosen your poultry, you must provide a house
for them. While they may get along in summer by roost-
ing along stable stalls or on wagon tongues—as so many
farmers allow them to do—in winter they must have a
clean, light building all to themselves. Now, there are
almost as many different styles of hen-houses as there
are kinds of hens, and you may make yours as plain or
as ornamental as you choose. But whichever kind you
build, there are certain requirements that this house must
satisfy.
It should be built on well-drained ground; for dampness
is most injurious to chickens. It should be large enough
POCKET-MONEY 35
to allow four or five feet of floor space for each bird, and
ought to be so ventilated as to allow plenty of fresh air to
enter without causing draughts. Sunlight is another neces-
sity, and you can make no mistake in building the poultry-
house to face the south. If possible, build it on a con-
crete foundation, as this will keep out rats.
The inside of the house should be so finished and fur-
nished that it may be easily kept clean. It is easier to
keep vermin away if the walls are lined with well-matched
boards or are plastered. A cement floor can be cleaned
more easily than any other kind. As fowls spend much
time on their roosts, these should be comfortable. Remov-
able nests are best, as they can be readily sunned and
cleaned.
The proper feeding of hens is as important as proper
housing. In summer this is a simple matter, for the hens
will pick up the larger part of what they need from ma-
terial that would otherwise be wasted. Scattered grain
left from the feeding of other animals; weed seeds, grass,
and other green plants; worms and bugs—all help to give
the necessary variety to the food. In winter, however,
your flock depends upon you to supply their needs. And
it is in winter, when eggs are at their highest price, that
you must do everything possible to encourage your hens
to lay steadily. It is well known that hens will not lay
unless they are properly fed. Remember that fowls re-
quire grain, meat or milk, mill feeds such as shorts, green
foods, sharp grit, and water; and see that no one of these
elements is left out. If the winter diet is made as nearly
like the summer food as possible, and the hens are given
exercise by having to scratch for part of their food, and if
36 COUNTRY LIFE READER
they are kept sufficiently warm, they will lay as freely in
winter as in spring.
There are a good many other things that you will need
to learn in order to make a success of poultry-raising.
Find out from experts all you can about how to secure
good hatches, how to feed and care for very young chicks,
how to fatten fowls for market, how to prevent diseases,
and how to deal with bad habits such as that of egg-
eating. In some farm communities, boys and girls have
formed poultry clubs in order to learn all they can on the
subject and to add interest to their work.
If you keep to a first-class breed you can increase your
profits by selling settings of eggs at high prices, and per-
haps by winning prizes at agricultural exhibitions. In
any case, keep a record of your flock, noting the number
and value of eggs collected each day, and calculate the
income from all sources, as well as all expenses. In this
way you can know exactly what your profits are, and you
will find that, besides having a hobby that is most inter-
esting, you have an ever-increasing fund of pocket-money.
M. B. STEVENSON.
Picking up breakfast.
THANKSGIVING SONG
For flowers that bloom about our feet ;
For tender grass, so fresh, so sweet :
For song of bird and hum of bee;
For all things fair we hear or see—
Father in heaven, we thank Thee!
For blue of stream and blue of sky;
For pleasant shade of branches high;
For fragrant air and cooling breeze;
_ For beauty of the blooming trees—
Father in heaven, we thank Thee!
For mother love and father care,
For brothers strong and sisters fair;
For love at home and school each day;
For guidance, lest we go astray—
Father in heaven,’ we thank Thee!
For Thy dear, everlasting arms,
That bear us o’er all ills and harms;
For blessed words of long ago,
That help us now Thy will to know—
Father in heaven, we thank Thee!
BY
A RACCOON HUNT
It was getting near cooning time, and, like most boys,
I was enthusiastic; and I eagerly watched the ripening of
the corn and examined the margin of the creek from time
to time to see if there were any fresh coon tracks in the
mud and sand.
Our woods was an exceptionally large one,—nearly fifty
acres of virgin forest; but it was broken by a large creek
or river flowing through the lower end. Adjoining the
lower half of the woods was a large field of corn; and as
this field was a safe distance from the house and ‘from
Jerry, the farm dog, it was an ideal situation, just after a
coon’s own heart.
Our first coon hunt was a failure out and out. ‘‘Too
early to. go coonin’ yet,” said the hired man. ~ Googe
don’t take to the corn till it’s jest a wee bit tough;” and
besides there was no dew on the grass; and every farmer’s
boy knows that you can’t track a coon, or any other wild
animal for that matter, without dew. So the dogs took
to chasing rabbits in the corn and the hired man to telling
coon stories, and our first coon hunt ended early in the
night with a long rest on the rail fence, while we feasted
on the small sweet yellow pears which we had gathered
from an old tree in a deserted remnant of an orchard at the
back of the farm.
Notwithstanding my own eagerness, the hired man re-
fused to risk his reputation on another coon hunt for a
full fortnight, and this time we certainly had enough of
38
A RACCOON HUNT 30
the sport. It was an ideal night, quiet and calm, with
hardly a breath of wind, and a heavy dew on the grass.
We started shortly after dark, for when the corn is close
to the woods the coons come out early, and by nine o’clock
the feasting may be over. Before we had reached the
cornfield the moon had already begun to silver the east;
and before long the whole stretch of woodland, together
with stream and valley, were bathed in a mellow radiance,
while the fields of stubble with their shadowy fences died
away in the misty distance and the lights of the farms
behind twinkled dim and faint in the haze of the moon-
light.
As we neared the cornfield we walked very stealthily
and spoke in low tones, while the dogs threaded the lanes
of corn in every direction. We had not gone far before
the hired man suddenly stopped, broke off an ear of corn
and held it up to view. There was no mistake about it
this time; one side of the ear had been freshly stripped
and bitten. Now there was no doubt about it—to-night,
at least, there were coons in the corn.
Suddenly in the midst of our whispered consultation,
Jerry, our best coon dog, flung past us, sprang for a hole
in the fence, and a moment later was giving tongue a
hundred yards away in the woods. We followed with a
mad rush, tumbling over each other in our haste and
excitement. The chase led us in the direction of a big
maple, but before we reached it we were brought to a
sudden standstill by the dogs at the foot of a tall bass-
wood that stood on the very edge of the steep, sloping
bank, overlooking the stream. Out on the end of one of
the thickest branches we distinctly saw the bunchy form
40 COUNTRY LIFE READER
of a big coon, with two small eyes glimmering like faint
sparks of light from amid the leaves.
In our party guns were strictly forbidden, as being be-
neath the dignity of the sportsman at this season of the
Watchful waiting.
year at least. So there was nothing for it but for the hired
man to put on the climbers, go up the tree, and shake
him out.
It took a good deal of shaking, but to our delight down
he came at last with a thud, and in an instant the dogs
were upon him; and then the unexpected happened!
When a coon fights it is generally on his back, and then
teeth and claws and powerful hind feet are victorious
A RACCOON HUNT 4I
weapons. Perhaps one of the dogs rushed in too quickly,
but, at all events, the coon secured a grip on his adver-
sary’s neck; and, quicker than it takes to tell, coon and
dogs alike, biting, scratching, snarling, had rolled over and
over down the steep bank and into the stream. A
moment later the coon was shambling up the opposite
bank and was lost to view in the woods beyond.
We lost no time in following, getting our feet wet in
the creek by the way, and this time the dogs led us straight
to the big maple. Here our chase ended, for the monster
maple was alike too big to climb or to think of cutting down.
On the other side of the wood we came upon an old she-
coon with two half-grown cubs travelling along the fence.
The cubs took to a tree, but the old coon was killed by the
dogs, and the hired man removed the skin, grumbling all
the while that the fur was not thicker and a blacker shade;
for, of course, the winter skins are always better, and the
blacker the fur the bigger price it will bring.
We ended with a bonfire and a corn roast, to which
the girls of the farm were invited. The hired man in-
sisted that every boy should eat his own length in corn, but
he failed to set the example himself; and so we finished off
with musk melon and fresh cider, and told the usual stories
and laughed at the usual jokes, until the fire had died out
and it was time for the happy evening to end.
Though we should be grateful for good houses, there is,
after all, no house like God’s out-of-doors.
R. L. STEVENSON.
THE, STORY: (OF, COTTON
In early times, travellers returning to Europe from
India reported that they had seen wool growing wild on
trees. This ‘“‘wool”’ was, of course, none other than cotton.
The people of India had already learned the arts of weav-
ing and dyeing, and in the course of time traders began
to bring back with them from the East, fine cotton fabrics.
In later times, when the people of Europe had learned more
about this wonderful ‘‘wool-bearing”’ plant, an attempt
was made to introduce it into southern Europe; but owing
to the climate, only a small amount could be grown in
European countries.
When America was discovered, Columbus found the
cotton-plant growing wild in the tropics; and this was
one of the reasons why he at first believed that he had
reached India. Later on, when the first settlements were
made in the Southern States, the colonists attempted to
grow cotton as a cultivated crop; but on account of the
cold winters, the plants died down every year; and when
at last the settlers succeeded in producing cotton that was
suited to the climate, they found that in the case of this
new variety it was very difficult to separate the lint from
the seed. On those farms where cotton was grown, the
members of the family spent their evenings in picking
lint, and a shoeful of cotton was considered a good even-
ing’s work.
Among the colonists were men and women who had
learned the arts of spinning and weaving before coming
42
THE’ STORY OF. COTTON 43
to America; and the spinning-wheel and the primitive
hand-loom were brought into use for spinning and weaving
cotton. But the fibre of the cotton which was grown in
the Southern States was so short and coarse that it could
Eli Whitney’s cotton-gin.
not be spun into fine thread without breaking; and when
made into cloth it was usually mixed with wool or flax.
At best, the manufacture of cloth was a slow process, for
with the old spinning-wheel only a single thread could
be spun at one time, and the weavers found it difficult
to get enough thread to keep their looms going. In the
year 1769, however, an English mechanic, named Ark-
44 COUNTRY LIFE READER
wright, invented a spinning-frame, by means of which .
a large number of threads could be spun at one time;
and about the same time a Lancashire weaver, named
Hargreaves, invented a machine known as the spinning-
jenny (named after his daughter Jenny), which made it
possible to spin fine, strong, cotton thread which would
not break in the weaving. Later on, a weaver named
Compton combined the spinning-frame and the spinning-
jenny into a single machine which was known as a “mule.”
But now that it was possible to spin cotton thread as
fast as it was needed, a new difficulty appeared. It was
impossible to obtain a large supply of cotton because the
lint had to be picked by hand, and this, as we have seen,
was a very slow process. In 1793, however, an American
mechanic, named Eli Whitney, invented a cotton-gin (gin
is a shortened form of the word engine), by which the
lint could easily be separated from the seed; and, needless
to say, this invention gave an immense impetus to the
growing of cotton in the South.
Up to this time most of the cotton grown in America
had been sent to England, and after the Arkwright ma-
chines were invented, their secrets were guarded very
carefully. But in 1790 a weaver named Samuel Slater,
who had learned his trade in England, succeeded in re-
producing these machines in America. From that time
forward, the manufacturing industry steadily increased,
until at the present time nearly two thousand cotton-
mills are in operation in the United States.
HOW PLANTS ARE FED
The boys and girls on the farm would think they were
badly treated if they did not get three good meals a day,
and most farmers are very careful about feeding the
horses, cows, pigs, and other animals on the farm. But
how about feeding the plants? Some farmers never
think that the wheat, and oats, and potato plants, in
fact all the plants on the farm, need to be fed, just as the
live stock or the farmer’s family themselves. Of course,
when the soil is in good condition, the plants are able to
help themselves to the food they need, but sometimes
they cannot get the things they want, and then they
starve, just as people do who are not fed.
Plants get their food partly by breathing and partly by
drinking it in. From the air they breathe in a gas which
is known as carbon dioxide, and this gas supplies them
with carbon, which is necessary to their growth. From
the soil the tiny rootlets drink up the water, and this
water contains many different plant-foods which have
been dissolved in it. Every crop that is taken from the
fields helps to use up these plant-foods, and if this con-
tinues, the soil at length becomes “worn out,” or, in other
words, the supply of plant-foods becomes exhausted.
The three substances which are most frequently lack-
ing in worn-out soil are phosphoric acid, potash, and ni-
trogen. When seeds shrivel up and do not grow, it is some-
times a sign that there is not enough phosphoric acid in
the soil. Barn-yard manure generally contains a good
supply of this acid, and in addition, artificial fertilizers
45
46 COUNTRY LIFE READER
composed of bone-dust or of rock-dust containing phos-
phorus are frequently used.
When fruits are undersized or imperfect, it is sometimes
a sign that the plant has not received a sufficient supply of
potash. As a mat-
ter of fact, there is
generally enough
potash in the soil to
serve as food for the
plants, buti its
sometimes ‘‘ locked
up”? with other ma-
terials in such a way
that it does not dis-
solve in the water.
The farmer may
either add a supply
of fresh potash to
the soil or he may
take some means to
Showing the effect of the absence of nitrogen, release the supply
potassium, or phosphorus. © ct ”
The pot on the left lacks potash; the next lacks nitrate; that 1S locked up.
the next lacks neither phosphate, potash, nor nitrate; = =
the last lacks phosphate. When lime 1S added
to the soil, some of
this potash is generally set free. Barn-yard manure con-
tains a certain amount of potash, and wood-ashes also
are of value as a fertilizer on account of the amount of
potash they contain.
When plants are yellow or sickly and refuse to grow, it
is sometimes a sign that there is not enough nitrogen in_
the soil; for the growth of leaves and stalks depends
HOW PLANTS ARE FED 47
largely upon the supply of nitrogen. Nitrogen is a gas
and it forms a large part of the air we breathe; but in
order that it may be used as a plant-food it must be taken
into the plant through the roots, and the farmer must see
that there is a sufficient quantity of nitrogen in the soil.
When the ground is turned up by the plough and the
harrow, so that fresh surfaces are exposed to the air, the
nitrogen in the air has a chance to penetrate it. A certain
amount of nitrogen also is contained in manure and in
certain other fertilizers that are ploughed into the soil.
But the chief means upon which the farmer must rely for
the proper supply of nitrogen is the cultivation of bac-
teria in the soil. What bacteria are and how they are
cultivated we have read elsewhere.
Most of the other foods which the plant requires are
minerals which are found in abundant quantities in the
soil, and the farmer does not need to think about renewing
the supply. But even if the soil does contain all the
necessary plant-foods, there may be other reasons why the
ground does not produce a good crop. Sometimes the
particles of soil are so tightly packed that the air does
not have a chance to get in around the roots, and if the
roots do not get a proper amount of air, the plant will not
thrive. Sometimes, too, the ground holds too much
moisture and the water fills up the air-spaces in the soil.
Or it may happen, on the other hand, that the ground is
too dry, and without moisture it is impossible, as we have
seen, for the plant to obtain its food. The farmer, then,
must not only be careful to supply the proper plant-foods,
but also to see that the soil is in a proper condition for
the plant to use them.
INDIAN SUMMER
Along the line of smoky hills
The crimson forest stands,
And all the day the blue-jay calls
Throughout the autumn lands.
Now by the brook the maple leans
With all his glory spread,
And all the sumacs on the hills
Have turned their green to red.
Now by great marshes wrapt in mist,
Or past some river’s mouth,
Throughout the long, still autumn day
Wild birds are flying south.
WILFRED CAMPBELL. ©
45
THE CAMPAIGN
It was about the time when the great European war
vas at its height. Dick had been reading about the
siege of Paris in 1870 and the famous siege of Antwerp in
1585.
“IT wish I could go to the war,” he exclaimed, as he
threw down the book he was reading. “It must be
great!”
“Don’t be a fool, Dick!”’ replied Milton. ‘You don’t
want to go to the war.”’
“Don’t I?” snapped Dick. “I just wish I were old
enough and I’d show you!”
‘Yes,’ said Nora from across the table, “‘and I’d go
and be a Red Cross nurse to take care of you when you
were wounded, and Milton here a
“Td stay right here,” interrupted Milton, “and grow
grain and potatoes for you and Dick to live on!”
At this point Uncle Ben, who had been sitting in the
big chair by the fireplace reading a farmers’ magazine,
looked up from his reading and remarked:
“Tf Dick really wants to go to war he can begin fighting
to-morrow.”’
“Where?” inquired Dick eagerly.
“Where? Why, right here on this farm! You didn’t
know it was besieged, did you? Well, it is, and this farm-
house is the fort. Some of the enemy have taken cover
in the woods; some of them have thrown up earthworks
49
50° COUNTRY LIFE READER
in the fields, and yesterday, would you believe it, I saw an
aviator spying out the farm. Down around the outer
forts the enemy keeps under cover,—but what do you
say? If Dick here wants to play war, let us begin right
here on this farm. Only I want to be appointed general.”
Dick thought it would be great fun, and Nora and
Milton agreed to join on one condition—that Nora should
not be called upon to do any of the actual fighting. And
right there and then Uncle Ben proposed that they draw
up a plan of campaign. The first thing, they all agreed,
was to make an estimate of their enemies, and while the
boys made suggestions, Uncle Ben wrote down a list of the
different enemies to be attacked. When the list was com-
plete it ran somewhat as follows:
The Army of Rats—thoroughly intrenched in the barn;
one detachment in the root-house and cellar.
The Army of Wood-Hares—the enemy’s scouting column
—in the brush piles and hedges and the deep grasses in the
fields.
The Army of Hawks and Owls—the aviation corps of
the enemy.
The Army of Woodchucks and Skunks—the sappers and
miners.
The Army of House-Sparrows, and the Army of Field-
Mice, who interfered with the food supplies.
The Army of House-Flies, who brought disease and pes-
tilence into the camp of the defenders.
Besides these, there were the great armies of bugs, beetles,
and worms—and, worse than all, a vast, onrushing horde
of weeds which could only be driven out at the point of
the bayonet; for what is a hoe, after all, but a bayonet of
THE CAMPAIGN ne
a special kind, with the point hammered out and turned
down?
“Tt.will be a long war,” said General Ben, as he laid
the list down on the table. ‘“‘It is sure to last through the
winter; and next spring and summer there will be a great
deal of hard fighting. If we are going to win we must go
about it systematically; and the first thing for us to do
is to get all the information we can about the enemy.
Suppose we leave it to Nora to read up what the great
generals have written about the best means of carrying
on a war like this. And Dick and Milton here will go
down and spy out the enemy and find out where they are
intrenched, and after we have all the information we
need we shall be ready to declare war.”
‘“‘Let us make it a surprise attack,” said Dick. ‘‘Where
shall we begin, uncle—I mean, General Ben?”
General Ben pointed out that, since it was late in the
season, it would be useless for them to attempt to make
an attack on the army of insects and weeds until spring;
and after further consultation it was agreed that they
should begin the campaign by planning an attack on the
army of rats, and that in the meantime they should try
to learn as much as possible about the best means of
meeting their other enemies.
It took Nora several days to gather the necessary in-
formation as to the best means of making an attack on
the rats, but when finally her report was ready it ran some-
what as follows:
“There are many different kinds of rats, but the one
that gives farmers most trouble is the brown, or Norway,
rat. It destroys the grain in the fields and in the barns;
52 COUNTRY LIFE READER
it eats eggs and kills young poultry; it carries disease from
place to place; and, besides this, it does great damage to
farm buildings. The best way to fight against rats is to
starve them out by keeping grain and other supplies in
rat-proof buildings. Silos, grain bins, and floors of stables
should be made of cement, or else the corners and angles,
through which rats usually gnaw, should be covered with
sheet-iron. If this is impossible, the walls and floors
should at least be lined with strong wire screening. All
rubbish piles which may form hiding-places for rats should
be removed, and stacks should not be left standing any
longer than is necessary. Rats may be destroyed by means
of traps or by the use of poison or gas. But both poison
and gas must be used with great care, and, on the whole,
rats can be more cares destroyed by the use of traps than
by any other means.’ 3
After Nora’s report had been een it was decided
to begin the attack at once. General Ben and the boys
agreed to go over the outer forts and see whether it was
possible to destroy any of the dug-outs and trenches and
the bomb-proof shelters of the enemy; and at the same time
General Ben undertook to repair the breaches in the walls
and, if possible, cut off all food supplies. The boys in
the meantime asked permission to read up everything
they could find regarding the use of traps.
“Tt isn’t quite fair, you know,” said Milton, “to use
either gas or poison in a real war, but it is all right for us
to lay ‘traps.’ ”
The military authorities who wrote about traps were
pretty generally agreed that the “guillotine” trap was the
best kind to use, and, as they are very cheap, General Ben
THE CAMPAIGN 53
laid in a supply of half a dozen the next time he went to
town. But both Dick and Milton were very anxious to
try the barrel trap, and the ‘‘deadfall” or the ‘“‘figure-
four,” and General Ben agreed to help them to make both
kinds, on condition that they should keep them out of the
way of the poultry and other farm animals.
The campaign against the rats resulted in a general
cleaning up-of the farmyard and an overhauling of the
grain bins and storehouses, and enough rats were caught
in the traps in the first week to encourage the boys to
continue the campaign throughout the winter; and Nora,
who was keeping the official bulletins of the war in her
diary, made the following entry:
“Nov. 27. During the past week General Ben, Lieu-
tenant Dick, and Major Milton made a fierce attack on
the army of General Brown-Rat. seid e aa eee 72.6 per cent.
IPFOLenits este h vase sat pepanatme Geere ee 10:3 Per cent.
Bae Oil eerite eee helo Ne ate eee ae 5.0 per cent.
Mineral matter (ash). +5:.2. 004.0 8e) eee 1.5 per cent.
Wialern der 5 ee eet ier, eceecays ren gt ee 10.6 per cent.
100,0' Per (Cenk.
For growing animals, such as young pigs, and for animals
which are required to work, such as horses, more protein
and mineral matter are needed than they can get from
corn alone; but corn is the chief food upon which we de-
pend for fattening hogs and cattle; and corn fodder from
the silo is one of the best foods for dairy cattle. For the
farmer himself, corn meal is an excellent food, especially
if used with other foods, such as cream and butter.
One of the results of this meeting was a large increase in
the membership of the club; for, of course, all the boys
and girls whom Mrs. Parker had invited wished to join;
and before we left for home that evening it was agreed
that we should ask Miss Stuart to allow us to hold our
next meeting at the school, so that all the boys and girls
in the district who wished to do so might have an oppor-
tunity to become members.
(To be continued.)
Begin the study of trees in winter.
THE TREES ON THE FARM
The best time to begin the study of trees is in winter,
for when they are bare of leaves it is much easier to get
an idea of their general size and form. On this winter
afternoon, then, let us take a walk across the fields and
through the woods where we are likely to meet some of
the trees that are commonly found on the farm.
On this particular farm the owner has left one or two
trees standing in his fields, partly, no doubt, because they
give shade to his horses and cattle in summer, and partly
because the trees in themselves are very beautiful. The
tree which you see at the far end of this field is an Amer-
‘ican elm. You know it at once by its general umbrella or
parasol shape; for the trunk is tall and bare, and the
branches run upward with the trunk and then, spreading
out like a fan, fall in a graceful droop like the circle of
spray from a playing fountain. Is it any wonder that
65
66 COUNTRY LIFE READER
the raccoon and the black squirrel are fond of the elm,
whose lofty trunk affords them a safe retreat, and that
the oriole hangs its woven basket in safety from the pen- .
dent boughs? The orioles seldom build in the country;
but in the town or city where you have a graceful elm
drooping over the shady street, look, on the next day
that you are passing, and see if there are not, swinging
from its lowest boughs, the remnants of two or three old
oriole nests, and perhaps, also, the little shallow basket of
the warbling vireo, whom the boys call the weaver-bird.
Aside from its general shape and flaky bark there is not
much to be learned of the elm in winter, but if I could
bring you back in the spring, in March or April, even
before the leaves were out, you might see the tree covered
with the delicate reddish flowers upon which the red squirrel
feasts; and later, in May, you would find the ground
carpeted with the little round seeds, which are carried
lightly away by the wind and water to sprout and flourish,
it may be, by the margins of far-away streams.
When we cross into the next field we come to a stretch
of rising ground, and half-way up the slope there stands
a “hard” or “sugar” maple. This tree prefers, nch-and
dry soil, while its two not less beautiful cousins, the red
and the silver maples, commonly called “soft” maples,
favor the moist pasture-land in the valley below. In
the winter it is difficult to distinguish the hard maple
from the soft, but the hard maple is known in general by
its larger size, its more rugged appearance, its more
rounded and symmetrical shape, and its light-colored
bark. The branches of the soft red maple are more erect,
than those of the hard sugar-maple, while, on the other.
The maple and-elm trees in winter.
68 COUNTRY LIFE READER
hand, the branches of the soft silver maple have a decided
droop, which gives it a delicate, graceful appearance.
The bark of both the soft maples is of a darker shade than
that of the hard maples, and a soft maple may often be
distinguished by its reddish-brown color.
In the summer, when the leaves are on the trees, it is
an easy matter to tell the different kinds of maples apart,
and in winter the dead leaves on the ground will help you
to identify the trees. You will notice that the leaves of
the sugar-maple are larger and that they have not the
finely toothed notches which the soft maples have. The
leaf of the soft silver maple is not only finely toothed,
but its five lobes are separated by very deep and sharp
indentations. These distinctions are very simple.
Moreover, in the spring-time both the soft maples flower
earlier than the sugar-maple, and the ground is covered
with their seeds in May and June; whereas the hard maple
does not bear its seeds, or samaras, till the fall. The soft
red maple is, of course, the tree whose leaves change to
such gorgeous hues of red in the autumn, while the leaves
of the hard maple turn not to red but to a clear and bril-
liant yellow.
At the top of the slope we climb the old rail fence, and
cross into the wood which covers the hillside beyond.
Not far from the foot of the hill is a beautiful beech tree.
There is no possibility of mistaking a beech for any other
tree, for its smooth and beautifully mottled bark and its
thick, bunchy, irregular branches mark it out at once
from all others. ‘‘The Painted Beech,” artists have called
it—a beautiful name, applied to a not less beautiful tree.
I have always been fond of the beech, not only for its
THE TREES ON THE FARM 69
beauty, but on account, too, of the company of animals
and birds that its bountiful supply of fruit attracts. In
the summer it is the nesting-place of the red-eyed vireo—
the “‘preacher’’—of the rose-breasted grosbeak, and of the
scarlet tanagers, which look like flames of living fire. In
the autumn the blue-jay and the red squirrel quarrel in
the beech top, while the chipmunk and the little deer-
mouse lay up their winter supply from the stores at its
feet. And in the cold October nights, when the leaves have
fallen, last, but not least, comes the raccoon to feast upon
the beech harvest that lies buried among the fallen leaves;
for, alas! the bark is too smooth for this black-faced, ring-
tailed rascal to climb without danger, and he is forced to
content himself with what has fallen below.
Half-way up the hill is a basswood, or linden, which the
boys love for its soft, ight wood, and which the wasps and
bees love still better for its store of honeyed sweets. I
remember seeing a beautiful specimen on one occasion in
a secluded bit of woodland, in late June, when it was in
full bloom. The air was heavy with its perfume, and the
buzz and hum of insects in countless numbers filled the
quiet woodland with a droning music, not unsuited to the
warmth and drowsiness of a summer afternoon. The flowers
of the basswood grow from a special little leaf or bract,
which is a lighter green than the tree and gives it a pe-
culiar variegated appearance. How cool and inviting in
summer are its large, rounded, palm-like leaves! But
on this winter afternoon nothing remains but the smooth
graceful trunk and limbs and tapering crown to remind
me that there are, after all, other types of beauty than
the dense and round-topped beech.
70 COUNTRY LIFE READER
As I reach the crest of the hill I find, standing on its
very brow, a hardy, gnarled red oak. ‘There is something
in the gnarled appearance of the oak as seen from a dis-
tance that proclaims its identity without closer acquain-
A row of willows.
tance; and the only question that ever presents itself is,
what kind of oak is it? The white and the red are the
most common, and both grow in rich, dry soil; but the
red is taller, darker, and more compact than the white.
Its leaves, moreover, have always thorny points, while
THE. TREES ON THE FARM 7
those of the white oak are smooth. And if all other tests
fail, a taste of the acorn will be sure to convince, for that
of the red is bitter, while the acorn of the white is sweet
and edible.
In order to reach the road by which we may return home
we must go down the opposite slope and cross the valley,
through which runs a good-sized .creek. At a bend in the
creek, close to the fallen tree by which I cross, there
stands a group of weeping willows. The willows are not
half so beautiful in winter as in summer, and as there
are about one hundred and fifty varieties, it requires an
expert to classify them. Most of the small willows are
native, but the larger species have been introduced from
Europe and the East. The weeping willow is one of these
introduced varieties, and is a genuine willow of the East.
It is called the weeping willow not only because its branches
droop, but because of its association with the sorrows of
the children of Israel in their captivity.
“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we
wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps
upon the willows in the midst thereof.”
It was a strange accident, too, that brought this beauti-
ful Eastern tree into Europe and America for the first
time. Less than two hundred years ago the poet Pope
received a present of figs from Smyrna in Asia Minor,
embedded in which was a small twig. Pope’s curiosity
was aroused, and he planted it. It grew and flourished,
and became the ancestor of all the weeping willows in the
Western world. |
Quite in contrast to the willow with its lithe and yet
brittle twigs, is the trim little tree that I meet with at the
72 COUNTRY LIFE READER
edge of the fringe of wood as I cross the river valley on my
return home. It is the hornbeam, or water-beech, which
every country boy knows by the familiar name of ironwood.
It is a small tree, scarcely a foot in diameter, and of slow
growth; but, small as it is, I remember having with this
very tree one of those experiences which a boy never for-
gets. Coming along the edge of this little wood about
dusk one summer evening, I saw a raccoon disappear into
a hole at the bottom of the little ironwood. The hole
was not large, but large enough for a raccoon to squeeze
into. I probed it with a stick. The tree was hollow for
about four feet up, and the raccoon was at the top of the
cavity. Every time I poked him with the stick he growled,
but no amount of prodding would induce him to come
down. I lit a fire at the mouth of the hole, but the smoke
appeared only to have a soothing effect. I hammered on
the tree, but nothing could dislodge him; and finally in
the darkness I blocked up the mouth of the hole with a
heavy stone and came away. In the morning the stone
was still there, but my prison-house was empty. The
prisoner had dug a hole under the roots of the tree on
the other side and escaped. But from that time forward
the little ironwood had a particular interest for me.
Do not rob or mar the tree unless you really need
what it has to give you. Let it stand and grow in virgin
majesty, ungirdled and unscarred, while the trunk be-
comes a firm pillar of the forest temple, and the branches
spread abroad a refuge of bright green leaves for the
birds of the air.
HENRY VAN DYKE.
THE SNOW-STORM
Meanwhile we did our nightly chores—
Brought in the wood from out of doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd’s grass for the cows:
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows:
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold’s pole of birch,
The cock his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.
Unwarmed by any sunset light
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag wavering to and fro
Crossed and recrossed the wingéd snow:
And ere the early bed-time came
The white drift piled the window-frame,.
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
So all night long the storm roared on:
The morning broke without a sun;
In starry flake, and pellicle,
All day the hoary meteor fell;
73
74
COUNTRY LIFE READER
And, when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,
No cloud above, no earth below—
A universe of sky and snow!
The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden wall, or belt of wood;
A smooth white mound the brush pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road;
The bridle-post an old man sat
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell
Of Pisa’s leaning miracle.
A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: ‘‘ Boys, a path!”
Well pleased (for when did farmer boy _
Count such a summons less than joy ?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through.
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid
With dazzling crystal: we had read
THE SNOW-STORM 75
Of rare Aladdin’s wondrous cave,
And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp’s supernal powers.
We reached the barn with merry din
And roused the prisoned brutes within.
The old horse thrust his long head out,
And grave with wonder gazed about;
The cock his lusty greeting said,
And forth his speckled harem led;
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked,
And mild reproach of hunger looked.
All day the gusty north wind bore
The loosening drift its breath before;
Low circling round its southern zone,
The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.
_ No church bell lent its Christian tone
To the savage air, no social smoke
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak.
As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back—
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick;
The knotty forestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art
76
COUNTRY LIFE READER
The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
Vhile radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.
Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed;
The house-dog on his paws outspread,
Laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat’s dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger’s seemed to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andiron’s straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October’s wood.
THE SNOW-STORM Pi!
What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north wind raved ?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
Could quench our hearth-fire’s ruddy glow.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
The whirl-dance of the blinding storm.
Breaking out the road.
A. VISIT TO “THEE ARM
“There’s our bells,’’ cried Thomas Finch, as the deep,
musical boom of the Finches’ sleigh-bells came through
the bush. ‘‘Come on, Hughie, we'll: get them at the
cross.” And, followed by Hughie and the boys from the
north, he set off for the north cross-roads where they would
meet the Finches’ bob-sleighs coming empty from the saw-
mill, to the great surprise and unalloyed delight of Mr.
and Mrs. Bushy, who, from their crotch in the old beech,
had watched with some anxiety the boys’ unusual con-
duct.
“There they are, Hughie,’ called Thomas, as the
sleighs came out into the open at the cross-roads. ‘“They’ll
wait for us. They know you’re coming,” he yelled encour-
agingly; for the big boys had left the smaller ones, a
panting train, far in the rear, and were piling themselves
upon the Finches’ sleighs with never a “‘by your leave”’ to
William John—familiarly known as Billy Jack—Thomas’s
eldest brother, who drove the Finches’ team.
[ote
A VISIT TO THE FARM 79
Thomas’s home lay a mile north and another east from
the Twentieth cross-roads; but the winter road by which
they hauled sawlogs to the mill cut right through the
forest, where the deep snow packed hard into a smooth
track, covering roots and logs and mud-holes, and making
a perfect surface for the sleighs, however heavily loaded,
except where here and there the pitch-holes, or cahots,
came. ‘These cahots, by the way, though they became,
especially toward the spring, a serious annoyance to team-
sters, only added another to the delights that a sleigh-ride
held for the boys.
To Hughie the ride this evening was blissful to an un-
speakable degree. He was overflowing with new sensa-
tions. He was going to spend the night with Thomas,
for one thing, and Thomas as his host was quite a new
and different person from the Thomas of the school.
The minister’s wife, ever since the examination day, had
taken a deeper interest in Thomas, and determined that
something should be made out of the solemn, solid, slow-
moving boy. Partly for this reason she had yielded to
Hughie’s eager pleading, backing up the invitation brought
by Thomas himself, and delivered in an agony of red-faced
confusion, that Hughie should be allowed to go home
with him for the night. Partly, too, because she was
glad that Hughie should see something of the Finches’
home, and especially of the dark-faced, dark-eyed little
woman who so silently and unobtrusively, but so effi-
ciently, administered her home, her family, and_ their
affairs, and especially her husband, without suspicion on
his part that anything of the kind was being done.
In addition to the joy that Hughie had in Thomas in
80 COUNTRY LIFE, (READER
his new role as host, this winter road was full of wonder
and delight, as were all roads and paths that wound right
through the heart of the bush. The regular made-up
roads, with the forest cut back beyond the ditches at the
sides, were a great weariness to Hughie, except, indeed,
in the spring-time, when these ditches were running full
with sunlit water over the mottled clay bottom and
gravelly ripples. But the bush roads and paths, summer
and winter, were filled with things of wonder and of
beauty, and this particular winter road of the Finches’ was
best of all to Hughie, for it was quite new to him, and,
besides, it led right through the mysterious big cedar swamp
and over the butternut ridge, beyond which lay the Finches’
farm. Balsam trees, tamarack, spruce, and cedar made up
the thick underbrush of the big swamp; white birch,
white ash, and black were thickly sprinkled through it;
but high above these lesser trees towered the white pines,
lifting their great, tufted crests in lonely grandeur, seeming
like kings among meaner men. Here and there the rabbit
runways, packed into hard little paths, crossed the road
and disappeared under the thick spruces and balsams;
here and there the sly single track of the fox, or the deep
hoof-mark of the deer, led off into unknown depths on
either side. Hughie, sitting up on the bolster of the front
bob beside Billy Jack, for even the big boys recognized
his right, as Thomas’s guest, to that coveted place, listened
with eager face and wide-open eyes to Billy Jack’s remarks
upon the forest and its strange people.
One thing else added to Hughie’s keen enjoyment of the
ride. Billy Jack’s bays were always in the finest of fettle,
and pulled hard on the lines, and were rarely allowed the
A VISIT TO THE: FARM 8I
rapture of a gallop. But when the swamp was passed
and the road came to the more open butternut ridge, Billy
Jack shook the lines over their backs and let them out.
Their response was superb to witness, and brought Hughie
some moments of ecstatic rapture. Along the hard-packed
road that wound about among the big butternuts the rangy
bays sped at a flat gallop, bounding clear over the cahots,
the booming of the bells and the rattling of the chains
furnishing an exhilarating accompaniment to the swift,
swaying motion, while the children clung for dear life to
the bob-sleighs and to each other. It was all Billy Jack
could do to get his team down to a trot by the time they
reached the clearing, for there the going was perilous, and,
besides, it was just as well that his father should not wit-
ness any signs on Billy Jack’s part of the folly that he was
inclined to attribute to the rising generation. So steadily
enough the bays trotted up the lane and between long
lines of green cordwood on one side, and a haystack on the
other, into the yard and, swinging round the big straw-
stack that faced the open shed and was flanked on the
right by the cow-stable and hog-pen and on the left by
the horse-stable, came to a full stop at their own stable
door.
“Thomas, you take Hughie into the house to get warm,
till I unhitch,” said Billy Jack, with the feeling that
courtesy to the minister’s son demanded this attention.
But Hughie, rejecting this proposition with scorn, pushed
Thomas aside and set himself to unhitch the S-hook on the
outside trace of the nigh bay. It was one of Hughie’s griev-
ances, and a very sore point with him, that his father’s
people would insist on treating him in the privileged
82 COUNTRY LIFE READER
manner they thought proper to his father’s son, and _ his
chief ambition was to stand upon his own legs and to
fare like other boys. So he scorned Billy Jack’s sug-
gestion, and while some of the children scurried about
the stacks for a little romp before setting off for their
homes, which some of them for the sake of the ride had
left far behind, Hughie devoted himself to the unhitch-
ing of the team with Billy Jack. And so quick was he in
his movements and so fearless of the horses, that he had
his side unhitched and was struggling with the breast-
strap before Billy Jack had finished with his horse.
“Man! you’re a regular farmer,” said Billy. Jack ad-
miringly, ‘‘only you’re too quick for the rest of us.”
Hughie, still struggling with the breast-strap, found
his heart swell with pride. To be a farmer was his present
dream.
“But that’s too heavy for you,” continued Billy Jack.
“‘Here, let down the tongue first.”
‘“Pshaw!”’ said Hughie, disgusted at his exhibition of
ignorance; ‘‘I knew that tongue ought to come out first,
but I forgot.” ,
‘Oh, well, it’s just as good that way, but not quite so
easy,” said Billy Jack with doubtful consistency.
It took Hughie but a few minutes after the tongue was
let down to unfasten his end of the neck-yoke and the
cross-lines, and he was beginning at his hame-strap, al-
ways a difficult buckle, when Billy Jack called out: “Hold
on there! You’re too quick for me. We’ll make them
carry their own harness into the stable. Don’t believe
in making a horse of myself.”’ Bully Jack was son
of a humorist.
AVistl TO. THE FARM 83
The Finch homestead was a model of finished neatness.
Order was its law. Outside, the stables, barns, stacks,
the very wood-piles evidenced that law. Within, the
house and its belongings and affairs were perfect in their
harmonious arrangement. The whole establishment, with-
out and within, gave token of the unremitting care of one
organizing mind, for, from dark to dark, while others
might have their moments of rest and careless ease, “the
little mother,” as Billy Jack called her, was ever on guard,
and all the machinery of house and farm moved smoothly
and to purpose because of that unsleeping care. She
was last to bed and first to stir, and Billy Jack declared
that she used to put the cats to sleep at night and waken
up the roosters in the morning. And through it all her
face remained serene, and her voice flowed in quiet
tones.
Besides the law of order another law ruled in the Finch
household—the law of work. The days were filled with
work, for they each had their share to do and bore the sole
responsibility for its being well done. If the cows failed
in their milk, or the fat cattle were not up to the mark,
the father felt the reproach as his; to Billy Jack fell the
care and handling of the horses; Thomas took charge of
the pigs and the getting of wood and water for the house;
little Jessac had her daily task of “sorting the rooms,”
and when the days were too stormy or the snow too deep
for school she had in addition her stint of knitting or of
winding the yarn for the weaver. To the mother fell
all the rest. At the cooking and the cleaning, and the
making and mending, all fine arts with her, she diligently
toiled from long before dawn till after all the rest were
84 COUNTRY LIFE READER
abed. But besides these and other daily household duties,
there were, in their various seasons, the jam and jelly,
the pumpkin and squash preserves, the butter-making
and cheese-making, and, more than all, the long, long work
with the wool. Billy Jack used to say that the little
mother followed that wool from the backs of her sheep
to the backs of her family, and hated to let the weaver
have his turn at it.
But, though Hughie, of course, knew nothing of this toil-
ing and moiling, he was distinctly conscious of an air of
tidiness and comfort and quiet, and was keenly alive to the
fact that there was a splendid supper waiting him when
he got in from the stables with the others—‘“‘hungry as a
wildcat,” as Billy Jack expressed it: And that was a
supper! Fried ribs of fresh pork, and hashed potatoes,
hot and brown, followed by buckwheat pancakes, hot and
brown, with maple syrup. There was tea for the father
and mother with their oat-cakes, but for the children no
such luxury, only the choice of buttermilk or sweet milk.
Hughie, it is true, was offered tea, but he promptly declined;
for, though he loved it well enough, it was sufficient reason
for him that Thomas had none. It took, however, all the
grace out of his declining that Mr. Finch remarked in gruff
pleasantry: ‘‘What would a boy want with tea!” The
supper was a very solemn meal. They were all too busy
to talk, at least so Hughie felt, and as for himself he was
only afraid lest the others should “push back” before he
had satisfied the terrible craving within him.
Before bed-time Billy Jack took down the tin lantern,
pierced with holes into curious patterns, through which the
candle-light rayed forth, and went out to bed the horses.
A VISIT TO THE FARM 85
In spite of protests from all the family, Hughie set forth
with him, carrying the lantern and feeling very much the
farmer, while Billy Jack took two pails of boiled oats and
barley, with a mixture of flaxseed, which was supposed
to give the Finches’ team their famous and superior gloss.
When they returned from the stable they found in the
kitchen Thomas, who was rubbing a composition of tal-
low and beeswax into his boots to make them waterproof,
and the mother, who was going about setting the table
for the breakfast.
“Too bad you have to go to bed, mother,” said Billy
Jack, struggling with his bootjack. “You might just go
on getting the breakfast, and what a fine start that would
give you for the day!”
“You hurry, William John, to bed with that poor lad.
What would his mother say? He must be fairly exhausted.”
“I’m not a bit tired,” said Hughie brightly, his face
radiant with the delight of his new experiences.
“You will need all your sleep, my boy,” said the mother
kindly, “for we rise early here. But,” she added, “‘you
will lie till the boys are through with their work and Thomas
will waken you for your breakfast.”
“Indeed, no! I’m going to get up,’ announced Hughie.
It seemed to Hughie that he had hardly dropped off to
sleep when he was awake again to see Thomas standing
beside him with a candle in his hand, announcing that
breakfast was ready.
“Have you been out to the stable?” he eagerly inquired,
and Thomas nodded. In great disappointment and a
little shamefacedly he made his appearance at the break-
fast-table.
The winter road by which they hauled sawlogs to the mill.
A VISIT TO THE, FARM 87
It seemed to Hughie as if it must be still the night be-
fore, for it was quite dark outside. He had never had
breakfast by candle-light before in his life, and he felt as
if it all were still a part of his dreams, until he found him-
self sitting beside Billy Jack on a load of sawlogs, waving
good-bye to the group at the door.
As Hughie was saying his good-byes Billy Jack’s horses
were pawing.to be off and rolling their solemn bells, while
their breath rose in white clouds above their heads, wreath-
ing their manes in hoary rime.
“Git-ep, lads,’ said Billy Jack, hauling his lines taut
and flourishing his whip. The bays straightened their
backs, hung for a few moments on their tugs, for the load
had frozen fast during the night, and then moved off at
a smart trot, the bells solemnly booming out and the
sleighs creaking over the frosty snow.
“Man!” said Hughie enthusiastically. “I wish I could
draw logs all winter.”
