THE RED COW 
 
 AND HER FRIENDS 
 
 by peter McArthur 
 
 AUTHOR OF “IN PASTURES GREEN,” “THE PRODIGAL AND 
 OTHER POEMS,” “TO BE TAKEN WITH SALT,” ETC. 
 
 TORONTO: J. M. DENT & SONS, Ltd. 
 NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 
 
 MCMXIX 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1919, 
 
 By JOHN LANE COMPANY 
 
 Press of 
 
 3. 3. Little & Ives Company 
 New York, U. S, A, 
 
THIS BOOK 
 IS DEDICATED 
 TO ALL CITY MEN 
 WHO FEEL SERE THAT THEY 
 COULD FARM AT A PROFIT. 
 IF EACH ONE BUYS A COPY I CAN 
 AFFORD TO KEEP ON FARMING 
 
PREFACE 
 
 It is always a pleasure to avoid responsibility and 
 it gives me a feeling of relief to be able to announce 
 that I am not wholly responsible for this collection 
 of sketches. When it was suggested that I should 
 put together the articles dealing with the Red Cow, 
 and the other farm animals, I felt reluctant to 
 trouble the public with a somewhat frivolous book at 
 the present time. It seemed as if Fate were with 
 me for when it was decided to go on with the book 
 it was found that my file of clippings had been lost. 
 But the matter was still urged and, remembering 
 that at different times readers had written to me 
 saying that they were in the habit of clipping the 
 articles for future reference, I published a para- 
 graph telling of my predicament. The result was 
 that I received clippings from all parts of Canada 
 and some were even sent from neighbouring States. 
 
 Through the kindness of my unknown friends I 
 am able to offer a book which they have really ed- 
 ited. Some of the sketches used would have been 
 rejected had I relied on my own judgment, but find- 
 ing that they had pleased some readers I decided 
 
 7 
 
PREFACE 
 
 that they might please others. Having the chance 
 to shift the responsibility for the book from my 
 own shoulders, I accepted it joyously. The un- 
 known friends who did me the honour of preserving 
 these articles as they appeared are the real editors. 
 
 I can further plead in extenuation that the clip- 
 pings I have used were all sent to me by people who 
 are familiar with the domestic animals and their 
 habits. This should protect me from any charge 
 of farm-faking. 
 
 Ekfrid, Ontario, January, 1919. 
 
 8 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 cows 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. A Sick Cow 15 
 
 II. Cow Troubles 22 
 
 III. Fly Time 26 
 
 IV. The Red Cow’s Calves 29 
 
 V. Insurgent Cows 31 
 
 VI. Cow Troubles 36 
 
 VII. The Bran Habit 42 
 
 VIII. The Farrow Cow and Others .... 43 
 
 IX. Cow Enjoyment 50 
 
 X. Cow Kaiserism 52 
 
 XI. A Night Session 55 
 
 XII. A Calf Puzzle 58 
 
 XIII. Cow Character 61 
 
 XIV. Calf Feeding 63 
 
 XV. A Cow Trick 66 
 
 XVI. Cow Cussedness 72 
 
 XVII. Teaching a Calf 75 
 
 XVIII. Calf Exuberance 77 
 
 SHEEP 
 
 XIX. Our First Sheep 83 
 
 XX. The First Lamb 90 
 
 XXI. Sheep Surgery 93 
 
 9 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XXII. The Patient 98 
 
 XXIII. Shearing 100 
 
 XXIV. Vain Regrets 104 
 
 XXV. Sheep Sculpture 106 
 
 XXVI. Our Lawn Mower 113 
 
 PIGS 
 
 XXVII. Clementine 117 
 
 XXVIII. Feeding Pigs 121 
 
 XXIX. Beatrice 124 
 
 XXX. Pig Frightfulness 128 
 
 XXXI. A Pig Bath 130 
 
 XXXII. In Extenuation 132 
 
 XXXIII. Beatrice Announces 134 
 
 XXXIV. Receiving 137 
 
 XXXV. Feeding Time 140 
 
 XXXVI. Beatrice Belligerent 144 
 
 HORSES 
 
 XXXVII. Dolly’s Day Off 147 
 
 XXXVIII. The Colt 154 
 
 XXXIX. Horse Contrariness 156 
 
 XL. A Great Scheme 158 
 
 TURKEYS 
 
 XLI. The Gobbler 163 
 
 XLII. His Phusslanism 167 
 
 XLIII. His Desertion 169 
 
 XLIV. His Belligerency 171 
 
 10 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XLV. Hib Cares 173 
 
 XLVI. His Troubles 175 
 
 DOGS 
 
 XLVII. A ' Moral Tale 179 
 
 XLVIII. Sheppy’s First Coon Hunt 181 
 
 XLIX. A Rabbit Chase 189 
 
 L. Fights and Feuds 192 
 
 CATS 
 
 LI. A Page of High History 197 
 
 LII. A Spring Orgy 200 
 
 BIRDS 
 
 LIII. A Disgusted Blackbird 205 
 
 LIV. A Visitor 209 
 
 LV. A Farewell 211 
 
 GENERAL 
 
 LVI. The Whole Bunch 215 
 
 LVII. Human Nature in Dumb Creatures . . . 221 
 
 LVIII. Early Observations 227 
 
 LIX. Bantams 232 
 
 LX. A Little Tragedy 234 
 
 LXI. A Scientific Query 236 
 
 LXII. A Poultry Note 238 
 
 LXIII. Spring and the Livestock 240 
 
 LXIV. First Snow 242 
 
 LXV. A “Skift” of Snow 244 
 
 11 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 FAGE 
 
 LXVI. A Spring Showeb 247 
 
 LXVII. Doing Chores 249 
 
 LXVIII. Fishing 251 
 
 LXIX. A Lonesome Squirrel 255 
 
 LXX. Fall Poultry Troubles 258 
 
 LXXI. Thanksgiving Day 263 
 
 LXXII. September Notes 270 
 
 LXXIII. “The Demon Rabbit” 273 
 
 LXXIV. The Fate of “The Demon Rabbit” . . . 278 
 
 LXXV. My Friends, the Trees 282 
 
 n 
 
A BALLADE OF COWS 
 
 Fenceviewer I. a cow of parts. 
 
 Aggressive, competent and bold. 
 
 At every milking gives twelve quarts 
 
 And doesn’t give a — hoot! — (don’t scold!) 
 My Kerry cow, as good as gold; 
 
 Fenceviewer II. — (boss, they say) 
 
 La Veau, turned three; Beans, two-year-old — 
 These are the cows I milk each day ! 
 
 When Phoebus shoots his morning darts. 
 
 Or wet or dry, or hot or cold, 
 
 One to the dewy pasture starts 
 
 With clanging pails and pants up-rolled. 
 Again when evening doth enfold 
 
 The earth and sky in twilight grey. 
 
 Him at that chore you may behold — 
 
 These are the cows I milk each day ! 
 
 Although unskilled in dairy arts 
 
 I’ve soaked some lore by experts doled. 
 With gentle words that win their hearts 
 My cows from kicking I’ve cajoled; 
 
 And of all cattle, horned or polled. 
 
 Pure-bred or grade, own them who may. 
 Mine suit me best. They’ll not be sold — 
 These are the cows I milk each day ! 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Prince, if you ever in the wold 
 
 At milking time should chance to stray. 
 
 I’ll let you drink all you can hold — 
 
 These are the cows I milk each day ! 
 
I. — A Sick Cow 
 
 T HIS week the monotony of the winter has 
 been broken. I have been sitting up with 
 a sick cow. Fenceviewer I. has suffered the 
 first check in her career of rapacity, vo- 
 racity and capacity. A couple of days ago it was 
 noticed that she was off her feed — that she only 
 nibbled at the blue grass when it was put in her man- 
 ger. Knowing that in her normal condition she is 
 an incarnate appetite — “A belly that walks on four 
 legs” — I knew that something was the matter. I 
 could not imagine her refusing to eat until Death 
 had “clawed her in his clutch,” so I took the matter 
 seriously from the beginning. I also noticed that 
 she did not take kindly to water, but stood over it 
 and shivered. There was no doubt about it. She 
 was a sick cow. After a hasty consultation it was 
 decided to give her a dose of salts, and I comman- 
 deered all that we had in the house — almost a pound. 
 After it had been dissolved in about a quart of warm 
 water I took some further advice and added to it, 
 
 15 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 for her stomach’s sake, a couple of tablespoonfuls 
 of a sovereign liniment and embrocation, good for 
 man and beast, and paramount for poultry, a rem- 
 edy for all ills that any kind of flesh is heir to, may 
 be used internally or externally at any time of the 
 day or night without regard to the phases of the 
 moon or the signs in the almanac. All I know about 
 this remedy is that it is a red fluid made of red pep- 
 per, red whiskey and all the other red-hot things in 
 the Pharmacopoeia. It is the stuff that was once 
 given to an ailing coloured woman, and when she was 
 offered a second dose she declared with vigour, “No 
 thankee ! Ah’ve done made up ma mind never again 
 to take nuttin’ that wattah won’t squench.” Having 
 added this mixture to the salts I put it in a quart 
 bottle, called for help, and proceeded to put the red 
 dose into the red cow. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 We did the trick in the most approved fashion. 
 I caught her by one horn, slipped my thumb and 
 finger into her nose, and elevated her head so that 
 the other man could pour the mixture down her 
 throat. After the last drop had gurgled down I 
 turned her loose and stepped back to watch results. 
 She shook her head, rattled her chain, lashed her 
 
 16 
 
A SICK COW 
 
 tail, wriggled her backbone, coughed and sneezed 
 and showed other unmistakable signs of wrath and 
 discomfort. She did not seem to appreciate our ef- 
 forts in her behalf, and after I had thought it over 
 for a minute I realised what she was objecting to. 
 I put myself in her place. What would I want to do 
 if any one had forced a dose like that down my 
 throat? I would want to spit, of course. That was 
 what was the matter with old Fenceviewer. She 
 wanted to spit, but the limitations of a cow are such 
 that she couldn’t do it. If she were only able to do 
 it she would spit like a cat. I felt truly sorry for 
 her, but as I had done everything for the best I 
 didn’t do any worrying. While watching her I no- 
 ticed that she grunted faintly every time she breathed, 
 so I decided that we needed some expert advice and 
 called in a neighbour who has had much experience 
 with cows. After he had pressed his ear to her side 
 for a while he diagnosed her case as pleuro-pneu- 
 monia. It had never occurred to me before that 
 dumb animals could have diseases with Latin names 
 and that probably needed high-priced treatment. 
 He advised calling in the farrier at once, and I dis- 
 patched a boy to the nearest telephone to do this, 
 and we went to the house to await his arrival. The 
 
 17 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 boy reported that the farrier was out, but that he 
 would come as soon as he could. While waiting we 
 talked about all the sick cows we had ever known, 
 and as most of them had died I found the conversa- 
 tion somewhat depressing. I can honestly say of 
 Fenceviewer I., “With all thy faults I love thee still.” 
 She is the progenitor of the whole flock, and her 
 strain is the kind I need. She can rustle for herself 
 except when she is chained up, and if she had to do 
 it she could get through the winter by licking the 
 moss off the trees. She is no stall-fed exotic, but a 
 hardy annual who in spite of her good breeding has 
 a touch of the qualities that made the pioneer cows 
 endure hardships and give rich milk. I could ill 
 afford to lose her from either a financial or scientific 
 point of view. We whiled away several hours with 
 gloomy forebodings, occasionally taking the lantern 
 to go to the stable and look her over. But there 
 was nothing we could do for her, and she grunted 
 rhythmically every time she breathed, sometimes 
 standing up and sometimes lying down. About 
 twelve o’clock we decided that the farrier was not 
 coming, and the neighbour went home and I went to 
 bed. Just as I got sound asleep the household was 
 aroused by shrill whistling, and I got up to find that 
 
 18 
 
A SICK COW 
 
 the farrier had come. Getting into my clothes as 
 quickly as possible I took the lantern and hurried 
 to the stable. The farrier examined her, confirmed 
 my neighbour’s diagnosis and added that the attack 
 was complicated by a serious case of “impaction of 
 the rumen.” I was glad that he didn’t say that she 
 had appendicitis or adenoids, for I had made up my 
 mind that I was neither going to pay for a costly 
 
 operation nor to send her south for her health. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 While the farrier was mixing another dose — he 
 had approved of the one I had given — I enquired 
 cautiously about her ailment. When the big words 
 had been simplified for me I found that what she 
 was suffering from chiefly was indigestion and pains 
 in her tripe. This gave me much relief, for I felt 
 that if there ever was a cow that deserved to have 
 indigestion it was old Fenceviewer. Some of you may 
 remember that a couple of years ago she gave me a 
 scare by eating a bushel or so of corn. But she got 
 away with that without any bad results, so I was 
 puzzled as to what she could have eaten that had 
 disagreed with her. I knew that she had not had 
 too much of anything, for she is kept tied up most 
 of the time. Then I remembered that when feeding 
 
 19 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 the bottom of the stack of cornstalks I had noticed 
 that the butts of some of the sheaves were mouldy. 
 As the tops of them were fresh and good I had fed 
 them, thinking that the brutes would know enough 
 not to eat the parts that were damaged, but it doesn’t 
 do to bank on the intelligence of even the brightest 
 cows. The farrier agreed that that had probably 
 started the trouble, and I felt somewhat disgusted 
 with myself. When I didn’t know enough not to 
 feed such stuff I need not expect the cows to know 
 enough not to eat it. It was a wonder that more of 
 them were not ailing. 
 
 After the farrier had filled the quart bottle with 
 a mixture that smelled suspiciously like doses I have 
 had to take myself when my stomach has been out 
 of order, we went through the exercise of holding up 
 her head and pouring it down her throat. This time 
 she tried so hard to spit that she almost did it and 
 I wished that she had been able, for I know what nux 
 vomica and such stuff tastes like. The farrier then 
 mixed a bunch of powders to be given her in a bran 
 mash, every night and morning, and judging from 
 the way she goes at the bran she has forgiven him 
 everything. I may say, by the way, that the bran 
 is now about the most expensive part of the dose, and 
 
 20 
 
A SICK COW 
 
 if prices keep on as they are going we will soon have 
 to get our bran for sick cows at the drug store in- 
 stead of at the flour and feed emporiums. I am glad 
 to be able to report that at the present writing 
 Fenceviewer I. is taking her feed standing up, and 
 chewing her cud between times, so I guess she is 
 going to pull through all right. 
 
II. — Cow Troubles 
 
 I KNOW I should have a silo for the corn-stalks 
 or at least a cutting box, but I haven’t either, 
 and the result is that I have trouble. How to 
 get ten-foot stalks into a four-foot manger is a 
 problem that I have to wrestle with every day and I 
 am no nearer the solution than I was at the begin- 
 ning of the winter. I have to stand them on end in 
 front of the cows and as the soft ears were all left 
 on the stalks, the cattle go at them wildly and toss 
 them all over the place in their hurry to get the ears. 
 The result is that every few days I have to clean 
 out the rejected stalks from the mangers and the 
 front of the stalls and that makes more trouble. I 
 wish some one would tell me why it is that the tines 
 of a fork will slip through corn-stalks so easily and 
 are so hard to pull out. I do not find very much 
 trouble in getting a good forkful of the stalks but 
 when I carry them out to the hole in the barnyard 
 where I am piling them in the hope that they will 
 
 22 
 
COW TROUBLES 
 
 rot some time I have a wrestle with them that starts 
 me quoting poetry: 
 
 “On Astur’s throat Horatius 
 Right firmly placed his heel; 
 
 And thrice and four times tugged amain, 
 
 Ere he wrenched out the steel.” 
 
 When I have thrown down my load I find that 
 every tine has three or four stalks on it so that it 
 looks like Neptune’s trident entangled with sea- 
 weeds. But though it is a nuisance clearing out the 
 stalks in this way I have a vivid recollection of try- 
 ing to pitch manure that had corn-stalks mixed with 
 it and I have made up my mind that that will never 
 happen again. I try to keep them out of the manure 
 as far as possible, even though I may be robbing the 
 “stercoraceous heap” of some of its most valuable 
 
 fertilising constituents. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The more I work among cows and study their 
 ways the more puzzling they become to me. Some- 
 times when I am feeling a bit conceited I think I 
 understand them pretty well and then something 
 happens that puts me entirely out of countenance. 
 One warm day last week, when I had let them out 
 to water, I thought I would let them stand out and 
 
 23 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 sun themselves for a while before driving them back 
 to their stalls. I half remembered that the gate to 
 the young orchard had been opened when the snow 
 was deep and left opened, but I did not give it a 
 thought. The government drain had been flooded 
 and was covered with slippery ice that I was sure 
 they could not cross, and I felt that everything was 
 serene for a pleasant sunbath for the cows. Half 
 an hour later I took a look to see where they were 
 and every last one of them was in the young orchard 
 picking at some long grass that had been brought 
 into sight by the thaw. There was no waiting about 
 starting to get them out, for you know the way cows 
 have of rubbing their necks against young trees and 
 breaking off limbs. Luckily they had not started 
 rubbing and had done no damage, but I had to do 
 some rushing around before I finally got them out 
 of the orchard. But when I got them back to the 
 icy government drain there was all kinds of trouble. 
 You never saw such a timid bunch of cows in your 
 life. It was absurd to think that they could walk 
 on ice like that and what was more they wouldn’t 
 do it. But I knew that they couldn’t fly and that 
 they had crossed that ice on the way to the orchard 
 and I was just as stubborn as they were. Gritting 
 
 24 
 
COW TROUBLES 
 
 mj teeth with determination I went at those cows 
 and in a few minutes each one of them had been per- 
 sonally conducted across the ice by an earnest man 
 who was earnestly twisting her tail. I then made the 
 discovery that twisting a cow’s tail puts a lot of 
 ginger in her for when the last one was across they 
 began to romp around the field. I saw that I would 
 have trouble getting them into the stable and went 
 to the house to get some one to help. I don’t think 
 I was in the house five minutes, but when I went out 
 again with reinforcements, those wretched cows were 
 on the other side of the government drain again and 
 headed towards the orchard gate. Apparently it was 
 no trouble at all for them to cross ice when on the 
 way to mischief. I may say that on the return trip 
 they did not wait for much tail twisting. Possibly 
 the second twist hurts more than the first. Anyway 
 they hustled back and didn’t stop to argue with me. 
 
 25 
 
III. — Fly Time 
 
 A S a rule old Fenceviewer hasn’t much faith 
 in me. Of course, this is entirely due to 
 her independent and predatory nature. She 
 is accustomed to rustling for herself and 
 apparently does not feel the need of cultivating a 
 thankful spirit for anything I do for her. I even 
 suspect that she would renig at milking time if it 
 were not more comfortable to play the game and 
 give down. Up to the present we have continued 
 to live on the same farm without serious disagree- 
 ment, and yet without any bond of affection being 
 established. She goes her way as far as the fences 
 will allow, and I go my way. But there are signs 
 of a change. During the past week her actions have 
 indicated that she thinks I may be of some use after 
 all. This is because the flies are unusually bad this 
 year. The cattle have been simply covered with 
 them. When we took them into the stable at milking 
 time they were in such misery and so restless that it 
 was almost impossible to milk them. They were all 
 
 26 
 
FLY TIME 
 
 the time lashing their tails, swinging around their 
 heads and trying to paw up hooffuls of dust and 
 dirt against their sides. Though we have ingenious 
 little contraptions for holding 1 their tails it seemed 
 positively cruel to use them when they were being 
 pestered and bitten, so, after due consideration, we 
 bought a spray pump and a gallon of some coal tar 
 by-product that smelled like a political investiga- 
 tion. After milking we proceeded to spray the cows 
 thoroughly with the vile smelling stuff, and if they 
 had not been thoroughly chained the trick could not 
 have been managed. But though the operation 
 seemed unpleasant to every one concerned it was 
 most unpleasant of all for the flies. Hundreds of 
 them fell to the ground stupefied, and those that kept 
 on the wing kept at a distance from the cattle. After 
 the cattle had been sprayed a few times they objected 
 less and less, and old Fenceviewer seemed to get it 
 through her head that the spraying was being done 
 for her comfort. Although some of the younger cat- 
 tle still struggle she lowers her head and wiggles her 
 ears and stands perfectly still. Apparently she un- 
 derstands that the spraying rids her of the flies, and 
 the look in her eye when I come along with the spray 
 pump is positively friendly. In fact, she doesn’t 
 
 27 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 seem happy till she gets it and I suspect that if I 
 missed it any morning she would bawl for it. But 
 all nonsense aside, spraying the cattle to keep off 
 the flies strikes me as being not only a humane but 
 a profitable thing to do. They cannot be expected 
 to do business as usual in the way of giving milk 
 when they are tormented by hordes of flies. We are 
 also spraying the calves at feeding time and they 
 seem much more comfortable. 
 
IV. — The Red Cow's Calves 
 
 T ALK about excitement ! When I came home 
 from the excitements of the city to enjoy 
 the quiet life on the farm I ran into more 
 excitement than I had met with on my trav- 
 els. Although it was after dark when I got home 
 nothing would do but I should go out to the stable 
 to see the new calf. Although I wanted to have my 
 supper first I was over-ruled and I followed the lan- 
 tern, with the whole family at my side. I might have 
 suspected that there was something unusual about 
 Fenceviewer’s new calf, but I put down the enthusi- 
 asm of the children to the fact that it was a brand 
 new calf. The little comedy was properly staged. 
 I was not allowed to see anything until I had reached 
 the calf pen. The lantern was then swung in front 
 and every one yelled at once. I got the situation at 
 a glance, and I guess I yelled too. The red cow had 
 given birth to twins ! There they were, as nice a pair 
 of red calves as any one would wish to see. I couldn’t 
 blame the little folks for being excited. According 
 
 29 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 to those who know, this is the first pair of twin calves 
 that ever was born on the farm. But what interests 
 me is this further development of the red cow strain. 
 You may remember that when summing up their 
 good qualities I recorded the fact that Fenceviewer 
 and her progeny give me aid in farm work by testing 
 the fences every spring so that I put them in good 
 shape for the summer. Moreover, they almost in- 
 variably bear heifer calves, so that the flock in- 
 creases rapidly. To these excellent qualities is now 
 added the unexpected pair of twins. The strain is 
 developing steadily, and some day Fenceviewer and 
 her descendants will force the authorities to give 
 them a corner in the herd book. 
 
 30 
 
V. — Insurgent Cows 
 
 T HESE are the days when the cattle become 
 discontented with their pasture and begin 
 to go on a rampage. Fenceviewer I. and 
 her brood are running true to form and liv- 
 ing up to their best traditions, but I have lived with 
 them too long to be taken entirely unawares. As soon 
 as the pasture withered with the long drought they 
 began to take an undue interest in the cornfield. Al- 
 though it is a comparative failure it still looks green 
 and succulent compared with everything else on the 
 farm, and the cattle have been stretching their necks 
 over the fence and bawling. The first to get through 
 and enjoy a feed were Fenceviewer’s twins. Although 
 they are small they are thrifty and seem to inherit 
 much of their mother’s resourcefulness. Already they 
 are taking a lively interest in the fences. Although 
 I felt quite safe on that point, it happened that dur- 
 ing the haying a board was broken in a gate. The 
 twins found it and worked their way through and 
 
 SI 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 had their first feed of stolen corn. After they had 
 been driven out and the gate had been mended I felt 
 secure again, but it was a false security. A few 
 days later I happened to notice a commotion among 
 the cows and saw at once that Fenceviewer II. was 
 beyond the fence and making straight for the corn. 
 The Government drain was dry and she had man- 
 aged to push through where the ice had loosened the 
 wires that were used for a home-made flood-gate. But 
 would she go out where she got in? Not if she knew 
 it. She seemed to have an idea that if she fooled us 
 about that hole she could get through some other 
 time. She was evidently working alone when she 
 found it for even her piratical mother had not no- 
 ticed it, and had failed to follow, though she bawled 
 with surprise to see her daughter so near the corn- 
 field. After three or four attempts to make her 
 go out through the ditch we finally had to give up 
 and drive her out through the gate. Then we fixed 
 the hole and now we are waiting for the next out- 
 break. 
 
 The cattle had not attracted our attention all 
 summer except at milking time, but a few days ago 
 the alarm was raised that Mars — the yearling steer 
 — was in a well, and the whole family had to be as- 
 
 32 
 
INSURGENT COWS 
 
 sembled to get him out. The well is not really a 
 well, but a drinking place that has been fixed so 
 that the cattle can help themselves. There is a low 
 place in the woods where there is a quicksand bottom 
 about four feet from the surface and for many years 
 it has furnished an unfailing supply of water. Many 
 years ago a shallow well was scooped out from which 
 the cattle can drink at all times simply by having a 
 plank left off the top so that they can drink as from 
 a trough. As there is a pond nearby which sup- 
 plies them during the rest of the season they do not 
 use the well except when other supplies fail. This year 
 the other supplies failed completely and the drinking 
 well was fixed for them with scantlings nailed across 
 the opening a couple of feet apart. It was looked 
 upon as quite safe, but apparently when a yearling 
 steer ventures to go for a drink before his betters 
 he is likely to be taught a lesson. Mars must have 
 been down on his knees drinking when one of the big 
 cows came along and poked him right through. When 
 found he was not worrying a bit. He was standing 
 in about two feet of cold spring water contentedly 
 chewing his cud. He didn’t seem to care whether 
 he was rescued or not. As the day was unusually 
 hot I could understand his feelings exactly. But for 
 
 33 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 the good of the water supply he had to be disturbed. 
 We found that all we needed to do was to enlarge 
 the opening, give his tail a twist and let him do the 
 rest. Then we cleaned out another well of the same 
 kind so that the water came clear and cold from the 
 quicksand and closed the first one so that nothing 
 could get in. I know that a quicksand bottom is not 
 considered a good thing on a farm, but there is only 
 this spot of it, and in a dry season it seems like a 
 dispensation of Providence. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 On the way home I had an experience that I had 
 not enjoyed since returning to the farm. While we 
 were busy cleaning out the well clouds began to 
 gather, and even though a thunderstom did not de- 
 velop, rain began to fall. It was a sun shower of 
 the kind that used to make children sing: 
 
 “Rain, rain sunshine ! 
 
 Sure to rain to-morrow !” 
 
 We had no time to make a dash for the house, so 
 we took shelter under some spreading beech trees at 
 the edge of the woods. There used to be a tradition 
 that lightning never strikes a beech tree, but that was 
 not our reason for choosing them. They had the thick- 
 
 34 
 
INSURGENT COWS 
 
 est branches and most plentiful leaves and offered a 
 better umbrella. At the beginning of the shower 
 tree-toads began to call, and many kinds of birds 
 sounded notes that were unfamiliar. Everything 
 seemed too happy to keep still. The cattle in the 
 pasture stopped eating as if to stand and enjoy the 
 cooling, shower bath. The sunlight filtered through 
 the falling rain and altogether the scene was one that 
 offered Nature at her best. But before long the rain 
 began to drip through our roof and we had to do a 
 lot of stepping about before we found a comfortably 
 dry spot under the thick trunk of a leaning maple. 
 As there was no lightning there was no objection to 
 leaving the beech trees. Presently the shower passed 
 and we walked home with everything greatly re- 
 freshed. But when I looked at the thermometer and 
 found that it stood at ninety-six in the shade I al- 
 most wilted. If I had known it was so hot I wouldn’t 
 have dreamed of undertaking so strenuous a job aa 
 cleaning out a well. 
 
 35 
 
VI. — Cow Troubles 
 
 S AY, what do you do when a cow swallows a 
 rubber ball? I don’t mean one of the hollow 
 kind, but a solid rubber ball about the size of 
 a small Ben Davis apple — one of the kind that 
 used to sting our fingers when we played “Long 
 Injun” with them at the old school. I hadn’t seen 
 one for years, but this spring an old one was 
 ploughed up in one of the fields, and as it still re- 
 tained its shape and would bounce the children used 
 it to play with. Well, last night one of the boys 
 went to bring up the cows, and when a cow strayed 
 apart from the bunch and stood still he threw the 
 ball at her. He missed her, but as the ball rolled 
 past she ran after it and grabbed it, apparently un- 
 der the impression that it was an apple or a potato, 
 or something good to eat. I was in the stable when 
 the boy came to tell me about it as a great joke, and 
 I was inclined to think that the joke was on him, for 
 I felt sure that as soon as the cow found that she 
 
 36 
 
COW TROUBLES 
 
 had been fooled she would drop the ball. But when 
 I went out to the gate to let in the cows I found 
 “Beans,” granddaughter of old Fenceviewer, with 
 her head and neck stretched out, doing her best to 
 chew and swallow something that was stuck in her 
 throat. She was half choked, for her eyes were pop- 
 ping out, and she was red in the face — or at least 
 had the same expression that a human being has 
 when red in the face. With my customary presence 
 of mind I rushed to her side and began to slap her on 
 the back the same as we do to the children 
 when they choke on something or when some- 
 thing “goes down the wrong way.” But it did 
 no good, and the slapping made her bolt to her stall 
 in the stable. I immediately began to feel her throat, 
 and was not long in discovering a lump that seemed 
 about the size of the missing rubber ball. I then 
 followed my usual practice when in real trouble. I 
 
 sent for a neighbour. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 By the time my neighbour had arived thfe cow had 
 stopped her frantic swallowing, and I had become 
 suspicious that the lump I had been feeling in her 
 throat was not a lodged rubber ball, but the end of 
 her wind-pipe. My neighbour confirmed this suspi- 
 
 37 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 cion, but he could not suggest what I should do un- 
 der the circumstances. That is the trouble with my 
 cattle. They are all the time doing things that are 
 outside of the common fund of experience. Other 
 people’s cattle seem to confine themselves to ailments 
 that can be treated according to recipes given in the 
 Veterinary Guide, or in the back numbers of “The 
 Farmer’s Advocate,” but mine are all the time doing 
 something unexpected. Still, I got a line on what 
 was an entirely new wrinkle to me. A person of ex- 
 perience brought me a beetle ring and told me that the 
 way to dislodge a substance from a cow’s throat was 
 to open her mouth and keep it open with the beetle 
 ring. Then I could slip my hand through the ring 
 and remove the obstruction with my fingers, or take 
 a piece of rubber hose and poke it down her throat. 
 That sounds to me like a very plausible method, but 
 as the little cow had stopped gagging and had com- 
 menced chewing her cud, it was considered unneces- 
 sary to try the operation. And speaking of her cud 
 i — she should not be in any danger of “losing her 
 cud” in the near future. That rubber ball should 
 provide her with just about the most serviceable cud 
 that a cow ever had. Whenever the pasture gets 
 short she can bring up her reserve rubber cud and 
 
 38 
 
COW TROUBLES 
 
 keep herself contented with it until the pasture grows. 
 Seeing that most of our young people seem to find 
 it necessary to provide themselves with cuds of dura- 
 ble, rubbery gum on which they chew during most of 
 their waking hours, isn’t it just possible that our 
 cows would be more contented and give more milk if 
 we provided them with rubber cuds? If I could only 
 get scientific endorsement for the scheme I would 
 have no trouble in promoting a company to supply 
 rubber cuds for cows. Anyway, “Beans” seems to 
 have suffered no inconvenience from having swal- 
 lowed that indurated knob of gutta percha. When 
 I was driving her back to the field after milking she 
 hastily picked up a nice clean corn-cob and put it 
 down as dessert to the rubber ball — all of which leads 
 me to believe that she inherits her grandmother’s di- 
 gestion as well as her appetite. I am willing to bet 
 that a post mortem on Fenceviewer would reveal a 
 collection of junk that would give impaction of the 
 rumen to an ostrich. Still, if any authority on cows 
 thinks that having a rubber ball in her midst may be 
 injurious to “Beans,” I wish he would write and tell 
 
 me what I should do. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 And now having asked for help, there should be 
 
 39 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 no objection if I offered a couple of suggestions that 
 seem to me to be valuable. Of course, they may be 
 quite well known, but there are sure to be a few back- 
 ward farmers like myself who will be glad to be en- 
 lightened. The first deals with the value of the old- 
 style wire fences when feeding calves. The most an- 
 noying thing about feeding calves in a pen is that 
 when trying to teach a new calf to feed without the 
 finger a man usually has to step inside. While he is 
 wrestling with the beginner other calves will try to 
 get into the pail or to get nourishment from his coat- 
 tail, occasionally administering a bunt to express 
 dissatisfaction with the taste of the cheap dyes they 
 now use in cloth. If you have the right kind of wire 
 fence around your calf pasture you can keep on your 
 side of it and let the calf stick his head through. 
 As his head is the part you really have to deal with 
 you can gradually teach him to take his milk with- 
 out inhaling too much, and at the same time you have 
 less trouble in slapping interfering calves on the 
 nose. The wire fence has robbed calf-feeding of half 
 of its terrors for me. So much for that suggestion. 
 The other has to do with greedy horses. One of our 
 horses usually tries to get all her oats in one mouth- 
 ful, and, when she tries to chew them she scatters 
 
 40 
 
COW TROUBLES 
 
 them all over her manger and stall. On advice, we 
 have put several corn cobs in her feeding box, and 
 now when she is given her oats she has to take rea- 
 sonably sized mouthfuls and there is no waste. 
 
