3 1822 01171 0191 
 
 THE REAL DIARY OF 
 
 THE WORST FARMER 
 
 HEJSRT A. SHUTE
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 CALIFORNIA 
 SAN OJEGO
 
 , 
 
 u 7f 019-f 
 
 P5
 
 THE REAL DIARY OF THE 
 WORST FARMER
 
 Holding our arms outspread, we gradually got him 
 in a corner (page 38)
 
 THE REAL DIARY OF 
 THE WORST FARMER 
 
 BY 
 HENRY A. SHUTE 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 B. MORGAN DENNIS 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 The Riverside Press Cambridge 
 1920
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY HENRY A. SHUTB 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 I DEDICATE this book to amateur farmers, wherever located, and in 
 particular to professional and salaried men who are fortunate enough 
 to possess, by prescription, deed of purchase, lease, discovery, or squatter 
 sovereignty, enclosed or improved land sufficient for a farm or garden, 
 or for the raising of domestic animals. 
 
 And I say to each and every one of this class that you who have 
 inherited a love for the soil and an affection for domestic animals are 
 fortunate. And I believe that a love for the soil and a keen interest in 
 domestic animals may be acquired by you who have not inherited it. 
 
 Actual money profit may not result, either from the cultivation of 
 the soil, or from raising your own pork, eggs, poultry, or milk, but the 
 greatest pleasure and satisfaction may be derived from an interest in 
 such pursuits, which, after all, is the main point. 
 
 Your wife may at times, and justly, greet you with marked coldness 
 on your return from the office, owing to some lack of unanimity hi re 
 gard to the frescoing of the ceiling in the guest room, or the laying of hard 
 wood floors in the front hall; your daughter may resent your justifiable 
 criticism of the length or rather the brevity of her skirts, or the diaph 
 anous nature of her hosiery, and may not, on that account, welcome 
 your return with the outspoken affection of childhood; your son may feel 
 aggrieved over your frank comment as to his taste in neckties or ciga 
 rettes, and may manifest a disconcerting coolness at the reunion, but 
 you may be absolutely sure that your horse will turn its head, prick up 
 its ears, and whinny with delight at your approach, your cow moo like 
 the bassoon in the orchestra and lick your hands with her rough tongue, 
 your pig twist its curly tail still tighter and twinkle its little piggy eyes 
 with delight, and your sheep bleat and press its woolly form against 
 your knees in welcome. 
 
 And whatever you raise of crops or supplies will be yours, and so much 
 more of the world s supply, a satisfaction in itself. 
 
 "Something attempted, something done, 
 Has earned a night s repose." 
 
 HENBY A. SHUTE 
 Exeter, New Hampshire 
 February 10, 1920
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Holding our arms outspread, we gradually got him in a 
 Corner Frontispiece 
 
 I can throw a heavy coal hod, filled with hot and blinding 
 ashes, to afar greater altitude than any man half my age 2 
 
 Their arrival spoke very plainly of summer 62 
 
 / landed in somewhat the position of a small boy after 
 trying an unscientific cartwheel 120 
 
 Got one shot to-day at a Maltese Tom 154 
 
 Pacing solemnly along in their best clothes 158 
 
 7 could n t tell her that I would as soon feed pigs with rat 
 poison 180 
 
 / tried my new axe to-day 248 
 
 I don t dare to think what my pork will cost me a pound 262 
 7 handed him a most unchristian wallop 266 
 
 7 still have my pork barrel 276 
 
 Drawn by MORGAN DENNIS
 
 THE REAL DIARY OF THE 
 WORST FARMER 
 
 Sunday., March 10, 191-. Heard a bluebird to 
 day. In spite of my great age (I am on the sunny 
 side of sixty) the note of the bluebird always 
 awakens a thrill that carries me back to my boy 
 hood. One is sure to hear a bluebird several times 
 before one sees it, and this year was no exception. 
 I heard the musical warble as I came up through 
 the bulkhead from the furnace room with a hod of 
 ashes. 
 
 It is one of the charmingly informal duties in 
 cidental to my residence in a country town, and 
 to the somewhat limited income of a country 
 attorney and counsellor-at-law, to commence the 
 day with a hand-to-hand struggle with the fur 
 nace fire. 
 
 The open season on furnaces is from October 
 to May. In the language of the lawyer it is from 
 on or about the first day of October to on or about 
 the first day of the ensuing May. 
 
 This elastic description allows for the uncer 
 tainty of our New England climate which is 
 
 "Variable as the shade 
 By the light quivering aspen made."
 
 2 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 But for a full seven months in the year I shovel 
 coal, and thriftily sift ashes, and painfully and 
 daily climb out of the furnace room with huge 
 hods of ashes that represent an enormous daily 
 consumption of coal, with somewhat negligible 
 results in the way of heat (so my wife says), and 
 dump the same in a growing heap just off the 
 driveway. 
 
 There is a somewhat fascinating element of 
 chance in my daily emergence from the furnace 
 room. If snow has fallen heavily or the drip from 
 the eaves has frozen during the night, I find it 
 practically impossible to lift the bulkhead doors 
 from below, even though I hump myself to my 
 utmost. To secure peaceful egress I am obliged to 
 go out by the side door and to remove the ob 
 struction by the timely assistance of snow-shovel, 
 ice-chisel, or hot water. 
 
 Occasionally articles foreign to a bulkhead are 
 left there, and after straining every nerve in a 
 bloodvessel-bursting effort to lift the bulkhead 
 doors, I find, on further examination, a misplaced 
 cord of wood, or the rear wheels of a heavy cart, 
 or a mammoth pile of unbeaten rugs resting 
 peacefully on my only direct communication with 
 the open air. 
 
 Even when I have succeeded in blazing a trail 
 from the furnace room to the ashpile I am by no 
 means confident of success. The decline from the
 
 I can throw a heavy coal hod, filled with hot and blinding 
 ashes, to a far greater altitude than any man half my age
 
 Senile Gymnastics 3 
 
 bulkhead to the driveway is ofttimes slippery 
 from ice and frost, and accidents, terrible acci 
 dents, will happen. And yet there is an element 
 of profound satisfaction in these accidents, pain 
 ful and humiliating though they be. This is at 
 least one of the accomplishments in which I am 
 proud to say I am far more expert than in my 
 youth and young manhood. I can fall quicker, 
 more frequently, and with far greater violence, 
 and injure myself much more fatally than I ever 
 could when a young man. And I can, I am sure, 
 throw a heavy coal hod, rilled with hot and blind 
 ing ashes, to a far greater altitude than any man 
 half my age, and receive a greater proportion of 
 the contents upon my person than any man in 
 the neighborhood, and, I believe, in the town, 
 county, or state. 
 
 Let me see, I believe I was talking about a 
 bluebird. Well, I heard one to-day. 
 
 Monday, March 11, 191-. I heard that bluebird 
 again this morning and experienced the same 
 thrill, although I had, but a few minutes before, 
 made the horrifying discovery that my furnace 
 fire had gone west during the night, and I was 
 steeped in coal dust to my ears, and abraded, 
 from clinkers, to my elbows. 
 
 None the less I was thrilled at the delightful 
 sound, but with the sole difference that the thrill
 
 4 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 was less permanent, and as Alexander Selkirk is 
 supposed to have remarked in smoothly flowing 
 measures 
 
 "But alas! recollection at hand 
 Soon hurries me back to despair." 
 
 So I craned my neck until it creaked, looked and 
 listened until more sordid duties called me, but 
 did not see the bluebird. But I saw the sun com 
 ing up above the huge, naked elms to the east of 
 my house and turning the frost to gems of silver 
 and gold, and I heard the bluebird. 
 
 Tuesday, March 12, 191-. This morning was cold 
 and raw and overcast. I did not hear the blue 
 bird. I feel as if I have made no progress whatso 
 ever and that the future is the reverse of roseate. 
 I feel very much as did the agricultural gentle 
 man who admonished his hired man as follows: 
 
 "Terday s Monday, n termorrer s Tewsday, 
 and th next day is Wednesday. Haff the week 
 gone an not a dummed thing did." 
 
 There are few sadder sounds than the scraping 
 of a shovel on the floor of a practically empty coal 
 bin. I must order some more coal. 
 
 Wednesday, March 13, 191-. The sun came out 
 this afternoon and I saw three crows slowly fly 
 ing northward. I am sure they are the same crows 
 I have seen all winter, but there seemed to be
 
 The Bluebird 5 
 
 something springlike in their hoarse voices. I sup 
 pose spring is really coming, but its effect upon 
 joints rusted through age is extremely slow. Still 
 it is a most hopeful sign to hear a bluebird. I 
 wish I might see the little chap. 
 
 Thursday, March 14, 191-. Spring has surely 
 come, for this morning I saw that bluebird. He 
 was inspecting a hole in the limb of an apple tree 
 in the garden and warbling as if he liked his job. 
 Of course he will not bring his mate and build 
 there. Bluebirds seldom do build in the tenements 
 they examine so carefully in early spring. He 
 praises the view from the front window, and in 
 quires if the roof is tight and whether or not the 
 chimney will draw, but he seldom moves in. As 
 he warbles I can almost hear him say, "Of course 
 you will paper and paint all the rooms and mo- 
 resco the ceilings, and put hardwood floors in all 
 the rooms on the lower floor and in the two front 
 chambers, and, let me see, we must have electric 
 ity in place of, or rather in addition to, gas, to 
 run the vacuum cleaner, and the range must be 
 thoroughly overhauled and the furnace gone 
 over, and oh, I forgot, the coils are a disgrace and 
 must be gilded or silvered and the front steps 
 must be painted in some attractive color." 
 
 Of course I am ready to promise anything if he 
 will lease the tenement for the season, but I am
 
 6 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 convinced that he will not. Later on he will bring 
 his mate and she will want everything that he 
 forgot, all of which I will readily promise. But in 
 the end he and his mate will nest in a hole in a 
 pasture post or in a dead apple tree there. They 
 are the most indefatigable, delightful, and wholly 
 unreliable house-hunters of the birds. 
 
 Later the robin will come and lease a crotch in 
 a limb, a projection under the porch or a hollow 
 at the apex of a bent branch, and build his adobe 
 hut while the bluebirds are still house-hunting; 
 the chippy will engage quarters in the pear tree, 
 the crabapple tree, or the cherry tree, and build 
 its shallow nest of the long hairs from a cow s tail. 
 
 They ask little of their landlord but the right 
 to build, upholster, and furnish their tenements. 
 
 The golden robins arrive still later at about 
 apple-blossom time, realizing, of course, that 
 there is little competition with any other family 
 of birds for the bending tips of lofty branches 
 where they build. All they ask is a tall elm, a 
 gracefully bending branch, and a supply of yarn, 
 twine, and ravelled clothesline. With these they 
 are content and grateful. They do not refuse 
 other articles that may be woven tastefully into 
 their nests, such as a bit of honiton guipure or 
 honiton applique, Valenciennes, or real Irish lace, 
 a silken garter, a billet-doux, a promissory note 
 or a two-dollar bill.
 
 A March Storm 7 
 
 But I am really getting far ahead of the season. 
 It is March and snow is still deep in the woods. 
 Truly one swallow may not make a summer, but 
 one bluebird will awake a host of memories. 
 
 Friday, March 15, 191-. A damp, heavy snow is 
 falling. The bluebird has departed, temporarily, 
 I hope. The snow has brought the jays from the 
 depths of the woods. I do not know the reason, 
 but a damp snow usually brings out the jays. A 
 score of them are screaming in a big oak tree 
 behind the house. 
 
 The storm will be brief, for a long storm keeps 
 them in the deep woods. 
 
 I am thinking of farming a bit this spring and 
 summer. I tried it several years ago for a year 
 and derived the greatest pleasure and mental 
 and physical benefit possible from it. I gladdened 
 the hearts of dealers in seeds, bulbs, cuttings, 
 immature trees and shrubs, sulky ploughs, lawn- 
 mowers, potato-diggers, hoes, rakes, shovels, in 
 cubators, plain and fancy fowls, vermifuges, de 
 odorizers, caponizers, blooded cattle, rat poisons, 
 ferrets, mangel-wurzels, and root crops of all 
 kinds and natures. 
 
 I furnished a target for shafts of bucolic wit 
 from every rural acquaintance, and finally I wrote 
 a book about it which I have never been able to 
 find in any standard library since.
 
 8 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 But I hacfa good time and spent a good deal of 
 money, which, as it was my own and honestly 
 earned, is no business of any one but myself and 
 the members of my own family. 
 
 Farm fever is very like hen fever*and the effect 
 of undue familiarity with poison ivy. Once con 
 tracted it is recurrent. I really believe I feel the 
 symptoms. 
 
 Saturday, March 16, 191-. It cleared at dusk 
 last night and grew colder. This morning a bit 
 ter, searching wind is thrashing the dark green 
 branches of the pines and firs and sending down 
 showers of needles and cones. Not a bird in sight. 
 Even the English sparrows are hidden under the 
 eaves in the deserted pigeon and poultry houses. 
 My symptoms of farm fever have abated. I am 
 morally certain that the bluebird has fallen a 
 victim of his unseasonable visit. 
 
 The wind is due north and from the heart of an 
 iceberg. I have an extra supply of ashes this 
 morning and hurry to the ash pile to escape the 
 bitter cold. I have wound a knitted scarf around 
 my neck. It is my daughter s scarf. She should 
 not have left it in the kitchen. I hurry across the 
 driveway, passing under a wire clothesline. The 
 wind whips the ends of my scarf around the line 
 and ties them in a hard knot. I am suddenly 
 plucked into the air by the neck. My heels are
 
 A Hod of Ashes in a High Wind 9 
 
 higher than my head and the hod higher than 
 my heels. I instantly disappear in a swirling 
 cloud of coal ashes. I strongly resemble a whoop 
 ing crane emerging from a silvery cloud on a 
 Japanese fire screen. 
 
 When the mists have cleared away I find my 
 self firmly tethered by the neck to the wire like 
 a bulldog or a halter-pulling horse, while my 
 hat and the hod are merrily bounding across the 
 field in a neck-and-neck race, preceded by a di 
 minishing cloud of ashes. I disengage my neck 
 with vast difficulty and gingerly|try it to see if 
 it is broken. It is not. Merely elongated a bit. 
 In time it will probably shrink into shape. But 
 I no longer think of farming. 
 
 I wish I lived in a city in the heart of a com 
 munity heating plant. 
 
 Sunday, March 17, 191-. It is Sunday and warm 
 and the bluebird is back. Indeed I have seen 
 two. When I tried amateur farming a few years 
 ago I looked forward to Sunday as a sort of 
 clean-up day. I always gave my cow and horses 
 an extra rubdown and extra feed. I swept the 
 barn and the stable floor, occasionally washed 
 a buggy or soaped and oiled a harness, and in 
 short had a good time. 
 
 I always timed myself so accurately that when 
 the church bells burst into a joyous carillon, and
 
 10 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 sober citizens in black and citizenesses in brave 
 array, leading, preceded, or followed by sulky- 
 faced and rebellious-eyed boys in knickers, Eton 
 collars, and shoes of wondrous sheen, and little 
 girls in white and lace, with plump legs uphol 
 stered with short stockings and embossed with 
 mosquito - bites, and carrying Sunday - School 
 Quarterlies and Day springs under their arms, 
 are pacing solemnly to church, and my wife and 
 daughter, clad in rich, expensive, and plain but ele 
 gant frocks (if either of these ladies ever reads 
 this diary, I shall pay dearly for this), I am cov 
 ered with dust, dirt, wheelgrease, or harness oil, 
 unwashed, unshaven, and ready with persuasive 
 assurances that I did n t do it purposely, but 
 really there were so many things to do and I 
 did n t feel able to hire a man to do them, for if 
 I did they could n t dress as well, which argu 
 ment always sends them off stiff -legged with in 
 dignation and closes the conference. 
 
 It was wrong, very wrong. That my religious 
 training forces me to admit. But it was very de 
 lightful. A sunny day in March with the remain 
 ing snow melting in the sun, a bluebird warbling, 
 a hen cackling in the hen yard, a cow with her 
 head thrust out of a barn window lowing her 
 delight at the returning spring what is more 
 delightful? The mud may be inches deep; the 
 grass dead, gray and soaked ; the garden a tangle
 
 11 
 
 of last year s weeds; but the sun and the sounds 
 and the smell of the earth, and the little gray 
 bird that threads the maze of dead grasses like a 
 sprite make one s heart as light as a boy s. 
 
 To-day I opened all the barn doors. They had 
 not been opened all winter. It was mouldy in 
 smell, and dry and dead and dismal at first, but 
 in a short time the sun and fresh air had made a 
 wonderful change. I really think that old houses 
 and barns die of grief when left untenanted. Why 
 not? I am sure I should. 
 
 The farm tools hung up in the harness room 
 and stored in corners seemed like old friends. 
 I have the symptoms, I am sure. I believe I will 
 try it. I may be able to do something at it. Why 
 not? Every farmer thinks he knows more law 
 than I do. I do not think a farmer ever came into 
 my office for advice but frankly admitted that 
 he knew more than I did about it. Quite a num 
 ber of farmers who have employed me in legal 
 matters have said openly and without reserva 
 tion that they would have done better to have 
 managed their affairs without my assistance. 
 
 One husbandman said I was too damned ex 
 pensive for him. I did n t quite catch his point 
 of view, for, inasmuch as he never paid me a 
 cent, it seemed to my somewhat opaque under 
 standing that he was too damned expensive for 
 me.
 
 12 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 Farmers are as a rule honest, hard-working, 
 shrewd, and able men. But they have some pe 
 culiar traits. I think as a rule the ordinary farmer 
 feels sure that the case he entrusts to his lawyer 
 is the only one that lawyer ever had or ever will 
 have. Three years or more ago a farmer, whom 
 I may not have seen before, enters my office and 
 takes advice as to the conveyance of a farm. To 
 make the title clear a third party must sign a 
 quitclaim deed. The party s name is Mary Jane 
 or Esther or Maude. Taking my instructions 
 from the farmer and my law from his superior 
 equipment, I draw the necessary papers and 
 make timid suggestions as to the proper execu 
 tion. He takes the papers back to his home, a 
 score of miles away, and the matter passes out 
 of my mind. At the end of the week I have for 
 gotten his existence. To-day, after the passing 
 of three busy years, he appears at my office and 
 imparts the information that Esther or Mary 
 Jane or Maude refuses to sign. 
 
 I am naturally somewhat at a loss to under 
 stand, and as he acts for all the world as if he 
 thought I was to blame for their refusal, I have 
 been known to ask somewhat profanely as to who 
 in hell Esther might be and what in hell she 
 refuses to sign. And I may, if I feel in the mood, 
 explain good-naturedly that I am sorry, but I 
 really don t quite know who he is and am com-
 
 Farmer Clients 13 
 
 pletely in the dark as to the identity of Mary Jane 
 or Esther or Maude. 
 
 The result is the same in either case, for he 
 emphatically declines to have any further busi 
 ness relations with a lawyer who has so poor a 
 memory as I have, and indignantly takes his af 
 fairs and those of Mary Jane or Esther or Maude 
 to a real lawyer for settlement. 
 
 Another thing of frequent occurrence is to have 
 a farmer drive up in a motor that I shouldn t 
 be able to buy and operate if I had no bills to 
 pay for the next ten years, and enter my office 
 at about 12.30, when I am just changing from my 
 office coat to go to my noon dinner. He enters 
 with a shrewd twinkle in his eye and with the 
 words, " I thought I would catch you before you 
 left for dinner." 
 
 I resume my office coat and he sits down with 
 the utmost deliberation. Then he brings out a 
 pile of bills and receipts and a probate account, 
 so mixed up that it requires a couple of hours 
 hard work to disentangle it, which is made more 
 difficult by the necessity of explaining every 
 thing and nearly going to the mat with him on 
 every point. 
 
 At the end of an hour, knowing that the chaste 
 frugality of my home dinner has been made more 
 so by the fact that the dinner is stone-cold and 
 my wife probably red-hot at my unexplained
 
 14 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 delay, I telephone her that I am delayed, which 
 really is rather stale news under the circumstances 
 and elicits a reply of marvellous coldness consider 
 ing her quite justifiable temperature, to the effect 
 that I might have had consideration enough to 
 have let her know earlier so that she might at 
 least have eaten her dinner while it was hot. 
 
 I am in a mood to reply warmly, but a quarrel 
 through a telephone is too much like making 
 faces at an enemy, and I have all I can do to 
 keep my temper with my client. 
 
 At the end of another hour I am tortured with 
 visions of juicy roasts, and fat fried oysters and 
 inch-thick steaks and French fried potatoes and 
 mince pie and cheese, coffee and cigarettes, and 
 I would give a dollar and a half for a drink of 
 water. 
 
 In a half -hour more black specks are floating 
 before my fevered eyes, my head is swimming 
 like a gyroscope, and I could n t for my life dis 
 tinguish a promissory note from the seventh com 
 mandment, and I call a halt and inform my client 
 that I must get a cup of coffee and a sandwich 
 before going on, and invite him to go to a restau 
 rant and have a social snack. 
 
 And when he attempts to dissuade me on the 
 ground that he is in a hurry, and it transpires 
 that at half -past eleven he ate a hearty dinner 
 because "he lowed t would take me consider-
 
 Am I to blame? 15 
 
 able spell tew wurk it aout n so he tuck his 
 dinner a bit arly so ez to ketch yeou afore yeou 
 started for yeourn," am I to blame for telling him 
 to take his damned account to hell with him? 
 Am I to blame? 
 
 And yet they say I lose business on account of 
 my ungovernable temper. 
 
 Monday, March 18, 191-. I got a seed catalogue 
 to-day. Is it merely a coincidence or can the 
 people that get up seed catalogues read a man s 
 mind? I wonder. At all events, I received by mail 
 a most ornate catalogue. To-night I will get a 
 chance to look it over. I have a half-dozen uncut 
 magazines and a new box of Pall Mall cigarettes. 
 I only smoke them on special occasions. The 
 receipt of a seed catalogue at this particular time 
 is a special occasion. I shall put aside the maga 
 zines and pay strict attention to the seed cata 
 logues and the cigarettes. 
 
 Tuesday, March 19, 191-. I believe I will begin by 
 buying pigs, b goshamity! I have read in a mag 
 azine of the tremendous scarcity of pork, and, 
 indeed, of all lubricants, due to war demand. 
 Indeed, it has come to such an acute stage that 
 people in France, Germany, and Belgium eat 
 soap whenever they can lay hands on a bit of it. 
 Owing to the skyrocketing of prices of pork,
 
 16 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 lard, and bacon, we may be in the same plight. It 
 does not seem to me that I could come to the 
 point of eating or inviting a friend or casual visi 
 tor or client to partake of a course of different 
 preparations of soap however appetizingly cooked 
 and served. 
 
 Still, one never knows what one can do under 
 the spur of compulsion. Time was when an olive 
 would pucker my mouth up until it resembled 
 the stem end of a tomato. Now I love them. It 
 was difficult for me to really relish salad oil or 
 salad dressing on quartered oranges or hothouse 
 grapes. Entre nous, I don t quite fancy it now, 
 but I can eat it with a smile when my back is 
 to the wall and there is no way out. 
 
 In spite of this I may enter a restaurant or 
 attend a banquet of 
 
 Queues de Coq carboliques 
 Soupe aux suds de Savon Mofi 
 
 Roti 
 
 Savon de Castile Roti au gout de la Reine 
 Entrees de Savon "It floats" et "Have you used Pears" 
 
 Salades 
 
 Au Cuticura, et Goudron Anticeptique 
 Suds Frapps de Savon Commun 
 
 Petits Gateaux de Savon 
 Demitasses de Savon Liquide 
 
 Now any man with a particle of Americanism 
 in his make-up will do anything to avoid such a 
 contingency, and never shall it be said that "I
 
 Pigpen Architecture 17 
 
 seen my duty and ain t done it." I will build a 
 pen and buy a pair of infant piglets and watch 
 them grow, and thus serve my country. 
 
 Wednesday, March 20, 191-. This morning I or 
 dered some boards, heavy wire, posts, spikes, and 
 wire nails to be delivered before noon. This after 
 noon I left the offices to my son and partner, who 
 is really a much better lawyer than I am, and has 
 a higher opinion of the value of the firm s serv 
 ices than has his father. So it is a pretty safe 
 bet to leave things to him. But when it comes to 
 farming and the care of domestic animals 
 well ! what that boy does n t know about such 
 things is appalling, simply appalling. 
 
 I started in this afternoon to build a pen. I 
 used a large double stall in the horse stable. To 
 fence it in I used a door from the shed, nailed 
 lengthwise across the opening. We take the door 
 off in the spring. It was too long by about six 
 inches, so I sawed six inches from the lower end. 
 
 It made a very good fence, just high enough to 
 rest one s elbows on comfortably to see the pigs 
 eat and grow. I am becoming quite a carpenter 
 as well as farmer. 
 
 I suppose I may have to, nay, shall have to 
 put that door back in the fall to keep the shed 
 warm. The six-inch aperture at the bottom of the 
 door will be very convenient to afford ingress or
 
 18 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 egress for the house cat. I have always objected 
 strenuously to adopting a house cat, but it looks 
 as if some explanation of the abbreviation of that 
 door will be in order when my wife sees it next 
 fall. I wonder if much cold will seep in through 
 an aperture six inches by thirty-six. Perhaps a 
 scrim or a sash curtain or some kind of a barrier 
 or windbreak arrangement may be devised. This 
 is a time when ingenuity must be encouraged. 
 At all events, I need not worry before November 
 next, and many things may happen before then. 
 
 Thursday, March 21, 191-. I think I contracted 
 a slight cold working on the pigpen yesterday. 
 This morning I was as stiff as a slice of baker s 
 bread toasted. I thought it would wear off if I 
 started work. So I arose earlier than usual and 
 put in a couple of hours hard work with a post- 
 hole digger. So far the remedy has not proved 
 efficacious. I am, if anything, a good bit stiffer 
 to-night than I was this morning. I did n t sup 
 pose it possible and I used the strongest possible 
 illustration. If there is anything stiffer than 
 baker s bread toasted, I am it. 
 
 I am thankful there was no police court to 
 day. I am sure it would have gone hard with 
 offenders. 
 
 I ordered my pigs to-day unsight and unseen. 
 I feel sure they are remarkable animals. I am
 
 Red-Hot Fishhooks 19 
 
 to pay enough for them. I think I will go to bed 
 earlier to-night for I am to have my pigs de 
 livered to-morrow and it will be a milestone on 
 the road to farm life. 
 
 Friday, March 22, 191-. Sciatica! If I ouch! 
 could ow ! oee ! turn over without a 
 Holy Christopher! damn derrick, perhaps I 
 could hell and repeat! get up out of this 
 dud-dud-damn bed and whew ee ! I can t do it. 
 