“Tt’s not too bad a job on a day like this,” assented
Billy Jack. And, indeed, any one might envy him the
work on such a morning. Over the tree tops the rays of
the sun were beginning to shoot their rosy darts up into
the sky, and to flood the clearing with light that sparkled
and shimmered upon the frost particles, glittering upon
and glorifying snow and trees, and even the stumps and
fences. Around the clearing stood the forest, dark and
still, except for the frost reports that now and then rang
out like pistol shots. To Hughie the early morning in-
vested the forest with a new beauty and a new wonder.
The dim light of the dawning day deepened the silence, so
that involuntarily he hushed his voice in speaking, and
88 COUNTRY LIFE READER
the deep-toned roll of the sleigh-bells seemed to smite upon
that dim, solemn quiet with startling blows. On either
side the balsams and spruces, with their mantles of snow,
stood like white-swathed sentinels on guard—silent, motion-
less, alert. Hughie looked to see them move as the team
drove past.
As they left the more open butternut ridge and descended
into the depths of the big swamp the dim light faded
into deeper gloom, and Hughie felt as if he were in church,
and an awe gathered upon him.
“It’s awful still,” he said to Billy Jack in a low tone,
and Billy Jack, catching the look in the boy’s face, checked
the light word upon his lips, and gazed around into the
deep forest glooms with new eyes. The mystery and won-
der of the forest had never struck him before. It had
hitherto been to him a place for hunting or for getting big
sawlogs. But to-day he saw it with Hughie’s eyes and
felt the majesty of its beauty and silence. For a long time
they drove without a word.
“Say, it’s mighty fine, isn’t it?” he said, adopting
Hughie’s low tone.
“Splendid!” exclaimed Hughie. ‘My! I could just
hug those big trees. They look at me like—like your
mother, don’t they, or mine?” But this was beyond
Billy Jack.
“Like my mother?”
“Yes, you know, quiet and—and—kind, and nice.”
“Ves,” said Thomas, breaking in for the first time,
“that’s just it. They do look, sure enough, like my mother
and yours. They have both got that look.” _
“‘Git-ep!”’ said Billy Jack to his team. ‘These fellows’ll
A VISIT TO THE FARM 89
be ketchin’ something bad if we don’t get into the open
soon. Shouldn’t wonder if they’ve got ’em already, mak-
ing out their mothers like an old white pine. Git-ep, I
say!”
RALPH CONNOR.
Among the balsams and spruces.
The Black Minorca rooster.
A BARN-YARD MEETING
Nine o’clock on a snowy winter morning! At farmer
Walters’ home the path was not yet broken down to the
barn, and in the farmhouse itself there were no signs of
life. It was plain that the morning chores had not yet
been done and the animals had not yet been fed.
But down at the barn-yard there was an unusual stir.
The black Minorca rooster, mounted on top of a snow-
covered strawstack, was pealing forth a lusty summons:
‘A barn-yard meeting h-e-r-e!”’
‘A barn-yard meeting h-e-r-e!”’
And at this clarion call all the doors of the stables, the
poultry-house, and the great barn itself began to open up,
go
A BARN-YARD MEETING QI
and as if by common consent the farmyard animals—
horses, cows, pigs, sheep, turkeys, geese, ducks, hens
—-came trooping forth into the barn-yard to the foot
of the strawstack, which was the appointed place of
meeting.
‘“‘A barn-yard meeting h-e-r-e!”’
‘A barn-yard meeting h-e-r-e!”
sang chanticleer from the top of the stack, but still there
were no signs of stir or life at the farmhouse. |
When at last the farm animals were all assembled, the
black Minorca came down from his station on the straw-
stack, and, at a call for silence from the bronze turkey
gobbler, every one knew that the meeting was about to
open. There was no need to explain why the meeting
was called; for these barn-yard gatherings were never
held except to discuss farmyard grievances, and it was
only a question as to who should begin. But as it was
Mrs. Brindle who usually had most to say en these oc-
casions, it was agreed that she should be permitted to
speak first. From what Mrs. Brindle had to say it was
easy to see that she was in a very cross and ugly mood.
She had not been milked the night before, her stall had
not been cleaned, and, worse than all, she had not been
properly watered and fed.
Mrs. Brindle’s speech was interrupted at least half a
dozen times by Mrs. Jersey, Mrs. Holstein, and Mrs.
Ayrshire, who declared, one and all, that they would go
dry if this thing happened many times more.
“TI object to these irregular hours for milking, too,”
continued Mrs. Brindle. ‘‘Here it is after nine to-day
and I was milked at half past seven yesterday morning.
Q2 COUNTRY LIFE READER
Why don’t they get a time and stick to it? I am sure I
should give more milk if they did.”
“Tt’s bad enough to have the dog set on you,” said Mrs.
Ayrshire, “‘and to be milked by a green farm-hand, but
when it comes to being shut up in a dirty stable with no
light and no fresh air .
“They don’t give me enough water,” interrupted Mrs.
Holstein. ‘I suppose they think ’m made of milk. If
things don’t change around this farm I wll go dry.”
“Serve ’em right! Serve ’em right!” added Mr. Dur-
ham in a deep bass voice. ‘‘I want my breakfast.”
Mr. Grunter and Mrs. Razorback began to talk at the
same time, and it was rather hard to make out what they
both had to say, but Mr. Grunter was objecting to his pen
not being cleaned, while Mrs. Razorback kept on grum-
bling about the muddy water that she was given to drink.”
“T’d keep myself clean,” said Mr. Grunter, “if only
they’d give me a chance. If I only had a clean straw bed
you wouldn’t catch me out here on a cold morning like
this.”’
At this Mrs. Razorback began to shiver with the cold,
and as soon as she could escape observation she withdrew
to the shelter of the strawstack and buried herself in the
straw.
Mrs. Bay and Mrs. Gray and young Miss Filly were
all of the same opinion. No attention, they claimed, was
ever given to their comfort or their personal appearance.
“Vou’ve only to look at us,” complained Miss Filly,
“to see how we are treated. My coat hasn’t been brushed
for the last month. Nobody ever grooms us and no one
cares how we look.”
)
A BARN-YARD MEETING 93
“Humph!” interrupted young Mr. Thoroughbred.
“That’s nothing! How would you like to be left without
a blanket, and have a frozen bit put into your mouth,
The bronze turkey gobbler.
and get nothing but ice-water to drink? When I come in
from work no one ever gives me a rub-down, and as for
oats i
“Oats!” exclaimed Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Bay and old
Mr. Clydesdale in a single breath. ‘Did you say OATS?”
At this the ducks set up a fearful quacking, for none of
them had been fed, until the black Minorca rooster
climbed up on the ladder that leaned against the stack,
and shouted:
“This will never d-o-o-0!”’
“This will never d-o-o-o !”
and order was restored once again.
The bronze turkey gobbler spoke next, but, as usual,
he would talk of nothing but the loss of his family last
94 COUNTRY LIFE READER
Thanksgiving; at which Mrs. Razorback, who had re-
cently lost her whole family, came out from under the
straw and set up such a squealing that not a syllable more
of his story could be heard.
Then the black Minorca chickens began to chatter
all at once, and from what you could make out of their
talk it was all about sunshine,
and fresh air, and good nesting-
places, and clean perches, and
proper food, until, having fairly
talked themselves out of breath,
the black Minorca rooster de-
clared that none of his family
would lay another egg until
they were better treated.
Just at this moment the
kitchen door of the farm-house
opened, and the hired man
came out to get an armful of
wood for kindling. At this all
the animals in the barn-yard set up such a lowing and
squealing and whinnying and cackling that even the black
Minorca could not be heard as he mounted the strawstack
once more to declare that the meeting was adjourned.
‘Just listen to those animals,” said Mrs. Walters as
she put up the bed-room blind. ‘I never heard such a —
clatter. Whatever can be the matter with them? One
would think, to listen to them, that they had never been
ped!
Mrs. Jersey.
Feed me, water, and care for me.
fie HORSE'S PRAYER
To thee, my master, I offer my prayer: Feed me, water,
and care for me, and, when the day’s work is done, pro-
vide me with shelter, a clean, dry bed, and a stall wide
enough for me to lie down in comfort.
Always be kind to me. Talk to me. Your voice often
means as much to me as the reins. Pet me sometimes,
that I may serve you the more gladly and learn to love
you. Do not jerk the reins, and do not whip me when go-
ing uphill. Never strike, beat, or kick me when I do not
understand what you want, but give me a chance to under-
stand you. Watch me, and if I fail to do your bidding,
see if something is not wrong with my harness or feet.
Do not check me so that I cannot have the free use of
my head. If you insist that I wear blinders, so that I
cannot see behind me as it was intended I should, I pray
95
96 COUNTRY LIFE READER
you be careful that the blinders stand well out from my
eyes.
Do not overload me, or-hitch me where water will drip
on me. Keep me well shod. Examine my teeth when I
do not eat, I may have an ulcerated tooth, and that, you
know, is very painful. Do not tie my head in an un-
natural position, or take away my best defence against
flies and mosquitoes by cutting off my tail.
I cannot tell you when I am thirsty, so give me clean,
cool water often. Save me, by all means in your power,
from that fatal disease—the glanders. I cannot tell you
in words when I am sick; so watch me, that by signs you
may know my condition. Give me all possible shelter
from the hot sun, and put a blanket on me, not when I
am working but when I am standing in the cold. Never
put a frosty bit in my mouth; first warm it by holding it
-a moment in your hands. |
I try to carry you and your burdens without a murmur,
and wait patiently for you long hours of the day or night.
Without the power to choose my shoes or path, I some-
times fall on the hard pavements which I have often prayed
might not be of wood but of such a nature as to give me
a safe and sure footing. Remember that I must be ready
at any moment to lose my life in your service.
And, finally, O my master, when my useful strength is
gone, do not turn me out to starve or freeze, or sell me to
some cruel owner, to be slowly tortured and starved to
death; but do thou, my master, take my life in the kind-
est way, and your God will reward you here and hereafter.
You will not consider me irreverent if I ask this in the
name of Him who was born in a stable. Amen.
His large stock demand regular attention.
IN PIONEER DAYS
Whatever may be said about the enjoyments of winter
life, there are few who really enjoy it so much as the farmer.
His cares, however, are very numerous and his work is
varied and laborious. His large stock demand regular
attention and must be fed morning and night. The grain
has to be threshed, for his cattle need the straw, and the
grain has to be got out for market. But in the early pio-
neer days, threshing-machines were unknown. So, day
after day, the farmer was forced to hammer away with the
flail or spread the grain on the barn floor to be trampled
out with horses. His muscular arm was the only machine
he had to rely upon; and if it did not accomplish much,
it succeeded in doing its work well and provided for all his
97
98 COUNTRY LIFE READER
modest wants. Then the fanning-mill came into play to
clean the grain, after which it was carried to the granary,
whence again it was taken either to the mill or to the
market.
Winter was also the time to get out the logs from the
woods and to haul them to the mill. The sawmill was
a small rough structure; and it had but one upright saw,
which did not turn out a very large quantity of stuff.
Rails also had to be split and drawn to where new fences
were wanted or where old ones needed repairs. Flour,
beef, mutton, butter, apples, and a score of other things
had to be taken to market and disposed of.
Early in the spring, before the snow had gone, the sugar-
making time came. Now, too, the hams and beef had to
be taken from the casks and hung in the smoke-house.
The spring work crowded on rapidly. Ploughing, fencing,
sowing, and planting followed in quick succession. All
hands were busy. The younger children had to drive
the cows to pasture in the morning and bring them up at
night. They had also to take a hand at the old churn;
and it was a weary task, as I remember well, to stand for
an hour perhaps and drive the dasher up and down through
the thick cream. How often the handle was examined to
see if there were any indications of butter, and what satis-
faction there was in getting over with it!
As soon as my legs were long enough I had to follow a
team; and I was mounted on the back of one of the horses
when my nether limbs were hardly sufficient in length to
hold me to my seat. The implements then in use were
very rough. Iron ploughs were generally used; and when
compared with the ploughs of to-day they were clumsy
IN PIONEER DAYS 99
things. They had but one handle, but, though difficult to
guide, were a great advance over the old wooden plough,
which had not yet altogether gone out of use. Tree tops
were frequently used for drags. Riding a horse in the field,
as I frequently had to do under a hot sun, was not so agree-
able as it might seem.
In June came sheep-washing. The sheep were driven
to the bay shore and secured in a pen. Then one by one
they were taken into the bay and their fleeces were care-
fully washed. In a few days they were brought to the barn
and sheared. The wool was then sorted; some of it was
retained to be carded by hand, and the remainder was sent
to the mill to be turned into rolls; and when they were
brought home the hum of the spinning-wheel was heard
day after day for weeks. Of course, the quality of the
cloth depended upon the fineness and evenness of the
thread, and a great deal of pains was taken to turn out good
work. When the spinning was done, the yarn was taken
away to the weaver to be made into cloth.
Early in July the haying began. The mowers were ex-
pected to be in the meadow by sunrise. All through the
day the rasp of their whetstones could be heard; and as
they went swinging across the field, the waving grass fell
rapidly before their keen blades and dropped in swaths
at their side. The days were not then divided off into a
stated number of working hours. The rule was to com-
mence with the morning light and continue as long as one
could see. No sound was more welcome than the blast of
the old tin dinner-horn. Even Old Gray, when I followed
the plough, used to give answer to the cheerful wind of the
horn by a loud whinny, and stop in the furrow, as. if to
100 COUNTRY LIFE READER
say: “There, now, off with my harness and let us to din-
ner.’ If I happened to be in the middle of the field I had
considerable trouble to get the old fellow to go on to the
end.
As soon as the sun was well up, we followed up the
swaths and spread them out nicely with a fork or a long
stick so that the grass would dry. In the afternoon it had
to be raked up into windrows, work in which the girls often
joined us; and after tea one or two of the men cocked it
up, while we raked the ground clean after them. If the
weather was clear and dry, the hay was sometimes left out
for several days before it was drawn into the barn to be
stacked.
Another important matter was the preparation of the
summer fallow for fall wheat. The ground was first
broken up after the spring sowing was over; about hay time
the second ploughing had to be done to destroy weeds
and get the land into proper order; in August the last _
ploughing came; and about the 1st of September the
wheat was sown. It almost always happened, too, that
there were some acres of woodland which had to be cleaned
up. Logs and brush were collected into piles and burned.
Then the timber was cut down and ruthlessly given over
to the fire. When logging-bees were held, the neighbors
turned out with their oxen and logging chains and, amid
the ring of the axe, the shouting of drivers, and the noise
of the men with their handspikes, the great logs were
rolled up, one upon another, and left for the fire to eat
them out of the way.
In August the wheat-fields were ready for the reapers.
A good cradler would cut about five acres a day, and an
IN PIONEER DAYS IOI
expert with the rake would follow and bind up what he cut.
There were men who would literally walk through the
grain with a cradle, and then two were required to follow.
After the wheat was cut, the younger members of the
family came in for their share of work both in shocking
and in hauling in the grain, and again the girls often gave
a helping hand both in the field and in the barn.
In all these tasks good work was expected. My father
was a pushing man and thorough in all he undertook.
His motto was, “‘Anything that is worth doing, is’ worth
doing well,” and this rule was always enforced. The
ploughmen had to throw their furrows neat and straight.
When I got to be a strong lad I could strike a furrow across
a field as straight as an arrow, and took pride in throwing
my furrows in uniform precision. The mowers had ta
shear the land close and smooth. The rakers threw their
windrows straight, and the men placed their haycocks at
equal distances; and so in the grain-field the stubble had to
be cut clean and even and the sheaves shocked in straight
rows, with ten sheaves to the shock. It was really a plea-
sure to inspect his fields when the work was done.
CANNIFF HAIGHT (ADAPTED).
Thank God every morning when you get up that you
have something to do that day which must be done,
whether you like it or not. Being forced to work and
forced to do your best will breed in you temperance and
self-control, diligence and strength of will, cheerfulness
and content, and a hundred virtues which the idle will
never know.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
THE CAMPAIGN
(CONTINUED)
During the winter months the besieging armies were
forced to take shelter in their intrenchments, and very
little fighting took place. Dick wished to carry on a
campaign against the house-sparrows, but General Ben
did not think it wise to use firearms within the grounds of
the fort:
“The army of sparrows,” he argued, ‘“‘are not so danger-
ous as some of our other enemies, and perhaps when the
spring comes we can hold them in check by destroying
their shelters wherever we find them. Besides,” he added,
‘““General Screech-Owl is one of the best of our allies, and
I think that for this winter, at least, perhaps we had better
leave the sparrows to him.”
“But,” urged Milton, “the worst of it is that when the
spring comes and we want to fight the weeds and insects,
this army of sparrows will keep some of our best allies,
such as the wrens and the bluebirds, from helping us.
Is there no way for us to get rid of them?”
“Tf they trouble us too much,” replied General Ben,
‘about the only thing for us to do is to try to get the
soldiers in all the other forts in the country to join with us
and try to destroy them all. If they trouble our allies too
much in the spring, perhaps we shall do that next winter.”
During the winter Nora took pains to find out all she
could about the army of house-flies, and early in the spring,
before the advance guard of the enemy had arrived, the
season’s campaign had already been carefully planned.
IG2
THE CAMPAIGN 103
From the figures which Nora supplied, General Ben had
the boys make a calculation to show the natural increase
in the numbers of the enemy during a single season; and
they were greatly surprised to learn that a single female
fly who hatches out a first brood early in the season has
at least twenty-five million descendants in the course of
the year.
“Better begin early,” said General Ben. “For every
one of the enemy that escapes you now means millions
later on. And remember that every one of General
House-Fly’s soldiers carries about upon his body thou-
sands of poisonous germs which are almost sure to take
disease into every farm camp that they enter. House-
flies have been known to carry the germs of cholera, tuber-
culosis, typhoid fever, and other diseases.”’
And so, with the first appearance of the enemy in the
warm days of early spring the campaign was begun.
Within the fort itself Lieutenant Dick and Major Milton
proved to be excellent “‘snipers,’’ and whenever one of the
enemy came out into the open he fell a victim to the
““swatter,” which was the newest form of weapon pur-
chased by General Ben on his last visit to town. In ad-
dition to this, General Ben supplied a complete range of
fine-wire defences to cover the loopholes in the walls, and
later in the season sticky-paper entanglements were pre-
pared, in order to capture any of the invaders who might
succeed in creeping in past the outer guards of the fort.
But much more important than any of these measures
were the means which General Ben took to prevent the
enemy from raising new troops and bringing forward fresh
reinforcements.
104 COUNTRY LIFE READER
‘The armies of General House-Fly,” he explained,
‘‘feed upon refuse of all kinds, and every few days a fresh
army is hatched forth from the waste material which is
thrown out from the barn-yard forts. Where there are
no forts and no refuse there are none of the enemy to be
found. General Dirt is the greatest ally that General
House-Fly has.”
And so throughout the spring and summer under the
direction of General Ben the campaign was carried forward
in both offensive and defensive form. The enemy was
destroyed by every means possible, both within and with-
out the fort. Dirt and refuse was not allowed to collect
around the doorways. Covered cans were provided for
garbage; the barn-yard forts were kept scrupulously clean;
and at General Ben’s suggestion a shed was constructed
in which manure and other waste material from the barn-
yard was kept, carefully screened in, until it could be
hauled away.
It would be too much to expect that in a campaign
such as this, against an enemy that counted its fighters
literally by millions, not one of the enemy should escape;
and in spite of the patience and diligence of General Ben
and his allies, the farm forts were never wholly free from
attack. But Nora proudly boasted that not a single fly
was allowed to remain in her part of the camp to poison
the officers’ food supplies; and General Ben and the boys
had the satisfaction of knowing that in the barn-yard and
outlying grounds of the forts, neither themselves nor the
animals of the farm Were subjected to the same annoyance
as In former years.
SPRING
1% ——
A SONG OF SPRING
Bless the Lord, O my soul. O Lord my God,
thou art very great; thou art clothed with
honor and majesty.
Who coverest thyself with light as with a
garment: who stretchest out the heavens like a
curtain;
Who layeth the beams of his chambers in
the waters: who maketh the clouds his chariot:
who walketh upon the wings of the wind... .
He sendeth the springs into the valleys,
which run among the hills.
They give drink to every beast of the field:
the wild asses quench their thirst.
By them shall the fowls of the heaven have
their habitation, which sing among the branches.
He watereth the hills from his chambers: the
earth is satisfied with the fruit of thy works.
He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle,
and herb for the service of man: that he may
bring forth food out of the earth... .
O Lord, how manifold are thy. works! In
wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is
full of thy riches.
ce
ag
2
LETS SPLIT
Psalm 104.
Sop JE OGIO» SRSA BRARETA BG
The song-sparrow.
THE SONG-SPARROW
There is a bird I know so well,
It seems as if he must have sung
Beside my crib when I was young;
Before I knew the way to spell
The name of even the smallest bird,
His gentle, joyful song I heard.
Now see if you can tell, my dear,
What bird it is that, every year,
Sings “‘Sweet—sweet—sweet—
Very merry cheer.”
He comes in March, when winds are strong,
And snow returns to hide the earth;
107
108
COUNTRY LIFE READER
But still he warms his heart with mirth,
And waits for May. He lingers long
While flowers fade; and every day
Repeats his small, contented lay;
As if to say, we need not fear
The seasons’ change if love is here,
With ‘“‘Sweet—sweet—sweet—
Very merry cheer.”
He does not wear a Joseph’s coat
Of many colors, smart and gay;
His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
With three dark patches at the throat.
And yet, of all the well-dressed throng,
Not one can sing so brave a song;
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing, to hear
His “Sweet—-sweet—sweet.
Very merry cheer.”
A lofty place he does not love,
But sits by choice, and well at ease,
In hedges, and in little trees
That stretch their slender arms above
The meadow-brook; and there he sings
Till all the field with pleasure rings;
And so he tells in every ear,
That lowly homes to heaven are near,
In ‘‘Sweet—sweet—sweet—
Very merry cheer.”
THE SONG-SPARROW 109
I like the tune, I like the words;
They seem so true, so free from art,
So friendly, and so full of heart,
That if but one of all the birds
Could be my comrade everywhere—
My little brother of the air—
I'd choose the Song-Sparrow, my dear,
Because he’d bless me every year,
With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—
Very merry cheer.”
HENRY VAN DykKE.
Nest of song-sparrow.
Open ditch to take off surplus water.
A WET FIELD
Perhaps on your way: to school you may have to pass a
field which is very wet in spring. The farmer does not
usually get to work on this field until late, when most of
the seeding on other farms is done; and even then he can-
not work the soil properly because it is too wet. But a
few weeks of dry weather come, and he gets his crop in
at last. But it does not grow well, for the ground is still
IIo
A WET FIELD PET
so wet that the air can not get at the roots; and besides
this, the soil is cold and perhaps a little sour. Water does
not heat nearly so quickly as air, and before the soil can
become warm the water must be drained off and the
surface of the ground must be broken up, so that the air
may be able to penetrate the soil.
But even if the crop in this particular field does get a
good start in spring, it is likely to suffer from the dry
weather later in the summer. Just because the ground is
wet in the spring, the roots have not had to go very far
into the soil in search of water, and when the ground dries
up In midsummer the roots at the surface are left without
any moisture. If the ground had been dry in early spring
the roots would have gone deep and would have had a
good supply of moisture throughout the summer.
There are two ways in which water may be drained off
wet fields: either by open ditches or by tile-drains. Some-
times the open ditch is sufficient to take off all the surplus
water, but the tile-drain is usually better. The tiles are
placed from three to four feet below the surface, and the
drains are laid from four to eight rods apart, according
fo-the nature of the soi. But the size of the tile, the
depth at which it is laid, and the number of drains that
are put down depend altogether on the kind of field that
is to be drained.
The skunk-cabbage is out very early.
THE EARLY SPRING WILD FLOWERS
There is a certain wooded hillside which I like to visit
in early spring; for, as it faces the south, it gets the first
bright rays of spring sunshine and the first warm April
rains, so that the flowers seem to bloom here a little
sooner than almost anywhere else.
It is high and dry for the most part, but in a dip in the
centre there are a number of springs, and at this point for
a short distance the undergrowth is thick and the ground
is wet and marshy. Along the edge of this marshy spot,
even before the snow and ice have disappeared, I am
sure to find the first skunk-cabbages of the season pushing
through the frosty ground, and a few weeks later the
swampy hillside is yellow with a profusion of marsh-mari-
golds. Then I know it is time to look for the hepatica
and the anemone and the spring-beauty on the dryer slopes
of the hill, and that somewhere in the moist and sheltered
hollows I may find the trillium and the bloodroot and the
pretty little harbinger-of- “spring.
i12
THE EARLY.SPRING WILD FLOWERS § 113
Our first expedition in the spring, in early March, is in
search of the skunk-cabbage, which has already pushed its
way through the wet, frosty ground. ‘There are no leaves
as yet—only the tough, reddish, fleshy-looking cup, which
is called a “‘spathe” and contains the flowers and protects
them from the frost and
cold. If you should ven-
ture to examine one of
these spathes you would
find the flowers inside to
be very small and not es-
pecially interesting. But
the spathe itself is at-
tractive, for, coarse as it
is, it has beautiful vein-
ings of red, not to speak
of its strong, ‘‘skunky”’
smell, which no boy, after
all, really dislikes. Both
the red color and the
strong, pungent odor
help to attract the black
meat-flies that carry the pollen from flower to flower.
It is in the early spring that the skunk-cabbage appears
to the best advantage; later in the season its leaves
are large and conspicuous, but not especially attractive;
and in the autumn, if you care to pick your way
through the marsh to examine the cabbage itself, you
will find it to be a piece of slimy, disagreeable pulp,
with the coarse, round seeds curiously imbedded in its
fleshy sides.
Marsh-marigold.
II4 COUNTRY LIFE READER
The skunk-cabbage is out very early; but it is generally
the latter part of April before
“The winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.”
—for that is Shakespeare’s-way of telling us that the
marsh-marigolds are in bloom.
Anemone.
How gorgeous they make
the marshy hillside ap-
pear, and is it any won-
der that the children are
tempted to go out in
crowds to gather “cow-
slips,” as they call them ?
But alas! it means al-
most without fail a pair
of wet feet and then, per-
haps, a scolding at home.
And, besides, the mari-
golds look more beautiful
after all im the, marem
stretching away in bank
after bank among the
dead reeds and_ tangled
undergrowth than they do
in hand, for the stems are coarse and thick and the indi-
vidual flowers are often disappointing. But there is some
compensation at least in the fresh April sun, the beauti-
ful soft blue of the sky, and the call of the red-winged
blackbird as he flits like a flame of fire across the marsh.
Even before the marsh-marigold has appeared, the
hepatica, which is commonly spoken of as. the earliest
THE EARLY SPRING WILD FLOWERS I15
spring flower, may be found pushing up through the pro-
tecting leaves on the sheltered hillside. It is strange that
this delicate flower should appear before the leaves have
ventured out; but it is perhaps not so bold as it appears
at first sight, for if you look closely you will see that it
has protected itself from
the cold by a fine “fur”
pnatot fuzzy hair. The
leaves, too, you will find,
like the flower, spring from
the root, and this may
help to explain why they
are longer in coming.
Practically all the early
spring flowers are scent-
less, and depend solely
on their white or yellow
color to attract the in-
sects; but the hepatica is
an exception and is the
only one that is_ really Bloodroot.
fragrant.
On the same hillside slope there is another common spring
flower, which resembles the hepatica and which has a very
beautiful name—the anemone, which in English means
‘“‘“windflower.”” No one is sure why it is called anemone.
Perhaps it is because it flowers in the windy season, per-
haps because it opens when the wind blows. At all events,
the Greeks had a very pretty story connected with it.
Venus, the goddess of love, was enamored of a beautiful
youth, Adonis. He was slain in the chase of the wild
EEO COUNTRY LIFE READER
boar. Venus wept for his loss, and wherever a tear fell a
white anemone with a delicate flush of pink sprang up to
mark the spot.
The most delicate, and perhaps the most interesting,
early spring flower is the bloodroot, which is found in
moist, sheltered places among the undergrowth of the
hillside. Nothing could be more lovely than the ten or
twelve pure white petals, so delicate that it takes scarcely
more than a touch to make them fall. And how careful
Mother Nature is to protect the beautiful blossom from the
cold. The bloodroot has only one single leaf, which comes
up first and curls around into a protecting sheath to guard
the flower from sudden frost until it is strong enough to
protect itself. But the most curious thing is that a plant
with so delicate a blossom should have such red life-blood.
Break the stalk off close to the root and note the blood-
red stain that oozes out—so deep and enduring a red that
the Indians in early times made use of it as “war paint”
for coloring their faces.
But now the time has come for the trillium, the wake-
robin, and the yellow adder’s-tongue or dog’s-tooth violet
— all of them belonging to the lily family. The trillium, or
white lily, is the spring flower the boys and girls know best
of all; but probably most of them prefer the wake-robin
—the lily with the deep red color, that is supposed to
bloom when the robin first returns. When I was a boy
I used to think that this red lily was just the same as
the white, only colored by the sun, like the cheeks of a
red apple. But if I had been a better observer I should
have noticed that the wake-robin stands up bold and
erect, while the white lily droops, and that the red lily ©
THE EARLY SPRING WILD FLOWERS iy
has a disagreeable, sickening odor, while the white tril-
lium has no scent at all. It is supposed by some that the
reddish color and the disagreeable smell are intended to
attract the meat-flies.
The yellow adder’s-tongue, the third of the lily group,
is generally found not far from the edge of a stream. Per-
haps the most interesting thing about this flower is its
trick of hanging its head—not for modesty, although it is
modest—but so that the ants, who are unwelcome visitors
because they carry away no pollen, may not be able to
climb in and rob it of its store of sweets. Some people
prefer to call it the fawn lily or trout lily because of its
beautifully mottled leaves; but by whatever name we call
it, it is one of the children’s favorite flowers of spring;
and for the children more than the rest of the world it
seems as if the flowers were made.
Trillium, Wake-robin
THE LEGEND OF THE DANDELION
The Angel of the flowers came down to earth once—
long, long ago—-and she wandered here and there, in field,
Dandelion.
and forest, and garden, to find
the flower she loved the most.
As she hurried on her search,
she came upon a gay tulip, all
orange and red, standing stiff
and proud in a garden, and
the Angel said to the tulip:
“Where should you like most
of all to live?”’
“I should like to live on a
castle lawn in the velvety
grass,” said the tulip, ‘‘where
my colors would show against
the gray castle walls. I should
like to have the princess touch
me and tell me how beautiful I
But the Angel turned away
with sad eyes from the proud
tulip, and spoke to the rose.
“Where should you like most
to live?” she asked the rose.
“T should like to climb the
castle walls,” said the rose,
“‘for I am fragile, and delicate, and not able to_ climb of
myself. I need help and shelter.”
118
THE LEGEND OF THE DANDELION 11g
The Angel of the flowers turned sadly away from the
rose, and hurried on until she came to the violet growing
in the forest, and she said to the violet: ‘‘Where should
you like most of all to live?”
“Here, in the woods, where I am hidden from every
one,” said the violet. ‘‘The brook cools my feet, and the
trees keep the warm sun from spoiling my beautifu! color.”
But the Angel turned away from the violet and went on,
until she came to the sturdy, yellow dandelion growing
in the meadow grass.
‘And where should you like most of all to live?” asked
the Angel of the dandelion.
“Oh,” cried the dandelion, “I want to live wherever
the happy children may find me when they run by to
school, or romp and play in the fields. I want to live by
the roadside, and in the meadows, and push up between
the stones in the city yards, and make every one glad be-
cause of my bright color.”
“You are the flower I love the most,” said the Angel
of the flowers, as she laid her hand upon the dandelion’s
curly, yellow head. ‘‘You shall blossom everywhere from
spring till fall, and be the children’s flower.”
That is why the dandelion comes so early and pushes
her head up everywhere—by hedge, and field, and hut,
and wall; and has such a long, sweet life.
CAROLYN S. BAILEY.
PREPARING 'THE SEED-BED
Let us suppose that after the wheat has begun to grow
you are able to take up a thin layer of soil a foot deep
and put it under an immense magnifying glass. If the
soil is in good condition you will see that it is composed
of very many fine particles lying loosely together with air-
spaces between them, and that the soil particles them-
selves are filled with moisture. You would be surprised,
if you could measure these air-spaces, to find that they
take up more than one quarter as much space as the soil
itself; and if you could measure the amount of moisture
in the particles of the soil, you would find that the water
would weigh, in most cases, about half as much as the
soil. If there were no air-spaces the roots of the wheat
plant would not grow, even if it were possible for them to
force their way through the hard soil; and if there were
no moisture the wheat could not grow, because it-is only
through the moisture that the plant can suck up its food
from the ground. If, then, the farmer expects to have a
good crop of wheat, he must prepare his seed-bed in such
a way that the proper air-spaces will be provided and
that the soil will hold the proper amount of moisture.
The first step in the preparation of the seed-bed, we
have already seen, is to provide it with a sufficient amount
of humus in the form of manure or vegetable matter to
enrich the soil and to make it porous; and the next step
is to cultivate it with plough and harrow in such a way
I20
PREPARING THE SEED-BED 121
that the solid lumps of earth shall be broken up into fine,
loose particles and exposed to the sun and air.
Before ploughing the ground for the seed-bed the
farmer must decide how deep it shall be. All things con-
Breaking the soil with a disk harrow.
sidered, a deep seed-bed is generally better than a shallow
one; for the roots of wheat and other plants are seldom
able to penetrate into the harder soil beneath, and if the
seed-bed is shallow the roots will have less food and mois-
ture, and the soil will dry out more quickly in the hot sun.
But it is not always a wise thing for the farmer to plough
deep and bring up the new soil to the surface. It often
122 COUNTRY LIFE READER
happens that the layer of soil which contains the humus
that is necessary to the growth of the plant is not very
thick, and if the plough goes too deep the new soil that is
turned up may be unfit for plant growth. To overcome
this difficulty a subsoil plough is sometimes used, which
loosens the hard soil below without turning it up to the
surface. But the farmer must aim, little by little, to en-
rich his soil with humus to such a depth that he will be
able to plough deep without turning up poor soil.
Before beginning to plough, many farmers prefer to
break the surface of the ground with a disk harrow. If
the ground is at all hard, there is always danger that the
furrow slice which is turned over by the plough may not
settle down upon the subsoil; and if there are gaps be-
tween the furrow slice and subsoil the roots of the plant
cannot go down and the moisture from the subsoil cannot
rise to the seed-bed. But if the surface is broken by a
disk harrow before ploughing, then, when the furrow
slice is turned under, the spaces will be filled with a fine
surface mould. And when, after ploughing, the surface
of the ground is again disked, the seed-bed is usually in
good condition.
To own a bit of ground, to scratch it with a hoe, to
plant seeds and watch their renewal of life,—this is the
commonest delight of the race, the most satisfactory
thing a man can do. The man who has planted a garden
feels that he has done something for the good of the world.
CHARLES DUDLEY WaARNER.
THE SOWER
And great multitudes were gathered together unto
Jesus, so that he went into a ship, and sat; and the whole
multitude stood on the shore.
And he spake many things unto them in parables,
saying, Behold a sower went forth to sow;
And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side,
and the fowls came and devoured them up.
Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much
earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had
no deepness of earth:
And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and
because they had no root, they withered away:
And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up
and choked them:
But others fell into good ground, and brought forth
fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirty-
fold.
Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.
THE BIBLE.
123
THE SPRING VALLEY CORN, ChUS
(CONCLUDED)
When the Corn Club met at the school-house, Mr. Brooks,
a young farmer who had taken a course in the agricultural
college, was asked to take charge of the meeting. He
decided that after our last two meetings it was time for
us to have another talk about the growing of corn, and so
he chose for his subject: ‘‘How to Know Good Seed-Corn.”
Mr. Brooks was a practical man, who believed in doing
things instead of talking about them, and as soon as
the meeting was called to order he brought in a large
basket filled with ears of corn. Out of this pile he se-
lected three ears, which he held up, one by one, and after-
ward passed around so that we might examine them.
The first ear which he showed us, was not fully developed,
and neither the tip nor the butt of the ear was properly
filled out. The next ear was better, but the kernels did
not run in straight lines and there were wide gaps between
some of the rows. Some of the kernels, too, were small
and dull in appearance. ‘The third was a good ear, with
well-filled butt and tip, straight rows, and kernels of uni-
form size and shape, which were tightly fitted together.
The ear was a good color and had a bright, healthy ap-
pearance; and, as Mr. Brooks pointed out, it was nearly
as large around at the tip as at the butt. This kind of
ear, Mr. Brooks explained, was likely to produce a good,
vigorous growth of corn.
124
THE SPRING VALLEY CORN CLUB £25
Since we were gathered around him in a close group, it
was an easy matter for us to see and judge of the different
ears as he held them up before us; and in this way we
examined the whole sixty ears which he had in his basket.
Out of these sixty, following Mr. Brooks’s instructions,
we selected twenty ears which seemed to us to answer
all the tests of good seed-corn.
In our neighborhood up to this time no one had ever
thought of testing corn to see if it was good. As long as
the crows or the cutworms did not get it, there was no
reason, as far as we could see, why it should not grow;
and when Mr. Brooks proposed that we make a test of
the twenty good ears that we had selected, we were in-
terested in seeing how the test would turn out, although it
seemed to us rather a pity that any one should go to so
much trouble for nothing.
Mr. Brooks had brought with him what is known as a
rag-doll tester. This tester consists of a strip of strong
muslin about sixty inches long and nine inches wide,
blocked off into squares, which are numbered from one to
twenty. This strip of muslin was moistened with warm
water, and after it was spread out, Mr. Brooks took six
kernels from each ear, two from each end and two from
the middle, on opposite sides, and placed each group of
kernels on one of the numbered squares. The ear of corn
in each case was marked with the same number, so that
later on we should be able to tell from which ear the ker-
nels were taken. After the kernels were all laid out with
tips pointing to one side of the cloth and germs upper-
most, the tester was carefully rolled up and tied with a
string in the centre to hold the kernels in place. It was
126 COUNTRY LIFE READER
then placed in a pail of warm water, with the tips of the
kernels pointing downward.
We knew, of course, that it would be over a week before
we could see the results of the test; but Mr. Brooks gave us
directions as to what was to be done with the rag doll
in the meantime, and\ promised to come back in eight or
nine days so as to see how the test turned out.
When the rag doll was unrolled, the sprouts on the good
kernels were about two inches long; but we found that one
group of kernels had not sprouted at all, and that in three
other groups the kernels were so weak that they were not
likely to produce good hills of corn. Before Mr. Brooks
left that day, he had us make a calculation to show how
much we should have lost by planting seed-corn from
those four ears, supposing they had turned out as badly
as the test seemed to show. The sixteen good ears were
distributed among the members of the club, and as a re-
sult of this experiment we decided that in planting our
acres of corn we would not use any seed that had not been
carefully tested.
Most of the senior boys and girls in the school had
by this time joined the club, and from this time on nearly .
all our meetings were held in the school, with Miss Stuart
in charge. This was very convenient, for as soon as the
time came for us to begin work on our acres, there were
a great many things about which we needed information.
Just when should we begin planting? How much space
should we leave between hills and rows? What are the
best varieties of corn to plant? How many kernels should
we plant to a hill? When should the ground be rolled,
and when should we begin to cultivate? How long should
THE SPRING VALLEY CORN CLUB E27
it take the corn plant to come to maturity, and which
of the new ears should we choose for seed-corn for next
year?
Early in the spring Mr. Brooks offered a fine set of tools
as a prize to the member of the club whose acre of corn
should produce the largest crop, and Miss Stuart offered
a fountain pen as a prize to the boy or girl who should
write the best account of the work of the club during the
winter. Mr. Brooks’s prize was won by Harry Parker,
who raised over one hundred and twenty bushels on his
acre. No one was more proud of Harry’s success than his
brother Sam; for although he had made sport of our club
to begin with, he was really interested in our meetings and
glad that the work of the club had turned out so well.
Miss Stuart’s prize was awarded to the member of the
club who wrote the account which you have just finished
reading.
The codling moth.
THE, APPLE TREE
Most boys and girls when they find a wormy apple are
ready to throw it away in disgust. But if the apple is
thrown away, think what happens! The worm will by
and by eat its way out of the apple and is sure to crawl
off to the trunk of the tree. It will search out some
crevice in the bark and there spin a cocoon; and if it is
late in the year it will remain here all winter. In the
early spring a pretty little moth emerges from the cocoon
and immediately proceeds to lay its supply of fifty or
sixty eggs within the blossoms of the tree, so that the ap-
ples next fall will be wormier still. This pest of the apple
orchard, whether in the form of a moth or a cocoon or a
worm, is known as the codling moth.
There are two ways in which the farmer may get rid of
the codling moth and so prevent his apples from becoming
wormy. In the first place, he can protect the birds which
feed on the grubs that are hidden in the cocoons: When,
128
‘Sulids ul preyoio ojdde uy
130 COUNTRY LIFE READER
on a winter day, you see the little downy woodpecker
working away at the trunk of an apple tree, you may be
sure that he is searching the crevices of the bark for the
cocoons of the codling moth. No matter how well they
may be hidden under the bark, there are few of them that
escape his sharp eyes. His
bill is just suited for chisel-
ling into the soft wood.
His tongue is long and elas-
tic, and the tip of hana
horny and is fitted with
barbs, so that if once he
spears a cocoon the grub
inside of it cannot escape.
The downy woodpecker is
one of the best friends of
the farmer; but when the
farmer’s boy is armed with
a gun or when the sports-
man from town goes for a
Tew aeadeeckes day’s shooting in the coun-
try, the downy makes a
good target, and it is an easy matter for the gunner to
shoot away some hundreds of dollars with a single shot.
The downy woodpecker is quite tame, and if you are
cautious you can sometimes come quite close to him,
close enough at least to see the scarlet crown patch and
the stiff tail-feathers with which he props himself against
the tree when at work.
A second means which the farmer can make use of to
prevent the apples from becoming wormy is ‘to spray the
THE. APPLE -TREE 137
trees in the early spring with a poison called lead arsenate.
That will kill the worms when they are first hatched from
the eggs. The poison is sprayed on the trees by means
of a certain kind of pump. This spray should be first
used just after the blossoms fall, for it is then that the
eggs hatch out and the worm begins to eat into the young
fruit that is just beginning to form. Three or four weeks
later the spray is repeated, and in midsummer, when a
second brood of worms hatch out, it is again used in the
same way. The spraying, if properly done, never fails to
kill the worms, and it is safe to say that the farmer who
not only sprays his trees but protects the downy wood-
pecker will have a full crop of apples which do not have
to be thrown away because they are wormy.
Besides the codling moth, the apple tree has a good many
other enemies, which the farmer has to fight. The buds
and leaves are attacked by caterpillars of various kinds.
The trunk and branches are sometimes covered with very
small insects, or “‘scales,”’ no larger than a small pinhead,
which suck out the juices. The bark also is riddled with
holes made ‘by grubs called borers, which live upon the
juicy inner bark.
The farmer uses various means to get rid of these enemies.
He sprays his trees with various mixtures; he cuts off and
burns the branches that are badly diseased; he wraps
sticky bands around the tree trunk to prevent caterpillars
from climbing. But if he would prevent his young son
from robbing the birds’ nests, or from going out with a
gun and shooting the orioles and the cuckoos, he would
find his task of fighting the insects to be very much easier.
THE PLANTING OF THEVAPPLE TREE
Come, let us plant the apple tree.
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;
Wide let its hollow bed be made;
There gently lay the roots and there
Sift the dark mould with kindly care,
And press it o’er them tenderly,
As, round the sleeping infant’s feet
We softly fold the cradle sheet;
So plant we the apple tree.
What plant we in this apple tree?
Buds, which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest;
We plant, upon the sunny lea,
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,
When we plant the apple tree.
What plant we in this apple tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
To load the May wind’s restless wings,
When, from the orchard row, he pours
Its fragrance through our open doors;-
A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room,
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple tree.
132
THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE 133
What plant we in this apple tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop when gentle airs come by
That fan the blue September sky,
While children come, with cries of glee,
And seek them where the fragrant grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass
At the foot of the apple tree.
And when, above this apple tree,
The winter stars are quivering bright,
And winds go howling through the night,
Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth,
Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,
And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine
And golden orange of the line,
The fruit of the apple tree.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
THE CAMPAIGN
(CONCLUDED)
The campaign against the army of flies was scarcely —
well begun when the armies of weeds and insects began to
appear. Lieutenant Dick and Major Milton had been
engaged in fighting weeds in previous years, and they
knew how difficult it is to make headway against them.
But in those days they had been mere privates enlisted
against their will and fighting with mere garden weapons;
and privates couldn’t be expected to fight as well as officers
with swords and bayonets !