 41 
 
VII.— The Bran Habit 
 
 I AM once more in trouble. Fenceviewer the 
 Third, direct descendant of Fenceviewer the 
 First, has acquired the bran habit. For the 
 past month I have been giving her a bran mash 
 every milking time but when I was away on a trip 
 those in charge had cut off her supplies and as 
 nearly as I can judge she is suffering from a sort of 
 bran delirium tremens. She comes to the gate of the 
 pasture field whenever she sees any one around and 
 bawls and bawls. When we bring her in to milk she 
 whines and bawls during the whole milking time, and 
 judging from her tones her sufferings are really 
 acute. With bran at its present price I feel that 
 she must be cured of the bran habit, though I hardly 
 know what to do in the case. She is so nervous and 
 unhappy that I think something should be done, and 
 if any reader knows how to cure a cow of the bran 
 habit I shall be delighted to receive instructions. 
 
 42 
 
VIII. — The Farrow Cow and Others 
 
 I DON’T know that I ever sat down to write an 
 article when feeling so full of improving 
 thoughts as I do at this blessed minute. A lot 
 of things have happened lately, and all of them 
 were of the kind that seem designed “To point a 
 moral and adorn a tale.” To begin with, the boy 
 and I were working in the garden yesterday, when I 
 happened to notice some dark object on the ground 
 between two of the cows that were lying down in the 
 pasture, up near the woods. I ventured the opinion 
 that it was a newly arrived and not unexpected calf. 
 The boy took a look and said it was a stone. I could 
 not remember having seen a stone in that place, but 
 I was busy and did not stop to argue the matter. 
 After a while I chanced to look up again and saw 
 that all the cattle in the pasture had gathered 
 around the dark object on the ground and were snif- 
 fing at it. Once more I ventured the opinion that 
 it was a calf. 
 
 43 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 “But that is not where the cows were when you 
 were looking at them before.” 
 
 “Why, yes it is.” 
 
 “I am sure it isn’t.” 
 
 “Don’t talk nonsense. Don’t you think I can re- 
 member where the cows were when I was looking at 
 them? And that calf, or whatever it is, is lying ex- 
 actly where it was when I spoke to you about it.” 
 “But it was not there they were at all. And now 
 I can see the stone that was between them as clear 
 as can be.” 
 
 My temper was rising but I looked and saw a stone 
 about ten rods to the east of the object I was look- 
 ing at. A couple of questions brought out the fact 
 that we had not been looking at the same couple of 
 cows, nor at the same object on the ground. That 
 explained everything, and while we were settling the 
 matter the dark object I had been looking at got up 
 and began to stagger around on wobbly legs. It was 
 certainly a calf. But you can see the lesson to be 
 learned from the incident, can’t you? Before you 
 get into a red-hot argument with any one be sure 
 that you are talking about the same thing. Thus 
 endeth the first lesson. 
 
 ***** 
 
 44 
 
THE FARROW COW AND OTHERS 
 
 The calf belonged to the purposeful and strong- 
 minded red cow. Of course, she was very proud of 
 her calf, and mooed solicitously when we approached 
 to examine it. But strange to say she was not nearly 
 so excited about it as her oldest daughter, a quiet 
 and hitherto well-behaved cow that has been milking 
 all winter and is farrow this season. Judging from 
 her actions she had adopted the new calf, and had 
 taken out adoption papers before we arrived on the 
 scene. She ran around and bawled and acted silly 
 as soon as I began to push the calf towards the barn. 
 By the way, pushing a young calf that braces its 
 front legs and insists on lying down every couple of 
 rods while its real mother and an idiotic farrow cow 
 are threatening to run over you all the time, is a 
 job that is rather trying on the temper. But 1 
 finally got it through the gate, and proceeded to 
 push it along towards the drive shed where I could 
 get it out of sight. The mother objected, of course, 
 and bawled her protest as loudly and ineffectively 
 as a loyal Opposition when a Government is putting 
 through a railway subsidy. But the farrow cow 
 made as much noise as a self-elected reformer. She 
 stood by the gate and pumped up basso-profundo 
 bawls from her second or lower stomach. Every 
 
 45 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 time she bawled she humped her back and moved her 
 tail up and down like the handle of an old-fashioned 
 wooden pump. But I paid no attention to her. I 
 could not see where her feelings were being lacerated, 
 and I kept right on picking up the calf and setting 
 him on his wobbly legs and pushing him towards the 
 drive-shed. But just as I reached the door and the 
 calf had gone down again I was startled by a yell 
 behind me. I turned hastily, just in time to see the 
 farrow cow in the act of shredding herself through 
 a tight barbed wire fence. I was too late to head 
 her off, and, as I watched her struggles, I felt that 
 when she got through she would be of no use for any- 
 thing but Hamburg steak, and I reflected with some 
 satisfaction that the new onions in the garden are 
 ready to be used for a meat garnish. But when she 
 got through she did not sink on the earth in a pile of 
 little pieces as I expected, but ran like a deer, bawl- 
 ing like a fog-horn, to where a calf that had been 
 weaned the day before was bleating for its mother. 
 By this time the red cow had become excited and 
 was threatening to follow her fool daughter through 
 the barbed wire fence. And the cow whose calf had 
 been taken the day before also went into hysterics. 
 I don’t believe there was ever so much noise and 
 
 46 
 
 ex- 
 
THE FARROW COW AND OTHERS 
 
 citement on the farm as there was for the next few 
 minutes. The boy kept the red cow from going 
 through the fence, and I opened the door of the 
 drive-shed and hurled the calf under the buggy, 
 where it lay down once more with a little grunt of 
 satisfaction. Then I went after the farrow cow to 
 see how much she was damaged. It seems incredible, 
 but there was not a scratch visible on her silly car- 
 case. Now, will some learned man please explain 
 how that could be possible. Whenever I try to go 
 through a barbed wire fence, even though I go at it 
 with the greatest circumspection and care, the barbs 
 catch in my hat, coat, trousers and stockings, and 
 even catch the rag on my sore finger — not to men- 
 tion the bias patches they tear out of the most sen- 
 sitive skin in Middlesex County. And yet that cow 
 ripped through that fence by brute force and didn’t 
 get a scratch that was visible to the naked eye. Be- 
 fore I got peace restored on the place I had to cap- 
 ture each cow and lead her into the stable. I had to 
 put in the three of them before they would stop 
 threatening to commit hari-kari on the barbed wire 
 fence. As I think over the occurrence the lesson that 
 sticks in my mind is that the farrow cow was won- 
 derfully like a professional reformer. Though her 
 
 47 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 interests were not involved in any way she made a 
 bigger disturbance and got more thoroughly worked 
 up than the cow that was really bereaved. And no- 
 body thanked her or gave her a word of praise. I 
 admit that this lesson came home to me with great 
 force. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Though I got the cows in the stable the excite- 
 ment was by no means over. The cow that had lost 
 her calf the day before is a kicker by nature, but 
 after getting excited she simply refused to be touched 
 when milking time came around. When she was be- 
 ing broken in last year sympathetic friends sent me 
 many receipts for conquering a kicking cow, but in 
 the state she was in none of them was of any use. 
 Though I could keep her from kicking by tying a 
 strap around her hind legs and another around her 
 body in front of the udder, my friends neglected to 
 tell what to do when a cow tries to lie down on top 
 of the milker. But just when I was in the thick of 
 this trouble an experienced milker came along and 
 gave me a plan that was so simple that it seemed 
 silly. I took off the leg and body straps and then 
 took a rope and looped it loosely across the cow’s 
 back in front of the hip bones and then tied it be- 
 
 48 
 
THE FARROW COW AND OTHERS 
 
 hind so that the rope rested loosely against her 
 knees. There was no pressure of any kind. The 
 rope simply hung around her rump and lay against 
 her hind legs. This plan had not been recommended 
 by any of my correspondents, but it worked like a 
 charm. She would lift her feet but would not kick 
 and she gradually quieted down. Apparently that 
 loose rope gave her much the same feeling that we 
 humans have when our clothes begin to come undone 
 in some public place. We do not feel like putting 
 forth violent efforts of any kind. Anyway, it was 
 the conquering scheme and I pass it along to all who 
 may be having trouble with kicking cows. And the 
 lesson to be learned from that is — Pshaw I forget 
 just what lesson I was going to draw from the kick- 
 ing cow. 
 
 49 
 
IX. — Cow Enjoyment 
 
 D ID any one say that a cow has no sense of 
 humour? I am not sure that any one did, 
 but cows, as a rule, are regarded as very 
 serious-minded. When Bill Nye tried to 
 emphasise the fact that he could occasionally be seri- 
 ous, he wrote: “There are times when I can be as 
 serious as a cow.” He might also have written that 
 there were times when he could be as happy as a 
 cow having her will with a stack. Just let a cow get 
 free swing at a stack and she can have more solid 
 enjoyment than anything else on the farm. Up goes 
 her tail, down goes her head, and she rushes at it 
 as if she were going to pitch it over the moon. Then 
 she will throw herself against it sideways and rub 
 against it like a tom-cat in a catnip bed. If it hap- 
 pens to be a stack of sheaves, and she comes out of 
 her merry bout with a sheaf hanging rakishly from 
 one horn, she will look as happy as a woman coming 
 out of a bargain-counter scrimmage with a new hat. 
 As there is a stack between the stable door and the 
 
 50 
 
COW ENJOYMENT 
 
 gate of the pasture field the cows manage to have 
 considerable fun every night and morning in spite of 
 wild yells and the use of a buggy whip. Sometimes, 
 when driving through the country, I see straw-stacks 
 to which the cows are allowed free access, and most 
 of them are so rubbed out at the bottom that they 
 look like big mushrooms. I shouldn’t wonder but it 
 is a good thing for the cows, too. There is an old 
 proverb which says, “Laugh and grow fat,” and who 
 knows but the cows might lay on beef more rapidly 
 if allowed to enjoy themselves in this way. I offer 
 this suggestion to the scientific department for ma- 
 ture consideration. Although they have done well, 
 there may be a few tricks about beef-raising that 
 may have escaped their attention, because they have 
 been considering the matter so seriously. 
 
 51 
 
X. — Cow Kaiserism 
 
 F EEDING a dozen head of cattle, watering 
 them, cleaning out the stable, milking four 
 cows twice a day and separating the cream 
 take up a lot of time, and when the ther- 
 mometer is hovering around zero it is none too pleas- 
 ant. And besides the regular routine there are 
 bound to be incidents that try the temper. For in- 
 stance, when I was doing the chores one day last 
 week, with the thermometer at six below, I cut the ice 
 on the Government drain and turned out the cows 
 to water. When I had finished cleaning the corn- 
 stalks out of the mangers and had put in a fresh 
 supply of feed I noticed that only the red cow and 
 her eldest daughter, who never leaves her side, had 
 returned to the barnyard. An investigation showed 
 the rest of the herd standing around the water-hole. 
 I started down to find out what was the matter, and 
 found the Jimmy-cow standing over the hole in the 
 ice keeping the rest of the cattle away. She had her 
 fill of ice-water and was shivering with cold, but she 
 
 52 
 
COW KAISERISM 
 
 was in possession of the visible water supply and was 
 bound to show her authority, even if she fr-fr-froze. 
 She got out of the way of the swinging kick I 
 launched at her, and my leg almost pulled itself out 
 by the roots. Such conduct on the part of a cow 
 leads me to believe just the opposite to Gratiano, 
 who was inclined 
 
 “To hold opinion with Pythagoras, 
 
 That souls of animals infuse themselves 
 Into the trunks of men.” 
 
 I incline to the belief the souls of men infuse 
 themselves into the trunks of animals, for it does not 
 seem possible that by any process of evolution ani- 
 mals should develop such human meanness. I have 
 often seen human beings play just such tricks as 
 that cow played, and it strikes me as being of wholly 
 human origin. In the same way I have always 
 doubted the “dog in the manger” story. I have 
 never seen the trick of keeping another animal from 
 using something that was of no use to itself played 
 by any dog of my acquaintance. The trait is wholly 
 human, and can be accounted for only on a theory of 
 transmigration. The Jimmy-cow must be occupied 
 by the spirit of some gripping old miser, for she has 
 
 53 
 
^ 1 - - • • 
 
 THE RED COW 
 
 other traits that are entirely human. She is so dis- 
 contented with her lot that she bawls whiningly even 
 when she has her mouth full, and in that way contra- 
 dicts a verse in Job, which I cannot locate this morn- 
 ing, which asks if the ox “loweth over its manger.” 
 If I can only manage to sell the Jimmy-cow to some 
 back-to-the-lander next spring he will learn much by 
 studying her exasperating little ways. 
 
 54 
 
XI. — A Night Session 
 
 T HE cattle seem to suffer from insomnia oc- 
 casionally, and the hot nights rouse their 
 predatory instincts. Last night as I was 
 gasping on the floor besides a screen door 
 I heard something stirring on the lawn. Glancing 
 out I saw one of the calves investigating a bed of 
 poppies as if meditating a dose of laudanum to in- 
 duce sleepfulness. Further investigation found all 
 the cattle and the horses in the orchard. Dressing 
 lightly and hurriedly, I called Sheppy and started to 
 drive them out. For almost an hour we raged 
 around the orchard and the buildings before we got 
 the brutes back into the pasture. I found that the 
 pasture gate was open and at once jumped to the 
 conclusion that the boy who put out the cows after 
 milking had left it open. While running around in 
 the moonlight and under the shadows of the apple 
 trees, getting tripped by furrows and switched in 
 the face by branches, I thought of a number of in- 
 teresting things to say to the boy about his careless- 
 
 55 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 ness. At first I intended to waken him and tell them 
 to him while they were fresh in my mind, but when I 
 got a drink of cold water at the well I thought better 
 of it and decided to let the matter rest until morn- 
 ing. The evidence was all against him, for he was 
 the last one through the gate, and as the gate was a 
 new hardware-store gate of steel tubing and wire, 
 with a regulation catch, I felt sure it couldn’t have 
 come open accidentally. But it was just as well that 
 I decided to let things stand over until morning. 
 About 3 o’clock, when I was again snoozing fitfully 
 on my sofa-pillow by the door, Sheppy began to 
 bark and a cow rushed past. They were in a'gain. 
 Without waiting to dress I joined Sheppy, and we 
 took the Kneipp cure together while rounding up the 
 cows and getting them back into the pasture. The 
 new hardware store gate was open again, and my 
 thoughts shifted to the hardware man. I pictured 
 myself leaning over the counter and saying things 
 to him about that gate and the fastenings on it. Yet 
 that would hardly do. He did not make the gate; 
 and, anyway, it was of the kind used by all other 
 farmers. The real trouble was with the gifted Red 
 Cow and her unhallowed progeny. I knew from ex- 
 perience that if there was any way of getting into 
 
 56 
 
A NIGHT SESSION 
 
 mischief they would know it. The gate fastenings 
 that were good enough for listless and pampered 
 pure-bred cows were no defence against their enter- 
 prising energy. So if any one was to blame for the 
 night’s trouble it was myself — for owning that par- 
 ticular strain of cows. 
 
XII.— A Calf Puzzle 
 
 T HE things that a spirited and energetic calf 
 will do are beyond the power of an ordi- 
 nary man to foresee or provide for. When 
 the new stable was built the corner came 
 within less than a foot of the corner of the granary. 
 Of course it was intended to nail a board in the 
 opening so as to make a complete shelter for the cat- 
 tle in the winter, but somehow we never got around 
 to doing it, and in the meantime the opening was 
 handy for the children to squeeze through sideways. 
 No one ever thought that any of the livestock, ex- 
 cept the cats, would ever attempt the passage, and 
 that mistaken idea almost cost us a calf. When the 
 cattle were being put in last night one of the calves 
 felt altogether too frisky to go in to be tied, even 
 though the manger was full of choice hay. He ran 
 away into the orchard, and when brought back made 
 a break into the pasture field. When rounded up 
 once more we were all on hand to shoo him through 
 the stable door. A boy had him by the tail to steer 
 
 58 
 
A CALF PUZZLE 
 
 him straight, but at the last second he made a jump 
 sideways, dragging the boy with him, and plunged 
 head-first through the opening between the stable 
 and granary. His head and shoulders went through 
 easily, showing that he has the wedge shape valued 
 by breeders, but his hip bones were too wide. When 
 I reached him he had pulled through so that he 
 couldn’t be backed up because of his spreading ribs 
 and couldn’t go through all the way because of the 
 hip bones. He was as firmly fixed as one of those 
 bass-wood plugs the boys used to force through a 
 board when boiled soft. They used to offer it as a 
 puzzle, and ask you to get out the plug. It had 
 been put in, so why couldn’t it be taken out? When 
 I examined that calf I almost made up my mind that 
 he would have to be boiled before he could be taken 
 out. At least he would have to be taken out in sec- 
 tions or we would have to move one of the buildings. 
 Before taking desperate measures, however, I exam- 
 ined things carefully and decided that by prying a 
 couple of the siding boards off the granary there 
 was a bare chance that there would be room to get 
 him through. This was done by the expenditure of 
 much man and boy power, and he got through by a 
 hair’s breadth. In fact, I think it was a closer shave 
 
 59 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 than that, for there are hairs on the corners of both 
 buildings. The experience took the foolishness out 
 of him, and as soon as he was free he meekly al- 
 lowed himself to be driven into the stable. And that 
 reminds me that I haven’t nailed a board on that 
 opening yet. I must attend to it at once or one of 
 the bigger animals will be trying the passage, and 
 I shall have real trouble. 
 
 60 
 
XIII. — Cow Character 
 
 I T is when a fellow settles down to do the chores 
 twice a day and every day that he gets thor- 
 oughly acquainted with his livestock. When 
 the cattle are in the pasture field they look 
 pleasant and pose for their pictures when people 
 come along with cameras, but when they are put in 
 stalls and waited on hand and — I mean foot and 
 mouth, they develop all sorts of little meannesses — 
 just like human beings. One little cow starts to 
 shake her head until her horns are simply a dan- 
 gerous blur every time I go to loosen her chain to 
 let her out to water. I have had several narrow 
 escapes from being prodded, but it is useless to yell 
 at her, or even to use the whip on her. She will 
 start shaking her head as soon as I lay my hand on 
 the chain, and she keeps it up until the chain drops 
 from her neck. Another brute has the habit of 
 swinging quickly towards me as soon as she feels 
 the chain loosen, and I have to side-step like a prize- 
 fighter to get out of the way of her horns. But I 
 
 61 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 am glad to record that the Red Cow, variously known 
 as Calamity and Fenceviewer I., can be untied safely, 
 even by a child. When the chain is opened she backs 
 quietly from the stall and walks to the stable door 
 in a dignified manner — unless there happens to be a 
 pail standing around where she can poke an investi- 
 gating nose into it. She is always on the lookout 
 for something to eat, and she always enjoys it bet- 
 ter if it is something she should not have. 
 
 62 
 
XIV . — Calf Feeding 
 
 A FTER all, it is the things that we see every 
 day that are the hardest to see. Here we 
 have been feeding the calves by a method 
 of our own all summer without realising 
 that there was anything unusual or amusing about 
 it. It was a city visitor who finally opened our eyes, 
 or at least partly opened them, to the comedy of our 
 calf feeding. Frankly, I can’t see that there is any- 
 thing very funny about it yet, but as he persists in 
 throwing fits over it every time the calf feeding oc- 
 curs I am going to describe it in the hope that some 
 one else may get a good, health-giving laugh. All 
 summer we have had three calves that came to the 
 
 orchard fence twice a day to get their ration of 
 skim milk and feeding flour. When feeding time 
 came the pails of feed were placed beside the fence 
 and the calves stuck their heads through between the 
 wires and helped themselves. As the work settled 
 down to part of the regular daily routine Sheppy 
 was also taught to attend to one of the details. 
 
 63 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 As all who have had dealings with calves are 
 aware, they will stand around for half an hour after 
 feeding time and suck one another’s ears in a vain 
 attempt to get more nourishment. In order to break 
 them of this practice it was Sheppy’s part to wait 
 until they had finished their meal and then scatter 
 them to different sides of the pasture. The whole 
 business became quite a matter of fact. Sheppy 
 wouldn’t bother the calves while they were waiting 
 for their feed or while they were feeding, but just 
 as soon as they lifted their heads from the pails 
 Sheppy jumped for them, and with tails in the air 
 they scattered over the pasture at no ordinary rate 
 of speed. Our city visitor regarded it as the most 
 remarkable combination of a quick lunch counter 
 meal superintended by a saloon bouncer that he had 
 ever witnessed. He would point out as well as he 
 could between fits of laughter that the bouncer added 
 to the free lunch counter was a wonderful improve- 
 ment, and that he was going to recommend it to the 
 managers of city cafeterias as soon as he got home. 
 Such places sometimes get crowded at lunch hour by 
 people who will linger over their coffee, but if an 
 efficient bouncer were employed who would send them 
 on their way as Sheppy sends the calves, fewer peo- 
 
 64 
 
CALF FEEDING 
 
 pie would have to wait in line for their “sinkers” and 
 coffee. Moreover, the patrons would be startled 
 into taking an amount of exercise that would proba- 
 bly help their digestion. Now you have the whole 
 story and can decide for yourselves whether the city 
 visitor had any cause for his unhallowed mirth. We 
 certainly regard it as part of the daily routine, and 
 Sheppy goes about his part of the work as solemnly 
 as if the whole management of the farm depended 
 on it. 
 
XV. — A Cow Trick 
 
 I HATE to revive the old-fashioned cow- 
 poke, but I don’t know what else to do. 
 Fenceviewer II., eldest daughter of the Red 
 Cow, has discovered that even a wire fence 
 can’t stand the pressure of a little over half a 
 ton of muscular beef. Part of the wire fencing 
 on the farm is of a kind that was popular a 
 number of years ago. It consists of seven strands 
 of wire tightly stretched along the posts, with up- 
 right slats fastened every few feet. It is a presenta- 
 ble-looking fence, and for all ordinary purposes is 
 entirely satisfactory, but this cow has discovered 
 that by pushing her head through between the wires 
 and throwing her weight against the fence she can 
 break the wooden uprights and walk right through. 
 The result is that unless she is watched she helps 
 herself to apples in the orchard whenever she feels 
 like it. She can go through the fence anywhere 
 whenever she wants to. But, though the other cows 
 see her do it, they do not seem to learn the trick. 
 
 66 
 
A COW TRICK 
 
 This convinces me that the Red Cow is not quite so 
 intelligent as I thought. When her daughter pushes 
 through the fence, and is helping herself to the ap- 
 ples, the red pirate sticks her head over the top wire 
 and bawls enviously. Of course, as long as she ap- 
 proaches the fence in that way it turns her success- 
 fully. Fenceviewer II. pokes her head through 
 about half way up on the height of the fence. When 
 she pushes forward she is able to step over the lower 
 wires, throwing the top wires over her back after 
 the upright slats are broken. She shows some intel- 
 ligence in the way she attacks the fence, but what 
 interests me is that she knows enough to exercise 
 her whole strength in getting through. 
 
 If our domestic animals once learned to use their 
 strength in this way there would be no controlling 
 them. They would cross the country, in spite of 
 fences, like the new “tanks” they are using in battle. 
 The little tricks of cunning the animals develop, 
 such as throwing down rail fences and working gates 
 open, can be defeated by a little care, but if they 
 once learned how strong they are and the effect of 
 their whole weight when thrown against an obstacle 
 we would not be able to manage them. They could 
 break through the walls of their stables, and no or- 
 
 67 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 dinary fence could withstand them. Of course, I 
 know that if I put an old-fashioned poke on this 
 brute it would probably beat her, because the pole in 
 front would go under the lower wires and bring them 
 against her chest, so that she would have to break 
 the wires to get through. But pokes haven’t been 
 seen in this part of the country for years, and I am 
 afraid that if I made one and put it on this insur- 
 gent cow it would cause an awful lot of talk. People 
 going past in automobiles would see it, and they 
 would talk also. As it is getting near the end of the 
 season I shall get over the difficulty by keeping the 
 cow in at night and putting her out to pasture in 
 the daytime in a field that has proper woven fences. 
 I know the poke would do the trick, but really, 
 though you may not believe it, there are some things 
 that I haven’t the nerve to do. 
 
 When Fenceviewer II. is on her depredations she 
 indulges in one cow trick that I should like to have 
 the scientists explain to me. After she has eaten 
 all the apples she wants she makes for the hay stacks 
 and proceeds to root at them with her horns and to 
 push herself along against them as if she were trying 
 to knock them over. I have no doubt she does this 
 
 68 
 
A COW TRICK 
 
 to brush off the flies and scratch herself pleasantly, 
 but when I see her at it she looks to me to be enjoy- 
 ing herself in a way not wholly accounted for by the 
 fly and itching theory. When attacking the stack 
 with her horns she flings her tail in the air and 
 prances as if she were trying a new tango step. Then 
 she hurls herself against the stack and rubs along 
 against it until she reaches the other end, where she 
 throws up her head, with a wisp of hay on her horns, 
 and looks as if she were enjoying life to the full. 
 All cows will do this when they get a chance — at 
 least all cows I have had dealings with. Perhaps 
 purebreds that have their names in the herd book 
 may be above such tricks, but I doubt it. Anyway, 
 cows are the only animals that do this. I have never 
 known horses, pigs or sheep to do it, though the flies 
 no doubt bother them too, and they also must feel 
 itchy at times. But if you let cows get at a stack 
 they will rub against it until it looks like a monster 
 mushroom. I have even known cows to keep on rub- 
 bing against a strawstack until the central stem got 
 worn so small that the heavy top tumbled over on 
 them, and they had to be dug out with much labour. 
 I wish some scientist who isn’t busy would tell me 
 
 69 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 why cows go at stacks in this way. They didn’t 
 have stacks to rub against in their wild state, and I 
 never see them rub against trees or buildings. And 
 when the scientists are at it I wish they would tell 
 me why it is that a horse when rolling seems to pre- 
 fer a soft spot where he can get all muddy, so that 
 you will have to put in an extra half-hour when 
 currying him before driving to town. 
 
 Drat that cow! She must have known that I was 
 writing about her and decided to give a demonstra- 
 tion. When I stepped out a few minutes ago I 
 found her helping herself to apples from the lower 
 branches, and as I had my mind on the present price 
 of apples I didn’t call to her to make herself at home 
 or tell her that she was welcome. Quite the con- 
 trary. And when Sheppy and I started to put her 
 out she made for the nearest haystack with a joyous 
 little bawl and almost upset it as she ploughed along 
 the side of it. I am afraid I must resort to a poke, 
 no matter what people may think or say about it. 
 And you may be sure that when any more fencing 
 is done on the farm I shall use woven wire, or rather 
 fencing that is fastened together without the use of 
 brittle wooden slats. This cow will probably be a 
 
 70 
 
A COW TRICK 
 
 nuisance until we either sell her or put up new fences. 
 She knows too much, and as she has inherited a full 
 portion of her mother’s impudence there will be no 
 controlling her. 
 
 71 
 
XVI. — Cow Cussedness 
 
 M UCH as I hate to admit it, Fenceviewer and 
 her tribe have me beaten to a standstill — 
 or, to be more exact, they have been keep- 
 ing me on the run all the time. Some weeks 
 ago I told how Fenceviewer II. had solved the mys- 
 tery of the wire fence that is made of separate 
 strands of wire strengthened by upright slats. She 
 found that by poking her head through between the 
 wires and throwing her weight against it she could 
 force her way through wherever she wanted to. At 
 the time I threatened to make a poke for her, but as 
 it was the orchard she was breaking into the need 
 for keeping her out disappeared when the apples 
 were packed and shipped. But a couple of days ago 
 the carrots and beets in the garden were dug and 
 the red brute immediately took advantage of the 
 fact that one side of the garden is fenced with slatted 
 wire. After she had reached the carrots a couple of 
 times I listened to advice and fastened a board on 
 her face — a sort of wooden veil. 
 
 72 
 
COW CUSSEDNESS 
 
 Making cow-pokes is quite a job, and the art has 
 been lost in this neighbourhood, where they have 
 well-bred cows that lack ambition. But I was told 
 that a board on her face would do the trick just as 
 well. They did not know the Fenceviewer strain. 
 After dressing her in her new costume I turned her 
 loose and watched through a knothole in the drive- 
 shed. She walked straight to the fence near the car- 
 rots and began to experiment. The board bothered 
 her, for she couldn’t make a head-on attack on the 
 £ence, but it didn’t bother her long. She soon found 
 that by approaching sideways she could see well 
 enough to swing her head between the wires and then 
 push through. I interrupted her before she reached 
 the carrots, and then Sheppy drove her to the other 
 side of the field so that I could get time to cool off 
 and think things over. But I didn’t cool off. I had 
 noticed that while the brute was working her way 
 through the fence she was being watched by her 
 mother, Fenceviewer I., the original red cow of the 
 lot, but as the old pirate had not learned the trick 
 sooner I did not think she would learn. Ten min- 
 utes later I found her at the carrots. It had finally 
 dawned on her how the trick was done. I drove her 
 out with sticks and harsh cries, but I had barely 
 
 73 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 closed the gate before she was poking through the 
 fence again in the most approved manner of her 
 daughter. 
 