 Saturday, March 23, 191-. In bed with a red-hot 
 fishhook being pulled to and fro in my hip joint 
 every time I move. 
 
 Sunday, March 24, 191-. Sunday again. Still in 
 bed, with a March blizzard blowing. I always 
 thought it a great treat to be comfortably ill in 
 bed and to have a good novel to read and a beau 
 tiful snowstorm to look at through the window. 
 I have attained the bed and the snowstorm, and 
 I may have the novel for the asking, but as I 
 cannot bat an eyelash without setting a thou 
 sand devils gouging at my hip joint with red-hot 
 darning needles, it cannot be said that I am 
 comfortably ill. 
 
 Rheumatism may be a proud inheritance of the 
 agriculturalist as gout is an heirloom of the rich 
 and great, to be handed down from generation
 
 20 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 to generation, but I want none of it. I will quit 
 farming forever. Damn farming, anyway. 
 
 Monday, March 25, 191-. I am confident that my 
 wife and daughter are laughing at me. Of course I 
 have n t actually detected them or caught them 
 red-handed, but they have a gallus expression 
 when, my endurance strained to the breaking 
 point, I yield to the relief of progressive profanity. 
 
 Tuesday, March 26, 191-. The storm is over and 
 the sun out. I felt a bit better to-day and man 
 aged to sit up in bed. It was hard and painful, 
 but my triceps have not entirely forgotten the 
 parallel-bar training they had in college. I think 
 possibly I may be able to get out by fall. 
 
 Wednesday, March 27, 191-. Still in bed. This 
 afternoon the DTndy Club met in the music- 
 room. My wife said it would entertain me, and if 
 I did n t mind she would leave my door open. 
 I did n t mind. The D Indy Club is a very correct 
 institution. Its members are all musicians. There 
 can be no doubt of that. They plead guilty to 
 the charge. They meet frequently. After hearing 
 their recital this afternoon I have no hesitation 
 in a frank but modest statement that they meet 
 altogether too frequently. 
 They aim to interpret the modern composers,
 
 The D Indy Club 21 
 
 but as a club they have no healthy contempt 
 for Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Bach, Schumann, 
 Schubert, and other worthies of the past. To 
 day they are going to play Schubert s "Un 
 finished Symphony," arranged for two pianos 
 and violin. All the morning skilled and expensive 
 artisans have been tuning my wife s piano to 
 harmonize with my daughter s, and have been 
 striking single tones with a cursed persistence 
 that somehow connected with my rusty and in 
 flamed hip joint until I felt out of tune with 
 everything under the canopy. 
 
 This finished, rude truckmen came and moved 
 the library piano to the music-room and shook 
 the house violently, to my exceeding torture. 
 However, this afternoon I shall hear the "Un 
 finished Symphony" in B Moll. 
 
 Schubert is said to have written over six hun 
 dred songs. Some are beautiful; some are of such 
 a nature that I am convinced that in his last 
 hours the thought that he would be quit of them 
 was an inexpressible comfort to him. 
 
 This afternoon the doctor came just before the 
 club members began to arrive and administered 
 an opiate to guard against too much musical en 
 thusiasm. I invited him to remain, and he replied 
 that it looked very much as if he would have to, 
 as there did n t seem any way of getting out 
 without running the gantlet.
 
 22 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 After fifteen minutes of running up and down 
 stairs by the members and leaving wraps and 
 settling themselves in comfortable chairs to lis 
 ten, the symphony began with a short andante 
 molto expressivo, played on one piano. At the end 
 of about a dozen measures the other piano came 
 in with a few thunderous chords that somehow 
 did n t seem to belong there. The doctor, who 
 had fortified himself with a strong black cigar, 
 jumped as if he had been shot and bit his cigar 
 completely in twain. 
 
 I jumped and hurt my hip joint outrageously, 
 and howled. "Doctor," I said, when the pain had 
 subsided, "there was just a soupgon of embon 
 point in that fortissimo that veiled the leit motif 
 of the sostenuto." 
 
 "Humph!" said the doctor, and after feeling 
 of my pulse, administered eight grains of chloral. 
 
 The symphony went on raucoso et grandioso. 
 Suddenly there was a concerted crash of chords 
 in contrapuntal dissonance and rapid chroma- 
 tique of eight facile hands and eighty agile fingers. 
 
 "The chromatico contradictio of that bravura 
 passage is piu decisamento for the post-mortem, 
 Doctor," I said lightly. 
 
 "Humph!" again said the doctor, casting a 
 keen professional glance at me, and arising he 
 administered an opiate in whiskey, incidentally 
 taking a four-finger snifter himself.
 
 Andante Strepitoso 23 
 
 The players then wandered or rather galloped 
 into a melange of tonal contradictions in which 
 the ne plus ultra of the chaconnade seemed to be 
 altogether too ben marcato for the sub rosa. I so 
 remarked to the doctor, and he took his stetho 
 scope from its case and examined my chest care 
 fully and thumped me between the shoulders in 
 excellent tempo with the four pianists, until I 
 begged him to desist. The doctor took another 
 drink and lighted another black cigar. 
 
 I listened. To my untrained ear it seemed 
 chaotic in the extreme. If, I thought, music is 
 the rhythmic, melodic, and harmonic expression 
 of inner thought, what in Heaven s name 
 had Schubert done to require such expression? 
 Knowing some of his songs and something of his 
 life story, I naturally looked for some theme of 
 tender sweetness. 
 
 In one passage for the violin I felt that it was 
 coming, but both pianos swooped down upon the 
 violin and buried it under miles of furious sound. 
 
 I glanced at the doctor. He was sitting in an 
 attitude of a man that had lost all hope and was 
 expecting the worst. 
 
 "Doctor," I said, "don t you think the sub 
 cutaneous injection of the appoggiatura rather 
 more strepitoso than stringendo?" I always like 
 V) adapt my conversation to my listener and I 
 Mattered myself that I had attained a musico-
 
 24 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 medico flavor that would flatter him, but the doc 
 tor favored me with a baleful glare and mean 
 ingly reached for his needle, whereupon I sank 
 back upon my pillow and said no more for several 
 minutes, until some utterly chaotic and frenzied 
 harmony moved me to remark that the nouveau 
 riche of the ensemble interfered with the perfect 
 adagio of the demi-tasse. 
 
 This was too much for the doctor, and he 
 forced me to swallow a large brown pill that 
 tasted like a fishhouse at the beach and from the 
 effects of which I fell into a dreamless sleep. 
 
 It was dark when I awoke. I must have slept 
 for hours. The symphony was still going strong. 
 I know now why he never finished it. He did not 
 live long enough. Nor would have Methuselah. 
 It was the nearest approach to perpetual motion 
 I had ever known. I looked for the doctor. He 
 still sat by the window. He had aged visibly. 
 Suddenly the music ceased. It had not been fin 
 ished, but merely postponed. The players had 
 become exhausted. The applause was generous, 
 but to my mind was not in the same class with 
 the fervent "Thank God!" of the doctor. 
 
 The members trooped off chattering their 
 thanks for "so delightful an interpretation," and 
 I wondered. Wondered how the man that wrote 
 the "Rosamunde Overture," "The Serenade," 
 and the "Elegie in G" could have written such
 
 Piu Mosso 25 
 
 an outrageously unmelodic, dissonant, chaotic 
 mess as the "Unfinished Symphony," and the 
 more I wondered the more suspicion grew. 
 Could it have been ? But no, a thousand times 
 no. The members were all talented musicians, 
 and well read in musical literature. 
 
 I breathed my suspicions to the doctor. His 
 sombre, tortured face lighted up. "Hell!" he 
 said; "that may be the reason." 
 
 Obeying my directions he slipped quietly 
 down to the music-room and brought back the 
 two pieces of music from the two piano racks just 
 as the players had left them. 
 
 They were both of the Leipzig edition of 
 Peters. Here it was: 
 
 Fiir Pianoforte fur Acht Handen. 
 Bearbeitet von F. N. Kirchner. 
 
 And, shades of the old god Pan ! The arrangement 
 on one piano was of Schubert s "Unfinished 
 Symphony," and on the other was "The Awak 
 ening of the Lion," by Chevalier DeKonski. 
 
 "God!" said the doctor, slapping his knee. 
 "The D Indy Club!" Then he quietly slipped 
 down the stairs again and restored the music to 
 its proper place on the piano. 
 
 Thursday, March 28, 191-. I have felt better to 
 day than for a week. I am afraid in the past I 
 have not been considerate of my horses. It al-
 
 26 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 ways seemed to me unreasonable and inexplica 
 ble that a driving horse should frequently go so 
 aggravatingly lame when one was taking his best 
 girl for an afternoon s drive in the merry and 
 much-lamented days when a motor-car was a 
 thing unknown, and its ridiculously inadequate 
 predecessor, the horseless carriage, a thing uni 
 versally ridiculed and scorned. 
 
 And I am very sorry to say that the ordinary 
 treatment accorded a bog or bone spavin-in 
 fested nag was a few stimulating cuts with an 
 ivory-handled horsewhip and a loud and threat 
 ening "G dap!" 
 
 Had I known then as I know now just how a 
 spavin felt, I am sure I should have been more 
 considerate. 
 
 Eheu! me miser abile; peccavi! peccavi! 
 
 "The mills of the gods grind slowly." 
 
 I am really very sorry about it, but I will say 
 this, not in extenuation, but to show that I am 
 not now, and never was, wholly bad : I never cut 
 a horse with a whip, or jerked his bridle, but that 
 after the first flash of anger was past, I gave him 
 a better feed than usual, an easier drive, or a 
 thicker bed of straw. 
 
 I may ride to the office in an ancient curricle 
 known locally as a hack to-morrow. My son s 
 theory of driving his runabout on our village 
 roads is that the more the old man is in the air
 
 An Exeter Hack 27 
 
 during the trip the less wear there is on the cush 
 ions, and I have known smoother roads than 
 ours, and so to guard against a possibly fatal re 
 lapse I will try the curricle. It will take infinitely 
 longer, but I shall feel safer, less hurried, more at 
 ease, less addicted to youthful athletics that are 
 unseemly, undignified, and positively dangerous 
 at my age, such as high hurdling, ground and 
 lofty tumbling, cartwheels and flippers. 
 
 I shall arrive safely. The only approach to a 
 runaway ever attained by an Exeter hack horse 
 has been its occasional inability to hold back 
 when going downhill, and from my house to my 
 office is but a gentle slope. 
 
 I expect some day to be obliged, in my magis 
 terial capacity, to fine my son and partner heav 
 ily for speeding, but I do not want to have a 
 complaint entered for a trip made with me as a 
 passenger. 
 
 Friday, March 29, 191-. Went down to breakfast 
 this morning. Much easier than the return trip 
 will be. Dick went down in his car at 8.30. At 
 nine the curricle came round. I climbed in stiffly, 
 being forcibly reminded of Burdette s rhyme: 
 
 "Over the fence a gray -haired man 
 Cautiously clim, dome, clem, clum, clam." 
 
 About halfway to the office the horse fell down, 
 broke a shaft, and refused to rise. A crowd gath-
 
 28 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 ered, and while some sat on the horse s head the 
 others assisted the driver to unharness him and 
 persuade him to arise, in which operation a lash 
 whip and much profane encouragement were 
 called into action. After he was resurrected the 
 driver led him away, leaving me seated in lonely 
 and somewhat majestic state in a curricle of 
 the Pliocene period, infested with peculiar and 
 awesome smells. There was a strong taint of 
 mouldy blankets, an aroma of cold T. D. pipe, 
 the subtle, but penetrating fragrance of rub 
 ber boots, a perceptible nuance of whiskey sours, 
 and over all the breath of decrepitude and 
 age. 
 
 It is a unique experience, but open to any one 
 who wishes an absolutely novel thrill, at the very 
 moderate price of twenty-five cents. 
 
 I had been fuming for a period of fifteen 
 minutes, which seemed to me an hour and a half 
 at least, when a fresh hack drove up. I am en 
 tirely wrong. It was not a fresh hack. There are 
 no fresh hacks in Exeter. They are all very stale. 
 Sometimes the hackmen are a bit fresh, but never 
 offensively so. 
 
 This was a two-horse hack, evidently a relief 
 expedition sent out by the proprietor for the dual 
 purpose of retrieving me and assembling the 
 twenty-five cents fare. 
 
 I thankfully climbed out and clome in, and had
 
 Hook and Ladder No. 2 29 
 
 just settled myself as comfortably as the circum 
 stances and my condition permitted, when the 
 fire gong boomed an alarum. At the first bellow 
 the whip descended on the back of the hack 
 horses and away we tore. 
 
 Having lived in Exeter all my life, I knew that 
 these horses had a solemn duty to perform to 
 haul Hook and Ladder Truck No. 2 from its sta 
 tion on lower Court Street, which was rather far 
 ther from my office than the scene of my ship 
 wreck. And I further knew that my friend the 
 hackman would perform his sworn duty as a 
 public officer, notwithstanding any expostulation 
 and even if it took a leg, which in this instance 
 meant my leg. 
 
 Were I a United States Senator rushing to 
 make a quorum; were I a physician speeding 
 to the relief of a man with a severed artery, 
 or a child with membranous croup; were I, in 
 fact a placid corpse, decorously immured in a 
 satin-lined casket and followed by a long line of 
 stricken relatives and friends, one and all won 
 dering how much life insurance I held and 
 whether or not my dependents would be enabled 
 to live in enervating luxury and soul-destroying 
 sloth or be obliged to go to work that f aithf ul 
 hackman would drive like Jehu to Hook and 
 Ladder House No. 2, there to unhook his panting 
 cattle and to leave me to curse and unavailingly
 
 30 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 protest, or to fester by the roadside, according to 
 which character I might represent. 
 
 And so, knowing his loyalty to duty, I merely 
 sought to brace myself to avoid, as far as pos 
 sible, the jolts, bumps, and shocks of the swaying 
 curricle. I was doing very well, indeed, thank 
 you, when, on turning into Court Street, a pro 
 digious bump over a frost-heaved section of the 
 road caused the entire bottom of the hack to fall 
 out, and without in the least knowing how I did 
 it, I found myself with my head and body up 
 right inside the body of the hack, my hands 
 frantically but vainly clawing for some purchase, 
 while my rheumatic feet and sciatical legs were 
 drumming a vigorous and prestissimo rataplan 
 as I instinctively legged it to keep pace with the 
 bounding hack. 
 
 In my boyhood, when pursued by the watchful 
 minions of the law for youthful misdemeanors 
 not unconnected with melon patches and sweet 
 apples, cherries and strawberries, I made some 
 fast time, but I do not think I ever ran more flu 
 ently and with less friction. This was no half 
 hearted performance. My burning ambition was 
 to keep up with that hack, for I knew that unless 
 I did the sharp edge of the rear spring would cut 
 me in two like a cheese. Luckily the remaining 
 distance was not great, and we all came under 
 the wire going strong, I really think I completed
 
 A Speed Record 31 
 
 the last hundred yards in rather less than nine 
 seconds flat. I shall try to have my performance 
 registered as a speed record. Of course the fact 
 that I was trotting with a wind-shield and was 
 paced by two runners may deprive me of the 
 honor. But how about Mile-a-Minute Murphy? 
 And he had a specially built track, while I ran 
 on the frost-heaved and muddy roads of a New 
 England village. 
 
 As soon as the hackman arrived at Hook and 
 Ladder House No. 2 he pulled up his horses, and 
 before I had crawled out from beneath the ve 
 hicle (I had to take this method of egress, as both 
 doors were hermetically sealed and could n t 
 have been opened without an experienced safe- 
 breaker with a jimmy and a can of blasting pow 
 der), he had hitched his horses to the truck and 
 was off amid intense excitement, while I, with 
 hat crowded to my shoulders and with shoes and 
 trousers splashed with mud to my ears, walked 
 to my office simmering with indignation. 
 
 My first thought was to sue the proprietor for 
 a million dollars, but as my sciatica had miracu 
 lously departed, I began to feel as if I ought to 
 reward the hackman for his loyalty and devotion 
 to public duty by a present of a generous sum. 
 Nothing but the lack of money and the knowl 
 edge that I had lost a week s time from the office 
 prevented me.
 
 32 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 Saturday, March 30, 191-. Robins have come. 
 This morning there were a half-dozen on the 
 lawn. As I went to the office I heard a purple 
 finch. I expect my pigs to-day. Feel as well as 
 ever and got in an hour s work on the outdoor pig 
 pen. I am handicapped by frost in the ground. I 
 can dig only about so far and then have to wait 
 for the frost to melt. The weather is wonderful 
 for March. She surely is going out like a lamb. 
 
 Sunday, March 31, 191-. Sunday again. A good 
 day for working in the yard and barn. I laid out 
 the garden to-day on paper. I have decided to 
 have a sort of omnibus garden. At least three 
 plantings of corn in succession, so that I may 
 have corn on the cob from August 20th to 
 November. 
 
 Also early and late cabbages, celery, chard, 
 Brussels sprouts, potatoes, turnips, carrots, en 
 dive, beans, both pole and bush, peas early, late, 
 and sweet, and several other kinds of vegetables, 
 both surface and subterranean. 
 
 When I got through I had a map that closely 
 resembled the Balkan States in revolution. 
 
 I have understood that the summer growth 
 of pigs is greatly stimulated by a balanced ra 
 tion of vegetables. Time will tell. There will be 
 no need of a balanced ration until I get those 
 pigs.
 
 April Fool 33 
 
 Monday, April 1, 191-. I got word to-day that 
 my pigs were at the railroad station. I at once 
 sent an expressman for them. Gave up an ap 
 pointment with a client to meet and escort them 
 to their indoor pen, which I had littered with 
 fresh straw. Thought some of getting up an 
 address of welcome. 
 
 N.B. The word "littered" is singularly ap 
 propriate for pigs. Was it a mere coincidence or 
 is it a word of prophecy? I wonder. 
 
 I hung round all the forenoon. I think if I went 
 to the roadway and looked up and down the 
 road once, I did fifty times. It is all well enough 
 to be an amateur farmer, but it is not a paying 
 proposition to neglect business appointments. 
 
 At 11.45 received word by telephone from the 
 expressman to the effect that there were no pigs 
 at the station and asking me if I knew what day 
 of the month it was. _ 
 
 Tuesday, April 2, 191-. No pigs to-day. Raked 
 the lawn for an hour. It is astonishing how many 
 valuable articles are lost during the fall and win 
 ter and how valueless they are when found the 
 next spring. But it is interesting as a sporting 
 proposition to find them. 
 
 I found two pairs of scissors that my wife had 
 fairly made life a burden over; my penknife that 
 I had accused all the other members of my family
 
 34 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 with losing; a pair of tortoise-shell (imitation, I 
 am afraid) frames surrounded by small frag 
 ments of glass, which my wife had darkly inti 
 mated that some one knew about if he could 
 be made to tell; and several other articles. The 
 knife and scissors were rusted and ruined. The 
 tortoise-shell frame (imitation, I am sure) I pur 
 pose to place where my wife will find them and 
 then think she was the one to blame. Later on 
 I will casually mention the fact. It will have 
 to be extremely casual, as her suspicions are 
 easily aroused. 
 No pigs to-day. 
 
 Wednesday \ April 3, 191-. The fine weather con 
 tinues and new birds are coming daily. The roads 
 to the country are fearful. Yet the man of whom 
 I bought the pigs lives next door to the railroad 
 station. 
 
 Thursday, April 4, 191-. Got letter to-day from 
 man with whom I had made appointment say 
 ing that he had engaged Scammon and Gard 
 ner to attend to his business hereafter, and that 
 if I would be good enough to turn his papers over 
 to them he would be very much obliged, etc. 
 That is unfortunate. He was a good client. I 
 would give something to know who played 
 that April fool trick on me. Serves me right,
 
 Arrival of the Pigs 35 
 
 I guess; at least Dick says so and I guess he 
 knows. 
 
 Friday, April 5, 191-. Weather turned to sleet 
 and rain. Hope pigs will not come until storm 
 is over. 
 
 Saturday, April 6, 191-. The rain held up this 
 morning, but the wind blew strongly. Just as I 
 had dressed to go to the office the expressman 
 drove in with my pigs. I told my son to leave me, 
 and further said that I would be down in a short 
 time and I went out to take out the box. 
 
 The pigs are beauties. Clean and white and a 
 bit rangy. They were a bit wild, as was shown 
 by their crowding away from me to the farther 
 side of the box. 
 
 The expressman drove to the wide space in 
 front of the barn intending to turn his horse 
 and to back the team so that we could with little 
 difficulty put box and pigs into the inner pen. 
 This was a clever idea, but in turning he cramped 
 the wheel a bit too much and the wagon tipped at 
 such an angle before I could steady the box that 
 it fell out with a crackling crash, broke open and 
 discharged its cargo of pigs in a two-acre yard 
 open to the general public on the north, and to 
 the abutters on the east and west. 
 
 I suppose the general trend of thought in the
 
 36 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 mind of every person has a powerful effect in his 
 mental development and the resulting physical 
 phenomena. 
 
 Now I had for years dreamed both waking and 
 sleeping dreams of heroic actions wherein I had 
 fought and conquered bullies, caught and stopped 
 runaway horses, thrown myself before railroad 
 trains and snatched beautiful maidens from awful 
 deaths, dashed into burning buildings and res 
 cued helpless children from living cremation, 
 dove into white water fathoms deep and rescued 
 more and more beautiful maidens, and in short 
 lived up to the best traditions of Nick Carter, 
 Old Cap Collier, and other dime-novel favorites. 
 
 To be sure I had never in my life had actual 
 opportunity of testing the result of such a trend 
 of thought until these my own pedigreed pigs 
 were so unceremoniously dumped into my pres 
 ence. But the subsequent events showed that 
 years of intensive training had borne fruit, for 
 at the first staccato grunt of the escaping pigs 
 I had thrown myself in fullback style, regardless 
 of mud, upon them and by great good luck suc 
 ceeded in catching one just below the gambrel 
 joint, which is a sort of natural handle to the 
 animal. 
 
 Heavens! I never imagined so small a pig 
 could squeal so loud. For a moment I thought 
 I had hold of a full-sized, sixty-horse power tug-
 
 A Dive 37 
 
 boat whistle. It could be, I am sure, and was, I 
 have little doubt, heard in several of the sur 
 rounding towns. Had the pig let out a squeal of 
 moderate strength of purpose, say not louder 
 than a fire-alarm gong or a circus calliope, I 
 might have been startled just enough to let him 
 go, but as it was I was sufficiently shocked and 
 momentarily terrified to hang on convulsively 
 with a grip that nothing could break, and to the 
 great admiration of the expressman, rose with 
 the shrieking atom and carried him to the barn 
 and dropped him safely in the deeply littered 
 pen, where he speedily forgot his troubles in root 
 ing amid the straw. 
 
 Then we turned our attention to the fugitive. 
 The expressman, who was fat and jolly, gave 
 as his opinion that we had better ring in a fire 
 alarm and call out the department, but I told 
 him not to worry, but just to watch me. He 
 asked me if I had ever seen a little pig run. I said 
 no. He then said I was in for a surprise. I asked 
 him in turn if he had ever seen me run. He said 
 no. I told him that both he and the pig were in 
 for a surprise. He was sufficiently frank to say 
 that if I could run as well as I could dive, I was 
 all right. I said nothing, but smiled meaningly as 
 I thought of the new century record that would 
 soon be chalked up under my immortal name. 
 
 We found the fugitive pig in the middle of the
 
 38 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 garden, and as we approached he trotted toward 
 a corner in the fence. Holding our arms out 
 spread we gradually got him in a corner, when 
 he became uneasy and acted as if he meant to 
 dodge out between us. Of course, as we were at 
 the base of the triangle and the pig at the apex, 
 we had to cover much more ground than he, and 
 we did it with the greatest agility and grace. 
 
 Every time the pig would start a rush we would 
 yell like hysenas and dance to and fro with wide 
 spread arms and great action. At first I con 
 tented myself with old-fashioned dances such 
 as the Polka Mazurka, the Varsovienne, the Hop 
 Waltz a trois pas, the Glide Waltz a deux pas, the 
 Sword Dance, and the Highland Fling, while the 
 expressman, being from the nature of his employ 
 ment something of an Indian, affected tribal 
 dances such as the Fire Dance, the Snake Dance, 
 the Scalp Dance, the Corn Dance, and let out 
 especially piercing war-whoops. 
 
 Finally we penned the little villain in the cor 
 ner, and we slowly advanced breathing endear 
 ments and ready to grab him. Suddenly he darted 
 for our legs and we both grabbed for him. A 
 blinding flash and a sparkling coruscation of 
 meteors blazed before my eyes, followed by a 
 loud, humming sound, and I found myself, when 
 the fireworks subsided, sitting in a pool of mud, 
 holding on to my head with both hands, and
 
 The Chase 39 
 
 blinking at a bewildered expressman in a similar 
 position. 
 
 "What in hell are you trying to do?" he de 
 manded sulkily. 
 
 Having no suitable answer ready, and realiz 
 ing the entire justice of his inquiry, I asked him 
 what in hell he thought he was trying to do, 
 whereupon he grinned and said, " How about that 
 pig?" I had totally forgotten the very existence 
 of the pig, but scrambled up rather gingerly, for 
 my head still hummed like a top. My expressman, 
 having a harder head than mine at least I do 
 not see how anything could be harder than his, 
 and I distinctly remember feeling my head cave 
 in when his ox-like frontlet struck it arose 
 slowly, and we scouted round until we found the 
 pig in the dense bed of rosebushes garnished with 
 steel-like thorns. 
 
 As no person could penetrate this thicket and 
 emerge with a shred of respectability or any 
 thing else, we forbore to enter, and tried to drive 
 him out with stones, but did not succeed. Then 
 we got a couple of bean poles, and after poking 
 at him a long time without success the express 
 man finally landed him a jolt in the short ribs. 
 
 The pig let out a sharp squeal and dashed for 
 the open road at a speed I never saw equalled 
 by an animal so small. Although I was fifty feet 
 nearer the street than he, I had the greatest diffi-
 
 40 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 culty in heading him off, and only succeeded 
 when I tripped and fell at full length in the 
 muddy driveway while the pig dashed back into 
 the corner from which he had escaped. 
 
 I was shaken to my foundations by the fall and 
 my clothes were a sight, but I was not nearly 
 as helpless as the expressman, who took the 
 opportunity to laugh in a most unfeeling manner 
 over my misfortune, to such an extent that I 
 really thought he would burst a blood vessel, and 
 sincerely hoped he would. 
 
 When he had recovered we again tried to pen 
 the infernal pig in the corner. 
 