One of the difficulties with the campaign against the
army of weeds, as both boys foresaw, was the fact that the
enemy were likely to push forward over a wide front,
and that, having once intrenched themselves, they were
very difficult to dislodge; for even if they were bayoneted,
a large percentage were sure to recover from their wounds.
“The only way that it is possible to defeat them,” said
General Ben, “‘is to keep attacking them in their intrench-
ments, until finally they become worn out and die from
exhaustion.
“The best way for us to meet them, it seems to me, is
to divide our forces and send one of our officers against
each division of the enemy. I will undertake to fight the
armies of Field-Marshal Mustard and Major Thistle, and
General Burdock and all the other tribes that have in-
trenched themselves in the fields and highways. Nora
here will try to keep back the forces of General Dandelion,
134
THE CAMPAIGN 135
who has pitched his tents on the inner grounds of the fort.
You'll see the golden shields of his soldiers from the win-
dows of the fort before very long. Dick and Milton will
hold the most dangerous positions. It will be their duty
to bayonet every one of the enemy’s advance guard who
tries to creep in upon the fort by scaling the walls of the
garden.
“You all agree? Then, fix bayonets, and let us to the
charge !”’
About a week later, when the fruit-trees in the orchard
were beginning to blossom, General Ben came into the
officers’ quarters in the fort with a number of twigs in his
hand, and after laying them down carefully, he took from
his pocket a small box, together with a magnifying-glass.
“What have you there, General Ben?” said Dick,
saluting his superior officer.
“Prisoners of war,” replied General Ben. ‘It is time
for us to begin our attack on the army of insects. The
enemy has taken cover in the orchard in large numbers,
and is about to make an attack upon the convoys which
are bringing our next season’s food supplies.
“This,” continued General Ben as he opened the box
which he had brought with him and showed them a small
brownish moth, “‘is one of our worst enemies. It belongs
to the army of codling moths. All through the winter they
have lain in ambush under the bark, and now they are
coming out of their shelters and going up into the trees
to raise new armies. The raw recruits of the first army
will appear in a few days and take up their quarters in
the hearts of the blossoms.”
“Ugh,” said Milton, making a wry face. ‘I know
136 COUNTRY LIFE READER
what you mean. It’s these codling moths that make the
apples wormy !”
“That’s just it!’ said General Ben, ‘‘and if we want to
have good apples in this fort next winter, we must get
out our machine guns and begin to fight these new enemies
right away.”
‘“‘Just as soon as the blossoms fall,’”’ said Nora, who had
been reading up the latest war bulletins.
“What do you feed the machine guns with?” inquired
Milton. ‘I’ve heard father say, but I’ve forgotten.”
“Why, with lead of course,” said Nora scornfully.
‘Arsenate of lead. Don’t you know that bullets are made
of lead?”
“What did you bring the twigs in for, General Ben?”
said Dick, who had been examining them rather cautiously.
“Take another look. There’s a whole squad of prisoners
on that twig,” replied General Ben. ‘Better have a look
at them through the field-glasses. These prisoners be-
long to the San José battalion. They are very small,
and they are dangerous enemies because they spread very
rapidly. The soldiers that you see on this twig will raise
hundreds of millions of new recruits this summer if they
get a chance.”
“Why, there’s one of them running around now,”’ said
Dick, “‘a little yellow fellow.”
“He hasn’t settled down yet,’ replied General Ben.
“When he does, he’ll put his shield over his head and stay
in one place until he sucks the life-blood out of his enemy.
They’re a hard enemy to fight, but we will load our ma-
chine gun up with a different kind of ammunition and
spray the whole San José army with a shower of bullets.”
THE CAMPAIGN se
)
“T’ve read somewhere,” said Nora, “that they some-
times bring big siege guns down from the concentration
camp to go from fort to fort, just to fight this one enemy.”’
.“That’s all right,” replied General Ben. ‘‘We may
have to call in the siege guns, too. But let us try our own
machine guns first.”
The attack on the codling moths and the San José scale
was only the first stage in the campaign against the hosts
of insects which summer after summer laid siege to the
farm. Canker-worms, which feasted on the leaves of the
apple trees; caterpillars, which set up their “tents” on
the ends of the branches; borers, which lived on the inner
bark—all had to be attacked and destroyed in turn, in
order that the apple crop might be protected. Cur-
culios had to be shaken down from the plum trees; cab-
bage-worms and tomato-caterpillars, and potato beetles
and cutworms had to be destroyed; ‘‘wrigglers’” had to
be smothered in the water-barrels, and ants poisoned with
insect powder in the kitchen. When one army was
vanquished, it seemed as if another was always ready to
take its place.
But, although these engagements were sometimes des-
perate, the struggle was by no means hopeless, and the offi-
cers within the fort were encouraged by the fact that they
had an army of splendid allies on their side. All winter
long a scouting column of chickadees and nuthatches and
downy woodpeckers had searched the crevices in the
bark for hidden cocoons. In the spring the orchard was
visited by bluebirds and orioles and cuckoos, and the
garden was patrolled by robins and wrens; while the
phoebe and king-bird and wood-pewee did outpost duty
138 COUNTRY LIFE READER
about the grounds and outer forts. Overhead, a flying
corps of keen-eyed swallows and swifts swooped down upon
the invaders, and even after darkness had fallen, a battalion
of bats and night-hawks circled to and fro in pursuit of
the enemy.
And amid all this warfare, amid the noise of bayonet
and machine gun and the signal calls of pickets and
patrols, in a quiet corner of the garden there sat a swarthy,
homely, silent guard, who slew his thousands and tens of
thousands of the enemy, when in an evil moment they
chanced to pass his way. His name was Corporal Toad.
When the summer was over, the fight against the count-
less enemies who besieged the fort was not yet finished.
It is a fight which goes on without ceasing, from year to
year. But General Ben had the satisfaction of knowing
that -his officers were better and more intelligent soldiers
than when they began and he had no little pride in recom-
mending to the commander-in-chief that Lieutenant Dick
and Major Milton and Adjutant Nora should be given
some reward for distinguished service and promoted to a
higher rank when the fight should be continued for the
coming year.
The great point of advantage in the life of the country
is that if a man is in reality simple, if he love true con-
tentment, it is the place of all places where he can grow.
The city affords no such opportunity. Indeed, it often
destroys the desire for the higher life which animates
every good man.
DaAviIp GRAYSON.
THE REDWING
I hear you, brother, I hear you,
Down in the alder swamp,
Springing your woodland whistle
To herald the April pomp !
_ First of the moving vanguard,
In front of the spring you come,
Where flooded waters sparkle,
And streams in the twilight hum.
You sound the note of the chorus
By meadow and woodland pond,
Till, one after one up-piping,
A myriad throats respond.
I see you, brother, I see you,
_ With scarlet under your wing,
Flash through the ruddy maples,
Leading the pageant of spring.
Earth has put off her raiment
Wintry and worn and old,
For the robe of a fair young sibyl,
Dancing in green and gold.
I heed you, brother. To-morrow
I, too, in the great employ,
Will shed my old coat of sorrow
For a brand-new garment of joy.
Biiss CARMAN.
139
Nest of chipping-sparrow.
BIRDS OF THE FARM: ORCHARD AND GARDEN
One of the first birds that should be provided for in
every farmyard is the house-wren; and as soon as the birds
return in the spring a wren-box should be put up in some
suitable place. The box must not be too large; an or-
dinary square cigar-box or chalk-box is a good size. The
entrance should not be larger than an inch in diameter,
and the box must be nailed up securely, out of reach of
cats. If boxes are not provided, the wrens are, of course,
forced to look out for places for themselves. I found a nest
once, placed on top of one of the scantlings in a shed. On
another occasion the wrens made use of the letter-box at
the front gate, and, in the yard of one of my neighbors,
they have taken possession of an old watering-can hang-
ing on the outside of a wall.
140
BIRDS OF THE FARM I4I
Besides the house-wren, every farmyard and orchard
has its robin redbreasts. The robin somehow appears
to me to be a part of the farm—a sort of tenant who pays
-me his ground-rent in the grubs and worms that he eats;
and if he does help himself to a few cherries, it is only
fair to remember that he has already earned them many
times over.
Another bird which makes his home in the neighbor-
hood of the farmhouse and garden is the chipping-spar-
row. Early in April you may hear his simple, chipping note
from the trees of the orchard or the shrubbery of the lawn;
and when you see him you will recognize him at once by
the pale-gray breast and chestnut crown. You sometimes
find the nest in your apple tree or in an evergreen on your
lawn, or sometimes in the honeysuckle at your very door;
and when you have found it you cannot help expressing
your admiration; for it is seldom you find so pretty a
picture as the little cup-like nest with its lining of horse-
hair and its five tiny, speckled, sky-blue eggs.
Early in May, the clear whistle of the oriole may be
heard from the budding shade trees, or the fruit trees in
the orchard; and the first sight of this brilliantly dressed
songster is one of the treats of early spring. As soon as the
leaves are well advanced, the orioles begin nest-building,
and this is a most interesting operation in bird architec-
ture. First, several strings are fastened to the branches;
then the ends are joined together; and into this frame-
work is woven material of all sorts—strings, thread, and
hair being the chief components. In pasture-fields, where
horses are kept, the orioles frequently gather hair from the
barbs of the fence. Old oriole nests, too, are brought into
142 COUNTRY LIFE READER
use very frequently, and the best material is carried away
from them. One summer I watched an oriole building in
an elm tree across the road, and was amused at the per-
formance of a little fly-catcher and a summer yellowbird,
who took turns in stealing strings and hair from the nest
of the oriole, in the owner’s absence. But they were at
last discovered and driven off.
In the meantime, throughout the spring months the
orchard ard garden are visited by many other birds. In
early spring the song-sparrow sings his sweet and simple
melody from the shrubbery in the garden. The downy
woodpecker inspects my apple trees in search of cocoons.
A vireo sings his rippling song from amid the orchard blos-
soms. The yellow warbler is building in a shade tree
near by; and from the other side of the orchard I hear
the mournful call of the wood-pewee or the hollow clack
of the cuckoo as he comes to search my orchard for cater-
pillars. All the birds are my friends—my willing helpers
who do their work ungrudgingly, asking only for my pro-
tection in return.
A vireo’s nest.
THE FARMER’S FRIENDS
From “ THE Brrps or KILLINGWorRTH ”
The thrush that carols at the dawn of day
From the green steeples of the piny wood;
The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay,
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food;
The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray,
Flooding with melody the neighborhood,
Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng
That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song—
Do you ne’er think what wondrous beings these?
Do you ne’er think who made them, and who taught
The dialect they speak, where melodies
Alone are the interpreters of thought ?
Whose household words are songs in many keys,
Sweeter than instrument of man e’er caught !
Whose habitations in the tree-tops even
Are half-way houses on the road to heaven!
Think, every morning when the sun peeps through
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove
How jubilant the happy birds renew
Their old, melodious madrigals of love!
‘And when you think of this, remember, too,
Tis always morning somewhere, and above
The awakening continents, from shore to shore,
Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.
143
144 COUNTRY LIFE READER
Think of your woods and orchards without birds!
Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams,
As in an idiot’s brain remembered words
Hang empty ’mid the cobwebs of his dreams!
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds
Make up for the lost music, when your teams
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more
The feathered gleaners follow to your door?
You call them thieves and pillagers; but know
They are the winged wardens of your farms,
Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe,
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms;
Even the blackest of them all, the crow,
Renders good service as your man-at-arms,
Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail,
And crying havoc on the slug and snail.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
NATURE’S SONG
There is no rhyme that is half so sweet
As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat;
There is no meter that’s half so fine
As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine;
And the loveliest lyric I ever heard
Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.
MaApiIson: CAWEIN.
TOM’S “BICYCLE
The Wilson boys, who lived two farms down from ours,
had bought a bicycle. It was an old, second-hand machine,
pretty much out of date in make and not in the best re-
pair; but it was enough to give my brother Tom, who was
four years older than I, the “bicycle fever.” But when
he asked father to buy him a wheel, father, as might have
been expected, said, “No,” very decidedly. But Tom was
not to be so easily put off, even though he knew that
when father said, No,” he meant it.
The next day, when we three were hoeing in the gar-
den, he began a conversation which sounded innocent
enough, but which as I knew—for I was in the secret—
was part of a plan to lead father into changing his mind
about the wheel.
“Father,” he began, ‘‘how much ground is there in that
patch of potatoes in the field next the barn?”
‘“‘About two acres, I think,” replied father, as he kept
on hoeing.
‘““And how many bushels of potatoes do you grow on
ite?”
“T don’t know exactly,’
hundred bushels.”
“That’s about one hundred and fifty bushels an acre,
isn’t it?”’ continued Tom. And then after a pause——
“Father, I’ve got something to ask you. If I work those
two acres for you next year, with Jack here to help me,
145
>
replied father, ‘‘perhaps three
1406 COUNTRY LIFE READER
will you give me all the potatoes I can make, over three
hundred bushels?”
When father questioned further, Tom confessed that he
wanted to try to earn the wheel out of the extra potatoes,
and: ‘after thinking it “over, father decided——as 1 vaver
heard him telling mother—that ‘it might be a good thing
for the boy”; and he agreed, under certain conditions, to
let Tom undertake to carry out his plans. But there was
one thing that father didn’t find out till later—that the
plans were really mother’s, and that she had suggested
the scheme to Tom and promised to help him if father
would consent.
From that time forward, Tom took a great interest in
reading the potato bulletins, and I think he discussed the
growing of potatoes with half the farmers in the town-
ship. At mother’s suggestion, too, he kept a note-book,
and drew up a chart besides, on which he might keep dates
and figures, and any special notes that he required.
If it had not been for Tom’s experiment, father might
have planted another crop of potatoes in the field by the
barn; but so as to give Tom a chance to show what he
could do, he gave him the choice of any field on the farm.
Tom chose the corner of a clover-field which had been
well manured the previous spring, and which was com-
posed of good, rich, sandy loam; and in the fall, after
the other crops were off, he and father measured off the
ground, and Tom began to prepare it for the spring
planting. |
Father did not usually disk the ground before plough-
ing, but Tom wanted to disk, and, of course, father let him
have his way. After the disking was finished, the field
TOM’S BICYCLE 147
was ploughed. ‘Plough deep,” said the bulletins, “and
give the roots a chance,” and so Tom made his seed-bed
eight or nine inches deep, and, after disking the ground
again, he left it to lie for the winter.
In the spring Tom was in no hurry to plant, for the
season is long and it is bet-
ter that the ground should
be warm before planting.
So he disked the ground
again and went over it with
the roller to make the seed-
bed more compact.
In the kind of seed he
would use Tom had no
choice. Father had saved
about fifty bushels of Early
Rose potatoes for seed, and,
of course, these potatoes
had to be used. The Early
Rose is a good variety,
though no better than some
others, but Tom found that
these particular potatoes
were scabby and that
among ‘them there were Grandfather offered to help.
very many small ones. To
kill the insects that caused the scab, he bought a pound
of formaline at the druggist’s and made a solution in
which he soaked the potatoes, according to the directions
in the bulletin; and since the clover-field which he had
chosen had never been used for potatoes before, he was
148 COUNTRY LIFE. READER
pretty sure that the ground there would be healthy and
free from scab disease.
When it came to cutting up the potatoes for seed, grand-
father offered to help. We had always cut the potatoes
up before so as to give one eye to each piece; but this
time we cut them lengthwise in quarters and halves ac- —
cording to the size of the potato, and planted the small
ones without cutting. The reason for cutting lengthwise,
Tom explained, was because the eyes were mostly at one
end, “and,” he added, “‘if you cut the potatoes into very
small pieces, the plant doesn’t have as much food to live
on when it begins to grow.”
We planted the potatoes in rows three feet apart, so
that there would be room to cultivate, and left one foot
between plants. The hills were about four inches deep,
and we used only one large seed piece for each hill. We
were both heartily glad when the planting was done, for
it was not an easy task; but we had splendid weather,
and two days after we finished planting there came a fine
warm rain, which moistened the ground and gave our
potato crop a good start.
As soon as the ground had dried out, Tom went over
it with the harrow, and later on, just when the plants be-
gan to show through the ground he went over the field
again so as to keep the surface of the ground soft and to
kill the weeds. And now there were just two things left
for us to do: keep the ground properly cultivated, and see
that the tops were kept free from potato bugs and other
insects.
In cultivating, Tom followed his instructions faithfully.
He had been warned not to cultivate too deep, because
TOM'S* BICKCLE 149
it would dry out the seed-bed and perhaps injure the roots;
and as a result he kept his ground level or nearly level in-
stead of “hilling” it up into ridges. Once early in the
season we went over the field with a hoe, to take out the
Cousin Fred, who was visiting us from the city, helped us to pick them.
weeds that the cultivator had missed. The potato bugs
did not trouble us greatly; but when they first began to
appear, Tom went over the field and sprayed the plants
with a solution of arsenate of lead to keep the bugs down.
When the tops of the potato plant are strong and healthy
it is a pretty sure sign that there is a good crop below,
and father himself admitted that he had never seen as
good-looking a field of potatoes on our farm.
Early in September, when the tops began to die down,
I wanted Tom to dig them; but, though he was just as
I50 COUNTRY LIFE READER
anxious as I to see how the crop would turn out, he would
not touch them.
“Wait till the vines are all dead,” said he. ‘‘Don’t you
know that potatoes keep on growing as long as there are
any green stalks left? That’s where father made his mis-
take last year. He dug his potatoes too early.”
When the time came to take the potatoes up father dug
them for us with the potato-digger, and Cousin Fred, who
was visiting us from the city, helped us to pick them. When
father saw the first few hills he owned they were beauties.
And so they were, for they were large and well formed,
and, what was better still, they were free from any ee
of scab disease.
No field of potatoes, I am sure, was ever more quickly
or thoroughly picked than that, and to Tom’s delight,
before the first half of the field had been cleared, over
three hundred bushels had already been stored away.
Even after we had allowed for the seed-potatoes, we had
over three hundred and ten bushels clear, after paying
father three hundred bushels for his share in the crop.
Every one in the neighborhood, you may be sure,
heard about Tom’s new bicycle and how he earned it;
and some of the neighbors, too, knew about mother’s
warm winter coat which Tom gave her for ‘“‘her share.”
And as for father, he had in his potato cellar the best
and cleanest stock of potatoes ever grown on his farm.
TOMMY
THE STORY OF A WOODCHUCK
Arctomys Monax was his name—Tommy for short.
Our acquaintance grew from a similarity of tastes. We
both liked the wooded hillside with its beech and maple
and hickory, overlooking the wide valley below, with the
tender green of its pasture-land dotted with elm and button-
wood, and the gleam of the curving river stretching away
to the south. We both liked the balmy spring air, and the
smell of the June clover, and the warmth of the early morn-
ing sunshine where it played on the fallen logs and stumps,
between the branches.
Tommy had not always lived on this hillside. He was
born one bright day in early May in a strange enough
spot for a birthplace—a graveyard. There was a clump of
wild trees and bushes in an unused corner of the cemetery,
and here mother woodchuck had chosen to rear her brood.
An old white lilac nodded over the mouth of the den, and
through the long, coarse grass and shrubbery on every
side ran the woodchuck paths which led to the strange
white world in the open space beyond.
But in the course of the summer the corner of the ceme-
tery was cleared up and Tommy took up his quarters in
an old orchard a little farther down the valley. This was
an ideal spot; for the orchard was deserted except for the
bluebirds who built in the holes in the trees and posts,
and a red squirrel who scolded and sniggered all day long
I5I
152 COUNTRY LIFE READER
from the corner of a broken-down shed near by. And
then, what an abundance of food! The ground was covered
with a bountiful supply of apples, and to a woodchuck’s
eyes the heavens themselves seemed to rain fatness. But,
alas! that. very same autumn the orchard was cut down
and the field ploughed up; and Tommy retreated pre-
cipitately one dark night, swam the river, and finally
found a refuge in an old woodchuck hole under a stump
on the hillside. Shortly after this a heavy frost fell, and
Tommy closed up both the doors of his den with leaves,
rolled himself into a ball, and went to sleep for a full six
months—not even rolling over and blinking on Candle-
mas Day, when all good woodchucks should be out looking
for their shadows.
The middle of April had come, and I was out for a
stroll, stopping late in the afternoon to rest on the old
rail fence that crossed the hillside. I was thinking of
moving on, when all at once I heard a strange cry or
rather whistle—a clear, quavering diminuendo, not un-
musical, but new and strange. Again and again it was
repeated, but though I scanned every bush and stump
and fallen log, I could not discover its source; it seemed
to come from everywhere. In the midst of one of the
pauses, however, I thought I heard the dry leaves rustle
in the corner of the fence immediately beneath my feet.
I looked down and listened intently. Yes, it was evi-
dent that the cry came from the dead leaves. I shifted my
position cautiously, reached the ground, and approached
the fence corner. There was no doubt of it now; between
the repeated whistles the leaves rustled slightly, as if
something were stirring them from beneath. What could
TOMMY 153
it be? I waited quietly for some minutes, then plunged
my hand into the leaves. But I was not quick enough—
which was all the better for my hand.
Tommy was waking up for the spring, and like all other
living things was singing his spring song.
After waiting a few moments I was about to go away,
when I observed a pair of eyes watching me intently from
beneath a stump some ten or fifteen feet away. I moved
cautiously to one side, just out of range. Slowly the head
was protruded, and the pair of eyes followed me. Then
the head was withdrawn, then again protruded, and so on,
half a dozen times, until I was fully scanned, observed, and
pronounced upon, and then with one final prolonged whistle
of satisfaction he withdrew at last for the night. This
was my first introduction to Tommy.
Tommy did not reason. None of the wild animals do.
He did not even make comparisons, and he lived entirely
in the present. But he made good use of his ears and
eyes; and what was more important, he lived almost en-
tirely by the aid of his inherited habits, which we call in-
stincts. And one of the strongest woodchuck instincts is
curlosity—the habit of investigating. All the wild ani-
mals, and men and women, too, are fond of the novel and
interesting, in so far as they can afford to be. Tommy
and his tribe have a considerable advantage in this re-
spect. At the mouth of their burrow they are safe and
can indulge their curiosity to their heart’s content. They
are fierce fighters, and no dog or other enemy dare follow
them into their den. All their old enemies, the bears,
wolves, lynxes, and even foxes are gone, and they are
left in undisturbed possession. And so they sit and watch
154 COUNTRY “LIFE READER
the whole panorama of the woods, ready, if need be, to dis-
appear into cover at the lifting of a finger or the snapping
of a twig.
It was this curiosity that made it possible for me to
get better and better acquainted with Tommy in the
course of the season to follow. He was, as I soon found
out, particularly susceptible to sound, and a series of
whistles was almost certain to attract his attention.
In the course of a few weeks I discovered that there
was another woodchuck in the burrow. There was a
regular woodchuck colony on the hillside and Tommy
had already chosen a mate and set up housekeeping. I
had no difficulty, however, in distinguishing my friend,
for the extreme lightness of his coat and the deeper red of
the under parts distinguished him in an unmistakable way
from all the other woodchucks on the hillside.
The young woodchuck family were born about the end
of the first week in May, and in the course of two or three
weeks they were able to shift for themselves. But, strange
to say, they showed absolutely no fear and behaved with
very little discretion; one made a meal for a hen-hawk;
another was worried by the farmer’s dog; and how the
remaining two escaped was a matter for surprise.
In the meantime Tommy was busily engaged, working
with all his might in digging a fresh burrow in the pasture-
land close by the river side, and in clearing out a deserted
hole in the clover-field close to the barn at the top of the
hill, so that during the year he might have a variety of
homes according as his inclinations favored. This task
completed, the rest of the year was a holiday, with nothing
to do but to sleep, eat, and grow fat, with the occasional
TOMMY 155
excitement of a chase and a narrow escape, to prevent
life from becoming too stale.
Getting a living was a matter of little concern, for grass
was his staple and his food supplies lay right at his door.
The young saplings and undergrowth in the neighbor-
hood of his burrow
showed the marks of
his teeth, but as a rule
he did them little dam-
age. Clover was the
food he liked best, and
sometimes, too, in the
warm evenings of later
June he risked an ex-
pedition to the farmer’s
garden, and regaled on
whatever vegetables he
could find—peas, beans,
cabbage, corn, and even
pumpkin-vines.
The most of the day
he slept indoors, but he
liked an early morning
breakfast with the fresh
dew upon it for drink, and at noon, if all was well, he
took a sun bath in the sand at his door. Late in the
afternoon he came out again, and this was the most sub-
stantial meal of the day. And with Tommy, as with
all other woodchucks, it was a‘bite and a look. A few
mouthfuls of clover and then the whole horizon must be
scanned, for behind some distant stump or upturned root
Tommy.
156 COUNTRY LIFE READER
or clump of grass an enemy might lurk. Is it any wonder
that the eyes of the birds and animals are wild, and that
they wear a hunted look? Their whole existence, sleep-
ing, eating, watching, is a dream of fear.
But if Tommy got his living without much trouble,
this mode of life had its own decided drawbacks and dis-
advantages, as we shall see. An animal such as the fox,
for instance, that hunts its prey night and day, winter
and summer—sooner or later develops a surprising keen-
ness of scent that is its safeguard in time of danger. But
the woodchuck has only to crop the clover at the door
of his burrow for food, and it is upon keenness of sight
and hearing, rather than upon sharpness of scent, that he
depends in time of danger. The steel trap that you bury
in the sand or cover with loose grass at the mouth of his
den does not appeal to his sense of smell, and he will walk
boldly into a box trap with almost as little hesitation as
into his burrow. The only thing that saves him from de-
struction is that his skin is not worth the tanning.
Before the middle of June I found that I was not the
only one who was interested in the woodchuck colony on
the hillside. One afternoon, on taking my usual walk, I
found that all the holes, a score or more, were blocked up
with sticks and leaves. I understood at once; this was
the first move of the farmers’ boys against the wood-
chucks. Most farmers do not object to one or two in their
fields. Farm work would be dreary if there were no wild
animals to vary the monotony. But too many wood-
chucks are a nuisance. They tramp down more clover
than they eat; they spoil a certain amount with the earth
which they throw out from their burrow; but,-worst of
TOMMY 157
all, they undermine the ground so that the horses’ feet
sink into the holes, and the machinery of the mower and
binder is sometimes injured. An effective way of dis-
posing of them is to sprinkle some copper bisulphide in
the hole and then close it up. The fumes of the gas have a
fatal effect, and the woodchuck is simply buried in his
own grave. But to the farmer’s boy there is no fun in
this. He prefers the excitement of the trap, and so the
holes were blocked up. In the course of a day or so the
boys were able to tell which dens were occupied, for the
woodchucks were forced to clear away the openings to
come out. And then the excitement began.
Tommy’s mate was the first to suffer, for she had taken
up quarters in the ground hole near the river bank, and the
boys at once proceeded to drown her out. The ground
was sandy and it took twenty or thirty pails of water to
fill the den; for, needless to say, mother woodchuck had
no intention of coming out until she was forced, and so
long as she could keep her nose above water she did not
care. But the inevitable came at last, and she was doomed.
For the old woodchuck in the hole under the roots of
the elm at the foot of the hill a steel trap was used. But
a day of rain set in, and when the boys came to look for
their victim they found only a mangled woodchuck’s paw,
bitten off close to the cruel steel.
Another one farther up the hillside was smoked out by
lighting a fire of leaves at the entrance of one of the holes
and fanning the smoke in through the passage so that it
came out at the other opening. But with Tommy none
of these devices worked. He was too far from the river
for them to carry water, and his burrow ran crookedly
158 COUNTRY LIFE READER
up the hill so that, even though they burned the stump
down to the ground, the smoke could not reach him. The
steel trap was used, but fortunately a small twig pre-
vented it from holding tight, and he was able with a des-
perate wrench to pull his foot loose, leaving only a little
hair between the jaws of the trap. Once he was chased
by the dog and had a narrow escape, but safe within the
mouth of the den he was able to turn and chuckle defiance
at his pursuer. Once too he received a heavy charge from
a shotgun, but a thick skin and a thicker skull were an
effective protection. As a last resort the boys tried dig-
ging him out, but like a wise woodchuck he had a side
passage slanting off uphill from his main one, and long
before they had reached his last retreat he had dug his
way off through the soft sand, filling up the hole behind
him, so that to their chagrin they found nothing but an
empty burrow when they reached the spot. The next
morning a little round hole in the grass showed where he
had reached the surface of the earth and escaped.
A few days later, wishing to capture a live woodchuck
for a photograph, I set a box trap close to a newly dug
hole on the next farm a little farther up the valley, and
concealed myself a short distance away to await develop-
ments. Late in the afternoon a woodchuck appeared at
the door of the den, looked cautiously on all sides, and
finally emerged. A glance was sufficient to show me that
it was Tommy. He examined the box trap curiously, but
decided to try the fresh grass before venturing in. He did
not eat much, however. At every two or three mouth-
fuls he raised himself on his hind legs, crossed his paws
over his breast, and listened intently. Then a run of a
TOMMY 159
few steps meant a fresh examination. An oriole whistled
from a tree near by, and he turned his head cautiously,
inquisitively, to listen. Then from my hiding-place I
whistled also. He moved never a muscle, even when I
advanced a few steps toward him. Suddenly a twig
crackled. It was a noise that he knew of old as a danger
signal, and immediately he dropped and ran. A few min-
utes later he emerged again and by a strange caprice
walked straight for the box trap, ate the apple outside,
examined the doorway, and then walked in and reached
for the bait. A moment later the door fell shut behind
him, and he was my prisoner, chattering with his teeth
and snapping at me fiercely from behind the wire screen-
ing.
To take his picture I carried the trap out on to the
flats a quarter of a mile or so from the den, where I could
find no hole near to which he might escape, and then I
let him go. He stood for a second only, evidently taking
his bearings, and before I could reach for my camera he.
was off like a shot in the opposite direction from what
I expected he would take. I tried to head him off, but
just as I thought I might succeed, he dropped like a bullet
into the ground. It was an old woodchuck’s hole which
I had not noticed! But Tommy knew every inch of the
valley.
This was my last experience with him. Both holes,
by the farmer boys’ test, remained unused for the rest of
that season, and Arctomys Monax of the light brown and
the deep red slept his winter sleep on some other hillside.
“WHAT DO WE PLANT WHEN WE PLANT
Ay RE
What do we plant when we plant a tree?
We plant the ship which will cross the sea.
We plant the mast to carry the sails;
We plant the planks to withstand the gales—
The keel, the keelson, the beam, the knee;
We plant the ship when we plant the tree.
What do we plant when we plant the tree?
We plant the houses for you and me.
We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors,
We plant the studding, the lath, the doors,
The beams and siding, all parts that be;
We plant the house when we plant the tree.
What do we plant when we plant the tree?
A thousand things that we daily see;
We plant the spire that outtowers the crag,
We plant the staff for our country’s flag,
We plant the shade, from the hot sun free;
We plant all these when we plant the tree.
HENRY ABBEY.
1690
SUMMER
:
Que en ee |
A SONG OF WHEAT
Back of the bread is the snowy flour;
Back of the flour is the mill;
Back of the mill the growing wheat
Nods on the breezy hill;
(bs)
Over the wheat is the glowing sun,
Ripening the heart of the grain;
Above the sun is the gracious God,
Sending the sunlight and rain.
oar tb.
“Na
OF NPGS PGT
£5
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Mop LEO GR SRST, DARE. BG
ROUND AND ROUND THE FARM
It is not always an easy thing for the farmer to decide
what crops he will grow from year to year. A great deal
depends upon the prices of different farm products, the
cost of growing them, and the help which he has on the
farm. But there is one thing on which the best farmers
are all agreed: that on the ordinary farm it does not pay
to grow the same crops on the same fields year after year.
If, for instance, you were to grow crop after crop of wheat
from a certain field you would find that some of the plant-
foods would soon be used up and that the soil would be-
come poor for lack of humus. And if you were to grow
crop after crop of potatoes from the same soil you would
find it difficult to keep the ground free from scab and
other plant diseases. As a matter of fact, different crops
use plant-food from different parts of the soil; and the
change from one crop to another not only gives the soil
a rest, but gives the farmer an opportunity to keep down
the weeds and to put the soil in good condition.
But in providing for a change of crop, if we wish to
secure the best results it usually is best to follow some
definite order. After a crop of wheat, for example, which
uses up a good deal of plant-food from the surface of the
soil, it is generally a good thing to follow with some legume
such as clover, which produces nitrogen and at the same
time helps to keep up the supply of humus when it is
ploughed under. And after a crop of clover, when the
ground has been ploughed up it is usually a good thing
163
164 COUNTRY -LIFE, READER
to put in a hoed crop such as potatoes or turnips or corn,
which will help to loosen up the soil and keep it free from
weeds. By this time the ground will again be in good
condition for wheat or oats or some other sort of grain.
When different crops follow each other in this way so as
to form a series, they are said to come in rotation, which
is another way of saying that they come around in a
regular order like the spokes in a wheel. ‘The simplest
sort of rotation is the one which we have just described,
where grain, legumes, and a root crop follow each other
in this order; but the farmer in some cases finds that
other rotations are best suited to the needs of his farm,
and four, five, and even six year rotations are sometimes
employed.
It is this way with the farmer. After the work of plant-
ing and cultivating, after the rain has fallen on his fields,
after the sun has warmed them, after the new green leaves
have broken the earth—one day he stands looking out
with a certain new joy across his acres (the wind bends
and half turns the long blades of the corn) ana there springs
up within him a song of the fields. No matter how little
poetic, how little articulate he is, the song rises irrepres-
sibly in his heart, and he turns aside from his task with
a new glow of fulfilment and contentment.
DAVID GRAYSON.
BREAKING IN. THE ‘COLT
Down the field comes the colt, tail erect, neck arched,
prancing as if he could not restrain his glee and gladness.
Halt! There he is at the fence, standing stock-still, star-
ing at a passing wagon. Little he thinks that soon he,
too, wili be put to drawing
loads! Yet even now it is time
to begin ‘‘breaking in”’ the colt.
When should the colt’s train-
ing begin? In the very first
year of his life. “What,” you
say, put atiny little colt, not
a year old, in harness!” No,
but begin to ¢rain him while he
is still a very small colt nursing
by his mother’s side. If we per-
mit him to run wild until he
has reached his full strength,
and then try to saddle and bridle
him by force, we shall not have
a gentle, well-trained horse.
Let the colt be handled from
the first by different persons, so
as to make him fearless. Teach him to feed from your
hand; to allow his feet to be handled; to be led to
and fro by the forelock; to endure a hand placed on his
back; to permit you to pat and caress him. Never pun-
165
Staring at a passing wagon.
166 COUNTRY LIFE READER
ish him at this stage, but keep sugar or apples in your
pocket and reward him whenever he does as you wish.
As he grows a little older, strap a pad on his back for
a few hours every day—then stirrup leathers with the
stirrups attached. If you accustom him to dangling
straps he will be less likely to become frightened if the —
harness happens to break.
When he is about a year old, the colt’s bit should be
occasionally put into his mouth, and shortly after this,
he should be walked in a circle, with a long rein attached
to the bit. By this means, teach him to moderate his
pace—to come toward you, or to stop dead short at a word
from you. This will require time—and patience.
When it is time to teach the colt to go in harness—
and he should not be put to work until he is three and a
half or four years old—put the harness on very carefully,
making sure that it is strong and that it fits well. Let
him stand in his stall or walk about the yard until he is
used to the pressure of the different parts and to the rat-
tling. When he is quiet, check him up loosely and drive
him about the yard.
When he will stop and start at a word and will turn to
right or left, hitch him to a vehicle. A sulky is best, at first.
Let him examine it, and smell it; draw it up behind him;
run it back and forward before attaching him toit. If heis
frightened, caress him and speak kindly until he is soothed.
Drive along the road slowly at first, to give him a
chance to become familiar with the objects that look so
strange to him. If he seems frightened at any object,
do not use the whip, or he will be likely to associate the
punishment with the thing he fears and be more fright-
BREAKING IN THE COLT 167
ened than ever the next time he sees it. Have him ex-
amine the object, and talk encouragingly to him.
There are many tricks you may teach your young horse.
One boy taught a very young colt to step up with his
fore feet on a box and reach for his oats, which were so
placed that he must stretch his neck and bend down his
head to eat them. This, performed so often while he was
growing, gave a beautiful curve to his neck, which made
him much admired.
A colt may easily be taught to shake hands. Tie a
strap to the fore foot below the fetlock; then stand before
him, and as you say, “Shake hands,” pull on the strap
until his foot is brought forward. Reward him then, and
keep repeating until he has learned the lesson.
If you treat your horse well, he will be an intelligent,
affectionate, faithful servant, and he will be quite as inter-
esting when full grown as he was when a frisking, frolic-
some colt.
M. B. STEVENSON.
Training the colt.
SCYTHE SONG
Mowers, weary, and brown, and blithe,
What is the word, methinks ye know,
Endless overword that the Scythe
Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?
Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying,
Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,
Hush, they sing to the clover deep.
Hush— tis the lullaby Time is singing—
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass,
Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass!
ANDREW LANG.
Cotton ready for picking.
THE COLPTON-PEANT
The name cotton is simply another form of the French
word coton, which is in turn derived from kuin, the Ara-
bian name for cotton.
The cotton-plant belongs to the mallow family, and is
closely related to the milkweed and the hollyhock. The
plant itself is a shrub which grows from three to seven
feet in height. It consists of a central stem, main branches,
and smaller limbs which bear the flowers and fruit. The
flower buds, on account of their shape, are known as
sguares. Within a few weeks after they appear, these
squares unfold in the form of large white flowers; and
when, a few days later, these flowers fall off, they leave be-
169
170 COUNTRY LIFE READER
hind them small green pods, or bolls. After a month’s
growth, the bolls turn brown, and finally split open in from
three to five divisions, each containing from thirty to fifty
black seeds with lint or cotton attached to them. A sin-
gle cotton-plant sometimes produces several hundred bolls.
The cotton grown in India and other countries of the
East has a longer fibre than the varieties grown in the
Southern States, and the lint can be easily separated from
the seed. It is a perennial and needs to be replanted only
once in seven years, while the cotton-plant of the Southern
States is an annual and must be replanted every year.
Nevertheless, in spite of greater difficulties in cultivation
and manufacture, two thirds of the world’s supply of
cotton is produced in the Southern States.
Two different species of cotton are produced in the
United States. The kind which is most commonly grown
is known as American Upland; but along the coasts of
South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida, a species known as
Sea-island cotton is produced. Sea-island cotton commands
a higher price than American Upland, because the lint is
longer and finer; but the higher price is partly offset by
the fact that it produces a smaller yield. Both these
species include a large number of minor varieties.
Cotton will grow on almost any kind of land, but it
thrives best in a clay-loam soil. Where the ground is
ploughed in the fall, a cover crop of legumes should be
planted, which must, of course, be ploughed under in the
spring. Cotton is planted in ridges or beds, which are
made as far apart as the cotton usually grows tall. In
making these beds, the ground should be thoroughly
pulverized to a depth of three or four inches. Planting
THE COTTON-PLANT 171
takes place as soon as the danger of frost is over, which is
usually from March 15th, to May ist, according to climate.
About a bushel of seed is required per acre. The young
shoots appear a few days after planting, but even before
they come up, cultivation begins. From this time until
the cotton matures,’ the ground must be constantly cul-
tivated; but, owing to the fact that the root fibres of the
cotton are only a few inches below the surface, cultivation
must be shallow. When the shoots are well up, they are
thinned by a hoe so as to leave intervals of twelve to
twenty-four inches between plants, according to the na-
ture of the soil.
The chief enemy of the cotton-plant is the Mexican
boll-weevil. A weevil, it should be explained, is a kind of
beetle; and the boll-weevil is so named because its larve,
or “grubs,” feed on the bolls of the cotton-plant. The
Mexican boll-weevil, although it had been known in
Mexico for many years, did not appear in the United
States until the year 1892, and since then it has been
gradually spreading over the cotton area. The weevil is
about a quarter of an inch in length, and is reddish-brown
in color. During the cold season the weevil hibernates—
that is, it lives in a torpid state; but it reappears in spring
about the time when the cotton-plant is setting its squares.
Its eggs are laid in the squares, and the larve live on the
young bolls. It is estimated that a single pair of weevils
between June and November have about twelve million
descendants. At present the loss due to the ravages of
the cotton boll-weevil in the United States amounts to
many million dollars every year.
The cotton crop is harvested some time between the
W72 COUNTRY LIFE READER
first of August and the middle of September, according
to climate. Although a number of machines have been
invented for picking cotton, none has yet been perfected,
and the cotton is still picked by hand. After picking, the
Cotton ready to be shipped.
cotton is packed in bales weighing about five hundred
pounds, and in this form it is shipped to the factory. The
annual yield of cotton in the United States is over thirteen
million bales.
After the lint is separated from the cotton-seed, the
seed itself is subjected to various processes. The fine
lint which still adheres to its surface is removed, and
these fine fibres, which are known as Jinters, are used in
the manufacture of coarse yarn, twine, cheap rope, lamp-
oa
THE COTTON-PLANT E73
wicks, carpets, paper, and materials for upholstering.
The hulls are then removed from the seed, packed into
bales, and sold as feed for cattle. From the oil which is
obtained from the kernels a great many well-known
preparations are made, such as oleomargarine, butterine,
cottolene, salad-oil, and soap. The cottonseed meal, or
cottonseed cake, which is left after the oil is removed, is
rich in protein and forms an excellent food for cattle;
but it is also widely used as a fertilizer for the improve-
ment of the soil. Not many years ago cottonseed was
considered to be of no value, and the farmers found dif-
ficulty in disposing of it; but, needless to say, the use that
is made of it with modern methods of manufacture adds
greatly to the value of the cotton crop.
What a royal plant it is! The world waits in at-
tendance on its growth; the shower that falls whispering
on its leaves is heard around the world; the sun that
shines on it is tempered by the prayers of all the people;
the frost that chills it and the dew that descends from
the stars are noted; and the trespass of a little worm
upon its green leaf is more to England than the advance
of the Russian army on her Asian outposts. It is gold
from the instant it puts forth its tiny shoot.
HENRY W. GRADY.
THE TURNIP-HOEING MATCH
There are turnip hoers and turnip hoers, just as there
are painters and painters. It was Tim Haley’s ambition
to be the first turnip hoer of his district, and for the last
two seasons he had been quietly studying the art of Perkins,
the foreman on his father’s farm, who for some years had
easily held the championship for the district. Keenly
Tim had been observing Perkins’s excellences and also
his defects; secretly he had been developing a style of his
own, and, all unnoted, he had tested his speed by that of
Perkins by adopting the method of lazily loafing along
and then catching up by a few minutes of whirlwind work.
Tim felt in his soul the day of battle could not be delayed
past this season; indeed, it might come any day. The
very thought of it made his slight body quiver and his
heart beat so quickly as almost to choke him.
To the turnip field hied Haley’s men, Perkins and
Webster leading the way, Tim and Cameron bringing up
the rear.
“You promised to show me how to do it, Tim,” said
Cameron. ‘‘ Remember I shall be very slow.”
“Oh, shucks!” replied Tim. ‘“‘Turnip-hoeing is as easy
as rollin’ off a log if yeh know how to do it.”
"Exactly !’’ cried’Cameron, *“but that is what 'P demi
You might give me some pointers.”
“Well, you must be able to hit what yeh aim at.”’
“Ah! that means a good eye and steady hand,” said
174
THE TURNIP-HOEING MATCH 175
Cameron. ‘Well, I can do billiards some and golf. What
else?’
“Well, you mustn’t be too careful, slash right in and
don’t give a rip.”’ |
‘Ahi herve, ehr” ‘said Cameron.® “Well, I have
done some Rugby in my day—I know something of that.
What else? This sounds good.”
“Then you’ve got to leave only one turnip in one place
and not a weed; and you mustn’t leave any blanks. Dad
gets hot over that.”
“Indeed, one turnip in each place and not a weed,”
echoed Cameron. ‘Say! this business grows interesting.
No blanks! Anything else?” he demanded.
‘No, I guess not, only if yeh ever get into a race ye’ve
got to keep goin’ after you’re clear tuckered out and never
let on. You see, the other chap may be feelin’ worse than
you.”
“By Jove, Tim! You’re a born general!” exclaimed
Cameron. ‘You will go some distance if you keep on in
that line. Now as to racing, let me venture a word, for
I have done a little in my time. Don’t spurt too soon.”
“Eh!” said Tim, all eagerness.
“Don’t get into your racing stride too early in the day,
especially if you are up against a stronger man. Wait
till you know you can stay till the end, and then put your
best licks in at the finish.”’
Tim pondered.