 That settled it. I rounded up the flock and drove 
 them into a field that is surrounded by woven wire 
 fences and left them there. The pasture doesn’t 
 amount to much, but it is not likely that the weather 
 will make it possible for us to pasture them more 
 than a week or two longer, so they will have to be 
 given extra feed night and morning and have their 
 run confined to the cow-proof field. Next year, if 
 they have not forgotten the trick, they will have to 
 be sold or I will be forced to put up new fences such 
 as would not be needed for reasonable and right- 
 minded cows. 
 
 74 
 
XVII. — Teaching a Calf 
 
 W HEN I got home I found a fresh calf 
 waiting to be taught how to drink out 
 of a pail. Now that several days have 
 passed, I feel that I can mention the 
 subject in proper language. Breaking in young 
 calves is just the same job now as it was when the 
 world was young. I dare say there is really nothing 
 new that one can say about it, but there seems to be 
 a sort of relief in saying some of the same old things 
 over again. This is a particularly lusty anc} likely 
 calf, grandson of Fenceviewer I., “that serpent of 
 Old Nile,” familiarly known as the Red Cow. He 
 proves that there is something in the law of atavism, 
 for he takes after his unregenerate and belligerent 
 grandmother rather than after his gentle, though 
 somewhat sneaky, mother. Anyway, when I took 
 the pail of milk and started in to nourish him I found 
 him more stiff-necked than a Cabinet Minister. Still, 
 the line of approach was better. I straddled his 
 neck and pushed his head into the milk so that he 
 
 75 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 was forced either to drink it or inhale it. One could 
 hardly treat a Cabinet Minister in that way, much 
 as he would like to. But to our calf. Once more 
 the lesson has been forced on me that when feeding a 
 calf one should not be arrayed in the glory of Solo- 
 mon, or in other words that he should not wear the 
 clothes he wore to the city especially if he ever ex- 
 pects to wear them there again. Even a commodious 
 pair of overalls is not a sufficient protection. The 
 boy who was hovering on the outskirts of the trou- 
 ble and pretending to help was properly dressed for 
 the occasion in a three-piece suit — shirt, pants, and 
 one suspender. When that calf gave a sporadic 
 bunt that squirted milk into my eye and variously 
 plastered me, I wanted to give him a six months’ 
 hoist with the toe of my boot, but I restrained my- 
 self. (You will notice that Parliamentary phrases 
 stick in my vocabulary after a visit to Ottawa.) 
 However, I am glad to report that the calf is now 
 so much subdued that the boy in the three-piece suit 
 is able to attend to him. 
 
 76 
 
XVIII. — Calf Exuberance 
 
 L AST night Juno got loose, and for a few 
 minutes there was excitement around the 
 stable. Juno is a fall calf, daughter of 
 Fenceviewer II., and owing to the scarcity 
 of stable room she is being pampered and fed up for 
 veal. At the time of her arrival the children named 
 her Jupiter, but on second thought it was consid- 
 ered that Juno would be more appropriate. Up to 
 last night she had lived in a small calf pen at the 
 end of the stable, but the fastening on the gate came 
 loose and she discovered what her legs were for. 
 She shot out through the stable door in a way that 
 sent the hens flying over the hay stacks. Then she 
 tripped over a sheaf of cornstalks that I had 
 dropped on the ground while preparing to feed the 
 cows, sprawled at full length, bounced right up and 
 rushed ahead until she was brought to a standstill 
 by a wire fence in a way that almost telescoped her 
 neck into her body. Finding that the wire fence 
 
 77 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 would not yield she said “Bah-wah” and started in 
 another direction. Sheppy was coming around the 
 corner of the granary in his most sedate manner, 
 when the pop-eyed avalanche almost stepped on him. 
 When last seen Sheppy was plunging blindly be- 
 tween two haystacks with his tail between his legs. 
 A flock of hens that were enjoying their evening 
 bran mash next attracted her attention, and she made 
 an offensive straight at them. When they were 
 thoroughly scattered she rushed the ducks from a 
 mud puddle, and the squawking they made startled 
 her so that she applied the brakes and threw on the 
 reverse. It was a wonderful exhibition of vitality, 
 and showed what a milk diet can do for one. The 
 next I heard of Juno was when I was stooping over 
 to pick up a sheaf of cornstalks, and if you can pic- 
 ture to yourself a dignified man in that attitude with 
 a lusty calf prancing behind him and going through 
 the motions of getting ready to bunt you can under- 
 stand the joyous laughter with which the children 
 shouted a warning. I sidestepped in the nick of 
 time and shooed Juno away to the orchard, where 
 she could enjoy herself without getting into trouble. 
 After the chores were done I took a pail that was as 
 
 78 
 
CALF EXUBERANCE 
 
 empty as a political platform and she followed me 
 right back into the pen just like an intelligent voter. 
 I could do a little moralising right here, but it is 
 not considered good form to talk politics just now. 
 
 79 
 
XIX. — Our First Sheep 
 
 A GREAT event has happened on the farm. 
 
 Obeying the urgent appeals of the Food 
 Controller, the littlest boys decided to go 
 into sheep-raising. Having ideas of my 
 own about sheep, I did not presume to advise them 
 in their plans. If I were going in for sheep my in- 
 clination would be to invest in the old pioneer va- 
 riety that were half goat and half greyhound. Those 
 sheep were entirely capable of taking care of them- 
 selves. You never had to worry lest they should get 
 cast in a furrow. They were much more likely to 
 get marooned on the ridge pole of the barn while pur- 
 suing some of their adventures. Fences meant noth- 
 ing in their lives, and no matter where they strayed 
 you could trust them to “come home, bringing their 
 tails behind them.” But so many scientists call to 
 see us that even the children are getting high-toned 
 notions and nothing would do them but properly 
 registered, pedigreed sheep from a prize-winning 
 flock. They made their own negotiations, drew their 
 
 83 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 savings from the bank and started into business with 
 four ewe lambs. My first active interest in the new 
 venture occurred when the sheep were brought home. 
 I was called out to help get them into the sheep pen 
 that had been built for their reception. When I 
 appeared on the scene the sheep all had their backs 
 to the door, and in their eyes there was an expres- 
 sion that suggested the popular song: “Where Do 
 We Go From Here?” It was quite evident that they 
 had no intention of going through the door. As we 
 crowded in on them I spread myself out so as to 
 cover as wide an area as possible, feet well apart and 
 arms outstretched. I am not exactly clear as to 
 what happened, but the sensation I had was that one 
 sheep went under each arm, one between my legs and 
 the other over my head. Anyway, by the time I had 
 recovered my scattered wits they were in a far cor- 
 ner of the orchard, bleating pathetically. 
 
 The children rounded them up once more, while 
 Sheppy, though a thoroughbred Collie, hovered 
 around wondering what these creatures were. I don’t 
 believe he ever before had a close view of a sheep, but 
 if Darwin is right, he would very soon show inher- 
 ited instinct, and know just what to do in order to 
 
 84 . 
 
OUR FIRST SHEEP 
 
 handle them. But the children had no faith in Shep- 
 pj. They threw clods and told him to “go home, 
 sir!” which he did in a humiliated manner. As the 
 sheep were again approaching the pen I had a chance 
 to observe their startling efficiency in the control of 
 burrs and weeds. I have been assured that if we 
 had kept sheep the farm would have been in a much 
 tidier condition, and I am inclined to think that the 
 statement is true. One of the sheep, on its way back 
 to the pen, saw a well-loaded burdock that had been 
 overlooked. It stopped to nibble a few burrs, and 
 when it was shooed on, it didn’t stop to walk around 
 the obstruction. It simply walked straight over it, 
 and when it had passed there was not a burr left on 
 the stalks. Every solitary one had been caught in 
 the sheep’s wool, much to the disgust of the youthful 
 owners, but I felt a certain amount of relief, because 
 there is now no danger that the neighbourhood of 
 that burdock will be seeded down for next year. It 
 appears that what the sheep do not eat in the way 
 of burrs they gather in their wool, and in that way 
 clean up the farm. I am not quite sure that the 
 scientists will approve of this method of weed con- 
 trol, but that is how the matter stands at the pres- 
 ent writing. After several attempts at driving the 
 
 85 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 sheep into the pen we finally decided to corner them 
 and catch them one by one. This was done, and the 
 perspiring family was presently in a position to take 
 a good look at the little flock in their pen. Far be 
 it from me to dash the optimism of the youthful 
 shepherds, but I could not bring myself to verify 
 the belief that triplets are almost as frequent as 
 twins among lambs. Still, wool promises to be a 
 good price and the speculators stand a good chance 
 of realising on their venture. Best of all, they will 
 be helping the work of food production, which is 
 now so urgent. 
 
 The human inhabitants of the farm were not the 
 only ones that were interested in the advent of the 
 sheep. The young cattle ran for their lives when 
 they saw them, and you could hear the colts snort for 
 at least a mile. The Red Cow did not get excited but 
 she bestowed a disdainful glance on them that re- 
 minded me of the lady in Tennyson, who 
 
 “Stretched a vulture neck 
 And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile.” 
 
 She is too blase to get excited about anything ex- 
 cept another cow, with whom she might have to fight 
 
 86 
 
OUR FIRST SHEEP 
 
 for the leadership of the herd, but she shewed in 
 every line of her face and form that sheep were 
 something new to her and that she didn’t think much 
 of them. The colts were the most excited of all. 
 They ran around the sheep in large circles, snorting 
 and shying. Whenever they crossed the tracks of 
 the sheep they seemed to catch the unaccustomed 
 scent like hound dogs and their excitement increased 
 amazingly. Finally they got the sheep frightened, 
 and in order to prevent trouble, we had to put the 
 colts in another field. Though several days have 
 passed the colts do not seem to get used to their new 
 neighbours, and they snort with terror whenever 
 they have to pass the sheep pen. It is quite evident 
 that they cannot be allowed to run together for 
 some time. 
 
 The arrival of the sheep on the farm caused me 
 to give them some attention, and the more I medi- 
 tate on them the more I regret that we did not go in 
 for sheep-raising long ago. They have opened to me 
 an entirely new field for articles. I had never real- 
 ised how completely and intimately sheep are bound 
 up with the history and literature of mankind. In 
 symbolism they date back to the earliest chapters of 
 
 £7 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 Genesis. It might even be shown that we owe much 
 of our civilisation and learning to the care of sheep. 
 Shepherds have been poets since the time of David 
 and earlier, and they have even figured among the 
 rulers of the world. The Biblical patriarchs were 
 all shepherds, and in the history of Egypt we have 
 the Hyksos dynasty — the fierce shepherd kings, who 
 ruled, I think, for six hundred years. One has only 
 to let his mind wander over literature and art to 
 realise that man and sheep have been companions 
 from the dawn of history. Pastoral poetry is a dis- 
 tinct branch of literature, and what would landscape 
 painting be without woolly bunches in the middle 
 distance to represent sheep? I understand that it is 
 to the shepherds we owe the sciences of astronomy 
 and algebra, and they have also made contributions 
 to medicine and botany. It was of a shepherd that 
 Touchstone said: “Such an one is a natural philoso- 
 pher.” Perhaps the most up-to-date contribution to 
 civilisation that we owe to the shepherds is the an- 
 cient and royal game of golf. It began with the 
 shepherds who whiled away their hours knocking 
 about a woollen ball with their shepherd’s crook. 
 Assuredly the sheep will furnish me with an ample 
 
 88 
 
OUR FIRST SHEEP 
 
 field for research, investigation, experiment and non- 
 sense of all kinds. I may even be able to get some 
 political hints from them, because of their habit of 
 following a leader. I look forward to a pleasant and 
 profitable winter studying the children’s sheep. 
 
XX. — The First Lamb 
 
 I N spite of the persistent cold weather there has 
 been enough excitement on the farm to send 
 up the temperature several degrees. One day 
 last week, when the mercury was sulking at zero, 
 three lambs arrived on the place. Alas only one 
 survived, in spite of tender care and the best ad- 
 vice of all the experienced sheep-raisers in the neigh- 
 bourhood. One died at once and another followed a 
 few hours later, though it was carefully fed and 
 tucked in a warm nest beside the kitchen stove. The 
 mother sheep could not be induced to take any in- 
 terest in the weakling. One of her lambs was strong 
 and vigorous, and to it she gave her whole care, 
 seeming to know by instinct that nothing could save 
 the others. And it is doubtful if she could have 
 saved the one we have if we had not shared the. cares 
 of motherhood with her. At nightfall the ther- 
 mometer went down and down until it reached 12 be- 
 low, and the new lamb began to lose interest in this 
 eojd world. The frost penetrated to the snug boy- 
 
 90 
 
THE FIRST LAMB 
 
 stall, and the poor little lamb shivered and refused 
 to pay attention to its mother. She pawed at it to 
 make it get up, but it couldn’t get on its feet. So we 
 wrapped it in a horse-blanket and took it to the nest 
 beside the stove. For the next couple of days we 
 kept it warm and carried it to its mother for brief 
 visits at meal times. In that way we kept it from 
 being chilled to death, and now that the weather has 
 moderated it is living with its mother and being 
 much admired. But I am afraid that some of the 
 interest taken in it is rather sordid. When the ex- 
 citement was at its highest I found a boy studying 
 the market reports. He was looking up the price of 
 wool. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Like all the other live stock on the farm, the lamb 
 has a name of its own. Its owner informed me that 
 it is to be called Mary Belle. Why he was so super- 
 fluous as to give it two names I did not inquire. The 
 name sounded good to me — the sound of it reminded 
 me of how: 
 
 “Winking Mary buds begin 
 To open their golden eyes, 
 
 With everything that pretty bin ” 
 
 91 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 Mary Belle — Mary buds. There is a distinct as- 
 sonance, but it is a slim one on which to hang a quo- 
 tation. Still, the “Mary buds” reminded me of 
 spring — and that led to results. Lambs are always 
 associated with spring in literature, and why 
 shouldn’t they be in fact? My personal recollec- 
 tions of lambs all coincide with days : 
 
 “Whan that Aprille with his showres soote. 
 
 The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote.” 
 
 So what on earth was a lamb doing in this world 
 in January? On inquiry I learned that one must ex- 
 pect such things if he goes in for pure-bred, pedi- 
 greed sheep that may take prizes at the fall fairs. 
 Any lamb that is born after 12 p.m. of December 
 31 of the preceding year is entitled to rank as a 
 spring lamb. When the fall fairs come round Mary 
 Belle will have the advantage of several months’ 
 growth over the lambs that come in the springtime — 
 “the only pretty ring time.” This makes it look 
 to me as if prize-winning were rather more impor- 
 tant than sheep-breeding. Poor Mary Belle will have 
 to spend the most frisky months of her life in a lit- 
 tle pen, instead of skipping about among the flowers, 
 as a lamb should. She is being robbed of her youth 
 in the hope that she may win a blue ribbon. 
 
 92 
 
XXI. — Sheep Surgery 
 
 W HEN I got home from the village a 
 couple of evenings ago a bareheaded 
 delegation met me at the road gate 
 with bad news. 
 
 “Strafe’s leg — was chased by a dog — was broken 
 — and I must set it — Oh, the dog was a stranger — 
 Strafe couldn’t ” 
 
 At least that is what it sounded like. One thing 
 is certain, and that is that two excited boys can’t 
 tell a bit of news as quickly as one. After both had 
 blown off steam at the same time, I questioned them 
 and found that Strafe, one of the twin lambs, had 
 his leg broken. It seems that a stranger dog fol- 
 lowed one of the children from the village in the af- 
 ternoon, and in spite of being told to “Go home, sir,” 
 he persisted in following. But he no sooner reached 
 the farm than he began chasing the sheep. To es- 
 cape him they rushed to the barnyard, and as the 
 gate was only partly opened they got jammed, and 
 poor little Strafe, in spite of his warlike name, had 
 
 93 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 his leg broken. The dog was promptly chased away. 
 None of the family had seen him before, and they 
 did not know who owned him. Evidently he was 
 a stranger. I was distressed to hear the news, 
 for there is something so gentle about lambs that 
 one hates to think of them suffering. In spite 
 of his belligerent name, Strafe is an unusually 
 gentle creature that is ready to stand and be petted 
 whenever any one is in the humour to fuss with him. 
 It almost seemed as if one of the family had been 
 hurt. 
 
 My first thought was that the lamb might have 
 to be killed to put him out of his misery. That is 
 what usually happens to a colt that gets his leg 
 broken, and having heard of several that had suf- 
 fered in this way — or was it that they had a tendon 
 cut on a wire fence ? — I began to see the gloomy side 
 of the matter at once. Still, on second thought, I 
 reflected that a lamb with a limp might raise just 
 as much wool and mutton as one with the use of all 
 his legs, but it was quite evident that his prospects 
 of figuring in the blue-ribbon class at the Fall Fair 
 were probably ended. This was quite a calamity in 
 itself, for he is purebred and the children had hopes 
 
 94 
 
SHEEP SURGERY 
 
 of him. As quickly as possible I got to the sheep- 
 pen and looked over the little patient. He was ly- 
 ing down in a comfortable attitude, though it was 
 easy to see that his leg was broken below the knee, 
 as the crook in it was quite noticeable. He made 
 no objection to having me examine his leg, though 
 it must have hurt to have the broken bone han- 
 dled. What surprised me was that there was no evi- 
 dence of swelling, though the bone had been broken 
 for some hours. Another strange thing was that 
 the bones lay so loose. The parts barely touched 
 each other, though in cases of human fracture the 
 bones sometimes get drawn past. It was no com- 
 minuted fracture I had to deal with, but a very 
 simple case of simple fracture. Of course, the whole 
 family gathered around to make comments and give 
 advice, and I quickly found that I was expected to 
 play the surgeon and give Strafe a leg that would be 
 as good as new. Though surgery had never come 
 within my experience in the past, I felt that this 
 was no time for false modesty, and prepared for 
 action. 
 
 While making inquiries among persons of experi- 
 as to the best way to proceed, I brought out 
 
 95 
 
 ence 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 the curious bit of information that surgeons use 
 only three splints when setting a human broken leg. 
 My own instinct was to use four, but being assured 
 that the doctors use only three I felt that there 
 might be some mystic reason for it that was beyond 
 the lay mind and made my preparations accordingly. 
 Strafe had been placed on a bench, where he lay 
 quite composedly while I took his measure for his 
 new set of splints, which I was whittling from a 
 shingle. Apparently he was not a bit frightened or 
 distressed. Judging from his appearance he seemed 
 to think he was coming in for an extra lot of petting 
 from the boy who was holding him, and he seemed to 
 be enjoying himself. Finally, I got my splints ready, 
 packed a bunch of loose wool around the broken leg 
 and then began to wind a cotton bandage around my 
 somewhat clumsy looking attempt at surgery. A 
 visitor held the bones straight while I was doing 
 this and Strafe did not struggle a particle. Evi- 
 dently a lamb’s sense of pain cannot be as acute as 
 that of a human being. Though I was as gentle as 
 possible I am sure that my touch was clumsy and 
 that a broken bone in the human body if handled so 
 inexpertly would have caused acute suffering. The 
 lamb neither struggled nor protested, but allowed 
 
 96 
 
SHEEP SURGERY 
 
 me to move the leg about and do what I liked with 
 it. After it was carefully bandaged he was set down 
 on the ground, and hopped away on three legs to 
 where his anxious mother was waiting for him. Yes- 
 terday he was feeding as usual, and as the splints 
 were firmly in place I am hopeful of a perfect cure. 
 By the way, I wonder if they give prizes for animal 
 bonesetting at the Fall Fairs. I must find out. 
 
 97 
 
XXII . — The Patient 
 
 T HE progress of Strafe, the lamb that had 
 his leg broken, is about the most surpris- 
 ing thing I have seen in a long time. One 
 naturally thinks of a broken leg as a seri- 
 ous thing, and it is to a human being, but it doesn’t 
 seem to cause so very much discomfort to a lamb. 
 Two days after the accident I saw him taking part 
 in a brisk game of “King of the Castle” with Clarissa 
 and Mary Belle. Of course he was hampered by his 
 game leg, which was bound up in the splints I had 
 put on it, but he found little difficulty in climbing 
 to the top of a pile of hay that had been thrown from 
 the top of a stack and defending his position against 
 assaulting forces. Though he carried his leg in the 
 air he could still bunt vigorously, and though he 
 sometimes got knocked over, he would immediately 
 return to the fray. Evidently the nervous system 
 of a lamb is not so sensitive as that of a human be- 
 ing. A child with a broken leg could not be taking 
 part in games so soon after the accident. Although 
 
 98 
 
THE PATIENT 
 
 it is only a week since he was hurt I notice that he 
 is already using his leg, though with a very decided 
 limp. It is still too soon to take off the splints, so I 
 cannot tell whether my attempt at bone-setting has 
 been a success, but folks of experience who have 
 looked at him assure me that his chances of figuring 
 in the blue-ribbon class are ended. It will be his 
 destiny to figure as mutton. This is not only a dis- 
 appointment, but a considerable loss. 
 
X XIII. — S hearing 
 
 T HE sheep changed their flannels this week 
 and as the weather changed at the same 
 time, I am afraid they are not feeling very 
 comfortable. With wool at present prices, 
 they were given a very thorough clip, and in spite of 
 the pleasant proverb the wind has not been tempered 
 to them. We have had the reliable north wind with 
 which we have become quite familiar this spring, and 
 I was sure they would catch their death of cold. I 
 investigated to see that we had a proper supply of 
 mustard and goose-oil in case I should have to put 
 plasters on their chests and give them the proper 
 dosing. But up to the present writing they seem to 
 be doing very well, though they keep on the lee side 
 of the buildings and of the hedge that runs along 
 the road. They almost look uncanny in their pres- 
 ent condition of undress. It is surprising to see 
 what a small sheep emerges from the fleece when the 
 shearing is done. The mother sheep look very little 
 bigger than their lambs. By the way, as those lambs 
 
 100 
 
SHEARING 
 
 already have noticeable fleeces, I am afraid the 
 warm weather will be rather hard on them. One 
 warm day last week I noticed Mary Belle, with her 
 mouth open, panting after a short run. What will 
 it be like for her in August, when we have real heat? 
 While speaking of the lambs, I am glad to report 
 that my attempt at bone-setting proved fairly sat- 
 isfactory. Strafe is able to gambol about much as 
 usual, though he limps a little and is thinner for his 
 experience. There is a lump on his leg where the 
 bone knit and those who speak with authority say 
 that although he is a fine lamb he must now be con- 
 sidered in the mutton class. But I am proud of the 
 fact that my efforts preserved his leg for everyday 
 use if not for show purposes. 
 
 As this has been the first sheep-shearing we have 
 had on the farm in many years, I was interested to 
 note the improvement. When the boys brought word 
 that the shearers had arrived and were shearing the 
 sheep I hurried to the barn to view the operation. 
 As I approached I heard a sound like that of a 
 cream separator, and was surprised to find that the 
 shearing was being done by machinery. With these 
 tame, modern sheep shearing is not the exciting 
 
 101 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 process it used to be. The legs of the creatures 
 were not tied up in a bunch with a hame-strap to 
 keep them quiet. The shearer merely made the sheep 
 sit on her hind-quarters, while he tucked her head 
 under his arm. He had a contrivance that looked 
 like a small mowing machine, and was busily cutting 
 swaths of wool along her sides. It was doubtless 
 a great improvement on the old shears — the kind 
 that memory associates with boyish haircuts. I 
 have always thought of the shears by its Gaelic 
 name, but it is past my power to spell it. It was 
 imitative of the sound made by the shears when in 
 use. If you take a pair of shears, close and open 
 them and then try to pronounce the sound you hear, 
 you will have the Gaelic name. It sounds some- 
 thing like “dwnguist.” Pronouncing it is just as 
 hard as it looks. One needs to be born to it. I 
 found that they had an old-fashioned shears with 
 them to clip off spots that the mower could not be 
 put over safely, but it was very little used. I 
 noticed that the new method of shearing leaves the 
 sheep free from the ridges that used to be prominent 
 features of old-time shearings — and haircuts. I 
 shouldn’t wonder but they could cut hair with these 
 
 102 
 
SHEARING 
 
 new machines, but as I have never seen anything like 
 them in even the most up-to-date barber shops they 
 cannot be practical for hair-cutting. But they are 
 certainly the proper caper for sheep-shearing. 
 
 103 
 
XXIV — Vain Regrets 
 
 J OHN MILTON was a noble poet, but he was 
 not a safe guide in matters pertaining to 
 animal husbandry. For the ordinary man, 
 the bulletins of the Department of Agricul- 
 ture are safer reading than the masterpieces of 
 literature. If it were not for John Milton I might 
 to-day have a bank account that would outshine 
 “the wealth of Ormuz or of Ind.” Just listen to this 
 piece of foolishness that I have been cherishing all 
 these years : 
 
 “Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
 To tend the homely, slighted shepherd’s trade. 
 
 And strictly meditate the thankless muse?” 
 
 You couldn’t expect me to go in for sheep-raising 
 while giving that quotation a place of honour in my 
 memory, could you? The boys, not caring for 
 poetry, and caring much for the practical bulletins, 
 obtained my permission to go in for sheep-raising. 
 Remembering the kind of sheep we had when I was a 
 
 104 
 
VAIN REGRETS 
 
 boj, I thought they wouldn’t be much trouble, as 
 they would pasture most of the time with the neigh- 
 bours anyway. But the boys didn’t go in for that 
 kind. They got pure-bred registered sheep, and 
 started under the best auspices, with a little flock 
 that was partly bought and partly taken on shares. 
 I admired the addition to the farm live stock, but did 
 not get excited. These quiet, plump sheep did not 
 seem to promise adventure of any kind. The sheep 
 I used to know were more like Ancient Pistol’s 
 “damned and luxurious mountain goat” than they 
 were like these pampered pets of the show-ring. Of 
 course. I recorded the arrival of Mary Belle and 
 Clarissa and Strafe, and told something about their 
 doings, but felt no inclination to take up “the 
 homely, slighted shepherd’s trade.” And now see 
 what has happened. Last week a buyer of fancy 
 sheep came along, gave the flock the once over, and 
 then bought Mary Belle. When they told me the 
 price he was paying, my wrath against John Milton 
 boiled over. “Slighted shepherd’s trade,” indeed! 
 That buyer paid sixty-five dollars for Mary Belle! 
 You could have bought a whole flock of the sheep I 
 used to know for that price. Why, O why, didn’t 
 I go in for sheep when I came back to the land? 
 
 105 
 
XXV . — Sheep Sculpture 
 
 T HERE are no such sheep as those that take 
 the prizes at the Fall Fairs and have their 
 pictures printed in the papers. I never be- 
 lieved that such sheep really existed, “so 
 large and smooth and round,” and now I know that 
 they do not. At least they do not exist as a natural 
 product of the farm. They are just as much a 
 manufactured article as the little woolly “baa-baas” 
 in the baby’s Noah’s Ark. I know this, because I 
 saw a show sheep manufactured. When Mary Belle 
 was sold it was stipulated by the buyer that she 
 was to be clipped before being delivered. In my in- 
 nocence of the guile of the show-ring I thought that 
 this meant that she was to be trimmed a little around 
 the edges so that her little fleece wouldn’t look too 
 ra gg e d and ill-kept. When an experienced showman 
 came to do the clipping, I naturally stuck around to 
 see what would happen. I knew Mary Belle was a 
 pure-bred sheep of some kind, but I thought it 
 
 106 
 
SHEEP SCULPTURE 
 
 was an ordinary kind. I had seen sheep and lambs in 
 pasture fields that looked much like our sheep, so I 
 did not think there was anything unusual about 
 them. I supposed that the show sheep, with their 
 wonderful points, must be specially bred and must 
 belong to kinds that do not run in ordinary mortal 
 pastures. But I know better now. I saw Mary Belle 
 transformed from an ordinary playful scamp of 
 a lamb to a primped and perfect darling of the show- 
 ring. I have learned that sheep-raising and sheep- 
 showing are two entirely different things, and I 
 have been forced to the conclusion that Touchstone’s 
 shepherd didn’t know much about the possibilities of 
 shepherding. He was only a “natural philosopher,” 
 but the modern shepherd is an artist. I suppose it 
 wouldn’t do for me to say “fakir.” 
 
 When Mary Belle was captured she acted much as 
 an untamed youngster might when about to have his 
 hair combed and neck washed before being exhibited 
 to company. She jumped wildly and blatted for her 
 mother, but it was no use. A strong man held her 
 by the wool around her neck, while the experienced 
 showman looked her over with a critical eye. He ad- 
 mitted that she had many good points — but there 
 
 107 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 were a few little things — still it didn’t matter — they 
 wouldn’t show when he got done. After these cryp- 
 tic remarks he took a couple of carding combs — I 
 am not sure that that is the right name, but they 
 were the kind of thing I used to see in my youth in 
 the hands of old pioneer women who carded their 
 own wool. They look like curry-combs. They are 
 made of wire teeth, set in leather on a wooden frame. 
 They look and feel something like a cockle burr. 
 Anyway the showman took these instruments and 
 started at Mary Belle’s fleece. The process was 
 much like combling a particularly snarly head of 
 hair and was received in the same spirit. The lamb 
 jumped and called for mother, but as I did not re- 
 gard the operation any more cruel than many a 
 hair-combing I had witnessed I did not protest. 
 With these carding combs the lamb’s fleece was all 
 pulled out so that she suddenly looked twice her 
 usual size. But there was no improvement in her 
 appearance. In fact she looked shaggier than ever. 
 But presently her wool was all pulled out on end, and 
 into separate strands, and the real work of trimming 
 or clipping was ready to begin. 
 
 Taking an especially sharp pair of shears, the 
 showman tried their edge on his thumb in quite the 
 
 108 
 
SHEEP SCULPTURE 
 
 old shepherd manner that I could remember from 
 earlier days, and looked over the unkempt mass of 
 wool before him with a critical eye. Though I didn’t 
 realise it at the time, his attitude was much the same 
 as that of Michael Angelo before the mass of marble 
 from which he hewed his David or of Canova when 
 he stood before the lump of butter from which he 
 carved the lion. The showman was really a sheep 
 sculptor, and he was going to snip and clip a prize- 
 winning lamb out of the mass of wool before him. 
 With a sure hand he mowed a slight swath of wool 
 along Mary Belle’s back. Where there were humps 
 he cut fairly deep, and where there were depressions 
 he skimmed lightly. The result was a back-line that 
 was as smooth and straight as if cut to a ruler. 
 Swiftly but carefully the shears went snipping along 
 her back and down the sides. What surprised me 
 most was the surface left by this skilful shearing. It 
 looked like a fine felt. If I didn’t know better, I 
 would say that the lamb had been clipped right to 
 the skin. Yet there were probably two inches of 
 wool under that deceiving surface in some places. 
 The sculptor proceeded with his work with artistic 
 sureness of touch. He had in his mind an ideal lamb, 
 
 109 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 and he proceeded to cut to that ideal. As he worked 
 there began to emerge just the kind or lamb one 
 sees in the show ring or pictured in the agricultural 
 papers. The new lamb was not the harum-scarum 
 Mary Belle in any sense of the word. She looked 
 twice the size, and her smooth coat, entirely free 
 from snarls and elf-locks, made her look as fat as a 
 seal. I had to poke at her new coat in order to con- 
 vince myself that it was not really a convict-clip, 
 right close to the skin. The surface seemed to show 
 the movement of the flesh underneath, and her sides 
 palpitated to every breath, just as if there was no 
 covering of wool. 
 