 This time we decided that we would not dance 
 round or solo dances, but would see what we 
 could do with square, and so, to keep that small 
 but openly defiant animal from breaking through 
 our cordon, we danced most of the measures of 
 Lady Washington s Reel, the Tempest, Lancers, 
 Sicilian Circle, Plain Quadrille, and Portland 
 Fancy, and we Ladies Chained and chassezed 
 and forward and backed and right-hand-to-part 
 ner-grand-right and-lef ted and all-hands-rounded 
 all to no effect, for when that pig decided it 
 was time to get out of his cul-de-sac he shot out 
 like a flash of lightning, leaving us staring fool 
 ishly at him as he disappeared behind the barn. ^ 
 
 This time we sat down in the sun and smoked 
 a cigarette and talked the matter over without
 
 Noosed 41 
 
 heat. We were both about played out from our 
 unusual conviviality. I had not danced for thirty 
 years and over and the expressman had not 
 twirled a foot for at least ten. At last we decided 
 that if we expected to catch that pig within a 
 week we should have to finesse a bit. 
 
 Suddenly a thought struck me with force. Why 
 not try a slip-noose? In my boyhood a slip-noose 
 had been a doughty weapon. Under its blighting 
 and sinister spell, when at night, with noose- 
 end carefully spread on the sidewalk in some 
 quarter of the town where the feeble and flick 
 ering rays of the old-fashioned gas-lamps did 
 not reach, and with the other end firmly tied to 
 a tree, a fence-post, or a picket, business man, 
 peasantry, aristocrat and proletarian, preacher 
 and man-about-town, "doctor and saint" went 
 down in turn; and "I heard great argument," 
 mostly of a most blasphemous and profane na 
 ture, as the victim removed the noose from his 
 leg and cast about in all directions, like the hunt 
 ing hound, to discover, overtake, and destroy 
 the "dashity dash blankity blank who done it." 
 
 In a moment I procured a loaf of bread and a 
 long, strong cord. Making a slip-noose I placed 
 it flat on the ground by a corner of the barn 
 behind which the pig was rooting with the ut 
 most unconcern. Placing a few pieces of bread 
 in and around the noose, I withdrew to a distance
 
 42 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 and waited with the end of the cord wound round 
 my wrist. 
 
 In a few minutes he appeared round the corner 
 of the barn, perceived the bait, and trotted 
 eagerly up to it. The instant a foot entered the 
 noose-ring I pulled, and he was caught, and 
 amid a most terrific squealing I hauled him in 
 hand over hand, and in a moment he was com 
 fortably lunching with his sister pig on the bread 
 I threw into the pen. Then having given the 
 expressman all the money I had, on receiving 
 which he looked somewhat^disappointed, I went 
 into the house to change my clothes. I called my 
 wife, but received no reply. I listened, and, hear 
 ing unintelligible sounds from the library, I 
 entered and found my wife in a state of collapse 
 on the lounge. It was not serious, but as I found 
 I could get nothing but inane giggles, I rather 
 dignifiedly went to my room. It simply shows that 
 there are some people in the world who would 
 laugh if you fell downstairs and killed yourself. 
 
 I was an hour late or more at the office. 
 
 Sunday, April 7, 191-. The pigs are all right to 
 day. I think the racing pig will tame in time. When 
 I poured their milk into the pan they got as far 
 from me as possible, but as soon as I got out of 
 the pen they climbed into that pan, snout, eyes, 
 and all eight feet. They are real pigs. They ate
 
 Purple Crackles 43 
 
 three square meals to-day. I have ordered two 
 more quarts of milk a day. At twelve cents a 
 quart. I remember when local milkmen raised 
 the price from four to five cents and we prophe 
 sied a financial panic. Well, those pigs are worth 
 some sacrifice. 
 
 Monday, April 8, 191-. Had a dozen or more 
 two-horse loads of manure dumped on my cro 
 quet ground, tennis court, and last year s garden. 
 I intend to spread it myself. Bought a manure 
 fork for $1.25. The last one I bought several years 
 ago cost sixty cents. My wife does not appear 
 to appreciate the necessity of fertilizers to stimu 
 late production, and goes about the house closing 
 doors and windows, with her nose at an angle of 
 forty-five degrees. 
 
 Tuesday, April 9, 191-. Worked an hour before 
 breakfast spreading manure. The sun was shin 
 ing, it was warm, and an immense flock of purple 
 grackles filled the big oak tree at the foot of the 
 garden. They did not alight in my garden until 
 I had finished work and had gone to my bath, 
 where from the window I saw the ground was 
 literally black with them. 
 
 What a cheery, hustling, chatty, friendly, talk 
 ative crowd they are. Occasionally they have 
 sharp little disputes and fly into the air a few
 
 44 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 feet, pecking and clawing, but like the duelling 
 of cock robin it is mostly fencing with buttoned 
 foils. 
 
 I had a farmer s appetite for my breakfast, 
 although we had no cream in our coffee. I had 
 given the milk to the pigs. 
 
 I have an idea that my wife is not wholly in 
 sympathy with my agricultural aims. She as 
 much as said that golf would give me as much 
 exercise as farming and stock-raising. From my 
 experience at the reception given my pigs yes 
 terday, I think I am in a position to demonstrate 
 the fallacy of her argument. I have played golf 
 and have a deep admiration and a sincere re 
 spect for it as a game, but agriculture, even as a 
 fad, is an occupation, most interesting and de 
 lightful, and is a game that occasionally demands 
 the instant exercise of all one s physical, mental, 
 and moral powers to the nth degree. Golf, from 
 my experience, is a leisurely stroll through a 
 sheep-infested field, accompanied by a few choice 
 friends and a freckled-face boy, and interrupted 
 at times by sudden clouds of dust and bursts of 
 hideous profanity. 
 
 Profanity is only incidental to agriculture, but 
 is a recognized ingredient of the game of golf. 
 
 Wednesday, April 10, 191-. A gray day with a 
 sharp wind. Last year s leaves are flying. Saw
 
 The Cost of Pork 45 
 
 no blackbirds or robins to-day. Even the gray 
 squirrels that for the past week or more have 
 been digging up nuts buried last year, have 
 disappeared. 
 
 Kipling has made Mowgli say, "Last year s 
 nuts are this year s black earth." This may be so 
 in India, but not in New England in early spring. 
 I have dug up many in past years while spading 
 my garden and they were very palatable. 
 
 There is a chill in the wind that made my 
 hour of manure-spreading really necessary to 
 keep me warm. 
 
 The pigs keep nearly buried in the straw of their 
 pen and only come out long enough to eat their 
 warm mush and milk. 
 
 By the way, if they drink so much milk now, 
 what in the world will they do when they are 
 hogs? It looks to me as if my pork will cost me 
 about forty cents a pound. Well, I shall know 
 what it was fed on. It gives me a curiously 
 comfortable feeling on a cold or raw day to see 
 small pigs feed until their bodies are as tense 
 as a full-blown football, and then burrow al 
 most out of sight in clean straw. It is really 
 worth paying forty cents a pound for pork of 
 this sort. 
 
 Thursday, April 11, 191-. Snow came last night 
 and to-day is bleak and wintry. The wind still
 
 46 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 blows and there are no birds in sight. I wonder 
 when they feed? 
 
 Did my hour of manure-spreading this morn 
 ing. I was a bit stiff in my arms at first, but it is 
 wearing off slowly. I would like to demonstrate 
 to my own satisfaction that as far as the average 
 man is concerned Dr. Osier is either a damn fool 
 or a damn liar. 
 
 Pigs are all right. I really think they are grow 
 ing. 
 
 Friday, April 12, 191-. To-day is a spring day. 
 Did my stunt at spreading. Also tried spading. 
 The spade struck frost at about six inches, and 
 brought up no earthworms. Saw a flock of black 
 birds, also robins and bluebirds, and heard a 
 purple finch and a golden-winged woodpecker 
 giving its mating call. 
 
 I wonder if farmers, as a rule, notice these calls. 
 I have dealt with farmers for thirty-five years, 
 but have seldom heard one speak of birds and 
 spring flowers. Perhaps they feel that nature is 
 out of place in a law office. 
 
 It may be that spreading manure, and fencing 
 pasture, and getting out cordwood, and shearing 
 sheep, and loading hay and bullwhacking spoil 
 a farmer s appreciation of nature and kill his 
 interest in birds and squirrels and fish, and the 
 different shades of green in a spring landscape
 
 A Wood Thrush 47 
 
 and of crimson in a spring sunset, and in the song 
 of a white-throated sparrow or a wood thrush. 
 
 I hope not, for if I thought that the little work 
 I propose doing in emulation of our merry farmer, 
 who "jocund fares him afield," will have the 
 effect of causing me to stare unmoved at a sun 
 set, to forget to watch and delight in the bound 
 ing flight of the goldfinch, to listen unenthralled 
 to the eerie song of the wood thrush from a dark 
 green wood in the early twilight, I certainly 
 would renounce farm life forever. I would re 
 nounce the delights of pig-raising, the delicious 
 intoxication of hoeing beans, potatoes, and cab 
 bage, the calisthenics of spading gardens and 
 spreading manure, and go back to my law office 
 and writing and live the quiet life of a man who 
 does not like to work, but is obliged to. 
 
 The pigs are very well, thank you. 
 
 Saturday, April 13, 191-. Warm and sunny. 
 Finished spreading manure this morning. My 
 wife says she thinks it about time, thereby show 
 ing lack of sympathy with my ambitions. Must 
 really make some arrangement about our milk 
 supply. Sour milk appears to be a household ne 
 cessity when it comes to flapjacks and other con 
 fections. And my wife very pertinently remarks 
 that those pigs get all the milk before it has time 
 to sour. I find myself facing a domestic crisis and
 
 48 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 probable famine in the way of flapjacks, corn, rye, 
 and buckwheat cakes and muffins. There must 
 be some way out of the difficulty. I cannot sacri 
 fice my wife and daughter, and at the same time 
 my heart goes out to my pigs. 
 
 Sunday, April 14, 191-. I would like to know 
 where I left that plan of the garden I made some 
 time ago. I do not believe I could make another 
 just like it if I were to try all the season. I really 
 wish people would let my things alone. Did no 
 work of any amount to-day, but read agricul 
 tural and stock magazines most of the day. I 
 wonder if I have made a mistake in not choos 
 ing Ayrshire pigs instead of Herefords? I don t 
 think so, but even if the result may not be as 
 encouraging as I hoped, I would not exchange 
 my pigs for a pair of any other creed or belief 
 however recommended. 
 
 Monday, April 15, 191-. This morning I tried 
 the spade again and brought up earthworms. 
 That shows that the frost has gone, at least from 
 the sunniest parts of my garden. I turned over 
 a good-sized patch this morning. I am intending 
 to plant peas as my first crop. I am told that the 
 only way is to buy some seed peas in bulk, because 
 the paper packages contain so few. I heard of a 
 man who bought a box of pills and a package of
 
 Giant or Dwarf 49 
 
 seed peas, and after disposing of both packages 
 was utterly at a loss to recollect whether or not 
 he had planted the pills and taken the peas. By 
 buying peas in bulk I will at least be spared this 
 worry. 
 
 Tuesday, April 16, 191-. The burning question 
 appears to be whether I shall plant giant or dwarf 
 peas. The giants require bushing, while the dwarfs 
 do not. The bushing requires time and labor, 
 which is a black eye for the giants; but the dwarfs 
 require one to bend over or to squat down to 
 pick the peas, which is a black eye for the dwarfs. 
 I feel like the man of middle age and not very 
 active habit who strolls through a wood or pas 
 ture and comes to a fence that is a bit too 
 high to climb over easily and a bit too low to 
 crawl under without back-breaking effort, and 
 finds it so difficult to make up his mind which to 
 do that he goes no farther. 
 
 However, 7 shall go on. It will be one or the 
 other with me but I cannot say for the mo 
 ment whether it will be giant or dwarf. 
 
 Wednesday, April 17, 191-. It has been a day of 
 showers and sunshine. Showers when I went down 
 to my office without an umbrella and sunshine 
 when I bought one at an exorbitant price to 
 shelter me on the way home.
 
 50 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 I wonder which it will be, giant or dwarf? 
 Honors are even so far. I believe there was once 
 an ass that starved to death between two bun 
 dles of hay. I believe that history repeats itself. 
 I wonder if I am to furnish proof of the same. 
 
 Thursday, April 18, 191-. While making up my 
 mind about which kind of peas to plant, I spaded 
 up another considerable patch of garden. I be 
 lieve the second planting will be beets. It may 
 possibly be the first. I remember a song which, 
 years ago, concert singers of mediocre taste and 
 talent used to render and at times rend: 
 
 " She stood between love and duty." 
 
 Happily I have forgotten the melody, if indeed 
 it had one. Unfortunately I have also forgotten 
 the denouement. If I knew whether love or duty 
 landed the bewildered lady, perhaps I might be 
 guided in my decision as to what family of peas 
 to plant, Brobdingnag or Lilliput. 
 
 Friday, April 19, 191-. Have been so busy at the 
 office to-day that I did no work on farm or gar 
 den. There is always the kitchen fire and the 
 furnace, and ashes to sift and wood to bring in 
 and coal to shovel, until, but for the fact that 
 I am slightly knock-kneed, I should be bow- 
 legged like a pair of calipers or the forelegs of a 
 well-bred bulldog.
 
 A Sour-Milk Famine 51 
 
 Saturday, April 20, 191-. No flapjacks or muffins 
 for breakfast. Extreme drouth in the sour-milk 
 department. Situation becoming acute. Toast is 
 all right in its place, but like the grasshopper it 
 may become a burden. Of course those infernal 
 pigs have got to be fed, and at their age milk 
 appears to be the basis of their bill of fare. 
 
 But at the present price of milk, twelve cents, 
 my pork will cost me something appalling in 
 money, and unless something is done pretty soon 
 in the way of pouring oil on troubled waters, a 
 domestic upheaval will occur, and domestic up 
 heavals are fearsome things as every lawyer and 
 police magistrate knows only too well. I shall be 
 obliged to send out an S.O.S. call to some agri 
 cultural friend. Luckily I have a good many 
 friends among the bucolic fraternity, all or most 
 of whom consider me a joke. 
 
 No flapjacks or muffins to-day. Starvation 
 has set its teeth in my vitals. Nothing on the 
 table but bacon and eggs and toast and coffee. 
 
 Sunday, April 21, 191-. Sunday again and a 
 pleasant day. I think I have solved the problem 
 of the sour-milk, flapjack, corn-muffin famine. 
 The first farmer I consulted yesterday told me 
 to buy skim milk and buttermilk by the gallon 
 from the delivery truck of some creamery. I 
 promptly ordered a gallon per day, delivery in
 
 52 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 two-gallon cans three times a week. Cut down 
 my milk supply to two quarts a day. The com 
 promise has let so much sunshine into my house 
 hold that I am forcibly reminded of the school 
 song we used to sing so shrilly years agone: 
 
 "There is beauty all around 
 When there s love at home, 
 There is joy in every sound 
 When there s love at home. 
 Peace and plenty here abide, 
 Smiling sweet on every side; 
 Time does softly, sweetly glide, 
 When there s love at home." 
 
 This crisis avoided, I shall now have more time 
 to devote to the mooted question of peas. 
 
 Some people say that peas are a delusion and 
 a snare. Perhaps so. Pigs are growing fast and 
 we are becoming excellent friends. They no 
 longer shrink from me with loathing, but are 
 gradually acquiring a liking for my society, and 
 it might be called a taste for me, which impels 
 them to nip choice morsels from my legs when 
 ever opportunity offers. Of course this has to be 
 discouraged by firm if stern measures, for I have 
 no intention at my time of life to be, in a way, 
 reincarnated as pork. 
 
 I think I kicked Galatea a strong ten feet yes 
 terday when she had literally taken a "hog bite" 
 from the naturally tempting calf of my left leg. 
 
 I forgot to say that I have named them "Pyg-
 
 Utility Solely 53 
 
 malion" and "Galatea," and call them "Pyg." 
 and "Gal." in ordinary conversation. 
 
 Whitewashed the inside of the henhouse to 
 day in preparation for fresh eggs. My day of 
 fancy fowl raising is past. From this time utility 
 is the word. Plymouth Rocks, white or barred, 
 or buff; Wyandottes, silver penciled, white, buff, 
 or Columbian; Rhode Island Reds, rose or single- 
 combed. The best are none too good for my farm. 
 
 Monday, April 22, 191-. Turned over another 
 patch of garden this morning before breakfast 
 and raked the other two patches. The creamery 
 man brought a gallon can of skim milk this 
 morning. He left it on the sidewalk. I had to carry 
 it to the barn, fully fifty yards. It seemed un 
 reasonably heavy. He says he has decided that he 
 cannot let me have less than eight gallons a week 
 in two deliveries at the sidewalk. He says I can 
 carry it in as well as he. I argued that it was his 
 duty to deliver it at the barn. He said, rather 
 rudely, that he did n t give a damn whether it 
 was his duty or not, but that if I wanted the milk 
 I would have to take it at the sidewalk. And so, 
 as I did want the milk and wanted it very badly, 
 I was forced to submit. 
 How true it is that 
 
 "Man s inhumanity to man 
 Makes countless thousands mourn."
 
 54 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 However, a day of reckoning will surely come. It 
 is a most comforting thought to every lawyer in 
 a country town and community, that if he con 
 tinues in practice long enough, he will be sure to 
 have an opportunity to take a retaliatory whack 
 at whosoever does him an injury or drives a sharp 
 bargain. There is no truer saying than 
 
 "He who sows the wind 
 Reaps the whirlwind." 
 
 And so to prevent myself from becoming lop 
 sided I carry the can half the distance with one 
 hand and half the distance with the other. 
 
 The pigs are doing wonderfully well. I have as 
 yet not made up my mind about the peas. Think 
 if pleasant to-morrow I will plant a few beets. I 
 am afraid I am encumbering myself with seri 
 ous problems. The question of peas and fowl 
 is likely to make strong demands upon my ju 
 dicial faculties. I think that to base a decision 
 in so important a matter upon the flipping of 
 a coin is the mark of a weak and untutored 
 mind. 
 
 I feel sure that mature deliberation will result 
 in a wise decision. It is well to take time, but not 
 too much. 
 
 "The Bird of Time has but a little way 
 To flutter and the bird is on the wing." 
 
 I will try to think it out to-day at the office.
 
 / Lose a Client 55 
 
 Tuesday, April 23, 191-. "It has been a day of 
 triumph at Capua," but not wholly so. I am at 
 once elated and cast down. I have decided the 
 matter of the peas, and I am sure the decision 
 does credit to the practical working of my mind. 
 I have decided to plant both giant and dwarf 
 peas. I will plant the ground I have already, and 
 with great toil and pains, dressed, turned, and 
 raked, with both kinds of peas. I will later weed, 
 hoe, and bush the giants and thoroughly culti 
 vate the dwarfs. 
 
 Then when ripe I will persuade my wife, with 
 subtle flatteries, and compel my daughter, by 
 stern parental command, to pluck and shell the 
 same. Is not this a fair division of labor? 
 
 I was very much pleased to have arrived at so 
 eminently just and fair a decision. 
 
 But I was much grieved to lose a client in a 
 most curious way. I have recently installed a 
 new typewriting machine in my office. The pre 
 siding goddess of the machine had written a letter 
 from dictation to a Mr. J. Smith, a gentleman 
 who in early life had suffered the loss of one leg 
 at the hip, and who is, not unnaturally, very sen 
 sitive about his misfortune. The young lady was 
 unused to the new machine and struck the figures 
 " J" instead of the initial " J." both in the address 
 in the letter and on the envelope. 
 
 I had been absorbed in working out a decision
 
 56 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 in the peas question, and when the letter was 
 brought to me for signature did not notice the 
 error and the letter was sent, bearing my sign 
 manual, directed to 
 
 Mr. f Smith, 
 
 N. H. 
 
 To-day I received a letter from the maddest man 
 in the United States, and containing material 
 calculated to curl my hair and bring out goose 
 pimples all over me. I explained as well as I could, 
 but I feel sure he will never believe I did not do it 
 intentionally. 
 
 I cannot blame him a bit. It was infernally ap 
 propriate. Verily a keen sense of humor some 
 times puts a man in a most unpleasant position. 
 I am quite cast down over the thought that he 
 believes I would do so dastardly a thing. If he 
 would only see that the joke was decidedly on 
 me and not on him, he would believe me innocent 
 as a babe unborn. 
 
 Wednesday, April 24, 191-. Frost this morning. 
 The new grass was stiff with it. The largest flock 
 of grackles I ever saw passed over this morn 
 ing. It took fifteen minutes for the flock to 
 pass. 
 
 It sounded like a thousand sewing societies 
 discussing a new type of lingerie.
 
 Pigs 57 
 
 Intended to plant peas to-day, but a bit too 
 cold. Hope to be able to do it to-morrow. 
 
 I am amazed at the growth of my pigs and am 
 constantly reminded of Alice in Wonderland 
 when she ate the magic cake and instantly grew 
 so rapidly that she had to put one foot up the 
 chimney. 
 
 When I bought these pigs they were almost 
 microscopic in size, but with appetites that would 
 shame a boa constrictor. The main difference be 
 tween the pigs and the boa constrictor, apart 
 from their architecture, is in the fact that the boa 
 constrictor eats one huge meal once a month or 
 so, and the pigs eat three huge meals a day, and 
 the weary hours between meals are employed 
 by them in rooting out light refections and in 
 protesting raucously when the supply does not 
 equal the demand, which it never does. 
 
 Naturalists say that the common robin red 
 breast daily snakes from the bosom of Mother 
 Earth a thousand and odd worms and feeds them 
 to her young. But Merula migratoria is a dub, 
 a piker, an "also ran," to the man that single- 
 handed tries to minister to the endless wants of 
 a couple of miniature, and daily growing less so, 
 pigs. I am that man, and I feel sure that I am 
 bound to achieve a record for devil-may-care 
 daring. 
 
 I believe that no man in this country of rapidly
 
 58 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 increasing population and expanding needs ought 
 to be allowed to own a farm and lot without put 
 ting the same to some practical use, such as keep 
 ing a cow, or pigs, or fowls. 
 
 There should be some law to impose this as a 
 duty upon the owners of real estate. In the early 
 days of this part of New England when lands 
 were allotted to citizens, just about land enough 
 to pasture a goat was given to a bachelor, while 
 a lot capable of pasturing several cows, a dozen 
 sheep, etc., was allotted a man who had given 
 hostages to fortune. In many ways our fore 
 fathers were greatly our superiors and worthy of 
 imitation. It is really not too late. It is a simple 
 matter of patriotism to keep a cow and a flock of 
 hens. If, however, a man is bold to recklessness he 
 should keep a pig. If he fears neither man, beast, 
 nor devil he should keep two. 
 
 Thursday, April 25, 191-. While I have been so 
 occupied over my garden, and my carefully 
 drawn plans thereof which I unfortunately lost 
 or had stolen from me by some envious and aban 
 doned person, the spring weather has brought an 
 amazing growth to my lawns, of which I have a 
 numerous and varied assortment, and this morn 
 ing I realized for the first time this year that the 
 grass, upon such of my lawns as are not to be 
 ploughed under, needed cutting very badly. Ac-
 
 The Lawn-Mower 59 
 
 cordingly I hunted up the newest of my three 
 lawn-mowers, in the society of which I had in 
 years past travelled, in twelve-inch swaths up 
 and down my premises, a distance of at least 
 three times across this continent in its widest 
 part, now smoothly bowling along amid a shower 
 of closely clipped clover, witchgrass, sorrel, jim- 
 son, pig- and ragweed, now stopping abruptly 
 with my stomach brought suddenly and violently 
 against the handle-bars as the machine vainly 
 tried to bite off a length of wire, an oyster shell, 
 a rusty currycomb, a piece of crockery, or some 
 other article that had escaped the prying teeth 
 of the rake. 
 
 Of course the entire squad of lawn-mowers 
 that I had sent at the end of last season to the 
 machinist for an overhauling, had broken down 
 during this winter of enforced inactivity. One 
 would n t budge, although I drenched it with 
 oil; the second ran with great smoothness, but 
 the knives did not revolve ; the handle of the third 
 was loose and the screw-holes so worn that I 
 could not tighten them. 
 
 So I was obliged to order a new one. I was 
 grieved, but not surprised, as it has been my cus 
 tom to do the same for years. A habit is easily 
 acquired and difficult to get rid of. 
 
 The lawn-mower is a wonderful invention, and 
 for many years I have sedulously cultivated its
 
 60 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 acquaintance with enthusiasm in the first growth 
 of the lawn grass. As spring and summer waxed 
 and waned my enthusiasm sensibly and progres 
 sively abated, until at the close of the season I 
 had become so ding-bustedly tired and sick of 
 pushing that machine over those lawns, of rak 
 ing, wheeling out, and burning the refuse, of 
 painfully kneeling on gravel walks and clipping 
 the borders, that I declared I never would push 
 a lawn-mower again in my life. 
 
 And yet, so strong is habit that at the advent 
 of the spring grass my enthusiasm returns, and I 
 buy a new and expensive lawn-mower to take the 
 place of the one warranted by the dealer, and but 
 a year ago, to last as long as I should. 
 
 Sometimes I am forced to conclude that deal 
 ers are a bit over-charitable toward their wares, 
 and over-enthusiastic in their description of their 
 many excellences, and especially of their dura 
 bility. It may be that a local dealer, knowing my 
 undeserved reputation for physical and mental 
 slothfulness, is justified in representing and war 
 ranting his goods to last as long as I shall last, 
 but it is never safe to make an unconditional 
 statement of the kind, because no mere man can 
 safely disregard the consideration of influences 
 and powers of a collateral nature that may work 
 a mighty change in one s habits. 
 
 And when a dealer makes such a representa-
 
 Pinions 61 
 
 tion or warranty, he should be brought to the 
 bull-ring of public censure if he fails to make his 
 warranty good. 
 
 But I have never known a dealer to toe the 
 scratch. Whenever I call one s attention to the 
 matter, he says the trouble is in the pinion. I do 
 not know now, and never have been able to tell, 
 what a pinion is. I thought it was something that 
 birds, especially eagles and white doves of peace, 
 used to fly with. In the oratorio of "The Crea 
 tion" I have heard eminent vocalists sing 
 
 " On mighty pinions." 
 
 If Haydn had lived in the age of lawn-mowers 
 and had for several years bought lawn-mowers, 
 he would never have used the word in that 
 connection. 
 
 Of course, not knowing, and being utterly un 
 able to find out, what a pinion is, and being ut 
 terly in the dark as to the proper spelling of the 
 word, I may be miles off the track. 
 
 But of one thing I am certain, a pinion in a 
 lawn-mower is something that is responsible for 
 every ill incidental to lawn-mowers, and that the 
 dealer is not responsible for any warranty, how 
 ever strongly expressed. 
 