“Vou’re right,” he cried, a glad light in his eye and a
touch of color in his pale cheek, and Cameron knew he
was studying war.
The turnip field, let it be said for the enlightening of
176 COUNTRY LIFE READER
city-bred folk, is laid out in a series of drills, a drill being
a long ridge of earth some six inches in height, some eight
inches broad on the top and twelve at the base. Upon
each drill the seed has been sown in one continuous line
from end to end of the field. When this seed has grown,
each drill will discover a line of delicate green, this line
being nothing less than a compact growth of young turnip
plants with weeds more or less thickly interspersed. The
operation of hoeing consists in the eliminating of the weeds
and the superfluous turnip plants, in order that single
plants, free from weeds, may be left some eight inches
apart in unbroken line, extending the whole length of the
drill. The artistic hoer, however, is not content with
this. His artistic soul demands not only that single plants
should stand in unbroken row from end to end along the
drill top, but that the drill itself should be pared down on
each side to the likeness of a house roof with a perfectly
even ridge.
“Ever hoe turnips?” inquired Perkins.
“ Never,’ “said Cameron, “and I am ‘afraid BE wea
make much of a fist at it.”
“Well, you’ve come to a good place to learn, eh, Tim?
We'll show him, won’t we?”
Tim made no reply, but simply handed Cameron a hoe
and picked up his own.
“Now, show me, Tim,” said Cameron in a low voice,
as Perkins and Webster set off on their drills.
/ Ehis isshow *youvdo it,” replied Tim." Click=cliga
forward and back went Tim’s sharp, shining instrument,
leaving a single plant standing shyly alone where had
boldly bunched a score or more a moment before. ‘‘ Click-
)
THE TURNIP-HOEING MATCH £77
click-click,’’ and the flat-topped drill stood free of weeds
and superfluous turnip plants and trimmed to its proper
roof-like appearance.
a oPecay | exclaimed (Cameron, “this. is. hich \art:’: I
shall never reach your class, though, Tim.”
On, shucks!” said Pim. “‘Slash in, don’t be-afraid.”’
Cameron slashed in. “Click-click,” ‘‘click-click-click,”
when lo! a long blank space of drill looked up reproach-
fully at him.
“Oh, Tim! look at this mess,” he said in disgust.
“Never mind!” said Tim. “Better stick one in, though.
Blanks look bad at the end of the drill.”” So saying, he
made a hole in Cameron’s drill and with his hoe dug up a
bunch of plants from another drill and patted them firmly
into place, and, weeding out the unnecessary plants, left a
single turnip in its proper place.
"Oh, come, that isn’t so bad,” said Cameron. , “We
can always fill up the blanks.”
“Yes, but it takes time,” replied Tim, evidently with
the racing fever in his blood. Patiently Tim schooled his
pupil throughout the forenoon, and before the dinner
hour had come, Cameron was making what to Tim ap-
peared satisfactory progress. It was greatly in Cameron’s
favor that he possessed a trained and true eye and a
steady hand, and that he was quick in all his movements.
“You're doin’ splendid,” cried Tim, full of admiration.
“T say, Scotty!” said Perkins, coming up and casting
a critical eye along Cameron’s last drill, ‘‘you’re going
to make a turnip hoer all right.”’
“Tve got a good teacher, you see,”’ cried Cameron.
“You bet you have,” said Perkins. “I taught Tim
178 COUNTRY LIFE READER
myself, and in two or three years he’ll be almost as good
as I am, eh, Tim?”’
“Huh!” grunted Tim contemptuously, but let it go
at that.
“Perhaps you think you’re that now, eh, Tim?” said
Perkins, seizing the boy by the back of the neck and rub-
bing his hand over his hair in a manner perfectly mad-
dening. “Don’t you get too perky, young fellow.”
Tim wriggled out of his grasp and kept silent. He was
not yet ready with his challenge. All through the after-
noon he stayed behind with Cameron, allowing the other
two to help them out at the end of each drill, but as the
day wore on there was less and less need of assistance for
Cameron, for he was making rapid progress with his work,
and Tim was able to do, not only his own drill, but almost
half of Cameron’s as well. By supper time Cameron was
thoroughly done out. Never had a day seemed so long,
never had he known that he possessed so many muscles
in his back. ‘The continuous stooping and the steady
click-click of the hoe, together with the unceasing strain
of hand and eye, and all this under the hot burning rays
of a June sun, so exhausted his vitality that when the
cow-bell rang for supper it seemed to him a sound more
delightful than the strains of a Richter orchestra in a
Beethoven symphony.
On the way back to the field after supper, Cameron ob-
served that Tim was in a state of suppressed excitement,
and it dawned upon him that the hour of his challenge of
Perkins’s supremacy as a turnip hoer was at hand.
“I say, Tim,,boy!” he said earnestly, “listen 10) ae:
You are going to get after Perkins this evening,.eh?”’
An expert with the hoe.
180 COUNTRY LIFE READER
“How did you know?” said Tim in surprise.
““Never mind! Now listen to me; I have raced myself
some and I have trained men to race. Are you not too
tired with your day’s work ?”’
“Tired! Not a bit,” said the gallant little soul scorn-
fully.
“Well, all right. It’s nice and cool and you can’t hurt
yourself much. Now, how many drills do you do after
supper as a rule?”
“Down and up twice,” said Tim.
“How many drills can you do at your top speed, your
very top speed, remember?”
‘“‘About two drills, I guess,’
ment’s thought.
“Now, listen to me!” said Cameron impressively.
“Go quietly for two and a half drills, then let yourself
out and go your best. And, listen! I have been watch-
ing you this afternoon. You have easily done once and a
half what Perkins has done, and you are going to beat
him out of his boots.”
Tim gulped a moment or two, looked at his friend with
glistening eyes, but said not a word. For the first two and
a half drills Cameron exerted to the highest degree his
conversational powers, with the twofold purpose of hold-
ing back Perkins and Webster and also of so occupying
Tim’s mind that he might forget for a time the approach-
ing conflict, the strain of waiting for which he knew would
be exhausting for the lad. But when the middle of the
second last drill had been reached, Tim began uncon-
sciously to quicken his speed.
“T say, Tim,” called Cameron, “‘come here! Am I get-
> replied Tim, after a mo-
|?
——
THE TURNIP-HOEING MATCH 181
ting these spaces too wide?”’ Tim came over to his side.
““Now, Tim,” said Cameron in a low voice, ‘“‘wait a little
longer; you can never wear him out. Your only chance
is in speed. Wait till the last drill.”
But Tim was not to be held back. Back he went to
his place and with a rush brought his drill up even with
Webster, passed him and, in a few moments, like a whirl-
wind passed Perkins and took the lead.
“Halloo, Timmy! where are you going?” asked Perkins
in surprise.
“Home,” said Tim proudly, “and I'll tell ’em you’re
comin’.”’
“All right, Timmy, my son!” replied Perkins with a
laugh, “tell them you won’t need a hot bath; I’m after
you.”
“Click-click, click-click-click”? was Tim’s only answer.
It was a distinct challenge, and, while not openly break-
ing into racing speed, Perkins accepted it.
For some minutes Webster quickened his pace in an at-
tempt to follow the leaders, but soon gave it up and fell
back to help Cameron up with his drill, remarking: ‘I’m
no fool. I’m not going to kill myself forany man. They’re
racing, not me.”
“Will Tim win?” inquired Cameron.
“Naw! Not this year! Why, Perkins is the best man
in the whole country at turnips. He took the Agricultural ’
Society’s prize two years ago.”
“T believe Tim will beat him,” said Cameron con-
fidently, with his eyes upon the two in front.
“Beat nothing!” said Webster. “You just wait a bit,
Perkins isn’t letting himself out yet.”
182 COUNTRY LIFE. READER
In a short time Tim finished his drill some distance
ahead, and then, though it was quitting time, without a
pause he swung into the next.
‘“Halloo, Timmy !”’ cried Perkins good-naturedly, “ going
to work all night, eh? Well, I'll just take a whirl out of
you,” and for the first time he frankly threw himself into |
his racing gait.
“Good boy, Tim!” called out Cameron, as Tim bore
down upon them, still in the lead and going like a small
steam-engine. ‘‘You’re all right and going easy. Don’t
worry !”’
But Perkins, putting on a great spurt, drew up within
a hoe-handle length of Tim and there held his place.
“All right, Tim, my boy, you can hold him,” cried
Cameron, as the racers came down upon him.
“He can, eh?” replied Perkins. “I'll show him and
you,” and with an accession of speed he drew up on a
level with Tim.
“Ah, ha, Timmy, my boy! We’ve got you where we
want you, I guess,” he exulted, and, with a whoop and
still increasing his speed, he drew past the boy.
But Cameron, who was narrowly observing the com-
batants and their work, called out again:
“Don’t worry, Tim, you’re doing nice, clean work and
doing it easily.” The inference was obvious, and Perkins,
who had been slashing wildly and leaving many blanks
and weeds behind him, where neither blanks nor weeds
should be, steadied down somewhat, and, taking more
pains with his work, began to lose ground, while Tim,
whose work was without flaw, moved again to the front
place. There remained half a drill to be done and the
Ee
ee ne
————
THE TURNIP-HOEING MATCH 183
issue was still uncertain. With half the length of a hoe
handle between them, the two clicked along at a furious
pace. Tim’s hat had fallen off. . His face showed white
and his breath was coming fast, but there was still some
reserve in him. They were approaching the last quarter
when, with a yell, Perkins threw himself again with a wild
recklessness into his work, and again he gained upon Tim
and passed him.
“Steady, Tim!’ cried Cameron, who, with Webster,
had given up their own work, it being, as the latter re-
marked, ‘‘quitting time, anyway,” and were following up ~
the racers. ‘“‘Don’t spoil your work, Tim!” continued
Cameron. ‘Don’t worry.”’
His words caught the boy at a critical moment, for
Perkins’s yell and his fresh exhibition of speed had shaken
the lad’s nerve. But Cameron’s voice steadied him, and,
quickly responding, Tim settled down again into his old
style, while Perkins was still in the lead, but slashing
wildly.
“Fine work, Tim,” said Cameron quietly, ‘and you
can do better yet.” For a few paces he walked behind
the boy, steadying him now and then with a quiet word;
then, recognizing that the crisis of the struggle was at
hand, and believing that the boy had still some reserve
of speed and strength, he began to call on him.
“Come on, Tim! Quicker, ‘quicker; come on,_ boy,
you can do better!’’ His words, and his tone more than
his words, were like a spur to the boy. From some secret
source of supply he called up an unsuspected reserve of
strength and speed, and, still keeping up his clean-cutting,
finished style, foot by foot he drew away from Perkins,
184 COUNTRY LIFE READER
who followed in the rear, slashing more wildly than ever.
The race was practically won. Tim was well in the lead,
and apparently gaining speed with every click of his hoe.
“Here, you fellows, what are yeh hashin’ those turnips
for?” It was Haley’s voice, who, unperceived, had come
into the field. Tim’s reply was a letting out of his last
ounce of strength in a perfect fury of endeavor. |
‘“There’s — no — hashin’ — on — this—drill—dad!” he
panted.
The sudden demand for careful work, however, at once
lowered Perkins’s rate of speed. He fell rapidly behind
and, after a few moments of further struggle, threw down
his hoe with a whoop and called out: “‘Quitting time, I
guess.” Perkins was white and panting, but Tim was
still going at a racing pace and was just finishing his drill.
“Looks as if you’ve got him wound up so’s he can’t stop,”
remarked Haley. Then, turning to Perkins as if to change
the subject, he added: ‘‘Looks to me as if that hay in the
lower meadow is pretty nigh fit to cut. Guess we’d better
not wait till next week. You best start Tim on that with
the mower in the mornin’.”” Then, taking a survey of the
heavens, he added: ‘Looks as if it might be a spell of good
weather.’’ Meantime Cameron had sauntered to the end
of the drill where Tim stood leaning quietly on his hoe.
“Tim, you are a turnip hoer!” he said with warm ad-
miration in his tone, ‘‘and what’s more, Tim, you’re a
sport. I’d like to handle you in something big. You will
make a man yet.”
RALPH CONNOR.
A MIDSUMMER SONG
Oh, father’s gone to market-town: he was up before the
day,
And Jamie’s after robins, and the man is making hay,
And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds
the mill,
While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will:
‘Polly! Polly! The cows are in the corn!
Oh, where’s Polly?”
From all the misty morning air there comes a summer
sound,
A murmur as of waters, from skies and trees and ground.
The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo;
And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo:
“Polly! Polly! The cows are in the corn!
Oh, where’s Polly ?”’
185
186 COUNTRY ‘LIFE READER
Above the trees, the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and
boom, |
And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom.
Within the farmer’s meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows,
And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose.
But ‘‘Polly! Polly! The cows are in the corn!
Oh, where’s Polly?”
How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its
clatter !
The farmer’s wife is listening now, and wonders what’s
the matter.
Oh, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the
hill, |
While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds
the mill. ha
But “Polly! Polly! The cows are in the corn!
Oh, where’s Polly?”
RICHARD WATSON’ GILDER.
A DAYYON THE FARM
Father came into our room where we were asleep, carry-
ing alamp. He woke us and we started up, looking blink-
ingly at the light. As soon as we were awake he said:
“Boys, the cows are out; come quick, before they wan-
der away.”
Soon we are up and dressed and are going down-stairs.
As we go down he tells us that he has just heard them go
past his window, and that if we hurry they will not have
time to wander far. So we boys hurriedly scratch a light
and hunt for our boots. This is all done in much less time
than it takes to tell it, and it is not more than a few sec-
onds after we are dressed, till we are bursting out of the
door into the darkness. Darkness—for as we came out
I glanced at the clock and saw the time, 1.30, and then
this night has been made especially dark by a thunder-
storm which has just passed over.
We have a lantern and as we go we stop to peer into the
darkness for the marauders. We cannot see them; so
we pass on, out behind the barn, for they are probably
in the meadow out there. Soon we are bursting through
the tall, wet grass, up to our waists. We have gone but
a few steps before our clothes are wet through, but that
does not matter, for the cows are destroying the harvest—
and then we cannot be much wetter than we are; so we
keep on.
Soon we come upon a cow feeding upon the tall, lux-
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188 COUNTRY LIFE READER
uriant grass. As we come up to her she takes fright and
begins to run in the wrong direction. We try to pass her,
but soon she is up with the rest of the herd, and away they
all go as fast as they can run. They are going straight
for the field of oats, and they must be turned before they
reach it. We race through the tall grass, out of breath
and wet, oh, so wet! But the cows are having hard work,
too, and they are slowing up, and presently they are
turned and driven toward the barn. ‘There they must be
counted; and we find that six of them are gone. They
must be brought in, at all costs, and out we go again. But
we have gone but a short distance when the lantern goes
out for lack of oil. We must have a light; so we go back
to the house to fill the lantern. In a few minutes we are
out again at the barn. Francis is ahead, and as we round
the corner of the barn, he shouts: ‘‘Here they are!”’ We
turn them in, and as they pass, we count them. There
are only five—one is still missing. Out we go again for
the third time, but we do not have to go far, for there she
is, just discernible in the dim light. She is glad to join
the others, and we turn her in.
After we have latched and barred the gate so that they
cannot open it again, we hurry to the house, for we are
cold and wet. There, after we have got a little warmer,
it is proposed that we get something to eat, and we com-
mence a hunt. We go down cellar and come upon a cake
which was baked the day before. It looks good; so we cut
it into three pieces and return to the kitchen. This much
cake cannot be eaten without some milk; and Francis
goes out to the can after some. Soon we are enjoying the
pleasures of a midnight lunch. Oh! how appetizing!
A DAY ON THE FARM 189
One who has never shared in such a meal cannot fully
imagine the keen enjoyment of it. Our lunch finished, we
are off to bed again, having been up just one hour. Soon
we are asleep, and it seems we have been in bed but a
minute or two when father comes in to call us again.
It is half past four, and now the real day’s work begins.
The sun has not yet risen as we go out; but the birds are
already singing. The storm of the night has passed away,
and few traces of it are discernible. But the cows must
be milked before breakfast, and so we are off for the lot.
There are eight apiece for Francis and me, and seven for
Paul. This will take us about an hour. The cows are
sleepy after their ramble in the night, and they have to
be urged before they will get up. Soon we are busy milk-
ing, and we are all done and have the horses fed by six
o'clock. Then a good wash in the clear, cold water pumped
fresh from the well, and we are ready for breakfast.
When breakfast is over, father sends us out to mow—
two with mowing-machines and one with a scythe, the
latter to mow the fence corners and the patches around
the trees, which the mower cannot cut. Paul and I harness
the horses to the machines while Francis is grinding his
scythe. Our cutter-bars have been sharpened, and we
all start out together. Having arrived at the field, which
is about a quarter of a mile from the house, we let down
the cutter-bars and oil the machines, and then, after throw-
ing the machine into gear, we are ready to begin.
We start the horses, and the machines go jiggling mer-
rily through the grass. As the knives jump quickly back
and forth, the butt of the stalk is jerked suddenly one
way and then the other, and then it topples over. It is
1gO COUNTRY LIFE READER
certainly a sight to make a philosopher ponder, to see so
many stalks being cut down.
After we have mowed two swaths around the field,
one machine continues to go around while the other mows
the back swath so that the fence corners can be cut. This
cutting the back swath is usually the difficult job, for
there are so many ant-hills and woodchuck holes along the
fence, and then there is also the danger of catching the
point of the bar in the fence. After I have gone around
the back swath I follow Paul around on the piece. We
have to stop once in a while to clear out the bar. A mouse
nest gets on the bar and clogs the machine, but after
throwing the machine out of gear we remove the obstruc-
tion and pass on.
As Paul stops at the corner to oil, I come up to him,
and he tells me there is a yellow-jacket’s nest on the other
side of the field. We know what to expect if they are
stirred up. It is bad enough if they sting you, but it is
far worse if they alight on the horses, for they would run
away, and that is not a desirable accident.
When we have come around to the place, we stop our
machines and go ahead to explore. We find the nest—
a paper ball about as large as a person’s head—hanging
on a brier, which stands just in the edge of the uncut
grass. There is a solitary wasp crawling around on the
outside, as a sort of guardsman, I suppose. But we know
very well that the inside is full of them. We wait a mo-
ment and this lone scout goes inside, I suppose to report
that “‘all’s well.” As he disappears, Paul hastily pulls out
his knife and, catching the brier in his left hand, he hur-
riedly cuts it off and gives it a throw far out into the cut
a
A DAY.ON: THE FARM IgI
grass. It is all done so quickly that no wasp has time to
get out, but as the nest goes through the air, several manage
to scramble out, and go buzzing madly round and round.
They are too mad to see anything except their nest, and
The noontime pause.
they buzz fiercely around it in search of an enemy. We
hastily mount our machines and pass on, and by the time
we are come around again they have all alighted on their
nest, and are crawling about, trying to fathom the mys-
tery’.
We leave them undisturbed and continue our work. As
we go up one side of the field, a young woodchuck runs
clumsily out of the grass over the mown hay and into
his hole in the fence corner. He has so much of a start
1Q2 COUNTRY LIFE READER
that we cannot catch him, and we pass on—though, if
we could have caught him we would probably have used
his hide ‘‘to generate horse-power.”’
It is getting pretty hot by this time, and the jug of
water, which we have in the fence corner in the shade,
is pretty warm, though I suppose it is still “as wet as
any.”’ We make a few more rounds and then stop to oil
up. As we are doing so, we catch the sound of the dinner-
bell telling us to come to the house. We unhitch the
horses and start for the house, for we are all hungry—
horses and men. We water and feed the horses before we
eat our own dinner. Another refreshing wash in the cold
water, and we are ready to eat.
After dinner we go out and lie under the shade of the
maple trees to rest. An hour is given for dinner, and at
one o’clock we have started for the field again.
We have been going around twenty acres and the piece
seems nearly as large as in the morning, though it is per-
haps only half done. The work in the afternoon is more
tiresome, as the sun is warm and there is no breeze stirring.
The horses walk very slowly, and it seems as if no amount
of urging will make them go faster. The warm sun makes
one very drowsy, and oh, how good it would be if one
could but lie in the shade of one of those trees and go to
sleep! But it is haying time, and there must be no sleep
from four-thirty to eight, inclusive.
The afternoon wears away slowly; you hear nothing
but the rattle of the machines, and see nothing but the
myriad of timothy stalks falling. But suddenly a rabbit
jumps from in front of your cutter-bar. He pops out of
the standing grass and goes bobbing along over the cut
A DAY ON THE FARM 193
hay to the pasture. This reminds us that the field is nearly
done, for the rabbits always work toward the centre of
the uncut grass, until there remains only a narrow strip
to be mowed. Then they jump out and go bounding
along over the grass till they find some place to hide.
Sometimes we find a nest of young rabbits, which are
either too scared or too young to run, and then the ma-
chine must be stopped till they are removed.
The piece grows rapidly smaller, and soon there re-
mains but one swath to cut. We finish this, and as we
are raising our bars we hear the supper-bell. As she hears
it, one of the horses whinnies in a sort of satisfied way,
for she is a wise old creature, and she knows that the bell
tells us to quit for the night. After reaching the house,
we put the horses in the barn and prepare for supper.
Supper over, the cows must be milked again and the horses
tended. We are through by eight o’clock, and we go back
to the house and wash up again.
The day’s work is done, and it has been a long one—
fifteen hours and a half. And any one who puts in that
much time on manual labor will be tired.
URBAN LAVERY.
God made the country and man made the town.
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught
That life holds out to all, should most abound
And least be threatened in the fields and groves.
COWPER.
EVENING AT THE FARM
Over the hill the farm boy goes.
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;
The early dews are falling;—
Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river’s brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm boy goes,
Cheerily calling:
‘Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’! co
Farther, farther, over the hill,
Faintly calling, calling still,
“Co: ; boss! co’; boss te€o47co
2h \ eves
oN Peoded
Into the yard the farmer goes,
With grateful heart, at the close of day:
Harness and chain are hung away;
Ig4
EVENING AT THE FARM 195
In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough,
The straw’s in the stack, the hay in the mow,
The cooling dews are falling ;—
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
And the whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling:
. “Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’! co
While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray:
‘*@o Aboss'! co’, boss co’ t:co!”
d49)
Now to her task the milkmaid goes.
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farmyard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,
While the pleasant dews are falling;—
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,
Soothingly calling:
‘“‘So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!”
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,
And sits and milks in the twilight cool,
Saying: ‘‘So, boss! so, boss! so! so!”’
To supper at last the farmer goes.
The apples are pared, the paper read,
196 COUNTRY LIFE READER
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the crickets’ ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling.
The housewife’s hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose,
But still in sleep the farm boy goes
Singing, calling:
*\Go’« bosslico’;-bess lico’ 1 co eo
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring: ‘So, boss! so!”
949)
Joun T. TROWBRIDGE.
Now to her task the milkmaid goes.
CLEAN HOME MILK
Boys that do the milking on the farm do not realize
how filthy the milk often is when it gets to the house.
Take a milk-pail from the shelf; go down to the cow
barn. There is the cow. Throw her down an armful of
hay to chew. on while you milk, brush off the stool, rub
off the cow’s bag with a wisp of hay if she is especially
dirty—never mind your hands or the open pail—throw a
stream of milk onto each palm and begin. Is there a little
hay and dust in the pail? Never mind; it will strain out.
When you get through, set the pail down while you drive
the cows out to pasture. To be sure, they will raise a lot
of cow-stable dust, and the smell is pretty bad in there;
but if you set it outside the pigs would get into it. It is
nearly school time and you have other chores to do. Take
it to the house and strain it. Mother always doubles the
strainer cloth, but it takes an awful time for it to run
through that way. There! You said the dirt would strain
out, and look at it there in the cloth!
This is a cold-hearted picture of one of the chores the
farm boy particularly hates. Compare each item with
your own methods and improve on each. Home milk
is not always clean milk.
The boy that milks ought to do a better job than this.
He ought to bring clean milk into the house. How shall
he do it? A clean place to milk, a clean cow, a clean boy,
and a sanitary milk-pail; these four things are within the
reach of every farm that can afford a cow.
I have seen a good many patent milk-pails, mostly in
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198 COUNTRY LIFE READER
stores, seldom on the farm. The sanitary milk-pails keep
the dirt out, they don’t strain it out. Here is one de-
scribed by the man who invented it for his own use. This
pail is tin, and holds ten quarts or so. On one side is a
spout two and a half inches in diameter and three inches
Down in the pasture.
long. The spout has a tin cover like a baking-powder-
can cover. To keep the dirt out of the pail the man bought
a tin pan, just the size to fit tight into the top of the
pail. Just above the bottom of the pan on one side he
had a tinner cut eight or ten small holes, like a colander.
Scald the pail, double the strainer cloth and lay it across
the top of the pail. Press the pan down on the cloth till it
goes down into the pail tight, taking care that the edge of
the cloth comes up all round. Do all this at the house.
With this pail a clean milker can milk a clean cow in a
sweet-smelling place and get clean milk. This may look
CLEAN HOME MILK 199
like a pound of prevention, but think of the tons of cure
it will save.
There are many boys delivering milk in towns and
cities. Most of them do their part well. But I believe
they would like to do it better. Driving from one house
to another is pretty dull business for a live boy, and un-
less he has something to think about his mind wanders.
Why not put some thought on the very business he is en-
gaged in? Does he know what milk is—that children’s lives
depend upon the care he gives it? Does he know that dirt
in ice and dust from streets may be deadly if they get into
milk? If dust gets into that little puddle that ought not
to be on top of the bottles, does he wipe it off with a
dirty rag, ignorant of the danger? If he thought of these
things and studied out ingenious ways of keeping his bot-
tles free from dust, life would no longer be dull but inter-
esting. He would be well started toward good citizenship.
MARY ROGERS MILLER.
The noonday rest.
IN THE PLUM YARD
My plum yard is not all a plum yard, but is a chicken-
yard as well. It is a lively place, where I like to sit in the
shade of an apple tree that looks over the hedge patroniz-
ingly at its nephews, the plums. The old hens in the coop,
when they see me, cluck for me to bring them dainties,
and the fluffy things called chickens step on my toes con-
fidingly. These two economies go on nicely together—
hens and plums; and I advise you in all horticulture to
find out the things that make and match, for there are
some things that will not go together at all. A butternut
tree hates a potato hill and likes a wild blackberry. Plant
your plum trees in the chicken-yard, or plant your chickens
in the plum yard, as you please, and you will find that it
will work to a dot. It is a secret between you and me
that there is not one fruit under the sun that a hen likes
better than a gooseberry. It will snip off every one be-
fore the berries are half-grown; so you will plant your
gooseberries on the other side of the fence.
Plum trees will grow close together and bear all the
better for it; so you can have a number of them on a small
space. But if they bear full, you had better pull off one
third or one half of the fruit, so that the rest will be of good
size and flavor. This is especially necessary if you are
growing for the market.
Almost all other fruits carry more chances of being
damaged or devoured by birds or insects than the plum,
and other fruits involve you in a longer fight. You are
200
PN THE PLUM YARD 201
never sure of your strawberry crop until you eat it, and,
as for cherries, they must be covered with mosquito net-
ting till they are fit to eat. But the plum is so sharply
assailed by its one particular enemy that you may lose
the whole crop unless you know how to care for it. I was
told in Florida that plums would grow there, but that
you could get no fruit. The people had simply not learned
the knack of catching the plum-curculio. It takes about
ten or twelve days of jarring, and after that we can, as
a rule, enjoy seeing our plums swell out and sweeten.
The way we do this is to make a huge sheet, big enough
to cover the ground under a large plum tree. This we
slit down to the middle, and spread it out so that the tree
stands in the centre. We make a rammer about eight feet
long, of light wood, but strong, and we pad the end till
it is sure not to bruise the tree. With this we ram or jar—
not shake—the branch, and the insects fall on the sheet.
The curculio curls up and plays possum. You must know
him at sight, catch him quickly, and crush him. His
shell is hard, and needs a stout pinch. If you have a pet
hen that will trot around with you, you can feed them to
her; but be quick or the curculio will spread his wings
and fly away.
There will still be quite a percentage of plums that
will be stung. The jarring of the trees should take place
twice a day—-about seven in the morning and four at
night; but in spite of all precautions the stung fruits will
soon drop, and should be promptly gathered before the
grub enters the soil. If he gets into the ground he will
come out next year a full-grown insect, ripe for mischief.
The plum tree is subject to what is called the knot—
202 COUNTRY LIFE READER
a fungus disease, that causes a swelling and frequently
destroys limbs or whole trees. Take a sharp knife and
cut the knot and adjacent wood, as soon as the swelling
appears. As a rule, you can entirely master this disease
if you are prompt and thorough. You may, however,
have to fight another fungus disease, a “blight”? which
appears in August or September, generally just after the
fruit is picked. This blight destroys the leaves and does
a great deal of damage to next year’s crop. Prevention
is better than cure in this case, and in order to prevent
the blight from attacking the trees, they should be sprayed
with Bordeaux mixture two or three times during the
season—beginning in May. The spray will do no harm,
even if there be no danger from the blight.
E:.-P. POwEne;
MINE HOST
My host was a bountiful apple tree;
He gave me shelter and nourished me
With the best of fare all fresh and free.
And light-winged guests came not a few,
To his leafy inn, and sipped the dew,
And sang their best songs ere they flew.
I slept at night on a downy bed
Of moss, and my host benignly spread
His own cool shadow over my head.
THomMaAs WESTWOOD.
a& BOY'S: SONG
Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the gray trout lies asleep,
Up the river and o’er the lea,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest;
There to trace the homeward bee,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
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204 COUNTRY LIFE READER
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow lies the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall iree,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
But this I know, I love to play,
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and o’er the lea,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
James Hoce.
CERES AND PROSERPINA
In ancient times, when the harvests were abundant
people believed that 1t was because Ceres, the goddess of
the harvests, had given rain and sunshine to the earth.
And when the cold and rainy or snowy season came, and
the grass became withered, and the flowers ceased to
bloom, it was because Ceres was gloomy and sad.
Ceres, according to the old story, had one daughter, a
lovely child named Proserpina, whose presence made the
grass greener, the flowers gayer, and the sunshine brighter
over all the earth. And when Ceres was absent on her
tasks of caring for the harvests, Proserpina wandered amid
the flowers in the fields or played with the sea-nymphs
in the sand or among the rocks along the shore. One day
when Proserpina and her companions were gathering
flowers their happy laughter attracted the attention of
the god Pluto, who was riding by in his chariot.
Pluto was the god of darkness, and his palace was deep
down in the underworld, where the light of day never
shone. He was a gloomy fellow and led a lonely life in
his underground palace; for, although he wooed many of
the goddesses, none of them was. willing to share his
throne in this shadowy realm. And now when he heard
the girlish laughter of Proserpina, he stopped his chariot
and looked around to see whence it came. Peering through
the bushes by the wayside, he saw Proserpina, and was so
charmed with her beauty that he resolved at once to
catry her off to the underworld to be his queen. So he
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2006 COUNTRY LIFE READER
seized her, carried her by force to his chariot, and sped
his horses into a fierce gallop; and, in spite of her strug-
gles and screams, poor Proserpina was soon carried far
away from her native fields and her home.
At length Pluto came to a great river, which was swollen
to an angry flood so as to bar his course; but, nothing
daunted, he struck the ground with his great two-pronged
spear, and straightway there appeared in the earth a
yawning chasm which opened at once into the under-
world, and through this the horses and chariot disap-
peared.
Upon her return home, Ceres was greatly grieved to
find that Proserpina was not there. She went forth to
the fields to search for her, calling for her everywhere,
and inquiring of all whom she met; but no one had seen
or heard anything of the lost Proserpina. When night
came on, she lighted a torch at the flames of Mount A¢tna
and continued her search through the hours of darkness—
but all in vain. Day after day passed, but still the dis-
consolate Ceres would not be comforted. She no longer
cared for the grass or the flowers or the sunshine. The
harvests were neglected, the grass withered, the birds
ceased to sing, the rains fell continuously, and man and
beast alike suffered sorely for the want of warmth and
light and food.
At length, when Ceres, worn out by her long search,
was one day seated by a fountain which sprang from the
depths of the earth, she thought she heard a gentle voice,
and, listening more closely to the murmur of the fountain,
she at length obtained tidings of her lost child; for the
fountain, passing up through the realms of Pluto, had
CERES AND PROSERPINA 207
caught a glimpse of Proserpina in the palace of the King,
and, taking pity on Ceres, in gentle accents she told her
the story of what she had seen.
-Ceres, you may be sure, was glad to learn at length
where her daughter was and that she was still alive, though
she had little hope of being able to rescue her from the
power of Pluto. Nevertheless, she determined to try to
find her, and at once set out, sadly enough, in search of
the entrance to Pluto’s underground realm.
In the meantime Proserpina had grown somewhat ac-
customed to the darkness of Pluto’s palace. After all,
it was not wholly a dismal place, for there was an abun-
dance of gold and silver and diamonds and all manner
of precious stones; and Pluto, though stern and forbid-
ding and gloomy to outward appearance, was not unkind
at heart, and did his best to make Proserpina happy and
to lead her to forget her life amid the flowers and sun-
shine of the earth above.
When Proserpina had first entered the palace of Pluto
she would not be consoled, and although the most tempt-
ing dainties were set before her she refused to eat or drink
until she should be restored to her mother, Ceres. And it
was well that she did so, for it had been decreed by the
gods that whosoever ate or drank in the realms of Pluto
should never be permitted to return to the upper world.
None knew this better than Pluto himself, and in order °
to tempt Proserpina to break her fast he ordered his ser-
vants to search the earth for the daintiest fruits they
could find and to place them before her. But although
they searched far and wide they could find nothing but a
single withered pomegranate.
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|
In the meantime the earth was suffering from famine,
and the children were crying for food; and fathers and
mothers begged Jupiter to have pity on their sufferings
and to restore to Ceres her lost child, Proserpina, so that
she might once more smile upon the earth and make it
bright with flowers and rich with the golden harvest of
grain. At length Jupiter grew weary of their pleadings,
and consented to her return; and Mercury, the fleet-footed
messenger of the gods, was sent to the palace of Pluto to
bring her up from the underworld and restore her to her
mother, Ceres.
When Mercury reached the palace of Pluto he found
that he had arrived none too soon; for Proserpina, unable
longer to resist the pangs of hunger, had rashly tasted
the withered pomegranate, and, it was found, had eaten
some of the seeds. Jupiter, although he was King of heaven,
could not interfere when once his laws were broken; and
so for every seed she had eaten, Proserpina was condemned
to spend one month of each year in the palace of King
Pluto. And this is how it comes that for full six months
every year Proserpina is forced to return to the under-
world. Then the good mother, Ceres, mourns once again
for the lost Proserpina, and the earth brings forth no fruit.
But when Proserpina returns, the skies become blue and
sunny, the songs of the birds are heard on every hand, and
the earth is once more white with the promise of an abun-
dant harvest, with which Ceres in her gladness is ready
to bless the earth.
BART ST
AUTUMN
ry oo
o>)
tHE COUNTRY. BOY'S, INHERITANCE
“T give and bequeath to boys, jointly and
severally, all useful idle fields and commons
where ball may be played; all pleasant
waters where one may swim; all snow-clad
hills where one may coast; and all streams
and ponds where one may fish, or where,
when grim winter comes, one may skate; to
have and to hold these same for the period
; of their boyhood; and all meadows with the
/
clover blossoms and butterflies thereof; the
woods with their appurtenances, the squir-
(. rels, and the birds, and all echoes and
et strange noises, and all distant places which
may be visited, together with the adventures
there found.”
AIS NOIDS OR PFPOLE
CHARLES LOUNSBERRY.
a)
3)
|
Fi
CI FEO GEER SODA. WPAREP ss Wy
’D LIKE TO GO
It seems to me I’d like to go
Where bells don’t ring, or whistles blow,
Nor clocks don’t strike, nor gongs don’t sound,
And Id have stillness all around—
Not real stillness, but just the trees’
Low whispering, or the hum of bees,
Or brooks’ faint babbling over stones
In strangely softly tangled tones;
Or maybe the cricket or katydid,
Or the songs of birds in the hedges hid
Or just some such sweet sounds as these
To fill a tired heart with ease.
If ’tweren’t for sight and sound and smell,
I'd like the city pretty well;
But when it comes to getting rest
I like the country lots the best.
Sometimes it seems to me I must
Just quit the city’s din and dust,
And get out where the sky is blue—
And, say, now, how does it seem to you?
EUGENE FIELD.
PED E
A country boy and his friends.
THE “COUNTRY 7bOYy,
To be friends with animals is an education in itself,
and a boy who does not know a horse, a dog, a cat, a pig,
chickens—the barn-yard family—and the woodland family
—rabbits, chipmunks, coons, and wildcats, too—all around,
through, and under, lacks something essential. It is help-
ful to a boy to know that he can control so big an animal
as a horse just by the effort of his will. The boy that has
not a dog friend is to be pitied. A dog paraded on the end
of a string is no real companion; a dog friend is one with
whom you have trod the leaf-strewn paths of the wood,
starting with him at every woodland stir and _ scurry,
every scent and footprint. A boy learns quickness when
he borrows in this way a dog’s ears and nose. Be sorry,
too, for the boy who does not know a robin’s egg from a
wren’s, or a swallow’s nest from an oriole’s; who cannot
tell the call of the cat-bird from that of the whip-poor-will.
212
THE COUNTRY. BOY 252
To be a friend of the trees—to know the birch and the
beech, the ash and the aspen, the oak and the elm, not
because you have learned to identify them in the park
from pictures of their leaves in a book, but because you
have grown up with certain oaks and elms—that is some-
thing worth while.
A country boy’s sports, too, help in his making. What
is there comparable with the journey made by the crowd
on Saturday mornings in summer, across the field (and
how the stubble of the wheat hurts your bare feet !) through
the small woods to the swimming pond for a good splash,
and contests in speed and endurance, races in water and
out, unencumbered by garments. Then the silent, crafty
mornings spent with a rough rod and no reel, at the creek-
side, in combat with finny antagonists—the fishing. Those
hours add something to the country boy’s equipment, a
healthy enjoyment of thoughtful, contemplative hours,
that stand and have stood him in good stead—something
that the city boy in the rush and rattle can never have.
VIVIAN BuRNETT.
Off for the fishing pool.
ACID SOILS
Buy five cents’ worth of blue litmus paper at the drug
store. When you reach home, dig up a spadeful of moist
earth from your garden; break a lump in two, place a
piece of the litmus paper between the parts of the broken
lump and press them together firmly. Leave the litmus
paper there for twenty or thirty minutes. If at the end
of that time you find that the paper has become pinkish
or reddish in color, you may be sure that the soil is acid,
Or “sour.” |
When the soil is sour you cannot get a good crop of
clover or of any kind of legume from it, because the bac-
teria that live on the roots of the clover and supply it
with food do not thrive in acid soils; and if the bacteria
do not work properly, they do not supply a sufficient
amount of nitrogen to enrich the soil. If, then, you find
that the blue litmus paper turns red, it is a sign that your
soil is in a poor condition and will not produce the best
crops.
The way to overcome the sourness in the soil is to sup-
ply it with a proper amount of lime; for lime is what is
known as an alkali, which counteracts the effects of acids.
When vegetable matter decays in the soil, a certain amount
of acid is produced, and if the soil does not contain enough
lime to overcome it, the amount of acid continues to in-
crease. Some soils contain so much lime that they are
not likely to become sour; but in the case of other soils,
214
ACID SOILS 215
it is necessary to add a fresh supply of lime every few
years to keep them in proper condition.
But besides the fact that lime counteracts the effect
of the acid in the soil, there is another reason why the
soil should be well limed. As we have already seen, the
three plant-foods in which the soil is most likely to be
lacking are nitrogen, potassium, and phosphorus. Now it
is often the case that although there is an abundance of
potash and phosphorus in the soil, they are “locked up”
with other things, so that the plant cannot get at them.
But when lime is present in the soil, it attacks these com-
binations and sets a certain amount of potash and phos-
phorus free, so that the plant may use them. Lime itself
is used by plants only in small quantities, but it acts as
a fertilizer both by making it possible for the soil bac-
teria to manufacture nitrogen, and by setting potash and
phosphorus free.
When the farmer finds that the soil in a certain part of
his farm is not producing so well as he thinks it should,
it is worth his while to try the effect of liming a strip of
his field to see whether it improves his crops. But if the
soil is acid, the blue litmus paper will tell the tale; and if
the farmer’s boy wishes to be a help to his father, he will
be on the watch for sheep-sorrel (or sour-grass) and horse-
tail, which are two of the weeds that grow most commonly
in acid soils.
An old log country school-house.
A FIELD OF -MUSTARD
It was an old log country school-house, as I knew it,
situated at the cross-roads a mile east of Martin’s Corners.
The school-yard was full of stumps, and a broken picket
fence separated it from a bush lot behind. Directly across
from the school was a field of five acres or so, which formed
the corner of an ill-kept, broken-down farm. In the sea-
son of which I write, a crop of oats had been sown in the
field, but when the time for harvest came, there was little
oats to be seen. The whole field was a brilliant yellow,
and one might have imagined that it had been sown by
some perverse enemy with the object of producing a beau-
tiful harvest of wild mustard. As a matter of fact, the
mustard was so plentiful and the oats so scarce that the
216
A FIELD: OF MUSTARD 2277
farmer in charge—it was a rented farm—did not think it
worth while to cut the crop; and so it happened that in
the middle of August when we returned to school we
found the crop of mustard still standing and rapidly
ripening.
It happened that we had for teacher that year a young
fellow by the name of Morton, the son of a well-to-do
farmer who lived only half a mile from the school.
“Boys,” said he to us the Friday afternoon after school
opened, “if you are willing to help me after hours, ’'m go-
ing to give you a few lessons in agriculture. You see that
field of mustard. Mr. Armstrong, who owns this farm, has
agreed to give us half the crops off that field for the next
three years provided we agree to work the field and kill
that mustard. Let us see—we want a new baseball outfit
for this school. If we can make five dollars out of the
field we'll get that, and if we make a hundred we'll
get
‘““A phonograph,” suggested Leslie Perkins.
Of course, we all fell in with this idea, but Morton only
smiled. “I said, ‘Jf we make a hundred,’ remember.
What do you say, then? Will you help?”
Help! There wasn’t one of us who wouldn’t have gone
over that fence with a handspring, and begun pulling
mustard on the spot. But Morton wisely held us in.
‘Before we begin,” he urged, “‘we must learn all about
mustard—what kind of plant it is, how it grows, what its
seeds are like, when it comes to seed, and how we can kill
it. Leslie, bring me over a dozen mustard plants and we’ll
begin right now.”
Those were the most interesting lessons in nature study,
218 COUNTRY LIFE READER
agriculture, or whatever you choose to call it, that I ever
expect to have. On this particular afternoon we sat down
by the roadside, each with a mustard stalk in hand, and
under Morton’s directions we examined the whole plant—
the roots, the hairy stem, the branches, the leaves and the
flowers, and finally the seed-pods and seeds; for flowers
and seeds are found on the plant at the same time. Be-
fore we looked at the seeds Morton asked us to guess how
many seeds each plant would produce, and our guesses
ran all the way from fifty to five hundred.
‘““Let me give you a question in arithmetic,”’ said Mor-
ton. ‘Suppose I had the whole crop of seeds from Percy’s
plant here, and suppose I had a machine that would drop
one seed every three feet, I should have to go about nine
miles before the seeds were all gone. Now, how many
seeds are there?”
We figured it out then and there, and found that the
answer was about fifteen thousand seeds.
“And now,” said Morton, “I have a harder question
for you to work out at home. Supposing that there are
ten mustard plants in every square foot of that five-acre
field, how many plants are there? And if all this year’s
seeds grow, how many plants will there be next year?”
On Monday morning when we reached school we found,
to our surprise, that Morton had been over on Saturday
with his binder and had cut and bound the mustard and
oats together. That evening we shocked up the sheaves
in piles in different parts of the field, and a few days later,
when they had time to dry out, we made bonfires of the
piles.
The next Friday afternoon we had another lesson, and
A FIELD OF MUSTARD 219
this time we talked about the way the seeds of the mustard
could be killed. The first thing Morton tried to make
plain to us was the difference between an annual, such as
mustard, and the other kinds of weeds known as bien-
nials and perennials. ‘Since mustard is an annual,” he
explained to us, ‘‘we must make sure to kill every mus-
tard plant that comes up—and we know that when once
the plant is cut down it will not trouble us again, like the
thistle and the burdock.”
“Then all we have to do,”’ said Leslie, “‘is to kill all the
mustard plants that come up next spring, isn’t it?”
Morton looked at Leslie with something of a smile.