 As the expert worked she took on a wonderful 
 smoothness and roundness. Her hams looked like 
 legs of lamb such as had never been. Her back 
 became broad and plump and her breast was a de- 
 light to look at. I watched admiringly while an en- 
 tirely new Mary Belle was carved from the raw ma- 
 terial of the old. And the strange thing of it was 
 that she seemed to like the transformation. Be- 
 fore the work was half done there was no need of a 
 strong man to hold her. She stood with her chin 
 resting in the showman’s hand while he snipped and 
 clipped her to shape. Finally he turned her over to 
 
 110 
 
SHEEP SCULPTURE 
 
 the other man to hold and then stood back as a sculp- 
 tor might to view his work. He walked around her 
 and looked her over from every angle— occasionally 
 stepping up to trim some point to a more desired 
 shape. When she was finally done I half-expected 
 him to go over her with a piece of sandpaper, but 
 that was not necessary. The shears had left her 
 smooth enough. When the art work was completed 
 she looked exactly like the impossible sheep they 
 have at the shows and she seemed proud of the 
 change. She stood to have her picture taken just 
 like a belle who was dressed for some grand occa- 
 sion. Her nature seemed to undergo a transforma- 
 tion as well as her figure. I could not imagine her 
 romping and playing king of the castle with Strafe 
 and Clarissa. In fact, I doubt if her mother would 
 have known her when she was turned back into the 
 pasture if it were not that sheep know their off- 
 spring by the sense of smell. Everything was 
 changed about her except her characteristic odour. 
 She looked to be fully as big and much heavier than 
 her mother, who had recently been subjected to a 
 skin-tight shearing. As I looked her over I felt 
 that the time had come to add another stanza to the 
 many parodies of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” : 
 
 111 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 Mary had a little lamb — 
 
 They took her to the show. 
 
 And though she had a perfect shape 
 It really wasn’t so. 
 
 After seeing her in her finished form I have no 
 doubt that Mary Belle will win prizes in the show 
 ring, but I feel that the prizes should not go to her, 
 but to the sculptor who fashioned her. She is more 
 of a work of art than any of the lambs and sheep we 
 see in pastoral paintings. 
 
 P.S. — I almost forgot to tell that the showman 
 enlightened me on another trick of the prize-ring. 
 While I stood behind Mary Belle he caught her un- 
 der the chin in such a way that her back and rump 
 looked broader and fuller than ever. Then as I 
 walked around in front of her he changed his posi- 
 tion and with a skilful flick of his toe separated her 
 feet so that she stood with feet well apart. This 
 made her breast look broader and plumper than any 
 breast of lamb could possibly be. All of which made 
 me wonder if the fall fairs influence sheep-breeding 
 as much as they do the art of sheep-showing. I 
 wonder if all the other animals of the show-ring are 
 handled in the same expert way. 
 
 112 
 
XXVI. — Our Lawn Mower 
 
 NCE more opportunity has knocked at my 
 door and I failed to take advantage, and 
 now it is too late. When the lamb had 
 
 his leg broken he and his mother and sister 
 were kept in the orchard, so that he wouldn’t have 
 to run about so much. The orchard includes the 
 
 lawn around the house, and as the spring advanced 
 the lawn naturally was the first spot to offer in- 
 viting pasture. The result was that the sheep came 
 right up to the door to nibble the young and juicy 
 grass. Mary Belle pushed her way through the 
 fence so that she could be with her young friends 
 and the flock were able to make quite a showing 
 in their attacks on the grass. I was not long in no- 
 ticing how well they did the work that I usually 
 have to do with a lawn mower, and I saw where I 
 
 could have some freedom from this irksome task this 
 
 summer, simply by turning the sheep to graze on the 
 lawn from time to time. From this discovery it was 
 only a logical step to think of having the sheep 
 
 113 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 patented as lawn mowers so that any one who used 
 my idea would be obliged to pay me a royalty that 
 might grow to such proportions that it would at- 
 tract the attention of the Minister of Finance. It 
 was a beautiful idea, for if I could only get all the 
 lawns in the country paying tribute to me there 
 would be no end to my income. But while I was 
 talking about it and telling people how they could 
 sit around wearing diamonds when I made my 
 fortune by my new idea the papers brought the news 
 that President Wilson had just bought a dozen 
 Shropshire sheep to clip the lawn at the White 
 House. This makes the great idea public property. 
 It is too late to get a patent on it now. Still there 
 is some satisfaction in remembering that great minds 
 run in the same channel. The busy President has 
 hit on the same trick as I have to get out of the 
 tiresome job of running the early-rising lawn mower. 
 
 114 
 
XXV II. — Clementine 
 
 I N spite of the prevailing atmosphere of laziness 
 there is one brisk thing on the place. Clemen- 
 tine, the pet pig, broke out of her pen this 
 morning, and as the children are at school she 
 is allowed to roam at will. She is positively brisk in 
 hustling for apples in the orchard and for heads 
 of oats around the oat stack. And wherever she 
 goes Sheppy follows her, growling and barking. He 
 knows that she should not be running loose, but he 
 hasn’t the courage to put her in her place. There 
 were no pigs about when Sheppy was receiving his 
 somewhat skimpy education, so he doesn’t know 
 what to do with Clementine. Apparently she un- 
 derstands this, for she pays no attention to him ex- 
 cept when he gets too tiresome with his barking and 
 growling. At such times she opens her mouth and 
 runs at him, and Sheppy almost falls over himself 
 in his attempts to get out of the way. Of course, it 
 looks absurd to see a big dog running out of the way 
 
 117 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 of a little pig, roasting size, but I think the secret 
 is that Sheppj feels ashamed to snap at so little a 
 creature. But some day she will get a terrible sur- 
 prise. If she comes around when Sheppy is having 
 his dinner and tries to help herself there will be im- 
 mediate trouble. That is where friendship ceases 
 with Sheppy. I have known him to kill a pet kitten 
 in about two seconds because it tried to help itself 
 from his dish. Clementine will be sure to try it if she 
 is around when he is being fed and then there will 
 be doings. She will be even more surprised than 
 she was in the stable last night. When we were milk- 
 ing Clementine strayed in, grunting pleasantly, to 
 see what she could find. The kittens had also come 
 for their evening portion of fresh milk. Presently 
 Clementine, like her namesake in the song. 
 
 “Stubbed her toe upon a kitten, 
 
 Drefful sorry, Clementine !” 
 
 The kitten let out a yeowl when the pig stepped on 
 it that would have done credit to a full-grown cat. 
 Its mother, Lady Jane Grey, rushed to the rescue 
 and raked Clementine from shoulder to hip with 
 distended claws. “Wheel Wheel’’ said Clementine 
 as she shot through the door. She may think herself 
 
 118 
 
CLEMENTINE 
 
 capable of bossing dogs, but she has no illusions 
 about cats. 
 
 While sitting in the hammock after dinner I had 
 a chance to observe Clementine closely as she nosed 
 around to see if any pears had fallen lately. While 
 looking at her I was haunted by a sense of something 
 familiar. Where had I seen that smile before? You 
 know that the pig is the one thing in nature that 
 has the “smile that won’t come off.” The corners of 
 its mouth are permanently turned up so that it can 
 hardly stop smiling even when it is squealing for 
 swill. And when it is contented it seems to be smil- 
 ing from the corners of its mouth to the jaunty lit- 
 tle curl in its tail. While watching Clementine I 
 realised that I had seen that smile before somewhere. 
 After cudgelling my memory for a while I suddenly 
 remembered. Her smile is exactly like that of the 
 get-rich-quick promoter, the newly appointed of- 
 fice-holder, and other men who have been selfishly 
 successful. As I realised this I called up pictures of 
 scores of men with smoothly-shaven jowls and the 
 pink cheeks of eupeptic high feeding — and all of 
 them had the same smile as Clementine. From deal- 
 ings I have had with them I know that they also have 
 
 119 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 much of her nature. It may seem to serious-minded 
 people that I might be better employed than in 
 studying the smile of a pet pig, but I do not think 
 so. In future I shall be on my guard against sleek 
 citizens who habitually wear Clementine’s smile. 
 You know I have been misled in the past by Shake- 
 speare’s lines : 
 
 “Let me have about me men that are fat, 
 
 Sleek headed men and such as sleep o’ nights.” 
 
 I had an idea that fat men are usually good- 
 natured and honest, and that that was why Caesar 
 wanted them in his Cabinet. But when I recall the 
 actors who played with Booth I remember that most 
 of the conspirators who killed Caesar were fat. 
 Moreover, I remember that in his recent book on 
 dieting Vance Thompson asserts that most of the 
 men guilty of the crimes of high finance are fat men. 
 Though he didn’t say so, I am willing to bet a cookie 
 that they all had a smile like Clementine’s. Come 
 to think of it, there are a distressing lot of fat men 
 with that kind of smile to be seen around the hotel 
 lobbies in our big cities just now, but I have made a 
 careful study of the pet pig and shall be on my 
 guard. 
 
 120 
 
XXV III.— Feeding Pigs 
 
 C ONSARN a pig anyhow. I know how im- 
 portant pigs are just now, and we are 
 making arrangements to raise our share 
 of them, but that doesn’t make me like 
 them a bit better. Until this year we have contented 
 ourselves with raising an occasional pig for our own 
 use, but when preparing for this year’s meat sup- 
 ply I felt expansive and bought a couple of plump 
 little pigs. I admit that I like little pigs — both alive 
 and roasted. Their perpetual smile, which even a 
 session in the oven can’t take off, appeals to me. 
 But a full-grown, able-bodied pig is another matter 
 — especially at feeding time. The two that we have 
 finishing for winter pork have long since passed 
 from the innocent, engaging sucking pig stage and 
 have developed all the disagreeable mannerisms of 
 the full-grown hog. To make matters worse, our 
 arrangements for keeping hogs are of the old-fash- 
 ioned kind that bring out all the bad qualities of the 
 pig. When making necessary changes about the 
 
 m 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 barn the old pig-pen was torn down and this year’s 
 pen is a makeshift of the kind that you find among 
 backward farmers — a small pen for them to sleep in 
 and a larger pen built of rails, where they get their 
 feed and take the air. The trough is a light affair 
 made of a couple of boards, and they have no trouble 
 in rooting it all over the pen, so that it has to be 
 pulled around and turned right side up every time 
 the brutes are fed. Things were not so bad until 
 the pigs grew up, but now I dread feeding them 
 more than any chore on the place. They can see 
 me mixing the chop feed and the whole neighbour- 
 hood can hear the abuse they heap on me for being 
 so slow. The remarks that they make in hog lan- 
 guage about the Food Controller on this farm would 
 not look well in print. When I start towards the 
 pen with their rations my two fat friends are always 
 standing up with their front feet hooked over the top 
 rail of their pen and their mouths wide open and 
 squalling. I have a club handy so that I can beat 
 them back while I pull the trough into shape, but I 
 have to drop it when I go to put the feed before them. 
 This job is a regular fight. I have to hold the pail 
 as high as I can and try to tilt a little of the feed 
 into one end of the trough, in the hope of occupying 
 
 122 
 
FEEDING PIGS 
 
 them while I spread the rest evenly. I am lucky if 
 I manage the trick without spilling the feed, and the 
 racket is deafening. By the time I am done I am 
 “all het up” and feel like taking the club and giv- 
 ing them a good mauling. I know I am to blame 
 myself for having things in such shape, but that 
 doesn’t make me like the pigs a bit more. How- 
 ever, the trouble will be over in about a week, and 
 we shall have a new pen and a proper trough for 
 the next batch of pigs that we are arranging to raise 
 for the good of the country. A man can fight 
 a couple of pigs at meal times, but a whole litter 
 would probably prove unmanageable. 
 
 123 
 
XXIX.— Beatrice 
 
 T HE big sow that has been added to the farm 
 live stock is making herself quite at home. 
 She doesn’t expect us to make company of 
 her. She is willing to help herself and 
 seems to feel hurt when we insist on superintending 
 her helpings. The children have named her Beatrice, 
 though I can’t figure out just why. Beatrice sug- 
 gests to me something slim and gracile rather than 
 two hundred pounds of hump-backed and enterpris- 
 ing pork. They couldn’t have picked up the name 
 from anything they have heard me calling her since 
 her arrival on the farm. I have called her many 
 names, but I am quite certain that none of them 
 sounded anything like Beatrice. It must have been an 
 inspiration on their part, and we shall see how it 
 works out. As Beatrice is not being fed up for pork 
 but just being given a ration calculated to keep her 
 in good health, she has a wide margin of unappeased 
 appetite. Whenever she hears any one stirring she 
 
 124 ) 
 
BEATRICE 
 
 is up and about at once, and to cross the barnyard 
 with a pail of anything is quite a feat. Occasion- 
 ally I take a pail of swill to the granary to add a few 
 handfuls of chop-feed before giving it to Beatrice 
 and I find the experience rather exciting. She makes 
 a squealing rush at me as soon as I open the gate 
 and tries to get her nose into the pail. I kick her out 
 of my way and then cross the yard to the granary 
 door, kicking back like a horse at every few steps. I 
 have heard at different times about educated pigs, 
 but I seriously doubt if any trainer has been able 
 to teach a pig table manners. You can teach a dog 
 or a cat or a horse to beg for a dainty morsel, but I 
 don’t believe any one could teach a pig to wait when 
 food is in sight. Beatrice wants what she wants 
 when she wants it, and she doesn’t care who hears 
 her asking for it. 
 
 When Beatrice arrived she was put in the pen in 
 which we kept the two pigs that we fattened for 
 home-cured pickled pork and bacon, but it didn’t 
 seem to give her a chance for sufficient exercise, so 
 we decided to shift around the pigpen so that it 
 would give her an entrance to the barnyard. Since 
 that has been done there has been nothing but 
 
 125 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 trouble. Not a door or gate can be left open for a 
 moment, or the marauding Beatrice will be in mis- 
 chief. As a matter of fact, she no sooner got ac- 
 cess to the barnyard than she deserted the pigpen 
 altogether. Although her sleeping room was filled 
 with nice clean straw, she woudn’t look at it. In- 
 stead, she began to root around the strawstack and 
 to gather a big pile of loose straw on the south side. 
 She chose the side that was sheltered from the pre- 
 vailing northwest wind, and constructed a nest that 
 is entirely to her own taste. When she gives up hope 
 of getting any more food each day she burrows her 
 way into her pile of straw and tucks it around her 
 like a blanket. When I go to the barnyard after 
 night I can hear her grunting rhythmically under 
 about four feet of straw. 
 
 As long as I do not bang a pail or make a noise 
 like something eatable she remains at rest, but if any- 
 thing happens that conveys to her the idea that 
 something to eat is about, there is an instant earth- 
 quake in the pile of straw, and Beatrice emerges 
 with open mouth and complaining lungs Then the 
 business of kicking and name-calling is resumed. 
 We are hopeful that Beatrice will do her part in 
 
 126 
 
BEATRICE 
 
 the urgent business of meeting the pork shortage, 
 and for that reason are willing to put up with her 
 bad manners, but we do not expect to learn to love 
 her very much. 
 
 127 
 
XXX. — Pig Frightfulness 
 
 B EATRICE continues to make her presence 
 felt on the farm. A few days ago a boy 
 whose mind was not synchronising properly 
 with his body was doing chores. While his 
 body was getting oats for the horses his mind was 
 tilting with Wilfrid of Ivanhoe or “running a course 
 with grinded lances” with Richard the Lionheart, 
 or the knight of the Couchant Leopard. As he was 
 away back in the Dark Ages his mind could not be 
 expected to make his body attend to such trivial 
 things as shutting granary doors in the last days 
 of 1917. He left the granary door open. Beatrice 
 saw her opportunity and heaved up her bulk among 
 the bags and the bins. Shortly afterwards another 
 boy of a tidy nature happened to be passing the 
 granary. As his mind was right up to the needs of 
 the minute he shut the door — without looking in- 
 side. Presently word was brought to me that Bea- 
 trice was lost. I ordered a search on the sideroad 
 
 128 
 
PIG FRIGHTFULNESS 
 
 and concession line, but not a trace o.f her could be 
 found. It was fully four hours later that some one 
 went to the granary and she was discovered. The 
 granary looked like the scene of a Hun raid. Bea- 
 trice’s frightfulness was astounding. She had torn 
 open bags of beans, shorts, bran, chop-feed and cot- 
 ton-seed meal. Apparently she had sampled every- 
 thing in the granary and was so full that she couldn’t 
 grunt. When kicked out she gave a little protest- 
 ing squeal, but she had an extra curl in her tail that 
 showed how happy she was. She was so full that we 
 were afraid to give her the usual ration of swill for 
 fear she would swell up and burst. But there have 
 been no evil effects, and when I go to the barnyard 
 she gets under my feet and grunts with friendly im- 
 pudence. But it is likely to be some time before 
 she finds an open door again. We have had our 
 lesson. 
 
XXXI. — A Pig Bath 
 
 B EATRICE, like myself, was inclined to rush 
 the season. She seemed to think as I did 
 that spring, or even summer, was back. On 
 the perfect day I have been talking about 
 she hunted up a sunlit puddle and indylged in the 
 first wallow of the season. I am afraid it must 
 have been a rather cold bath, for there is still ice 
 in the bottom of all the puddles around the barn- 
 yard. But Beatrice must have felt the heat, for 
 she made a thorough job of her mud-bath. When 
 she got through she was just about as piggy a pig 
 as you would want to see. She was plastered with 
 black mud from head to foot, and the tone of her 
 grunting expressed about the top note of content- 
 ment. She wandered into the field where the plough- 
 ing had commenced and began to root in a hopeful 
 spirit. As her nose has never been restrained with 
 a ring she was able to throw her whole vigour into 
 the work, but I imagine that it was merely a spring 
 rite rather than a food conserving effort. She might 
 
 130 
 
A PIG BATH 
 
 be able to find a reddock root that would be good for 
 her blood, but I doubt if there was anything else 
 available. She didn’t stick to the job long, prob- 
 ably coming to the conclusion that it is more profit- 
 able to stick around the granary door. A while 
 later I saw her sunning herself on the south side of 
 the strawstack, where the mud could dry on her 
 sides. Now that she has had her bath she looks sur- 
 prisingly fresh and clean. The mud must have 
 scaled off as soon as it was dry, and when it crum- 
 bled away it took with it all the winter’s accumula- 
 tions. She may have done some rubbing against 
 the gate post or other convenient object, but I did 
 not see her at it. Anyway her mud bath has left 
 her whiter than she has been all winter, with a tinge 
 of pink showing that suggests a proper tubbing. 
 The spring seems to have an improving effect on 
 her temper. Of course she is always hungry, but 
 she is not so clamorous about it. 
 
 131 
 
XXXII. — In Extenuation 
 
 L ETTERS that reach me these days usually 
 conclude with a word of solicitude for Bea- 
 trice. Tender-hearted people appear to be 
 shocked by my references to kicking her out 
 of the way when passing through the barnyard. I 
 really wish they would tell me what to do when she 
 comes over the top at me when I am carrying a pail 
 of swill to which the chop-feed has not been added. 
 It is entirely useless to try to explain to her that if 
 she will wait a minute she will get a much better 
 dinner. She wants it right away or sooner, 
 and my kicks simply make her say, “Whoof! 
 whoof!” As soon as I lower my guard she rushes 
 to the attack again, and it takes skilful work to 
 get into the granary with the pail of swill without 
 having it spilled. At present the net result of our 
 combats is that I have a stubbed toe. I haven’t 
 managed to make any impression on her, mentally 
 or physically. One correspondent urges that I am 
 doing injury to the “keep-a-pig” campaign by ex- 
 
 132 
 
IN EXTENUATION 
 
 patiating on her undesirable qualities. I don’t think 
 it is quite so bad as that. I merely show that pigs 
 should be interned. No one has a deeper apprecia- 
 tion of a pig as a public duty or as a possible source 
 of profit, but I don’t think I need be blamed if I 
 wish she had better table manners. I think the lit- 
 tlest boy hit the nail on the head when he confided to 
 me: “I guess folks call pigs pigs because they are 
 
 so piggish.” As we have never gone in for hog- 
 raising he had learned the meaning of piggishness 
 before he learned anything about pigs. Conse- 
 quently he thought the name very appropriate. Al- 
 though Beatrice raises a “pathetic plaint and wail- 
 ing cry” whenever there is food in evidence that she 
 can’t get at, she is still a highly esteemed member 
 of the live stock. The trouble is that I have not 
 learned enough about Froebelism to be able to “pun- 
 ish her in love.” 
 
 133 
 
XXXIII. — Beatrice Announces 
 
 W OOF! woof! woof!” 
 
 Translated and properly censored, 
 this means that Beatrice presents her 
 compliments to the Food Board and 
 announces the arrival of nine hungry little bacon 
 producers. 
 
 “Woof! woof! woof!” 
 
 She also announces that she is food controller for 
 
 her family and doesn’t care a “woof” for regula- 
 tions that are made at Ottawa. She recognises only 
 the law of supply and demand, and if she doesn’t 
 get her full rations of swill, bran and similar necessi- 
 ties she is not afraid to express her opinions of 
 everything and everybody, including the censorship. 
 She now has to do the eating for ten, and the job 
 is one for which she is fitted by both personal in- 
 clinations and hereditary instincts. 
 
 “Woof! woof! woof!” 
 
 She furthermore announces that she is ready to 
 bite the head off any one who lays a finger on any 
 member of her family. She stands ready to fight for 
 
 1 34 
 
BEATRICE ANNOUNCES 
 
 them instead of expecting them to fight for her. 
 Good for Beatrice ! 
 
 “Woof! woof! woof!” 
 
 In spite of her high State of belligerency, Beatrice 
 is evidently very proud of her interesting family. 
 Others may be able to boast larger families, but none 
 can boast a plumper or lustier brood. (Nine seems 
 to be the right and mystic number with swine. 
 Hasn’t Shakespeare something about a sow and 
 “her nine farrow”?) They were ready to fight for 
 their rights and squeal their protests for fair play 
 before they were an hour old. Every one who has 
 approached the pen to have a peep at them acknowl- 
 edges that they are little beauties. They have the 
 irresistible charm of youth — which can make even 
 the young of a rattlesnake interesting if not lov- 
 able. Beatrice has every reason to be proud of 
 them, though there doesn’t seem to be any reason for 
 being so gruff about it. A couple of weeks ago 
 The Globe accused me editorially of being lacking 
 in love for Beatrice. I admit the charge, but claim 
 that this is a merciful provision of nature. Pigs 
 are only lovable when they are small and plump and 
 roly-poly. Our love for them does not endure. 
 
 135 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 "At length the pig perceives it die away 
 And fade into the light of common day.” 
 
 If it were not so we would not have the heart to 
 slaughter our pigs and turn them into necessary 
 bacon. By the time they are full-grown they have 
 developed their piggish instincts to such an intol- 
 erable degree that we are glad to be rid of them. 
 Instead of berating me for being lacking in affection, 
 the editor should have drawn a lesson from the fact 
 that when the time comes to turn our hogs into 
 bacon we are mercifully enabled to do it without any 
 wrench to our finer feelings. I protest that at the 
 present time I view the little pigs with tenderness 
 and affection, but when they are finally fattened I 
 shall have no compunctions about loading them into 
 a car and shipping them to Toronto — the place 
 where every good Ontario pig goes when he dies. 
 
 136 
 
XXXIV. — Receiving 
 
 B EATRICE is having so many visitors that 
 we are thinking of having a guest book and 
 requesting all callers to register. Certainly 
 her family is worth looking at, and up to 
 the present there have been no casualties. The whole 
 nine are feeding and frisking and laying on fat. 
 It is really amazing how fast they are growing. 
 They are not only plumper, but more certain on 
 their feet. Most of them can now stand on three 
 legs and scratch an ear with a hind foot without 
 losing their balance. And fight ! — I am really 
 ashamed of them. If a couple of the little rascals 
 meet when wandering around the pen they promptly 
 rush at each other with open mouths. Of course 
 they are not able to do any damage, and they may 
 really be playing, but their actions look bloodthirsty 
 and they manage to raise weals and welts on each 
 other’s skins with their little teeth. All of them 
 have red marks along their sides, faintly visible, that 
 
 137 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 were caused bj embryo tusks in these little battles 
 that are probably due to an instinct inherited from 
 fierce old tuskers of the jungle. When not fighting, 
 most of their waking hours are spent in efforts to 
 root, though their big, floppy ears seem to overbal- 
 ance them and they fall on their noses when they 
 try to put steam in their work. But most of their 
 time is devoted to sleep, which also has its activities. 
 They huddle together side by side and on top of one 
 another, and look like a pile of plump sausages. 
 Every few seconds one of them gives a convulsive 
 little jump as if suffering from nightmare, and the 
 pile is never still. While watching them yesterday 
 I had a chance to verify an observation made by a 
 friend. He told me that in cold weather the little 
 fellows at the end of the pile get chilled and at once 
 get up and root their way into the middle of the 
 pile, where they will be warm. At present the air 
 is mild and they were not troubled much in that way, 
 but once when a draft from an open door struck 
 them the fellow on the outside felt a chill along his 
 spine. He promptly got up and pushed his way 
 into the centre by lying on top of the others and 
 gradually wriggling down. Presently the one that 
 was left exposed felt a similar chill and followed the 
 
 138 
 
RECEIVING 
 
 example of the first. One after another went 
 through the performance, and while I was watching 
 them the sleeping pile moved across the pen, as the 
 changes were all being made from one end. If it 
 were really cold, so that the fellows on both ends 
 would be getting chilled and constantly pushing into 
 the centre, their sleeping hours would be almost as 
 active as the waking hours. Beatrice has quieted 
 down since the first day and does not seem so much 
 alarmed when any one approaches. In fact, if one 
 of the family is picked up and makes a protesting 
 squeal she merely grunts inquiringly. She is very 
 proud of her family, and already it is evident that 
 she has her favourites. One little fellow with a cow- 
 lick on his back gets Benjamin’s portion at feeding 
 time, and whenever he comes poking around her head 
 she seems to caress him with her nose instead of 
 rooting him out of the way. But in a few weeks she 
 will bite their heads off if they come around her when 
 she is feeding. As soon as they are able to root for 
 themselves her affection for them will disappear. 
 
 With half a squeal and half a howl 
 At mealtimes Beatrice starts to prowl; 
 
 Her family following close at her heels — 
 
 Nine little pigs with nine little squeals. 
 
 139 
 
XXXV.— Feeding Time 
 
 P IG feeding is now the noisiest function on the 
 farm. The little pigs are taking their share 
 of skim milk and chop feed from the trough, 
 and when their complaining falsetto is added 
 to the guttural roar of their mother there is an in- 
 tolerable racket on the place. Being every bit as 
 greedy as she is, they pile into the trough so that 
 it is almost impossible to get the feed before them. 
 As Beatrice is always consumed by an ambition to 
 get her nose into the pail while the food is being 
 poured the work of feeding is accompanied by much 
 kicking and language. As this interesting family 
 has the run of the barnyard its members have con- 
 siderable scope for enjoyment. The recent rains 
 have made possible a number of satisfactory wal- 
 lows, and the little pigs get as thoroughly plastered 
 as their mother. I am not sure whether their care- 
 free condition excites envy, but I do know that they 
 are not obliged to have their ears washed and they 
 can go to bed without having their feet scrubbed — 
 
 140 
 
FEEDING TIME 
 
 priceless privileges. Although it would be better if 
 they had a bit of pasture to run in, they are not en- 
 tirely deprived of green food. At noon every day 
 they are allowed a run in the orchard with a boy to 
 watch them and keep them out of mischief. (N.B. — 
 I must cheer up the boy who has the job by telling 
 him the history of the royal family of Serbia, which 
 is descended from a swineherd. Also I must en- 
 courage him to read Ivanhoe and get acquainted 
 with Gurth, the swineherd.) 
 
 Of course it is a nuisance to have Beatrice and 
 her family at large in the barnyard, but the world 
 must have bacon, even if we are not properly 
 equipped for hog-raising. All gates and doors must 
 be kept closed at all times or there is sure to be 
 trouble. Still, her alert presence disciplines us to 
 tidiness and occasionally develops a bit of comedy. 
 Yesterday morning I arrived at the barnyard just 
 in time to witness an exciting little scene. The boy 
 who looks after the hens had neglected to take a pail 
 with .him when he went to the granary for chicken 
 feed, and thought he could carry it safely in a straw 
 hat. With his hatful of oats he turned to close the 
 latch on the granary door, and Beatrice saw her 
 
 141 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 chance. With a quick rush she grabbed the hat by 
 the crown. The hoy turned with a yell, but he was 
 too late. For a couple of seconds there was a tug- 
 of-war — pull boy, pull pijj, and then the hat tore 
 apart. The boy had the brim and Beatrice had the 
 crown with its load of oats. Holding her head 
 aloft, as pigs do when trying to escape with some 
 tidbit, she held up the crown of the hat and rushed 
 into her pen. She didn’t spill a grain and had a 
 good feed all to herself in a dark corner. The boy’s 
 first impulse was to cry, but when he saw me he be- 
 gan to scold about having Beatrice loose in the barn- 
 yard. The joke was spoiled for me later in the day 
 when I found that it was my cow-breakfast hat that 
 had provided the sow breakfast. The boy had worn 
 it by mistake. 
 
 142 
 
XXXVI.— Beatrice Belligerent 
 
 Y ESTERDAY I received from a correspond- 
 ent a little jingle that deserves wide pub- 
 licity at a time when every one is inter- 
 ested in pigs. 
 
 “A little pig with a curly tail 
 As soft as satin and pinky pale 
 Is a very different thing by far 
 From the lumps of iniquity the big pigs are.” 
 
 That expresses the situation to a T. The nine 
 little pigs on the place are playful, winsome and 
 amusing, but their able mother, Beatrice, is a loath- 
 some creature. Among other depredations she put 
 the finishing touch on our lane. This lane is of 
 evil repute among auto drivers who visit us, on ac- 
 count of the twists and bumps in it. Well, Bea- 
 trice selected a spot where a defective drain had 
 left the ground soft and trenched it with a luxuri- 
 ous wallow. Several visitors did not dare to take 
 a chance on her bathing beach when approaching 
 the house, so left their autos in the lane and came 
 
 143 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 afoot. Beatrice has also made a couple of sudden 
 raids on the border of flowers beside the lawn, and 
 managed to get a few bulbs — whereat much lamen- 
 tation. Really, it will be a relief when she finally 
 goes into retirement in a pen to prepare her for 
 doing her bit on some Allied breakfast table. But 
 her family is still at the lovable stage. 
 