 Friday., April 26, 191-. Planted lettuce and beets 
 to-day. According to the pictures in the seed
 
 62 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 catalogues I shall have to harvest my lettuce 
 with a scythe and my beet greens with a sickle. 
 Later on, with help, I may be able to lift one 
 of the beets at a time. Possibly I shall have so 
 increased my strength by hard and continuous 
 labor that when the beets are ripe I shall have no 
 difficulty in harvesting them. 
 
 I have two large cellars separated from the 
 furnace room. So I feel sure of having room 
 enough for my crops. It will not do to plant too 
 many. Cabbages to-morrow. 
 
 Heard and saw some meadow-larks in the field 
 behind the house. Also saw the first swallows 
 to-day, of the barn variety, with their beau 
 tiful deep blue backs and white breasts tinged 
 with scarlet. Their arrival spoke very plainly of 
 summer. 
 
 Some tiny warblers in a tall maple tree kept up 
 the most delightful singing and twittering all the 
 time I was working in the garden beg par 
 don, on my farm. I hated to quit work, even to 
 go in to breakfast. Pigs are growing beyond be 
 lief. I do hate to lug that four-gallon can twice a 
 week. 
 
 Saturday, April 27, 191-. No new birds to-day. 
 Bought a baker s dozen Rhode Island Reds to 
 day in laying form. It will be a treat to have 
 fresh eggs. I wonder if I shall miss the thrill of
 
 Their arrival spoke very plainly of summer
 
 Sheep 63 
 
 uncertainty that one feels when breaking a store 
 egg in the morning, the wondering whether you 
 will throw the egg, cup, and all out of the dining- 
 room window, or go out of the window yourself. 
 
 Sunday, April 28, 191-. Had to work in office all 
 day. Worse luck. 
 
 Monday, April 29, 191-. My R.I.R. hens have 
 not come. Rather looked for them to-day. 
 Planted a few short rows of cauliflower; also 
 Swiss chard. 
 
 I am thinking of doing something with sheep. 
 Saw a literary farmer friend of mine to-day, and 
 he suggested that I buy a cosset of him. I said 
 I would think of it. I am doing it now, but I 
 have about decided to try it. There are certain 
 elements about the industry that appeal to me 
 strongly. Although individually the domestic 
 sheep seems a rather tame proposition, yet I am 
 convinced that the possession of sheep is not 
 wholly without its moments of excitement in 
 tense excitement at times. I have been thor 
 oughly convinced of this from something that 
 took place to-day. 
 
 After talking with my literary friend I thought 
 I would make some inquiries of another friend 
 who lives a few miles from Exeter and has long 
 been interested in sheep.
 
 64 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 Accordingly that afternoon, after I had cleared 
 my desk, I got my son to take me out to his 
 place. On the way I told him about my intention 
 to cultivate a few mutton chops and listened 
 with some amusement to his rather disgusted 
 remarks. Just as we drove into my friend s yard 
 he was driving a long line of cattle and sheep 
 from a field or paddock to the barn. At the head 
 of the procession was a ram, a magnificent speci 
 men, with magnificent horns curving like twin 
 French horns, a thoroughbred, high-stepping 
 gait, and the most beautiful golden eyes in the 
 world. 
 
 It reminded me most forcibly of Seton s 
 "Krag," the Kootenay ram. I burned to possess 
 it. The ram headed the procession as by the di 
 vine right of kings, and my friend brought up 
 the rear, carrying a goad stick. Seeing me he 
 waved his hand, called to me to wait, and went 
 back to the house. 
 
 As the procession neared us, a handsome Hoi- 
 stein heifer tried to cut in ahead of the ram, 
 whereupon that gentle and harmless animal 
 shook his head, curved his neck, executed a few 
 dainty and well-executed dancing steps, shot for 
 ward and struck that luckless heifer so lusty a 
 blow in her stomach that she resounded like a, 
 bass drum, let out a hoarse bla-a-t of pained re 
 monstrance, and with promptness withdrew to
 
 " Thet There Ram " 65 
 
 her proper place in the procession. Just then my 
 friend came out and greeted me. I got down and 
 told him I was interested in sheep and wanted to 
 know something about buying some. 
 
 Somewhat to my surprise he said he had no 
 sheep to sell, but would sell the ram. I replied 
 that I was afraid he was rather too lively a con 
 tract for me to undertake, but was promptly in 
 formed that the animal was a perfect pet; as 
 gentle as a kitten; and to further assure me he 
 went up to the animal, rubbed his splendid head 
 and patted his shapely flanks, and " lowed" 
 with much homely imprecation that "one of 
 them there turtle doves was a bald-headed eagle * 
 in comparison with "thet there ram." As he said 
 this he went to get his milk pails, all the while 
 talking volubly about the extraordinary and un 
 precedented docility of the ram. 
 
 I was interested to observe that the cans and 
 pails were ranged in rows under a corn house 
 supported upon piles about three feet from the 
 ground, a very neat arrangement affording per 
 fect shelter with plenty of country air. 
 
 To get the cans he was compelled to go down 
 on all fours and to take them out one by one. 
 The width of the space was about twelve feet, 
 and in order to reach some of the more remote 
 cans his head and shoulders entirely disappeared 
 beneath the building from which his voice still
 
 66 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 poured forth paeans of praise of the dove-like 
 meekness of the golden-eyed pacifist. 
 
 At that very moment the ram became inter 
 ested, probably from the rattle and clang of the 
 milk pails. I also became interested in the ram. I 
 observed with amazement that he was making 
 the same preparations that heralded his attack 
 on the cow, and noted with satisfaction that these 
 preparations were directed, not at me, but at my 
 garrulous friend still crying the saint-like virtues 
 of the ram. 
 
 This time, owing perhaps to the reduced size 
 of the target which, however, was big enough 
 in all conscience the preparations were on a 
 more careful and pretentious scale. The ram 
 was evidently plotting the range and allowing 
 for the variation of wind, tide, and phases of 
 the moon. Instead of a few delicate steps he 
 danced the complicated snake dance of the O jib- 
 ways. Then he slowly curved his massive neck 
 until the iron frontlet was in exact line. Then he 
 slowly backed a few yards, quivered a moment, 
 and 
 
 Now I realize perfectly well that as a decent, 
 law-abiding citizen, as a humane man, as a kind 
 neighbor, I should have warned my friend of his 
 danger. I was very much to blame in the matter. 
 But then my friend had assured me with homely 
 asseverations that the animal was a sucking dove
 
 A Japanese Juggler 67 
 
 of peace, a very Quaker in his policy of non- 
 resistance and non-aggression. 
 
 Had I warned him he would have laughed at 
 me. Perhaps he would have been angry and I 
 might have lost a friendship; perhaps we might 
 have been embroiled over the matter. As it was, 
 he did not laugh at me, nor was he angry with me, 
 and I did not miss the show. And so, as I would 
 not have missed it for many times the price of 
 the ram, I conclude that I took the wiser course. 
 
 As I was saying, the ram quivered a moment 
 and then shot forward like an express train at all 
 of my friend that remained in sight. There was a 
 thud, a grunt, and a terrific clangor of milk cans, 
 and my friend disappeared like a flash, instantly 
 to reappear with unabated speed on the farther 
 side of the building, preceded, surrounded, and 
 followed by a resounding, clanging, and echoing 
 cloud of tin cans, while the ram, somewhat mys 
 tified over the abrupt but sonorous disappear 
 ance of his victim, shook his head doubtfully on 
 the hither side. 
 
 In the early seventies a troupe of acrobats 
 known as the "Japanese Jugglers" came to Exe 
 ter. The youngest, smallest, and most expert of 
 its members was known as "Little Allright." One 
 of his feats was to take a flying start and dive 
 through a barrel series of hoops, in which had 
 been fastened lighted candles, without extin-
 
 68 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 guishing them. It was a feat that called forth 
 the most unbounded enthusiasm, but if my 
 friend could stage his performance with the ram, 
 the corn house, and the milk cans, he could be 
 come, without the slightest doubt, one of the 
 foremost vaudeville artists of the day. 
 
 But then, come to think of it, to withstand the 
 nightly shock of that ram, he would require so 
 much padding that I am quite sure he could n t 
 pass under the corn barn. Certainly not through 
 a barrel. 
 
 So I have not yet bought any sheep, but am on 
 the lookout for gentle animals, warranted not to 
 bite. 
 
 Tuesday, April 30, 191-. My determination to 
 raise sheep had dated from a somewhat recent 
 experience in the goodly town of Boston. It hap 
 pened not long ago that I found myself one eve 
 ning in that somewhat cosmopolitan village clad 
 in evening clothes of a somewhat passe cut and 
 style and gasolenely odorous. 
 
 I have forgotten just what occasioned my pres 
 ence there. My impression is that I had been en 
 gaged at the eleventh hour to fill, or to try to fill, 
 the place of some speaker who was unavoidably 
 absent. I feel quite certain that this was the case, 
 for I do not recollect any invitation to speak 
 when it was otherwise.
 
 A Gustatory Bender 69 
 
 I have no fault to find with the motives of the 
 committees in withholding their invitations until 
 it is morally certain that no other speaker can be 
 obtained, but I do criticize the abruptness of the 
 notice that gives me scant time to gasolene my 
 veteran evening clothes and to blacken such 
 parts of my underclothing as might otherwise 
 shine with a white radiance through the moth- 
 holes. 
 
 At all events, whatever the reason, I found my 
 self at a late hour on a downtown street of Bos 
 ton, in evening clothes, with the rest of the night 
 at my disposal and with a dire longing for gen 
 erous food and drink, which fact is of itself con 
 vincing evidence that I had been attending a 
 Boston banquet. 
 
 I had long desired to eat a generous and gen 
 uine English mutton chop and to drink a mug 
 of musty ale, like the heroes of Dickens and of 
 Thackeray. Evenings at home after a frugal meal 
 of toast and fried potatoes I would find myself 
 reading of chop-houses made immortal by these 
 masters, and feeling as if I had not eaten a square 
 meal for a month. 
 
 So I decided, after a careful review of my finan 
 cial condition, that the time had come for a gus 
 tatory bender, and I sought and found a famous 
 grill where one was allowed to select his particu 
 lar chop and to superintend its preparation; and
 
 70 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 after exercising profound judgment in the selec 
 tion I took my seat at a side table and buried my 
 face in a pewter of foaming ale. Now I had never 
 drunk ale, and had never seen any musty ale be 
 fore, and so I trust that no lover of brown stout 
 or of malt in any form may take my criticism of 
 that particular brew of musty ale as a general 
 condemnation of malt stimulants. My first in 
 troduction to the genus ale should have begun 
 at the bottom of the ladder. 
 
 Dickens s and Thackeray s roysterers always 
 took a long pull at the pewter. Men in evening 
 dress and in business suits at other tables were 
 doing the like, and I did or tried to do the same 
 thing. It was the toughest pull I ever took at 
 anything. 
 
 I got down one mouthful by extraordinary 
 effort and hastily replaced my pewter on the 
 table trying to avoid shuddering myself out of 
 my chair. The taste reminded me very forcibly 
 of Moxie with a generous infusion of mothballs 
 and an equally generous admixture of soft soap, 
 nux vomica, and coal tar. A liking for it is, I am 
 sure, acquired only after acts of protracted hero 
 ism of which I am, I fear, incapable. 
 
 Before I had wholly restrained my impulse to 
 make a hurried adjournment to the outer air in 
 search of a convenient and comparatively de 
 serted alley, the waiter, a smooth-shaven man
 
 Musty Ale 71 
 
 with a sliver of short whisker in front of each ear, 
 to counteract, if possible, the effect of his long 
 upper lip, said in accents that rendered perfect 
 his cockney disguise, "Yez chop, sor-r-r Yis 
 sor-r-r Thank yez, sor-r-r" and withdrew 
 to respectful attention while I began on the chop, 
 hoping that it might act as an antidote for the 
 taste of the ale, but finding to my dismay that it 
 tasted of the wool, owing to the fact that they 
 had been so closely associated for so many years, 
 as the English seldom kill under five years of 
 age. 
 
 Be that as it may, this particular chop tasted 
 as if it had been fully five years since it had been 
 dissected, and the combination of the flavors of 
 hops, mothballs, soft soap, wool, oil, nux vomica, 
 and coal tar was rather too much for a country 
 stomach accustomed to corned beef, cabbage, 
 boiled onions, tripe, and other simple fare, and 
 I was forced to leave before the repast was fin 
 ished. Outraged nature could stand no more. 
 
 Before I left I summoned the waiter and also 
 summoned all my fortitude as he brought my 
 bill. It was needed, I assure you. 
 
 People in faints have been revived by being 
 made to inhale the smoke of burning feathers, 
 and an overseer on the plantation of one Simon 
 Legree ran a pin to its head into a fainting woman 
 with prompt and satisfactory result. Drunken
 
 72 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 men are sobered by vigorous slaps in the face or 
 by being drenched with pails of ice water. 
 
 But no more efficacious scheme was ever de 
 vised by any one than the bill for my chop and 
 ale presented by that waiter. I gasped, stut 
 tered, but paid it and stalked out in high dis 
 pleasure to think it over. But I reflected that all 
 around me were men and women nightly paying 
 such prices for such food; and it struck me then 
 that any farmer, amateur or otherwise, could do 
 no better than to cater to their peculiar appetites. 
 I then and there registered a vow to high heaven 
 that should I ever get the taste of that nauseous 
 combination out of my mouth and memory to 
 such an extent that I might turn a part of my 
 thoughts and attention to other aims, I would 
 raise English mutton chops for profit solely, and 
 perhaps in the ample income derived from the 
 business I might in time forget how they tasted 
 in combination with musty ale. 
 
 Wednesday, May 1, 191-. May Day!! I think the 
 words deserve at least two exclamation marks, 
 each one a thrill, for I still feel a thrill when the 
 day comes round. It is not wholly a reminiscent 
 thrill, although apart from the delightful feeling 
 that 
 
 " Der Mai ist gekommen, 
 Der Winter ist aus,"
 
 " Call Me Early, Mother Dear " 73 
 
 and that for at least five happy months I shall 
 have a vacation from shovelling coal, sifting 
 ashes, and from spending the greater part of my 
 waking, and a considerable part of what is sup 
 posed to be my sleeping, hours in the furnace 
 room, reminiscence and memory produce a very 
 decided thrill. 
 
 May Day ! when we used to walk leagues in 
 the woods to gather Mayflowers with which we 
 filled small baskets, adding for generous weight, 
 molasses gibs, striped stick candy, and, last of all, 
 mottoes in pink letters on a white candy lozenge, 
 and hung them on our at that time best girl s 
 doorknob, rang the bell and fled, but not too far 
 to observe what happened. 
 
 And it was happiness when that particular divin 
 ity came to the door and took the basket with her 
 own fair hands and sent a smile into the darkness, 
 which nevertheless reached your heart and sent 
 you home the lightest-hearted boy in the world. 
 
 And what misery and wretchedness when her 
 brother came out and with coarse laughter appro 
 priated the refreshments and put them where 
 they would do the most good at least to him 
 self and then either threw the flowers away or 
 used them to make up a basket for his own partic 
 ular divinity, while you retired vowing that you 
 would "everlastingly lick the peagreen stuffin 
 outer him the next day."
 
 74 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 And then there was the May fair which the 
 Unitarian Society, even in those remote and al 
 most prehistoric days, had yearly celebrated since 
 the Devonian Period or the Upper Silurian. 
 
 And in those days it was regarded as a seri 
 ous misdemeanor, in fact almost a felony, for a 
 father to neglect or refuse to take every member 
 of his family, able to walk or ride, to this fair 
 and to blow them to the finest supper ever served 
 in the world, with escalloped oysters and cold 
 chicken and tongue and ham and lobster salad 
 and hot rolls and mashed potatoes, and three 
 kinds of ice-cream and a different kind of cake 
 for each one, and tea and coffee. 
 
 Other church-fair suppers had brown bread 
 and beans and oysters, and mince and apple and 
 squash and lemon and Washington pie, all very 
 well in their way, but not in the same class as the 
 May fair suppers. And then there was music and 
 dancing and games and well, how can one who 
 has had these delightful experiences help feeling 
 a thrill when the day comes round again? 
 
 To be sure it is not the same thrill, because 
 business, or rheumatism, or laziness, or increas 
 ing flesh, or corns prevent one who is approach 
 ing threescore years from going after Mayflow 
 ers and from making and hanging May baskets. 
 
 One may still go to May -fair suppers and en 
 joy them, too, but not with the zest of boyhood
 
 Balmoral Boots 75 
 
 or of youth. Alas! that it is so, but one may be 
 thankful for the thrill that May Day still brings. 
 One may still go out and listen to the song spar 
 row and the pewee. I did this to-day and it was 
 a delight, and then I spent an hour in setting out 
 early cabbages and cauliflower, which was also 
 very pleasant, as was the fact that my lettuce 
 and peas are peeping through the soil, and my 
 Rhode Island Reds are scratching and prating 
 cheerfully behind their wire fence, and are really 
 laying eggs that taste so differently from those 
 I put down in water-glass last fall and which have 
 lasted until now. Long live May Day ! 
 
 "You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother 
 
 dear; 
 To-morrow 11 be the happiest time of all the glad New 
 
 Year, 
 Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest 
 
 day, 
 For I m to be Queen o the May, mother, I m to be Queen 
 
 o the May." 
 
 And when I read it I could picture a certain 
 young lady in that very schoolroom, a young 
 lady with a plaid dress and balmoral boots and 
 white cotton stockings, as a radiant young Queen 
 of the May, radiant beyond any Queen of the 
 May, before or since. 
 
 Thursday, May 2, 191-. Yesterday I was remi 
 niscing. To-day I was brought back to practical
 
 76 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 things with a round turn. It was almost a shock. 
 It was a shock. My creamery man brought in 
 his bill. I looked at it and then at him. My face 
 must have betrayed amazement when I looked 
 at the bill, and reproach, sorrow, and indignation 
 when I looked at him. 
 
 I tried to wither him with a glance. He did n t 
 wither worth a cent. I doubt if I could have faced 
 a man with a bill of that size without betraying 
 uneasiness. It is said that "a guilty conscience 
 needs no accuser"; that in itself should have 
 caused his eyes to droop in shame before my 
 accusing glance. But his eyes drooped not a 
 droop, but gazed at me with the utmost coolness. 
 Then he said, with what seemed to me uncalled- 
 for familiarity: 
 
 "Well, sport, do I get my money?" 
 
 "You ll get kicked off my place if you don t 
 cut out your fresh talk," I answered. 
 
 "I m not on your place," he answered with a 
 grin. 
 
 That was true; he was on the sidewalk and I 
 felt a bit foolish for my sudden heat. 
 
 I like the familiarity of my friends, like to have 
 them call me by my first name, but nothing riles 
 me quicker than the familiarity of a comparative 
 stranger. 
 
 I had intended disputing the bill and refusing 
 to pay because he was evidently putting a high
 
 A Bill 11 
 
 price for the unquestioned antiquity of his sour 
 milk and buttermilk. Antiquity is a valuable 
 asset when possessed by furniture, spirituous 
 liquor, cheese, and violins of the right make, but 
 it is seldom a desirable quality for food of any 
 other kind but cheese. 
 
 But having lost my temper I no longer had the 
 opportunity or desire for cool and stinging sar 
 casm, which would have been, I am sure, lost 
 upon him. 
 
 So I paid an outrageous bill, emptied the can 
 into a tub, returned the can to the man, and told 
 him I was through. Then I made up my mind 
 that the only way out of the difficulty was in the 
 prompt purchase of a cow. I felt something as 
 when a boy, fearing to jump off a shed roof, 
 throws his hat down as a sort of encouragement 
 and then follows it even at the risk of breaking 
 his legs. And so when I fired the creamery man 
 I knew that I was merely throwing my hat off the 
 shed roof and must, by all the rules and tenets 
 of boyhood and manhood, follow that hat or be 
 forever disgraced. 
 
 My pigs must have milk, and either I have got 
 to buy a cow or recall that infernal creamery man 
 and submit to his fatal freshness, for I feel sure 
 that it will either be fatal to him or to me, and 
 the uncertainty of it is what drives me to a de 
 cision. I will, I musty buy a cow. Let s see, to-day
 
 78 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 is Thursday. To-morrow I have a case to try, 
 and as I am the only one that knows this particu 
 lar case I cannot very well shove it onto Dick s 
 shoulders. I really must keep law and farming 
 distinct. The law practice seems necessary both 
 to maintain me and the expenses of farming. I 
 think I will get the doctor and his wife to take 
 us out into the country on Sunday afternoon, if 
 pleasant, and I will buy my cow. The farmers do 
 not observe the pasture custom of waiting until 
 May 20th with their own cattle. And in the after 
 noon I can make a better guess as to the milk 
 condition of the cows. Then if I make a trade I 
 will have the cow milked in my presence and see 
 just what she gives and how she milks. 
 
 Having settled this question I fed my pigs. 
 They are coming along finely and already when 
 they stand up against the fence, squealingly 
 awaiting their milk, their heads come nearly to 
 the top of the fence. With the unlimited quan 
 tity of fresh milk I shall undoubtedly have from 
 my new cow, they will improve wonderfully. Of 
 course I shall keep the cream for the family and 
 give the skim milk to the pigs. This, with a little 
 middlings, and bran, and wheat screenings, and 
 corn meal, and shorts, and stock feed, and tank 
 age, and ground oats, and boiled potatoes, and 
 green stuff from the garden and farm, and table 
 waste, will make an inexpensive food for them
 
 Supply and Demand 79 
 
 and a mixture that ought to furnish every neces 
 sary ingredient for the rapid and healthy growth 
 of good pork. 
 
 Then again the expense for the keep of a cow in 
 the summer season must be negligible. With the 
 clippings from such of my lawns as are not to be 
 ploughed up, I ought to get the most of her feed. 
 And this, supplemented by a little soy-bean hay 
 and clover, and a few feeds daily of various kinds 
 of stock feed, and oil meal, and gluten, and cot 
 ton-seed meal, and green stuff from the garden, 
 and cornstalks when ripe, and pumpkins and car 
 rots cut up into small and non-chokeable pieces, 
 will keep her in the best of milking condition. 
 
 It seems perfectly, even ridiculously simple. 
 Feed her generously and she feeds the pigs. One 
 hand washes the other. Equalize the supply and 
 demand and peace and plenty abound. 
 
 And yet farmers would have us believe that 
 their calling is the most difficult, laborious, and 
 ill-paid in the world. I am sure they are grossly 
 mistaken. It is merely a matter of industry and 
 common sense, without which no business can 
 be successful. What better illustration can be 
 given? For instance, suppose I have one dozen 
 milking cows; a good pasture capable of feed 
 ing them; good tillable land for field corn, corn 
 fodder, rye, wheat, potatoes, soy beans, mangel- 
 wurzels, turnips, and carrots.
 
 80 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 It must be the simplest thing in the world to 
 raise enough of these standard crops to keep 
 your cows up to the highest average standard of 
 productiveness, and to leave a considerable part 
 of the crops for family consumption and for sale. 
 
 Suppose I keep Jerseys exclusively. With my 
 method of feeding it would seem that twelve 
 quarts per day from each animal would be a 
 fair average. One hundred and forty-four quarts 
 a day of Jersey milk. To be conservative call it 
 one hundred and forty; at twelve cents a quart, 
 that would be $16.80 still, being conservative, 
 call it $15. 
 
 Fifteen dollars average receipts per diem. 
 
 On the other side the main expenses would be 
 grain for your cows. I should think one bag of 
 feed per day would be sufficient. Say $3 per day. 
 One hired man could do the work with your help 
 easily. Call this $60 per month and board : $2 per 
 day. Board would cost practically nothing be 
 cause you will raise enough to feed your family 
 and hired man from what is left over after the 
 stock are fed. 
 
 Taxes, repairs, and insurance would scarcely 
 amount to more than $1 per day. Call it $2 to 
 leave a comfortable margin. I do not wish to 
 neglect the expense column in a single item. Of 
 course I may have omitted something in the 
 nature of expense, but it must certainly be cov-
 
 Profits 81 
 
 ered by the allowance for repairs, taxes, and in 
 surance. 
 
 So as I figure it there is a daily receipt of $15 
 and a daily expense of $7, leaving a net profit of 
 $8 from twelve cows. 
 
 I have not figured the receipts from an occa 
 sional load of hay or potatoes or garden truck, 
 and an occasional calf or pig; nor have I in 
 cluded the profit in hogs, provided I give the 
 skim milk to hogs and sell the cream. It is said 
 that one third of Jersey milk is cream. A con 
 servative estimate is one quarter. Cream is 
 worth eighty cents a quart. Thirty-five quarts 
 of cream at eighty cents is $28. By making this 
 use of my milk I would nearly double my income 
 and yearly market a dozen or more hogs. I am 
 saying nothing of milk-fed chickens and eggs. 
 
 Really, when I consider the opportunities a 
 farmer has to make money, and when I reduce 
 these opportunities to cold figures which never 
 lie, I no longer wonder how an average farmer 
 can afford his motor-truck and his expensive 
 touring-car, while I, as a lawyer with a good 
 practice, feel that a Ford runabout is a luxury 
 that I cannot afford. 
 
 Friday., May 3, 191-. I have secured one sheep. 
 A doe I mean, of course, a ewe. The man who 
 sold her to me, a very distinguished literary man
 
 82 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 of a neighboring town, made absolutely no at 
 tempt to take advantage of my age or inexperi 
 ence. On the contrary, he laid his cards on the 
 table and I obtained the filly I ah mean 
 doe, that is to say, the ewe at a remarkably 
 reasonable price considering her peculiar talents 
 and almost superhuman or rather supernatural 
 agility. 
 
 She is a Roman-nosed or aquiline-beaked 
 beast, a Chester White or a White Minorca, with 
 a sad expression and golden eyes. Her voice is a 
 rather monotonous contralto with a lovely reedy 
 quality, somewhat sharpened by constant use 
 and asthmatic bronchitis, and as she has not had 
 time to shave since the latter part of last May or 
 the early part of last June she is covered with a 
 growth of fur of about the consistency and color 
 of the doormat at the back door, made out of the 
 discarded rag carpet from the maid s room. 
 
 She is a very engaging animal, indeed, and 
 bids fair to become a rival to the pigs in my af 
 fections. 
 
 She is a buck-jumper and her late owner could 
 not keep her in the pasture. He said that he tried 
 everything. He had hobbled her front feet to 
 gether; he had fastened a shingle to her forehead; 
 he had fastened a pole by means of a cunningly 
 devised arrangement of surcingle and martingale 
 so that it projected several feet beyond her nose.
 
 A Paragon 83 
 
 But all to no purpose; and as a last hope he had 
 put her in a pasture that was bounded on three 
 sides by the river and on the fourth by the dis 
 trict schoolhouse. He knew she would not try 
 the river and he felt sure that she was safe. But 
 to his amazement she jumped over the school- 
 house and galloped home. 
 