““The trouble is,’ he explained, “that all the seeds don’t
come up at the same time. A mustard seed won’t grow
unless it gets air and moisture and sunshine, so that only
the seeds that are close to the surface will grow. Suppose
you kill them. Just as soon as you begin to plough the
ground you are sure to bring thousands more to the sur-
face, and there you have a fresh crop of mustard plants.
Over in that field, there are mustard seeds in the ground
for a foot deep, and if you were to leave that ground for
twenty years without ploughing, and then stir up the soil,
some of those same seeds would begin to grow.”
By this time. we began to see that we had a big task
ahead of us; but this did not dampen our enthusiasm.
“The only thing for us to do,” continued Morton, “‘is
to try to make all these mustard seeds grow, and then kill
the plants before they come to flower. That means that
we have to keep turning the soil up, deeper and deeper,
so as to bring fresh seeds to the surface, until all the
seeds have sprouted.” :
220 COUNTRY LIFE READER
‘When shall be begin?” asked Lloyd Jones. ‘Next
spring ?”’
“No, my boy,” replied Morton. ‘‘We’ll begin right
now.’
And then he explained to us his plan of operations. To
go over the field to a depth of two or three inches only
with a gang-plough and harrow, wait till the seeds had
sprouted, cultivate and harrow again, and perhaps again,
and plough once more before the end of the season. As
for us, it was our business to go over the fence corners
and clear out all the weeds. Then in the next spring and
summer our proper work would come; for, according to
Morton’s plan, the field was to be planted with corn,
which we were to keep clean by cultivating and hoeing.
There is no need to go into the minute details of our
year’s struggle with the mustard. The ground was
ploughed and harrowed and cultivated, and cultivated
and harrowed and ploughed. The corn was planted and
cultivated and hoed, and cultivated and hoed again, in a
way that only twelve strong boys can hoe it. If it had
not been for Morton we should have given up more than
once in despair; but he kept us at it, and worked with ~
us—in our hoeing matches he always counted for two—so
that even in the holiday season we kept at the good work;
and even if our corn didn’t grow that year as well as might
have been expected, we had a good deal of healthful ex-
ercise and we enjoyed our work. And, last but not least,
after the seed corn and other expenses were paid we had
enough to buy our baseball outfit and a snug nest-egg to
go toward the coveted phonograph.
That fall the process of ploughing, harrowing, and cul-
A FIELD OF MUSTARD 225
tivating was continued, and in the spring we put in a crop
of wheat with clover. Our work this summer was not so
hard, since it consisted simply in going through the wheat
and pulling out the mustard by hand;* and we did it thor-
oughly. Our grain crop was good, and netted us easily
another sixty dollars.
By the end of the second year some of the older boys
had left the school, but those of us that were left watched
the clover-field closely for any mustard plants that might
appear; and in the fall when the field was ploughed under
again, Morton went over it several times as usual with the
harrow to kill any fresh plants that might come up. We
all knew, of course, that, even after our three years’ hard
work, the field would need careful watching for some
years to come; but we had filled our contract to the satis-
faction of Mr. Armstrong, and at the same time had earned,
and more than earned, our school phonograph; and, best
of all, we had learned many useful lessons of perseverance
and hard work, which are among the most important
subjects on the farmers’ out-of-doors curriculum.
Aman was once walking with a farmer through a beau-
tiful field, when he happened to see a tall thistle on the
other side of the fence. In a second, over the fence he
jumped, and cut it off close to the ground. “Is that your
field?” asked his companion. ‘‘Oh, no!” said the farmer;
‘““bad weeds do not care much for fences, and if I should
leave that thistle to blossom in my neighbor’s field I
should soon have plenty in my own.” |
* Mustard and many other weeds in the grain-field may be destroyed by spraying with a
solution of iron sulphate. The solution takes the moisture from the weeds but does not
injure the grain.
There stands a field of golden sheaves.
HARVEST SONG
There stands a field of golden sheaves,
To the very edge of the world it heaves.
Grind, mill, grind!
The wind falls in the wide land,
Many mills at the sky-edge stand.
Grind, mill, grind !
There comes a sunset dark and red,
Many poor people are crying for bread,
Grind, mill, grind!
The night holds in its lap the storm,
To-morrow the men to work will swarm.
Grind, mill, grind.
Clean are the fields swept, never again
A man shall cry in hunger-pain.
Grind, mill, grind!
*
RIcHARD DEHMEL (Trans., Jethro Bithell).
PII N EAS
THE BOY WHO MADE THE REAPER
The first successful reaping-machine made in America
-was invented by a boy named Cyrus H. McCormick.
His father owned what was a very large farm in Virginia,
and Cyrus helped in the fields. His father had a small
blacksmith shop beside the house, in which he had a forge
and all the tools that blacksmiths use. Cyrus liked to
watch his father in the shop, and he liked to play with the
tools when he could get his father’s consent.
As he grew older he learned to use the various tools,
and finally his father let him do some of the work in the
shop. Cyrus took to this kind of work and became quite
expert in making things.
In those days, you know, they cut the grain with a
scythe and a cradle. The cradle consisted of several long
wooden teeth on the back of the scythe. On these teeth
the grain was caught, and then with a sudden shake of
the handle the grain was deposited on the ground in bunches
instead of lying in rows.
This was hard work; so, naturally, Cyrus tried to think
of a way to make a machine that would do it by horse-
power. Cyrus’s father had been thinking along the same
lines, and had tried to make a machine; but it wouldn’t
work. When the father finally gave it up, Cyrus planned
a machine entirely different. He built it without his father’s
knowing it, and tried it out one fall. It was not entirely
a success, but he made some changes and tried it out again.
Finally, in 1831, he had made his first successful reaper.
223
224 COUNTRY LIFE READER
He wasn’t entirely satisfied, however, and he kept on
making improvements until, in 1834, he had a machine
good enough to patent. He secured a patent in Washing-
ton, and then tried to sell some of the reapers for thirty
dollars apiece. No one would buy. He advertised in one
of the local papers, and gave a demonstration on one of
the farms near by; but people were not accustomed to
seeing machines on a farm, and no one thought he could
run a reaper if he did buy it.
In 1839 he invited a number of the farmers to see the
reaper work. It cut two acres in an hour. That was
really wonderful in those days, but still no one would
buy.
The next year, however, a man at Egypt, Virginia, de-
cided to invest thirty dollars in the reaper. He took it
home and cut his grain with entire satisfaction. Naturally
he praised it and told Cyrus what a good machine it was.
Cyrus told other farmers what this man had said, and
finally, the next year, persuaded seven farmers to buy
reapers. He had raised the price, too, to one hundred
dollars. By working hard he sold twenty-nine machines
in 1843, and fifty the next year. He used all kinds of
legitimate means of making sales. When he found a man
who really needed a reaper, he stayed with him until he
purchased one.
Later he got other patents for improvements he made,
and then he moved to Chicago to build a large factory in
which he might make more reapers in one year than some
folks had thought could possibly be used in ten. He didn’t
have enough money to build a factory when he went to
Chicago, but he went to the mayor and told him about
‘Peg yoy oy} UT UMOG
226 COUNTRY LIFE READER
the reaper. The mayor had some money to invest, and he
thought this would be a good way to make more with it;
so he gave Mr. McCormick twenty-five thousand dollars
to build a factory, and reapers were made pretty fast from
that time on. Mr. McCormick devoted much of his time
to planning ways of selling the machines, and was very
successful.
Finally the mayor and McCormick decided to dissolve
their partnership, and Mr. McCormick gave him fifty
thousand dollars for his share. After that the factory was.
run by McCormick and his two brothers.
The old reaper was not as good as it might be, however.
The improvement Mr. McCormick wanted to make was
an attachment that would bind the grain into bundles.
It had been necessary for men to do that by hand, and it
was tiresome and expensive work. But it was difficult
to make a machine that would tie knots as a man could,
and McCormick was not able to develop the attachment
he wanted. Finally a man by the name of Appleby made |
a machine that bound the grain into bundles and tied
them. Wire was used at first, but later a binding twine,
very similar to the twine we use to-day, was made and
proved more successful than the wire. That attachment
is still used on the grain-binders of to-day. Very little
change has been made init. It made a big difference in
the use of the machines, however, for every one who saw
or heard of the work it did wanted one.
McCormick was not satisfied to sell his machines in
America alone; so he took some of them to England to
the first great World’s Fair, which was held in London.
Every one there was interested in it, and he was able to
THE BOY WHO MADE THE REAPER 227
establish several branch houses in Europe where the ma-
chines could be sold.
In all the years that McCormick was making so much
money he never ceased to work hard. He was busy all
the time, always working out some methods to make the
machines better or to sell more. And when he died the
last thing he said was: ‘Work, work !”’
Joun Y. BEATY.
THE FARMER’S CREED
I believe in a permanent agriculture, a soil that shall
grow richer rather than poorer from year to year.
I believe in hundred-bushel corn and in fifty-bushel
wheat, and I shall not be satisfied with anything less.
I believe that the only good weed is a dead weed, and
that a clean farm is as important as a clean conscience.
I believe in the farm boy and in the farm girl, the farmer’s
best crops and the future’s best hope.
I believe in the farm woman, and will do all in my power
to make her life easier and happier.
I believe in a country school that prepares for country
life, and a country church that teaches its people to love
deeply and live honorably.
I believe in community spirit, a pride in home and neigh-
bors, and I will do my part to make my own community
the best in the State.
I believe in the farmer, I believe in farm life, I believe
in the inspiration of the open country.
I am proud to be a farmer, and I will try earnestly to
be worthy of the name.
2 FRANK I. MANN
THE CORN SONG
Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!
Through vales of grass and meads of flowers.
Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.
We dropped the seed o’er hill and plain,
Beneath the sun of May,
And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.
All through the long, bright days of June
Its leaves grew green and fair,
And waved in hot midsummer’s noon
Its soft and yellow hair.
And now, with autumn’s moonlit eves,
Its harvest-time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.
There, when the snows about us drift,
And winter winds are cold,
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.
JouN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
228
AN ACRE OF WHEAT
I think all the farmers in the township knew of the
competition between Hill and me concerning that model
field of wheat. At least every farmer that passed, slowed
down to a walk, or even stopped altogether, so that the
driver might look over the fence and ‘‘see how the wheat
was doing’’; and if either Hill or I went to the post-office
of an evening we were targets for serious questions as
well as for good-natured jesting as to the results of our
experiments in growing wheat.
It came about in this way: Hill is a farmer of the good,
old-fashioned kind who has never made a study of farm-
ing as a science, and who has always been ready to poke
fun at what he calls our ‘‘new-fangled methods.” Hill
is my second cousin, and during the year that I lived on
the farm next to him we argued a good deal about our
different methods. But neither of us was convinced by
the arguments of the other, and we agreed at last to settle
the matter by experiment; or, to put it in other words,
Hill laid a wager with me that he could grow a better
acre of fall wheat than I. The conditions were that the two
acres were to be side by side, just where our two farms
adjoined, and that each of us was to have a free hand to
do anything he pleased to increase the amount. The pro-
ceeds from the two acres were to go to the one securing
the larger yield. f
We had chosen this particular strip of ground chiefly
because the soil there was a good clay loam, which is usually
229
230 COUNTRY LIFE READER
found to be the best soil for growing wheat, but partly
also because both fields were fresh, having been used that
year for a crop of peas. As soon as the peas were gathered
in, we measured off the two plots very carefully, and as
all the other details had already been arranged we were
at once off to a good start.
I knew that if I were to succeed against a
sense”? farmer like Hill, it could only be by exercising
greater care in preparing the ground and in choosing and
sowing the seed. After our seed was once planted we
could do practically nothing to make the yield any greater.
The first question I had to decide was whether I should
use any fertilizer. Hill manured his ground well, but in-
stead of spreading the manure at once, he left it in piles,
and as a result after a week of rain much of its strength
had soaked into the ground under the piles. I had the
advantage of using a “‘spreader”’ to lay it on evenly. But
‘*common-
in addition to the manure, I provided commercial fer-.
tilizers in case the ground should be lacking in the potash,
phosphoric acid, and nitrogen that are essential to the
. growth of the wheat plants.
Having provided fertilizers, I had next to decide when
I should plough the ground. Hill was in no hurry, and
left the ploughing till late; but I had been taught to
plough early so as to give the furrow slice time to settle,
and I began to prepare my ground in August, a full
month before the time for sowing. It seemed to me that
my ground was rather stiff and lumpy, and as an extra
precaution I rolled it before harrowing. When I had fin-
ished harrowing I found that I had a good firm under-
soil which would hold moisture, covered over by a layer
Ee
AN ACRE OF WHEAT 231
of fine loam two or three inches deep. During the next
few weeks I harrowed my plot regularly once a week,
partly to prevent any weeds from springing up and partly
to expose the soil to the air and to keep the surface fresh
and moist. Hill, in the meantime, had left his ploughing
I did my sowing with a drill.
till late, and as he did not roll his ground, or harrow it
more than once, he was quite ready to laugh at me for
my pains.
‘“‘When you have farmed as long as I have,” he per-
sisted, ‘‘you’ll learn that there’s such a thing as being
over-particular and you’ll find out that these new-fangled
notions of yours don’t pay.”
When we laid our wager we agreed that we should both
sow the same kind of wheat, so that neither of us might
have any advantage in choosing any special variety, but
I at least took pains to see that I had a good quality of
seed, with kernels large and plump, and free from signs
222 COUNTRY LIFE READER
of weeds. We had, of course, to use our own judgment
as to how much seed we should sow. Every kernel of
grain, as all farmers know, sends up first a single shoot;
and then if the soil is favorable and if there is plenty of
room, a number of other shoots will spring up from the
same root, so that a single seed will give several heads of
grain. When the stalks multiply in this way the grain
is said to ‘‘stool” or ‘‘tiller.”’ Hill, in my opinion, did not
usually sow thickly enough, but depended upon the stool-
ing of the wheat to give him a good crop. I had been
taught to use plenty of seed and when the time came for
sowing I used nearly two bushels of seed wheat, although
Hill used little more than half that amount. Hill was
inclined to laugh at me, too, because I did my sowing with
a drill. The old-fashioned way, he boasted, was good
enough for him; and so he scattered his grain broadcast
and covered it with the harrow. But whatever else might
happen, I was at least confident that my acre of wheat
was more evenly sown and better covered than his could
possibly be without the use of the drill.
I had finished my seeding both in my model plot and
on the rest of my farm before the end of September, and
as Hill did not plant till ten days later, my grain was the
first to appear, and before the winter set in it had a good
growth. But Hill’s field looked well, too, even if it did
seem slightly less strong than mine, and it was much too
early yet to make predictions.
It was a good year for wheat, and as the time of harvest
approached, both fields appeared to be in excellent condi-
tion. In order that the test might be absolutely fair, the
owner of the farm across the road, who had taken a keen
AN ACRE OF WHEAT 233
interest in the wager from the very first, agreed to act
as judge; and it was left to him to do the cutting, storing,
and threshing of the grain. Of course the farmers in the
neighborhood had taken sides and had. discussed among
themselves the methods we used, and compared them
with their own. Indeed, most of them were almost as
eager as elther Hill or I to measure the results, and on
the day appointed for threshing it seemed as if half the
farmers in the township were present.
Hill’s grain was threshed first and, to the surprise of
every one, turned out a full 36 bushels. Would mine go
more? It was an anxious half-hour, but as box after box
was emptied, I crept slowly up—38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43—
and a half! Hill had thirty acres in wheat that year, and
with the market at ninety cents a bushel, it was an easy
matter for him to figure out his loss!
It was a good year for wheat.
The fruits of autumn.
THE SONG OF MILO, THE FARM-HAND
O Demeter, abounding in fruit and ears of the harvest,
Well may this field be worked and yield a crop beyond
measure !
Hard, bind hard, ye binders, the sheaves, lest ever a passer
Say, “These men are poor sticks, and their pay is cash
out of pocket.”
Toward the north wind let your swath of grain in the
cutting
Look, or else to the west, for thus the ear will grow fuller.
Threshers, threshing the corn, should shun the slumbers
of noonday;
That is the very hour when the chaff flies off from the
wheat stalk. ~
Reapers, begin your toil when the tuft lark soars from
the meadow:
Cease when he sleeps: besides, in the heat of the day
take your leisure. E. C. STEDMAN.
234
Se
THE APPLE HARVEST
You see each day through September that the apples
are getting larger and redder or more golden. Nature
never forgets the beautiful in preparing the useful; and
so beautiful is the orchard hanging full of apples that it
seems almost a sacrilege to pluck them. But the old man
who has seen this ripening sixty times retold, says: ‘‘ Yes,
we must be ready; it will not do to have other work in
the way; the ladders and the barrels must be looked after,
and the cellar must be prepared for storing the apples.”
_ The modern apple tree seldom grows over twenty-five
feet high, and can be fully picked with a twenty-foot
ladder. My orders are: ‘‘Lay every apple into the basket;
do not toss or drop it one inch. When the basket is level
full, without heaping, come down, and lay the apples one
by one into the wagon on a blanket or some soft hay.
Never pour the fruit and never put in an apple that has
fallen, no matter how sound it looks.”
The picker will protest: ‘What! not pour smoothly
over my hands?”’
‘““No, sir, not even with delicacy. I will furnish the
time—only do you never pour or drop my apples.”’
The ordinary man is quite unprepared for this sort of
care, but it is your only way of getting a profitable crop
out of your orchard. Handle apples like eggs and there
is money in the orchard every time; but break one cell
in an apple and you have started decay. It may not show
for some weeks, but that apple will not keep all winter—
235
2360 COUNTRY LIFE READER
not even if it be a Baldwin. When the basket is emptied
into the bin from the wagon there should be the same
judgment and care. As you lift the apples from the wagon,
sort them into three grades: No. 3 for cider; No. 2 for
Down in the orchard.
early sale; No. 1 as absolutely perfect apples for storage
or barrelling. It is a beautiful piece of work from first to
last, but it permits no rudeness at any stage.
Before the apples are stored, the cellar must be thoroughly
scoured and ventilated. So we wash the bins with soap
THE APPLE HARVEST 237
and spray them with formalin, and we do not leave a smell
of must or mould anywhere, for an apple hates rank odors
and it soon loses its own distinctive flavor in their presence.
An apple cellar is a delightsome place, or it ought to
be. In it there is no storage of vegetables or of kitchen
affairs. The ideal cellar should have a brook running
through it if that were possible, for it is not the dry cellar
that best keeps the fruit. It should not be mouldy, but
it should not be dry. It should have plenty of windows;
but these are for summer use, and in winter should never
be opened. When the fruit is once in storage, the windows
should be both closed and darkened, and should remain
so till the last apples are disposed of in May or June. The
walls of this cellar should be unusually thick, and it should
be entirely separate from the house; for the temperature
must be kept very near, or just above, freezing. It is
possible for a farmer to have a cellar of this sort under
his carriage-house or some part of his barns; but it should
not be placed anywhere where the odors of the stable
can reach the fruit. Burying apples in dug-outs is satis-
factory, where there is no better provision for them, but
they will quickly gather an earthy flavor.
E. P. POWELL.
Sweetest memories of life cluster about the apple orchards.
It [the apple tree] is a wonderful tree standing alone on a
hillside, haunted by boys, and a favorite place for robins’
nests. But an orchard of apple trees, standing in long,
long rows all over the slope that looks down into a valley
full of homes, is a gift surpassing all others for human
ownership.
APPLE TIME
Now is the season when red apples gleam
Amid the bronze, still leaves, or one by one,
When the wind stirs, fall to the orchard grass,
There to be mellowed in the drowsy sun.
And one will gather them to cellar bins,
The deep, dim, apple-odored cellar bins,
Where they may lie to wait those happy tides
When festal fun and winter cheer begins.
And one will make the happy juices run,
Golden and shining from the presses’ lips,
While school-boys in the early frosty morn
Stand by, to taste from eager finger-tips.
Now is the season of the apple’s wealth;
Then, friend, let this be your devout desire:
To walk the sunny hills by day, at night
To sit with apples by your open fire.
ARTHUR L. PHELPS.
238.
Noisily down the lane comes the traction-engine.
THRESHING
Noisily down the lane comes the traction-engine haul-
ing the huge grain separator to the barn-yard. All is in
readiness and soon is heard the cheerful “‘chug-chug”’
of the machines at work. The whirring wheels and rapidly
revolving cylinders fascinate the boy. He watches every
movement and asks eager questions of the men. Will-
ingly he helps to store away the grain pouring so swiftly
from the machine; and when the threshing is all over and
the last shrill whistle of the engine is heard far down the
road, he sighs with regret that one of the most interesting
and exciting events of the year is over.
But threshing was not always done in such a speedy
and interesting way. Hundreds and hundreds of years
ago, when warlike Celtic tribes burned their grain stalks
and then gathered up the parched grain from among the
239
240 COUNTRY “LIFE READER
ashes, perhaps the little Celtic lads watched the process
with wide open eyes; but you would consider that a tame
sort of threshing! Yet it was threshing; for the separa-
tion of grain from its straw, by any means whatever, is
threshing.
This simple method of threshing by burning the straw
was used when the quantity of grain was great enough
to permit; but where only a small quantity of grain was
grown, it was rubbed out by hand. A little later, men be-
gan to form the stalks into bundles, and then they sepa-
rated the grain from the straw by beating these bundles
against the hard earth.
But the Egyptians and the Israelites found a better
way. ‘They used to choose a hard piece of ground that
was on a higher level than its surroundings, and around
it they built a circular wall to form an inclosure. The
grain stalks were spread on this ‘‘floor,’’ which was from
fifty to one hundred feet in diameter, and oxen were driven
round and round to tread out the grain. You will see the
reason why a high piece of ground was chosen. It was
because they wanted to make use of the winds to blow
away the chaff. But while this method of threshing was
a great improvement over the earlier ways, it was very
wasteful, for a considerable amount of grain. was trodden
into the ground by the hoofs of the oxen. Yet threshing
is done in this way still in Persia, in India, and in some
parts of southern Europe.
Other races used a threshing sledge. This was in some
cases an ordinary sledge with a ridged bottom, and it
was drawn over the grain by oxen. ‘The better sledges
had heavy frames, on which were mounted three or more
THRESHING 241
spiked rollers, which revolved as the sled. was drawn along.
This kind of threshing may still be seen in some parts of
the Orient, although it, too, is a wasteful operation.
At length some one thought of a new plan, and began
to use a special sort of stick with which to beat out the
grain. Little by little these sticks were improved, until
at last it became quite the common thing to use a staff
(about five feet long), to which was attached by a flexible
thong, a piece of heavier, thicker wood (about thirty
inches long), known as the swingle, or beater. This thresh-
ing instrument was called a flail; and it has been in use
up to the days of our grandfathers. When the flail was
used, the straw was raked away; and the wheat was
cleaned of chaff by tossing the mixture in the air, so as
to allow the grain to fall to the earth and the chaff to
blow away. In this way a man might, on an average,
thresh and clean twelve or fifteen bushels of grain in a
day.
But this slow process has given way to one by which
nearly a hundred times that amount may be threshed in
the same length of time. About the beginning of the
eighteenth century, machines began to take the place of
hand labor in many kinds of work. ‘The first machines
that were invented for threshing grain were operated by
water-power, but all were failures. At last, however, in
1786, a Scotchman named Andrew Meikle succeeded in
making a machine that did the work effectively by means
of horse-power. 7
Since then the threshing-machine has been continually
improved. With the introduction of the steam-engine,
during the past century, came the invention of the steam-
242 COUNTRY LIFE READER
thresher and the traction-engine; and now we have com-
plicated threshers with band-cutters, feeders, stackers,
grain-measurers, loaders, straw-burners, and many other
devices for overcoming the hard labor and discomfort
of threshing. Andrew Meikle’s first machine would appear
very crude and clumsy compared with those now in use;
and how the Persian or the Hindoo, still accustomed to
the old, slow, tedious, wasteful methods, would stare, if
he were to walk into one of our Western farmyards on
threshing day!
M. B. STEVENSON.
The steam-thresher.
Ploughing—the old way.
THE PLOUGH
From Egypt behind my oxen
With their stately step and slow,
Northward and east and west I went,
To the desert and the snow;
Down through the centuries one by one
Turning the clod to the shower,
Till there’s never a land beneath the sun
But has blossomed behind my power.
I slid through the sodden rice-fields
With my grunting humpbacked steers;
I turned the turf of the Tiber plain
In Rome’s imperial years.
I was left in the half-drawn furrow
When Coriolanus came,
Leaving the farm for the Forum’s stir
To save a nation’s name.
243
244
COUNTRY LIFE READER
Over the sea to the north I went,
White cliffs and a sea-board blue,
And my path was glad in the English grass
As my stout red Devons drew.
My path was glad in the English grass,
For behind me rippled and curled
The corn that was life to the sailor-men
That sailed the ships of the world.
And later I went to the north again,
And day by day drew down
A little more of the purple hills
To join my kingdom brown.
And the whaups wheeled out to the moorlands,
But the gray gulls stayed with me,
Where my Clydesdales drummed a marching song
With their feathered feet on the lea.
Then the new lands called me westward;
I found in the prairies wide,
A toil to my stoutest daring,
And a foe to test my pride.
But I stooped my strength to the stiff black loam,
And I found my labor sweet;
And I loosened the soil that was trampled firm
By a million buffaloes’ feet.
From Egypt behind my oxen,
With stately step and slow,
THE PLOUGH 245
I have carried your weightiest burden,
Ye toilers that reap and sow!
I am the Ruler, the King,
And I hold the world in fee,
Sword upon sword may ring,
But the triumph shall rest with me!
WILL OGILVIE.
Ploughing—the new way.
THE GRAIN ROBBERS
Did you ever hear of a wheat-field full of robbers, each
choking as well as robbing its victim? Every year millions
of dollars are lost in grain-fields by robbers of this sort,
and yet you may pass, again and again, a field in which
they are at work, without seeing one of them or hearing
a sound! For these thieves are so tiny and carry on their
plundering so quietly as to attract little attention. When
the farmer sees reddish or black spots breaking through
the straw of his grain, he knows the robbers are at work;
and he may shake his head sadly, and perhaps say to his
neighbor, “I see signs of rust on my crops’’—for “rust”’
is the name by which these marauders are known.
Let us follow one of these stealthy robbers on its de-
stroying way. If you were to examine, in spring, some of
the previous year’s wheat straw which had been affected
by rust, you might see certain peculiar black streaks.
Look at these through a microscope and you will see that
the streaks are made up of a mass of tiny bodies. These
are called spores. They have thick coats, which enable
them to live through the winter. In spring they begin to
sprout and produce other little spores, which are called
sporids. .
Along comes the wind, which carries off these little
sporids and lodges them on the leaves of plants. Some
of them fall upon the leaves of the barberry-bush, which
is especially suited to their growth; and here the sporids
push out small tubes into the tissues of the leaves, and
246
THE GRAIN ROBBERS 247
branch out in a sort of net-work. Soon a bright yellow
spot shows on the under-sides of the leaves and the micro-
scope shows this spot to be made up of little cups, in clus-
ters; and in each little cup are small yellow spores. This
is the first stage in the growth of rust.
These yellow summer spores are, in their turn, started
off on their travels by the wind; and if they settle on grow-
ing wheat, oats, or other grain, they at once begin to find
their way into the plant through the breathing-pores.
They greedily take for themselves the sap which ought
to go to nourish the grain. The roots of the grain plant
go on faithfully taking in the raw materials from the soil,
to be made over into plant tissue; yet the plant starves,
because the food is stolen by these hungry spores.
Now, indeed, follows a struggle! For, even though handi-
capped by these robbers, the wheat may grow. If the
weather is clear and bright, it may ripen without showing
any sign of its struggle. But if the weather is damp and
sultry, the robber-rust gains the victory, and cuts off the
victim’s supply of air by filling the breathing-pores with
an immense number of rough red spores. It is these spores
that the farmer dreads to see—for the summer wind may
scatter them far and wide to continue their deadly work
in every field they reach. This is the second stage in the
growth of rust..
The growth of the successful summer spore continues
until late in summer. Then the black streaks are pro-
duced by the formation of the winter spores which are
to preserve the life of the parasite robber through the
cold of winter.
Is the farmer helpless before this robber-rust? Has
248 COUNTRY LIFE - READER
he no way of protecting his grain? Nothing can be done
after the rust has established itself in the growing crops;
but, just as we protect our homes from robbery by making
it difficult for robbers to get at our belongings, so the
farmer may do something to discourage this troublesome
rust. If the straw of rusty grain is completely rotted, the
winter spores will not be so likely to sprout in the spring.
And if the soil is well-drained, and attention given to all
the conditions which tend to produce healthy plants, the
grain will have a better chance of winning in the struggle
with its enemy.
M. B. STEVENSON.
AUTUMN
Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad,
As though he joyed in his plenteous store,
Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad,
That he had banished hunger, which tofore
Had by the body oft him pinched sore:
Upon his head a wreath, that was enrolled
With ears of corn of every sort, he bore:
And in his hand a sickle he did hold,
To reap the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold.
EDMUND SPENSER.
THE WANDERERS
If you were to ask which is the most interesting do-
mestic animal on the farm, I should, I think, name the
turkey. There is at least one time in the year when it
is, you will admit, very interesting—-when it appears on
the table, at a Thanksgiving or a Christmas dinner, brown
and tender, with savory dressing and cranberry sauce.
And then you begin to wonder whatever a Christmas
dinner could have been like before Columbus discovered
America in 1492, when there was no turkey and no potato
to go with it.
Yes, turkeys had their first home in America, and not
in Turkey in Europe or Turkey in Asia, as I used to imagine
when I was a boy at school. It seems to me I should like
to have gone hunting in those days, in one of the Mexican
jungles, with the chance of coming on a covey of wild tur-
keys as a part of the day’s game. And if I had managed
to bring down one of them—a big, sixteen-pound bronze
fellow—I should have been satisfied with my bag for the
day. What a stir a flock of wild turkeys must have made
when suddenly startled from their feeding-ground in the
underbrush or from their perches in the lowest branches
of the trees in the jungle!
When he was a wild, jungle bird, the turkey, of course,
got his food for himself, and wandered sometimes a long
distance in search of it. Even yet, on the farm, one of
the first rules for bringing up a brood of turkeys is, ‘‘ Give
them range,” for they still like to follow so far as they can
249
250 COUNTRY LIFE READER
their old wild way of living; and a flock of turkeys will
take the run of the farm and the woods, and sometimes
of the whole neighborhood. But there is one good thing
about these wanderings—the flock of turkeys seldom need
to be fed at home; and since they live chiefly on bugs
and grasshoppers, they do a good deal toward keeping
the farm clear of insects of this kind.
But though they are generally able to look out for them-
selves in getting a supply of food, a brood of turkeys are
difficult to bring up. To begin with, the mother bird
is likely to “hide away” her nest in some out-of-the-way
corner of the farm, and when the young are hatched out,
especially if the weather is cold or wet, many of them are
lost before the new brood is discovered. If there is one
thing above another that young turkeys cannot stand, it
is getting wet, and if they are allowed to drag through
the wet grass, it is almost certain to be fatal. Then, too,
as soon as they are hatched, the young turkeys are likely
to be attacked by lice and to die as a result. If they es-
cape these two evils, there is always the danger of hawks
and owls, or skunks, and even rats. And then there are
the usual turkey diseases, such as pip and gapes and
blackhead, which account for a large number of others.
If the turkeys are left to shift for themselves, they are
almost sure to suffer; but if it is possible to give them a
little extra care, many of the new brood can be saved. In
the first place, the old turkeys should be watched so that
their nesting-places may be discovered, and if barrels or
boxes containing dry hay or straw are left in likely nesting-
places, there is a good chance that the turkeys will make
use of them. In order to keep down the lice, the ground’
THE WANDERERS 251
beneath the nest should be sprinkled with slaked lime, and
at least twice a week during the brooding period the old
turkey should be well dusted with insect powder. And after
hatching, the young turkeys should be examined from time
to time to see if they are free from lice. When insect pow-
der is used, it must be put on so that it will reach the
skin, and care must be taken to keep it out of the eyes.
After the young are hatched, both the mother and young
should be placed in a light, airy coop—one which is suf-
ficiently roomy for the old bird to move about in. The
young birds must be shut in at nights and in damp weather;
but on warm sunny days, when the grass is dry, they may
be permitted to run in an inclosed yard. But it should
be remembered that extremes of heat and cold are to be
avoided. At other times, while the young are shut in,
the mother bird should be allowed out for food and exer-
cise. The use of the coop should be continued until the
young birds are old enough to wander with the mother
or to roost out at night. For the sake of cleanliness the
position of the coop should be changed every few days.
The food of turkeys, both young and old, is just as im-
portant as their shelter. Information regarding the feed-
ing of turkeys is given in the bulletins and poultry books;
but there are one or two general rules regarding food that
should always be remembered. In the first place, the young
turkeys should not be allowed to gorge themselves with
food; and when grain is thrown out to them, it should be
scattered so that the turkeys may pick it up a grain ata
time. Above all things, they must be given no sour or fer-
mented food. Sour food for turkeys means certain death.
When the flock of turkeys are on their wanderings about
252 COUNTRY. LIFE, READER
The food of turkeys is as important as their shelter.
the farm during wet weather, their usual insect food is gen-
erally scarce, and to prevent the young turkeys from
continued wandering through the wet grass, the flock
should be hunted out and fed.
Since turkeys are given to wandering, there is always
danger that they may stray too far away or join them-
selves to a neighbor’s flock. When all the turkeys in
the neighborhood are of the same breed, it is often diffi-
cult to tell them apart; and for this reason some farmers
prefer to keep different breeds from those of their neigh-
bors. The bronze turkey is probably the most common
breed; but other well-known varieties are the buff, the
slate, the white, and the black, each of which has its own
special advantages. But whatever breed is chosen there
are certain well-known marks of a good turkey to look
for in making the choice—a red head, a bright eye, and a
disposition that is not too wild.
A THANKSGIVING
Lord, Thou hast given me a cell,
Wherein to dwell;
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather-proof;
Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry;
Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate;
Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,
Who thither come, and freely get
Good words, or meat.
Like as my parlor, so my hall
And kitchen’s small;
A little buttery, and therein
A bittle bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, *unflead;
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.
Lord, ’tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land,
And gives me, for my bushel sown,
Twice ten for one.
ROBERT HERRICK.
* Unflead—uncracked.
253
Cotton squares that have been injured by boll-weevil.
MAKING OVER THE ‘COTTON FARM
For the last three or four years Farmer Francis had not
made a success of his cotton crop. The plants had not
produced well, the crop was late, the weevils had de-
stroyed most of it, and what Francis did manage to save
was of poor quality. He was discouraged—for what had
happened for several years might easily happen again, and,
as far as he could see, there was no help for it. If the
boll-weevil was going to eat up his cotton crop, who could
prevent it? And, do his best, his farm never would pro-
duce good cotton anyway!
But just when things appeared to be at their worst,
something happened which gave Farmer Francis a good
deal of encouragement and set him once more upon a
254
—————
7S
See | Se ee a
MAKING OVER THE COTTON FARM 255
fair way to prosperity. A young man who had been sent
out by the government to study crop conditions in the
South, came into the neighborhood, and, partly by chance,
partly out of curiosity, Francis went to hear him speak
at a meeting in the neighboring town. To his surprise,
the young man began by describing a cotton farm so like
his own that Francis might have imagined that the de-
scription was ‘meant just for him alone. An unproductive
farm, the boll-weevil, poor cotton, and low prices—these
were the conditions for which he proposed to find a cure.
And what was the cure? Francis listened eagerly while
the young man talked of remedies for worn-out soil and
explained the value of rotation of crops and of proper
fertilizers for the soil. Then came the question of im-
proving the crop by choosing good seed. It had never
occurred to Francis that the kind of seed made any serious
difference in the crop; and, as for rotation, he could not
recall a time when cotton had not been grown on most of
the fields in his farm.
But the most interesting part of the evening’s talk was
the advice which the lecturer gave as to the best method
of fighting the boll-weevil.
“The weevils that are going to attack your cotton next
spring,” the lecturer explained, ‘‘must live through the
winter. Down in your fields the old weevils are getting
ready for the cold weather, feeding fat on the squares and
small bolls and leaves that are left on the old plants; and
new broods of young weevils are coming out. Every
weevil that begins work in the spring means millions
more before the season is over. Why not begin the fight
now and try to starve them out before winter comes on?
250 COUNTRY LIFE READER
Destroy the old plants with their squares and small bolls,
and you will have fewer weevils to begin with in the spring.”
Different ways of destroying the old plants, by burning,
ploughing under, and pasturing, were suggested; and
besides attempting to starve the weevil out in the fall,
the farmers were advised to clean up their farms so as
to destroy the corn-stalks, weeds, and rubbish in the
neighborhood of the cotton-fields, in which the weevils
were likely to pass the winter.
“And,” added the lecturer, “if you will set the children
to pick off the old weevils as soon as they appear on the
plants in spring, and gather and destroy all the squares
which are punctured by the weevil, you may account for
thousands of weevils which, if left alone, will play havoc
with your cotton.”
As Francis listened to the lecture and thought about
his own careless methods of farming, he could not help
wondering that he had managed to save any of his cotton
at all; and in the intervals of the discussion he mapped
out for himself a plan of campaign by which his farm
might be cleaned up and his cotton crops might be im-
proved.
“But in order that your cotton may have a fighting
chance against the weevil,” continued the lecturer, “‘it
must be brought to maturity as early as possible. If
your crop is early, there is a chance that your cotton-
plants may be able to set squares faster than the weevils
can multiply. The later the crop, the greater the num-
ber of weevils to destroy it.”
Then came the discussion of the different means for
securing an early crop. Quick-growing land, proper fer-
MAKING OVER THE COTTON FARM 257
tilizers, the choice of early varieties, thorough cultivation
of the soil—these and other agencies for bringing the crop
to early maturity were one by one considered and dis-
cussed.
The lecture contained so many good points that Francis
found it impossible to remember all the suggestions that
were made; but it had at least one good result—it made
Francis discontented with his own methods and encouraged
him to think that he might yet be able to do something
with his own run-down farm. One of the first things that
he did on his return home was to send for bulletins and
begin to read for himself. It was no small task, you may
be sure, to make over his farm; but there was pleasure
in the cleaning up and in planning for a rotation of crops
and for the improvement of the soil itself. In order to
carry out a rotation, he planted a smaller part of his farm
in cotton than heretofore, and because there was less
of it, he was able to cultivate his crop more thoroughly
and give more attention to his fight against the weevils
than he had ever done before. The neighbors were a
little inclined to smile at the enthusiasm with which
Francis undertook to carry out his new methods of farm-
ing; but he could well afford to let them smile, for at the
end of the first season he found that his crop of cotton was
more than double what it had ever been in any single
previous ‘year. ‘Patience and perseverance,” he was
often heard to say, “together with a clean farm, good
fertilizers, and an early crop, are the best backers you can
have in the fight against poverty and the boll-weevil.”’
Your farmhouse should be a part of the landscape.
A BETTER HOUSE
If you had your choice as to the kind of house you
might live in, what would you choose? Remember, you
are to live in the country, and the kind of house you might
build in the country would likely be very different from
what you would build in the city. If you could trans-
plant some of the city houses to the country, they would,
in most cases, look very much out of place, because they
are not suited to the surroundings of the country. In
building your farmhouse you must bear in mind that it is
to be part of the landscape—a picture set into a frame-
work of fields and trees.
It does not matter much what material your farm-
258
ee ite eee
ee ee eee
ee ea
A BETTER HOUSE 259
house is made of, so long as it suits its surroundings
and is convenient and comfortable, and so long as it can
easily be kept in repair. Frame houses are very common
in the country; but, in order to look well, a frame house
must be frequently painted, and this costs a good deal
both in time and money. This is one reason why houses
of brick or stone are becoming more common in the
country.
In planning a house, you must, of course, first decide
upon the size and shape; and perhaps you should be warned
against building too large a house. Remember that a
large house is not usually so cheerful or comfortable as a
smaller one, and it is certainly harder to keep clean.
When the boys and girls grow up, the family soon be-
comes scattered, and father and mother are likely to find
that the large, empty house is lonely and cheerless. In
deciding upon the shape of the house, the important thing
is to make it simple and convenient. It is more important
that your house should be comfortable and easy to work
in than that it should have a fine appearance.
When you begin to build, the first part of the house to
be provided for is the cellar. A farmhouse should have a
cellar under the whole house, not only because it makes
the house warmer, but because it can be put to so many
uses. The cellar should be well lighted; and if it is light
and dry, a room can be set apart for a work-bench and
tools. There should always be a room in which the boys
can work, if they wish, on winter evenings. The cellar
walls are usually made of either stone or concrete; but
since concrete is not always water-tight, it is best, unless
the ground is very dry, to lay a tile drain around the
260 COUNTRY LIFE READER
outside and to put a thick layer of gravel against the
concrete walls.
Besides having a good cellar, the house must have a
good roof; for the roof, more than anything else, gives
character to the house. A roof that slopes too sharply
does not look well; and it should not be cut up into fancy
gables or bordered with an ornamental “fringe” of any
kind. The roof should be plain and broad and should
reach out well over the walls. Some people like the red
roof for a farmhouse, and there are many who prefer tile
or shingle roofs to metal, because they feel that metal has
a harsh appearance and does not harmonize with the
landscape.
The best rooms in the house should be the living-room
and the kitchen, for these are the rooms in which the
family spend most of the time. If a separate dining-room
can be provided, in which the table can remain ‘“‘set,”’ it
will save mother a great deal of labor. In the down-
stairs rooms, plenty of pantry and cupboard space should
be provided; and above all things the kitchen should be
carefully planned with a view to the saving of needless
steps.
Can you afford a fireplace in the living-room, and per-
haps in the guest-chamber—the “spare” room upstairs,
also? It will give warmth and cheerfulness on cold even-
ings and will, besides, help to ventilate your room. If
you have a fireplace it is best to make it large. Let the
chimney come through the roof, generous, big, suggesting
warmth within, suggesting all manner of fine blazes upon
a glowing hearth. Nothing more adorns a agar house
than a generous chimney. |
A BETTER HOUSE 261
Now let us go upstairs; and in going up, we must not
forget the stairs themselves. The stairs of a farmhouse
should be made of hardwood, with steps that are both
os
pa
The stairs should be made of hardwood with steps low and broad.
low and broad, so that they may be easy to climb. The
upstairs should have a good, well-lighted hallway, and the
rooms should not be too large. Many of the best farm-
houses nowadays have ‘‘sleeping porches,’’ so that bed-
rooms are used only for dressing. The clothes-closets,
262 COUNTRY LIFE READER
however, should be roomy; and if there is space for a
small window in the clothes-closet, it will be all the better.
It would take too long to describe all the special con-
veniences which a modern farmhouse may have. Many
homes in the country are provided with steam-heating,
bathroom, hot and cold water, and electric light; and now .
that the farmer is able to get a better education and to
make the farm pay better, there is no reason why he
should not live in “a better house.”’
(To be continued.)
I would have our ordinary dwelling-houses built to last,
and built to be lovely; as rich and full of pleasantness
as may be, within and without . . . with such differences
as might suit and express each man’s character and occu-
pation, and partly his history. ... When we build let
us think that we build for ever. Let it not be for present
delight, nor for the present use alone; let it be such work
as our descendants will thank us for, and let us think, as
we lay stone on stone, that a time is to come when these
stones will be held sacred because our hands have touched
them, and that men will say as they look upon the labor
and wrought substance of them: “See! this our fathers
did for us.”’
RUSKIN.
@
4
i
a
b)
.
a
,
WINTER
THE FARM CREED
We believe that soil likes to eat, as well as its |
owner, and ought, therefore, to be liberally fed.
We believe in large crops which leave the land
better than they found it—making the farmer and
the farm both glad at once.
We believe in going to the bottom of things and,
therefore, in deep ploughing and enough of it. All
the better with a subsoil plough.
We believe that every farm should own a good
farmer. p
@
|
We believe that the best fertilizer for any soil
is a spirit of industry, enterprise, and intelligence. 4
Without this, lime and gypsum, bones and green
manure, marl and guano will be of little use.
A;
i
3
ee
houses, good stock, good orchards, and children
enough to gather the fruit.
We believe in a clean kitchen, a neat wife in it,
a spinning-wheel, a clean cupboard, a clean dairy,
and a clean conscience. . |
We firmly disbelieve in farmers that will not im-
prove, in farms that grow poorer every year, in
starving cattle, in farmers’ boys turning into clerks
2
and merchants, in farmers’ daughters unwilling to
We believe in good fences, good barns, good farm-
work, and in all farmers ashamed of their vocations or
who drink whiskey until honest people are ashamed
of them.
HENRY WARD BEECHER.