 144 
 
XXXVII.— Dolly s Day Of 
 
 I WONDER if any scientist has figured out the 
 exact properties of blue grass. I don’t re- 
 member seeing anything on the subject, but I 
 am going to look it up, for blue grass hay 
 seems to have food qualities that are not suspected 
 by ordinary farmers. Besides being hay it must 
 have the protein content, fat, starch and all other 
 things that are to be found in a ration of alfalfa, 
 rolled oats, oilcake and condition powders. It seems 
 to be a? potent as that brand of old English ale of 
 which it was said that a quart contained “meat, 
 drink and a night’s lodging.” Anyway, our dow- 
 ager driver has had nothing but blue grass to eat 
 all winter, and instead of developing “that tired feel- 
 ing” as spring approaches she is so full of “pep” 
 that she is teaching mischief to her own colts. Of 
 course, she hasn’t had much to do this winter, having 
 convinced us that trotting was too great a strain 
 on her constitution, and that even walking must be 
 
 147 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 indulged in cautiously and slowly. In short, she had 
 managed by her conduct in the harness to have all 
 the driving done by the other horse, which is a will- 
 ing if rough-gaited traveller. As we couldn’t spend 
 a whole day on the road when it became necessary 
 to go to the village we stopped trying to use the old 
 malingerer. And it is not that she is so old, for she 
 isn’t. But whenever the harness was put on her 
 back she seemed to develop sleeping sickness or some 
 other obscure ailment, so we gave up using her ex- 
 cept for farm work. But blue grass will out, and 
 now we have fathomed her deep duplicity. She has 
 simply been imposing on our good nature and there 
 are strenuous days ahead for her. 
 
 A couple of days ago she and her colts were 
 turned out for a run while the chores were being at- 
 tended to. They seemed to enjoy their freedom and 
 galloped around the field until they appeared to be 
 tired. By the time the chores were done they were 
 all standing at the barnyard gate, waiting to be let 
 through, and I suspected nothing. When I opened 
 the gate I reached for Dolly’s halter, but she wheeled 
 in her tracks and let fly at me with both heels. At 
 the same instant the two-year-old crowded up and I 
 
 148 
 
DOLLY’S DAY OFF 
 
 caught him instead. I led him to the stable door 
 and started him in and then turned to head off his 
 mother, who had started towards the lane. Instant- 
 ly she squealed and started towards the road with 
 the yearling at her heels. The two-year-old heard 
 her and popped out of the stable. 
 
 A moment later the three of them were off towards 
 the road, where the gate had been left open on ac- 
 count of the snowdrifts. Not suspecting anything 
 more than an ordinary frolic, I stood by the stable 
 and whistled for them and called, “Cob Dolly” in my 
 most seductive tones. But it was useless. When 
 they reached the road they rushed north until 
 checked by the drifts. Then they stopped, wheeled 
 round and rushed south, passing the gate as if they 
 had no interest in it. Before reaching the corner 
 they slowed up. I whistled coaxingly and they 
 stopped to look back. At this critical point a man 
 with a horse and buggy turned the corner and 
 started south. At once the three truants started 
 after him, Dolly in the lead, with her tail in the air. 
 I watched until they were almost a mile away, and 
 then harnessed the other horse, conscripted a boy 
 into active service and started in pursuit of the run- 
 aways. By the time we reached the road they were 
 
 149 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 nowhere in sight, having turned a comer about a 
 mile away. The chase was now on in earnest. 
 
 When we reached the corner we saw the frisky 
 trio nosing along the road and moving slowly to the 
 east. Approaching cautiously as near as we dared 
 the boy started on a wide circuit through a wheat 
 field so as to get ahead of them. To any casual ob- 
 server it would appear that he was cutting across 
 the field towards the village to the north, but Dolly 
 is no mean tactician herself, and she was not to be 
 fooled. Before he had time to swing towards the 
 road she snorted defiance and galloped away, with 
 the colts at her heels. The boy came back to the 
 road, climbed into the buggy, and we started a stern 
 chase. Presently the three turned in at an open 
 gate, and hope revived. If I could only get past 
 that gate we could head them off. But the farmer 
 whose property they had invaded thought he would 
 help by “sicking” the dog on them. I drove wildly, 
 but it was no use. They beat me to the gate and 
 raced along the road ahead of me. 
 
 At this point I released about seven thousand cal- 
 ories of language, but it didn’t help any. It merely 
 raised my personal temperature to about one hun- 
 dred and four. With tails up they galloped along 
 
 150 
 
DOLLY’S DAY OFF 
 
 until they came to a little road that cut across a 
 gore that had been left by the original surveyors 
 of the township. I saw a chance, and sent the boy 
 across the fields to head them off. As the little road 
 had rail fences on both sides it was choked with 
 snowdrifts, so it looked as if this manoeuvre would 
 work. They stopped, and the boy climbed over the 
 fence ahead of them. In the meantime I drove along 
 until I had passed the little road and took up a stra- 
 tegic position where I could head them off and start 
 them towards home as the boy drove them back. 
 Alas for the vanity of human wishes ! The mail car- 
 rier had let down the fence a few rods down the 
 little road so as to avoid the drifts by crossing 
 through a field. Dolly saw the opening and took 
 advantage of it at once. Into the field they went. 
 
 I admit that it was a beautiful sight to see them 
 cavort around that ploughed field. It reminded me 
 of a passage in Mazeppa: 
 
 “They stop, they snort, they sniff the air. 
 
 Gallop a moment here and there. 
 
 Approach, retire, wheel round and round. 
 
 Then plunging back with sudden bound. 
 
 They snort, they foam, neigh, swerve aside!” 
 
 But I didn’t meditate on the poetry. Instead, I 
 
 151 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 meditated fondly on a blacksnake whip we used to 
 own when I was a boy. It had a weighted handle, 
 and a long, snaky lash, and it was said that a man 
 could draw blood with it. If I had that whip and 
 
 had Dolly where I could get at her But it 
 
 was no use thinking what I would do. Dolly had 
 seen the gap opening out of the far side of the field 
 on to another road and she led the way to it in high 
 fettle. I believe they would have been going yet 
 had not a kind-hearted farmer who saw the ap- 
 proaching cavalcade stepped out on the road and 
 headed them off. This enabled the boy to get ahead 
 of, them with the buggy whip. He started them to- 
 wards home and I managed to get them past my 
 corner. Then they went into a pasture field through 
 an open gate they had missed on their outbound trip. 
 Noticing that they were hemmed in by a sheet of 
 slippery ice I took an ear of corn that we had 
 brought along, and by cornering her and tempting 
 her at the same time I managed to catch her. But 
 I didn’t give her that ear of corn, even though I 
 know one should never fool a horse in that way. I 
 was afraid she might take it as a reward for her 
 exploit. 
 
 When I led her back to the buggy I found that 
 
 1 no 
 
DOLLY’S DAY OFF 
 
 the rope we had taken along had been lost in the 
 excitement, but I was too mad to say anything about 
 it. For a dreary mile I led the brute along the road, 
 and when we reached the home corner I let her go 
 and laid the buggy whip along her ribs. Really 
 there is little satisfaction in the cheap, light buggy 
 whips they make nowadays. I merely raised dust 
 from her hide as if I were beating a carpet, but I 
 didn’t feel that the cut I gave her had any sting to it. 
 When we reached the lane gate she went right past 
 it. She didn’t intend to live with us any more. But 
 another neighbour headed her off and we finally got 
 her home. This morning I hitched her up to drive 
 to the village. She started off slowly, picking her 
 steps like a cat, but I began signalling to her with 
 the buggy whip that I was looking for some of the 
 speed she had shown the day before. Her hide is an 
 excellent non-conductor, but I finally made an im- 
 pression. She eventually caught my meaning and 
 made a record trip to the village — I mean a record 
 for her. Now what I am wondering is what she 
 would do if she were fed on oats as well as blue 
 grass. Anyway, I am going to cure her of the sleep- 
 ing sickness, even if I have to invest in a blacksnake 
 whip. 
 
 153 
 
XXXVIII.— The Colt 
 
 W HEN I got home from the city I found 
 that a great event had happened. A 
 colt had arrived, and although it was 
 almost eleven o’clock on a cloudy night, 
 there was great disappointment because I would not 
 take a lantern and hunt through a fifteen-acre mead- 
 ow to get a look at the little stranger. I was firm 
 on the point, however, and denied myself the pleas- 
 ure until the following morning. But we all went 
 out to see the colt before breakfast, much to the 
 distress of Dolly, who thought we had come to take 
 him away and was ready to defend him with her life. 
 She circled around him with her ears laid back, and 
 when any one approached too near she unlimbered 
 her heels for action. I foresee quite a job when she 
 must be caught and put into harness again. Consid- 
 ering the matter from an artistic point of view, I 
 fail to see why she should be so proud of her off- 
 spring. At present he seems to be all neck and legs 
 — like the chickens they use to make boarding-house 
 
 154 
 
.Mild, I I Hi.. -I 111.1.1-11 II III. --4 
 
 THE COLT 
 
 fricassees. His appearance reminded me of a re- 
 mark I once heard: “We shall soon have a horse, 
 for we already have the frame up.” And besides be- 
 ing all legs, his legs are all joints. Still, “he has his 
 mother’s eyes,” and I suppose that makes up for 
 everything else. Real framers who have looked at 
 him say that he is the makings of a fine horse, and 
 they have seen lots of colts at his age that were more 
 gangling and wobbly. J ust now there is a fierce dis- 
 cussion raging as to what he shall be named, but 
 there is a strong probability that he will be called 
 “Brownie,” though I am assured that in a few years 
 he will be called “The Old Grey.” 
 
 155 
 
XXXIX. — Horse Contrariness 
 
 I T is bad enough to have wells go dry, but to have 
 a horse complicate matters by refusing to drink 
 good, pure water when it is offered to her and 
 threaten to die of thirst unless given access to 
 one particular pond, is an added exasperation. One 
 of the horses used to be quite well satisfied with the 
 somewhat inferior water in a tank at the barn, but 
 when it went dry she became as nifty and pernickety 
 as a connoisseur of rare wines. Although she goes 
 to the village almost every day she declines abso- 
 lutely to drink village water — even pure, cold rock 
 water drawn from an artesian well. In the same way 
 she sniffs superior at the water from the house well 
 — the water that we use every day for drinking and 
 cooking. It is not good enough for her. But there 
 is a somewhat disreputable pond at the other side 
 of the wood lot and as far from the stable as the 
 farm will allow, and from this pond she is willing 
 to drink until she almost bursts. When she gets 
 busy with it you would think she was half camel and 
 
 156 
 
HORSE CONTRARINESS 
 
 trying to lay up a supply that would last at least 
 four and a half days. The other horses are quite 
 willing to take a refreshing drink from the Govern- 
 ment drain when nothing else is handy, and this 
 brought to light a strange peculiarity of the finicky 
 one. She is willing to drink from the Government 
 drain sometimes, but only from one particular spot 
 in it. Lead her to any other part of the drain and 
 she will stand over the water without tasting it, but 
 let her get to her favourite spot and she will drink 
 with relish even from a cow track. As the water in 
 the drain is flowing steadily I cannot see how it can 
 possibly taste better in one place than another. It 
 is just a case of pure cussedness on the part of that 
 tiresome horse. I have trouble enough doing the 
 chores without catering to her whims. I am afraid 
 that some day I shall get real peevish and let her go 
 dry till she is willing to drink apy decent water that 
 is offered to her. I know there is a proverb which 
 says that “You can lead a horse to water, but you 
 can’t make him drink,” but I think if I set my mind 
 to it I can make her drink. Anyway, I have no in- 
 tention of leading her to her favourite pond twice a 
 day when the weather gets below zero. 
 
 157 
 
XL. — A Cheat Scheme 
 
 I HAVE just discovered a new and effective way 
 of gathering burrs, which I take pleasure in 
 passing along to farmers who may happen to 
 read this column. Along the Government 
 drain at the end of the young orchard there was a 
 luxuriant growth of burdocks this year. I never 
 saw them without making up my mind to cut them — 
 some other time. They throve lustily, and as I was 
 always a week behind my work I never found time to 
 cut them, so in due season they ripened and devel- 
 oped a crop of especially clinging burrs. Occasion- 
 ally I gathered a few of these burrs when hunting 
 for rabbits, and Sheppy gathered quite a few, but 
 not enough to lessen the supply very materially. 
 But one day last week the two horses and two colts 
 got into the orchard because some one had care- 
 lessly left the gate open. They had been there some 
 time before they were discovered — but their work was 
 done. They had gathered every burr in the orchard. 
 
 158 
 
A GREAT SCHEME 
 
 Those that they did not get with their tails, manes 
 and forelocks they got with their fetlocks. The 
 youngest colt, having longer hair than the others, 
 also managed to get quite a few on his sides. But 
 between them they managed to make a complete job. 
 I doubt if you could find a burr in the whole or- 
 chard, even if you made a careful search. When we 
 got the brutes in the stable all we had to do was to 
 pick the burrs off them and the job I had been in- 
 tending to do all summer was done. At least it was 
 in a fair way to being done. By much diligence we 
 got the horses that must appear in public free from 
 burrs, but the colts still carry some of their tro- 
 phies. Still I think we should get the job finished 
 soon if we have a few rainy days. Besides, the chil- 
 dren can help on Saturdays. Real farmers may not 
 approve entirely of this method of gathering the 
 burrs on the farm, but I defy them to tell of any 
 way in which the job can be done more thoroughly. 
 A lively colt will gather more burrs in ten minutes 
 than an industrious man can pick out of its mane 
 and tail in a day. I offer this plan to farmers for 
 what it is worth, and I wouldn’t mind a bit if some of 
 them called and helped me to pick the burrs from the 
 colt’s tail. He is inclined to kick. 
 
 159 
 
XLI. — The Gobbler 
 
 T HERE are times when I wish that I 
 had a proper scientific education. For 
 instance, I would like to know just now 
 whether turkey gobblers ever suffer from 
 speaker’s sore throat. None of the bulletins I 
 have on hand throws any light on the matter. It 
 would cheer me considerably to learn that gobblers 
 occasionally suffer from aphonia or speechlessness. 
 It sometimes seems to me that our bubbly jock is 
 getting hoarse, though he is still able to gobble with 
 vigour and authority. But unless he loses his voice 
 before long I shall have to wring his neck — no easy 
 job — -or do without my usual amount of sleep. The 
 trouble is all due to the fact that when the turkey 
 hen tried to hide her nest she selected a bunch of 
 long grass at the foot of a tree not far from the 
 house. As she had been put off the cluck a couple 
 of times to make her lay the proper amount of eggs 
 it was decided to let her keep this nest. When she 
 
 163 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 finally got broody she was given seventeen eggs and 
 allowed to settle down to the task of incubating 
 Christmas dinners. As far as she was concerned 
 this was all right, for she is a modest, quiet bird, 
 whose presence would never be noticed. But this is 
 not the case with her lordly spouse. Every morning 
 at about a quarter to four he comes down from his 
 perch on the ridge-pole of the stable and struts down 
 to see if his lady has passed a comfortable night. As 
 the grass is long and wet with dew he comes to the 
 lawn and sends her his morning greetings, and I can 
 tell you that a forty-pound gobbler can let out a very 
 considerable amount of noise. He gets right under 
 my window and explodes into assorted sounds. Once 
 a minute, or oftener, he lets out a gobble, until I get 
 up and throw a shoe or a hairbrush at him. Then I 
 go back to bed and try to sleep until it is time to 
 get up. If there is any way of treating his vocal 
 cords so as to stop this morning charivari I wish 
 some scientist would write and tell me about it. And, 
 by the way, I can give him a little interesting in- 
 formation in return. After she was given her eggs 
 the turkey hen evidently became dissatisfied with her 
 nest and moved to a new location about four feet 
 away. In order to do this she had to move her 
 
 164 
 
THE GOBBLER 
 
 eggs through the long grass, but she didn’t leave 
 
 one behind. How did she manage it? 
 
 ***** 
 
 There is an interesting fact about turkeys that I 
 think I have referred to before, but as it has a polit- 
 ical application at the present time I am going to 
 refer to it again. When the wilderness was con- 
 quered by the pioneers the turkeys were the only im- 
 portant wild creatures that were conquered with it. 
 Apparently they believed in “peace at any price.” 
 While the timid deer fled to more remote districts, 
 and the wolves “died in silence, biting hard,” the 
 turkeys allowed themselves to be deported to the 
 farmyards, and proceeded to eat from the hands of 
 their conquerors. But their spineless policy did 
 them no good. Although they are fed and pam- 
 pered they have lost their wild freedom and every 
 year they are fattened for the tables of their mas- 
 ters. Those who believe in peace at any price would 
 do well to meditate on this. The peace that is won 
 at the price of submission is not worth having. Even 
 though we may hate war and regard it as a crim- 
 inal folly, the only way to end it and to secure a 
 peace worth while is to fight heroically to put an end 
 to war. Before dismissing this analogy it is worth 
 
 165 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 noting that the turkeys are not the only wild crea- 
 tures that survived the conquest of the wilderness. 
 The vermin, the skunks, and weasels also survived, 
 but they are not respected. There is probably a 
 moral attached to this also, for those who will take 
 the trouble to study it out. 
 
 166 
 
XLII. — His Troubles 
 
 L AST night when we were milking there was 
 a sudden racket on the roof of the cow- 
 stable that scared the cows so that they 
 stopped giving down. You would think 
 that a man with a wooden leg was having a fit on 
 the shingles right over our heads. The pounding, 
 flopping and scratching on the hollow roof made the 
 stable resound like the big drum in an Orange pa- 
 rade. I couldn’t imagine what on earth was hap- 
 pening, but it only took a step to get out doors and 
 then the cause of the trouble was plain. The old 
 turkey gobbler had decided to roost on the ridge- 
 board of the stable and he was having the time of 
 his life getting up the roof. He was using his wings 
 and his tail to balance himself as he clawed for a 
 toe-hold, and he showed none of the stately grace- 
 fulness that marks his movements when he is strut- 
 ting around the barnyard and proclaiming his over- 
 lordship. When he reached the ridge and caught 
 his balance with a final flip-flap of his broad tail he 
 
 167 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 stretched his neck and looked around to see if any 
 of the young gobblers were grinning at him. They 
 were already quietly at roost with the mother hen 
 at the far end of the roof, and the noisy approach 
 of their lord and king made them huddle together 
 in squeaking terror. Seeing that their attitude was 
 respectful he settled down on his wishbone for the 
 night. Being young and light they had flown grace- 
 fully to their chosen roost and doubtless could not 
 understand what was ailing him when he sprawled 
 around like that. I could sympathise with him bet- 
 ter than they could, for when a man gets heavy and 
 gets chalky deposits in his joints the climbing stunts 
 he did as a boy become impossible. Time was when 
 I could have walked up that roof as jauntily as if 
 I were on parade on an asphalt sidewalk, but I sus- 
 pect that if I tried it now I would make more noise 
 than the old gobbler. 
 
 168 
 
XLII1. — His Desertion 
 
 Y ESTERDAY the old gobbler disappeared 
 on a war expedition and did not return 
 last night. This morning I must organ- 
 ise a rescue party and go after him. The 
 party will be organised not to rescue him, but to 
 rescue the neighbour on whom he has billeted him- 
 self. No one has any idea which direction he took, 
 so we may have quite a hunt. But I am not afraid 
 of losing him. An apoplectic gobbler of his size 
 is easy to identify. But the old pirate should be 
 at home, looking after his family, which is at pres- 
 ent breaking through the shell. Last season he was 
 a most devoted parent and looked after his family 
 with unflagging care. He took them to the woods 
 to get beechnuts and still kept one eye on the 
 granary door, so that they could be on hand when 
 the chickens were being fed. This year he will not 
 have so large a flock to look after, but that does not 
 excuse him for desertion and neglect. He must be 
 rounded up, brought home and reminded of his du- 
 
 169 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 ties. Much of the time during the past month he 
 stood, in a very dignified manner, near the nest where 
 his mate has been brooding, so I am surprised that 
 he should have deserted just when his family is 
 breaking from the shell. But a thought strikes me. 
 Perhaps the old rounder is away celebrating. 
 
 170 
 
iXJLIV. — His Belligerency 
 
 N OW that his mate is hopefully hatching on 
 a promising nestful of eggs, the old gob- 
 bler finds time hanging heavy on his hands 
 and by way of diversion is proceeding to 
 beat up all other gobblers in the neighbourhood. 
 Whenever he hears another gobbler, no matter how 
 faintly, he lets out a wrathful gobble and starts 
 across the fields to trample on his rival. Neighbours 
 have had to drive him home in order to save their 
 flocks, for he is in the heavyweight class, and no 
 ordinary country bird has any show with him. Of 
 course, when we found out what he was up to we 
 penned him in, but occasionally he makes his es- 
 cape, and it takes quick work to keep him from 
 crossing the fields and committing mayhem and tort 
 and doing grievous bodily harm to well-meaning gob- 
 blers that venture to gobble their opinions about 
 things. I wouldn’t mind so much if he headed down 
 the road on one of his foraging expeditions, for there 
 is an ecru gobbler suffering from delusions of 
 
 171 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 grandeur that I have a grudge against. One day 
 when I was driving to the village with the colt this 
 earth-coloured gobbler seemed to rise out of the road 
 in front of us, with a great spreading of tail, fluffing 
 of feathers and rubbing of wings. His appearance 
 was so startling that the colt shied, and in less than 
 five seconds we were all piled in the ditch. The colt 
 didn’t get away and nothing was smashed, but things 
 were pretty lively while the disturbance lasted. If 
 I could only give our war-like bubbly jock the ad- 
 dress of that particular gobbler, and he would go 
 after him, I wouldn’t mind his offensives. 
 
 172 
 
XLV—His Cares 
 
 T HE big gobbler is a changed bird these 
 days. The cares of fatherhood are weigh- 
 ing heavily upon him. A few days ago 
 he came across a Plymouth Rock hen that 
 had hatched out a clutch of turkeys. Although 
 they are barely able to toddle around, the gobbler 
 recognised them at once as part of his family and 
 took up his duties as parent in a most commendable 
 manner. With a subdued and responsible air he fol- 
 lows the old hen and the little poults wherever they 
 go, stepping softly and refraining from noisy gob- 
 bling. But I am afraid he is not entirely satisfied 
 with the foster mother of his family. After the last 
 big thunderstorm he came up to the door where I 
 was sitting and was evidently very much put out 
 about something. He was wet to his last feather 
 and I have seldom known him to be in such a bad 
 humour. Possibly the old Plymouth Rock didn’t act 
 as a turkey mother should during a thunderstorm. 
 Anyway, he seemed to hold me responsible for what- 
 
 173 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 ever went wrong, for he stood out on the lawn and 
 swore at me for half an hour. When I began to 
 get tired of the rumpus and was reaching for a copy 
 of Hansard to throw at him Sheppy came around 
 the corner of the house. The bubbly jock discreetly 
 side-stepped behind the lilac bushes, for one thing 
 that Sheppy can’t endure is a hen, turkey or other 
 fowl on the lawn. In spite of his complaints the 
 gobbler is still looking after his duties as a father. 
 A little while ago when the sun was hot I saw him 
 standing beside his flock tail down, head pulled in 
 like a turtle’s and his wings spread out. He had 
 converted himself into a sort of feathered pergola, 
 under which his children might have taken shelter. 
 But they paid no attention to him. Under the busy 
 and clucking guidance of the old hen they were pur- 
 suing the elusive fly and other appetising insects. 
 
 174 . 
 
XLVI. — His Prussiamsm 
 
 I DON’T see how the children failed to name the 
 turkey gobbler. He is the most distinct char- 
 acter on the farm just now, hut they have not 
 given him a name. Perhaps they felt that 
 they were not equal to the task. He is in a con- 
 stant state of belligerency. As he is a super-tur- 
 key, weighing at least forty pounds, he is able to 
 make quite a stir. Apparently he has laid to heart 
 Nietzsche’s advice and proposes to “Live danger- 
 ously.” His mildest moments are threatening, and 
 when he gobbles and rubs his wings on the ground 
 he is an embodied offensive. This morning he re- 
 newed a trick that was a favourite with him last 
 summer. At daybreak he began to air his gran- 
 deurs under my bedroom window and there was no 
 more sleeping from that time. But as it is neces- 
 sary to be up betimes in this spring weather I did 
 not object. But if he keeps it up in the summer, 
 when daybreak comes shortly after 3 o’clock, there 
 will be trouble. 
 
 175 
 
XLVII. — A Moral Tale 
 
 T HE general slipperiness of things has been 
 a great boon to Sheppy. Although I have 
 seen him lose his footing several times, he 
 gets along much better than the cows or 
 the colts. As it is his daily chore to start the ani- 
 mals on their way to the Government drain to get 
 their drink, he is now able to satisfy some old 
 grudges. In ordinary weather he has to be very 
 watchful for flying heels and prodding horns, but 
 just now the animals have to concentrate their minds 
 on keeping their feet under them, and are at a dis- 
 advantage when it comes to self-defence. Sheppy 
 is now able to slip in on them and nip their heels, 
 and they do not dare to take a chance on kicking 
 at him. They find it hard enough to navigate with 
 all four feet under them and their toe nails all in 
 use, and an attempt to balance on two feet, or even 
 three, would almost surely mean disaster. He was 
 having such a high old time that I was thinking of 
 scolding him away at watering time, but this morn- 
 
 179 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 ing something happened that gave me an excellent 
 hint, and, besides, gives me a chance to moralise 
 wisely. A few minutes before the cattle were 
 turned out some one gave Sheppy a bone. It was 
 a nice fresh bone that offered much palatable gnaw- 
 ing, and he was taking no chances on losing it. 
 When he started to do his morning chore he carried 
 the bone in his mouth, and the result was that he 
 drove the animals without nipping them or making 
 them wiggle too wildly over the ice. Ah, my friends, 
 how often have I seen an ardent reformer, who was 
 in the habit of herding the unregenerate, abate his 
 passion for reform when he happened to get a nice 
 juicy bone in his mouth! Yea, I have even known 
 newspapers and political parties to be made much 
 more temperate in their expressions of opinion by 
 the timely contribution of a few bones. Here as- 
 suredly is a lesson for all of us. 
 
 180 
 
XJLVIII. — Sheppifs First Coon Hunt 
 
 L AST night Sheppy was initiated into the 
 mysteries of coon-hunting. The opinion has 
 prevailed in the neighbourhood for some 
 time past that coons are becoming plenti- 
 ful again. Their tracks have been seen along the 
 government drains and around watering ponds 
 where they probably went to hunt for frogs. More- 
 over* before the corn was cut ears were found partly 
 stripped and gnawed, and the work was pronounced 
 by experts who had been coon-hunters in the old 
 days as the work of coons. The matter was 
 brought to a head yesterday when I saw coon tracks 
 on the sideroad while driving home from the vil- 
 lage. It was unquestionable that there were coons 
 in the neighbourhood, and a coon hunt was quite in 
 order. Of course, we had no reason to believe that 
 Sheppy would prove to be a good coon-dog, but he 
 has a hasty way of dealing with woodchucks and 
 muskrats that he manages to catch at a distance 
 from their holes, and more than once he has tracked 
 
 181 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 rabbits though he has never managed to catch one. 
 The only way to find out whether he had in him 
 the makings of a coon-dog would be to try him. 
 After discussing the matter with an eager boy it 
 was decided that we would sneak away from the 
 house after all the chores were done and give Sheppy 
 a tryout. We would have to sneak in order to keep 
 the younger children from begging to be taken 
 along. Having laid our plans we managed to sneak 
 away about half past eight, after giving a warning 
 whisper in the right quarter that we might be away 
 for a couple of hours. Sheppy seemed doubtful 
 about the wisdom of taking a night ramble, but after 
 
 some coaxing he decided to come along. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 We took the dog to our own corn-field first and 
 were gratified to see how thoroughly he entered into 
 the game. It was a dim night with the moon almost 
 hidden by thin clouds, but there was enough light 
 for us to see Sheppy racing over the cornfield in the 
 most approved manner of the coon-dogs of a bygone 
 age. He crossed and recrossed it thoroughly with- 
 out finding even a mouse — if he had found one we 
 should have known for he is a gifted mouser and 
 often gets a mouse when crossing the pasture. When 
 
 182 
 
SHEPPY’S FIRST COON HUNT 
 
 he had done the cornfield thoroughly we decided to 
 put him through the wood-lot, and after starting 
 him in with an encouraging “Hunt him up, sir,” we 
 sat on the bars in the fence and waited. We had 
 not been waiting long before a sound of distress was 
 heard. A cat was meowing piteously along the path 
 over which we had just walked. There was no doubt 
 about it. “Lady Jane Grey” had noticed us start- 
 ing out and had decided to share in the fun. But 
 she was evidently in distress and the boy started 
 back to see what was the matter. He found her in 
 the branches of a shade-tree in which she had evi- 
 dently sought refuge from Sheppy, who would not 
 recognise her so far away from home at night. 
 After she had been rescued and “scatted” back to 
 the house we sat on the bars and waited patiently 
 for the dog. At last he returned to us panting as 
 if he had run for miles. There was no doubt about 
 it. He was working splendidly and would probably 
 need only a little training to make him a first rate 
 coon-dog. But he had not managed to locate any- 
 thing on the home farm so we decided to visit a 
 neighbour’s corn-patch which backs against the larg- 
 est wood-lot in the neighbourhood. The wood-lots 
 four farms happen to be on four corners where 
 
 183 
 
 on 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 the line fences cross, and the result is a wood-lot 
 about four times as large as can be found on or- 
 dinary farms. Besides there are still some big elms 
 left in this patch and if there would be coons any- 
 where it would be there. We started towards this 
 happy hunting ground with Sheppy in the lead. We 
 climbed over two wire fences in crossing the road 
 and the second one was too tight for Sheppy. He 
 could not get through so he ran along the road until 
 he came to a rail fence and then he travelled parallel 
 with us on the other side of another wire fence that 
 would not let him through. We were sorry for this 
 at first but afterwards we were glad. When we had 
 travelled about twenty rods through the field to- 
 wards the other wood-lot Sheppy suddenly began 
 to show signs of excitement. He began to run 
 round with his nose to the ground and was quite 
 evidently following a trail of some kind. Presently 
 he started away across the pasture field he was in 
 and was lost to sight. A moment later there were a 
 series of sharp snarling barks and the boy was filled 
 with sudden alarm. He remembered that there were 
 sheep in that field so I whistled for Sheppy. After 
 a bit we saw him coming — he is largely marked with 
 white — and his nose was to the ground. In fact he 
 
 184 
 
SHEPPY’S FIRST COON HUNT 
 
 seemed to be fairly ploughing it through the long 
 grass. We debated for a moment whether he had 
 been molesting the sheep and then things began to 
 happen. The boy was nearer to the wire fence than 
 I was and Sheppy tried to get as close to him as 
 possible. Suddenly the boy yelled, “Wow! Whew!” 
 and began to act as if he had taken an emetic. I 
 had no time to solve the mystery before the wind 
 blew on me and I understood. Sheppy had not been 
 bothering the sheep. No indeed. Sheppy had been 
 having an argument with a skunk and there was 
 strong reason — very strong — to suppose that he got 
 the worst of it. It was then that we were glad that 
 there was a tight wire fence between us and Sheppy. 
 After failing to get the sympathy he was looking for 
 he proceeded to wipe his nose on the grass. Then 
 he found a hole of water and wallowed in it. He 
 evidently felt a wild need of a bath. I don’t think 
 I ever saw a dog so earnest about his toilet. When 
 he got out of the water hole he wiped himself dry 
 on the grass by lying on his side and pushing him- 
 self along with his feet. Then he rolled over and 
 wiped the other side. Still he was not satisfied. He 
 rubbed his nose with his paws for a while and then 
 plunged into the water hole again. And all the time 
 
 185 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 we mingled wild laughter with words of mourning 
 and wondered what on earth we would do. At last 
 we decided that we might as well call off the hunt 
 as he couldn’t trail an automobile, much less a coon, 
 after getting such a dose. So we started towards 
 the road with Sheppy still on the other side of the 
 fence. He kept abreast of us as we moved home- 
 ward, 
 
 “An amber scent of odorous perfume 
 His harbinger.” 
 