 I could scarcely believe this, but he assured 
 me it was a fact, and as he is a man of unimpeach 
 able veracity, and as he offered to take me down 
 and show me the schoolhouse and also the river, 
 I felt that his story must be true. 
 
 Then again this particular animal was healthy 
 and free from disease to an extraordinary and 
 amazing degree. Why, according to the owner, 
 during his ownership she had been free from Bots, 
 Farcy, Glanders, Sweeny, Thumps, and Scratches; 
 that she never suffered from Grease Heel, Whis 
 tling, or Heaves; that she had been immune from 
 Springhalt, Wind Puffs, Splints, Spavin, either 
 Bone or Bog, Shoe Boils, Wolf Teeth, Thrush, 
 or Trichinosis; that she was a stranger to Roup, 
 Pip, Bumblefoot, Thoroughpin, Coffin-joint 
 Lameness, or Hollow Horn; that she was well- 
 mannered and neither bit, kicked, nor crowded 
 in the stall, and was neither a halter-puller nor a 
 tail-hugger. In short, but for her acrobatic tal 
 ents, she was a most unusually quiet and reliable 
 animal.
 
 84 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 Now, under these circumstances what could I 
 have done, as a reasonable man, but buy this 
 paragon? There seemed nothing left for me to 
 do, and I closed the bargain. 
 
 I was not entirely new to sheep, nor were 
 sheep new to me. Years and years ago, when I 
 was a boy of twelve, my father had two female 
 sheep ewes, I believe. One a rather venerable 
 specimen, a veteran of many seasons; the other 
 in the first flush of early womanhood, or rather 
 ewehood. 
 
 These ewes freshened or ah eh came in, 
 or eh farrowed (that is the word, I knew 
 I should get it), in the latter part of March. The 
 old lady ewe produced twin lambs, and promptly 
 died of the effort. The young female foaled one 
 ewe lamb that died at birth. 
 
 This left us with twin lambs and a juvenile 
 aunt that refused to allow them to nurse. She 
 was ill-mannered, unreasonable, and even vio 
 lent in her refusal. She struggled, kicked, butted, 
 and blatted vigorously. So my father climbed 
 into the pen and showed me how easy it was to 
 hold the unwilling nurse. It did seem easy when 
 he did it. He was a man of thirty-five, weighing 
 over two hundred, and had a grip of iron. I had 
 felt it on my collar occasionally and knew just 
 how like iron it was. 
 
 Then, after giving a sort of clinic or demon-
 
 Catch-As-Catch-Can 85 
 
 stration, he told me to do it three times a day 
 until further notice. 
 
 I do not believe any boy had a more strenu 
 ous, embattled month than I had with that vi 
 cious, desperate, ravening wolf of a female sheep. 
 And yet such was my sense of duty, inspired by 
 my fear of that iron grip on my collar, that three 
 times a day I tightened my "galluses," spit on 
 my hands, and went forth, or rather "in," to 
 slaughter, " resolved to sell my life as dearly as 
 possible," to quote from a page of my then fa 
 vorite author, one Beadle. 
 
 And three times a day after a titanic struggle 
 I succeeded in holding her until the diminutive, 
 thankless orphans were full fed. I say thankless, 
 because those ridiculous midgets actually butted 
 me and constantly rooted valiantly for- Auntie. 
 Why, / could understand just what they said. 
 
 "Baa-ah-reak his baa-ah-slats in-baa, Auntie, 
 Baa-ah-utt him in the baa-ah-elly, 
 Baa-ah-ust his baa-ah-ack, Auntie." 
 
 And Auntie did her level best, but I held her, 
 although she weighed about ninety pounds and 
 I a short eighty. 
 
 After a month father decided that the con 
 stant repairs to my clothing were more than he 
 could stand, and we began to feed the twins from 
 a bottle, and my martyrdom ceased.
 
 86 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 And yet, like all martyrdoms, it served a pur 
 pose. For when I went back among my friends I 
 found that I could throw with ease boys several 
 years older and half as large again as I. Talk of 
 intensive training! Why, if I had continued tus 
 sling with that sheep a few years,[Christol, Miller, 
 Bauer, Strangler Lewis, Cyclone Burns, Ameri- 
 cus, and even the late Frank Gotch might never 
 have been heard of in mat circles, except as 
 second-raters. 
 
 We kept the twin lambs for several months, 
 and taught them many engaging and cute tricks. 
 They were named Horatius and Helena. Hora- 
 tius earned his name, which was at first Willie, 
 by his ability to hold the bridge without any as 
 sistance from Spurius Lartius, although a Ram- 
 nian proud, or from strong Herminius of Titian 
 blood. 
 
 I had taught him to mount our high front 
 steps and from this Alpine-like eminence to defy 
 any caitiff to cross the moat. These expressions 
 are perhaps a bit incongruous, but show that I 
 have read widely if not very deeply. 
 
 It was to this acquired accomplishment that 
 he owed his banishment, for on one memora 
 ble day he soaked my venerable, universally re 
 spected, God-fearing great-uncle, Gilman Smith, 
 one in the diaphragm, and sent him flying down 
 the steps endwise, amid a cloud of green corn and
 
 Great-Uncle Oilman 87 
 
 a market-basket, with which he had generously 
 meant to endow our family. 
 
 Great-uncle Oilman was, fortunately, not seri 
 ously hurt, and after kind hands had assisted him 
 to his feet, and vigorous but skilful hands had ex 
 humed his head from the adhesive ruins of his 
 venerable and respectable stove-pipe hat, and his 
 bleeding nose had been stanched and his broad 
 cloth coat carefully brushed, he was nearly as 
 good as new save for what seemed to me a most 
 inexplicable, ungenerous, and unreasonable prej 
 udice against Horatius and Helena. 
 
 And so the edict went forth and I had to sell 
 my pets. We children all cried when the man 
 came to take them away. Even Mother cried. 
 
 Father, who had a keen sense of humor, and a 
 most delightful irreverence for sacred things, in 
 cluding Great-uncle Gilman Smith, nearly died 
 laughing over our graphic description of our 
 venerable great-uncle s meteoric descent. I really 
 think he was as sorry as the rest of us when 
 Horatius and Helena were taken away. 
 
 So, as I have said several times, I bought 
 the animal, paid for her in advance, to ensure 
 prompt delivery, and now have her on my prem 
 ises at the end of a strong steel chain twenty 
 feet in length. I feel quite certain that, despite 
 her grasshopper abilities, she cannot possibly 
 bound skyward twenty feet with sufficient mo-
 
 88 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 men turn to pull out the picket pin. So far my 
 judgment has been correct, and she passes her 
 time in tripping up peaceful wayfarers and call 
 ing for help when inextricably entangled in the 
 hydrangeas. 
 
 Saturday, May 4, 191-. The ploughman arrived 
 this morning just as I had finished my stable 
 work and had tethered my solitary sheep in the 
 lush grasses of the tennis court. 
 
 " No other sheep was near, 
 The lamb was all alone, 
 And by a slender cord 
 Was tethered to a stone." 
 
 As a matter of fact this lamb was tethered to a 
 picket pin by a steel chain that would have held 
 a wild bull of Bashan or a rampaging rhinoceros. 
 I had made my first experiment with a slender 
 cord, and as a result had spent an hour chasing 
 that infernal sheep over the entire neighborhood, 
 and I find that I am not as agile as when 
 
 "Leste et joyeux je montais six etages 
 Dans un grenier qu on est bien a vingt ans." 
 
 I really think that my long and soul-shaking race 
 with my pigs the day they arrived did n t do me 
 any lasting good. 
 
 So when the ploughman plodded his weary way 
 into my yard and desired information as to where 
 he should cast off, I gave him the desired inf orma-
 
 The Ploughman 89 
 
 tion, and did not, as I had intended, offer to hold 
 the plough or drive the horses. 
 
 At noon I was, as usual, in a hurry and rushed 
 through my dinner, fed my pigs, which are really 
 coming along wonderfully, moved my sheep to 
 another part of a still virgin lawn and hurried to 
 my office without examining the ploughing. I 
 did notice, however, that he had fed his horses 
 with hay and oats on one of the lawns that was 
 not to be ploughed, and that they had pawed 
 up bushels of turf and had scattered hay over 
 the premises, broadcast. 
 
 I was tempted to raise my hands to heaven and 
 profanely to demand why, in the name of every 
 thing sacred, any man knowing enough to drive 
 a team of horses, P which requires skill and com 
 mon sense, to hold a plough and direct it across 
 the landscape, an act requiring a keen sense of 
 orientation, did n t have sense enough to refrain 
 from pasturing a pair of horses weighing a ton 
 apiece on an adjacent lawn, which he must have 
 known was the apple of my eye and showed 
 plainly that it had been rolled, watered, and 
 mowed to the condition of green velvet? 
 
 But I was in a hurry. A real client was await 
 ing me. I needed his fee to pay the ploughman. 
 Ploughmen were rare and expensive birds. I 
 knew that an altercation with him when the 
 work was half done would result in a protracted
 
 90 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 hunt for a new ploughman whom I might be un 
 able to find, and I could not look forward with 
 any degree of pleasure to a month spent in spad 
 ing up that lawn. 
 
 And so I swallowed my dinner, swallowed my 
 indignant resentment, and hastened back to my 
 client. When I returned that night I found the 
 lawns ploughed, the horses and the ploughman 
 gone, and hay, grain, and stubble scattered over 
 my premises. 
 
 I also found that in his desire for good measure 
 he had ploughed several furrows over a neigh 
 bor s line, there being no boundary fences, and the 
 neighbor ordinarily a man of equable temper 
 and genial disposition criticizing the matter 
 out of the corner of his mouth in tones that could 
 readily have been heard for a mile and a half, and 
 before I had my supper I was obliged to incur ob 
 ligations to re-sod the ploughed strip of his land 
 and to make everything shipshape. 
 
 I did not blame him a bit. It did me good to 
 hear him swear and threaten to do awful things 
 to the ploughman. I hope he will do just as he 
 said he would. I have faith to believe he will, 
 if one may place any dependence upon profanity 
 when delivered out of the corner of one s mouth. 
 
 At all events, my tennis court and croquet 
 ground have disappeared under parallel lines 
 of freshly turned earth. Where for several sea-
 
 The Post-Hole Digger 91 
 
 sons the fretful sound of children (neighbors 
 children, for my own never used the ground), in 
 raucous dispute over the innocent game of cro 
 quet, prevailed to such an extent that we had to 
 go out frequently and threaten to fire them off 
 the reservation if peace did not immediately 
 dawn, the man with the hoe, the rake, the spade, 
 the sprinkler, and the pruning-hook is to come 
 into his own, and the wilderness is to blossom like 
 a rose. 
 
 Sunday, May 5, 191-. To-day is cool; rather too 
 cool, but with a cloudless sky and no wind. The 
 doctor was called away and could not take me 
 out to buy a cow. One more week of exorbitant 
 milk prices. It has been a great day to work 
 around the barn and I improved the occasion to 
 build an outdoor pen for my pigs. This only re 
 quired six posts to fence in a large yard between 
 my barn and the back fence. I had borrowed a 
 post-hole digger, and as the frost is all out of the 
 ground I dug the holes in about an hour. 
 
 As a post-hole digger is a sort of enormous 
 gimlet or gigantic auger which is driven into the 
 ground by a powerful rotary movement of the 
 operator, which is accomplished by a violent 
 twist of the body, I found myself at the end of the 
 hour with an almost unconquerable tendency to 
 run around myself or to revolve upon my own
 
 92 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 axis, something like the feeling a pinwheel must 
 have when in full blaze. 
 
 This feeling was so strong that I was forced to 
 give up work for the day and to sit down and 
 watch the landscape revolve. It got monotonous 
 after a while and after an hour or two the im 
 pression wore off. 
 
 I imagine that to-morrow I shall feel like a 
 wind-twisted sapling. Anyway, the post-holes 
 are dug, which is a relief. 
 
 Monday, May 6, 191-. Birds are arriving faster 
 than I can count them. Have seen no golden 
 robins yet. It is a bit early for them. The plum 
 and cherry trees and the red maples are in blos 
 som and alive with bees and there is a hum in the 
 air that speaks of an early season. 
 
 My sheep is gradually losing her fear of me. I 
 was afraid that some things I said about sheep 
 the other day while I was in full cry after her 
 might have prejudiced her against me. But evi 
 dently she is of a trusting and forgiving nature 
 or stupid. Had any one said the things to me that 
 I said to and about her, it would have been a long 
 time before full forgiveness came, if indeed it 
 ever did. 
 
 At all events, I will meet her halfway. That is 
 the best I can do under the circumstances. But 
 I will keep her securely tied for a while at least.
 
 Metes and Bounds 93 
 
 Tuesday, May 7, 191-. All the spare lime I could 
 take from the office was devoted to re-sodding 
 my neighbor s strip. It is a longer and harder job 
 than I thought it would be, and made no easier 
 from the fact that his comments as the work pro 
 ceeds are not as encouraging as they might be. I 
 will never again consent to forego the luxury of 
 a line fence. There should be a law to compel one 
 whether neighbors want one or not. 
 
 Wednesday, May 8, 191-. My wife has been taking 
 quite an interest in the sheep. Has named her 
 Betty and has petted her a good bit. Sheep and 
 lambs seem affectionate animals and one becomes 
 fond of them quite readily. My wife did. To-day 
 she somehow appears to have acquired a dislike 
 to Betty in the few hours between the time when 
 I, having wrought blisteringly with a rake, hoe, 
 and shovel on my neighbor s strip, fed hens, pigs, 
 and sheep, and securely fastened the latter on the 
 lawn directly in front of the house, left for my 
 office, and the time when I hurried back, intent 
 on throwing aside my coat and raking smooth a 
 bed for carrots. 
 
 It was warm and pleasant when I left. A song 
 sparrow with a black necktie was singing on the 
 top of the grape arbor. Some blackbirds were fol 
 lowing the lines of furrows, pecking and chat 
 tering industriously. A pair of wee creepers were
 
 94 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 climbing the trunk of an apple tree and sound 
 ing their tiny trumpets, and really, much as I 
 love the swivel chair by the battered rolltop in 
 the window, and the view of the fine old square 
 with its old white church, its square, white, three- 
 storied houses, its court- and town-house with 
 its white pillars and its blind goddess, its beauti 
 ful marble bandstand, the work of French and 
 Bacon, I really hated to leave my farm. 
 
 And when I learned of the astonishing antics 
 of the wife of my bosom, a discreet and almost 
 middle-aged woman, a church member, and long 
 its organist, a member of uplift clubs, I regretted 
 more than ever that I had not remained. 
 
 As a sort of neighborhood pageant it was said 
 to have been most unique and unusually enter 
 taining. It had been unrolled (I think that is 
 the proper term for the production of pageants. 
 Yes, I am quite sure of it. One unfurls banners, 
 but unrolls pageants and curtains and sheet mu 
 sic) just as the young and beautiful teachers of 
 the seminary and irreverent young misses with 
 books under their arms, and milk carts and gro 
 cery motors, and mail carriers, and men in white 
 trousers and blouses pushing handcarts loaded 
 with pails of paint, were going gayly to their vari 
 ous tasks, that my wife broke the trammels of a 
 life dedicated to respectability and good works, 
 surprised herself, and scandalized her friends, and
 
 Ground and Lofty 95 
 
 on an open and velvet lawn performed evolutions 
 and antics that placed her at once in a very high 
 class as an acrobat. 
 
 You will remember that I had securely tethered 
 Betty on the lawn. For a while she fed con 
 tentedly, but became lonesome and bleated. At 
 once my wife came out with a pan of apple parings 
 as a special entree for Betty. As she stepped out 
 on the lawn, a friend carrying an umbrella (a 
 passing cloud had sprinkled a bit) came into the 
 yard to speak to her. It was evident that Betty 
 had never seen an umbrella before, for she in 
 stantly dashed for the barn like a streak of light 
 ning, and as my wife stood watching her flight 
 in astonishment, the steel chain sweeping the 
 lawn like the minute hand of a grandfather s 
 clock, with the utmost velocity picked up that 
 wondering lady, pan, apple parings, and all, and 
 flipped her into the air like the small boy at the 
 end in a game of snap-the-whip. 
 
 When she had been assembled and fastened 
 together by kind and gentle hands and helped 
 back into the house and brushed and comforted, 
 it was found that she was unhurt. And yet when 
 I came home, heard the story, and laughed at 
 her, she became very indignant and really would 
 have nothing to say to me. 
 
 And this is the woman who only two short 
 weeks ago laughed herself almost into convul-
 
 96 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 sions when I sustained an almost fatal fall on 
 the muddy driveway, while chasing my pigs. 
 Verily how true the saying, "It makes a differ 
 ence whose ox is gored." 
 
 And I had practically spoiled a fairly good suit 
 and had been soaked to the skin and sorely 
 abraded by gravel stones, and she was absolutely 
 unhurt and had lost only the apple parings, which 
 the sheep afterwards ate with great relish, and 
 her dignity (or at least a part of it, and she has 
 plenty left) which nobody particularly cares to 
 claim. 
 
 My peas are growing finely. I really cannot 
 tell at this stage just which are the giants and 
 which the dwarfs. If they are not cut down in 
 some untimely fashion as by the escape of the 
 sheep or pigs, a few weeks growth will tell the 
 story. 
 
 The loss of my plan of the garden is very un 
 fortunate. It is a bad thing to be absent-minded. 
 I really hope I have not unwittingly attached it 
 to some deed of realty. That might lead to most 
 unfortunate results. 
 
 Thursday, May 9, 191-. I made application for 
 admission to the local Grange some time ago. I 
 met a committee of three to-day to see if they 
 would recommend my admission. 
 
 Much to my surprise and rather to my confu-
 
 A Rejected Candidate 97 
 
 sion they declined to recommend me. I asked the 
 reason and they said I was not a real farmer, but 
 an imitation. I think the word "cheap" was pre 
 fixed to the word "imitation," which seemed to 
 me uncalled for and incorrect. So far I have found 
 that my experience as an amateur farmer has 
 been anything but cheap. 
 
 I reminded them that their actual membership 
 included storekeepers, mechanics, poultrymen, 
 beekeepers, milliners, dry-goods men, restaurant 
 keepers, professional men, undertakers, plain 
 and fancy justices of the peace and quorum, bar 
 bers, manicures, veterinary surgeons, shoemak 
 ers, retired gentlemen, bachelor maids, legal 
 voters of both sexes, police and constables, se 
 lectmen, fence-viewers and pound-keepers. 
 
 They could not deny that, but showed some 
 resentment over the fact that I had been in the 
 habit of giving my produce to my personal 
 friends, and they departed without giving me 
 any encouragement. 
 
 I felt a good deal discouraged over the result, 
 but endeavored to be philosophical. It was not 
 the first time I had been rebuffed in my efforts to 
 join societies. 
 
 My charming personality had no effect appar 
 ently. I think a certain irreverence that I had 
 shown in my writings toward certain sacred 
 things, such as secret societies, local dignitaries,
 
 98 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 and politicians, had for years militated against 
 my success as a public favorite. 
 
 It reminded me very amusingly of what oc 
 curred to me a good many years ago. 
 
 Exeter was then, and for a long time prior 
 thereto had been, a flourishing country town and 
 for an equal time had flourished without the aid, 
 countenance, and supervision of a board of trade. 
 
 I had just been admitted to the bar, and my 
 being let loose to prey upon an innocent country 
 community was in a measure coincident with the 
 organization of a board of trade. 
 
 My own experience in the active practice of 
 my profession had not been particularly encour 
 aging to me or gratifying to my friends or clients, 
 particularly the latter. The few cases I had man 
 aged to secure had been uniformly mismanaged 
 and my clients had been put to serious expense 
 and much mental stress; and the semi-occasional 
 opportunity I had of spreading legal knowledge 
 abroad, in the way of advice to clients, had re 
 sulted in dire and unexpected disaster to those 
 fatuous individuals who had relied upon it. 
 
 Indeed, it had got to the point that whenever 
 I heard a step on the stairs leading to my office, I 
 felt a sudden hollowness in my vitals in fear that 
 the comer might be some one I had advised 
 before. 
 
 And so my reputation as a lawyer, when meas-
 
 The Board of Trade, Salute! 99 
 
 ured by the ordinary standard of success, had not 
 been even respectable. It had, indeed, occasioned 
 some remarks of a deprecatory and uniformly 
 profane nature. But an older and successful 
 lawyer said, when he had got me nonsuited in a 
 case, "Cheer up, old man, you cannot always 
 win; some one must get licked." As up to that 
 time that "some one" had always been I and 
 my client, I did not derive a vast amount of 
 cheer and encouragement from the remark. 
 
 At that time, as I said, the Exeter Board of 
 Trade was organized and incorporated. To one 
 who had been a resident of Exeter for years 
 it would seem incredible that for so many gen 
 erations the vast enterprises could have flour 
 ished that had been so successfully managed and 
 financed without the guiding hand of a board of 
 trade. 
 
 That the alewife industry could have existed, 
 with its yearly clubfest, when every able-bodied 
 citizen and dweller took down from the rafters 
 his trusty dip-net, exhumed his rubber boots, and 
 lit out for the mud-flats of Salt River to beat, 
 scoop up, and barrel a few cartloads of spawning 
 fish, each one of which contained a few billion 
 needle-like bones and little else. 
 
 That the sawmill industry could have existed, 
 with its single up-and-down saw running inter 
 mittently for six weeks each spring; that the
 
 100 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 vast coal industry and salt-fish carrying trade 
 with Portsmouth, requiring a fleet of one flat- 
 bottomed boat containing a leg-of-mutton sail, 
 a pair of sweeps, a half-dozen push-poles, a jug 
 of New England rum, and a crew of three men 
 considerably under its cheering influence, could 
 have kept out of bankruptcy. 
 
 And yet, in spite of the undoubted financial 
 prosperity of these industries, it was deemed 
 wise to instigate, organize, and perpetrate a board 
 of trade, and I was asked to join, and from a 
 praiseworthy intention to aid in whatever ap 
 peared to be for the welfare of my native town 
 I willingly consented to allow my name to be 
 proposed. 
 
 I did not attend the first meeting because I was 
 told by the zealous patriot who was soliciting 
 recruits that before I could enter the charmed 
 circle my credentials must be presented in due 
 form, and must pass the Rubicon of a committee 
 especially appointed for the purpose of separating 
 the sheep from the goats. 
 
 I was also informed that all the really great 
 lawyers of the town were to become members of 
 the organization, and I naturally felt the flatter 
 ing distinction of being in good company. 
 
 I was very much gratified to find that I was 
 admitted to membership, and very much amazed 
 to find that the eminent lawyers were rejected,
 
 Young Robins 101 
 
 and upon inquiry found that objection had been 
 raised to the admission of lawyers to an exclu 
 sively business association, but upon my friends 
 assurance that I was really no lawyer, but at the 
 best only an imitation, I was voted in amid 
 much applause of a purely ironical nature. 
 
 Of course I never qualified as a member after 
 that. 
 
 Friday, May 10, 191-. This morning I planted 
 carrots, beets, and potatoes. I am told that frosts 
 may cut down my potatoes. However, I am ready 
 to take a chance. I am sure that song sparrow is 
 going to be a fixture here until fall. 
 
 A pair of robins have built on the low branch 
 of a spreading spruce tree in front of the house. I 
 have been watching them for several days. To 
 day I got a chance to look into the nest. I could 
 do so without bending the branch. There were 
 three eggs. There are few things pleasanter than 
 to see eggs warm in a nest, and to realize the 
 pleasure you are to have in watching the gradual 
 development of the young, from naked, bluish 
 nestlings, raising their heads on wabbly, weak 
 necks, to strong, mottled-breasted birds, follow 
 ing their parents about the garden and eating on 
 an average one earthworm a minute from early 
 dawn until long after sunset. 
 
 The old bird has got so used to me that she
 
 102 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 makes but very little fuss when I approach the 
 nest. 
 
 Saturday, May 11, 191-. I intended taking a half- 
 day off to-day and to put in some telling work in 
 my garden. My peas have grown so and the 
 weeds have developed to such an extent that I 
 must hoe them. I like hoeing much better than 
 post-hole digging. With a sharp hoe, and the 
 ground of the right consistency, neither too wet 
 nor too dry, the amount of work a man can easily 
 do is surprising. I use a long-handled hoe so that 
 my shoulders may not acquire the curve that is 
 not a line of beauty, and I take care not to work 
 too steadily. I find that looking at birds and occa 
 sionally couching a warning at a trespassing cat 
 with a jagged stone or a half brick, keeps my 
 work from being too monotonous, as does the 
 exchanging of remarks with the passing populace, 
 all of whom seem very much interested and 
 amused at my industry. 
 
 I was prevented, much to my disgust, from 
 spending the afternoon on my farm, and instead 
 had to spend it in court where the idiotic quar 
 rels of several Polish neighbors were fought to a 
 finish with the assistance of two lawyers, one 
 official interpreter, and with the entire crowd of 
 Polish attendants volunteering lingual assistance. 
 It seemed a dreadful waste of time, especially as
 
 Guessing 103 
 
 I was wholly in the dark at the end of the trial 
 as to the cause of the trouble. So having fined 
 several of the attendants for contempt of court 
 in insisting on usurping my duties, and having 
 found one of the parties (and probably the wrong 
 one) guilty and imposed a stiff sentence, I felt 
 that I had not wholly wasted my time. 
 
 Sunday, May 12, 191-. Sunday again. This after 
 noon my friend the doctor came round with his 
 motor. Doc said that apart from the pleasure of 
 my society he was very curious to be present at 
 a cow trade, especially on the Sabbath. He says 
 that in his unregenerate days he has ofttimes sat 
 up all night playing poker, but he had understood 
 that cow trades were things apart from the usual. 
 That the amount of concentration necessary to 
 be a good poker player is mere piffle when com 
 pared to a trade in or the purchase of cows. 
 
 Accordingly he and his wife were exceedingly 
 anxious to view at close range the mighty conflict 
 of intellects that only cow trades may demand. 
 
 I laughed low in my beard, or would have had 
 not custom rendered a beard a thing to marvel at 
 and loathe, and I climbed into the machine and 
 listened to the marked sarcasm of my host, and 
 answered in kind the numerous suggestions he 
 made as to the best method of approaching a cow 
 owner who might be persuaded to part with her
 
 104 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 at an exorbitant price. Every time we would pass 
 a field, pasture or farmyard containing cows, 
 Doc would clap on the emergency brake and I 
 would nearly go through the wind-shield with the 
 abruptness of the stop. 
 
 Then, when I would show no interest in the 
 animals to which he called my attention, and 
 which I had seen before he did, he would apos 
 trophize me roundly for my lack of the true 
 sporting spirit. 
 