LEE GIS SF OLD
TS 7 SN Ne ry ME WARES. OF
THE FARMER AND THE MILLIONAIRE
(David Grayson is busy at work on his farm, when he is visited
by John Starkweather, a millionaire who lives in the neighbor-
hood. He gets John Starkweather to help him with his work, and
when they have finished, the following conversation takes place.)
We both washed our hands, talking with great good
humor. When we had finished, I said:
‘“‘Sit down, friend, if you’ve time, and let’s talk.”
So he sat down on one of the logs of my wood-pile: a
solid sort of man, rather warm after his recent activities.
He looked me over with some interest and, I thought,
friendliness.
‘““Why does a man like you,” he asked finally, ‘waste
himself on a little farm back here in the country?”
For a single instant I came nearer to being angry than
I have been for a long time. Waste myself! ‘‘Oh well,”
I thought with vainglorious superiority, ‘‘he doesn’t know.”
So I said:
“What would you have me be—a millionaire?”
He smiled, but with a sort of sincerity.
“Vou might be,” he said... Who. can .tell?”’
I laughed outright. The humor of it struck me as
delicious. Here I had been, ever since I had heard of
John Starkweather, rather gloating over him as a poor,
suffering millionaire (of course, millionaires ave unhappy),
and there he sat, ruddy of face and hearty of body, pity-
ing me for a poor, unfortunate farmer back here in the
country !
265
266 COUNTRY LIFE READER
So I sat down beside Mr. Starkweather on the log and
crossed my legs. I felt as though I had set foot in a new
country.
“Would you really advise me,” I asked, ‘‘to start in
to be a millionaire?”
He chuckled.
“Well, that’s one way of putting it. Hitch your wagon
to a star, but begin by making a few dollars more a year
than you spend. I know a man who began when he was
about your age with total assets of ten dollars and a good
digestion. He’s now considered a fairly wealthy man;
but, as I said, it’s a penny business to start with. The
point is, I like to see young men ambitious.”
“Ambitious,” I asked, “for what?”
‘““Why, to rise in the world, to get ahead.”
“‘T know you’ll pardon me,” I said, “for appearing to
cross-examine you, but I’m tremendously interested in
these things. What do you mean by rising? And who
am I to get ahead of?”
He looked at me in astonishment and with evident im-
patience at my stupidity.
‘“‘T am serious,” I said. ‘‘I really want to make the
best I can of my life. It’s the only one I’ve got.”
“‘See here,” he said, ‘“‘let us say you clear up five hun-
dred a year from this farm Ze
“You exaggerate,”’ I interrupted.
“Do I?” he laughed. “That makes my case all the
better. Now, isn’t it possible to rise from that? Couldn’t
you make a thousand, or five thousand, or even fifty thou-
sand a year?”
“T suppose I might,” I said, “but do you chink I'd be
THE FARMER AND THE MILLIONAIRE 267
any better off or happier with fifty thousand a year than
Iam now? You see, I like all these surroundings better
than any other place I ever knew. ‘That old green hill
over there with the oak on it is an intimate friend of
mine. I have a good corn-field in which every year I
work miracles. I’ve a cow and a horse and a few pigs. I
have a comfortable home. My appetite is perfect, and
I have plenty of food to gratify it. I sleep every night like
a boy, for I haven’t a trouble in this world to disturb me.
I enjoy the mornings here in the country; and the even-
ings are pleasant. Some of my neighbors have come to
be my good friends. I like them, and I am pretty sure
they like me. Inside the house there I have the best
books ever written, and I have time in the evenings to
read them—I mean really read them. Now, the question
is, would I be any better off, or any happier, if I had fifty
thousand a year?”’
“You’re making a strong case,” laughed John Stark-
weather.
“Strong!” I said. “It is simply wonderful what a
leverage upon society a few acres of land, a cow, a pig or
two, and a span of horses give toa man. I’m ridiculously
independent. I'd be the hardest sort of man to dislodge
or crush. I tell you, my friend, a farmer is like an oak,
his roots strike deep in the soil, he draws a sufficiency of
food from the earth itself, he breathes the free air around
him, his thirst is quenched by heaven itself—and there’s
no tax on sunshine.”
Davip GRAYSON (ADAPTED).
Down in the rice-field.
AS FIELD OF RICE
If you could look into all the homes in the different
countries of the world this morning, you would be surprised
to find what a large number of boys and girls are having
rice for breakfast; for, as you know, in eastern countries,
such as Persia, India, China, and Japan, rice is the chief
article of food.
In America, rice is grown chiefly in North and South
Carolina, Louisiana, and Texas. A little over two hun-
dred years ago (in 1694), a British ship from Madagas-
car to Liverpool was blown out of its course,.and put
in at Charleston. The captain gave Charles Landgrave
268
A FIELD OF RICE 269
Smith a package of rough rice. This rice was used as
seed, and from that time forward a large amount of rice
was grown in the Carolinas. In the meantime the native
French settlers in Louisiana and Texas were growing
enough rice for their own use; but as they had to depend
upon the natural rainfall for their crop it was sometimes
a failure. Beginning about the year 1888, a great many
settlers came into this part of the country. They also tried
to grow rice, but since they could not regulate the supply of
water their crop was always uncertain. At length, about
1895, an attempt was made to irrigate the land by artificial
means. When water was required it was pumped from the
rivers into canals, and in this way it was carried long dis-
tances, from higher to lower levels of the land; and when
the farmers wished to make the fields dry, the water was
shut off. Where it was difficult to obtain water from a
river, wells were sunk, from which a sufficient supply was
pumped. Both these methods of irrigation proved to be
very successful, and, as a result, great tracts of land were
opened up for rice-growing.
Rice, as you know, is a kind of grain, but it grows under
different conditions from most other grains; for it re-
quires a great deal of moisture and grows best on land that
is under water for part of the year. But, of course, the
ground should be as dry as possible when the ploughing is
done and when the rice is harvested. The soil is pre-
pared for rice in much the same way as for wheat or other
grain. It is best to plough in the fall, so that the soil
will be exposed to the air; and as the roots of the rice plant
go down to a depth of twelve or fourteen inches it is neces-
sary to plough deeply. Before the rice is planted the sur-
270 COUNTRY LIFE READER
face of the soil should be finely pulverized. Then the rice
is planted with a drill, in the same way as wheat.
After the rice comes up, it is usually necessary to go
over it with a weeder to kill the weeds, and if the ground
is very dry, the water should be turned on for a short
time; but it should be drained off again at once.
From the time that the plants are about eight inches
high until they are almost ready to harvest, they should
grow in water, and the field should be covered with water
from three to six inches in depth. In irrigated districts,
the water is kept in circulation by having an inflow at the
highest part of the field and an outflow at the lowest part.
The water not only kills the weeds but makes the rice
grow faster, and without water the grain would not head
out properly.
Before harvest time the water is drawn off and the ground
is left to dry out so that the harvesting-machines may be
used. Rice is harvested in the same way as wheat—with
self-binders—but as it is usually cut while the straw is still
green, heavier machines are required. After it is cut, it
is generally left standing in shocks for about three weeks
to dry before threshing. When it is threshed, the outer
husks are left on, and in this rough form it is known as
“paddy.” The rough rice is then put up in sacks and sent
to the mill, where the husks are removed and the rice is
polished in order to improve its appearance. The thin
covering, or ‘‘cuticle,’”’ which is removed in the process of
polishing, forms what is known as rice-polish bran. ‘This
bran is the part of the grain that contains most of the oil
and protein, and it makes good feed for young farm stock.
Rice is not a difficult crop to grow, provided it is possible
A FIELD OF RICE 271
to control the water-supply so that the farmer may be
reasonably certain that his crop will not be a failure.
Experience has shown that in order to make a success
of the crop it is not a good thing to grow rice on the same
soil year after year; and the most successful farmers in the
rice district grow rice in rotation with other crops. On
the whole, rice is a good-paying crop; but the farmer who
wishes to make the most out of his soil must use modern
methods of irrigating his fields and fertilizing his soil,
and must take advantage of labor-saving machinery in
preparing the ground and harvesting the crop.
OUT IN THE? FIELDS
The little cares that fretted me,
I lost them yesterday,
Among the fields above the sea,
Among the winds at play,
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.
The foolish fears of what may happen,
I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new-mown hay,
Among the husking of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born,
Out in the fields with God.
TWO PICTURES
An old farmhouse with meadows wide
And sweet with clover on each side;
A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out
The door with woodbine wreathed about,
And wishes his one thought all day:
‘Oh, if I could but fly away
From this dull spot, the world to see,
How happy, happy, happy,
How happy I should be!”
Amid the city’s constant din,
A man who round the world has been,
Who, ’mid the tumult and the throng,
Is thinking, thinking, all day long:
“Oh, could I only tread once more
The field path to the farmhouse door,
The old green meadow could I see,
How happy, happy, happy,
How happy I should be!”’
| ANNIE DovuGLAS ROBINSON.
272
BUBO VIRGINIANUS
THE STORY OF A GREAT HORNED OWL
Bubo was hungry. The first snow had fallen the even-
ing before, and the cottontails were afraid to venture out
from their coverts.. For them the snow was a great mis-
fortune, for they could not make a movement over it
without leaving their traces behind; and the white, glis-
tening carpet was a fatal background against which their
dark shadows appeared with every bound. So they wisely
stayed within their ground burrows and brush piles, and
Bubo went hungry.
He had taken up his position on the dead limb of a tall
elm, whence he could see on all sides of him through the
woods and away across through the little clearing by the
river side. Twilight was deepening once more, and a
little breeze was stirring through the few dead leaves that
yet remained on the trees. But not a sound otherwise
broke the stillness of the early night. Suddenly a faint
rustling sounded from the underbrush across the clear-
ing—sounded, and then ceased, and then sounded again.
Now was the time for Bubo! “Ahaoo! Hooo! Hooo!” —
The big owl horn echoed through the woods, and the cot-
tontail in the undergrowth, transfixed for the moment
with terror, made one mad bound for safety. But the
moment’s delay was fatal; Bubo had dashed down upon
his prey, stunned it with a fierce blow, and borne it aloft
to the limb of the elm tree above.
273
274 COUNTRY LIFE READER
Bubo was ravenous, and he soon made short work of
the cottontail. Planting one cruel claw on its neck, he
tore it to pieces with his strong beak and swallowed it in
eager mouthfuls. And with a double tongue, a tip point-
ing downward to the throat as well, it was, after all, an
easy matter to make the feast complete. Fur, skin, bones,
flesh, and all—there was no division of good and bad and
no rejection of clean or unclean. Bubo’s appetite was
not satisfied until he had devoured the last vestige of
bones and blood.
He was quite satisfied now, and for the rest of the night
he was able to enjoy to the full the sights and sounds of
the November woods, stopping only in the course of a
few hours to disgorge in one huge mouthful a ball of rab-
bit hair, the undigestible part of his evening meal.
The storm of the day before had passed away, and the
moon stood clear and full over the valley to the east, tip-
ping the frost-covered trees with misty whiteness and
covering the floor of the great woods with an interlacing
of black and white. Upon the top of the giant elm, close
to the side of the jagged peak, sat Bubo.
‘““Ahooo! Ahooo! Hooo!’ The echoes died away, and
a moment later the call was answered in fainter horn-
like notes across the valley, and then again in still fainter
echoes, from the pine wood that bordered the low-lying
sand dunes along the margin of the lake.
‘“Hoooo! Hooo! Hoo!” Like the hooting of a hoarse-
voiced engine in the distance—a mournful, soul-stirring
call, Bubo Virginianus; but it is Nature’s voice withal,
and it suits well with the harshness and bareness of the
bleak November woods.
BUBO VIRGINIANUS 275
“Ahooo! Hooo! Hoo!” The cottontails are stirring
now, but Bubo is satisfied. The start of terror passes un-
heeded, and the mad bound for safety awakens no re-
sponse.
_ “Hoooo! Hooo! Hoo!” Till the moon goes down in
the misty west, the drifting clouds overshadow the sky,
and the whole wood is wrapped in thick darkness, in which
tree and bush, beast and bird of prey alike, are swallowed
up and lost!
The next night Bubo was absent from his accustomed
place, and the deep owl horn from across the valley found
no answering echo from the elm. On the other side of
the great wood, down by the low-lying shore of the lake,
the muskrats were building their winter mounds of weeds
and grass in the shallow lagoons, and now with the ap-
proach of twilight their activity was redoubled. Up and
down the dark shadows swam, plying in and out among
the weeds and rushes, and around the very roots of the
tree at the mouth of the creek, in which Bubo sat waiting
and watching in the darkness. Bubo was not afraid of
water. His thick coat of feathers protected him too well
for that, but he knew better than to attack a muskrat in
his native element. By and by, however, there is a rustle
in the reeds close under the tree; a dark muzzle pushes
itself up from the water and searches among the rushes
along the shore. “Ahooo! Hooo! Hoo!” The hoarse
owl horn mingled with the soughing of the water and
sighing of the reeds, and then like a winged whirlwind the
great, fierce shadow fell among the weeds.
And so throughout the late autumn and winter the
feasting of .Bubo continued. Sometimes, indeed, food
276 COUNTRY LIFE READER
was scarce, but in general, when one source of supply
was exhausted, another took its place. Now it was a flock
of crows perched together in the dark midnight in the shel-
tering firs and spruces, or a bevy of innocent quail ranged
in a picturesque circle in the dry leaves. Or, again, a
belated black squirrel digging in the snow-drifts for a
buried walnut in the mid-winter twilight. But the cot-
tontail and the muskrats, after all, formed the staple of
his fare. |
Bubo’s ear with its wonderful tall ear-tufts, or horns,
was perhaps the greatest assistance in his hunting; but
the eye was a mechanism in itself that was wonder-
fully adapted to his nocturnal owlish life. By day the
pupil was only a small black spot in the centre of a great,
yellow, glaring disk; but with the approach of darkness
the yellow screen was drawn fully back, and the great
staring black pupil remained with its retina set to catch
every wandering glint of faintest light. In the daytime
Bubo could see fairly well, but the light on bright days
was too strong, and to guard against this he was provided
with a movable film, or screen, under the eyelid, which he
was able to let down over the eye at will.
In the short winter days he slept in a hole in the tree
top, where he generally remained undisturbed. From his
quiet retreat he could hear the puffing of the black squir-
rels in the big oak beyond, and the harsh croaking of the
beautiful, red-bellied woodpecker as it flew from trunk to
trunk. One afternoon a red squirrel and a red-headed
woodpecker played an endless game of tag around and
around the crotch of the tree below, and one dark and
foggy morning a sleepless raccoon stuck his pointed muzzle
BUBO VIRGINIANUS 277
within the doorway, but withdrew it in precipitate haste.
Bubo was left entirely alone, with only the dismal answering
horn from the other woods to cheer his owlish soul in the
gray dusk of the chill winter twilight.
Bubo’s mate lived across the valley in the lake woods,
and in the latter part of February the nesting operations
commenced. In this particular season the big nest of a
red-shouldered hawk, high up in a crooked elm, was chosen
out and put into repair, and even before the stormy
weather of March was over, three large gaping mouths in
the nest demanded all the care and attention of Bubo
and his mate.
Food was becoming scarce, but the wit of Bubo was
equal to the emergency. He had discovered in the pine
groves across the lake a large park which contained a fine
supply of rare pheasants, and night after night he made
fresh visits and helped himself liberally after his cus-
tomary fashion.
This continued for about a week, when one dark mid-
night he discovered a tall pole directly above the pheasant
pens—a splendid point of vantage from which he could
see down into the pens and select his victims at ease. So
down he sailed, noiselessly as ever, and lit upon the point.
There was a sudden sharp click as the spring of a steel
trap caught Bubo firmly by the claws. He strained every
muscle and spread his huge wings in a vain effort to escape.
It was of no avail. Then the instinct of the wild bird
asserted itself, and he jerked savagely at the steel springs
with his strong beak, but not a hair’s breadth would they
relax. All night long the struggle continued, but in vain,
and the gray morning twilight found him captive still.
278 COUNTRY LIFE READER
When the park ranger appeared in the morning, he at
once lowered the pole. He wished to remove Bubo alive,
so as to keep him prisoner for a while; but how to ac-
complish the task was a problem. Bubo had one foot
still free, and the fierce beak and cruel claws were weapons
to be avoided. He tried to approach from behind, but.
Bubo had the advantage there, for he was able to turn his
head the full circle and could look directly over his back
with as much ease as in facing to the front. Besides this,
he kept his beak open and kept up a repeated hissing,
which in itself was sufficient warning to the ranger to keep
his distance and beware. A noose thrown over the body,
however, soon secured the free foot and, watching his op-
portunity, the ranger seized the two wings and Bubo was
helpless. And what splendid wings! A full five feet, as
the ranger extended them, from tip to tip! What wonder
if the wood-hare started in his form in the thicket, and the
red weasel cowered low in his burrow at the sweep of their
fatal shadow on the glistening white of the snow? Strong,
soft, and beautiful, but rather to the wild creatures of
the wood the noiseless ministers of death—swift, sudden,
and unerring.
Before Bubo was freed from the trap, a small chain was
fastened about his leg with a double knot, and this was
attached to a staple in the side of a tree a few feet from
the ground. The chain made all attempts to escape use-
less, but Bubo had another artifice which he made use of,
an artifice which seemed a strange one, to say the least,
in so seemingly fierce a bird—the common device of the
weak in feigning death. When he found that all efforts
to escape were in vain, his wings relaxed, he dropped
*“Hoooo! Hooo! Hoo!”
280 COUNTRY LIFE READER
head foremost to the ground and lay limp and apparently
lifeless on the grass, from which condition he refused to
be aroused until he was finally left to himself again.
During the day he remained undisturbed, except for a
visit from a party of blue-jays. When they discovered
him they came down in a company, and perched in a ring
in the trees round about him, screeching and screaming
their maledictions on his head. In the midst of this ring
of enemies sat Bubo, staring, and blinking, and hissing,
the horn-tufts bent down in token of vexation, and very
wisely turning his head in all directions to guard against
the expected persecution. But in the course of time, hav-
ing vented their indignation on their enemy’s head, they
screamed hoarsely away and scattered once more to the
distant quarters of the wood.
Twilight fell at last. A chickadee lisped a “dee, dee,
dee’? among the tree tops, and the evening melody of
the wood-robin came up serenely from the budding elm
woods in the valley. The hoarse croak of a bullfrog fell
upon the gathering stillness of the night, and the tremulous
quavering of the little screech-owl came thin and faint
across the water from the distant wood.
Night had fallen, and with it Bubo’s hour had come.
He had not fingers to untie the knot and loosen the chain,
but he had what served the purpose as well—a strong,
fierce bill; and with it he pulled and shook and twisted
the chain on his leg until, one by one, he had loosened the
folds and shaken them free of his foot. The cord which
was added, too, as an extra precaution, he cut with his
sharp bill as with a knife, and a moment later was
winging his way across the park lands, seizing a belated
BUBO VIRGINIANUS 281
squirrel in: passing, in lieu of better and more satisfying
fare.
Troubles never come singly. In Bubo’s absence he was
ousted from his customary daytime retreat by a wan-
dering raccoon; and the following morning, for want of a
better hiding-place, he took up his position for the day
in the darkest crotch of a dense tree top near by, where
he sat the day through, blinking and staring and dozing
by turns.
It was there that I discovered him by accident late in
the afternoon, in scanning the tree top for a black squir-
rel’s hole; and as I watched him attentively through my
field-glasses, it was not a difficult matter to discover the
secret of his playing death the day before. So motionless
was he, and so like the tree trunk itself, that I fancied
him at first to be merely the bare and broken stub of a
giant branch. The great feather-tufts above his ears
stood up tall and stiff to catch the slightest wave of sound,
and he sat so rigid and erect in the hollow crook in the
limb that his enemies might well be deceived in taking
him to be a part and parcel of the tree.
While I was lying watching, a crow flopped lazily across
the valley, and, as fate would have it, alighted in this very
elm. There was a moment of suspense, and then a loud,
excited cawing. The secret of Bubo was discovered, but
he never stirred so much as a feather.
Were there ever so many crows in a single wood?
“Caw! Caw! Caaaw! Ha! Ha! Haw! Haaaw!
Owl! Owl! Owl! Here he is! Tear his eyes out! The
villain! The thief! Haaaaw! The wretch! We'll have
his life-blood! Revenge! Revenge! Oh, ha-a-a-a-a-w!”
282 COUNTRY LIFE READER
There were a score of them at least, and if storming
and scolding and threatening could have done the work,
Bubo would have died the death a hundred times over.
They knew the power of his fierce claws and bill from
sad experience only too well, and were too wise and cun-
ning to come within range. But they sat in a fierce ring
around about him, above, below, and on every side. They |
circled round his head, hovered in the air above him,
crept upon him from behind, crossed and recrossed in
front of him, and flapped their wings jeeringly in his very
eyes.
Then it was, if ever, that Bubo’s strange power of turn-
ing his head the full circle stood him in lucky stead. On
every side it seemed, wherever and whenever his perse-
cutors looked, the big, glaring, yellow eyes and the hiss-
ing bill were upon them. How long the torment would
have continued I do not know, had I not in my interest
and curiosity inadvertently leaned out too far from my
hiding-place. There was a loud caw of alarm and warn-
ing as I was discovered. The crows instantly scattered
to the four corners of the wood; and Bubo spread out his
great wings and noiselessly disappeared in the dense
foliage of the tree tops beyond.
And so the round of life went on for Bubo, year in and
year out. Summer wore into autumn once more, and the
fallen leaves rustled again to the footfall of the rabbit or
squirrel or to the stirring of the juncos in the underbrush.
Winter came around once again with its paradise of white
snow, its short days, and its long, lonely, dreary nights;
and in spring the white-throats sang again in the budding
thickets for one sweet day, as they passed on with the
BUBO VIRGINIANUS 283
great company of wanderers to their summer home in the
distant north.
It was an early autumn evening, cold, rainy, and dreary.
The wind had blown in fitful gusts all day, swaying the
tree tops and scattering the falling leaves in every direc-
tion. Not a creature was stirring in the great woods, for
wild creatures are too wise and too wary to risk their life
on a stormy day, when the approach of an enemy cannot
be readily heard. The great horn of Bubo sounded in vain
above the rustling of the leaves and the creaking of the
branches.
But, as the darkness deepened, a white object slowly
emerged from a deep burrow under a rotten stump at the
edge of the wood and finally disappeared among the clumps
of withered goldenrod that covered the little clearing be-
yond. Bubo well knew what the white tail plume and
the white fur meant. All the other wild creatures Nature
had clothed with harmonizing colors, so that the grass,
the leaves, the soil, the bark of the tree had, as it were,
taken them under their protecting care. But to Mephitis
Mephitica, the skunk, another weapon of defense had
been given, and the conspicuous white of the back and
tail was a danger signal, a warning to all other wild
creatures to take heed, keep their distance, and beware.
But whatever the other animals might do, Bubo had no
hesitation whatever in making the attack. The silence
of his movements gave no warning of his approach, and
he relied on the strength and swiftness of the fatal stroke
to protect him against the customary danger. But for
once, at least, on this autumn evening, fate was against
him, and that “once” in a wild animal’s life means in-
284 COUNTRY LIFE READER
evitable death. Was it the whistle of the evening wind
that gave the warning? Or was the evening twilight
still bright enough to reveal the black falling thunder-
bolt to the victim’s watchful eye? Bubo fell upon the
whiteness in the weeds, but fell he knew not how. Swift
and silent as he was, his eyes were burned and blinded
by the stinging acid stream, the victim’s weapon of self-
defense; the blow missed the vital part, and a moment
later, bitten through the wing and unable to rise, he was
once and for all in his enemy’s power. What a struggle
for life and death in the withered goldenrod! Furious,
ferocious, merciless, but silent! No-shriek or groan of
pain and no cry for quarter in the silence of the night—
only the creaking of the forest branches in the dreary
night wind and a fresh gust of rain among the fallen leaves
and withered weeds!
Will the driving rain-clouds not lift a little when the
fight is over? But no—the blackness of night falls upon
the wood and clearing and the goldenrod which has lost
its beauty; and the owl horn, faint and indistinct from
‘the distant woods, is lost at last in the steady downpour
of the dismal autumn rain.
Man was never intended to live out of relation with
nature. You think of rows of city houses as so many
graded prisons. Those who live in them, even in artificial
luxury, are deprived of the very best that God prepares
for us to enjoy.
E. P. POWELL.
Lively doings on the ice.
PETER VALE’S SKATES
“T don’t blame the boys and girls for leaving the farm
when they grow up,” said Mrs. Vale. “If I were young
again, I should go to live in town, too. What is there to
make them want to stay in the country, anyway? Now
this winter ‘3
“Mother,” interrupted ten-year-old Peter, who had
been gazing intently out of the window at the falling
snow, the first of the season, ‘“‘mother, can I have a
pair of skates this year?”
“Skates!” exclaimed Mrs. Vale. ‘Nonsense, child!
What would you do with skates? Don’t you see, the
creek will be covered over with snow by to-morrow; and,
besides, you couldn’t learn to skate on that bit of ice
anyway.
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286 COUNTRY LIFE READER
““Now, this winter, as I was saying, there’s absolutely
nothing for young folks to do out here, or old folks either,
for that matter—nothing but sleep, and do chores, and
get meals.”’
“That is all very well,” said Miss Patten, ‘‘but what
better off are they in the city? Of course there are
libraries and theatres and skating-rinks; but I’ve had
enough of the city with its noise and dirt. No more life
in a city boarding-house for me! I prefer the farm.”
Miss Patten was a country girl, born and brought up
on the farm; but she had been at the Normal School in
the city, and she had come back to the country school and
to farm life with a better appreciation of what country
life means. Asa part of her training as a teacher, she had
learned something about agriculture and farm manage-
ment, and she was firmly of the opinion that farm life
offers, or at least should offer, better attractions to the
farmers’ sons and daughters than the city.
‘So Peter Vale wants to skate?”’ she said to herself as
she walked home that evening. ‘‘And why shouldn’t he?
If the creek is too small why can’t we find some place else ?”’
But “‘some place else” is not always so easy to find! And
after all the possible places had been considered, she found
herself coming back time and again to the idea of making
a rink in the school yard itself. Here was a floor of hard
earth, a good pump to supply the water, and willing hands
to keep the ice clear of snow.
_ There is no need to give any account of AL way Miss
Patten’s plan was carried out. The rink was made—and
without any expense—and it was just as much a success
as an open-air rink made in that way could possibly ‘be.
PETER VALE’S SKATES 287
And when a pair of skates for Peter Vale arrived in Santa
Claus’s bag that Christmas, there was no one in the Glen
Grove section that was better pleased than Miss Patten,
- excepting, of course, Peter Vale himself.
But just because the rink was a success, Miss Patten
found that she had to face other problems which she had
not expected. The young people of the section wanted
to use the rink in the evenings, and this meant that the
school itself had to be warmed and lighted and kept open
a good deal of the time; for there were sure to be some of
the young folks or their elders who did not wish to skate
and who must have a place to rest. And then a bright
idea occurred to Miss Patten: why not have a table with
magazines, and farm journals and bulletins, and daily
papers, and books, and a stereoscope with pictures, for
those who preferred to remain inside? Why not, indeed,
have a lending library, open at least a couple of nights
a week, where those who wished to read might obtain
good books? Why not—it was a pleasure to plan it, even
if it never came true—why not have a special ‘“‘social-
centre” room built on to the school just for this purpose—
with library shelves, and tables, and easy chairs, and pic-
tures, and a gramophone, and games, and a big fireplace
for the cold winter evenings? Why not? But, after all,
these were only day-dreams. ‘The thing to do just now,
as Miss Patten saw it, was to make the school-room com-
fortable, and try, if possible, to provide some profitable
way of passing the winter evenings.
To Miss Patten’s surprise, the trustees fell in readily
with her plan, and even went so far as to supply a stereo-
scope with pictures, and two or three illustrated magazines.
288 COUNTRY LIFE READER
And when once the beginning was made, the part that re-
mained was not difficult. Miss Patten’s plan for the
library was to have each family contribute one new book
and one old one for lending purposes, while she herself
undertook to see that the books were regularly exchanged.
A scheme so simple as this was not difficult to carry out,
and before the winter was over, the Glen Grove school-
room boasted of half a dozen papers and magazines, a
collection of the best agricultural bulletins, and the be-
ginning of a neat little lending library.
Miss Patten’s plans for next winter include a debating
society, and a “‘young farmers’”’ agricultural club; but,
as “next winter” is still a long way off, the success or
failure of this new venture must belong to another story.
There is one supreme advantage of the country—one
not always appreciated and used as it should be. There
can be no doubt that country life offers far, far greater
facilities for reading than is the case in town. True, we
have our free libraries, and booksellers’ shops. But the
long, dark evenings that the countryman complains of—
the starless nights and unlighted lanes; the two miles of
peril and mud that prevent one going to the village con-
cert—these things make reading a necessity, deep thinking
a habit. The city may produce smartness, but character
requires space.
On the way home.
MAKING THE DAIRY-FARM PAY
“T hear that Bingham has bought the Dexter farm,”
said Mr. Jones to his wife. ‘‘He’s tired of the city and is
coming back to live in the country.”’
“Bingham!” replied Mrs. Jones in some surprise.
“What does Bingham know about farming now? He’s
been away from the farm for ten years. The Dexter place,
did you say?”
‘*Ves, the Dexter place. He’s going. to make an up-to-
date dairy-farm of it, they say. It’s one of Dick’s notions,
I think. You remember Dick Bingham, don’t you? He’s
twenty years old now and has just been at the Agricultural
College. His heart is set on farming, and he will have
nothing but a dairy-farm. So he has persuaded his father
to put some of his money into it and give him a good
start.”
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290 COUNTRY LIFE READER
“T didn’t think Bingham was such a fool as to sink his
money in that sort of thing,’ continued Mrs. Jones. ‘‘Of
course, they’ll never make it pay.”’ Then, after a pause:
‘Are you quite sure that Bingham has bought the place?”
Mr. Jones was quite sure of it and, as proof positive,
a few minutes later Mrs. Jones saw with her own eyes the
elder Bingham drive past and turn into the Dexter place,
which was only a quarter of a mile up the road from the
Jones farm.
‘Of course, they’ll never make it pay!”’ That was what
the neighbors all said. But Dick Bingham had quite
made up his mind that he would make it pay, notwith-
standing anything that the neighbors might do or say.
Upon one thing both he and his father were agreed—that
they should count the cost of the undertaking in detail
before going into it. They were both shrewd enough
business men to see that a dairy-farm, or any other kind
of farm, must earn enough to pay the interest on the capital
invested in the farm, the buildings, the stock, and the ma-
chinery, besides paying for the labor expended upon it.
The Dexter place was sadly out of repair, but the soil
was good—a fine clay loam—and the farm had a good
stream running through it; and it was pleasantly situated
a couple of miles from town and the railway-station. When
the neighbors heard that the Binghams had taken over
the place, they at once came to the conclusion that the old
buildings would be torn down and that fine new dairy
stables would be erected. But the old stables had been
well built, even though they were out of repair; and after
Dick and his father had looked them over, they concluded
that they could be reconstructed so as to do for the pres-
MAKING THE DAIRY-FARM PAY 291
ent at least, until the enterprise began to pay for itself.
There were three things that Dick had determined to pro-
vide for his cattle—plenty of light, a proper supply of
‘fresh air, and clean, comfortable stalls. Dexter’s stables
were dark and dingy, and all the fresh air which the cows
ever received was supplied through the open door and a
broken pane of glass in the single dirty window; and stalls
and floors alike were made of plank, which it was impos-
sible to keep clean, and which had been worn into holes
by long usage. The first thing that Dick did was to put
a row of windows in the whole length of the stable; open
up a series of ventilating shafts, so that the cows would get
fresh air without having to lie in drafts; and put in a rough
flooring of cement, with proper gutters and platforms.
“You would never guess it was the same place,” said
Mr. Jones, when he reported the improvements to his
wife. “I know Bingham talks a good. deal of nonsense
about the health of his cows, but I’m thinking all the
same that Ill knock a few windows in our cow stable;
and perhaps next year, if times get a little better, we can
afford a cement floor in our stable, too.”’
There was one thing more that Mr. Jones might have
added—that Dick Bingham wouldn’t put up with a dirty,
muddy barn-yard, or dirty stables either, for that matter.
And so the Dexter barn-yard was cleaned up and kept
clean, and if Dexter had come back to live in the place, he
might have put away his top-boots that he had to wear
so as to wade through the mire and filth of his own stable
yard. When Dick had finished making his improvements,
one part of the barn-yard was roofed over, and the ground
beneath was covered with good straw litter, but the rest
292 COUNTRY LIFE READER
of the yard was drained and packed hard, so that even
in the muddiest weather the ground was clean and dry.
When the Binghams bought the Dexter place they took
over the machinery and the live stock, and a few weeks
after they had taken possession they offered some of Dex-
A sanitary and conveniently arranged dairy barn.
ter’s cattle for sale. Mrs. Jones bought one of the cows
at a bargain, as she thought; but if she had known Dick
Bingham’s real reason for selling it, she would have thought
a good deal less of her purchase. The farmers of the dis-
trict as a rule were content to take their dairy herds as they
found them, and they had no means of knowing whether
a particular cow was paying them or not; but Dick took
measures to test each cow’s milk and keep a record of it;
and those cows whose record was low were at once sold
and replaced by good, paying milkers.
MAKING THE DAIRY-FARM PAY 293
So far, in the opinion of Dick and his father, everything
had gone well. They now had a good stable and barn-
yard and a good dairy herd, and they had no difficulty in
finding a market for their produce. The only thing that
still remained for them to do was to provide for the proper
feeding of the cattle. When Mr. and Mrs. Jones “hap-
pened in,’ one evening in November, they found Dick
seated at a table covered with papers, apparently working
out a complicated problem in arithmetic.
“Seems like old times,” said Dick, ‘““when I was at
school and used to have home work to do—only these are
not the kind of questions that we had to do then. I used
to have to find the cost of papering walls and carpeting
floors, but now I have to find out what is the best kind of
feed for my cows, and calculate what it will cost.”
“You see,” he went on, “‘with dairy cattle you have to
be particular what kind of feed you give them—so much
protein for each cow, so much carbohydrates, so much
fat; and I am trying to work out what they call a ‘bal-
anced ration,’ so as to give every cow just the right amount
of each.”
Mrs. Jones looked bewildered. She had never heard of
such things as proteins and carbohydrates, and she did
not have a very clear idea what Dick meant by “balanced
rations.”” Perhaps Dick saw this, for he went on with
his explanation without waiting for her to reply.
“Silage is good for cattle,’ he continued, “‘and so are
the legumes, such as clover and alfalfa; but they do not
contain enough protein, and so I measure out so many
pounds of each, according to the cow, and then I add other
food, such as bran and meal, which contain a good deal of
204 COUNTRY LIFE READER
protein and fat, so that the cows’ feed will be well bal-
anced.”
Mr. Jones had a good many questions to ask about the
dairy and the farm itself; and then Dick’s father, who had
been to market, came in, and the conversation turned to
old times and the old friends before Mr. Bingham had
first moved to town.
‘“‘Am I glad to get back to the country?” laughed Mr.
Bingham. ‘‘No need to ask that question. I’ve tried both
ways of living, and the country’s the place for me. But,”
he added, looking toward Dick with a knowing glance,
‘“‘a good deal depends on knowing /ow to live in the coun-
try, and I’m not sure that I should enjoy living here quite
so well if it were not for Dick. We both get a good deal
more pleasure out of farming because Dick has learned
how to farm; and it would not be much fun trying to run
a dairy-farm if Dick had not learned how to make the
dairy-farm pay.”
Give your farm stock every possible care. Do not
overwork them or ill-use them. Do not let them suffer
from exposure to rain and cold. Feed them at regular
hours, and make a study of the kinds of food they require.
Good shelter, good food, clean quarters, and kindly usage
—this is a form of investment which is sure to bring ample
returns.
Out on the frozen uplands.
THE PROMISE OF BREAD
Out on the frozen uplands,
Underneath the snow and sleet,
In the bosom of the ploughland
Sleeps the Promise of the Wheat;
With the ice for head and foot stone,
And a snowy shroud outspread,
In the frost-locked tomb of Winter
295
296
COUNTRY LIFE READER
Sleeps the Miracle of Bread!
With its hundred thousand reapers
And its hundred thousand men,
And the click of guard and sickle
And the flails that turn again;
And drover’s shout and snap of whips
And creak of horses’ tugs,
And a thin red line 0’ gingham girls
That carry water-jugs;
And yellow stalks and dagger beards
That stab through cotton clothes,
And farmer boys a-shocking wheat
In long and crooked rows;
And dust-veiled men on mountain stacks,
Whose pitchforks flash and gleam;
And threshing-engines shrieking songs
In syllables of steam;
And elevators painted red
That lift their giant arms
And beckon to the Harvest God
Above the brooding farms;
And loaded trains that hasten forth,
A hungry world to fill—
All sleeping just beneath the snow,
Out yonder on the hill!
A Western wheat-field.
WHEAT, FLOUR, AND BREAD
Imagine, if you can, that a grain of wheat has grown
very large, so large that you can easily see all its parts
and can cut it to pieces with a knife so as to see how it is
formed. You will, of course, notice the “brush” of fine
hairs at one end and the “crease”? or furrow which runs
down the front of the grain; but these things are on the
outside, and the important thing for us is to see the in-
side of the grain. Let us cut our big kernel of grain in
two across the middle and look at one of the ends that are
cut. There is nothing very wonderful here—just a fine
white substance covered by a rind or skin. If we could
examine this rind closely with a microscope we should
297
298 COUNTRY LIFE READER
see that it has a lining of plant cells which are closely
packed together. This rind or skin is generally spoken of
as the ‘‘bran.’”’ The white substance is called the ‘“en-
dosperm,” and it is this substance of which flour is made.
Now, if you will look at the lower end or “‘base”’ of your
kernel of wheat you will notice that the rind is rougher
than elsewhere, and if you will soak the grain in water so
that the rind will peel off you will find underneath it, on
the back of the grain, a little egg-shaped body, which
forms the embryo, or “‘germ,” from which the grain grows.
When the seed grain is planted, it swells with the warmth
and moisture of the ground, and the “germ” begins to
grow and sends out roots into the ground and blades of
grass into the air above. But, in order to grow, it must
have food. At first it uses up the food contained in the
endosperm, and then the roots begin to suck up food from
the air.
If the grain is not sown too thickly, several stalks grow
up from the same root and finally these stalks ‘head out.”
Like other plants, the wheat plant has flowers, but the
flowers are small and are protected by a rough covering
or sheath of ‘‘chaff.’’ In time the flowers go to seed and
when this grain, or ‘‘seed,” ripens, it is threshed out, and
later it is ground into flour.
Long ago, when people first began to grind wheat they
crushed it between any two flat stones that happened to
be near at hand. A little later they kept two flat stones
specially for that purpose, one of which was fixed in the
ground while the other was turned on it. When tread-
mills, windmills, and, later, water-wheels came into use,
the grinding was done at mills by men who understood
WHEAT, FLOUR, AND BREAD 299
how it should be done. But in all these ways of grinding,
all the different parts of the wheat were left together in
the flour. Later, the millers found a method of sifting
out the coarser parts.
The grinding of the grain and the sifting of the flour
have gradually been improved, until to-day we have mills
covering acres of ground, and making thousands of barrels
of flour each day. In these mills, they are able to separate
the different parts of the wheat, and can make ever so
many different grades of flour.
In the modern flour-mills the wheat is ground by what
is known as the roller process. In the course of grinding,
the wheat usually passes through six pairs of rollers be-
fore the grinding is completed. In the first, the miller
seeks just to break the grain into pieces. After sifting,
the coarse parts, called the “‘tailings,”’ are passed on to the
next pair of rollers, where the flour is removed. After
the wheat has passed through all the rollers in this way,
the flattened pieces are almost entirely free from flour
and are classed as bran. In all such methods of grind-
ing wheat, the centre part is rubbed off first; and, being
free from bran particles, it makes very white flour. This
forms the grade of flour known as “‘patent.” That got
by grinding closer to the bran is known as the “baker's -
grades. Still closer grinding forms the low grades of flour.
Generally speaking, the more bran particles there are in the
flour, the lower it is graded. The outer part of the wheat,
nearly all of which goes into the bran, contains much more
bone-making material than the flour. Because of this,
some say that the ‘‘patent”’ and “baker’s”’ grades of flour
are not so good as the flour made by the old stone process.
300 COUNTRY LIFE READER
During the first half of the last century a man named
Sylvester Graham, who lived in the New England States,
urged the use of flour made from the whole wheat, including
the bran; and flour made in this way is known as Graham
flour. But it is hard to grind the bran so fine that it will
not have a bad effect on the digestive system; and to over-
come this, a machine has been invented which peels off
the outer coat of the wheat grain. The remainder is
ground, and is known as “‘entire wheat flour.”’ Such
flour is always dark in color, because the germ is ground
with it, but it contains more bone and fat producing ma-
terial than flour made in any other way.
It is very difficult to be sure of the exact quality of a
flour, but there are certain general rules by which a good
bread flour may be judged quickly. It should be white,
with a faint yellow tinge, and it should fall loosely apart
in the hand after being pressed. When put between the
teeth it should ‘‘crunch” a little, or when rubbed be-
tween the fingers it should be slightly gritty. But pos-
sibly there is no one point which determines the quality
of flour so much as the amount of gluten it contains.
Some one asks: ‘What is gluten?”’ Have you ever made
gum by chewing wheat? Nearly all children in the coun-
try have done so. The gummy part is gluten. If you
have ever tried to make gum from oats, barley, or corn,
you have failed; because these grains do not contain
gluten. It is because wheat contains this substance that
it is so much used for bread-baking. If you take a little
flour and add enough water to make it into a stiff dough,
and allow it to stand for an hour, and then take it between
your fingers and knead it in water, you will see the water
WHEAT, FLOUR, AND BREAD 301
get white with the starch part that is separating from the
dough. Continue the washing until the starch is all re-
moved. What remains is gluten. Notice how tough and
elastic it is.
Some varieties of wheat contain more gluten than others.
There is also a great difference in the quality of glutens:
some are tough and can be pulled out like a piece of rubber;
others are soft and break when pulled. The wheat which
contains the most gluten of a good, tough, elastic quality
will make the best flour for bread-making. For this reason,
what are known as spring wheats are usually better than
those known as fall wheats. Millers call a flour which
contains good gluten “‘strong,’”’ and one that contains poor
gluten “weak.”
Now that we have learned something about flour, let
us see if we can learn something about the changes that
take place when it is made into bread. If you have ever
tried to wet flour with water, you will have noticed how
hard it is to get the flour all wet. That is because the
flour is so very fine. One of the main objects of making
the flour into bread before it is eaten, is to separate these
fine particles so that the digestive fluids of the stomach
may more easily mix with them. The baker commences
by mixing the flour with water. He also puts in yeast,
and mixes it all together so thoroughly that the water
~and yeast come into contact with each little particle of
flour.
Yeast consists of countless numbers of small plants
known as yeast plants. When the paste of dough con-
taining yeast is set in a warm place the yeast plants begin
to grow by feeding upon the sugar in the flour. The sugar
302 COUNTRY LIFE READER
is in this way changed into alcohol and a gas called carbonic
acid gas, which is familiar to us in ginger ale and similar
drinks. When the dough is heated, the heat causes the
bubbles of gas to expand, or grow large. If it were not
for the gluten in the dough, the gas would be able to force
its way out; but the gluten stretches like elastic and holds
the gas in, and the bread swells or “rises” as a result. If
too much yeast is added to the flour, too much gas may be
formed; and the gas may even spread out the gluten so far
that the walls.of the bubbles may break. The tougher
and more elastic the gluten, the better the dough will rise,
and the lighter the bread will be. This is where good
gluten is valuable.
Take a slice of bread and examine it carefully. Notice
the little openings or holes in it. These little holes were
formed by the gas being held in by the gluten, as just de-
scribed.
After the yeast has worked enough, the dough is put
into a hot oven. Here the heat kills the yeast plants,
drives off the alcohol, and causes the gas to expand further.
R. HARCOURT (ADAPTED).
Winter is the time to do much good reading. A tramp
over real fields is to be preferred to a tramp in a book.
But a good book is pretty nearly as good as anything under
the stars. You need both fields and books. And during
these cold days—impossible days, some of them, for work
afield—you will read, read! !
DaLiAs LORE SHARP.
AMONG THE EVERGREENS
The name ‘“‘evergreen”’ is, of course, only a popular
name for the five or six kinds of trees whose leaves, or
“needles,” remain on the trees all the year round. When
we speak of the evergreens, we generally think of the pine,
the spruce, the fir, the hemlock, and the cedar.