 When we reached the road Sheppy came along like 
 a comet with a tail of odour streaming out behind 
 him. He seemed to be trying to run away from it, 
 but it was no use. If he could quote Milton he 
 would no doubt have said : 
 
 “Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell.” 
 
 After noisily repulsing his attempts to nuzzle 
 against us for sympathy we sat on another set of 
 bars and moodily reviewed the situation. It was far 
 from probable that our home-coming would be the 
 signal for rejoicing. Sheppy is the family pet and 
 now his usefulness as a pet was seriously impaired. 
 While we were talking this over Sheppy came and 
 stood right under us. That ended the talk. We 
 
 186 
 
SHEPPY’S FIRST COON HUNT 
 
 went away from there. Finally, after many hesita- 
 tions, we reached the house and through the kitchen 
 window looked at a scene of domestic peace. The 
 family was assembled around the table reading. The 
 temptation was too great for the boy. Sheppy was 
 standing at the door, and stepping forward the boy 
 opened it and quietly let him in. For a few sec- 
 onds there was no change in the peaceful scene. Then 
 arose a wild cry of dismay. The family bulged out 
 of the kitchen through both doors. It was a good 
 thing that there were two doors or someone might 
 have been trampled on. Every one wanted fresh air. 
 In fact I never knew fresh air to be so much in 
 favour as it was for a few minutes. Poor Sheppy 
 came out again to see what all the excitement was 
 about and seemed hurt that his best friends went 
 back on him so unanimously. When peace was re- 
 stored and the house aired, we were allowed to enter, 
 though insinuations were cast out that we smelled 
 about as bad as the dog. This was a libel, however. 
 This morning Sheppy found himself so unpopular 
 that he went out to the cornfield to catch mice when 
 the shocks were overturned for husking. When he 
 came home at noon he looked hurt and humiliated 
 and stood about a rod away from me and looked as 
 
 187 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 if he thought I was to blame for all the trouble. I 
 am not sure but he was right. Anyway he and I 
 know that there is truth in the political maxim: 
 “When you fight with a skunk it doesn’t matter 
 whether you win or lose ; you are bound to stink 
 after it.” We are hoping that it will wear off before 
 spring. 
 
 188 
 
XLIX. — A Rabbit Chase 
 
 T HIS morning after the chores were done I 
 decided that I should take a look at the 
 young orchard to see that mice and rabbits 
 were not damaging the little trees. The 
 sun was shining, and as most of the snow disap- 
 peared in the recent thaw it was the best day for a 
 ramble that we have had since winter began. And 
 I am glad that I went, for I not only enjoyed the 
 fresh air but had a few minutes of excitement that 
 started the blood coursing in my veins. Sheppy de- 
 cided that he would like a ramble too, and thereby 
 hangs a tale. While I was examining the trees he 
 made little excursions about the field nosing for 
 mice. While I was rejoicing that there were none 
 for him to find and because there were no rabbit 
 tracks I almost stepped on a little cotton-tail that 
 had a form in a bunch of wild grass that was shaded 
 by a big weed. The rabbit popped out, and at the 
 same instant I yelled, “Sic him !” Sheppy was a few 
 rods away, but when he saw the game he let out 
 
 189 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 one quick, yapping bark and gave chase. The rab- 
 bit had started towards a haystack at the other side 
 of the field, but when the dog took after him he 
 changed his mind and began to circle towards the 
 south. He looked like a streak of brown fur, and 
 about four rods behind him Sheppy looked like a 
 streak of black and white. Both stretched them- 
 selves out until their bellies seemed to touch the 
 ground, but my eye could not detect any change in 
 the distance between them. Neither seemed to gain 
 an inch. They kept it up for about thirty rods and 
 then Sheppy stumbled over a corn stubble and lost 
 a few feet. The race went on in absolute silence 
 until they reached the wire fence at the road. The 
 rabbit slipped through and Sheppy had to stop. He 
 ran around and barked with rage as his quarry 
 scooted up a neighbour’s lane and disappeared among 
 some piles of rails. I then had time to examine 
 the cosy form where the rabbit had been resting. 
 After noting how nicely it was lined with grass I 
 ruthlessly kicked it to pieces, for rabbits are not to 
 be encouraged in a young orchard. I could not find 
 that he had done any damage, but I am not taking 
 any chances, and this afternoon I am going to take 
 the rifle and Sheppy and hunt through the orchard 
 
 190 
 
A RABBIT CHASE 
 
 carefully. After the race was over Sheppy was so 
 much ashamed of his failure that he went back to 
 the house without coming near me. When I got 
 home he thrust his muzzle into my hand and wagged 
 his tail and tried to make me understand that rab- 
 bits are not in his line. A slow-footed woodchuck 
 suits him better. But I am going to train him to 
 chase rabbits, even if he cannot catch them, for if 
 he keeps them moving they may decide that they are 
 not popular here and move away to some one else’s 
 orchard. 
 
 * * • f / / • \ > t. 
 
 ssf V » / 
 
 * I r / . a . . 
 
 ..... 'At* 
 
 
 gi ‘ ’ 
 
 t / ri • 
 
 
 191 
 
L. — Fights and Feuds 
 
 I DON’T know why it is, but every time there 
 is something interesting going on, like a 
 political meeting or a dog-fight, I am always 
 away from home or I have a previous engage- 
 ment of some kind. Here is Sheppy having a whole 
 series of fights to maintain the supremacy of the 
 farm, the freedom of the concession line, and his 
 place in the sun, and I haven’t seen one of them. 
 According to the uncensored and detailed reports I 
 have received, the fights were well worth seeing, and 
 Sheppy acquitted himself in a creditable manner. 
 The trouble is all due to a couple of dogs belonging 
 to a gang of ditchers working in the neighbourhood. 
 These dogs — a big hound and a little terrier — have 
 done so much coon-hunting in their day that they 
 consider themselves at liberty to roam wherever they 
 please. Several times they insolently crossed our 
 fields and that is something that Sheppy will not 
 stand for. Any dog that ventures on this farm has 
 to put up a fight for the privilege. Up to date 
 
 192 
 
FIGHTS AND FEUDS 
 
 Sheppy has defended his dominions successfully, but 
 in all previous battles he has had to deal with one 
 dog at a time. But it seems that the present in- 
 vaders have learned in many coon-fights that team 
 play is best and their tactics have been surprising 
 and somewhat discomfiting. Sheppy scorns to at- 
 tack the terrier, which wouldn’t make a decent 
 mouthful for him, but when he grapples with the 
 hound the terrier catches him by a hind leg or by the 
 tail, and as I guess a little dog’s bite hurts just as 
 much as a big one’s, Sheppy can’t give his undivided 
 attention to the hound. I am told that in the first 
 scrap he kept whirling around distributing his bites 
 impartially and managed to chase both the other 
 dogs off the farm, but in later attacks they worried 
 him some. When I came home he whimpered around 
 me and showed me his scratched nose and tried his 
 best to tell me about his troubles. He had done his 
 best to protect the farm during my absence at the 
 village, and it was quite evident from his manner 
 that he thought he deserved some praise and petting. 
 I sympathised with him entirely, but I half regret 
 that the ditchers have moved on with their dogs. 
 I shall not have a chance to see Sheppy in action 
 with two dogs. But I never have any luck. 
 
 193 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 Sheppy has a standing feud with a neighbour’s 
 dog that is amusing rather than bloodthirsty. 
 Though they have been barking at each other and 
 threatening each other with much bad language for 
 three or four years, I don’t think they have come to 
 grips yet. Whenever either of them starts barking 
 at anything the other immediately flies into a rage 
 and begins to make disparaging remarks in a loud 
 tone of voice. Sometimes Sheppy goes half way 
 across the field towards his enemy, barking defiance, 
 but when his enemy finally gets mad and runs to- 
 wards him he rushes back to the house to safety. 
 In the same way the neighbour’s dog sometimes comes 
 half-way across the field, making insulting remarks, 
 until Sheppy finally gets so mad that he starts after 
 him. The neighbour dog then makes a strategic re- 
 treat. I don’t think I have ever seen them nearer 
 than ten rods to each other, and I don’t think they 
 have ever had a fight, but they keep up their quarrel- 
 ling every day. I suspect that each has so impressed 
 the other with his prowess that if they ever met acci- 
 dentally they would both run for their lives. On 
 moonlight nights they keep up such a rumpus that 
 no one in the neighbourhood can get any sleep until 
 both are taken indoors and ordered to be quiet. 
 
 194 
 
hi. — A Page of High History 
 
 T HIS is the story of a “harmless, necessary 
 cat.” I think I told you some time ago 
 that the children make it a practice to 
 name their cats after prominent person- 
 ages in history and public life. Lady Jane Grey is 
 a gentle, domesticated cat of many admirable quali- 
 ties and her name seems very appropriate. Her fur 
 is grey, her table manners perfect, and in disposi- 
 tion she is kind and affectionate. The other cats 
 have been named with equal judgment and discre- 
 tion, but I dare not mention their names for fear 
 that public men who have not been honoured 
 might feel jealous. I had become quite ac- 
 customed to the high sounding names of the 
 household pets, and had acquired the habit of in- 
 quiring every night at bedtime for the whereabouts 
 of certain distinguished persons. Often and often 
 when shutting up the house for the night I have 
 kicked out some of our most honoured names just 
 as ruthlessly as if I were an office-hungry Opposition 
 
 197 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 returning to power. And now it is my privilege to 
 record a great event. New Year’s Day there was 
 great news. The children learned with pride and 
 delight that their favourite cat had been honoured 
 with a title. Instantly there was wild excitement. 
 The distinguished cat was called by his familiar 
 name, and finally was found in a shed, where he was 
 trying to think up some scheme for commandeering 
 a quarter of beef that hung beyond his reach. He 
 was hurried into the house for the ceremony of 
 dubbing, and while the preparations were being 
 made he purred as contentedly as if he knew just 
 what was happening. I was really surprised to see 
 how well the children understood what to do. While 
 one held him in a respectful attitude in front of a 
 Morris chair another got the carving knife and 
 prepared to administer the accolade. There was 
 only a moment’s pause while they asked me to indi- 
 cate the exact spot on his neck that should be 
 smitten by the ennobling sword. Then they com- 
 pleted the ceremony with 
 
 “a ribband to stick in his coat." 
 
 As cats are by nature the most aristocratic of 
 animals, this one took his new honours with the 
 
 198 
 
A PAGE OF HIGH HISTORY 
 
 air of one who was used to them, though he caused 
 some criticism by switching his tail in an unknightly 
 fashion. Seated high on a sofa cushion, he purred 
 contentedly and received the homage of his loyal 
 retainers. He closed his eyes, bristled up his whis- 
 kers and smiled like a Cheshire cat. Even Sir Jingo 
 McBore could not have given him any pointers on 
 noble and knightly conduct. I am afraid that if 
 he receives much more homage of this kind he will 
 become too haughty to associate with the other cats 
 and will pose as “the cat that walks alone.” Still 
 his nature may not be changed entirely by his new- 
 found honours. I noticed that once in a while he 
 would stretch out a paw in a sleepy way and spread 
 his claws as if he were dreaming of mice, for he 
 has been a famous mouser. I hate to think that he 
 may become a social butterfly on account of his 
 title, but a stanza from Calverly haunts my memory. 
 As nearly as I can remember it runs like this: 
 
 “In vain they set the cream j ug out 
 And cull the choice sardine, 
 
 I fear he never more will be 
 The cat that he has been.” 
 
 199 
 
LI I. — A Spring Orgy 
 
 Y ESTERDAY the children called me to see 
 an amusing exhibition that breathes the 
 spirit of spring. The house cat, fat and 
 lazy, had found a little patch of catnip 
 that had started showing signs of growth. He was 
 biting at it as if he were going to eat grass like 
 an ox. After he managed to get some fragments 
 of leaves into his mouth and had swallowed them 
 he lay down and began to roll over. He kicked 
 his legs into the air, rolled around, wallowed and 
 otherwise acted foolishly. The catnip seemed to fill 
 him with a spring madness that induced all kinds 
 of foolish excesses. Finally he jumped into the air 
 with the playfulness of a kitten and rushed around 
 the corner of the house, switching his tail and acting 
 as if he had renewed his youth. By the way, I may 
 as well record an observation about this cat while 
 I am at it. He is inclined to be pampered in the 
 matter of food, for he is always around begging 
 when any one is eating, but in spite of this fact he 
 
 goo 
 
A SPRING ORGY 
 
 is a famous mouser. Hardly a day passes that I 
 do not see him coming out of the orchard with a 
 mouse, and some days he gets two or three. I have 
 heard it said that only well-fed cats are good 
 mousers, and I think there may be something in it. 
 They go mousing just as a well-fed sportsman goes 
 hunting. 
 
 201 
 
LIII. — A Disgusted Blackbird 
 
 I KNOW it was a low-down thing to do, but I 
 did it with the best of intentions — though I 
 am afraid the blackbirds will never under- 
 stand. They will probably think that after 
 the good work they did in eating white grubs, cut- 
 worms and other pests while I was preparing the 
 corn ground, I should have treated them differently. 
 But it was just because they did so much good 
 work that I treated them so badly. I was so grate- 
 ful to them that I did not want to treat them in 
 the usual way when the corn came up. In past years 
 it was the custom to loaf around with a double- 
 barrelled shot-gun about the time the corn was com- 
 ing through the ground, but this year the black- 
 birds were unusually plentiful, and as the season 
 was late they probably had many broods of young 
 to feed. Anyway they came to the com field in 
 flocks and followed the plough, disc and harrow, 
 picking up every worm and bug that came in sight. 
 They demonstrated the fact that they are true 
 
 205 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 friends of the farmer, even though they may have 
 faults. So when it came time to plant the corn 
 we gave the seed grain a good coating of tar, and 
 then rolled it in ashes to dry it. This used to be a 
 common practice many years ago, though I haven’t 
 seen any one doing it of late years. It certainly 
 made the corn about as unappetising as anything 
 possibly could, so I was not surprised, when I went 
 to the corn field a few mornings after the planting, 
 to find a blackbird sitting on the fence, coughing 
 and spitting and using unparliamentary language. 
 But I will take part of that back. Some of the 
 language used by parliamentarians during the past 
 few months has been of a kind that makes me wonder 
 if any kind of language can possibly be unparlia- 
 mentary. But to get back to the blackbird. He 
 evidently thought I had played it low down on him 
 after the way he had helped me in the matter of 
 grubs, and I had no way of telling him that like a 
 lot of human beings who do disagreeable things to 
 one another I had done it “for his own good.” A 
 little tar and ashes in his beak was a greater kind- 
 ness to him than a charge of bird shot. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Now, I dare say there will be some scientific per- 
 
 206 
 
A DISGUSTED BLACKBIRD 
 
 sons who will sniff superior and say that my re- 
 marks about the blackbird coughing, spitting and 
 cussing are only nonsensical romancing. That is 
 the trouble with scientists. They observe things 
 in nature in so matter-of-fact a way that they never 
 get at the real truth. Moreover, I have long been 
 convinced that only the observations we make about 
 ourselves are of any use in trying to get at the 
 feelings of others. For instance, I can remember 
 a time when I would loaf along and observe a man 
 digging in a ditch. Seeing him at so excellent and 
 necessary a task I would imagine that he was full 
 of fine ideas about the nobility of labour and the 
 great virtue of the work he was doing, and I might 
 even try to write a song of ditching to express what 
 he felt but was unable to voice. Lately I did some 
 ditching, and I know that my earlier observations 
 were all wrong. If a man came along wearing sum- 
 mer flannels and paused to observe me and tried 
 to understand my emotions and thoughts while doing 
 a very necessary piece of ditching, my thoughts 
 would have run somewhat as follows: “I wonder 
 
 what that pop-eyed rabbit means by standing there 
 gaping at me. I wonder if I couldn’t accidentally 
 splash him with some of this mud.” And all the 
 
 207 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 time I was doing a noble piece of work and knew it, 
 but that was the way I felt about it. I am willing 
 to bet a cookie that when I was doing my observing 
 in comfort on the dry bank the thoughts of the 
 man sloshing around in the ditch were much like 
 those expressed above. And I am by no means in- 
 clined to confine this method of interpretation and 
 observation to human beings. My dealings with 
 birds and animals have convinced me that each of 
 them has as distinct a character and personality 
 as any human being. So when I try to imagine the 
 emotions of a blackbird that has sampled a grain 
 of tarred corn, that he has dug up with much labour, 
 I merely try to imagine what I would do and say 
 if some one whom I had helped with his work had 
 put coal tar in my salad. I am afraid that having 
 more capacity for spitting I would spit harder than 
 the blackbird, and having command of a larger 
 vocabulary I would use worse language and more of 
 it. Making my observations in this way I have no 
 compunctions about explaining the state of mind 
 of the blackbird as I did, and I defy any scientist 
 in the lot to prove that I am wrong. And the best 
 of it all is that the blackbirds soon got wise and 
 stopped trying to dig out my corn. 
 
 208 
 
LIV. — A Visitor 
 
 Y ESTERDAY morning a distinguished visi- 
 tor spent a few minutes with me in the 
 sugar bush. To be exact, I was aware of 
 his presence for a few minutes. He may 
 have been with me for quite a while, though I didn’t 
 notice him. When I got to the wood-lot I had only 
 one idea, and that was to save sap. It had been 
 running all night. Some buckets were overflowing 
 and others brimming dangerously, and I had to 
 hustle around with a pail before giving attention 
 to anything else. When I put a stop to the waste 
 I lit the fire under the pan and got the work of 
 boiling in properly started. Then I had leisure to 
 notice that the crows were making a racket. Glanc- 
 ing towards the centre of the disturbance, I was sur- 
 prised to see a huge bird sitting in the top of the 
 biggest maple, about fifteen rods from where I was 
 working. My first thought was that it was a great 
 horned owl, but it was altogether too large. Al- 
 though the crows were noisy they did not approach 
 
 209 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 very near the object of their wrath, which seemed 
 royally unconscious of their clamour. I walked to- 
 wards the tree — the sole remnant of the original 
 forest, a huge maple that is over three feet in diam- 
 eter at the base, and which reaches fully thirty feet 
 above the second-growth trees by which it is sur- 
 rounded. When I was within about forty yards of 
 the tree my visitor stretched his neck and turned to 
 look at me. It was a magnificent bald eagle — the 
 first I had ever seen outside of a zoological garden. 
 I was near enough to catch the glint of his fierce eye. 
 He gave me “the once-over” with an expression of 
 haughty disdain, such as I have seen on the face of 
 a bank President who has been forced to look at 
 something that has spoiled his day. Then he turned 
 toward the rising sun, leaned forward as if making 
 obeisance, and launched himself into the morning 
 with a wide beat of wings. He paid no attention 
 to the pursuing crows. After a few powerful 
 strokes he swung up on a vast spiral and sailed away 
 to the east. Although he was so unsociable, I was 
 glad to have seen him, and I had a really exciting 
 story to tell the children when they got home from 
 school in the evening. 
 
 210 
 
LV. — A Farewell 
 
 I FEEL safe in announcing that the great blue 
 heron that spent the summer spearing for 
 frogs and tonging for clams in the Govern- 
 ment drain has finally gone south. By this 
 time he is probably toning up his digestion on a 
 *^et of young alligators and electric eels while 
 
 “Hid from view 
 
 By the tall, liana’d, unsunned boughs 
 O’erbrooding the dark bayou.” 
 
 For a time it looked as if he intended staying with 
 us all winter. The bird books say that the blue 
 herons leave for the south about the middle of Sep- 
 tember, and I was ready to bid him good-bye about 
 the time we were picking the apples, but he lingered 
 on through October. When November came and he 
 was still wading in the drain or flapping slowly 
 across the fields, with Sheppy trying frantically 
 to bite his trailing toes, I began to be afraid that 
 something ailed him. But he flew strong at all 
 times, and some other explanation must be found 
 
 211 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 for his lingering in the lap of winter. And he lin- 
 gered in winter’s lap all right. Every week in No- 
 vember he was seen quite as frequently as during the 
 summer. Even the first flurries of snow did not 
 drive him away. As the streams were still free from 
 ice he probably found no difficulty in getting his 
 living, and he put off the trip south as long as 
 he dared. The last time I saw him was on the 5th 
 of December, when he crossed over, flying high and 
 headed due south. Something about him, as they 
 say in novels, told me that this would be positively 
 his last appearance for the season. There was a 
 snowstorm in progress at the time, and it was freez- 
 ing. Canada was no place for a bird that, according 
 to the best scientific authorities, should have gone 
 south almost three months ago. He has not been 
 seen since that last flight, and as the streams are not 
 only frozen over but drifted full of snow, it is not 
 likely that we shall see him again. Sheppy now 
 has to take his exercise by chasing sparrows. 
 
 212 
 
A BALLAD OF BUGS 
 
 My Dooley potatoes have bugs on their tops, 
 
 Hard ones and soft ones that eat day and night, 
 There is something the matter with all of my crops — 
 
 A bug or a worm or a pest or a blight. 
 
 My orchard of apples, in which I delight. 
 
 Is a codling moth heaven — my cherries have slugs — 
 O pity the farmer who works with his might — 
 Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs. 
 
 The tomato worm crawls, the grasshopper hops. 
 
 The aphid sucks juice, the rose chafers bite. 
 
 The curculio stings till the little plum drops 
 
 And the damage they do on the farm is a fright. 
 
 In vain we seek help from the fellows who write 
 Of “Production and Thrift” — intellectual mugs — 
 The farmer must hustle and keep up the fight — 
 Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs. 
 
 The bug on the farm with his appetite stops. 
 
 When his “tummy” is filled he is ready for flight. 
 
 But the Big Bugs who work in the law-making shops 
 Are grabbing for all that is lying in sight. 
 
 They have tariffs and tricks like good old “vested right” 
 And the voter they lead by his long hairy lugs. 
 
 They are the pests that I want to indict — 
 
 Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Prince, our exploiters, with insolent spite. 
 
 Picture the farmers as mossbacks and thugs. 
 
 But you, if you knew them, would pity their plight. 
 Chanting a ballad whose burden is bugs. 
 
LVI. — The Whole Bunch 
 
 A LL the signs seem to be right for doing a 
 bulletin on the farm live stock. During 
 the past week three correspondents have 
 asked me about Sheppy and old Fence- 
 viewer, and last night at milking time the whole ag- 
 gregation forced themselves on my attention. It 
 happened this way : In the afternoon two little pigs 
 that are taking the rest cure and fattening for win- 
 ter pork, managed to break out of their pen in the 
 orchard and raid the shed where the chop feed and 
 skim-milk are kept. As no one had time to fix their 
 pen they were put in the cowstable for safe keeping. 
 That started the whole chain of circumstances. 
 When it came milking time we couldn’t put in the 
 cows because of the pigs. We had to milk in the 
 field. While the milking was in progress the colts 
 came galloping up to nose around for salt and they 
 scared the cows. I started to throw clods and sticks 
 at the colts to drive them away, and that started 
 the turkey gobbler swearing at me. By the time I 
 
 215 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 got the colts scattered and the cows gathered again 
 I found that a titled cat was helping himself from 
 the pail of milk that I had incautiously placed on 
 the ground. Just because there was a nail loose in 
 the pigpen I got in trouble with all the live stock. 
 Hence this article. I have a feeling that there is a 
 moral connected with that — let me see. Isn’t there 
 an improving tale about the horseshoe nail that 
 was lost which caused the horseshoe to be lost, which 
 caused the horse to be lost, which caused the man to 
 be lost, etc.? Anyway, I didn’t stop to puzzle out 
 the moral. I simply kicked the cat in the wishbone 
 and resumed the task of milking a fly-bitten cow 
 with an active tail. In the humour I was in she was 
 mighty lucky that I didn’t kick her, too. 
 
 I don’t like to accuse cows of being interested in 
 politics, but they are acting very much like it. For 
 the past week they have been doing a lot of bawling, 
 both by day and by night, and I can’t for the life 
 of me make out what they are bawling about. That 
 sounds as if they were indulging in political discus- 
 sions, doesn’t it? Besides, one day last week Fence- 
 viewer II. bolted the convention. Word was brought 
 to the house that she was missing from the pasture 
 
 21 6 
 
THE WHOLE BUNCH 
 
 field. As I was busy at something else I sent the 
 two littlest boys to hunt for her. Not being versed 
 in the guile of cows and being full of youthful pity 
 they went to the well in the woods to see, if by any 
 chance, she had fallen in. When I got through with 
 my chore I joined the hunt, but I didn’t go to look 
 in the well. No, indeed. I headed straight for the 
 oat field. I didn’t know how she could get in, but 
 as the oat field was the nearest point where she could 
 get into mischief I knew she would be there. And I 
 was not disappointed. As soon as I reached the field 
 I saw her horns and the red line of her back above 
 the waving heads. A hurried investigation showed 
 that she had entered by the Government drain. The 
 last time the drain had been flooded a lot of grass 
 got caught on the barbed wires that served as a 
 water fence, and not only covered the barbs, but 
 weighed down the wires so that she could step 
 through. Calling the boys to help me, we drove her 
 out and fixed the fence. Now, wouldn’t you regard 
 the action of that cow as having a political colouring? 
 She left the others to get into a place where the 
 pasture was better — a customary political move. 
 But I hope the cows do not become too political, for 
 I have noticed that political leaders are so confused 
 
 217 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 that they no longer favour us with illuminating inter- 
 views, and I am afraid that if the cows get too much 
 
 mixed up they will not give down either. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Of course, I may be wrong in accusing the turkey 
 gobbler of cursing, but I do not think so. No mat- 
 ter what language man uses, if he speaks as earn- 
 estly as that gobbler and in the same tone of voice, 
 it is perfectly safe for a policeman to run him in on 
 a charge of using “profane and abusive language,” 
 and the court interpreter will show that he was 
 right. Moreover, the gobbler has had family 
 troubles to try his temper this summer. Two flocks 
 of his children were raised by hens, and in spite of 
 his strutting and blandishments they refuse to have 
 anything to do with him. Instead they obey the 
 clucking of the mother hen, and “tweet” disdainfully 
 at their haughty sire. In addition, his lawful spouse 
 doesn’t seem to care to have him around while she 
 is looking after her flock. She is apparently a 
 suffragette and quite competent to look after her 
 own affairs. Even when a thunderstorm comes up 
 the youngsters do not turn to the old man for pro- 
 tection. That led to a rather pathetic picture a 
 short time ago. A sudden storm roused the paternal 
 
 ns 
 
THE WHOLE BUNCH 
 
 instinct in the old fellow. Taking his place near the 
 little flock he spread out his tail and ample wings 
 so that they touched the ground and offered an ex- 
 cellent shelter, but the ungrateful creatures refused 
 to notice him. No wonder his temper seems to have 
 gone bad. He is forced to flock by himself and the 
 lonely life leads him to brood on his wrongs. Since 
 the beginning of the hay harvest he has roosted on 
 the front ladder of the hayrack, and when either man 
 or beast has passed him he has gobbled viciously and 
 “cursed them by their gods.” If there is any truth 
 in the old saying that curses, like chickens, come 
 home to roost, that turkey will have a terrible time 
 of it if the curses he has uttered this summer ever 
 decide to hold an old home week. Though he is a big 
 bird, only a small percentage of them will be able to 
 find a roosting place. 
 
 Even though Sheppy did not figure in the rumpus 
 when I was chasing away the colts that scared the 
 cows and led to my kicking the titled cat, he was in 
 the offing, with his tongue hanging out. He had 
 done his work of bringing the cows to the pasture 
 gate, and was in a position to watch the disturbance 
 with the air of one who had done his work properly 
 and did not need to concern himself with vulgar 
 
 219 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 rows. At the present time Sheppy lacks something 
 of his customary steam owing to a rather serious 
 blood-letting. One afternoon he came to the door 
 with blood dripping freely from the end of his tail. 
 I thought he would be competent to look after his 
 wounds, but I was mistaken. When next I looked at 
 him the blood was still flowing freely. On catching 
 him I found that he had somehow severed an artery 
 in his tail, and I had to improvise a tourniquet to 
 stop the flow. Everything was satisfactory until 
 next day, when the tight cord seemed to hurt him. He 
 worried it off with his teeth, and the blood started to 
 spurt again. After I had bound up his wound again 
 I started to investigate to find out how the accident 
 occurred. Happening to remember that the mowing 
 machine was standing in the barnyard, with the 
 mowing-bar in the air, I examined it. Between a 
 guard and a blade of the knife I found a bunch of 
 Sheppy’s hair. Evidently when passing the mower 
 he had wagged an affable tail against the knife and it 
 had got caught. In getting away he almost clipped 
 a couple of inches off the end of his tail. He hasn’t 
 seemed so spunky since losing so much blood, but if 
 there is anything in ancient medical lore, he prob- 
 ably stands the heat better. 
 