 Indeed, he showed so much more interest than 
 I that he personally entered the premises of 
 several worthy agriculturists and priced their 
 animals. But beyond calling his particular atten 
 tion to a meadowlark and a brown thrush, or the 
 song of a bridge pewee by the side of a bubbling, 
 gurgling brook, I did n t say a word, except in 
 answer to his questions, about the errand that 
 took us into the country, which course of treat 
 ment provoked my young friend to the most cap 
 tious of criticisms of me as a farmer. 
 
 What did I think he was carting me through 
 the wilderness for? If I supposed he had n t 
 something better to do than to travel for hours 
 through the forest primeval while I conversed on 
 nothing more serious or uplifting than the fee 
 ble peeping of a wall-eyed and loose-tailed fly 
 catcher (this showed plainly that Doc knew birds 
 much better than he pretended) or a brown
 
 A Cow Trade 105 
 
 streak in the air (another description of a brown 
 thrush, good enough for the books), then I had 
 better get down to the plain facts of the case, 
 which were that he had come out that sacred 
 afternoon to enable me to skin some merry bull- 
 whacker out of a month s board in a cow trade, 
 and not to spend the precious hours in ranting 
 about birds. 
 
 I smiled again enigmatically, told Doc to give 
 me another cigarette and to keep his weather eye 
 peeled for a real thoroughbred warranted to give 
 two cans of milk a day and lay a dozen eggs, sold 
 for no fault, kind, and an easy milker; and if he 
 struck anything of that description to call it to 
 my attention and he would see the trained legal 
 mind go to the mat with the mens conscia recti 
 of a New England farmer rich in the traditions of 
 generation upon generation of Yankee shrewdness. 
 
 So Doc, having produced the cigarette and a 
 light, threw on the power and we skimmed along 
 for some distance right merrily. It was a beauti 
 ful day, and the woods presented every delicate 
 shade of green, from the filmy lace of the birches 
 to the dark green of the pines and spruces. We 
 passed through a wood path. An oven-bird was 
 calling "Teacher! Teacher! Teacher!" A 
 jay called overhead and the distant drumming of 
 a cock partridge was heard above the humming 
 of the motor.
 
 106 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 We emerged upon the main highway. At the 
 left of the highway was a farmhouse, barn and 
 lane leading to the pasture. Halfway down the 
 lane stood a magnificent animal . light red in 
 color with a white face and polished horns. Doc 
 applied the brake suddenly and my wife lit be 
 tween my shoulders. This stopped her in full 
 flight, but was rather a shock to me. To cut off 
 the trajectory of a plump lady of ten stone and 
 over is sometimes, particularly when unexpected, 
 a bit trying. I remonstrated with the doctor for 
 his abruptness, and he apologized both to me and 
 to my wife, who was trying to straighten her hat 
 and wondering how long it would take to get new 
 glasses put in the frame of her spectacles. 
 
 "There!" said the doctor with the utmost sat 
 isfaction. "There is the handsomest cow we have 
 seen yet, and the largest. She ought to give a 
 washtubful at a milking. She is either a Clydes 
 dale or a Percheron. This fooling about with a 
 little Jersey that gives a few pints is all nonsense. 
 If a man wants a cow for her milk, the more 
 milk he gets the more money he makes. Now 
 don t say that this one does n t suit you. Is n t 
 she the handsomest animal that we have seen 
 to-day?" 
 
 I admitted that the animal in question was all 
 that he said it was. 
 
 "Well, then," he continued, "hop right down
 
 A Milch Steer 107 
 
 and hunt up the owner and start your trade." 
 And he opened the door. 
 
 "What is the matter now?" he demanded, as 
 I made no move to get out. "Won t this one do, 
 or are you renigging? " 
 
 "Considering that this animal is a three-year- 
 old Hereford steer, and that stock-breeding sci 
 ence has as yet not produced a milch steer, I 
 don t believe I care to buy this particular animal, 
 Doc," I replied. 
 
 Doc took a long look, then forcibly expressed 
 the conviction that he would be damned and 
 started the machine with a jerk that fully ex 
 pressed his feelings. 
 
 Now the fact is that I knew before I started out 
 just what I wanted and did not propose to buy 
 anything else. I wanted a small cow, because, if 
 she turned out to be a kicker, she could not kick 
 me nearly as far as a large, heavy, and more 
 muscular cow, and in the aggregate I could save 
 considerable time in travelling a proportionally 
 shorter distance back to finish milking, and of 
 course that is a very important consideration. 
 
 Then again I could more easily induce a small 
 cow to step off my foot, and that member would 
 be less flattened and distorted than it would be 
 with the superincumbent weight of an animal 
 weighing the greater part of a ton. And the same 
 relative results would obtain should the animal
 
 108 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 insist upon using my prostrate form as a boule 
 vard for convenient entrance to or exit from her 
 stall. And so I was determined to have a small 
 cow for purely personal reasons. 
 
 And we had gone but a short mile from the 
 Hereford steer before I saw the cow I wanted. 
 In front of a farmhouse a number of cows grazed 
 by the roadside. There were a couple of Holsteins, 
 an unusually large and fine Ayrshire, three old 
 Jerseys, and a red cow with the delicate muzzle 
 and head of a Jersey and the body color of a 
 Guernsey. She was very small, but very compact. 
 Indeed, by the side of the Ayrshire and the big 
 Holsteins she did not look much larger than a 
 goat. I am by no means sure that old Billy, a 
 goat owned so many years by the proprietor of the 
 Swampscott House in my boyhood, and which 
 rejoiced in the name of "Old Asafcetida," was 
 not larger than this cow. 
 
 In obedience to my request Doc stopped the 
 machine and I got down and went to the farm 
 house. A sturdy man of about my age came out 
 whom I recognized as a deputy sheriff. That in 
 itself was against him, but in all other ways I 
 knew him to be an exceedingly square man. As 
 he came out I saw a sign, "Cow for sale," on 
 a corner of the house. 
 
 "Hello, Mr. F.", I said; "which cow do you 
 want to sell?"
 
 A Bargain 109 
 
 "The black-faced red cow," he answered. 
 
 "What is wrong with her?" I asked. 
 
 "Her size," he answered. "I want bigger cows 
 and more milk." 
 
 "Is she an easy milker and kind?" 
 
 "Both," he answered. 
 
 "How old is she?" 
 
 "Five years. Just had her second calf." 
 
 "What is her breeding?" 
 
 "Jersey and Guernsey, a good combination," 
 he replied. 
 
 "What do you want for her?" 
 
 He told me a fair price. 
 
 "You ve sold her," I answered. 
 
 "W T hen do you want her?" he asked. 
 
 "Within two or three days." 
 
 I went back to the machine. Doc was looking 
 at me as if I were a strange and most amazing 
 animal. 
 
 "Well, for the love of Mike!" he gasped. "Is 
 that the way you buy cows? How do you know 
 you are not stuck?" he inquired. 
 
 " Don t know yet. But I like the looks of the cow 
 and I know the man, and he says she is all right." 
 
 For the second time that afternoon Doc ex 
 pressed the fervent and settled conviction that 
 he would be damned, and on the way home he 
 remarked with much feeling that he would be 
 cussed.
 
 110 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 I think the doctor s wife and mine were fully 
 as much surprised at my promptness as he was, 
 but they were not so outspoken and frank in 
 their opinions. 
 
 And so I have bought my cow and shall have 
 to get her home, either by truck or lead rein. 
 
 Monday, May 13, 191-. Rain! rain!! rain!!! 
 rain! ! ! ! the entire day. Not a plain drizzle, not 
 a series of intermittent showers, not a gentle and 
 steady downpour, but a pouring, sluicing, fu 
 rious downpour. The kind of rain that beats 
 through an umbrella as easily as it would go 
 through a ladder. A rain that chokes up the man 
 holes of the sewer with a surging mass of last 
 year s leaves, sticks, old newspapers, and all 
 sorts of rubbish, and then overflows into puddles 
 a foot or more deep and in places where one must 
 absolutely must pass in order to get any 
 where. 
 
 There were at least a dozen places in my en 
 forced trip to the office where I went nearly to 
 my knees. After I was well ducked I did n t 
 mind it so much. When a person cannot get any 
 wetter even if he fell into the river, there is a 
 sort of satisfaction in one s misery. 
 
 I saw five people fall prostrate in puddles to 
 day and gloried in it. There is a supreme sort of 
 happiness to see people fall prostrate in the
 
 Other People s Misfortunes 111 
 
 very puddles that you have successfully navi 
 gated. They look so foolish when they scramble 
 up and slosh round for their hats and grips float 
 ing down the rushing stream, and they try hard 
 to make a joke of it. You feel sure they will not 
 catch cold because you know they are so furious 
 within, so boiling with rage that their tempera 
 ture is dangerously above normal. And you also 
 feel that the thorough soaking will prevent apo 
 plexy. 
 
 So you put your feet on the gas heater that you 
 have illuminated for this particular occasion, 
 and hug yourself with delight when another be 
 wildered wayfarer plunges in to cross the ford. 
 And when you have dried out sufficiently to 
 make it prudent to work, you sit in the window 
 and alternately try to clear away the pile of work 
 that has accumulated and kill yourself laughing 
 as another soaked and furious pilgrim or vagrant 
 loses his footing and disappears to the neck. 
 
 I have thought of little but my cow since her 
 purchase yesterday, and had arranged a very 
 complete programme by which she was to be 
 transferred with marked deftness into her new 
 quarters. But the rain has merely postponed it. 
 She will keep, I trust, unless she gets drowned 
 in her pasture. Well, the farmers have been pray 
 ing for rain for weeks and it looks as if they were 
 having enough. I imagine by to-morrow or next
 
 112 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 day they will be shaking their heads despondently 
 and deploring the unheard-of wetness of the 
 season. 
 
 I ordered a ton of hay by telephone this morn 
 ing. Certainly it will not be hauled to-day, at 
 least by telephone. I am afraid my arrangement 
 of words would cause a professor of English to 
 suffer severe pains. 
 
 Tuesday, May 14, 191-. When I woke up this 
 morning it was still raining, and I have a vague 
 recollection of hearing it beating on the piazza 
 roof during the night. When I went out to the 
 barn this morning I found my pig yard a pool of 
 water ten feet across. The pigs were safe and dry 
 in the barn and evidently had not dared to try 
 the vasty deep. I have no doubt that pigs can 
 swim. Indeed, I have heard that swimming pigs 
 will cut their own throats with the upward 
 thrust of their sharp forefeet. Whether this is so 
 or not, I decided not to take a chance and I 
 worked in the rain for a half -hour in cutting a 
 trench which let the water into my garden. 
 
 The sheep fretted a good deal at being kept in 
 the barn, but as she has a fleece about six inches 
 in depth it would be midsummer before she 
 dried out completely. 
 
 Oddly enough, in spite of the rain which fell 
 steadily but much more gently than yesterday,
 
 " Rain, Rain, Go Away " 113 
 
 there were dozens of small, greenish-yellow war 
 blers, much draggled by the wet, but apparently 
 minding it not at all as they actively foraged for 
 worms and insects, and caught them, too, as I 
 saw by carefully watching them. They were very 
 tame, too, and would come within reach of me. 
 There seemed to be several varieties, some of 
 which were strangers to me. And once I was al 
 most sure I saw a summer yellowbird, but I am 
 quite sure I was mistaken. I saw so many of these 
 warblers that I decided that they were members 
 of a large flight going North. 
 
 My hens are laying well now. Got nine eggs 
 to-day in spite of the rain. I let them out to-day. 
 Hens seldom scratch in wet weather, but go 
 about with their tails furled tightly and depressed 
 to shed the rain, and pick up hundreds of earth 
 worms and grubs. I wonder how my cow is get 
 ting along? I had hoped before this to be raising 
 my own milk and cream, and possibly churning 
 my own butter. I wrote Mr. F., the deputy 
 sheriff, to-day that I would come down the first 
 pleasant day. I wonder if there will ever be an 
 other? 
 
 Wednesday, May 15, 191-. Still rainy in streaks. 
 Everything steams. It is impossible to light a 
 match on any ordinary surface. I am glad I did 
 not plant all my potatoes. I feel sure they would
 
 114 The Real Diary of tfie Worst Farmer 
 
 have rotted. To-day I engaged a motor-truck and 
 a man to go with me for my cow, which I am sure 
 must have aged considerably since I bought her. 
 It seems as if it had been raining for weeks. The 
 river is a freshet and every brook is over its banks 
 as in March. The blackbirds are assembling in 
 small flocks again. This sometimes happens in 
 very wet weather and before they have nested. 
 The flocks never become very large, however. 
 
 The trout fishermen are much disgusted, as the 
 high water has spoiled their fishing. It was about 
 gone, anyway, with the warm weather and the 
 spring flies and bugs. I hope to bring my cow 
 home to-morrow. The milkman brought in his 
 bill to-day. I must either get that cow or sell my 
 pigs, and mighty soon. 
 
 Thursday, May 16, 191-. Pleasant to-day; the 
 first time in weeks, it seems to me. Of course 
 it may not have been so long, but when meas 
 ured by my desire to do some work on my farm, 
 and my overpowering desire to transport to my 
 premises by cart, lead rein, or motor-truck, 
 one Jersey-Guernsey cow, weight several pounds, 
 possibly several hundred, safe, sound, and in 
 good milking condition, it seems months. 
 
 Of course, as to-day was the first pleasant day 
 for weeks, every person in Exeter and vicinity, 
 having the opportunity to plunge into litigation
 
 Pettifogging 115 
 
 of the fifty-cent variety, had to come to my of 
 fice for the advice as to the proper method to 
 proceed. Now, I practice law for a livelihood and 
 make a comfortable if rather close-reefed liveli 
 hood out of the practice. But I detest the small 
 details of penny-foolish litigation. Why it is that 
 an ordinarily sensible man, who can be trusted 
 to do most things well, who is reliable and law- 
 abiding and prudent and well-meaning, will try 
 and involve himself in a maze of pettifogging 
 litigation is more than I can understand. 
 
 Now, if the business offered had amounted to 
 anything, I would have further postponed farm 
 and live-stock operations, but I made short work 
 of these litigants, and those whom I could n t 
 dissuade from litigation I passed over to younger 
 and more energetic lawyers. I was engaged in 
 more productive operations. 
 
 At two o clock my friend the truckman and 
 myself started for the farmhouse of the deputy 
 sheriff. The sun shone, the birds sang, the buds 
 were swelling, the grass springing, all nature re 
 joicing, and seven miles away a valuable cross 
 bred cow was awaiting extradition with most 
 exemplary patience. 
 
 I think the pleasure of any excursion, whether 
 by rail, motor, horseback, or pedestrianism, de 
 pends in a very great measure on the object of 
 the trip, or the fact that one has an object. When
 
 116 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 younger I used to ride horseback a great deal, 
 and I always enjoyed more the trip that was 
 made with some definite object. It might be a 
 business trip; to try a case before some justice of 
 the peace, or to look up a witness, to draw a deed 
 or execute a will for some client who was unable 
 to come to the office; or it might be a trip to dis 
 cover an oven-bird s nest, or the golden color of 
 a sheet of water coming over a dam in the sun 
 light, or to discover the reason why the jays 
 were making such a row in a certain place in the 
 woods, or to start an old blue heron out of a small 
 frog-infested pool under the big beech trees on 
 the Kensington road. 
 
 And so to-day when the truckman, I, and the 
 truck started out, I had an object, and I did not 
 feel that I was in any way wasting precious time. 
 I had telephoned the owner of the cow to have her 
 ready and promised for my part to have my check 
 ready and certified. Under these circumstances 
 the man should have had the cow ready and 
 have been ready to give us such aid and counte 
 nance as he could. But as a deputy sheriff his 
 down-sittings and up-risings were not his own, 
 but the public s, and he left word that he had 
 been called away, and that, upon the profert of 
 a certified check for the agreed sum, I would have 
 the right, title, and interest in the cow aforesaid 
 and aforementioned in fee simple, and that we
 
 Climbing a Fence 117 
 
 could enter his close, and, wherever she might be 
 situated, remove her at our pleasure. 
 
 We learned that the cow was in the pasture, 
 and after handing over the check, which was 
 examined word for word and letter for letter, 
 we were given letters of marque and reprisal, 
 which consisted of a rope halter and a couple of 
 stout clubs, and told the way to the pasture. 
 
 Armed with the muniments of title we pro 
 ceeded blithely to the pasture and climbed the 
 fence, and here the truckman had his first taste 
 of adventure. As he threw his weight on the fence 
 the top rail broke and he secured his first fall. 
 As I was carefully negotiating the same barrier 
 at the time, I did not see his performance and 
 could not say whether the fall was the result of 
 a hammerlock, half -nelson, toe-hold, collar-and- 
 elbow, or half -scissors. From the natural position 
 the ordinary man takes in surmounting a pas 
 ture fence I should be inclined to say it was a 
 scissors or possibly a half -scissors and hammer- 
 lock combined. 
 
 Judging from the fuss the truckman was mak 
 ing about it, I am sure that he did not give a 
 hang as to what kind of a hold it was. Indeed, his 
 monologue was so long and so fervent and the 
 truckman appeared to be so depressed over the 
 matter that I felt called upon to soothe him with 
 apt quotation:
 
 118 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 "But, mother, as I climbed the fence, the nearest way to 
 
 town, 
 
 My apron caught upon a stake and in the dust sat down, 
 And covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly 
 
 mournful brow, 
 No more, there is no more, he said, to lift the sword for 
 
 now. " 
 
 I am afraid that I got this quotation somewhat 
 mixed, but just how, I cannot say. At all events, 
 my humanitarian effort to lighten his gloom was 
 a failure, for he merely snarled, "Aw! go to hell 
 with your poetry and lemme alone!" And began 
 to rub his shin anew and to make up faces ex 
 pressive of severe pain. 
 
 I then decided I might try one more quota 
 tion of a more classic vein which might divert 
 his sad thoughts, and gave him one from Scott s 
 "Marmion": 
 
 "Edmunds is down, my life is reft, 
 The Admiral alone is left." 
 
 "Say! you, wotcher tryin to put across?" he 
 growled. " F yer wanter ketch yer damned old 
 cow, yer gotter cut out any more of that stuff. 
 See?" 
 
 I then decided that he had no sense of humor 
 whatsoever, and told him to come on and we 
 would get to work and finish up the job once for 
 all, and he slowly and limpingly followed me, 
 rumbling maledictions in his throat. 
 
 We found the herd of cows but a short distance
 
 A Revolving Cow 119 
 
 away, grazing quietly and showing no fear of us. 
 They were evidently used to kind treatment, and 
 I had no difficulty in walking up to my small cow 
 and taking her by the horns with the owner s 
 and proprietor s grip. Perhaps she resented this 
 as an undesirable, dangerous, and improper fa 
 miliarity, for she swung her head so violently 
 that in spite of her comparatively small size, 
 she slat me a considerable distance, where I 
 landed in somewhat the position of a small boy 
 after trying an unscientific cartwheel. 
 
 This time the truckman showed more humor 
 ous appreciation of the affair than his previous 
 conduct had warranted. Indeed, he laughed so 
 long and so hard that I in turn got a bit warm 
 and thought he overdid it. However, I reflected 
 that honors were even and swallowed my feel 
 ings. In fact I essayed a smile, but I fancy it 
 was a trifle wry. 
 
 The next time I approached my property I 
 carefully placed a rope around her neck, and to 
 my surprise she made no attempt to escape, but 
 allowed me to fasten the rope in a loose hitch and 
 followed me as if she approved the change of 
 owners, and was really rather proud of it. 
 
 We had no trouble until we arrived at the barn 
 yard where we had left the truck. We were walk 
 ing briskly and making a good three miles an 
 hour when she saw the motor. I was ahead, step-
 
 120 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 ping proudly under the impetus of possession 
 and of happy realization of ownership, when she 
 stopped abruptly, snorted, and began to revolve 
 with great rapidity. The sudden twitch of the 
 rope had the effect of snapping me violently into 
 the air and swinging me in a huge circle of which 
 the radius was composed of six feet of me, two 
 feet of my arms and clutching fingers, six feet 
 of stout rope, and two feet of the head and neck 
 of the cow. In all about twenty feet of radius. 
 
 If I am correct in my recollections, the circum 
 ference of a circle is 3.1416+ times the diameter. 
 Taking the diameter of the circle, of which my 
 heels were marking the circumference, as forty 
 feet and leaving out the + sign, it is sufficient, 
 for the purposes of illustration, to prove mathe 
 matically that in one complete revolution I cov 
 ered a distance of 62.832 feet. It was really more 
 than that, because under immense centrifugal 
 force I am certain that my arms were pulled 
 several inches from their sockets. 
 
 I am very glad that the barnyard was so large. 
 Had the space been more contracted, I am sure 
 that my flying heels might have done as much 
 damage as a falling derrick. As it was, I made 
 an unobstructed circuit several times before I 
 let go. I did not want to let go and did my best 
 to hold on. But there is a limit to one s grip, and 
 at about the fourth circuit I reached my limit and
 
 7 landed in somewhat the position of a small boy after 
 trying an unscientific cartwheel
 
 Swing Low, Sweet Chariot 121 
 
 let go. I did not stop after I let go, but continued 
 at a tangent for a long distance. Indeed, it was 
 the harrowing uncertainty about the distance I 
 would go and the direction I would take, that 
 made me try so hard to hold on. 
 
 As I have said, it was a very large barnyard 
 and was surrounded by a very high and strong 
 fence, and when I came to a stop I was, thanks 
 to that fence, still in the yard, and only partly 
 through the fence. The cow had stopped revolv 
 ing, and the truckman, the wife and daughter 
 of the deputy sheriff, and several summer board 
 ers from the city, who had come out on the 
 piazza to view the proceedings, were very much 
 interested, and so amused that they collapsed 
 into their chairs and hammocks. 
 
 I was dizzy from my rapid circuit of the bases 
 and felt much as a horse-chestnut must feel when 
 swung by a small boy in rapid circles at the end 
 of a string, and just before it is thrown over a 
 telegraph wire. 
 
 Little by little I recovered my poise, and af 
 fecting not to notice the summer boarders and 
 the family of the deputy sheriff, I told the truck 
 man to catch the cow, which he accomplished 
 without difficulty. Then we placed a rope around 
 her horns, passed it forward and around an up 
 right post in the forward part of the truck and 
 began to pull her into the truck. She held back
 
 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 and tried to pull away, but we snubbed the rope 
 around the post and felt sure that unless her 
 head pulled off we had her. Still, I wanted the 
 whole of her, which clearly belonged to me, and 
 so as a last resort I told the truckman to twist her 
 tail. 
 
 This is not a dangerous thing to do to a cow, 
 as she cannot kick high, and with but one foot 
 at a time. To do this to a horse or mule would be 
 plain suicide. 
 
 As he twisted I put one foot against the truck 
 and pulled with all my might. For a moment she 
 did not budge, although he applied the grape 
 vine twist, but when he shifted to the pretzel 
 twist she could not stand the pain, and sprang 
 into the truck so quickly that I fell flat on my 
 back with the utmost violence, nearly shaking 
 my teeth loose, and causing the unmannerly city 
 boarders to roar with laughter. 
 
 Now, here was the point at which I rather 
 think I put it over the entire crowd, including 
 the truckman, for, lying flat on the ground and 
 keeping my foot still braced against the truck, 
 I held the rope taut and with well-simulated 
 coolness shouted to the truckman to fasten the 
 other rope to the side of the truck, and while he 
 was doing it I lay quietly holding the rope as if 
 it had been my deliberate intention to land pros 
 trate in the exact method practised. Then, when
 
 Personal Pulchritude 123 
 
 the truckman had secured the cow, I slowly arose 
 and, still ignoring the city boarders as if they did 
 not exist, I made a half -turn of the rope around 
 one of the uprights of the truck, and resumed my 
 coat, and we climbed to the seat, threw on the 
 power, and backed out of the yard. As we de 
 parted I raised my hat as politely as possible 
 to the family of the deputy sheriff. 
 
 As we drove out of the yard I distinctly heard 
 one of the city boarders remark to another in a 
 tone of respectful surprise*: "Well, say, the old 
 guy knew what he was doing after all." 
 To whom the other replied: 
 "Yes, he ain t such a fool as he looks." 
 "Gosh," was the reply, "it would be tough if 
 he was." 
 
 So, on the whole, I felt that I had made an 
 impression of respectability and common sense, 
 even if I had not impressed them by my personal 
 beauty. 
 
 Even the truckman had conceived a sort of 
 respect for me that had not shown before, and 
 as we jogged along we lit our pipes and chatted 
 like old friends about various matters of com 
 mon interest. The motor rattled and bubbled, 
 the cow swayed from side to side as we rattled 
 around corners. We met acquaintances who 
 bowed and smiled and waved their hands. We 
 met motors and the cow shrunk away as far as
 
 124 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 her tethers would permit. But she was too securely 
 tied to get away. 
 
 Was she? Wait a bit. Just as we were bowling 
 along beside a green field beyond which was a 
 deep wood on the farther bank of a rushing 
 brook, there was a terrific agitation behind us. 
 We turned in time to dodge the front hoofs of 
 the animal, which was rearing and plunging like 
 a bucking broncho and slatting her horns fu 
 riously from side to side. The truckman threw 
 on the brake and we stopped the machine just 
 as the headstall parted and she leaped like a deer 
 over the side of the truck, still tied to the post 
 by a neck hitch. Luckily the rope broke or she 
 would have broken her neck; away she went, 
 over the fence and across the brook like a thor 
 oughbred steeple-chaser. 
 
 Seizing our ropes we took up the trail at full 
 speed. It was neither a southerly wind nor a 
 cloudy sky, but none the less it was a hunting 
 afternoon. " Yoicks ! " " Tallyho ! " " Gone away ! " 
 "Ra-ta-ti Ra-ta-ti Ra-ta!" I could almost 
 hear the hunting horn as we took the field. 
 
 The truckman took the lead, running easily 
 and with high knee action. I followed at a steady 
 pace making for the covert. The truckman, re 
 joicing in his youth, unwisely tried to clear the 
 brook in his stride. The cow had done so easily. 
 Why not he? The take-off was of stiff clay mixed
 
 Y aides t Tallyho! 125 
 
 with marl and topped with turf, an excellent 
 take-off for timber-topping. Holding himself well 
 in hand, he lifted himself like a bird. Just how 
 he did it, I never could understand, but about 
 halfway across he seemed to stop in mid-air, poise 
 a moment, as I have many times seen a king 
 fisher do, and then disappear from sight with a 
 tremendous splash, to reappear clutching franti 
 cally for his floating hat, and with hideous impre 
 cations, aimed impartially at the cow, her owner, 
 the brook, the infernal foolishness of the whole 
 thing, the world in general, to slosh to the bank 
 and drag himself drippingly to the farther side. 
 