One of the most conspicuous objects in almost any
landscape, in the wilder parts of the country at least, is
the white pine, which towers up, tall and irregular, over
the surrounding rocks and the smaller undergrowth be-
neath. Very hardy it is, for it may often be found growing
apparently out of the solid rock, its roots stretching down
through some narrow crevice to the scanty soil from which
it draws its nourishment. This is the pine which you will
meet with most commonly in all parts of the country
where the soil is dry and sandy; and it is perhaps, after
all, only a matter of chance that it is not our national
emblem, for in the New England colonies two hundred
years ago it was the device that was stamped on the silver
coins, which were known as “Pine Tree Shillings.”
Besides the white pine, you may also meet with the
beautiful red pine, a shorter, denser, and more regular tree, .
which is often used for ornament and shade. It may be °
easily distinguished from the white pine by the fact that
its needles grow in pairs, while those of the white pine
grow in tufts of five, and that its cones, instead of appear-
ing singly, are found in clusters of two or three.
Early last spring, during several days, I watched a sap-
303
304 COUNTRY LIFE READER
sucker ‘‘tapping”’ one of these red pines for its sap, and
the process was an interesting one indeed. He chose the
side of the tree exposed to the sun, because the sap flows
more freely there; then he proceeded to chisel out five or
six rows of holes in the bark, about half an inch apart, until
he had thirty or forty in all. This task finished, he flew
off; but in the course of half an hour he returned and licked
up the sap that had gathered in the holes, together with
the insects that had been attracted by the sap. Then he
went away again, only to return in another half-hour; and
this sap-gathering was kept up regularly for several days.
Indeed, I have no doubt that he had a good many other
trees in his “sugar bush,” and that he spent the intervals
during his absence from the red pine in going his rounds
from tree to tree.
Another evergreen that is most common in our northern
woods is the spruce, in its different varieties, black, white,
and red. If the white pine is the most valuable timber-
tree, the spruce, on the other hand, is the most valuable
for pulp wood. Its importance may be judged from the
fact that one of the large dailies of New York uses over
two hundred cords of spruce per day in the manufacture
of paper. The spruce that we are most familiar with about
our lawns and streets as an ornamental shade-tree is the
Norway spruce; and, as its name implies, it is not a native
variety. It may readily be distinguished from the native
species by the size of its cones, which are at least five or
six inches in length, while those of the black spruce, for
instance, are scarcely a quarter of that size. The thickness
of the branches of the spruce make it a fine nesting-place
for certain of the birds—the robin, the blue-jay, the cat-
Among the evergreens,
306 COUNTRY LIFE READER
bird, and the chipping-sparrow; and in the cold winter
nights it has usually a motley crowd of tenants, English
sparrows, waxwings, jays, juncos, and winter birds of all
kinds, who find in its kindly shelter a protection from the
cold.
A tree which looks very much like the spruce, but which
is found only in the north, is the balsam fir. The balsam fir
differs from the spruce in several marked respects. It is
not so tall; its bark is smoother and is covered with blisters
containing ‘‘balsam,”’ and its needles are fragrant. More-
over, the needles of the spruce are sharp and grow thickly
from all parts of the stem, while those of the fir are blunt
and grow in two rows along the sides of the twigs. The
balsam fir is a great favorite with most people, not only
on account of its fragrance, which makes its needles valuable
as a filling for pillows, but because it is one of the trees
from which the genuine, old-fashioned Christmas tree is
still made.
The hemlock is another evergreen of the northern woods,
which is interesting for a variety of reasons. In the late
summer and autumn, at least, it is one of the sombre trees
of the pine forests, rising tall, dark, thick-topped, and
gloomy, but beautiful nevertheless. Its needles are short
and flat, its branches dense, and its cones small and deli-
cately formed. Its bark is the well-known tan-bark. used
in curing leather; and even if a farm is otherwise barren
and rocky, the farmer may make at least a fair income if
the rockiest portions of it are covered with a good supply
of hemlock, which is doubly valuable on account of its bark
and its wood.
Then, too, the hemlock, even when half-rotten and
AMONG THE EVERGREENS 307
lying on the ground, is of interest to the lover of nature,
on account of the beautiful fungus that grows from its
trunk. These fungous growths are sometimes very large,
measuring over a foot in diameter, and they are covered
with a delicate brown bloom which makes them look like
the branching horns of the deer in the velvet. When this
velvety bloom is brushed off, the fungus is bright mahog-
any in color, and is scarcely less beautiful than the orig-
inal brown. —
But the hemlock has still greater attraction for the boys,
for it is the favorite feeding-ground of the porcupine.
This dull-witted, slow-footed vegetarian lives chiefly on
the fresh twigs and bark of the birch and the hemlock,
and he may sometimes be seen, late in the afternoon,
scrambling clumsily about in the thick hemlock top be-
fore he retires for the night to his shelter in the rocks. _
eee, ak ae
Winter by the brookside.
A BETTER HOUSE
(CONCLUDED)
In the furnishing of houses great changes have been
made since our great grandfathers’ time. Many of the old
log cabins had little furniture besides tables, chairs, and
beds. The beds were made of four poles, with basswood
bark woven between them. The chairs and tables were
roughly made and without ornamentation. But later,
when flax and wool were raised and when spinning-wheels
were invented, curtains and carpets of home manufacture
made the pioneer homes more comfortable. Then came
a time when it was thought that articles which came from
the stores were better than those which were home-made.
As a result, “store” carpets, curtains, chairs, and other
furnishings came into use; and to-day in our houses there
are few home-made articles to be found.
But have all these changes in the furnishing of our
homes always meant a real improvement? Let us look
into an average living-room in a farmhouse and see whether
there are not further changes we might make, that would
produce for us, as the title of our lesson says, “a better
house.”’
Here we are! Let us push up the window shades. We
must let the sunshine enter if our room is to be cheerful
and healthful. But look at the curtains! They are much
too long and they spread over the carpet in such a way
that one cannot go near the windows without stepping
308
A BETTER HOUSE 309
on them. And see! Now that I have pushed them
back, what a lovely view! This window frames in that
beautiful old apple tree and gives a glimpse of the front
lane beyond. Suppose we take away those thick lace
curtains, and hang instead some curtains of thinner ma-
terial. And let us have them come only to the lower edge
of the window—so that they will not cover up the fine
lines of the well-built window-frame. Then, too, we shall
keep them clean more easily if they are short. Now,
see the change! Our windows are pictures now—for we
can see the outdoor loveliness through these thin cur-
tains—and the woodwork of the window forms a frame
for the picture.
But what a strange, crowded feeling we have in this
room! And yet it is not small. Can you see the cause?
The designs in the wall-paper and in the carpet are so large
and striking that they seem to “‘jump up”’ at us, and there
is not a spot where the eye may rest. Let us put a plainer
paper on the wall—one with a narrow stripe or with no
pattern at all. Then, if we replace the staring carpet by
a rug, which can be easily lifted and frequently cleaned,
we shall find that our room has a totally different ap-
pearance. :
How much better our pictures will look now that we
have a plainer paper on the wall, to serve as a background
for them. But we cannot hang these pictures as they are.
Look at this Madonna! See how the picture is lost in the
confusion of the frame, which attracts our attention more
than the picture itself does. A frame should be merely
a division of the picture from the wall, and there is some-
thing wrong about it if it is noticeable. We shall put a
310 COUNTRY” LIFE” READER
simple, dignified frame on this ‘picture, and then the full
beauty of the painting will be brought out. Generally,
bright gilt frames are a mistake in a house. They were
The frame should not attract too much attention.
first used on richly colored paintings placed in dim cathe-
drals, where the gold of the frames harmonized with the
golden vessels on the altar. But in a small room a gold
frame usually becomes too noticeable, and is in poor taste.
The room looks better now; yet it has a crowded ap-
pearance still. Look at the array of bric-a-brac on the
mantel and on the piano. The wax figures are pushing
those vases almost over! Suppose we apply an old test
here. Let us ask of each of these articles: “Is it useful?
Is it beautiful?” If it is neither, it must go! Here is a
vase, slender near the base, larger farther up, and the
mouth is so narrow that it cannot be used for a bouquet.
A BETTER HOUSE 311
It is not beautiful, for it giyes us an uneasy fear that it may
topple over any minute, while an object of beauty should
give us a feeling of ease, and of satisfaction in its propor-'
tions. Besides,
the glittering gilt
of the handles
and base is not
in keeping, with
the simple beauty
of flowers. _ But
here, just beside
this, is another
vase, and it is
truly lovely. The
shape is ideal for
long-stemmed
flowers, and its |
color is such as will not be out of harmony with any
flowers we may choose to use. Many of the other things
on the mantel are beautiful as well as useful; but there
are too many. If we remove some, there will be space
enough between the others to allow our minds and eyes
to rest as we look from one to the other.
And now that we are through with the mantel, what
do you think of the chairs in this room? Here is one I
like very much—and here is one I dislike. Can you see
the difference? This one is simple in line, strong in work-
manship, stands true on its feet, and is covered with
burlap, which does not hold the dust. It is a roomy, com-
fortable chair. But the other is cushioned in velvet and
plush—impossible to keep clean—and the “spindle”’ work,
Flowers always look best in a simple vase.
312 COUNTRY LIFE READER
which is meant to be ornamental, breaks easily. In such
a chair one would scarcely dare move lest it give way! I
am glad there are more of the first sort than of the second
in the room.
A roomy, comfortable chair is better than one that is merely ornamental.
I am sure, too, that you will agree with me in wishing
to have this couch made over, if possible. The ornaments
glued to the back stick out uncomfortably, and the frame,
as a whole, has ugly angles. How much better it will be
if we can have it made over to look like the second couch
in the illustration. The latter is simpler in design, and
the dark-green corduroy covering is not so glaring as the
bright-red plush of the other.
You noticed that I put aside the cushions just now, in
order to see the couch without them. Let us examine the
cushions next. Don’t you think, since the object of a
A BETTER HOUSE 313
cushion is to afford comfort, that it is in bad taste to have
one like this—with a head painted on in color? If you
Choose furniture which is simple in design.
like to look at it, it would be better to frame it as a pic-
ture, but what possible excuse is there for it on a sofa
pillow? The cover cannot be cleaned, and one would
hesitate to settle down for.a nap on anything so gaudy.
314 COUNTRY LIFE READER
Here are several that are much better—the border orna-
ment on this does not interfere with the comfortable use
of the cushion, and the cover is of:linen, which can be
washed any number of times.
But are you growing tired of our visit? Just before you
_The lamp on the right is of little practical use.
go, I want you to look at the lamp on_ this little table,
and then at the one by the book-case. You see there is
a great difference. In this one, notice how dusty the
shade is with all its ruffles; and then, too, the cheap decora-
tion of the bowl makes it difficult to keep clean. Its
outlines are in poor proportion, and the whole affair is too
showy for practical use. But the other lamp has plain
materials, the base is comfortably large, and the wide-
spreading shade sends a splendid light over the table.
I suppose the reason that we find in the same room
articles so totally different as these two lamps, is that the
furnishings have been bought at long intervals, just when
A BETTER HOUSE 315
the owner could afford something new. There is no reason
why a room furnished gradually, one piece at a time,
should not be as beautiful as one completely furnished
at the outset. But to do it successfully we must plan our
room beforehand and know how we wish it to look when
completed. What should you think of a man, setting out
to build a house for himself, who would buy some bricks
this month, a can or two of paint the next, perhaps some
odd pieces of scantling of different lengths the next, and
so on, at haphazard, without any definite plan, hoping
that somehow it would all fit in! Yet that is what many
of us do in furnishing our homes—where it is just as fool-
ish.
Plan your room. Decide the color scheme you wish
to follow, taking into consideration the lighting of the
room and its use. ‘Treat the walls as backgrounds for
pictures and furniture. Choose and frame your pictures
carefully; then hang them where they can be seen to the
best advantage, and in such a way as to form pleasing
lines on the wall space. Consider the windows as pic-
tures. One lady in her beautiful home on the Saint Law-
rence River leaves her windows free of all draperies and
curtains, because they frame in such scenes of loveliness.
You are fortunate in having your homes in the country,
where your windows look upon green fields and woods,
instead of upon bare brick walls, as is so often the case
in crowded cities.
Select your furniture for use—not for ornamentation.
Therefore choose furniture of good wood, of honest work-
manship, and of a design suited to the nature of the room
for which it is intended. Let us have no sham about
316 COUNTRY LIFE READER
our homes; let everything be real. Then, with every
purchase we make, every new treasure we gain to add to
the beauty of our home, we shall be making of it ‘a better
house.” M. B. STEVENSON.
THE AWAKENING OF SPRING
FROM “IN MEMORIAM.”
Now fades the last long streak of snow,
Now bourgeons every maze of quick
About the flowering squares, and thick
By ashen roots the violets blow.
Now rings the woodland loud and long,
The distance takes a lovelier hue,
And drowned in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.
Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
The flocks are whiter down the vale,
And milkier every milky sail
On winding stream or distant sea;
Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
In yonder greening gleam, and fly
The happy birds, that change their sky
To build and brood; that live their lives
From land to land; and in my breast
Spring wakens, too; and my regret
Becomes an April violet,
And buds and blossoms like the rest.
ALFRED, LorD TENNYSON.
SPRING
THE FIRST GARDEN
And the Lord God planted a garden east-
ward in Eden; and there he put the man
whom he had formed
And out of the ground made the Lord
God to grow every tree that is pleasant to
the sight, and good for food; the tree of life
also in the midst of the garden, and the tree
of the knowledge of good and evil.
And a river went out of Eden to water the
garden, and from thence it was parted, and
became into four heads. . . .
And the Lord God took the man, and put
him into the garden of Eden to dress it and
to keep it.
‘i
A
bY
op
LS SMO NOES
Genesis ii : 8-10, 15.
2
Ly ee i
Mop ey OER SRI DRAPE BG
A FLOWER LOVER’S CREED
I believe in roses because they are the most perfect
flowers that grow.
I believe in the crocus, the snowdrop, and the bluebell
because they are brave and usher in the garden year.
I believe in the lily of the valley because it is fragrant
and hardy and loves the shade, likewise the sun.
I believe in corn-flowers—sometimes.
I believe in the iris, though I have none, for it is a won-
derful work of God.
I believe in the homely golden-glow because it blooms
so profusely in the fence corner.
I believe in China asters because I love their colors.
I believe in morning-glories because they aspire to
heaven.
I believe in the lowly nasturtium because it gives, and
asks not, from June to November.
I believe in hollyhocks because nothing looks so well
against an old white house.
I believe in hardy chrysanthemums because they defy
continuous frosts.
I believe in dahlias because I can pick them with a
clear conscience. ;
I believe in the lilac, weigelia, and syringa because
they love old dooryards..
I believe in flowers from the depth of my being because
they exist for beauty and are perfect, complete things.
They are generous and innocent, and I can help them to
grow.
WALTER A. DYER (ADAPTED).
319
A GOOD START
The country boy who wishes to have early garden pro-
duce to sell must make use of some artificial means, such
as a hotbed or a cold-frame, in order to give his plants a
good start. If he relies on raising his plants in his garden
in the usual way, he has to wait for the warm weather to
come before his plants will grow, and then he does not
get the best price for his produce; but if he can provide
this ‘warm weather’ in some artificial way, he may be sure
that his garden produce will be ready for use early in the
season, no matter what the weather outside may be like.
The easiest way to produce artificial heat for plants is
by the use of a “cold-frame.”’ A cold-frame consists
simply of a box or frame inclosing a small earth plat,
which is covered over with glass. The frame keeps out
the cold, and the sun shining through the glass warms the
air inside, so that with good soil and proper moisture the
plants are able to grow. By means of a cold-frame it is
possible to give garden plants at least a month’s start
over those which are planted in the regular way.
But by means of a hotbed a much earlier beginning may
be made. A hotbed, however, is a more difficult and more
expensive thing to construct than a cold-frame. It con-
sists, in the first place, of a pit, or excavation (about four
feet deep), inclosed by a frame made of wood or concrete.
The bottom of this pit is sometimes lined with stones,
bits of glass, pottery, etc., to help the drainage.. The pit
is then filled with manure (mixed with dead leaves or straw)
320
A YGOOD* START 321
to the depth of two feet; and after the manure has been
exposed to the air for some days so that it may cool off
sufficiently, it is covered by a bed of good loam about six
inches deep. Then the seeds are planted and the glass
sashes are fitted over the top, as in the case of the cold-
frame.
In the hotbed it is the manure that supplies the heat,
for when manure jferments it gives off both heat and gas.
Since the hotbed does not depend upon the sun for its
heat, seeds may be planted in it much earlier than in a
cold-frame. It may, indeed, with proper care, be kept
going throughout the winter, so that a supply of lettuce,
radishes, and other ‘‘greens”” may be provided throughout
the year.
After the seeds are planted, it must not be forgotten
that the soil needs both air and moisture. Air is usually
supplied by raising the sash a few inches during the day,
if weather permits. Care must be taken, however, to see
that the frames are properly covered over at night in cold
weather, and old carpets, newspapers, mats, etc., may be
used for this purpose.
Who would not have a garden in April? To rake to-
gether the rubbish and burn it up, to turn over the re-
newed soil, to scatter the rich compost, to plant the first
seed or bury the first tuber! It is not the seed that is
planted any more than it is I that is planted; it is not
the dry stalks and weeds that are burned up, any more
than it is my gloom and regrets that are consumed. An
April smoke makes a clean harvest.
JoHN BURROUGHS.
The gardener’s friend.
THE GARDENER’S RIGHT-HAND MAN
Have you ever noticed, after a warm summer shower,
a great number of little toads hopping about along the
roads and in the fields?
They seem to have come quite suddenly, and some
people will tell you that they came down with the rain!
But this is nonsense. True, they often appear at the same
time as the rain, but they do not come from the sky with
it. It is from the muddy margins of the pools where they
have lived their tadpole lives that they crowd forth to
enjoy the shower. For, only a short time before, these
little toads were pollywogs, all heads and_ tails—living
happy lives in ponds and pools, and they still like to have
their skins wet.
When they are just hatched from the eggs, these toads
22%
THE GARDENER’S RIGHT-HAND MAN 323
are queer, shapeless-looking objects, and breathe by means
of gills, as fish do. But soon, besides the tail, which be-
comes smaller and smaller, a pair of hind legs can be seen,
and a little later fore legs come, and the tail disappears
altogether. Within little more than a month from the
time the eggs are laid, the toads, besides having grown
four legs, begin to breathe through lungs, like other land
animals, and are ready to leave the water for a new life
onland. But they area little tender yet, and they wallow
about the edge of their former home until some day a
warm shower of rain tempts them to go farther, and out
they hop, like boys going off for a holiday, eager for new
sights.
Alas! Many of them meet trouble at once. As they
leave the water, snakes may seize them, ducks are on the
watch for them, crows and hawks consider a fresh, young
toad a choice tidbit; and if they do get safely past these
enemies, careless people passing along may crush them to
death.
The toad that escapes these perils continues to grow
very rapidly, feeding greedily on flies, slugs, and other
insects, which he catches ‘with his tongue. And a curious
tongue it is! It is fastened to the front of his mouth, is
free at the other end, and has on it a thick, sticky fluid.
Out he flashes his tongue, so swiftly that one can scarcely
see the movement, and the ill-fated insect is caught a
prisoner on the sticky tip. The toad has an enormous
appetite and eats up very many insect pests. Thus he
is justly called the “gardener’s right-hand man.”’
Young Mr. Toad is very particular about his appear-
ance. Every few weeks, when he is young, he must get
B24 COUNTRY LIFE READER
rid of his warty skin, which is becoming too tight for him,
and have one that is new, smooth, and glistening. How
does he make the change? Very simply: the old skin
splits along the back and legs and beneath, and the toad
pulls it into his mouth and swallows it! When he is older,
he does not grow so rapidly, and so changes his skin, or
moults, only about four times a year.
You will wonder what the toad does in winter, when
insects are hard to find. His winter’s lodging is a simple
matter, however, for he finds a soft spot in the earth,
works himself backward into it, and goes to sleep with
the grass, flowers, and trees. In the spring he wakes and
makes his way to a pond, where, above the booming of
bullfrogs, you may hear his trilling, as he sings a swelling
love song to his mate. It is a pleasant sound—a “drowsy
drool that brings your feet to loitering in the deepening
dusk.” The eggs are laid in chains of jelly-like globes,
and soon the pond is alive with a multitude of new little
pollywogs, ready to repeat the life story of the older toads.
Try making a pet of a toad. You will not get warts by
- contact with toads, and they are easily tamed, showing a
fair amount of intelligence. By watching their manner
of living you will learn scores of interesting things about
these harmless, useful little creatures.
M. B. STEVENSON.
A garden! To grow one’s own vegetables, to nurse
one’s own flowers, to rear one’s own chickens, to milk
one’s own cow—and to keep one’s own carriage. ‘This is
to be personally acquainted with the universe.
MAPLE-SUGARING
“It is time to tap the trees,” said our father; “I think
the sap will run.”” All that day he sawed elder sticks, in
foot lengths, and pushed out the pith. These, when sharp-
ened, made. excellent troughs to conduct the sap into pans
and buckets. Early the next morning, while the frost
held the ground, we loaded a stone-boat with all sorts of
pans and pails and with the elder spiles that we had made,
and with them we took an auger and a mallet. The sun
came out warm in the glen, but a sharp north wind slipped
over the hill occasionally, to remind us that March was
not quite ready to leave the scene. It was the time when
winter and spring are wrestling.
‘““Ah,” said our father, as he blew on his fingers, ‘‘ winter
dislikes to let go.”” Then he began to bore holes in the
south side of the great maple tree—two hundred years old
—and we boys drove in the spiles and set the pans. The
sweet juice began at once to ooze out through the elder
sticks and then to drop into the buckets. I can hear it
now! That first drop, drop, against the tin! Out of a few
of the larger trees, in the warm hollows, where the wind
could not find its way, the sap spurted in little streams.
The bees came from their hives and flew about our heads,
alighting on the chips to get a taste of the sweets. A
butterfly flitted, and tasted, and flew again to find a sweeter
chip or perhaps a safer spot.
“Boys,” said father, ‘‘it is time to swing the kettle, for
with this run we must begin to boil before night.’”’ To be
325
320 COUNTRY LIFE “READER
sure! For the pans were nearly full by noon, as we our-
selves were half full of the sweet stuff—and we could smell
the boiling sugar in our anticipation. Down in the very
ars
edesteat
— — mlx =
=o LRAT 2 diate LTO
: » ei anit
ii
Hanging the sap-buckets.
heart of the glen we drove strong crotched sticks; and
across these we laid a stout ash pole. On this the ten-pail
iron kettle was hung with a double hook. There were no
patent evaporators in those days; but that did not worry
us; our sugar should be the best. Little Tom ran to the
MAPLE-SUGARING 327
house, which was a quarter of a mile away, with two pieces
of hemlock bark to bring us coals. For in all the world
there was not at that time a single match! Did we not
by ‘‘match-making”’ mean making a very different thing ?
But you should have seen how well nature cared for us
without matches. By order of Providence hemlock bark
curled up just enough to hold a dozen big maple coals,
and these another bark would cover from the wind. We
had already gathered bunches of dry grass, with dry twigs,
and more hemlock bark. I can smell it to this day. The
delicious resin as it touched the coal! Then Jim quickly
took the coals and blew them with all his might. It was
a critical moment, and it needed a deal of breath. First
a single thread of smoke came out and wound its way
inquiringly up into the air; then a puff of smoke blew out
straight into the eyes of Jim; and other puffs one after
another into every other eager pair of eyes that bent over
the problem. Bless me, how does smoke know so much?
Jim’s face was in a whirling cloud and his eyes became
watery, but he would not be beaten. At last a red jet—
a flash—a little hesitation—more rolls of smoke—and
then the flames burst up and grappled with the bark and
sticks. Yes, indeed! now it understood what was wanted.
Maple-sugar time had come, and sap must be boiled. The
fire had business on hand.
Our father shouted cheerily from the top of the hill:
‘‘Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth!”” “Yes!”
we answered; and now we are ready to gather the sap.
Each one first stood himself in the middle of a huge hoop;
and this hoop lay on the top of two pails, which were so
held apart that they could not swing against the legs of
328 COUNTRY LIFE READER
the bearer. Then we went from tree to tree and emptied
the pans into our pails. When these were full, they were
emptied into the kettle over the fire. It was not light
work, but it was work full of good cheer; for what would
not a boy do to get at a plenty of maple sugar. Soon an-
other kettle must be swung, and into that we dipped the |
thickening sap, while we still poured fresh sap into the
first kettle. Work should never go alone; and as for fun,
it cannot go alone. Let them go together, I say; that is
the true way.
The woodpeckers were also tapping the trees—the red-
headed and the yellow-throated—and they came very close
to us; for no woodpecker fears a human being. Why
should he? Is he not doing us good service, pulling the
grubs from the trees? It must have been the second morn-
ing that a robin’s song was heard—clear, glorious, trium-
phant, and far-reaching. I do not doubt that song was the
echo of one to the south, a mile away or more; and that
a whole chain of singers—a complete line of couriers—
reached to the flocks in the Southern States. But of that
we did not have time to think. All we cared for was the
grand fact that the robins had come back again. And
while we were in the excitement over our redbreast, came
a thin, fine, silvery note up the swale, from the first blue-
bird—it was just as far away as the ear could catch it.
The kettle of thickest syrup was needing a good deal
of attention. Jim was frequently dropping in a bit of
colder material to prevent it from boiling over. It would
rise in a mass of deep chocolate-colored bubbles and
often reached nearly to the top, but Jim understood that
it must not boil over.
MAPLE-SUGARING 320
About noon the little mother appeared, winding about
the knoll into the glen, with a basket on her arm nearly
as big as herself. The robins sang harder than ever, and
the woodpecker rapped for order. Jim ran to meet her
and to carry the basket, while Tom and I lugged a dry
log near the fire for a seat. “Well,” said she, catching
her breath, “‘this is work; this is earning your bread and
salt; and you shall have it more and more.’’ And then
she looked up at the birds, and said: “And you, too, you
little darlings! You shall have your dinners.” Then she
gave half a dozen bones for us to tie to the trees where the
birds might peck at them—nor were the bones without
meat. The squirrels came into the branches overhead, and,
looking down curiously, said, “Cht! Cht! Cht!” “To
Bersure, ‘said. the little mother, “and you, foo.*. Just
then our uncles Platt and George also appeared in the
distance, and with another basket between them—and it
was clear enough, as far as you could see them, that Uncle
George was growling. What, what, a quarter of a mile on
gouty feet, and all for a little maple sugar! Why not let
the world alone. On top of the little mother’s basket was
a nicely folded table-cloth. Why is it a woman can never
eat without a white cloth under her food? So it is; but
for me I prefer green, like the sod. While the cloth was
spread over a great stump, Uncle George uncovered two
dozen eggs. ‘‘’Tis all the hens have laid,” said my Uncle
Platt, “and. 1 shall ‘have: none’ for Easter.” |" 7Vis; just
enough,” said my Uncle George. Then, hopping about
on his gouty feet, he tumbled them all into the kettle of
boiling syrup. Ah, but you should always boil your eggs
in maple syrup! At last the little mother called out:
330 COUNTRY LIFE READER
““Come, father, let go the sugar, and eat!’’ There on the
stump, and on a great log that we boys straddled, were
sandwiches and doughnuts and sliced ham, and there
were the eggs that my Uncle George skimmed out of the
boiling syrup and gave to us as fast as we could eat them.
The squirrels were coming closer and closer, and at last
one jumped squarely down on the log beside Jim, and
took a bit of his bread. ‘‘It’s fair,” said Jim, ‘‘and you
shall have more.’ And the squirrel sat up on his hind
legs and said, in pretty good English: ‘‘Welcome; glad to
see you!’”’ So the family was all together, and everybody
ate to his heart’s desire. When all were satisfied, the little
mother loosed her apron-strings, and then looked about
in triumph—as much as to say: ‘“‘What would you do with
your tapping and your boiling, if it were not for me? In-
deed! But now I have set all things right; go on with
your boring holes and carrying sap!’ Then she went back
to the house.
Every night the syrup was taken in buckets to the
house. There it was turned over to the little mother, who
cleansed it and then boiled it down until it became sugar.
If you would have the sugar a beautiful white, you should
cleanse it with a pint of milk, after breaking in a half-
dozen eggs. Then you must swing your kettle over the
fire and, as the boiling begins, the impurities will rise to
the surface, and you may skim them into a pan for the
vinegar barrel. All sugar waste must go to the vinegar;
that is, there must be no waste at all—this is household
economy.
“The scum is rising white, little mother.’ So it is; and
now, little ones, you shall have a saucerful, each one of
= gle
Bigs oe
oa
é
viens
ode RE See EET
ne ;
Boiling down the sap.
332 COUNTRY LIFE READER
you, and you shall be quiet. Half an hour of expert watch-
fulness prevents the rich brown mass from boiling over.
Every ounce of white scum is saved for making cookies—
except, indeed, that which goes for making boys. Now
the bubbles fill the great kettle, large and expressive; and
they can hardly be restrained from Jumping over into the
fire. The kettle is swung a little off the centre of the blaze.
Every two minutes a spoonful is given to each boy to
stir In a saucer.
“Yes, indeed, little mother, it ropes!”? Then the little
mother lifts it six inches, and, with exacting -eye, pours
it slowly into a pan of snow. No, it does not grain! No,
it does not wax! But it doesrope. Little threads of
syrup fly off into the air as the substance falls from the
spoon.
Another three minutes, and “‘It waxes, it waxes!” This
is the golden period of ‘‘sugaring off.’’ The delicious mass,
as it falls upon snow and is stirred, forms a waxy substance,
which, once tasted, will never be forgotten. Every stage
of the process requires that each boy shall test and taste
it, especially when it waxes. Three minutes more and a
spoonful, when stirred in a saucer, hardens and grains.
This is the critical moment! Swing the kettle clear of
the fire! Set it firmly on the hearth! And now the boys
by turn must stir it with all their might. It will take two
hours of vigorous work before the light brunette will be-
come a beautiful blonde. Before that time comes, alas,
each little arm will be nearly twisted off with the process.
At last the hardening mass is poured into tins and set
aside to be thoroughly cooled. The next day the sugar is
ready for packing in stone jars, to be kept for family use.
MAPLE-SUGARING 359
Some of it may be traded at the store for pins and needles,
and saleratus and tea.
There was a broad shelf in every genuine pantry of those
good old days. It was at one end of a capacious room,
and on both sides it was flanked by other shelves. On one
_ side were pans of milk; on the other were canisters of spices,
coffee, tea; and there were jars of preserves and pickles.
The lower shelves were sacred to pies and goodies; while
under the broad shelf stood the great stone jars of maple
sugar. Bless my soul! How I should like to eat one more
dinner from that broad shelf! Maple sugar and bread
in equal proportions—and gooseberry jelly with currant
tarts and caraway cookies. Bless the Lord for memory!
I can almost compass the dinner at this moment. Under
the window outside came the chickens, and said as plainly
as could be: “What, take our eggs and not give us a share?
What, eating and not call us?” Then we spared them
the crumbs—those that we found in the great wooden
bread-bow] !
I hold it still that a maple sap-bush is the most genu-
inely native American spot in the land. In England the
maple trees will not make sugar, and the Norway maples
give milk. ‘In fact,” said our father, ‘we have it all.
What else do we need? Have we not the fruits and the
animals and the salt and the sugar?” “And our birds,”
said the little mother, ‘do they not sing sweeter than ©
any others?”’ “To: be sure,” said our father, “what a
home God has given us! He has furnished it well.”
E. P. Powe tt.
“The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide.”
THE PLOUGHMAN
Clear the brown path, to meet his coulter’s gleam !
Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team,
With toil’s bright dewdrops on his sunburnt brow,
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough!
First in the field before the reddening sun,
Last in the shadows when the day is done,
Line after line, along the bursting sod,
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod;
334
THE PLOUGHMAN 335
Still, where he treads, the stubborn clods divide,
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide;
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves,
Mellow and dark the ridgy corn-field cleaves;
Up the steep hillside where the laboring train
Slants the long track that scores the level plain;
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing clay,
The patient convoy breaks its destined way;
At every turn the loosening chains resound,
The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round,
Till the wide field one billowy waste appears,
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers.
These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings
The peasant’s food, the golden pomp of kings;
This is the page whose letters shall be seen
Changed by the sun to words of living green;
This is the scholar whose immortal pen
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men;
These are the lines which heaven-commanded Toil
Shows on his deed—the charter of the soil!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMEs.
PLOUGHING
When I awoke this morning, shortly before daylight, my
first thought was: ‘‘To-day I must begin ploughing in the
field alongside the far woods.’”’ But a moment later I
heard the patter of rain upon the roof, and then I knew
that I might have a half-hour longer to rest, for no plough-
ing could be done that day.
When I spoke of ploughing yesterday to my cousin from
the city, he said something to me about its being tiresome
work.
“No more tiresome,” I replied, “‘than selling tea or
books, or running a machine, or getting a sermon ready.”
And now on this dull, rainy morning, when I had an
extra half-hour to do nothing but dream, I began to turn
over in my mind my cousin’s remarks and to ask myself
whether or not they were really true. My cousin, like
most city people, knew little about ploughing, and I have
no doubt, as he watched the farmer plodding patiently
up and down the furrows, it seemed a very easy, but very
tiresome thing to him.
“But,” I argued with myself, “if it were left to my
cousin to plough a single one of my fields, I am not at all
sure just how he would succeed. Would he know, in the
first place, when the ground was ready, or how long before
seed-planting the ploughing should be done? Would he
know just which part of the field he should begin on, and
whether he should use a right-hand or a left-hand plough?
Did he ever notice that in the farmer’s fields there are
336
PLOUGHING 337
sometimes different kinds of furrows—the flat furrow,
the overlapping furrow, the rounded furrow? Which of
these furrows is the best suited to the time of the year,
to the crop, and to the soil of this particular field? Should
he plough a narrow furrow or a wide one, a shallow furrow
or a deep one, and how can he be sure of making his fur-
rows the same width and depth? When and how are the
different divisions or ridges (the ‘lands’) in the field
made, and in what part of the field does the dead-furrow
lic? Would it make any difference in his plans if I were
to give him a piece of new land to break, or a field of thick
weeds to turn under, or a hillside field to plough 2?”
“No,” I concluded, “the only sort of work that is
really tiresome is the kind that is easy and doesn’t have
any problems to make you think, and no one who has
ever given a serious thought to his farm work can say
that of ploughing.”
By this time it was raining smartly, and so I lay abed
a little longer still, and tried to picture to myself what I
should have been doing if the weather had been fair, and
what progress I should have made in my ploughing in
the field by the far woods.
I do not know why I have a particular liking for that
field. Perhaps it is because it is out of sight of the houses
and seems a little closer to nature, perhaps because at a
certain point in the field I can catch a glimpse of the lake
beyond the woods, or perhaps it is just the field itself
with its zigzag rail fence and fringe of bushes and with
the two beautiful trees, an elm and a maple, that stand at
either end of the field and serve both for ornament and
shade.
338 COUNTRY LIFE READER
While I am ploughing, my attention must, of course,
be given almost wholly to the turning of the furrows.
Here is a root, there a stone, and here again a wet place
over which I must pass with care. Here among the stub-
ble is the nest of a field-mouse, made of fine dried grass,
from which the frightened owner makes a hasty escape.
At the farther end of the field there is a woodchuck’s hole.
The horses must step warily here, for the ground is
treacherous, but the freshly turned furrows will help to
fill up the holes, and before harrowing time perhaps the
owner may take the hint to remove.
Sometimes at the far end of the furrow, next the woods,
I rest for a moment; and while I am resting I drink in the
sights and sounds of the fresh spring morning. What
new birds are back this morning, I wonder? A robin, a
bluebird, a song-sparrow, a grackle, a killdeer, a meadow-
lark, these I have heard already for a week past—-and,
yes, there, to be sure, is a flicker and there a brown thrasher !
Welcome back, old fellow! The hawthorn with its tangle
of wild grape-vine is waiting for you on yonder hillside,
and as long as I can I shall protect you, for I love better
than most other things your morning song. I can plough
a better furrow, I think, because of it, and I shall spare
the old elm-tree if for no other reason than that you sing
your spring song from its topmost bough.
My cousin—but this will never do, even if it is raining.
It never pays to be an hour late for work, even on a farm!
A busy corner of bird-land.
BIRDS OF THE FARM: THE FIEEDS
During the early part of April, when you take your walk
across the fields you hear a new song, which resembles
that of the song-sparrow. But when you stop for a mo-
ment to listen, you notice the difference, and you say to
yourself: ‘“‘Ah, the vesper sparrow has returned.” The
song is not quite so simple and sweet as that of the song-
sparrow, but it is the familiar vesper song of the April
fields, and a country walk in these early spring evenings
would be dull without it. The vesper sparrow is fond of
the roadside and the lane or the pathway across the fields,
and as it runs along the path ahead of you, you are sure to
notice the white tail-feathers, which are its distinguishing
mark.
As for the nest of the vesper sparrow, there are few
people who at some time or other have not seen it. What
339
340 COUNTRY LIFE READER
a sudden start it has given you, in your walk across the
fields, to hear the rush and whir of wings at your feet,
and with what a feeling of delight have you turned aside
the protecting leaf or shrub to disclose to view the snug
little, grass-lined nest, with its five speckled, brownish
eggs, beneath!
But in these early spring days there are still two other
voices of the fields which you cannot easily fail to hear
and to remember. Very early in the spring the clear,
melodious whistle of the meadow-lark comes across the
pasture-land. “Spring o’ the year, spring o’ the year,”
he seems to say in his clear, plaintive cry; a moment later
you catch a glimpse.of his rapid, whizzing flight and hear
the warning “‘Zdt, zdt”’ of his call-note.
You are not likely to discover the meadow-lark’s nest
very readily, unless you walk close enough to it to frighten
the mother bird, for it is carefully concealed under a tus-
sock of dried grass, with an entrance from the side, so that
it is protected from rain and wind alike. The meadow-
lark is, of course, not really a lark at all, but belongs to
the blackbird family. No doubt the mistaken name is due
to the fact that, like the larks, he is fond of the meadows
and pasture-fields. At all events, a blackbird he is, and
by all odds the most respectable of this rather shady
family, being of great value to the farmer on account of
the number of injurious worms and insects he destroys.
Besides the meadow-lark’s ‘‘Spring 0’ the year,” in the
rougher and more rocky pasture-lands you are sure to hear
the shrill, rapid, cry, ‘‘Killdeer, killdeer, killdeer,” of the
killdeer plover, or snipe, as he is often called. There is a
certain wildness about the killdeer, both in his shrill cry
BIRDS. OF THE FARM: THE FIELDS 341
and rapid movements, that attracts your attention. His
nesting-place, however, is generally very hard to discover,
and when, at last, you have by chance discovered it, in
the middle of the open pasture or rocky clearing, you are
surprised to find that
there is hardly any pre-
tense for a nest at all
—only a few rough
straws in a slight hol-
low in the ground, cov-
cred by the four dark,
riuddy-colored eggs,
which are always ar-
tanped, with their
smaller ends together
in the centre.
As soon as the eggs
are hatched, the young
birds, like young chick-
ens;.are able. to: run;
and a nest which con-
tains four killdeer’s
Meadow-lark.
eggs to-day may be entirely bare and empty to-morrow.
It sometimes happens, in your walks afield, that, without
being aware of it, you approach either near the nest or
close to the hiding-place of one of the newly hatched birds.
Then suddenly your attention is attracted by one of the
old birds only a few feet away, whose limping gait and
drooping wing give him every appearance of being badly
wounded. Very naturally you give chase. The wounded
bird flutters off, and you follow farther and still farther.
342 COUNTRY LIFE READER
Then, when you are almost sure that you have him, he sud-
denly recovers, and the wild ‘ Killdeer, killdeer’”’ from the
other side of the field seems, like a peal of derisive mockery,
to warn you how simply and easily you have been fooled.
Of the birds which
are found in the fields
in later spring, proba-
bly none are better
known to the farmers’
boys than the king-bird.
The crown, from
which the king-bird
gets his name, is not
very conspicuous, but if
you should brush back
the feathers of the head,
you would find a hid-
den crown patch of
bright ruby feathers,
the only touch of color
Se that* he thas.) (As or
acting like a king or an
absolute ruler, the hawks and crows and blue jays, if
they were called upon, could give abundant evidence of
that. It is not an uncommon thing, in later summer, to
see a pair of king-birds in pursuit of an intruding crow,
one perched on his back and pecking furiously at the feath-
ers of his neck and head, while the other circles round and
round, dashing at his victim’s eyes and Se him at
every turn.
The king-bird generally feeds upon the (scene insects,
BIRDS OF THE FARM: THE FIELDS 343
the dragon-flies, beetles, crickets, grasshoppers, cicadas,
etc., and when food is scarce and bees cross his path, he
will not refuse them; but the bees form an exceedingly
small part of his bill of fare. I remember once, a few
summers ago, being very much interested in watching
two king-birds acting the part of highwaymen on the
roadside, in front of the place where I was staying. A
colony of sand-hornets or digger-wasps, several hundred
in number, were busy stocking their underground tunnels
with green grasshoppers and crickets. The king-birds, in
the meantime, sat on the fence near by and darted out
from time to time to relieve the hornets of their burdens
when they arrived with fresh supplies. I do not know
whether they ate the hornets, too; probably not, for that
would be like killing the goose that laid the golden eggs.
There is nothing of special interest in the nesting habits
of the king-bird, except that he uses sheep’s wool to help
to line the nest. Sometimes the wool is not so easily found,
however, and then there is nothing for it but to take it
off the backs of the sheep themselves. But the king-bird
is equal to the occasion, and if you should see him perched
on the back of a sheep, tugging vigorously at the wool, you
will know that he is only providing materials for his nest.
Nest and egzs of killdeer plover.
PLANTING TIME
Sooner or later every person feels the desire to plant
something. One of us dreams of a little patch of orchard
bounded by cool, grassy banks. Another wants a snug
and tidy garden plat bounded by a wall and a lattice, and
at one side a tinker’s room of tools, rakes and hoes and
watering-cans. Others want long, trim rows of straw-
berries, beets, and onions, with beds of lettuce, hills of
squashes, and clumps of hyssop and sage in the corners.
Others want tumbling piles of vines shot through with wild
asters and the spires of hollyhocks. Still others would roam
afield and find their satisfaction in the things that by
chance have found a place in which to grow. But, what-
ever the form of the wish, the substance is the same—it is
the natural man longing to express himself. It is the desire
to be alone with something that understands you. -I have
heard the gardener talk to his plants, and not one of them
disputed with him.
Have you made a garden all by yourself? Then try
it, if you have not. Do not give the work over to any one
else. Yourself thrust the spade into the tender earth.
Bear your weight on the handle and feel the earth loosen
and break. Turn over the load. You smell the soft, moist
odor—an odor that takes you back to your younger
and freer days or sends you dreaming over the fields.
You have uncovered the depths where the earthworm
burrows and the pupa has lain since midsummer. Run
your fingers through the soil. It is mealy and fine and
344
PLANTING TIME 345
clean. It may have been turned a hundred times, yet it is
new and virgin. You feel as if you could plant your feet
in the soil and grow like a plant. Spade up the whole
bed. Note how the loose earth settles into place as you
draw your rake back and forth. The moisture steams
from its bosom, and the drying surface affords a mulch
to hold the water that lies in its depths.
You are wondering what is contained in this earth.
Men have spent their lives to answer that inquiry and
have died without making the answer complete. One day
you will drop a speck of matter into the soil—a speck
so small and round that you must depend on the label
to tell whether it is a cabbage or turnip or cauliflower or
mustard—and behold! a new being comes forth, endowed
with life, with roots and stem and leaves and flowers and
fruits and seeds, all unfolding in their appointed season.
Where is the seat of this mystery that makes one seed un-
fold into a turnip and another into a cabbage? I often
wonder how a cabbage-seed knows that it is a cabbage-
seed.
Your chief joy in your garden will not be in the vege-
tables that you eat, nor in the flowers that you pick, but
in the satisfaction of causing things to grow. You will .
enjoy. the companionship of things that are real and clean.
You will come to know the common and the little things.
Some time, without knowing it, you will let a pigweed
grow; and then you will be sorry to pull it up.
Lt A. cBArrey:
Here is air and God’s good greenness spread.
MORNING IN THE NORTHWEST
Gray countries and grim empires pass away
And all the pomp and glory of citied towers
Goes down to dust, and youth itself shall age.