 220 
 
LVII. — Human Nature in Dumb Creatures 
 
 I T is a mistake to suppose that any quality, 
 habit, trick, failing, weakness, virtue or other 
 characteristic is peculiar to mankind. The 
 dumb creatures about the place have every one 
 of them. If I were to watch them carefully I feel 
 sure that I could find instances of everything from 
 the Seven Deadly Sins to the Seven Cardinal Virtues, 
 and that without leaving the barnyard. It is all 
 very well for us to talk about getting rid of our 
 animal natures as if that would mark an upward 
 step in our development but what interests me is how 
 to rid the dumb creatures of what can only be de- 
 scribed as their human natures. It is always the 
 human things they do that arouse my wrath or make 
 me laugh. For instance, our old gobbler gives 
 every evening one of the most human exhibitions of 
 over-bearing meanness that I have ever witnessed. I 
 thought it was only society people, and a particularly 
 annoying brand of them at that, who had the habit 
 of waiting until other people were comfortably 
 
 m 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 seated at a concert or theatre and then walking in, 
 disturbing every one and perhaps making quite a few 
 get up to make way for them as they progressed to- 
 wards their seats. I thought this trick was confined 
 to people who wished to show their importance, and 
 new clothes and didn’t mind how much they bothered 
 other people. But since watching our gobbler going 
 to roost I have come to the conclusion that this kind 
 of conduct on the part of society people at public 
 entertainments is not due to vanity or a desire to 
 show off but to fundamental cussedness and a wicked 
 delight in causing as much discomfort as possible to 
 other people. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The old gobbler has become expert at ascending 
 the roof of the stable and not only does the trick 
 with ease but puts frills on it. When roosting time 
 comes round each evening, the mother hen and her 
 flock of young gobblers and hens go to roost quietly 
 and circumspectly like ordinary folks. The old gob- 
 bler, on the contrary, waits around and picks up 
 grains of oats about the stacks and hunts for crick- 
 ets and keeps up an air of being busy until it is al- 
 most dark and the rest of his tribe are settled for 
 the night— or think they are. When he finally makes 
 
 222 
 
HUMAN NATURE IN DUMB CREATURES 
 
 up his mind that it is bedtime he stretches his neck 
 a few times, first in one direction and then in an- 
 other, and takes a look at the top of the stable with 
 one eye and then with the other and at last makes 
 a flying leap or a leaping fly that lands him on the 
 ridge-board. That would be all right if he were sat- 
 isfied after he got there, but he is not. He insists 
 on roosting on the extreme north end of the ridge- 
 board and he always flies up on the south end. There 
 is no reason why he should not fly up at the north 
 end but he never does it and I am inclined to think 
 from watching his actions that he flies up on the 
 south end on purpose. Anyway, as soon as he gets 
 up and gets his balance he starts to walk towards 
 the north along the ridge-board. As soon as he 
 comes to the first of his offspring he gives a sharp 
 peck with his bill and the youngster gets up squeak- 
 ing and moves along ahead of him. Presently he has 
 them all huddled on the ridge-board along the north 
 end and the fun begins. The polite thing for him to 
 do would be to step down on the shingles and walk 
 around them, but does he do it? I should say not. 
 He gives the nearest youngster a vicious peck that 
 makes him jump in the air and land sprawling a few 
 feet down on the shingles. In rapid succession he 
 
 223 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 deals with the fourteen youngsters and their mother 
 in the same way and for a few minutes the roof is 
 covered with squeaking, sprawling, protesting tur- 
 keys. As he pecks them out of his way he walks 
 along the ridge-board to his chosen roosting place 
 and when he finally reaches it he stretches his neck 
 arrogantly while the others scramble back to the top 
 and settle down for the night. When they have 
 settled down the old bully settles down also with as 
 much dignity as a dowager who has disturbed a 
 whole seatful of music lovers at a concert or opera. 
 You needn’t tell me that there isn’t something human 
 
 about a gobbler that does such things as that. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Then there is the little cow — the one whose praises 
 I have sung as the Kerry cow. You would think 
 to look at her that butter wouldn’t melt in her 
 mouth. She looks like a pet and to a large extent 
 has been a pet. At first she wouldn’t allow any one 
 but me to milk her and would bawl if I attended to 
 any of the other cows first. You never saw a more 
 demure, harmless and even helpless looking bit of 
 a thing in your life. Yet she is a base deceiver. 
 She needs more watching than any cow on the place. 
 Not only is she more prone to mischief than old 
 
 224 
 
HUMAN NATURE IN DUMB CREATURES 
 
 Fenceviewer I., but she sneaks into it instead of doing 
 it boldly like that competent and fearless old pirate. 
 My pampered pet is an exasperating little sneak 
 that cannot be trusted for a minute. Not only will 
 she get through gates and doors whenever she gets 
 a chance but if she happens to get into the stable 
 when another cow is tied she will immediately start to 
 put a horn through her. When putting in the cattle 
 at night we have to be on the watch lest our demure 
 little cow should happen to get another in a corner 
 and start prodding her. And when you catch her 
 at her tricks she jumps to her own stall and looks so 
 meek that you can almost imagine she is saying 
 “I didn’t do nuthin’.” If that kind of conduct on 
 the part of a cow is not human I should like to 
 know what it is. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Sheppy, being an intelligent dog, has a lot of 
 characteristics that we flatter ourselves by calling 
 human. For instance, he has an orderly way of 
 doing things that often attracts my admiration. 
 Now that he has settled down and outgrown the 
 freaks of puppyhood he acts as if he felt himself 
 one of the family, with quite a lot of responsibility 
 on his shoulders. Every morning when he is turned 
 
 225 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 out he takes a trip around the farm, apparently to 
 see that everything is right. When the chores are 
 being attended to he is always on hand to help drive 
 the cows and after the calves have been fed he 
 doesn’t have to be told to drive them away from the 
 fence and scatter them over the field. As soon as 
 the last of them has bunted over the pail from which 
 it has been fed he starts them on their way. All 
 day he is around to do his part in whatever is to be 
 done and when the driver is away he watches till she 
 is coming back and goes down the road to meet her. 
 Just how he knows when she is coming is something 
 of a mystery. Long before any one else can see her 
 behind the trees half a mile down the road, Sheppy 
 will trot off to meet her. And he never makes a mis- 
 take about it. When we see him starting for the cor- 
 ner we can be sure that the driver is coming. But 
 there is one bit of his daily routine that is something 
 of a mystery to me. I do not need him and I have 
 nothing for him to do when I go after the mail when 
 the postman has put it in the box, but every morn- 
 ing he is waiting for me and marches to the mail box 
 ahead of me. I cannot make out why he does it 
 unless he is hoping that some day he will get a 
 letter — a letter with a bone in it. 
 
 226 
 
LVII1. — Early Observations 
 
 O N mornings when I happen to be wakeful 
 the observations I make are not always 
 through the tent flap. Many of them are 
 through the sides of the tent, and I hear 
 them instead of seeing them. As you might expect, 
 the first morning sound is the crowing of the 
 roosters, and let me tell you that it is no trifling 
 sound on the farm at present. Between thirty and 
 forty broilers are practising crowing and there seems 
 to be a very sharp rivalry among them. Some of 
 the older ones can crow almost as lustily as the 
 father of the flock, while a lot of young fellows can- 
 not manage anything better than a hasty mixture 
 of a squeak and a squawk. You know, of course, 
 that the scientists are unable to offer any explanation 
 of the foolishness of roosters in crowing like this and 
 telling their enemies where they are. One morning 
 recently I was awakened by the crowing of the young 
 roosters about an hour before dawn. The racket 
 they were making recalled to my mind the fact that 
 
 m 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 we were expecting visitors that day and that broilers 
 would be in order for dinner. I “obeyed that im- 
 pulse” at once, got up, lit the lantern, and started 
 on a raid. All I needed to do was to listen and locate 
 the lustiest crowers where they were roosting in the 
 apple trees. Then I went around and picked them 
 off the branches until I had half a dozen plump ones 
 stowed away in a coop. If they hadn’t reminded me 
 of their existence by their fool crowing they might 
 still be alive and scratching gravel with both feet for 
 admiring young pullets. 
 
 When the first light of dawn appears the young 
 ducks begin to jabber, where they are spending the 
 night in a packing box under an apple tree. A few 
 minutes later I have a chance to make my first ob- 
 servations through the tent flap as they march loqua- 
 ciously past in single file. Now that the mornings 
 are getting cool, sometimes with a touch of hoar 
 frost, the crickets, beetles and other innumerable in- 
 sects are sluggish, and the ducks seem to know just 
 where to look for them in the long grass. That re- 
 minds me that the wise old fellows who made up 
 our proverbs were not always careful observers of 
 natural phenomena. We have been told that it is 
 
 228 
 
EARLY OBSERVATIONS 
 
 the “early bird that catches the worm,” but the ob- 
 servations I have made lead me to believe that for 
 one worm that suffers for his folly in being out late 
 a thousand bugs and beetles are captured. The 
 proverb should read, “It is the early bird that 
 catches the bug,” and different birds have different 
 ways of going about it. When a duck goes after a 
 bug he acts much like a ball player trying to steal a 
 base. He throws himself forward so suddenly that 
 he lands on his stomach, and at the same time shoots 
 out his neck full length. When I umpire such an 
 action through the tent flap it is very seldom that I 
 could announce the bug “safe.” If ducks could only 
 be taught to play baseball they would beat Ty Cobb 
 at stealing bases. Shortly after the ducks the tur- 
 keys come marching past on their morning bug hunt. 
 Instead of moving in Indian file they walk abreast 
 in extended formation, and their method of taking 
 the unwary bug is entirely different from that of the 
 duck. When a turkey sees his prey he stops still, 
 sometimes with one foot in the air. Slowly and al- 
 most imperceptibly he moves his head towards the 
 luckless bug, and when his beak is within a couple 
 of inches of it he makes a quick grab that is invari- 
 ably fatal. In this connection I sometimes wonder 
 
 229 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 if mj attitude as a nature lover is entirely correct. 
 The bug probably enjoys life just as much as the 
 turkey, and I wonder if the bug should not have my 
 sympathy rather than the birds. But that is a deli- 
 cate point which I am willing to leave to professors 
 of ethics and other subtle reasoners. 
 
 Although the roosters are apparently the first of 
 the domestic fowls to waken in the morning, they are 
 usually the last to get up, or, to be more exact, to 
 get down. When they start to lead out their pullets 
 in the twilight I have a chance to see that at least 
 one maker of proverbs was a close observer of 
 nature. I have heard it said of ladies who walk with 
 a mincing gait that “she steps out like a hen before 
 day.” As I observe the hens through the tent flap 
 I notice that their gait differs from the gait they use 
 later in the day. They pick up their feet carefully, 
 and hold them poised for a moment before putting 
 them down daintily, and they hold their heads up 
 in a way that looks very haughty. The philosopher 
 who originated that simile must have been an early 
 riser, or perhaps he also made his observations 
 through a tent flap, with the blankets tucked cosily 
 up to his chin. But some mornings I make observa- 
 
 230 
 
EARLY OBSERVATIONS 
 
 tions through the tent flap that I cannot stay in bed 
 to meditate on. Through the tent flap I have an 
 excellent view of the haystacks and the stack of oat 
 sheaves. One morning when I opened a lazy eye in 
 the early dawn I was suddenly brought wide awake 
 and sitting up, as the Red Cow and her progeny were 
 among the stacks. The sleepy inhabitants of the 
 tent were immediately rousted out, and for the next 
 few minutes we took the Kneipp cure together while 
 sending Fence viewer I. and her family back through 
 the gate she had managed to work open. On an- 
 other morning my first observation was of a team of 
 horses that had come in from the road and were try- 
 ing to founder themselves on our fodder. Luckily 
 Sheppy was loose and he attended to their case 
 without making it necessary for me to do anything 
 more than whistle for him and yell, “Sick ’em!” 
 
 231 
 
LIX. — B antams 
 
 D URING the Christmas season a friend sent 
 the littlest boy a pair of bantams, and 
 there is now more spunk on the farm than 
 there has been since my boyhood days, 
 when I used to own a sassy little hen that bore the 
 Gaelic name of “Prabbach.” I don’t know exactly 
 what the name meant, but it seemed to fit her ex- 
 actly. These modern bantams appear to be of 
 aristocratic descent, with feathers down to their 
 toes, and the rooster has a haughty bearing that 
 makes me take liberties with “Will Waterproof’s 
 Lyrical Monologue,” in order to describe him 
 properly : — 
 
 “The Cock was of a prouder egg 
 Than modern poultry drop, 
 
 Stept forward on a firmer leg. 
 
 And crammed a plumper crop. 
 
 Upon an ampler dunghill trod. 
 
 Crowed lustier late and early, 
 
 Sipped wine from silver, praising God, 
 
 And raked in golden barley.” 
 
 232 
 
BANTAMS 
 
 The little bantam can crow quicker, oftener and 
 with more ginger than any other rooster on the 
 place. He has so much steam that I imagine he must 
 have the spirit of a full-sized Brahma or Cochin 
 compressed into the size of a pigeon. He is so 
 cocky that his very appearance seems a challenge. 
 The first time he stepped out into the barnyard the 
 turkey gobbler challenged him to mortal combat and 
 unlimbered for action without waiting for his chal- 
 lenge to be accepted. But, try as he would, the 
 gobbler could not land on the brisk bantam. The 
 little fellow sidestepped every swipe that was made 
 at him, and went on picking up grain as if it were 
 only a fly that was bothering him. And when he 
 scratches in the straw for grain he does it with a 
 vim that seems to say to all the world, “When I 
 scratch gravel mind your eye.” But if I could 
 speak hen language I would feel it my duty to warn 
 him about his little mate. She looks so demure that 
 I suspect her of being a flirt. 
 
 233 
 
LX. — A Little Tragedy 
 
 O F ALL the youngsters in the barnyard the 
 chickens are the most attractive. They 
 are fluffy little balls of down of most en- 
 gaging appearance, and I don’t blame 
 Beatrice very much because she shows a longing to 
 eat them. She is allowed out for a run with “her 
 nine farrow” every day, and she has to be watched 
 carefully to keep her away from the chicken coops. 
 Yesterday she went over beside the road to pasture, 
 and the boy who was watching her thought she was 
 safe, but as soon as he took his eye off her, she made 
 off to a neighbour’s barnyard, attacked a chicken 
 coop and got a couple of chickens. I haven’t faced 
 the music about that yet, but Beatrice will get me 
 into trouble unless we hurry and make a proper pig 
 run, where she and her greedy little wretches can get 
 around without getting into trouble. The little pigs 
 are now beginning to eat out of the trough with 
 their mother, and sometimes she chases them off with 
 a howl of rage that hasn’t a trace of maternal ten- 
 
 234 
 
A LITTLE TRAGEDY 
 
 derness in it. In a few weeks she will rob her own 
 children of their feed unless she is restrained, for 
 “pigs is certainly pigs.” As soon as her flock is 
 weaned she will be an outcast with none so poor to 
 do her reverence. No one will have any compunc- 
 tions about putting her in a pen and fattening her 
 for bacon. But as long as swill and chop-feed are 
 plentiful she will not mind the lack of affection. She 
 will grunt contentedly when she is full and complain 
 bitterly when she is hungry, and she won’t care a 
 hoot whether she is loved or not. 
 
 235 
 
LX I. — A Scientific Query 
 
 C AN any one tell me why it is that hens al- 
 ways sing when fed on corn on the cob. We 
 had been feeding them oats, bran, and oc- 
 casionally wheat, and they took to it in a 
 matter-of-fact way, but when a few cobs of corn 
 were thrown out to them they pecked at it and sang 
 as if their hearts were overflowing with joy. Since 
 noticing this peculiarity I have watched them at 
 every feeding, and it is only the com that arouses 
 them to music. I also had a chance to make a fur- 
 ther observation on the ducks. One of them got a 
 small ear in its bill and started away on a swift 
 waddle with the rest of the flock trailing behind. 
 Instead of trying to find a quiet corner where it 
 could enjoy its meal it made straight for the mud- 
 puddle and dropped the ear in the center of it. The 
 corn immediately sank out of sight and the whole 
 flock of ducks crowded around to get at it. Judg- 
 ing from the noise they made they must have been 
 enjoying themselves hugely, and I am led to do a 
 
 236 
 
A SCIENTIFIC QUERY 
 
 little speculating of a scientific character. We are 
 told that hens should be fed in straw or chaff so that 
 they will get plenty of exercise with their meals. I 
 wonder if it wouldn’t be a good idea to feed the 
 ducks in a convenient mud-puddle so that they can 
 develop themselves properly. I await an authori- 
 tative verdict from some one who knows. 
 
 237 
 
LiXll. — A Poultry Note 
 
 W HEN the chickens that were rounded up 
 from the apple trees last week had 
 served the necessary time in confine- 
 ment to make them get accustomed to 
 their new roosts they were turned loose, and there 
 was more excitement. A young cockerel thought he 
 would celebrate the occasion by crowing, but imme- 
 diately seven young gobblers started for him on the 
 jump. Every time he would start to crow the gob- 
 blers would rush in on him, and the last I saw of him 
 he was going over the fence into the pasture field 
 with the gobblers after him, but he looked as if he 
 were going to crow even if he died for it. By the 
 way, I have lost the address of the man with whom 
 I swapped gobblers last fall, but if this should meet 
 his eye I wish to tell him that the “Bubbly jock” he 
 sent has developed into a noble bird. Nothing of 
 his size in the turkey line has ever been seen on the 
 farm, and as he is always first in whenever the 
 chickens or ducks are being fed he is in prime con- 
 
 238 
 
A POULTRY NOTE 
 
 dition. Some day when I feel equal to the task I 
 shall try to catch him and weigh him, but I have 
 considerable respect for the wings of a turkey-gob- 
 bler ever since one managed to give me a sideswipe 
 across the bridge of the nose some years ago. He 
 not only knocked off a bias patch of skin, but gave 
 me a couple of black eyes that kept me at home for 
 a week. As the present lord of the barnyard is such 
 a husky specimen I am not anxious to take any 
 chances. 
 
 239 
 
LiXIII . — Spring and the Livestock 
 
 T HE winter certainly appears to be over, and 
 neither man nor beast is sorry. We have 
 all been penned in altogether too long, 
 and it feels good to be out in the open 
 again. I notice that it affects the farm creatures in 
 different ways. The cattle seemed unusually lazy, 
 and during the heat of the day most of them lay 
 down where they could let the sunshine soak into 
 their skins. The colts started on a wild scamper 
 around the fields and threw up mud in a way that 
 made it necessary to close them up in the barnyard 
 again, as they were cutting up the pasture. As 
 they abused their freedom they had to be deprived 
 of it. The sheep took things quietly, as might be 
 expected, and I noticed that after a little run fat 
 little Mary Belle stood panting with her mouth open. 
 She and Clarissa and Strafe made a start at playing 
 king of the castle on an ant-hill, but their mothers 
 kept so close to them that they spoiled the fun. 
 Beatrice seemed to like the heat about as well as any- 
 
 240 
 
SPRING AND THE LIVESTOCK 
 
 thing on the farm. She picked out a snug spot on 
 the south side of what is left of the straw stack, and 
 grunted pleasantly, while the sunshine tickled her 
 fat sides. During the cold weather she made fre- 
 quent investigating trips around the farm, but the 
 heat seems to make her lazy. The most belligerent 
 creature on the place is the turkey cock. He struts 
 and gobbles and makes thunder with his wings in a 
 most awesome way. Those who do the chores have 
 suggested that if he continues to be so threatening 
 we shall have to put a ring in his nose and lead him 
 around on a chain. He is certainly a noble bird. 
 
 241 
 
liXIV. — First Snow 
 
 T HE snow was a surprise to all the young- 
 sters of the barnyard. There had been 
 flurries earlier in the season, but nothing 
 to compare with the depth that now covers 
 everything. When the colt was turned out he left 
 the stable door at a run. His hoofs threw up a 
 cloud of snow that frightened him, and he ran 
 through the gate to the pasture field. The more he 
 ran the more snow he threw up and the more scared 
 he, got. He galloped around the field until he was 
 winded or decided that there was nothing to be 
 frightened about. Then he obeyed an old instinct, 
 pawed away a little patch of snow and began to eat 
 the frozen grass. It was his first experience of 
 snow, but he knew what to do in case he should be 
 obliged to live on the pasture it covered. The colt 
 was not the only youngster to have a first experi- 
 ence of snow on that morning. A flock of young 
 pullets that have been accustomed to ranging freely 
 over the farm were completely flabbergasted by the 
 
 M2 
 
FIRST SNOW 
 
 situation. They huddled at the door of the hen- 
 house, and whenever they tried to travel they did it 
 a-wing. As they were not used to this method of 
 locomotion they misjudged distances and fell pro- 
 testing into the snow, where they stayed for a while 
 before trying to walk. The young ducks that sleep 
 under the granary did not venture on the snow until 
 Sheppy routed them out on one of his investigating 
 excursions. Even though nature has provided them 
 with snowshoes in their web feet they preferred to 
 try their wings, but they are so fat and heavy that 
 their flying was a flat failure. They quacked across 
 the barnyard with heads up and wings beating 
 wildly, but their cute little tails and flat feet were 
 still in the snow. The young turkeys also took to 
 flying, and though they were more expert than any 
 of the others the result was the same. They landed 
 in snowdrifts and looked unhappy. One young gob- 
 bler landed on top of a haystack, where he stood up 
 to his wishbone in the snow, waiting for a thaw to 
 come and rescue him. I left him until the chores 
 were done and then rescued him by pelting him with 
 snowballs. Of course, this trouble about the snow 
 lasted for only a day or so. Ducks, hens and tur- 
 keys now get around much as usual. 
 
 24>3 
 
LXV. — A “Shift” of Snow 
 
 L AST night we had a “skift” of snow, and it 
 was interesting to notice the effect on the 
 summer-born creatures of the farm. A 
 plump young kitten that had not seen the 
 pesky stuff before came to meet me from the stable, 
 jumping like a rabbit. At the end of every jump 
 she would stop and say “Muhr-reowr !” in tones that 
 seemed several times too large for her body. When 
 I reached her she stood lifting one foot after another 
 and shaking off the clinging flakes, only to get a 
 fresh supply every time she put a foot down. Of 
 course it was mean to roll her over in the snow, but 
 I have no doubt it gave her an appetite for break- 
 fast and could be defended on the best hygienic 
 grounds. About the first thing I noticed about the 
 snow was that my new winter boots do not promise 
 much comfort, for as the snow melted on them my 
 toes got so cold that I had to step cautiously for 
 fear they would snap off like icicles. The young 
 turkeys were complaining noisily from the apple 
 
 244 
 
A “SKIFT” OF SNOW 
 
 tree where they roost at night, but evidently think- 
 ing that my appearance at the barn meant the near 
 approach of feeding time, they started to fly the full 
 distance. They seemed to realise that the white 
 stuff on the ground meant cold toes for them, but 
 they didn’t improve matters much by flying. They 
 landed on top of the hay stacks where the snow 
 seemed to lie the deepest, and on top of the granary, 
 where they clawed around on the slippery surface 
 and mussed themselves up generally. A chilly tur- 
 key is just about as unattractive looking a bird as 
 any one would wish to see. They fluffed up their 
 feathers so as to get a layer of entangled air around 
 their bodies, hunched up their shoulders and pulled 
 in their necks. Really they looked more like tur- 
 key buzzards than like Christmas dinners, but a 
 month of high living on corn meal and shorts will 
 doubtless make them fit for the market. 
 
 The colt had an especially good reason to be 
 grouchy about the sudden change in the weather, for 
 he had been out in it all night, and the soft snow 
 had frozen into lumps on his back. He was so bad 
 tempered about it that he even let his heels fly at his 
 mother when she came near him, and the way he lay 
 
 245 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 back his ears at the approach of the yearling 
 showed that he was willing to fight him at a moment’s 
 notice. The yearling, however, seemed to know what 
 to do in such a case. When the sun began to rise 
 he started to gallop around the field snorting and 
 kicking at imaginary enemies. As I watched his ex- 
 hibitions of speed I couldn’t help wondering if he 
 could be made to show any of it under a harness. 
 His mother is a sedate dowager who often shows 
 plenty of speed when I go to catch her in the pasture 
 field, but in the harness nothing short of a black 
 snake whip can get her off the “cord-wood trot.” 
 The colt was watching the yearling’s antics, and at 
 last he couldn’t help joining the fun. With tail in 
 the air he started after his big brother, and they 
 galloped all over the pasture, kicking at one another 
 and snorting. When they tired of their play they 
 were comfortably warm, and went to the bank of the 
 Government drain, where there was long grass that 
 was free from snow, and proceeded to have break- 
 fast. After this the colt will probably know that 
 when the ground is white the finest thing in the world 
 to make him feel comfortable will be a good, brisk 
 
 run. 
 
LXVI. — A Spring Shower 
 
 A FEW days ago we had an ideal shower, 
 warm, still and occasionally shot with 
 sunshine. The necessity of doing the 
 chores drove me out of it and I was glad. 
 Putting on an old overcoat that did not owe me 
 any money, and an old felt hat, long innocent of 
 the block — it showed a quarter pitch from the peak 
 to the brim — I slopped around for a happy half 
 hour. But, though I was happy, the ducks were 
 happier. They were not only in their element, but 
 they were enjoying a banquet. The frost had come 
 out of the ground and the angle-worms had come 
 to the surface. I don’t think the ducks missed one 
 of them — all of which made me try to remember 
 whether Darwin in his study of earthworms noted 
 their economic value as poultry food. The hens 
 are every bit as fond of them as the ducks, but 
 they are not so fond of the rain. But there are 
 other things that like to feel the warm, splashy 
 drops. I had to turn out the cows for a drink, and 
 
 247 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 the day seemed to suit them exactly. While old 
 Fenceviewer I. was waiting to have her stall cleaned 
 and her bed made up she humped her back against 
 the shower and chewed her cud, and if she could 
 have had a couple of hands stuck into pockets she 
 would have made a perfect picture of contentment. 
 And all the while I could hear the birds twittering 
 and calling in the rain, and making different music 
 from the kind we hear while the sun is shining. I 
 was really sorry when the work was done and I had 
 to clean my boots and put off my wet things and 
 listen to a lecture on the chances I had taken of 
 catching cold. 
 
 248 
 
LXVII. — Doing Chores 
 
 D OING chores is a routine job, and even the 
 animals seem to be getting it down to a 
 system. When I go out to feed the cattle 
 in the morning Sheppy meets me at the 
 door and insists on having a play, which consists 
 mostly of jumping up against me as if he were a 
 wolf trying to catch me by the throat and drag me 
 down. My part of the game is to catch him off 
 his guard when his feet are off the ground and give 
 him a push that bowls him down. After he has 
 had a few tumbles he is satisfied, and begins running 
 around in wide circles. When I get near the stable 
 the kitten that the children have named after an 
 eminent statesman gets on the path in front of me, 
 purring and rolling on his back so that I can tickle 
 him with the toe of my boot. As soon as I begin 
 to open the stable door the driver whinnies “Good- 
 morning,” and a moment later the Jimmie-cow 
 
 bawls complainingly, and says in part : “Why 
 
 are you so late coming out to feed us this morning? 
 
 249 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 Get a wiggle on you with those cornstalks !” Of 
 course, it is all very foolish, but when one is at- 
 tending to the wants of a lot of animals he gets 
 about as well acquainted with them as he does with 
 people, and, as I have remarked before, they all 
 have very human attributes. Human nature can be 
 studied in farm animals just as easily as in city 
 crowds — and you do not have to be so extravagant 
 with your expense account. 
 
 250 
 
LXVIIL— Fishing 
 
 W HAT would spring be to a small boy 
 without fishing? At the present writ- 
 ing fishing is at high tide, though we 
 are still living on the same old fare. 
 Although fish-lines and hooks have been bought, fish- 
 ing-poles trimmed to shape with the butcher-knife 
 and loads of bait dug, I have yet to see an actual 
 fish. I cannot deny that years ago I used to get 
 plump chub in the Government drain, and one year 
 some carp weighing five pounds and over came up 
 with the spring flood, but it is long since I have 
 seen anything bigger than a minnow. Still, the 
 littlest boys know that there were fish in the drain 
 once, so why not now? There is a spot about half 
 a mile away where willows were allowed to grow on 
 the bank and the spring floods scooped out holes 
 in which driftwood accumulated. In these mysteri- 
 ous depths fish are supposed to hide, and a baited 
 hook will be stripped of its bait in a few minutes. 
 There is no lack of nibbles that appear to give the 
 
 251 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 old-time thrill, but it is no use explaining that min- 
 nows less than two inches long, that are too small 
 to be hooked, are the fish most active in this kind 
 of work. I know that they are just as likely to 
 catch a finnan haddie or dried codfish or canned 
 salmon as a fish of any size, but I wouldn’t dampen 
 their ardour for anything. As a matter of fact, I 
 am inclined to approve of their enthusiasm, for I 
 find that the chores go through with a rush since 
 the fishing began. All I need to do is to let them 
 wring a reluctant promise from me that if they 
 hurry through with the chores they can go fishing. 
 After offering enough opposition to make the favour 
 seem great I give a grudging consent and the chores 
 go through with a rush. And at bed-time (new 
 time) a couple of wet and muddy boys come home, 
 very tired and very hungry. Though they bring 
 no fish they have had such monstrous bites that they 
 are sure there are big fish there, only they are too 
 cute to swallow the baited hooks. Some day they 
 are going to catch a whale, and then they will show 
 me. What would youth be without its faith in the 
 possibilities of fishing and such things? 
 
 Right here an interruption has occurred. I might 
 have known when I was writing that first paragraph 
 
 252 
 
FISHING 
 
 in such a superior way that something would hap- 
 pen, but the truth must be told even though wisdom 
 be confounded. A few minutes ago a boy bulged 
 through the kitchen door waving a string of fish 
 and registering triumph. He found the right fishing- 
 hole at last and caught eight, and one big one — Oh, 
 a beauty — got away. I hadn’t a word to say. I 
 examined them and was forced to admit that he had 
 eight as fine chub as I had ever seen taken in this 
 district. The longest measured seven and a half 
 inches and the shortest six inches. Fishing is now 
 on a firm basis and the food outlook has greatly 
 improved. There is a fish banquet being arranged, 
 and the titled cat was so excited at the prospect of 
 getting eight heads to chew at that he had to be 
 put out. But though my predictions have all gone 
 wrong and the faith of the boys has been justified, I 
 am not without compensations. The chores will 
 now be done with more steam than ever and the 
 fishing season may last all summer. If they can 
 only catch a few now and then to keep up their 
 interest, they will not need to be driven to any kind 
 of work. The promise of permission to go fishing 
 as soon as a job is done will be enough to get them 
 to do their best. I hate driving them and it will be 
 
 253 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 a real pleasure to have their minds so set on fishing 
 that they will do their work eagerly so as to win 
 their freedom. I hope the fish supply lasts right 
 through the corn-hoeing season. By the way, I 
 am not sure but it would be a good plan to have 
 the drain stocked with fish so that there would be a 
 sure supply every spring. I must think about it. 
 
 25 4 
 
LX IX. — A Lonesome Squirrel 
 
 O NE wet morning recently I happened to be 
 passing through the wood-lot, when I heard 
 the squawking of a black squirrel. I re- 
 joiced to think that perhaps the squirrels 
 were coming back, but investigation revealed only one 
 lone specimen, and, judging by its size and actions, 
 it had wandered far from its mother. It was crying 
 from pure lonesomeness, and it didn’t care who heard 
 it. At the best the cry of a black squirrel is about 
 the saddest thing in nature, but to hear it when the 
 trees are dripping and the woods gloomy it is the 
 last note of sorrow and pessimism. I have never 
 seen an attempt to render this sound in letters, but 
 what of that? We shall try it now. As nearly as 
 I can arrive at it, the sound should be represented 
 somewhat as follows: 
 
 “ku-ku-kwanh-h-h !” 
 
 The last syllable is long drawn out in a most deso- 
 lating manner. Come to look at it, this attempt to 
 
 255 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 render the cry of the black squirrel has a sort of 
 pluperfect look, and I have no doubt that a skilled 
 philologist could trace it back to an Aryan root — 
 but I digress. Anyway, my squirrel was squawking 
 and bawling in the universal language of childhood. 
 In the words of the poet, he had “no language but 
 a cry.” After spying him I began to edge closer 
 to observe his actions. He frisked about as I ap- 
 proached, and whenever I stood still he began to 
 cry again. When crying he always clung to the 
 tree, with his head downwards, and with every syl- 
 lable he gave his tail a little jerk. I might say that 
 he was scolding at me, if it were not for the plain- 
 tiveness of the noise he was making. Every few 
 minutes I took a few steps nearer, until at last I 
 was within twenty feet of the half-dead maple from 
 which he was pouring his woe. Although I was 
 quite evidently “viewed with alarm” in the most ap- 
 proved editorial manner, he shifted his feet a little 
 from time to time and kept up his wailing. Finally 
 I sat down under the shelter of a tree trunk and 
 continued to watch him. He scolded and squawked 
 and then began to come down the tree, inch by inch, 
 precariously moving headforemost. I kept perfectly 
 still for some minutes — keeping a position of abso- 
 
 256 
 
A LONESOME SQUIRREL 
 
 lute rest is about the easiest thing I do — and inch 
 by inch he slipped down the tree until he was so 
 close that I could see his beady black eyes and see 
 half way down his throat when he opened his mouth 
 to squawk. At last he got as far down as he cared 
 to come, and continued to tell me about his troubles. 
 I was sorry that I couldn’t think of anything to say 
 or do that would assuage his lonesomeness and grief, 
 but when I heard the call for dinner at the house, 
 and knew that I should be stirring, I flung a little 
 parody at him: 
 
 “Is it weakness of intellect, Blackie?” I cried, 
 
 “Or a rather tough nut in your little inside?” 
 