 Warned by his mishap I cast about for a bridge 
 and finally found a plank which I crossed without 
 danger and sped after the quarry. When I got to 
 the wood she had disappeared and I could not 
 hear a sound. While I listened the truckman 
 came up and really seemed to have lost all am 
 bition and interest in the hunt. In vain I repre 
 sented to him the folly of quitting. He flatly de 
 clined to go a step farther, and it was only when 
 I put the matter on a sound financial basis that 
 he consented to stay by me to the bitter end. 
 So together we plunged into the thicket and griev 
 ously tore ourselves on the thorns and briars : 
 
 "I scratched my hands and tore my hair, 
 But still did not complain, 
 And had my blackberries been safe 
 Should not have cared a grain."
 
 126 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 But I did not say this to him. He had shown 
 a crude lack of sympathy with literature, and I 
 merely breathed it to myself as I painfully un 
 twined from my waist a clinging vine containing 
 no less than a dozen needle-like briars, all of which 
 were deeply embedded in my cuticle. 
 
 As we heard nothing of the cow we pressed 
 on, stopping occasionally to extract briars and 
 to breathe and curse. After a while we worked 
 our way through the thicket and found the spoor 
 of the cow. From the deep indentations we de 
 cided that she had been going due west at a rapid 
 pace, with all sails set and every stitch drawing. 
 After going a short distance we lost the trail in 
 the thick grass. We cast a few eagle glances in 
 several directions, but could not see her. 
 
 "Long looked the anxious squires, their eyes 
 Could in the sunlight nought descry." 
 
 Then we held a hasty colloquy and should have 
 hastily swallowed a few mouthfuls of pemmican, 
 but not having any I lit a cigarette and the truck 
 man took a plug of "niggerhead " from his pocket 
 and wrenched off a goodly mouthful. Thus re 
 freshed we separated and began to walk slowly 
 toward the next spinney casting about in circles 
 for fresh tracks, whimpering in our eagerness. 
 
 A joyful challenge from the truckman and a 
 wave of his hand showed that he had picked up
 
 Ra-ta-ti Ra-ta-ti Ra-ta ! 127 
 
 the scent, and we let ourselves out under wraps 
 and made play toward a copse in the direction 
 of which her trail led. Arrived there we listened 
 long, but could hear nothing, perhaps on account 
 of our rapid and rather wheezy breathing and 
 the pounding of our hearts. Then we cautiously 
 entered the whin and advanced slowly, peering 
 keenly through the leaves. Suddenly there was 
 a snort and a tremendous crash in the bushes. 
 Now, although I knew at once that it was my 
 vagrant cow, yet it came so suddenly that it 
 scared me nearly to death, and I thought my 
 heart would never return to its normal position. 
 From the abhorrent language of the truckman I 
 feel sure that he was similarly affected. 
 
 However, we recovered ourselves and dashed 
 in pursuit, and got through the wood in time to 
 see her several hundred yards in the lead, run 
 ning like an antelope, with her tail standing out 
 as stiffly as a rear bowsprit, if there be any such a 
 contradiction. We passed on as fast as we could, 
 but as my second wind had not come, and I was 
 very much in need of it, we fell behind disgrace 
 fully, and in a short time our quarry had passed 
 out of sight in the dim and unfathomed distance. 
 
 The truckman here wanted to quit and call on 
 the state militia or the police, but I insisted on 
 proceeding. I had read that a man could walk 
 down a horse if he only kept at it long enough,
 
 128 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 and I sagely concluded that if one man could 
 walk down a horse, which is by nature a speedful 
 animal of great courage and endurance, why, 
 then, two men must be able to run down a cow, 
 an animal created for more slothful pursuits. So 
 I insisted that our contract bound him to follow 
 me whithersoever I went. I longed to trill in a 
 rich bass voice: 
 
 "Come, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, 
 Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow me. 
 Whither shall I follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, 
 Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow thee?" 
 
 But I did not dare make light of our mission, and 
 then I had no rich bass voice to troll with my 
 voice being a somewhat shopworn mezzo and 
 in my exhausted condition I should not have been 
 able to use it, if I had. So we plugged along dog 
 gedly for what seemed an interminable distance 
 and finally came out upon a road, a public high 
 way, on the opposite side of which was a farm 
 house, in the yard of which we saw 
 
 " O frabjous day! Callooh! Gallay! 
 I chortled in my joy" 
 
 my cow quietly grazing with a herd of cows be 
 longing to the ranch, and when I looked about 
 me and joyfully recognized the locality, I found 
 myself within a short mile and a half of my own 
 farm. I don t know when I have been so delighted. 
 I had feared that when we succeeded in rounding
 
 Old Man Noah 129 
 
 her up, we should find ourselves at the Vermont 
 border line, and had for the last hour been ex 
 pecting to see the Connecticut River; I knew 
 she could n t jump that and probably would not 
 try to swim it. When we first took the field with 
 a merry "Hark, forward!" the Connecticut was 
 a short sixty -eight miles distant as the crow flies, 
 and I felt sure we had travelled fully that dis 
 tance and that is what had buoyed me up. And 
 so, when I found myself so near home, I felt as 
 old man Noah must have felt when he set foot 
 on Mount Ararat. 
 
 It was the work of a moment to catch her and 
 anchor her firmly with a rope halter. Indeed, she 
 seemed genuinely glad to see me and willing 
 to be forgiven, and on my part I was willing to 
 forgive if not forget. The truckman was a bit 
 inclined to lambaste her, but as she was my cow 
 and as he was well paid for chasing her, I did not 
 allow him to indulge his evil passion, and having 
 settled his bill I took my cow and started for 
 home in the gloaming, leaving him to retrieve 
 his truck, miles away. 
 
 The final mile was, despite my pleasure in ac 
 cumulating my vagrant property, perhaps the 
 longest mile I ever travelled. It had been rather 
 over forty years since I had taken part in my last 
 hare and hounds in school, and I did not realize 
 until too late what a lot of youthful vigor and
 
 130 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 boyish ambition had been worn away in those 
 forty years. 
 
 And so after I had introduced my cow to her 
 new surroundings, and she had been suitably ad 
 mired and well fed, I went to bed without supper, 
 and with no other preparation for slumber than 
 a hot bath and rubdown. Before leaving her I 
 made arrangements for the gardener of the estate 
 joining mine to milk her. I did not feel able. I 
 felt that there was danger of falling asleep at my 
 post and being drowned in the pail. 
 
 Friday, May 17, 191-. I thought I should never 
 get out of bed this morning. I had not dropped a 
 stitch in my back and had not contracted sci 
 atica, but I was so lame and stiff that I thought 
 my joints were rusted stiff and that my muscles 
 would crack every time I moved. I am certain 
 that they creaked. I do not remember ever hav 
 ing been so lame, even on the mornings after the 
 first football games in the season, which in the 
 late sixties and early seventies we played without 
 any preliminary training. 
 
 But I got up and I am proud of it. I really 
 thought that if I did n t get up then I never 
 should be able to, and so, after much groaning 
 and calling upon the saints and others, I man 
 aged to dress and to hobble downstairs. By the 
 time I had built the kitchen fire I was limbering
 
 Rheumatic Twinges 131 
 
 up a trifle, and as soon as I could I went to the 
 barn to see my cow. She was very well, thank 
 you kindly, and pricked up her fringed ears and 
 let out a soft moo of recognition. I got a hoe and 
 started to clean her stall, when quick as a flash 
 she kicked me on the wrist and knocked the hoe 
 out of my hand. The blow did n t hurt me a bit, 
 but it roused my temper, which is of the hair- 
 trigger variety, and for a moment it looked as 
 if she was in for a beating. But I suddenly re 
 membered that the owner had told me that the 
 only thing she resented was having a hoe behind 
 her. So I curbed my temper, which was more eas 
 ily done than usual owing to the fact that any 
 unusual motions caused me acute twinges, and 
 entering the stall, untied her, backed her out, 
 and tied her in the main barn. Then I cleaned 
 out her stall, threw in fresh bedding, mixed a 
 mash in a pail, and led her back. 
 
 Then, while she was absorbed in rapid and 
 rasping tongue work in her pail, I sat down with 
 my bright new pail which I bought several days 
 ago in anticipation of her advent, and began 
 to milk her. I am no amateur in the gentle art. 
 Years agone, single-handed and alone, I fought 
 and conquered a venerable Jersey and learned to 
 milk two-handed, and for two years I sat morning 
 and night daily with perfect ease in a humped- 
 up and cramped position and mentally com-
 
 132 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 posed waltzes and polkas and quicksteps to the 
 rhythmic singing of the twin streams of snowy 
 white in the shining pail, only breaking into czar 
 das of profanity when an unusually severe sting 
 of a horsefly caused her to slam me against the 
 side of the stall by a quick shift of her hind quar 
 ters, or to swipe me across my distorted bucolic 
 countenance with the matted tassel of her tail, 
 weighing in the vicinity of fifteen pounds. 
 
 And many a time and oft have I indulged 
 in much speculation as to which was the more 
 dangerous, to be slammed against a hard-shelled 
 partition wall by a justly indignant cow, or to be 
 stung on the back of the neck by a virile and ut 
 terly selfish horsefly when one s hands are fully 
 occupied? A mean trick even for a horsefly. In 
 the former there is danger of fractured ribs and 
 broken resolutions. In the latter of typhoid. 
 
 I was delighted to find that I had not forgot 
 ten the art, and while my wrists were not as 
 strong, and the smooth rhythmic cadence not as 
 perfect, yet I felt that in a short time I should 
 be as good as ever. 
 
 It is said that a man never forgets how to swim, 
 to ride a bicycle, or to set type, once he has 
 learned. I am sure that the same is true of milk 
 ing and, despite my aching muscles and tortured 
 ligaments, I was very much delighted with the 
 fact. I was a very proud and rheumatic old agri-
 
 The Doctor s Opinion 133 
 
 culturist as I carried in a good measure of milk 
 topped with a good bead of foam, which is the 
 mark of the skilled milker. And what a pleasure 
 it is to strain it into pans, and to carry it down 
 cellar to the wired shelf where it is to stand until 
 ready to skim. 
 
 I did not tether her out to-day, nor did I the 
 sheep. I knew it was physically impossible for 
 me to catch either of them should either break 
 away. No, I must recover in part from my stiff 
 ness. 
 
 The cream from last night s milk was won 
 derful, and the way those pigs disposed of the 
 skim milk shows plainly that the addition to the 
 live-stock is most welcome. Indeed, Betty will 
 scarcely let me out of her sight. Milked again 
 to-night. 
 
 Could not do any work in the garden. Hope to 
 be able to do something to-morrow. 
 
 Saturday, May 18, 191-. Felt a little better this 
 morning. Not much, however. It was like jump 
 ing into ice water, or having a tooth out, to get 
 out of bed. The doctor says I am lucky to be able 
 to get out of bed in a month after what I did 
 day before yesterday. He said that any man 
 who made such a cussed fool of himself as I did, 
 does not deserve to come out of it half as well as 
 I have. He asked me if I realized how old I am,
 
 134 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 and I told him I had n t until yesterday morning, 
 and then I could have sworn that I was over 
 ninety. 
 
 I milked this morning. My wrists are a bit 
 lame, but not to bother me. Perhaps if the rest 
 of me was less lame I might notice my wrists. 
 I can almost see my pigs grow. Dick was good 
 enough to mow the lawn to-day for me. By using 
 a hood he got about four bushels of good grass 
 for the cow. I did not work in garden. 
 
 Sunday, May 19, 191-. A dull, leaden, depress 
 ing cloud has been hanging low over my little 
 agricultural community. Something is wrong 
 with my cow. I am afraid I have been unscien 
 tific in my method of feeding. Just where I have 
 failed I cannot say. In some way her rations have 
 been unbalanced. It may be that I gave her a 
 bit too much tankage or a bit too little gluten. I 
 may have been too generous with oil cake and too 
 niggardly with stock feed. Perhaps when I have 
 tethered her out she may not have followed the 
 injunctions of the poet 
 
 "Do not eat the hemlock rank 
 Growing by the weedy bank, 
 But the yellow cowslips eat, 
 They will make it [meaning the milk] nice and sweet." 
 
 At all events, she is ailing and distempered. 
 When I went to her cell I mean, of course,
 
 A Frightfully Distended Cow 135 
 
 her stall this morning, I saw at once that she 
 was far from well. She did not lower her head 
 and shake her horns at me from sheer high spirits. 
 She did not playfully essay to crowd me against 
 the side of her stall and thereby cave in my 
 thoracic cavity. She did not swing her head 
 sharply round, ostensibly to drive away a fly, but 
 really to knock me a rod or more. 
 
 She refused to eat; she refused to drink; she 
 appeared frightfully distended. Indeed, to such 
 an extent that her once prominent hip bones had 
 entirely disappeared. She was shaped much like 
 a sausage balloon. I was so much perturbed over 
 her condition that I absent-mindedly sat down 
 and milked her into the pig pail. 
 
 I was seriously worried. The health and pro 
 ductive condition of this animal meant much, 
 nay, all to my agricultural menage. Without 
 milk it meant either starvation for my pigs or 
 vastly increased expense for me, and milk at 
 fourteen cents a quart! 
 
 I took another comprehensive look at her 
 from armored head to prehensile tail. Her eyes 
 were dull and glassy. Her head hung low. Her 
 tail, that erstwhile was prone to twist and coil 
 about my windpipe, and to deal me heavy and 
 highly flavored blows upon my eyes, nose, and 
 mouth, hung limp and lifeless. 
 
 I tried to see if her tongue was coated, but was
 
 136 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 unable to open her mouth without the aid of a 
 Stillson wrench or a crowbar, and I did not like 
 to employ such drastic measures on so short an 
 acquaintance. But I feel confident that her tongue 
 was both coated and furred; indeed her language 
 was incoherent and practically unintelligible. It 
 was clearly a case for a veterinarian. Years be 
 fore I had employed a veterinarian to perform 
 some necessary operation to the jaw of a broncho, 
 a determined, hot-tempered, wrong-headed, opin 
 ionated beast that had taken me through our 
 congested business district at a most terrific 
 rate of speed in spite of my most desperate re 
 sistance exerted through the leverage of a Mexi 
 can curb, and was only stopped by a ten-foot 
 fence, which did not stop me for a moment as 
 I went lightly over and some distance beyond. 
 I did not fall at all lightly, however. 
 
 As a result I was left with a case of locomotor 
 ataxia, happily temporary, and the broncho with 
 a somewhat distorted lower maxillary, " Actinomi- 
 cosis," I think the veterinarian called it. Indeed, 
 throughout his treatment his language was of 
 so highly technical a nature that I never fully 
 understood the nature of the diagnosis or of the 
 remedial treatment. 
 
 That the disease was something very serious 
 and the remedy heroic to the nth degree, I was 
 convinced from his bill for services, which, added
 
 A Man of Few Words 137 
 
 to the modest price paid for the animal, made 
 a grand total that would have gone far in the 
 purchase of the Godolphin Arabian. 
 
 Now I was mindful of a farmer acquaintance 
 said to have wondrous skill in the rehabilitation 
 of disordered farm animals. Not a seventh son 
 of a seventh son, perhaps, but according to local 
 report a son-of-a-gun with neat stock of every 
 variety. And in employing him I reckoned pretty 
 confidently upon finding out what the trouble 
 was, and in language that even I could under 
 stand. 
 
 So I called him up and told him to 
 
 "Speed, Malise, Speed," 
 and added to 
 
 "Leave the deer, leave the steer, 
 Leave nets and barges: 
 Come in your fighting gear, 
 Broadswords and targes." 
 
 "Oh, yes, Scott, eh?" he said in reply. "You 
 want me to come damn quick. All right, I ll be 
 there before you can turn round twice." 
 
 I was delighted. Here was a man of few words. 
 A man of parts and of plain language, and homely. 
 The very man I wanted. 
 
 He evidently took me at my word, and in a 
 short time a mud-encrusted flivver tore into my 
 yard on two wheels; drew up with a jerk, and
 
 138 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 disgorged a stout, rosy man of fifty and a gaunt 
 youth of twenty, together with a black bag filled 
 with what appeared to be a complete plumber s 
 or bank burglar s outfit. 
 
 The doctor began to cross-examine me sharply 
 by asking me pointedly if I had fed her on any 
 thing containing Puccinia Straminis, Puccinia 
 Coronata, or Puccinia Arundinacea. I told him I 
 was quite sure that I had not ordered or obtained 
 anything that sounded like that, or them. 
 
 I denied hotly having given her Polytrincium 
 Tripolii or anything remotely approaching it, 
 whatever it might be, but he regarded me with 
 considerable suspicion, and I felt that he enter 
 tained strong doubts of my veracity. 
 
 He said something about Pharyngeal Polypi 
 and applied his ear to her chest. After a moment 
 of listening he said there seemed to be no symp 
 toms of Hememoptysis or Emphyema. I felt very 
 much relieved at this and told him as much. 
 I should have given up hope had she contracted 
 either Emphyoptysis or Hemempsyema and I 
 told him that, too, but he made no reply except 
 a monosyllabic grunt that might have meant 
 anything, but which I somehow interpreted as 
 expressing a light opinion of my intelligence. 
 
 After a moment he shifted to the after deck 
 of the animal and laid his ear against her dis 
 tended flanks. He got something tangible there,
 
 Plain Language 139 
 
 which he diagnosed as "Non-rhythmic diaphrag 
 matic pulsations," which he said indicated in 
 dubitably an inflamed and congested condition 
 of the Rumen, otherwise known as "Impaction of 
 the Maniplis." 
 
 Now this was the language of the trained vet 
 erinarian and not mine, and I leave you to infer 
 how serious it made her illness seem to me. Al 
 though naturally of an optimistic and buoyant 
 disposition, I became plumb discouraged and 
 nearly lost hope. One should never lose hope in 
 a sick chamber or in the presence of one suffering. 
 But " Non-rhythmic diaphragmatic pulsations" 
 seemed about the last step in the dead march to 
 the fertilizer factory. 
 
 The veterinarian also said that he had had 
 grave fears of " Thrombosis," which was generally 
 fatal, but that he was confident that she had es 
 caped that. I was relieved to find that she did not 
 have "Thrombosis," for I knew it was generally 
 fatal or ought to be. I had played a B flat Throm- 
 bone quite a little in my younger and unregen- 
 erate days until I found that its effect was fre 
 quently fatal. At least several irate and able- 
 bodied members of the community had informed 
 me that unless I desisted it would be almost in 
 stantly fatal. 
 
 The doctor then removed his coat and stripped 
 up his sleeves revealing herculean muscles, and
 
 140 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 his gaunt and youthful assistant did the like 
 without, however, accomplishing like results. 
 Then he asked if I happened to have a quart 
 bottle about the premises. I replied that not 
 withstanding a congenital and deeply rooted 
 antipathy to the saloon, and notwithstanding 
 an official life of many years devoted to a con 
 stant and hand-to-hand struggle with the Demon 
 Rum and the various members of his family, yet 
 occasionally a quart bottle wandered into our 
 home life out of the cold and rain, and made its 
 home with us. 
 
 I was then requested by the doctor to produce 
 at once or sooner an empty quart bottle and a 
 pail. If the bottle were only partly empty it 
 would do as well, for he would see that it was 
 emptied without undue waste of time. I brought 
 the bottle and the pail, both empty, at which 
 the doctor looked a bit disappointed, but pro 
 ceeded to compound a sort of witchbroth of tar, 
 soft soap, hot water, varnish, asafoetida, garlic, 
 limburger cheese, and sulphuretted hydrogen. 
 Of course I would not vouch for the correctness 
 of this analysis, but the concentrated villainy 
 of the completed compound certainly would 
 warrant so modest a statement. 
 
 Then he filled the bottle with the compound 
 and directed me to hold the animal s head in 
 position while he administered the dose. I en-
 
 Flapping a Dustcloth 141 
 
 tered the stall, threw my right arm around her 
 neck just below her horns, my left under her 
 muzzle, and raised her head without difficulty. 
 But the moment she inhaled a strong whiff of 
 that nauseous compound she awoke to the situ 
 ation, let out an agonized bellow of protest, and 
 strove mightily to disengage my clinging tendrils. 
 
 In so doing she chose a method highly dis 
 concerting to me, for she alternately and with the 
 greatest velocity elevated her head skyward to 
 the full length of her neck and then depressed it 
 until her muzzle touched the floor. This had the 
 effect of flapping me in the air as a housemaid 
 flaps a dustcloth, and with much the same re 
 sult, as dust from my barn clothes flew in clouds 
 and my heels cracked together like a giant whip 
 lash. Indeed, had it not been for my heavy barn 
 brogans I should have been frayed and unrav 
 elled to my knees like an antimacassar or like 
 an old, a very old, pair of trousers. 
 
 I let go long before I broke loose owing to the 
 fact that one of her horns had slipped under 
 my sweater, which proved to be of astonishingly 
 strong material, and when I brushed the hay 
 seed, dust, and cobwebs out of my eyes I was in 
 a contorted heap in the manger, and the cow had 
 backed to the end of her tether, and with raised 
 ears was staring at me with a world of reproach 
 and misgivings in her eyes.
 
 142 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 My fevered gaze took in the doctor holding 
 his sides, the tears running down his cheeks, his 
 head thrown back, and his mouth open, roaring 
 with laughter, while the assistant, clasping his 
 hands over his stomach like a man far gone with 
 cholera, was allowing that he "Never haw! 
 haw ! - - saw such a - - hee ! haw ! ho ! - - sight in 
 haw ! my - - ki ! hi ! ho ! haw ! - - life hoo ! 
 haw!" I reminded them somewhat heatedly that 
 I had engaged them to treat that cow, and that 
 if I knew myself, and I thought I did, I did n t 
 propose to furnish any further entertainment as 
 an acrobat, and that they had better get onto 
 their job. 
 
 After they had helped me to crawl, somewhat 
 disjointedly, out of the manger, they closed in 
 on the cow in order to show me how easily pro 
 fessional training can accomplish what mere 
 brute force had failed to do. They were not 
 wholly successful except as acrobatic rivals to 
 me, for the way that small Jersey jiu-jitsu-ed 
 them about and around that stall bordered on 
 the marvellous. 
 
 It was now my turn to enjoy the proceedings, 
 which I did to the utmost, and especially was 
 I delighted when she stepped on the assistant s 
 leg and bent it several inches out of plumb, bent 
 the doctor backwards over the side partition of 
 the stall until I distinctly heard his spinal verte-
 
 My Turn to Laugh 143 
 
 brse grate, and finally kicked the assistant in the 
 stomach, which, judging from the wheezy suc 
 cession of spasmodic grunts and gasps, caused 
 him "Non-rhythmic diaphragmatic pulsations," 
 which promised never to cease. 
 
 Time was called and the combatants separated 
 to give the assistant an opportunity to obtain a 
 new supply of oxygen and to bend his leg back 
 into shape. 
 
 After a consultation the doctor, who had once 
 punched cattle on the plains, procured a lasso, 
 twirled it around his head until it sang like a 
 glass bottle on a string, and essayed to cast it 
 over the cow s horns just as the assistant wan 
 dered into its orbit and was brought down with 
 a stunning, stinging swipe just above the ear, 
 which did much to heighten my enjoyment and 
 to reconcile me to my own acrobatic performance 
 that had afforded them so much delight and 
 amusement. Really, "he laughs best who laughs 
 last." 
 
 After the assistant had recovered and suitable 
 apologies had been made, a second cast was made, 
 was more successful, and the patient was speed 
 ily trussed up and filled with the fearful brew. 
 The doctor then repacked his apparatus, told 
 me he thought she would do, and I then asked, 
 as a matter of prevention, for some directions 
 for the care of the animal in the future, and was
 
 144 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 informed that a microscopic protozoon of the 
 diaphragm of a young cow was due, according 
 to Brusaferro, to Metastrogulus Micrurus, or to 
 Balantidium Coli. It is mighty gratifying to 
 know this, and puts the matter of protection 
 right in one s hands. 
 
 He further informed me that I must positively 
 guard against Mycotic Apthous Stomatitis. I 
 told him that I would be on the guard, even 
 should ten thousand foes arise, and he grunted 
 again, this time I believe with appreciation. He 
 went on to say that I must be extremely care 
 ful to avoid feeding her with anything containing 
 the germs of Pleurodymia, Verminous Epistaxis, 
 or Chronic Timpanites. I promised him on my 
 sacred honor that anything of that nature that 
 could be detected by a high-powered micro 
 scope, a naturally inquiring disposition, and the 
 thorough knowledge of predatory and noxious 
 germs that he had imparted to me, would be 
 detected and side-stepped, ducked and avoided. 
 
 He approved of my determination highly, and 
 to further increase my precautions he charged 
 me under no considerations to expose her to Ery 
 thema, Impetigo, Polygonum Hydropiper, Pity- 
 riasis, or Scleroderma. 
 
 Then he presented his bill, which was extremely 
 modest considering his great and polysyllabic 
 learning, which bill I not only promptly paid,
 
 Short Commons 145 
 
 but pressed an extra fifty cents into his palm. I 
 felt that the saving to me by his prompt and 
 effective treatment was so great that I could 
 cast aside considerations of expense and be 
 lavishly generous. 
 
 Then the doctor spun his motor until the en 
 tire machine shuddered, embarked with his as 
 sistant and his plumber s outfit, and rattled out 
 of the yard. 
 
 To-night my cow is decidedly better and gives 
 promise of complete recovery, and in my accurate 
 and detailed knowledge of what to avoid in her 
 care and feeding, the future looks rosy. 
 
 But really, in strict confidence and as one man 
 to another, I ll be hanged if I know just what 
 ailed that infernal cow. 
 
 Monday, May 20, 191-. My cow was much bet 
 ter to-day. Of course her illness cut her milk pro 
 duction down to about a quart at a milking. So 
 my pigs have had short commons as far as milk 
 is concerned. But they can eat a mixture of stock 
 feed, shorts, and hot, not too hot, water with a 
 good appetite and with good results. Have put in 
 corn to-day, the second succession. The first is up 
 just a trifle. My beans are up, and I shall put in 
 pole beans this week. Pole beans are more easily 
 gathered. I find that when I bend over too much 
 that black specks fly before my eyes.
 
 146 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 I am glad I am not a professional lawn-mower. 
 By that I mean the man whose life from May to 
 October is devoted exclusively to lawn-mowing. 
 It is bad enough to spend from one half to a full 
 hour each day at it. That cow is surely a grass 
 absorber. Yet I still think the idea good. The 
 cow must be fed. The lawns ought to be mowed. 
 If you do not feed the cow, she dies. If you do 
 not mow the lawn, the grass flourishes, but your 
 place looks as unkempt as a man with longish hair 
 and a shiny Prince Albert coat. Still no great or 
 irreparable harm is done if the lawn is neglected. 
 And a man of my easy, not to say lazy disposition 
 is prone to neglect his lawns. But a lover of do 
 mestic animals seldom neglects them, however 
 given to laziness. In consequence, as long as this 
 cow needs grass I shall regularly mow the lawns 
 and the result will be beneficial to the cow and 
 to the looks of the lawn. 
 