But, oh, the splendor of this autumn dawn,
This passes not away! This dew-drenched range,
This infinite great width of open space,
This cool, keen wind that blows like God’s own breath
On life’s once drowsy coal, and thrills the blood,
This brooding sea of sun-washed solitude,
This virginal vast dome of open air—
These, these endure, and greater are than grief!
Still there is strength; and life, oh, life is good!
Still the horizon calls, the morrow lures;
Still hearts adventurous seek outward trails;
Still, still life holds its hope! 3
For here is air and God’s good greenness spread !
+346
MORNING IN THE NORTHWEST 347
Here youth audacious fronts the coming day !
Here are no huddled cities old in sin,
Where teem reptilious mirth and golden ease
And age on youth so mountainously lies !
Here life takes on a glory and a strength
Of things still primal, and goes plunging on!
And what care we for time-incrusted tombs ?
What care we here for all the ceaseless drip
Of tears in countries old in tragedy?
What care we here for all earth’s creeds outworn,
The dreams outlived, the hopes to ashes turned,
In that old East so dark with rain and doubt?
Here life swings glad and free and rude, and youth
Shall drink it to the full, and go content!
ARTHUR STRINGER.
This infinite great width of open space.
CLOVER AND TIMOTHY
On nearly every farm where hay crops are grown for
feeding stock you are likely to find a field in which a
mixed crop of clover and timothy is growing, and perhaps
you may wonder why the farmer should plant these two
crops in the same field instead of growing them separately.
If you were to ask any intelligent farmer why he does so,
he would probably tell you, as one of his reasons, that a
mixture of clover and timothy makes better food for his
live stock than either clover or timothy alone. People
who have made a study of the different kinds of food that
animals require, tell us that there are five different things
that ought to be included in their food. These five things
(which are known as food principles) are: carbohydrates,
protein, fat, mineral matter, and water. Carbohydrates
supply heat and energy, while protein provides the ma-
terial for building up the body. Now, it happens that
clover contains a large amount of protein, while timothy
is composed chiefly of carbohydrates; so that when animals
are fed a mixture of clover and timothy, they get a supply
of both kinds of food. Young growing animals must have
protein to supply them with muscle and tissue; work-
horses must have protein to help to keep the body in re-
pair, and cows must have protein in order that they may
keep up their supply of milk. It is possible, of course, to
supply them with protein from other kinds of food, but
the fact that clover supplies it more easily and cheaply
than anything else is one reason, at least, why some farmers
348
CLOVER AND TIMOTHY 349
prefer to sow a mixed crop of clover and timothy in the
same field.
Another reason which a practical farmer might give for
growing the two crops together, is that the mixture of
clover with timothy helps to make the soil richer, while a
crop of timothy alone leaves the soil in a poorer condition
than before. But in order to understand this statement we
must, in the first place, notice some of the differences be-
tween clover and timothy. If you will compare a full-
grown clover plant with a stalk of timothy, you will find
that they bear their seeds in different ways. The seeds
of the clover are contained in little sacs, while those of
the timothy grow in a cluster (called a spike) at the end
of along stem. Plants such as clover, alfalfa, peas, beans,
and vetches, which bear their seeds in sacs or pods, are
known as legumes; while plants such as timothy, wheat,
barley, and oats, which bear their seeds in clusters on the
stem, are known as grasses. If you look closely at the
roots of the clover, or of any other legume, you will notice
that they have a number of little sacs (called tubercules
or nodules) attached to them, which you do not find on
the roots of timothy. These nodules, as we have already
seen, contain nitrogen, which is supplied by the bacteria
that live on the roots of clover and other legumes. The
result is, that wherever clover is grown it leaves the ground
richer in nitrogen than before, while, on the other hand,
grasses such as timothy take nitrogen from the soil and
leave it poorer.
In comparing the two kinds of plants, you will notice,
too, that the roots of the clover go much deeper into the
soil than those of timothy. This means, of course, that
350 COUNTRY LIFE READER
the clover draws most of its food and moisture from a
different part of the soil from the timothy. A mixed crop
of clover and timothy is, for this reason, not so hard on
the soil as a crop of pure timothy, which draws all its food
from the surface of the soil and at the same time exhausts
the supply of nitrogen.
A SONG OF CLOVER
I wonder what the clover thinks ,
Intimate friend of bobolinks,
Lover of daisies slim and white,
Waltzer with buttercups at night;
Keeper of inn for travelling bees,
Serving to them wine dregs and lees,
Left by the royal humming-birds,
Who sip and pay with fine-spun words;
Comrade of winds, beloved of sun,
Kissed by the dewdrops, one by one;
Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills,
Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills,
Sweet in its white, sweet in its red—
Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said;
Sweet in its every living breath.
Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death!
Oh, who knows what the clover thinks?
No one, unless the bobolinks!
SAXE Hom.
2?
.
ts sweetness cannot be sai
i
“Half
PAYING (MY WAY
(David Grayson is a well-to-do farmer who has left his farm for
a few weeks to journey through the country on foot, to see how
other farmers live and what they live for. He has taken food
enough with him to last him only a few days and, after going hungry
for a day, he is forced at last to try to secure his supper and a
night’s lodging at one of the farmhouses along the way.)
Presently I saw from the road a farmer and his son
planting potatoes in a sloping field. There was no house
at all in view. At the bars stood a light wagon half filled
with bags of seed-potatoes, and the horse which had drawn
it stood quietly, not far off, tied to the fence. The man
and the boy, each with a basket on his arm, were at the
farther end of the field, dropping potatoes. I stood quietly
watching them. They stepped quickly and kept their eyes
on the furrows—good workers. I liked the looks of them.
I liked, also, the straight, clean furrows; I liked the ap-
pearance of the horse.
“T will stop here,” I said to myself.
I cannot at all convey the sense of high adventure I
had as I stood there. Though I had not the slightest idea
of what I should do or say, yet I was determined upon
the attack.
Neither father nor son saw me until they had nearly
reached the end of the field.
“Step lively, Ben,” I heard the man say with some im-
patience, “‘we’ve got to finish this field to-day.”*
“T am steppin’ lively, dad,’ responded the boy, “but
352
PAYING MY WAY 353
it’s awful hot. We can’t possibly finish to-day. It’s too
much.”
“We've got to get through here to-day,” the man re-
plied grimly; ‘‘we’re already two weeks late.”
I know just how that man felt; for I knew well the dif-
ficulty a farmer has in getting help in planting time. The
spring waits for no man. My heart went out to the man
and boy struggling there in the heat of their sloping field.
For this is the real warfare of the common life.
“Why,” I said to myself with a curious lift of the heart,
“they have need of a fellow just like me.”
At that moment the boy saw me, and, missing a step
in the rhythm of the planting, the father also looked up
and saw me. But neither said a word until the furrows
were finished and the planters came to refill their bas-
kets.
“Fine afternoon,” I said, sparring for an opening.
“Fine,” responded the man rather shortly, glancing
up from his work. I recalled the scores of times I had
been exactly in his place and had glanced up to see the
stranger in the road.
“Got another basket handy?” I asked.
“There is one somewhere around here,” he answered
not too cordially. The boy said nothing at all, but eyed
me with absorbing interest. The gloomy look had already
gone from his face.
I slipped my gray bag from my shoulder, took off my
coat, and put them both down inside the fence. Then I
found the basket and began to fill it from one of the bags.
Both man and boy looked up at me questioningly. I
enjoyed the situation immensely.
354 COUNTRY LIFE READER
“T heard you say to your son,” I said, “that you’d
have to hurry in order to get in your potatoes to-day. I
can see that for myself. Let me take a hand for a row
or two.”
The unmistakable shrewd look of the bargainer came
suddenly into the man’s face, but when I went about my
business without hesitation or questioning, he said nothing
at all. As for the boy, the change in his countenance was
marvellous to see. Something new and astonishing had
come into the world. Oh, I know what a thing it is to be
a boy and have to work in trouting time!
‘“‘How near are you planting, Ben?” I asked.
‘About fourteen inches.”
So we began in fine spirits. I was delighted with the
favorable beginning of my enterprise; there is nothing
which so draws men together as their employment at a
common task.
Ben was a lad some fifteen years old—very stout and
stocky, with a fine open countenance and a frank blue
eye—all boy. His nose was as freckled as the back of a
trout. The whole situation, including the prospect of
help in finishing a tiresome job, pleased him hugely. He
stole a glimpse from time to time at me and then at his
father. Finally he said:
“Say, you'll have to step lively to keep up with dad.”
“Tl show you,” I said, ‘“‘how we used to drop potatoes
when I was a boy.”
And with that I began to step ahead more quickly and
make the pieces fairly fly.
“We old fellows,” I said to the father, “‘must give these
young sprouts a lesson once in a while.”
PAVING MY WAY 355
“You will, will you?” responded the boy, and instantly
began to drop the potatoes at a prodigious speed. The
father followed with more dignity, but with evident amuse-
ment, and so we all came with a rush to the end of the
row.
“T guess that beats the record across this field!” re-
marked the lad, puffing and wiping his forehead. “Say,
but you’re a good one!”
It gave me a peculiar thrill of pleasure; there is nothing
more pleasing than the frank admiration of a boy.
We paused a moment and I said to the man:
“This looks like fine potato land.”
““The’ isn’t any better in these parts,’”’ he replied with
some pride in his voice.
And so we went at the planting again; and as we planted,
we had great talk of seed-potatoes and the advantages and
disadvantages of mechanical planters, of cultivating and
spraying, and all the lore of prices and profits. Once we
stopped at the lower end of the field to get a drink from a
jug of water set in the shade of a fence corner, and once
we set the horse in the thills and moved the seed farther
up the field. And, tired and hungry as I felt, I really en-
joyed the work; I really enjoyed talking with this busy
father and son, and I wondered what their home life was
like and what were their real ambitions and hopes. Thus
the sun sank lower and lower, the long shadows began to
creep into the valleys, and we came finally toward the end
of the field. Suddenly the boy Ben cried out:
Theres 515)
I glanced up and saw standing near the gateway a slim,
bright girl of about twelve in a fresh gingham dress.
356 COUNTRY LIFE READER
“We're coming !”’ roared Ben exultantly.
While we were hitching up the horse, the man said to
me:
“You'll come down with us and have some supper?”
“Indeed I will,” I replied, trying not to make my re-
sponse too eager. |
“Did mother make gingerbread to-day?” I heard the
boy whisper audibly.
“‘Sh-h-”’ replied the girl, ‘‘who is that man?”
“T don’t know”—with a great accent of mystery—
“and dad doesn’t know. Did mother make gingerbread ?”’
“Sh-h—he’ll hear you.”
“Gee! but he can plant potatoes. He dropped down
on us out of a clear sky.”
“What is her” she asked. “A tramp?”
“Nope, not a tramp. He works. But, Sis, did mother
make gingerbread ?”’
So we all got into the light wagon and drove briskly
out along the shady country road. The evening was
coming on, and the air was full of the scent of blossoms.
We turned finally into a lane and thus came promptly,
for the horse was as eager as we, to the capacious farm-
yard. A motherly woman came out from the house, spoke
to her son, and nodded pleasantly to me. There was no
especial introduction. I said merely, ‘‘My name is Gray-
son,’ and I was accepted without a word.
I waited to help the man, whose name I had now learned
—it was Stanley—with his horse and wagon, and then we
came up to the house. Near the back door there was a
pump, with a bench and basin set just within a little
cleanly swept, open shed. Rolling back my collar and.
PAYING MY WAY 367
baring my arms, I washed myself in the cool water, dashing
it over my head until I gasped, and then stepping back,
breathless and refreshed, I found the slim girl, Mary,
at my elbow with a clean, soft towel. As I stood wiping
quietly I could smell the ambrosial odors from the kitchen.
In all my life I never enjoyed a moment more than that,
IT think.
‘Come in now,” said the motherly Mrs. Stanley.
So we filed into the roomy kitchen, where an older girl,
called Kate, was flying about placing steaming dishes
upon the table. There was also an older son, who had
been at the farm chores. It was altogether a fine, vigorous,
independent family. So we all sat down and drew up
our chairs. Then we paused a moment, and the father,
bowing his head, said in a low voice:
“For all Thy good gifts, Lord, we thank Thee. Preserve
us and keep us through another night.”
I suppose it was a very ordinary farm meal, but it seems
to me I never tasted a better one. The huge piles of new
baked bread, the sweet farm butter, already delicious with
the flavor of new grass, the bacon and eggs, the potatoes,
the rhubarb sauce, the great plates of new, hot ginger-
bread, and, at the last, the custard pie—a great wedge of
it. After the first ravenous appetite of hard-working men
was satisfied, there came to be a good deal of lively con-
versation. The girls had some joke between them which
Ben was trying in vain to fathom. The older son told how
much milk a certain Alderney cow had given, and Mr.
Stanley, quite changed now as he sat at his own table,
from the rather grim farmer of the afternoon, revealed a
capacity for a husky sort of fun, joking with Ben about
358 COUNTRY (LIFE. READER
his potato-planting and telling in a lively way of his race
with me. As for Mrs. Stanley, she sat smiling behind her
tall coffee-pot, radiating good cheer and hospitality. They
asked me no questions at all, and I was so hungry and
tired that I volunteered no information.
After supper we went out for half or three quarters of
an hour to do some final chores, and Mr. Stanley and I
stopped in the cattle yard and looked over the cows and
talked learnedly about the pigs, and I admired his spring
calves to his heart’s content, for they really were a fine
lot. When we came in again, the lamps had been lighted
in the sitting-room, and the older daughter was at the
telephone exchanging the news of the day with some
neighbor—and with great laughter and enjoyment.
DAvIpD GRAYSON.
CONTENTMENT
With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade, too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
And a small spot of ground for the use of my spade, too,
With a barn for the use of my flail;
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
T’ll envy no nabob his riches or fame,
Nor what honors await him to-morrow.
May-apples at home.
WELCOME AND UNWELCOME .VISITORS
In your walks in the fields and woods in late spring and
early summer, you will find it interesting, in your study of
flowers, to notice the various means which they have made
use of to attract the insects. For most of the flowers, as
you know, would not develop into fruit if it were not for
the insects which carry pollen dust from flower to flower.
The bee is a welcome visitor to most flowers, because he is
sure to carry away a supply of pollen dust on his hairy
coat. And so the flowers put on their gayest colors and
send out their sweetest perfumes in order to attract the
bees to the stores of honey which they contain. But the
ants are unwelcome, because they do not carry pollen to
other flowers. And so the plants have adopted many dif-
ferent devices to keep them from robbing their flowers of
the honey which is intended for the bees.
One of the May flowers that has made special provision
for attracting the bees is the violet. You will notice in
the first place, that the violet has the habit of bending the
359
360 COUNTRY LIFE READER
head down, in order to keep the spring rains from washing
away the nectar and perfume alike. If you were to ex-
amine the cup of the violet closely, you would find that |
its throat is filled with a net-work of little hairs, so as to
keep the ants from getting at the store of sweets that are
intended only for the bee. And bashful little Miss Violet
has adorned herself with a special veining in the form of
two delicate purple lines called “‘honey guides,” which, it
is supposed, are intended to guide the bee to the point in
the flower where the honey-sac is concealed.
Before May is far advanced, in some moist, shaded spot
on the hillside, you may perhaps find the white-hearts, or
Dutchman’s-breeches. Everything about the white-hearts
seems to be in keeping, for even the leaf is as delicately
cut as a fern, and it would be hard to find anything more
dainty than the long row of drooping white and yellow
heart-shaped flowers. But there is one thing that you
are likely to ask concerning these flowers—where is the
honey kept, and how do the bees get at it? Would you
believe it? It is kept at the bottom of the legs of the
“breeches,” where the ants and even the bees find it hard
to reach. But even in the world of nature, strange to say,
there is sometimes bold burglary and highway robbery,
and you may frequently find a whole colony of Dutch-
man’s-breeches where the robbers have been at work.
What do they do? Simply cut a hole into the side of the
flower and boldly drain the sweets. This, of course, means
death to the white-hearts, for now that the nectar is gone
no moth or bee will come to carry the precious, life-giving
pollen from flower to flower, and, as a oi its
seeds will not mature.
WELCOME AND UNWELCOME VISITORS 361
But even if the ants and bees are sometimes highway
robbers, the flowers themselves are not entirely free from
blame. Almost every boy and girl is familiar with the
Jack-in-the-pulpit, one of the most common of the wild
lilies found in the moist, shady May woods. The “pulpit”
is one of those quaint, old-fashioned affairs with a canopy
overhead, and the preacher is boxed in, in quite a different
way from those in our modern churches. A pulpit it is,
however, but, alas! Jack is a sad knave of a preacher and
a betrayer of his trust. This is the way he works his
schemes: Perhaps you may have noticed that some of
the ‘“‘pulpits” are smaller than the others. These are
the flowers which contain the pollen; the larger ones con-
tain the seeds, which, of course, will not mature unless
sprinkled with the pollen from the smaller flowers. The
fly that crawls into the smaller pulpit, attracted by the
nectar, finds it impossible to get out again, for the inside
of the flower cup is too slippery to climb, and there is no
space for him to spread his wings. So he is left for a day
or two to craw! helplessly around the floor of the pulpit,
until, at last, when he is thoroughly dusted with pollen,
the side of his prison suddenly opens out, and he is per-
mitted to escape. And then—foolish fly! Instead of
profiting by experience, he is tempted into another Jack-
in-the-pulpit near by—one of the larger ones this time,
perhaps. His load of pollen dust is just what is required,
but the walls of the pulpit are. just as slippery as before,
and this time Jack, having got his pay, refuses to open
the door and let his visitor escape. So for every Jack-
in-the-pulpit that blossoms in the woods, one insect at
least has died a miserable death.
262 COUNTRY LIFE READER
Every country boy is acquainted with the Indian turnip,
with its accompanying cluster of beautiful scarlet berries,
which are nothing more or less than the root and fruit
of Jack-in-the-pulpit. The boys sometimes call the In-
dian turnip by another name—memory-root—because the
Blossom of May-apple. Hedge-bindweed.
boy who has once incautiously tasted of it, and smarted
in consequence, is not likely soon to forget his rash ex-
perience. The Indians, however, were in the habit of
boiling it so as to take away the sharpness, and their
fondness of it in this form has given it its common name
of Indian turnip.
You know that May is already far advanced when the
mandrakes, or May-apples, begin to bloom. ‘The sun is
getting warm, too, for this pretty lady with the com-
plexion of pearls refuses to come forth without her para-
sol, or umbrella, rather, and under this she hides from the
WELCOME AND UNWELCOME VISITORS 363
storm and sun alike. A pretty lady, we said—but, alas!
that is all that we can say, for the root and leaf alike are
deadly poison, and the big, white, pearly flower has a
strong, harsh odor which, as usual, is intended to attract
the flies. The May-apples themselves, “‘wild lemons,” as
they are sometimes called,
are not poisonous, and the
children sometimes eat
them, but it cannot be said
that their sweetish flavor
is agreeable to the taste.
And they are, of course, not
‘‘May-apples” at all, for
they are not apples and
they do not ripen in May.
Among the tangled
growth of the fence cor-
ners along the country
roads, in early June, we
are likely to find the wild
morning-glory, or hedge-bindweed, as it is generally
called. The interesting thing about the hedge-bindweed
is that it is one of the flowers that remain open during the
night as well as the day. The big, bell-shaped tube is
meant to attract the moths that fly in the night-time, and
the flowers are nearly white, too; for what is the use of an
array of color, when the moths who are its visitors and
carry the pollen from flower to flower cannot see any of
the beautiful shades? Most of these night-blooming
flowers have a strong fragrance, but the bindweed has
none, and trusts altogether to the whiteness of its bell-
Purple-flowering raspberry.
3604 COUNTRY .LIFE READER
shaped tube glimmering in the moonlight to attract its
favored friends.
Another June flower, the very opposite in nature to the
The milkweed.
hedge-bindweed, is the pur-
ple-flowering raspberry. Its
rich purple color shows
that it blooms by day, and
that its best friend is the
bee; and if you examine it
closely you will find that
its stem is clammy and
sticky, so as to keep off the
unwelcome ant. It is a
very beautiful flower, but
its beauty is not to be
meddled with, for the pet-
als are almost sure to drop
off if you touch it, and it
looks very draggled and
wilted before you get far
on your way toward home.
Before June is far ad-
vanced, along the roadside
or in the rougher parts of
the pasture-field you are
likely to meet with the first
milkweed blossoms of the
summer. The milkweed
is a general favorite among the insects, and it is in-
teresting to stop for a few minutes to watch what
visitors the milkweed flowers have, and how ‘they fare.
WELCOME AND UNWELCOME VISITORS 36s
The ants, of course, are barred, for not only is the stem
covered with fine hairs, which prevent them from climb-
ing, but it is sticky, and the ant can no more climb it
then you can walk through
a wet clay field after a rain.
But the bees are welcome—
the only really welcome vis-
itors it has. Watch one of
them as it sips the nectar.
Ah, there, indeed! One of
its feet has slipped into a
crack in the side of the
flower, and it cannot draw it
out without dragging with
it the lining of the hole and
a big mass of pollen too.
Then away it flies to an-
other flower, where the bur-
den of pollen is gratefully
received. But see! Here
comes a fly. Lucky fellow!
He has managed to get a
sip of the nectar without
falling into the trap. But
his neighbor, feeding on
the next flower, is not so
fortunate—and, tug with all
his might, he is not strong
The pitcher-plant.
enough to draw out the lining of the hole in which his
foot has been caught, and so he is left to struggle, and
at last to die—and all for the purpose, apparently, of
366 COUNTRY LIFE READER
simply teaching him a lesson not to trespass on the feed-
ing-ground that is meant for the bee.
In the case of the milkweed, the smaller insects can al-
ways get away if they are only strong enough, but with
the pitcher-plant that is growing in the marsh at the edge
of the pond, a little farther on, the conditions are quite
different. The flowers, which blossom in June, are ex-
ceedingly beautiful and delicate—and, to give them their
due; they are innocent enough. But the leaves, almost
as cunningly as a conscious being, have apparently set
themselves deliberately to tempt and snare any unfor-
tunate insect that comes in their way. They are folded
up somewhat in the shape of a horn, and the inside surface
is smeared with honey, to tempt the victim and lure him
in. He enters and descends, but in a moment, when he
wishes to return, he finds, too late, that retreat is impos-
sible. A bristling forest of hairs, pointing downward,
makes it impossible for him to climb the walls of his prison,
and the unfortunate victim usually meets his death in
the water with which the innocent-looking “pitcher” is
always partly filled. It seems, at first sight, strange that
such a harmless-looking plant should be such an ogre, but
it is in reality the same old story of nature over again.
The pitcher-plant must live, by fair means or foul, and,
what nourishment it cannot derive from the water and
soil, it endeavors to make up for by entrapping and then
absorbing and digesting its unsuspecting, and perhaps over-
greedy, insect visitors.
TEE POBACCO-PLANE
In the case of some farm plants, such as tomatoes, the
farmer’s chief care is to produce large, well-formed fruit;
and in order to improve the quality of his fruit, he tries
to prevent the plant from growing too much to leaf. But
some plants, such as lettuce and cabbage, are grown only
for the sake of the leaves, which are used for food. To-
bacco is another plant which is grown for its leaves; but
in the case of the tobacco-plant the question is not, “Of
what value is it for food?” but, ‘‘How will it burn and
what kind of smoke will it produce?”
The tobacco-plant grows to a height of from three to
five feet, and its leaves are very large; but in growing
tobacco the quality of the leaf must be taken into account
as well as its size. If we could make a collection of to-
bacco leaves grown in different soils we should find that
they would differ very greatly in quality. Here, for ex-
ample, is a fine, silky leaf, grown in light sandy soil, which
is used in making wrappers for cigars; here is another
variety, grown in a light loam soil, which is used for the
inside covers, or “binders,” for cigars; a third variety, .
grown in heavier soil, is used chiefly for fillers; and there ~
are a multitude of other varieties, which are used in the
manufacture of different grades of plug tobacco and
cigarettes. As a rule, plants that are grown in heavy
clay soil have heavy, gummy leaves, which are dark in
color when cured; while plants that are grown on light
367
368 COUNTRY LIFE ‘READER
sandy soit have thin silky leaves, which are yellow or light
red in color when cured.
But whatever the variety may be, all tobacco crops are
grown in much the same way. Young tobacco-plants are
grown from seed in cold-frames or in hotbeds. The seeds
of tobacco are very small, and in order to sow them evenly |
it is necessary to mix them with some other material, such
as finely sifted ashes or bone-meal. After the seed is sown,
cheese-cloth or light canvas is laid over the glass of the
hotbed to keep the sun from burning the young plants.
When the seedlings have grown five or six inches high,
and have from four to six leaves, they are ready for trans-
planting. They are usually set out about the first of June,
about six or eight weeks after planting, when all danger of
late frosts is past.
The soil in the field into which the seedlings are trans-
planted must be specially prepared. In the first place,
in order to secure the best results, the soil must be well
fertilized, and must be treated with lime; for the burning
qualities of the leaf depend to some extent upon the kinds
of plant-food that the soil contains. The ground is then
ploughed and harrowed so as to produce a fine surface
soil. In some districts the surface of the ground is burned
to a depth of two or three inches in order to kill the weed
seeds and insects. Sometimes the ground is covered with
brushwood, which is set on fire. In other cases the sur-
face soil is heated in a special sort of sheet-iron stove,
which is moved across the field; while in still other cases
the weed seeds and insects are killed by steam heat, which
is applied to the soil.
The seedlings are set out in rows from three to four feet
THE TOBACCO-PLANT 369
apart, and a space of from sixteen inches to three feet is
left between the plants, according to variety. As long as
the size of the plants permits, the ground must be culti-
vated and hoed, to keep the surface soil loose and to de-
stroy the weeds; but in the later stages of growth the cul-
tivation must be shallow so as not to injure the roots
which are near the surface. When the seed heads have
begun to develop, and before the plants have come to
bloom, they must be ‘‘topped.” Topping consists in
breaking off the crown of the plant, so that its strength
will go into the leaves rather than to the formation of seed.
After the plant has been topped, new shoots or “suckers”
are likely to grow out of the stalk, and these shoots must
also be broken off.
The leaves of the growing plant are sometimes attacked
by the tobacco flea-beetle, or ‘‘flea-bug,”’’a small insect
of a reddish-brown color; or by different kinds of tobac-
co-worms, or caterpillars. One of these tobacco-worms,
called the “horn-blower,” is a very large, green cater-
pillar, from two to three inches in length. Both the flea-
bug and the tobacco-worms may be destroyed by spraying
the plants with arsenate of lead; but they can both be
kept down to some extent by destroying the weeds around
the edges of the field, which attract the beetles and the
moths which produce caterpillars.
When the leaves of the plant have changed to a light-
green color, it is time to harvest the crop. The plants are
cut off close to the ground; and after they have wilted
they are hung on pointed laths—four plants to a lath—
and these laths are placed on racks in the barn, where the
leaves are to be dried, or ‘‘cured.’’ Sometimes instead of
370 ' COUNTRY LIFE READER
cutting down the whole plant, the leaves are stripped off.
as they ripen, and are strung on wires or cords to be hung
up in the curing-barn.
Tobacco is cured, or dried, in a number of different ways.
In some districts it is hung up in curing barns or sheds, in
which the air is heated by pipes or flues. Tobacco which
is cured in this way is known as flue-cured tobacco. In
other districts the leaves are cured by means of open fires,
the smoke of which gives a special flavor to the tobacco.
Tobacco which is cured in this way is known as fire-cured
tobacco. The method of curing, as well as the kind of
soil in which it is grown, has much to do with the color
of the tobacco.
The tobacco-plant is a native of America, and the larger
part of the tobacco crop of the world is grown in the United
States. The leading tobacco States are Kentucky, Vir-
ginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New
York, Wisconsin, South Carolina, Connecticut, Maryland,
and Missouri.
A little sun, a little rain,
A soft wind blowing from the west—
And woods and fields are sweet again,
And warmth within the mountain’s breast.
So simple is the earth we tread,
So quick with love and life her frame,
Ten thousand years have dawned and fled,
And still her magic is the same.
STOPFORD BROOKE.
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| SUMMER ca
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THE ‘COUNDRY (FAITE
Here in the country’s heart,
Where the grass is green,
Life is the same sweet life
As it e’er hath been.
Ge)
HD
Leh
Trust in a God still lives,
And the bell at morn
Floats with a thought of God
O’er the rising corn.
God comes down in the rain,
And the crop grows tall—
This is the country faith,
And the best of all!
j
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CI EO GEER SQA. NHRETS OMS
——
a
IRIGY BN GGA
The monarch of the prairies.
THE -PRAIRIES
These are the gardens of the Desert, these
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,
For which the speech of England has no name—
The Prairies. I behold them for the first,
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch
In airy undulations, far away,
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,
Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed
And motionless for ever.—Motionless ?
No—they are all unchained again. The clouds
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,
373
374 COUNTRY LIFE READER
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not—ye have played
Among the palms of Mexico and vines
Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide
Into the calm Pacific—have ye fanned
A nobler or a lovelier scene than this?
Man hath no part in all this glorious work:
The hand that built the firmament hath heaved
And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes
With herbage, planted them with island groves,
And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor
For this magnificent temple of the sky—
With flowers whose glory and whose multitude
Rival the constellations! The great heavens
Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love—
A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue,
Than that which bends above our eastern hills.
Still this great solitude is quick with life.
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,
And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man,.
Are here, and ‘sliding reptiles of the ground,
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer
Bounds to the wood at my approach. ‘The bee,
A more adventurous colonist than man, ;
THE PRAIRIES Wear
With whom he came across the eastern deep,
Fills the savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,
Within the hollow oak. [I listen long
To his domestic hum, and think I hear
The sound of that advancing multitude
Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshippers. ‘The low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
“The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye.”
ALVALFA— THE .BESD. OD DEE
Alfalfa is the name given to a legume which is grown very
extensively in some parts of the country as food for live
stock. The name ‘alfalfa’? comes from an Arabic word
meaning ‘‘the best fodder,” and, as we shall see later, there
are reasons why it is considered better than other kinds of
fodder for horses and cattle. It was introduced into North
America many years ago, at first from Europe, and later
from South America; but it is only in recent years that
farmers have given very much attention to growing it.
It was thought at first that it was suited only for the very
dry lands of the West; but it is now known that, under
proper conditions, it can be grown in nearly all parts of
the country.
Let us suppose that, with your father’s permission, you
wish to make the attempt to grow a crop of alfalfa in one
of the fields of his farm, and that you wish to know before-
hand what your chances are of making it a success. You
may be sure, in the first place, that your crop will be a
failure if the field is not properly drained, for alfalfa will
not grow upon wet ground, and the drainage should be
such as to carry off the surplus water to a depth of at least
three feet. Then you must make a test of your soil to see
if it is acid, or ‘‘sour,”’ for alfalfa will grow only on soils
that are sweetened by an abundance of lime. And if your
soil is hard and lumpy, your alfalfa will not grow nearly
so well as if it were loosened and enriched by a plentiful
376
ALFALFA—"THE BEST FODDER” 377
supply of barn-yard manure. You cannot expect a good
crop of alfalfa unless the soil contains a good deal of humus.
But even though the soil itself is in good condition,
something else is needed in order to make your alfalfa
grow. Alfalfa, as we have learned, is a legume, and
legumes will not grow unless the soil contains the bacteria
which supply them with nitrogen; and different legumes
require different kinds of bacteria. So it might happen
that your alfalfa plants would not grow because the right
kind of bacteria were not present in the soil. Before you
sow your alfalfa, then, you must take pains to supply your
soil with bacteria. The easiest way to do this is to sprinkle
your soil with earth from a field in the neighborhood in
which alfalfa has already been grown, or with earth from
around the roots of the sweet clover, which makes use of
the same sort of bacteria as alfalfa. This earth, it is well
to remember, should be harrowed into your field before
the sun has had a chance to shine on it too long, for strong
sunlight will kill the bacteria.
Now that you know upon what kind of soil alfalfa will
grow, the next thing about which you must learn is the
method of cultivation. The young alfalfa crop is in greater
danger from weeds than from any other enemy; and the
ground must be prepared in such a way that the weeds
will have little chance to grow. Just because of this danger
from weeds, alfalfa is generally sown after a cultivated
crop such as corn or potatoes, and in some parts of the
country it is planted with oats or barley, which helps to
choke out the weeds. Alfalfa is usually sown some time
between April and August, according to the soil and the
locality. Generally from ten to fifteen pounds of seed
378 COUNTRY LIFE READER
per acre Is required. For the best results the seed should
be planted with a drill, from one to two inches deep. After
the young plants appear it 1s sometimes necessary to clip
the field with a mower, in order to keep down the weeds.
As soon as the new buds begin to appear at the base of
the stalks, it is time to harvest the first crop. This is
generally early in June, when the plants are beginning to
flower. When the alfalfa is cut, the harvest should be
rushed forward so as to clear the field for the second crop,
which is already beginning to grow.
It is easy to understand why farmers who have raised
alfalfa should put so high a value on it as a farm crop. In
the first place, it contains as much protein, pound for pound,
as wheat bran, and nearly twice as much as clover;, and
when fed under proper conditions, it is literally “the best
fodder” obtainable for farm stock. Besides this, it pro-
duces from three to five crops in a season and, acre for
acre, gives more than double the yield of either clover or
timothy. And finally, aside from its value as fodder, it
enriches the soil. Its long roots run down deep into the
earth, so that it is able to draw both food and moisture
from lower levels in the soil, which the roots of other plants
do not reach. And, like other legumes, it draws nitrogen
from the air and stores it away in nodules, so that when a
field of alfalfa is ploughed up, the ground is richer in plant-
food than before 1t was sown.
The desert riders of ancient times knew nothing of mod-
ern methods of farming, but in one thing at least they
anticipated the twentieth-century farmer, when they dis-
covered the value of this wonderful legume and gave to it
the appropriate name of alfalfa, ‘“‘the best fodder.”
Flowers, fruit, and honey.
A COLONY OF HONEY-BEES
A colony of honey-bees consists of three classes of in-
dividuals—the queen bee, the workers, and the drones.
The queen bee is the mother of the colony and lays all
the eggs from which the workers and drones are hatched.
The workers are female bees which lay no eggs, but which
gather pollen and honey and do the work of the hive.
Every hive contains thousands of worker bees. The
drones are the male bees; these bees do no work, and there
are only a few hundred drones in the hive. These three
kinds of bees are easily distinguished, both by appearance
and size; for the workers are smaller than either the queen
or the drones.
A properly constructed bee-hive consists of a box con-
379
. 380 COUNTRY LIFE READER
taining a number of vertical frames which can be easily
removed. These frames are generally so constructed that
a small space is left between the frame and the hive, just
sufficiently wide for a bee to pass through. This opening
is known as a “‘bee-space.”’
Within each of the frames the workers build two rows
of six-sided wax cells placed end to end, and in these cells
the eggs are laid, and the young are reared; here also
the honey is stored. The cells are of different sizes, some
for rearing workers, larger ones for rearing drones, and
still others for storing honey. But bee-keepers are able
to control the number of worker cells by providing a foun-
dation sheet of wax indented with the size and shape of
the cells desired. The bees follow these indentations in
building up their comb.
In spring, when the weather grows warm, the queen
begins to lay eggs in the worker celis. Within three days
these eggs hatch out into tiny ‘‘worms,” or larve, which
grow large enough in a few days more to fill the cells.
The cells are then capped over, the larve spin cocoons, and
in twenty-one days from the time the eggs are laid the
young bees hatch out.
When the hive has become filled with workers, the
queen lays eggs in the larger cells, and these develop into
drones. Now it is plain that the family cannot continue
to increase in size unless some other home is provided.
But a new colony cannot be formed without providing a
new queen for those who are left behind. So the workers
begin to make ready for the change by building a number
of queen cells, which are of a larger size and different
shape from the others. When the eggs which are laid in
A COLONY OF HONEY-BEES 381
these cells hatch out, the workers provide the larve with
special food. Then, as usual, these queen cells are sealed
up, while the larve spin their cocoons.
Now, since there is no danger that the old colony will
be left without a queen, a large number of the workers
are ready to leave the hive—or to “‘swarm’’—and seek a
new home elsewhere, and in swarming they always take
the old queen with them as mother of the new colony.
In earlier times, before the habits of bees were so well
known, many colonies were lost in swarming time; but
now the watchful bee-keeper is able to save the new colonies
by providing hives for them at the proper time.
In the meantime, in the course of a week after the swarm-
ing has taken place, the new queens are ready to emerge
from their cells. If the colony is still so large that it must
swarm again, at least two of the queens are permitted to
hatch; but if the colony is not too large, the first queen to
emerge is permitted to tear open the cells and kill the
other queens.
When the new queen is from five to eight days old, she
leaves her cell for what is known as her ‘‘nuptial flight,”
when she mates with a drone. She then returns to the
hive, and does not leave it again unless the colony swarms.
Only one queen at a time is, as a rule, tolerated in a
hive. If by chance a strange queen gets into a hive where
there is already a queen, there will be a battle royal, re-
sulting in the death of one. Mother and daughter may
for a time get along quite peaceably, but never mother
and daughter-in-law; and their subjects, the workers,
apparently have something to say about the matter also.
In modern bee culture it sometimes happens that the
382 COUNTRY LIFE READER
queen dies. ‘The bees ‘set up a’cry of distress.) Piey
are out of sorts with themselves and their owner. The
prospects for. the future are decidedly bad; the old bees
begin to die off; and unless there is a queen to lay eggs
and keep the young brood going, the colony itself will
soon become extinct. Here the bee-keeper steps in and
supplies a queen. He cannot let loose this stepmother
into the hive, even though the inmates be ‘“‘crying” for
want of her. He must go through the preliminary proc-
ess of “introducing” her. This is done by shutting her
up in a little cage supplied with soft candy. She is then
placed between the combs for twenty-four or forty-eight
hours, during which time she acquires the odor of the
colony. She is no longer a stranger, and is released among
the bees. If she be ‘‘accepted” by them, they begin to
feed her by extending their tongues, offering her a drop
of honey or nectar. Other bees will begin to comb her
hair. They will stand around her in a circle three or four
bees high, perhaps. At times they extend to her all the
royal attention that a human queen might expect from
her subjects. }
The work of the hive is divided between the young bees,
or nurses, that do not go to the field, and the old bees, or
“fielders,” that gather nectar or pollen. In general the
inside work—building of cells, care of the brood, and clean-
ing of the hive—is done by bees that are less than seven-
teen days old. To these young bees also falls the task of
guarding the entrance of the hive against robbers.
The average life of the worker bee in the height of the
season is about six weeks. At the end of that time their
wings may become so worn that they are no‘longer able
A COLONY OF HONEY-BEES 383
to work. Notwithstanding that they have toiled and
spent their life-blood, the younger generation of bees
coming on will, without the least spark of gratitude, ‘push
these old bees out of the hive, pick them up, fly out into
the field with them, and drop them. The poor old bees
cannot walk back—it is too far; and they cannot fly, and
so they die. The merciless process 1s repeated generation
after generation. It is another case of the survival of the
fittest. All undesirables and the weak and infirm must
be sacrificed for the good of the colony at large. Even
the drone bees, after they have served the purpose of their
creation, and after the close of the season, are ruthlessly
pushed out of the hive by their sisters. They gather
neither pollen nor nectar, so why save them? ‘They, too,
must be sacrificed, for winter is coming on, and only the
essential must be allowed to survive.
The statement has been made that the young bees guard
the entrance—against what? Robber bees. Bees, like
their owners, learn that they can steal from their neigh-
bors. The ordinary honest bee will, perhaps, spend a
whole day in the fields gathering a single load of nectar.
This, of course, means hard work. If, however, the bee-
man leaves any honey or syrup exposed, or if a certain
colony is not very strong, when there is no honey in the
fields these honest bees may become thieves. They will
overpower a weak colony. They will steal the syrup or
the honey, and in a short time there will be a general pow-
wow of excitement. Every bee, anxious to store for its
own hive, will pounce on these coveted sweets. It takes
a robber bee less than a minute to fill up with honey, rush
back to the hive, deposit its load, and then rush back with
284 COUNTRY LIFE READER
a lot of its fellows. The excitement grows apace. If the
apiarist is not on hand to stop proceedings, the whole
apiary will be involved. When the honey is gone, there
is trouble. Becoming excited and angry because there is
no more, they are liable to wreak their vengeance on cats,
dogs, chickens, or on pedestrians and teamsters in the
highway. ‘The wise apiarist, if he comes upon the scene
in. time, will remove the hive, and if a weak colony is being
overpowered, will carry it down cellar.. He may go even
so far as to set a robber-trap. This device allows the
bees to go into a hive that is set as a decoy, but permits
none to get out. In half an hour he may catch all the
robber bees, amounting to some thousands. After their
wild excitement, he knows that he must shut them up for
a day or two, or until they cool off. Or he may destroy
them, for once a bee learns bad tricks it will keep them up.
Fortunately, these robbing episodes are not frequent,
but are here mentioned to caution the novice against
leaving sweets exposed or allowing colonies in the apiary
to become so weak that they will be overcome by their
more powerful neighbors.
E. R. Root (ADAPTED).
We thank Thee, Lord, for youth—
Its sunny hours with song and gladness fraught,
For May-tide dawns, for earth renewed with flow’rs—
Dear tokens of Thy tender care and thought!
In very truth,
We bless Thee for the glowing spring of youth.
THE SONG OF THE BEE
Buzz! buzz! buzz!
This is the song of the bee.
His legs are of yellow;
A jolly, good fellow,
And yet a great worker is he.
In days that are sunny
He’s getting his honey;
In days that are cloudy
He’s making his wax:
On pinks and on lilies,
And gay daffodillies,
And columbine blossoms,
He levies a tax!
Buzz! buzz! buzz!
From morning’s first light
Till the coming of night,
He’s singing and toiling
The summer day through.
Oh! we may get weary,
And think work is dreary;
Tis harder by far
To have nothing to do!
MARIAN DOUGLAS.
385
GETTING iN) PEE aN
It is an evening in the early part of July. Supper has
been eaten, the cows have been milked, and Farmer Dan/els
sits on his front stoop, slowly puffing his stogy and looking
out over his fine stretch of level meadows. His oldest
boy, a sturdy, brown-skinned youth of sixteen, is stand-
ing just within the doorway behind him.
Farmer Dan’els takes the stogy from his lips. ‘‘Larry,”
he says, with a quiet drawl, ‘‘you’d better oil up the
machines to-night. We’ll cut to-morrow.”
Thus come the marching orders—the signal words that
mark the halcyon days of the country summer, the Arca-
dian period of the farmer’s year. The sordid drudgery of »
the stable, the dreary monotony of the dairy, the barren
burden of the plough—all are dissipated by the sweet ro-
mance of getting in the hay. At any rate, so it has always
seemed to me. Haying is work, hard work, hot work, but
somehow it seems to be the kind of work that God ex-
pected man to do. There is a purity, a freshness, a fra-
grance about it that fairly sweeten the sweat drops on the
toiler’s brow.
At five the next morning, then, all hands are stirring.
At five-thirty the milking is over and the breakfast is
under way.
At six the two mowing-machines go jangling down the
lane, each drawn by a burly team, one guided by Larry
and the other by Farmer Dan’els, who bob up and down
in their iron seats as the heavy wheels rumble along the
386
GETTING IN THE HAY 387
driveway. Crossing the public road, they turn into the
meadow and fall into position, one behind the other, with
the space of a dozen yards or so between. The gears are
thrown in, the ‘‘giddaps” ring out—and the tall timothy
begins to fall.
Down the meadow they go, straight as a chalk line;
then across the lower edge, up the other side, back to the
corner, and down again. The ‘“‘clink-clink-clink”’ of the
cutting-bar sings as tunefully as a chorus of clarionets;
and when they stop and back up, to turn the corners
square, you hear the ratchets fall with a click-click, as if
the orchestra had paused to tune up for the next passage.
Gradually the meadow takes on the appearance of an
immense emerald rug with a pale-green border formed by
the fallen grass.
A half hour passes. The sun climbs higher, and the air is
heavy with the sweet odor of bruised grass and clover.
Now, rattling into the field, comes young Roland, whose
nine years of being have qualified him to drive the rake.
It is always the oldest horse and the youngest boy who
do the raking.
The teeth of the rake are held clear of the ground, as a
lady holds her petticoats, while he drives across the lot
to the patch cut yesterday, which in the interim has
changed from grass to hay. Swinging into place close to
the fence, he releases the lever; the long, arched teeth fall
into the hay, and with a chirp to old Frank he is off, the
straddling wheels trundling over the stubble and looking
for all the world like a great daddy-long-legs.