 With a shake of his poor little head he replied, 
 “Ku-ku-kwanh ! Ku-ku-kwanh !” 
 
 When I rose to my feet he rushed headlong into 
 a nearby hole. But let no one imagine that my time 
 was wasted while sitting watching that squirrel. Al- 
 though he was unable to say anything of importance 
 to me, and I was unable to say anything of im- 
 portance to him, you may note that the interview 
 was good for one extra long paragraph. I could 
 have gone out and interviewed some eminent human 
 without getting any more copy than I did from my 
 lonesome little black squirrel. 
 
 257 
 
LXX. — Fall Poultry Troubles 
 
 W HY is it that hens always want to roost 
 over the cows and horses in the winter 
 time? Perhaps they want company in 
 the long, lonesome nights, but prob- 
 ably it is because the cattle generate a certain 
 amount of warmth that makes the beams above them 
 pleasanter roosting places than the hen-house. Any- 
 way there is always a week or two at the beginning 
 of each winter when a bunch of ambitious hens must 
 be trained to roost in their own quarters instead 
 of in the stable. Every night at milking time I 
 shoo them out until they finally get it into their 
 heads they are not wanted. But they are almost 
 as hard to convince as the New England farmer who 
 went to a dance to which he had not been invited. 
 He overlooked the lack of invitation, and was even 
 willing to overlook the fact that he was told that 
 he was not wanted, but when he was finally thrown 
 outdoors and kicked through the front gate, “He 
 took the hint and went away.” After being thrown 
 
 258 
 
FALL POULTRY TROUBLES 
 
 out of the stalls about a dozen times the hens finally 
 took the hint, and they now stay in their own quar- 
 ters. But just as I got rid of the hens the guinea 
 fowl decided that the weather was getting altogether 
 too severe for outdoor life. All summer and fall 
 they have been living in the fields, and any one who 
 happened to see them reported the fact much as if 
 they had seen a flock of quail. They really seem 
 more like wild than domesticated fowl, and if they 
 live entirely on insects and weed seeds they must 
 have a distinct value in keeping pests of various 
 kinds in check. But when the cold weather came 
 on they began attending the chicken feedings, not 
 only at home but at neighbouring farms. They seem 
 to have good ears as well as wonderful appetites, 
 for whenever they hear other fowls squabbling over 
 their feed they take to their wings and never touch 
 the earth until they light right in the middle of the 
 banquet. And they never miss a feeding time at 
 home either. They should be fat enough for the 
 table before long. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 But what I started to tell about is the persistence 
 the guinea fowl show in adopting the stable as a 
 home. On the first cold night I found the whole 
 
 259 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 twenty of them ranged decoratively on the partitions 
 between the stalls. I couldn’t shoo them away like 
 the hens. I had to touch each one, and as I touched 
 it it gave a shrill squeak and flew blindly until it 
 brought up against the wall at the far end of the 
 stable. Usually they fell to the floor, but sometimes 
 they would beat their wings and work their feet and 
 apparently walk up the wall like flies until the roof 
 checked them, and then they would sink to the floor 
 with a final discouraged squeak. Once I caught one 
 of them to see how heavy it was, and it squealed like 
 a rat. I dropped it instinctively, for I felt that 
 anything that could squeal like that would be likely 
 to bite. And they can bite — or at least use their 
 bills. I have noticed that at feeding time they can 
 whip even the rooster away from the choicest bits, 
 and I am told that when there were young chickens 
 about, the old pair of guinea fowl thought nothing 
 of grabbing them in their beaks and shaking them 
 as a terrier shakes a rat. Sometimes, if they were 
 not interrupted in committing these atrocities they 
 even killed the chickens. I do not think the nature 
 and habits of guinea fowl have been studied by the 
 experts, and some time when the rush is over I may 
 prepare a bulletin on the subject. At present, how- 
 
 260 
 
FALL POULTRY TROUBLES 
 
 ever, I am chiefly interested in making them under- 
 stand that they are not wanted in the stable at 
 night. But is seems hard to convince them. Every 
 night I find them in exactly the same position as on 
 the first night, and every evening I startle twenty 
 squeaks out of the flock before I get them to move 
 
 elsewhere. It is getting to be a regular chore. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 But it is as fabricators of new and fiendish noises 
 that the guinea fowl are in a class by themselves. 
 They are at it all the time. The mildest noise they 
 make reminds you of the filing of a saw with a 
 bungling mechanic dragging the file on the back 
 stroke. The noises they make when they set to work 
 to show what they can do are beyond description. I 
 have heard noises something like them in sawmills 
 when the circular saw happened to strike a sliver. 
 And they are ready to give an impromptu serenade 
 at any time. I used to think that the ducks were 
 the noisiest thing about the barn-yard, but they only 
 squawk when I am trying to talk. The guinea fowl 
 keep at it when I am trying to think so that I 
 cannot bear the thoughts that are trying to whisper 
 their way into my brain. They rasp out wild noises 
 when they are eating and when they are fasting, 
 
 261 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 when they are walking and when they are flying; 
 and their idea of a nice, quiet time seems to be to 
 lie down in some spot where they are sheltered from 
 the wind by a clump of weeds or something of the 
 sort, and try to outdo each other in the range and 
 volume of their cries. When we start eating these 
 guinea fowl I am going to dissect one to find out 
 what its vocal cords are made of. I don’t think they 
 could possibly make such noises without metal con- 
 trivances of some kind that can be rasped together 
 and banged and thumped on. Perhaps I’ll discover 
 a new metal that would be valuable in making phono- 
 graphs, and be able to organise a company to mine 
 it out of the guinea fowl. Then I’ll sell stock to 
 the farmers. Judging by their noises there are great 
 and unknown possibilities in these creatures. And 
 yet I have heard people say they rather liked hav- 
 ing them around because they keep up such a con- 
 stant clatter that they keep one from getting lone- 
 some. It strikes me that the person who would not 
 rather be alone than have a flock of guinea fowl 
 for company must have a bad conscience. 
 
 262 
 
LXXI. — Thanksgiving Day 
 
 H ERE is Thanksgiving Day right on top of 
 us, and I am all in a fluster. I am not 
 sure that I am going to be thankful about 
 anything. Isn’t that dreadful? But the 
 truth is that in my usual improvident fashion I 
 forgot all about it. While other people were care- 
 fully saving up their thankful feelings for the official 
 day, Oct. 20th, I just went along carelessly pouring 
 out my thankfulness whenever it welled up within 
 me. But that is not the way well-conducted people 
 do. They are as methodical about their thanks as 
 the woman in the story was about baths. When she 
 had a stationary tub put in the house she exclaimed 
 to an admiring friend, “It looks so nice I can hardly 
 wait till Saturday night.” As nearly as I can judge 
 the world is full of just such careful people, and 
 they never let a speck of thankfulness escape them 
 until the right day comes around. They keep it in 
 through all the long dreary year, and, then on the 
 20th of October, they will go about expressing it 
 
 263 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 in a careful and business-like way. Since we have a 
 Thanksgiving day that is naturally the day to be 
 thankful on. People who look at things in that way 
 simplify matters for the Recording Angel. They 
 turn over their thanks in one neat hunch, and the 
 matter is over with for another year. But much 
 as I may admire people who are able to restrain 
 themselves in this way I have no hope of attaining 
 their perfection. Having formed the habit of living 
 each day as I come to it, I may run the whole gamut 
 of moods from boiled down pessimism to overflowing 
 thankfulness between sunup and sundown. And yet 
 — and yet — this way has its compensations. I am 
 
 not sure that I would change if I could. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 I was reminded of the fact that Thanksgiving Day 
 is at hand by seeing some ducks being fed up for 
 the occasion, and by being asked whether the celery 
 will be fit to use on the 20th. As the indications 
 are that both these excellent comestibles will be in 
 prime condition by that time, I find myself bubbling 
 over with thankfulness almost two weeks before the 
 specified time. But I know that is all wrong, and 
 I have set to work to figure out just how to be 
 thankful like other people. To do this I am forced 
 
 264 
 
THANKSGIVING DAY 
 
 to review the happenings of the year, my hopes, 
 ambitions and enterprises. While at this task I 
 was struck by the thought that if we had a Grumble- 
 giving Day as well as a Thanksgiving Day, it would 
 be much more carefully celebrated. The first thing 
 I thought of was the bugs, blights, pests, weeds and 
 such things that I have been fighting with all sum- 
 mer. As I thought of them Thanksgiving Day 
 seemed very far away. But that mood did not last 
 long. After all they did not injure anything which 
 I was over-poweringly interested in. Life itself is 
 what I am chiefly interested in, and, while we have 
 food, clothing and shelter, it is as good one day as 
 another. I can be just as much alive mentally, 
 physically, spiritually on one day as another. A 
 rainy day is just as good as a sunny day if we 
 manage to get in tune with it. And having got a 
 fairly good hold of the truth that yesterday is dead 
 and to-morrow unborn, I find that I really can not 
 go away from the present day and the present 
 moment to seek the sources of thankfulness. It will 
 be the same on the 20th of October. I must find 
 in it all that I shall be thankful for. I do not think 
 
 I shall be disappointed. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 265 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 In order to celebrate Thanksgiving Day in the 
 popular fashion, one would need to keep books and 
 strike a balance of good and evil. Let me try this 
 plan. First, there is the orchard. The frost killed 
 most of the blossoms; there was a plague of green 
 aphids in the spring; over half of the apples we 
 have are scabby and deformed. Wow! If I were 
 depending on that orchard for my happiness Thanks- 
 giving Day would be a day of gloom. But let us 
 look at the other side of the ledger. We have sold 
 our apples for a topnotch price; we are getting 
 more for our thirds than people used to get for their 
 firsts ; we even have a chance to sell our culls at a 
 good price to a vinegar factory ; the indications are 
 that after all the orchard will yield a larger cash 
 return than in any year of its existence, except last 
 year, when we had a bumper crop of clean fruit 
 and got top prices. Looking at things in that way 
 I guess I can squeeze out a little thankfulness for 
 the 20th after all. Then there is the young orchard. 
 First let me grumble. The young trees came late 
 in the spring; they were all dried out, and wise 
 people said they would not grow; I was so late 
 getting them planted and getting the ground thor- 
 oughly cultivated, that I did not get the corn planted 
 
 266 
 
THANKSGIVING DAY 
 
 between the rows until the middle of June. Now 
 let us look at the other side. Over ninety per cent 
 of the trees grew and put out a strong growth. The 
 nurserymen did not ask to he paid except for those 
 that grew. The corn escaped the frost and ripened 
 splendidly. It is now being husked, and is proving 
 to be the best crop of corn that has been on the farm 
 in years. Tut, Tut! It looks as if I would eat 
 
 those ducks in a cheerful spirit after all. 
 
 * * « * 
 
 There are times when I think that a spirit of 
 thankfulness is born in one rather than cultivated. 
 When looking at things in this way I find it profit- 
 able to study the animals on the place. Somehow 
 they seem to be very human in their emotions. 
 
 Their feelings are not complicated by efforts at 
 reasoning, and in their every day conduct they re- 
 veal their true spirits most amazingly. Take the 
 Red Cow for instance. Nothing seems to discourage 
 her. She is too full of ambition to grumble about 
 anything. If she doesn’t manage to steal a march on 
 me to-day she is quite sure that she will be able to 
 do it to-morrow, and that keeps her in a constantly 
 cheerful frame of mind. This year she had set her 
 heart on getting into the corn field which was just 
 
 267 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 across the fence from the pasture, but never once 
 did she find an open gate or a break in the fence. 
 She saw it grow from the first green sprouts to 
 matured corn and never got a bite. It is now in 
 the shock and being husked, but she still stretches 
 her neck over the fence in the same hopeful way. 
 She is going to get a feed out of that field before 
 the year is out or know the reason why. Even if 
 she doesn’t manage it before the stalks are hauled 
 in she’ll find a gate open before the snow falls, and 
 dig up the roots that were left by the hoe before 
 she will give up her purpose. A cow like that is 
 really an inspiration on the farm. 
 
 She was born that way and life always looks bright 
 to her, because she always has something to hope 
 for. Now, with the new cow, the one I bought, the 
 case is entirely different. She must have come into 
 the world feeling discouraged. She has faith in 
 nothing, hopes for nothing, and is always in a 
 mournful frame of mind. Though she gets all the 
 pumpkins she can eat and a good bunch of corn 
 stalks every night, she simply can’t cheer up. When 
 we open the pasture gate the Red Cow makes a rush 
 for the stable and gets into the wrong stall and 
 eats all she can of some other cow’s feed before 
 
 268 
 
THANKSGIVING DAY 
 
 she is driven to her place. But the new cow stands 
 mournfully in the pasture. It is quite true that there 
 were pumpkins last night and the night before and 
 many nights before that, but she knows there will be 
 none to-night and she bawls dismally at the thought. 
 Finally some one has to go out into the field and 
 drive her in, and when she gets to her stall she no 
 sooner starts to eat than she looks over at what 
 the other cows are having, and as well as she can 
 with her mouth full, bawls complainingly that she 
 didn’t get as much as the rest, or that her pumpkins 
 are not as yellow as the others. There is no satis- 
 fying her because she was born that way. It’ll be 
 the same on the 20th of October as on all other 
 days. I wonder how many people in the country 
 will be like her? As for me, I think I’ll put a 
 pumpkin just beyond the red cow’s reach and culti- 
 vate a cheerful spirit while watching the hopeful 
 way she will go after it. 
 
 269 
 
LXXII. — September Notes 
 
 D ID you ever stop (slap!) to consider the 
 the mosquito? Did it ever occur to you 
 that if a boy had an appetite in propor- 
 tion to his size like that of a mosquito 
 (slap!) he would eat a whole ox at a meal? Perhaps 
 you think a mosquito too small a thing to occupy 
 your thoughts. If so (slap!) you have another 
 guess coming. Until science made a few epoch- 
 making discoveries the mosquito prevented some of 
 the mightiest works. Because it carries the germs 
 of yellow fever it delayed the building of the Panama 
 canal for years and increased the cost of all kinds 
 of public works. By carrying the germs of malaria 
 and giving people the ague it made the clearing 
 of many parts of Canada doubly hard. ( Slap ! 
 slap!) And this year it is a temper-rousing, sleep- 
 destroying pest. With every cow-track full of water 
 it has breeding places everywhere and you can hear 
 its hum wherever you go. (Slap! Missed again!) 
 Even though we have screens on the windows and 
 
 270 
 
SEPTEMBER NOTES 
 
 doors we cannot keep them out of the house because 
 they come in riding on people’s backs while waiting 
 for a chance to bite. And did you ever consider 
 how naturally mean the mosquito is? Not content 
 with driving its beak into a fellow it injects a poison 
 and possibly some disease germs. Of all created 
 things the mosquito is about the most useless and 
 irritating. Its snarling hum — (Slap! Whoop! Got 
 him that time and now I can talk about something 
 else.) 
 
 * * * * 
 
 About the first sign of fall is to have the cattle 
 get into new fields. During the earlier months they 
 are confined to the pasture but as the crops are 
 taken off they are allowed a wider range. As soon 
 as they find a new field open to them they rush into 
 it as eagerly as if they were getting into mischief 
 and do not rest until they have wandered to every 
 corner. Even though the new field may offer them 
 many bits of good pasture they do not stop to 
 eat them but go around the fences and poke their 
 heads through wires to get what they can from the 
 adjoining field. The pasture they have never seems 
 to satisfy them. It is the pasture in the other field 
 that interests them. In this they are very human. 
 
 271 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 But giving them a wider range makes the chore 
 of bringing them home at milking time more im- 
 portant and this summer I undertook to train Sheppj 
 to the work with a rather peculiar result. As he 
 is a pure-bred sheep dog he always goes to the 
 farthest off in the bunch as soon as he is sent after 
 them. This is usually enough to start the herd 
 towards the barn and as soon as he has started them 
 I call him off so that he walks quietly behind them. 
 When the cattle became used to being brought home 
 by Sheppy they apparently learned something. The 
 dog is usually wandering away somewhere with the 
 children and when I need him I have to whistle for 
 him. During the past couple of weeks as soon as 
 I began to whistle for Sheppy the cows started for 
 the barn. Now I can get them home whether the 
 dog is around or not simply by whistling. All of 
 which goes to show that old Fenceviewer I. and her 
 progeny are not like other cows. 
 
LXXIII. — “The Demon Rabbitf* 
 
 I AM almost convinced that there is, or was, 
 a demon rabbit in this neighbourhood. You 
 all know the stories that come from far coun- 
 tries about ghostly tigers and phantom lions 
 that seem to bear charmed lives, and to be invulner- 
 able to the bullets of the most skilled marksman. 
 According to the talented liars who tell the stories 
 they are the actual bodies of dead and gone lions 
 and tigers that “revisit the glimpses of the moon” 
 to torment hunters. The rabbit I have been having 
 experiences with seems to be of this kind. He ap- 
 pears in the open with insulting indifference, and 
 so far we have no evidence that he has been seriously 
 injured by our attempts to get him. But before 
 proceeding with my story perhaps I had better say 
 a few words to put myself on the right side of the 
 law. I have a hazy recollection that the game laws 
 protect rabbits, but I make my appeal to an older 
 code which asserts that “self-protection is the first 
 law of Nature.” I do not mean this in the sense 
 
 273 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 in which it was used by the sheep thief, who, when 
 caught red-handed, protested indignantly, “I’ll kill 
 every doggoned sheep that tries to bite me.” I 
 am not afraid that the rabbits will bite me, but, 
 besides the young orchard, between two and three 
 thousand seedling forest trees have been planted in 
 the wood-lot and I do not want to have them all 
 girdled. Game laws or no game laws, we have been 
 obliged to begin a war of extermination against the 
 rabbits on the place. Perhaps that is why we are 
 
 being tormented by this unshootable rabbit. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 For some weeks past a particularly large rabbit 
 has been reported almost every day as crossing the 
 road into the hedge and heading towards the orchard. 
 At different times when I was driving to the post- 
 office he squatted by the fence and stared at me. He 
 seemed so tame that I thought we would have no 
 trouble with him until the boys had missed him a 
 few times. Then I took the rifle and went after him 
 myself. Of course I do not claim to be an unerring 
 marksman, but still my record for picking off such 
 small game as English sparrows is fairly good and 
 in trying for rabbits during the fall I did not make 
 many misses and I never had such a chance as I 
 
 274 
 
“THE DEMON RABBIT” 
 
 have had at the demon. The first morning I went 
 after him I spied him sitting up on his hind legs 
 at the corner of a stack. It Was as pretty a shot 
 as a pot hunter could ask for, and as we were 
 treating rabbits as vermin rather than as game, I 
 felt no scruples about the lack of sportsmanship 
 in shooting at him when standing still. As a matter 
 of fact I am not sure but it is entirely sportsmanlike 
 to shoot at a standing rabbit with the rifle. I never 
 managed to stop but one with a bullet when it was 
 on the run and the attempts I have made since have 
 convinced me that that shot was an accident. Any- 
 way, Mr. Rabbit was sitting up offering a provokingly 
 good target when I drew a bead on him and fired. Zip ! 
 He whirled and disappeared around the stack in two 
 jumps. As I approached the place where he had been 
 standing I saw something floating in the air and 
 grabbed it. It proved to be a bunch of rabbit fur and 
 on the ground where he had been there was a lot 
 more. Next day I found him squatted beside the 
 trunk of an apple tree, took deliberate aim and 
 fired. Just one jump and a little white tail flirted 
 saucily under a rail fence and disappeared. On the 
 ground where he had been standing I found enough 
 rabbit fur to stuff a pin-cushion, evidently I had 
 
 275 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 made another of those near-hits. Next day we were 
 driving past the place where I had shot at him and 
 one of the boys was carrying the rifle. Suddenly, I 
 spied Mr. Rabbit among some tall grass under the 
 roadside fence. Grabbing the gun I took careful 
 aim and fired once more. He seemed to be badly 
 frightened, but that was all, and this time there 
 was enough fur where he had been sitting to stuff 
 two pin-cushions. I couldn’t have been more than 
 a rod from him this time and it hardly seems possible 
 that if he were a normal rabbit that I shouldn’t have 
 hit him fair and square. However, he hasn’t been 
 seen since and it is just possible that he decided 
 that things were getting a little too hot for him. If 
 he appears again I think I shall have to try him 
 with a silver bullet for that is said to be the only 
 thing that will kill a demon of this kind. But per- 
 haps, instead of using the silver to shoot with I 
 should offer a quarter to a boy who is a better shot 
 than I am to get him for me. Anyway, I have no 
 need to fear the game wardens about this rabbit for 
 I did no more to him than the Western desperado 
 did to the Tenderfoot. I just shot him through the 
 thin places around the edges. And yet — and yet — 
 it is just possible that it was not my bullets that 
 
 276 
 
“THE DEMON RABBIT” 
 
 knocked out the fur after all. This may be the 
 season of the year when rabbits are changing their 
 hair and he might have been merely attending to 
 his toilet when I disturbed him by shooting at him. 
 But demon or no demon, we must get him before he 
 gets the little trees. 
 
luXXlV . — The Fate of “The Demon Rabbit” 
 
 T HE demon rabbit is no more, and the man- 
 ner of his passing is as mysterious as any- 
 thing else in his enchanted life. As nearly 
 I can determine he died of heart disease 
 or from rupturing an artery through sudden fright. 
 This is how it happened. A couple of days after 
 my last futile shot at him I was driving to the 
 village. After turning out of the lane I came to 
 the spot haunted by the rabbit, and there he was 
 “as big as life and twice as natural.” He was sitting 
 under a branch that had been blown from an apple 
 tree about a rod from the road. The three younger 
 children were with me, and as soon as they saw him 
 they began to yell, but he never wiggled an ear. 
 Pulling up the horse I looked at him carefully, and 
 seeing that he showed no signs of moving I yelled 
 at the top of my voice for a boy to come with the 
 rifle. Still the rabbit did not stir. I had to yell 
 four or five times before the boy heard me, and 
 though I made a noise that roused the echoes over 
 
 278 
 
THE FATE OF “THE DEMON RABBIT” 
 
 half the township the rabbit sat where he was. It 
 took the boy fully five minutes to come with the 
 rifle, and in the meantime the children and I were 
 all talking at once while the demon sat and listened. 
 Only when the boy was within a few rods of the 
 buggy did he show any signs of nervousness. He 
 slapped his hind feet on the snow a couple of times 
 and I thought he was going to run, but he quieted 
 down again. Then I drove on, for the horse is 
 inclined to be gun-shy, and the boy dropped on one 
 knee in the most approved Theodore Roosevelt 
 fashion and took aim. When he fired the rabbit 
 gave a jump that sent the snow flying and loped 
 away across the orchard. The boy complained bit- 
 terly because I had not held the horse and allowed 
 him to take a rest on the hind wheel of the buggy, 
 and, while I watched the rabbit disappearing, I made 
 a few restrained remarks appropriate to the oc- 
 casion. But just as he was passing out of sight 
 he suddenly jumped into the air, fell to the ground, 
 kicked wildly and then lay still. I sent the boy 
 running to where he was, and he picked up Mr. 
 Rabbit stone dead. Then we proceeded to examine 
 him. The first thing we noticed was a round bullet 
 >hole through his right ear that was partly healed. 
 
 279 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 Across his back there was a furrow through his 
 fur, and a long scab where a bullet had raked him. 
 Under his chin there was a similar furrow and scab. 
 Beyond a doubt he was the rabbit from which I had 
 been knocking the fur. But what mystified us com- 
 pletely was the fact that we could not find a mark 
 to show where the last bullet had hit him. Not a 
 sign of blood or a wound could we find. After I 
 got back from the village I held a post mortem on 
 that rabbit, and though he was full of blood, having 
 bled internally, the closest examination could not 
 discover a trace of a wound. He must have ruptured 
 a blood-vessel in his wild jumping. In no other way 
 can I account for his sudden taking off. Of course 
 the boy was anxious to prove that he had hit the 
 rabbit, but he was unable to find a bullet mark 
 any more than I was. And now there is something 
 else to prove that he was not an ordinary rabbit. 
 When I passed his haunts yesterday I saw two more 
 rabbits. Isn’t that the popular belief about evil 
 things? If you kill one two more will come to 
 take his place. Now I am going after the two new 
 rabbits to see if four will come to take their place. 
 I tried the rifle on some English sparrows at the 
 granary and find that my shooting eye is just as 
 
 280 
 
THE FATE OF “THE DEMON RABBIT” 
 
 good as ever. Surely if I can hit such little targets 
 as sparrows I should not miss rabbits if they are 
 of mortal breed. Altogether it is a great mystery, 
 and, in a more superstitious age, the incident would 
 have given rise to a myth, but in this sceptical age 
 I suppose most people will explain the matter by 
 insinuating that we are a family of poor shots. Yet 
 the boy and I can both pick off sparrows just as 
 easy as easy. 
 
 281 
 
LX XV . — My Friends ■, the Trees 
 
 N EAR the house there is a sturdy oak tree 
 that I always think of as one of the 
 oldest of my friends. I grew up with it. 
 Of course, that is not exactly true, for 
 I stopped growing many years ago while it kept 
 on growing, and it may keep on growing for cen- 
 turies to come. But when I was a growing boy 
 it was just the right kind of a tree for me to chum 
 with. It was not too big to climb, and yet it was 
 big enough to take me on its back and carry me into 
 all the dreamlands of childhood. Among its whis- 
 pering branches I found lands as wonderful as Jack 
 climbed to on his beanstalk. And it had a stout 
 right arm that was strong enough to hold up a swing 
 on which I swung and dreamed for more hours than 
 the teachers of to-day would consider right. When 
 it whispered to me I whispered to it, and told it more 
 secrets than I have ever told any one in the world. 
 It became a part of my life, and no matter how far I 
 wandered in later years my thoughts would always 
 
 282 
 
MY FRIENDS, THE TREES 
 
 return to the tree in times of sickness and trouble. 
 I always felt that I would be well and happy again 
 if I could only get back to the tree and throw myself 
 at full length on the grass that it shaded and listen 
 to its never-ending gossip with the breezes that are 
 forever visiting it. At last I came back from the 
 outer world and made my home beside the tree. 
 During my absence it had pushed up higher and had 
 spread its branches wider, but it was still the same 
 companionable tree. The grass still made a carpet 
 over its roots, inviting me to sprawl at full length 
 and renew our voiceless communion. While I was 
 away I may have learned some things, but the tree 
 had been in harmony with the universe from the 
 moment it began to emerge from the acorn, and 
 
 knew all that I so sorely needed to learn. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Although the oak is my particular friend among 
 the trees on the farm, there are others with which 
 I can claim at least an acquaintanceship. There is a 
 maple at the edge of the wood-lot that always makes 
 me feel uncomfortable, because I have a feeling that 
 it has a joke on me. It stands on what would be 
 called rising ground — which means an elevation that 
 does not deserve to be called a hill — and while lying 
 
 283 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 on the grass in its shade I can see over several 
 farms to the south and east. It used to be a favourite 
 of my boyhood, and once I composed a poem while 
 lying in its shade. If you bear in mind the fact 
 that I was seventeen years of age at the time you 
 will understand why the tree has a joke on me. Here 
 is the only stanza I can remember of the little poem 
 I composed to express the “unmannerly sadness” of 
 youth. 
 
 It long has been my cherished hope 
 Upon my dying day 
 To lie down on some sunny slope 
 And dream my life away. 
 
 At that age I could not have cherished the hope 
 so very long? and the old tree must have chuckled 
 to its last twig at my absurdity. Anyway, I never 
 see the tree without recalling that wretched stanza, 
 and I immediately hurry away to some other part 
 of the woods. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 But there is one tree on the place with which I 
 can never establish a feeling of intimacy. It is the 
 one remaining specimen of the original forest — a 
 giant maple over three feet in diameter, whose spread- 
 
 284 ! 
 
MY FRIENDS, THE TREES 
 
 ing top rises far above the other trees in the wood- 
 lot. Even though it stands beside the public road, 
 it seems to retain some touch of the shyness of the 
 wilderness, and does not invite the fellowship of man. 
 Its first branches are so high in the air that it 
 has never been profaned by the most venturesome 
 climbers, and its great roots start out from the 
 trunk in a way that seems to thrust back all attempts 
 at familiarity. The second growth maples by which 
 it is surrounded appear to be domesticated by com- 
 parison with this wildling, and when they are tapped 
 at sugar-making time they yield sap as lavishly as 
 a dairy cow gives milk. But the giant gives grudg- 
 ingly, as if it resented the wound it had received. Its 
 companionship seems to be with the wildest winds and 
 storms, that alone have the power to rouse its huge 
 branches to motion. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 I sometimes wonder that I should be fond of trees, 
 for when I was a boy trees were regarded almost as 
 enemies. The land had to be cleared of them before 
 crops could be sown, and they multiplied the labour 
 of the pioneers. I learned to swing an axe by cutting 
 down saplings, and ran “amuck” among them just 
 as my elders did among the larger trees. In those 
 
 285 
 
THE RED COW 
 
 far days trees were things to be destroyed, and no 
 one thought of sparing them. But when I came back 
 to the farm and found that the noble forest had 
 dwindled to a small wood-lot that had no young 
 trees in it — because the cattle had nibbled down all 
 seedlings for many years — I was seized by a rage 
 for planting. Finding that the government was 
 willing to supply seedlings to any one who would 
 plant them out, I immediately began the work of 
 reforestation and planted thousands so that when 
 the present trees mature and are cut out there will 
 be others to take their place. These little trees are 
 now thriving lustily, but they seem to regard me 
 with an air of aloofness, and I feel when among 
 them as if they were looking at me furtively and 
 trying to decide whether I am to be trusted. Per- 
 haps there is still a tradition in the wood-lot of the 
 havoc I wrought in my youth with just such tender 
 saplings as these. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Yesterday while I was sitting at some distance 
 from the home oak, admiring the curved spread of 
 its branches, a bare-foot boy came out of the house. 
 Without seeing me he walked straight to the tree 
 and then looked up at its inviting branches. After 
 
 286 
 
MY FRIENDS, THE TREES 
 
 a while he got a piece of a rail and placed it against 
 the trunk. Then with clutching fingers and spread- 
 ing toes he worked his way up to the lowest branch. 
 Through the higher branches he clambered as if 
 going up a ladder, and finally when he found one to 
 his liking he bestrode it, with his back to the trunk, 
 and looked away to the south. For a long time, 
 with childish gravity, he gave himself up to the 
 “long, long thoughts” of a boy. At last his eyes 
 began to rove around and presently they rested on 
 me, where I was watching him. He laughed in a 
 shame-faced way as if he had been surprised in doing 
 something that he would have kept secret, but I 
 laughed back joyously and we understood. I am 
 glad that there is another of my name who will love 
 the old oak and the other trees and to whom they 
 will perhaps give their friendship even more fully 
 than they have given it to me. 
 
 287