 Really, I think I have planned the sequence in 
 the most logical manner. Still, I am free to say 
 that I do not regard the mower as a friend. 
 Rather as a master. 
 
 Tuesday, May 21, 191-. I heard my first bobolink 
 to-day and stopped hoeing my beans to go to the 
 fence and look across the field and listen. It is 
 really quite a succession of thrills to hear day 
 after day the familiar notes of old friends from
 
 A Bobolink 147 
 
 the South. And the bobolink is one of the oldest 
 and best. What a chap he is, to be sure? It 
 seems as if the orange-shouldered, black-breasted 
 little rascal would burst with the enthusiasm 
 of his own music. 
 
 His voice is not sweet. There is a metallic 
 rattle to some of his tones that make them harsh. 
 Compared with it the voice of the song sparrow, 
 the wood thrush, and the rose-breasted grosbeak 
 are far sweeter and more melodious, as is the 
 plaintive note of the bridge pewee rising high and 
 sweet above the rush of the spring freshet. Yet 
 there is a rush and bubble of thronging notes, 
 and a quiver of wings and head and body that 
 carry me away like a brilliant instrumentalist 
 with a wonderful technique. 
 
 And yet his mating song, however delightful, 
 does not affect me nearly as much as when in Au 
 gust, with his drab travelling dress, he flies with 
 others of his family over the closely mown fields 
 and gives the monotonous "Spink," "Spink," 
 of farewell. One of the latest birds to come, he 
 is one of the earliest to go, and the fields seem 
 pathetically silent after his departure. 
 
 Wednesday, May 22, 191-. My potatoes are up 
 about an inch. Potatoes are handsome plants. 
 Dark green rippled foliage. I am told that I ought 
 to spray as soon as they are above the ground.
 
 148 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 And a striped bug can undo in a night the per 
 spiring work of weeks. Luckily they are easily 
 destroyed, but eternal vigilance is the price one 
 must pay if he would have any potatoes, and I 
 am determined to have some potatoes if I have 
 to burst a button to do it. 
 
 A few years ago I tried to raise some and was 
 told to spray them with Paris green so much to 
 the gallon. Thinking that if the scheduled amount 
 of P. G. per gallon would produce dead bugs, 
 I naturally decided that double the amount would 
 produce still deader bugs. With the praiseworthy 
 intention of doing a most thorough job I put 
 two tablespoonfuls of the powder where one 
 was the prescribed dose, and having thoroughly 
 mixed it, sprayed the potato plants. Then, wish 
 ing to surprise my wife, I sprayed her immense 
 bed of rosebushes and the ramblers at the corner 
 of the house, as the rose bugs were coming in 
 swarms to attend a convention, evidently of rose 
 bugs and potato bugs, to devise certain measures 
 of common interest to the pirate community. 
 
 My intentions were of the purest, but the re 
 sult was disheartening when its effect on my po 
 tatoes and my wife s roses was considered. In 
 three days the leaves of the rosebushes and the 
 entire foliage of the potatoes had been killed, 
 and the bugs, too, for not a neighbor was visited 
 by either rose or potato bug that season.
 
 Spraying with Paris Green 149 
 
 I tried to look at our misfortune in the light of 
 pure altruism, and to induce my wife to view it 
 in that light. I might have succeeded myself, but 
 I failed entirely in the case of my wife. She was 
 very much disturbed over it and made it quite 
 a personal matter. And even now, after several 
 years have elapsed, when we are thinking up 
 things to say to each other, things that will bring 
 the blush of shame to our faces, and cut and 
 burn and crush and mortify, she refers pointedly 
 to my conduct on that day when I " went to 
 work deliberately deliberately, I say to spoil 
 all the beautiful roses that I had worked so hard 
 to raise and to have something on the place that 
 did n t look like a hurrah s nest, so there!" 
 
 Thursday, May 23, 191-. I got some prepared 
 poison, mixed a gallon, and sprayed the potatoes. 
 I was very careful to follow directions accu 
 rately. I must have some potatoes this fall. I 
 planted a couple of rows of carrots and a row 
 of tomatoes to-day. 
 
 My pigs are thriving to an extraordinary de 
 gree. I find that pigweed is the green they are 
 sinfully addicted to. Pigweed is not a garden 
 product that confers much credit on a farm or 
 on a farmer, nor is " pusley," yet they have their 
 uses like nux vomica and mild cathartics. And 
 if you could see my pigs literally gorging them-
 
 150 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 selves on pigweed and my hens working away on 
 the pile of pusley that I pull out of the garden, 
 you would think that everything has its use. 
 
 Friday, May 24, 191-. Nearly a frost this morn 
 ing. I should have felt that national bankruptcy 
 had struck me had my corn and beans been 
 nipped. 
 
 Saturday, May 25, 191-. Gosh! how much grass 
 that cow does eat! 
 
 Sunday, May 26, 191-. Forgot to cut an extra 
 supply of grass for the cow yesterday. I don t 
 think my lawn-mower was ever so resoundingly 
 vocal as it was this morning. I don t object to 
 working on Sunday. In fact, Sunday is a great 
 clean-up day for me. But I hate to do work of a 
 nature that attracts the notice of all good men 
 and true within a radius of a half-mile. How 
 ever, my cow had to be fed and so I mowed most 
 stridently. 
 
 Monday, May 27, 191-. I heard to-day that I 
 was held up in two pulpits, the Methodist and 
 the Baptist, yesterday, as a dreadful example 
 of Sabbath-breaking. 
 
 Well, I might have let my cow loose to have 
 an unlimited whack at my growing crops and
 
 Butter s-In 151 
 
 have saved my reputation. But then I might 
 have lost my cow from over-feeding. On the 
 whole I break even. 
 
 Tuesday, May 28, 191-. Barring lawn-mowing, 
 to which I am an abject slave, have done no farm 
 work to-day. My law practice is getting vastly 
 annoying. 
 
 Wednesday, May 29, 191-. Busy overtime in the 
 office. Really I wish that litigants would post 
 pone their differences until fall and winter. 
 
 Thursday, May 30, 191-. Rain again. We need it. 
 
 Friday, May 31, 191-. A glorious day and I had 
 to take depositions in my office all day. I got one 
 welcome respite this afternoon when my wife tel 
 ephoned me that the pigs were out and career 
 ing all over the neighborhood. 
 
 I declared a recess, commandeered a motor 
 and the Chief of Police who was leaning against 
 a post, and we shot for my farm with the cut-out 
 roaring, in plain violation of traffic rules. But 
 then what can you expect from the Justice of 
 the Municipal Court and the Chief of Police? 
 
 When we got to my farm we saw a very amus 
 ing sight. On the opposite side of the street from 
 my house is my sisters house, and evidently
 
 152 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 these ladies were having a piazza tea when both 
 pigs, believing themselves invited, had accepted 
 the tacit invitation and had joyfully essayed 
 to mount the steps, and were only prevented 
 by my schoolma am sister, who seized a broom 
 and soundly lambasted them as she skipped from 
 one end of the steps to the other, suffering no 
 caitiff to cross the moat, while the guests stood 
 on chairs and shrieked hysteric directions. 
 
 As soon as I arrived the pigs recognized me with 
 joyful grunts and followed me across the street 
 and into my yard, and the siege was raised, the 
 ladies descended from chairs, and the subtle flavor 
 of Best Hyson, "Which do you prefer, lemon 
 or cream and sugar?" stole across the soft May 
 atmosphere. And then with my entourage I went 
 back to my depositions. 
 
 Saturday, June 1, 191-. Every pleasant first of 
 June should be a legal holiday. More than this, 
 no indoor work of any nature, beyond works of 
 necessity and mercy, should be allowed by law. 
 When a perfect summer day is ushered in by 
 every bird in New England with fluty trills and 
 warbles and chirps and grace notes, and the 
 grass is like green velvet dashed with pearls, and 
 the sky is blue as in an Italian painting, and the 
 air as soft and moist as a baby s breath, and the 
 scent of lilacs and apple blossoms and flowering
 
 Out of Tune 153 
 
 quince, then severe penalties should be visited 
 upon any one who willingly works indoors. And 
 I have an engagement to hear, as referee, a case 
 that will take at least two days. 
 
 And I want to be out, oh, I want to be out 
 in the open ! 
 
 Finished case this noon. I thought I was en 
 titled to a half -day off. Had no sooner got to 
 work with hand cultivator when I was notified 
 of juvenile case at Police Court. I dislike juve 
 nile cases more than any others. I am afraid I 
 sympathize altogether too much with the de 
 linquents. It was not so long ago, at least in 
 memory, that I was a juvenile myself. 
 
 Finished the case at six o clock and came 
 home thoroughly out of tune. It was a bad case, 
 a thoroughly bad case, so bad and so hopeless 
 that I had to send two boys to the State Indus 
 trial School, a gentler name for the Reform 
 School. And this is a June day, with birds sing 
 ing, and trout leaping, and flowers blooming, and 
 the water in the old swimming hole as warm as 
 milk, and everything calling one out of doors. 
 
 And these were healthy boys, made for swim- 
 min n fishin n playin baseball, n trampin 
 in the woods n boatin n ever thing. And they 
 were bad. Not merely mischievous and high- 
 spirited like young puppies, but mean and 
 treacherous and bad.
 
 154 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 So they had to go, for their own benefit and 
 more for the benefit of the other small boys and 
 girls, whom their influence would surely injure. 
 But what an awful thing to be put away in June ! 
 Do you wonder that my day is spoiled? 
 
 Sunday, June 2, 191-. The robins in the nest in 
 the spruce tree are large enough to stand up, and 
 they make a prodigious noise when the old ones 
 feed them. As this happens about every three 
 minutes from morning until night, I am afraid 
 their noise will attract some vagrant cat. It would 
 be the easiest thing in the world for a cat to rob 
 the nest. We are all on the lookout. I am going 
 to buy an air rifle. It is accurate at up to fifty 
 yards, will sting a cat outrageously, but will not 
 injure it. 
 
 I think wandering cats should be shot at sight, 
 but a genuine rifle is a dangerous thing to use 
 in a community. 
 
 I got in a good day s work, to-day. The grass 
 on the uncultivated part of my place is so long 
 that I can tether the cow and sheep there. I use 
 a light steel chain attached with a swivel to a 
 picket pin resembling a bayonet. 
 
 Monday, June 3, 191-. Bought an air rifle known 
 as a thousand-shot rifle. Not having a dog I tried 
 it on the cow at fifty yards. She gave a violent
 
 Lethal Weapons 155 
 
 jump, kicked up her heels and shook her horns. 
 I think it will be effective. When working in my 
 garden I shall keep my trusty rifle ready to de 
 fend myself against predatory cats and dogs. 
 Got one shot to-day at a Maltese Tom. He was 
 not near the nest, but he was on my premises. 
 He got off my premises with wild leaps, magni 
 fied tail, and distended eyeballs. 
 
 Tuesday, June 4, 191-. Got another shot at a 
 cat to-day. A big, rusty black cat with one de 
 pressed ear. He was crossing the lawn near the 
 spruce. I wonder why the antelope is said to be 
 the fleetest animal that runs. I really do not be 
 lieve the antelope lives that could have kept up 
 with that cat a moment after that shot hit him. 
 It is interesting to be able to so develop an 
 animal s capabilities by such simple means. 
 Really the rifle is a great agent of reform. 
 
 Wednesday, June 5, 191-. Planted turnips to 
 day. Think a succession of turnips as necessary 
 as of corn. Must bush my peas soon. No game 
 to-day. I am forcibly reminded of the Pilgrim 
 Fathers who alternately cultivated their crops 
 and took pot shots at the wily aborigine. It 
 makes one s work more interesting, and if farm 
 ers would equip their sons with artillery of this 
 sort more boys would stay on the farm.
 
 156 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 Thursday, June 6, 191-. In a very few days those 
 young robins will be big enough to leave the 
 nest. Missed a cat to-day. The shot struck just 
 in front of him and he stopped short, then ran. 
 I pumped a couple more shots, but he was out 
 of range. Oh, well, one cannot always hit the 
 mark. To see if the rifle shot high or low, I took 
 a shot at Galatea as she stood in her pen facing 
 away from me. Made a clean shot. She gave a 
 surprised "Woof! Woof!" ran to the other end 
 of her pen and faced round with her ears pricked 
 up and a look of surprised interrogation on her 
 face. 
 
 Friday, June 7, 191-. There is a kingbird s nest 
 in an old apple tree at the end of the garden. I 
 have never found one before so near the house. 
 I also found a catbird s in the Von Hutei bushes 
 surrounding the henyard, and there is, I am 
 sure, the nest of a rose-breasted grosbeak near. 
 I hear the song mornings, and the businesslike 
 snip of his shears during the day, and see him 
 frequently, but I can t locate the nest. 
 
 Saturday, June 8, 191-. Nailed a wicked-looking 
 yellow cat to-day, with a snaky neck and panther- 
 shaped head. "He stood not upon the order of 
 his going." I wonder how long a cat runs after 
 he is out of sight? These speculations are vastly
 
 Tempted of the Devil 157 
 
 interesting from a scientific and statistical stand 
 point. 
 
 Sunday., June 9, 191-. My neighbors are for 
 the most part church-going, respectable, God 
 fearing people. I am afraid I am not very popu 
 lar with them. While I worked in my garden on 
 my knees to-day, as that position is less osten 
 tatious and also very effective in weeding, I was 
 practically hidden. As I looked at them pac 
 ing solemnly along in their best clothes, with 
 thoughts attuned to sacred things, I thought 
 how easy it would be to change the most devout, 
 the most kindly, the most gentle among them 
 into a ravening wolf, seeking my blood with 
 blasphemous language. 
 
 Just a careful aim at a manly leg encased in 
 summer trousers, a frenzied jump, a wild yell, 
 and the thing were done, and a lifetime, perhaps, 
 of good works and resolutions shattered beyond 
 redemption. I thought of this and stayed my 
 hand, but I felt the old longing which got me 
 into so much trouble when I was a boy. 
 
 Monday, June 10, 191-. If the lawn-mower had 
 been invented in the days of the "Glory that 
 was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome," 
 I feel sure that all the convicted criminals and 
 slaves would not have been chained to the heavy
 
 158 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 oars of the trireme. If it were a question now as 
 to whether I would prefer to be a galley slave 
 or a lawn-mower slave, I am uncertain as to 
 which I would prefer. No, I will take that back. 
 I am sure I should prefer the galleys to the 
 mower, for I could work on the galleys sitting 
 down. 
 
 Tuesday, June 11, 191-. I think my wife is over 
 doing the salad business. Just because my let 
 tuce has headed beautifully there is no reason 
 why I should be compelled or even expected to 
 eat lettuce salad twice a day. 
 
 Wednesday, June 12, 191-. Got up at five o clock 
 and tramped into the woods for bushes for my 
 telephone peas. 
 
 I saw almost every sort and condition of bird 
 that ever breeds in New Hampshire, and I found 
 more nests than I had seen since a boy. Then 
 just before I came back there was a whining 
 sound, and a mother partridge threw herself al 
 most at my feet, limping, fluttering, dying ap 
 parently. But I had seen partridges and I froze 
 as she was signalling her chicks to do. After a 
 few minutes, seeing that I made no move and 
 believing her chicks safe, she shot away like a 
 bullet and went winnowing through the tree- 
 trunks and out of sight.
 
 The Call of the Wild 159 
 
 Then I looked carefully after her chicks and 
 at last I found one. It was motionless. I took 
 it in my hand where it crouched without mak 
 ing a sound or motion. What a tiny little russet 
 midget it was ! To the ordinary observer it would 
 be difficult to distinguish it from a full-blooded, 
 black-red game bantam chick. But to one who 
 knows, there is a wide difference, not the least of 
 which is the indescribable mark of the wild bird. 
 Then I put it down carefully and walked away, 
 using the utmost care not to step on a crouch 
 ing chick. A few yards from the chick and I 
 looked back. I could not see it. Had it stolen 
 away? If so it had disobeyed its mother, who 
 had told it to freeze and to stay frozen. Care 
 fully I tiptoed back. Sure enough it was there 
 and had not moved, but its protective color had 
 blended so closely with the dead leaves that I 
 could not have found it again had I not known 
 where it was. 
 
 Then I carefully walked away and left it. If I 
 had had time enough I should have waited and 
 watched for the return of the mother, but I was 
 due at the farm and I hurried home, having for 
 gotten all about my bushes for the peas in my 
 interest in the birds. On the whole, I believe I 
 won t bush the peas. I think a few stakes and 
 some strong cord will do equally well. I cannot 
 get bushes without going into the woods, and
 
 160 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 I find I cannot be trusted to remember anything 
 in the woods. 
 
 Lettuce salad twice to-day. 
 
 Thursday, June 13, 191-. There is going to be a 
 hunger strike at my place soon. Hard manual 
 labor and not time enough to finish anything 
 demands food of a coarse and sustaining nature 
 three times a day. I am not a rabbit. 
 
 Friday, June 14, 191-. Some one said something 
 about the big baseball game between Exeter and 
 Andover coming off to-morrow. Am I going? I 
 am not. 
 
 Saturday, June 15, 191-. My usual luck/ Police 
 Court all the afternoon, when I was intending 
 to take a half -day off and (no, I was not going to 
 the game) spray my potatoes. I did not finish 
 the case until five o clock. It was the usual fool 
 quarrel that ended in a fight with all hands join 
 ing in a free-for-all. What a waste of time, money 
 and energy! How much more satisfactory it 
 would have been to have the principals in the 
 affair fight it out under the Marquis of Queens- 
 berry s, or the London Prize Ring rules, fighters 
 to break at the referee s order, one-half minute 
 rounds, no hitting in clinches.
 
 A Hunger Strike 161 
 
 Then the matter would have proved interest 
 ing, the parties would have been satisfied, honor 
 would have been appeased, and a permanent 
 peace would have been established. As it is, 
 every one is mad with every one else, and both 
 parties are mad with me, the party convicted 
 and fined perhaps justifiably so, and the com 
 plainant because of the fact that I did not sen 
 tence the respondent to jail. 
 
 And I have not sprayed my potatoes because 
 I had to mow a double allowance for that insa 
 tiable cow, as to-morrow is Sunday. All the time 
 I was mowing, crowds of Exeter people were 
 rushing from the ballfield, waving crimson ban 
 ners and probably pitying the unfortunate old 
 man who was compelled to work on a lawn while 
 a game was going on. 
 
 Sunday, June 16, 191-. The strike is on. Did 
 great work in garden. Crops fairly jumping 
 ahead. 
 
 Monday, June 17, 191-. Strike called off. Com 
 promise. My wife may have all the lettuce and 
 other salads she wants. I don t have to wait, but 
 may pitch into the essentials and get back to 
 work. After a couple of hours of hard work the 
 essentials are corned beef, roast, steak and onions, 
 and like Christian food.
 
 162 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 Tuesday, June 18, 191-. I have been expecting a 
 sizable check from my publishers. I don t like 
 to use money earned in my profession to pay for 
 my fads. I periodically receive checks for books 
 I have occasionally published. If it were not for 
 these checks I don t see how I could indulge in 
 the expensive pastime of even limited farming. 
 
 Wednesday, June 19, 191-. Thank Heaven I can 
 eke out the rations of my pigs with green stuff 
 from the garden. The price of grain gives me food 
 for very serious thought. Still, there is no use 
 worrying, for my check is about due. I never 
 speculate about the amount. There is no use in 
 doing that. When it comes it will be very welcome. 
 I am feeding as little grain as possible. 
 
 Thursday, June 20, 191-. No check to-day. A 
 watched pot never boils. Still the periodical 
 visit of the mail carrier makes me feel a bit as 
 I feel while waiting for the jury to come in. 
 
 Friday, June 21, 191-. Jury still out. 
 
 Saturday, June 22, 191-. The mail carrier brought 
 me a letter from a different publisher of mine. 
 I opened it with the feeling of expectation one 
 has when, at Christmas or on his birthday, he 
 finds a package at his plate at breakfast.
 
 A Verdict 163 
 
 The letter was as follows: 
 
 " DEAR SIR : The apparent impossibility of sell 
 ing any more copies of your book entitled * 
 
 renders a new edition unnecessary. One binder in 
 sists that he must have the space now occupied 
 
 by the sheets of and he obliges us to 
 
 remove them muy pronto if not prior thereto. 
 
 "Will pack and send sheets to you for ex 
 penses of packing and freightage or sell them for 
 old paper, as you prefer." 
 
 I laid down this reassuring epistle. And this 
 was one of the books that I was relying on to 
 boost my farming enterprise. 
 
 Well, I have the other report due at this time. 
 Cheer up! It is always darkest just before the 
 dawn. Something is always turning up. Only this 
 morning I got a terrific bill for grain. 
 
 Sunday, June 23, 191-. Worked all day and 
 broke the Sabbath into many and jagged pieces. 
 
 Monday, June 24, 191-. Jury still out, at least 
 the first jury. I think I ought to have a good ver 
 dict to make up for the hard luck of yesterday. 
 However, I did not let it interfere with my farm 
 work. If I get the doldrums, a few miles prome 
 nade in the rear of that infernal lawn-mower 
 never fails to divert my thoughts. It is a relief 
 to have something to swear at. I am becoming
 
 164 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 very fluent and am daily adding to a very com 
 prehensive vocabulary. If the jury brings in any 
 thing but a substantial verdict, I shall have to 
 coin a few more original cusswords. There is a 
 wealth of cusswords still uncoined. 
 
 Tuesday., June 25, 191-. I forgot to make a note 
 of the date when the young robins left the nest, 
 but it was about a week ago. I think we did not 
 lose one and they can all fly now. I got several 
 shots at cats and hastened their departure beyond 
 belief. I believe the cat is the lineal descendent 
 of the cheetah which can even overtake the ante 
 lope. It has the faculty, however, of running long 
 distances which the cheetah cannot do. The cat is 
 a very quick starter. At the sting of the shot the 
 cat is in the air clawing for speed, and getting it 
 every time. 
 
 I expect every day that the robins will build 
 again. There are three other robins nests in the 
 yard with young birds in them. I am becoming 
 a terror to predatory cats. In fact, during the sum 
 mer season every cat of whatever station is a 
 predatory cat 
 
 Wednesday, June 26, 19 1-. Jury came in to-day. 
 I held my breath with expectation as I took the 
 letter, placed it with apparent carelessness on 
 my desk, and continued my conversation with a
 
 A Facer 165 
 
 client. When he retired, after an unconscionably 
 long consultation, I took up my letter. It is my 
 custom to leave to the last that one that I am 
 sure will be pleasantest of the lot, so as to quit 
 with a sweet taste in my mouth. 
 
 For instance, the first letter I get from my 
 daughter at her school, after I have sent a check 
 for her monthly expense account and a trifle over 
 for good measure and other things, I leave to the 
 last because I know it will be funny, bright, and 
 interesting. And this I do with several in succes 
 sion until toward the end of the month. Then I 
 read that letter first to know the worst and make 
 out a check and have it over. 
 
 So following this custom I read my other let 
 ters through carefully and made pencil memo 
 randa as a guide for answers. Then with a pleas 
 ant feeling of expectation I took up my pub 
 lisher s letter and opened it with deliberation, 
 unfolded the enclosures, and had a touch of heart 
 failure when I saw no check. My symptoms be 
 came more marked as I read the semi-annual 
 report : 
 
 To 14 copies " "atlSc. royalty $2.10 By 10 copies sent author at cost price $6.50 
 21 " " "atlSc. " 3.15 5 " 2.50 
 
 19 " ""at 9c. " 1.71 7 " 4.90 
 
 Total sales 
 Due from author 
 
 $13.90 $13.90 
 
 I put the envelope down mechanically, lit a 
 cigarette and puffed violently. Then I read the
 
 166 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 report carefully and added the columns. The fig 
 ures were correct. I owed my publisher six dol 
 lars and ninety-four cents. Well, it is lucky that 
 I still have a fairly remunerative law practice 
 and had the good sense not to quit it for litera 
 ture. I am not a shining success as a lawyer, but 
 I make a little more than a comfortable living 
 and I do not have to pay for the privilege. 
 
 I drew my check for the amount and sent it 
 off. One thing my profession has taught me; not 
 to waste time in worrying over an adverse ver 
 dict, however unexpected. 
 
 Thursday, June 27, 191-. Had my first peas from 
 garden to-day. Served in a restaurant they would 
 have been billed as "Petits Pois au Beurre." 
 They were delicious, if somewhat immature. 
 
 Friday, June 28, 191-. I am acquiring a pro 
 nounced tan, and my hands are hard. The early 
 crop of blisters has completely disappeared. 
 
 Saturday, June 29, 191-. Cutworms are causing 
 me some loss and annoyance. They have rather 
 more than decimated my cabbage plants and 
 cauliflowers. There is a certain "stern joy that 
 warriors feel" in squashing them. They are ex 
 ceedingly pulpy and therefore squashable.
 
 I Mortify my Wife 167 
 
 Sunday, June 30, 191-. An unfortunate thing hap 
 pened this morning. I tethered my cow in the 
 grass, driving the pin to the head in rather solid 
 turf. It would seem that any reasonable cow 
 would have been satisfied to remain in lush grass 
 to her knees. But not this thief of the world, for 
 she took advantage of my protracted absence 
 in the pigpen, which I was industriously and 
 malodorously cleaning, scraping, and bedding, to 
 pull up her picket pin and strike a beeline for my 
 cabbages where she ate almost my entire crop be 
 fore I appeared in rubber boots and amid hideous 
 profanity. 
 
 The Professor of English who lives next to me 
 was at that time escorting to church a distin 
 guished Doctor of Divinity, a College President, 
 and a Y.M.C.A. officer, who were to conduct 
 services in the Academy Chapel that morning, 
 and apparently the entire population of the 
 street, with my exception, were hastening to 
 attend the services in question, when I burst 
 upon the scene and took up the chase of the cow 
 around the yard, voicing my opinions. in tones 
 that could have been heard in a deaf-mute sani 
 tarium. 
 
 This unfortunate occurrence mortified my wife 
 beyond measure and, I am afraid, did not im 
 prove my standing in the community. But there 
 are some things that no mere mortal can bear
 
 168 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 without sinful repinings, sometimes expressed in 
 a high key; and whatever my standing, I do not 
 have any difficulty in persuading them to accept 
 specimens of my farm produce when carefully 
 washed and neatly packed. 
 
 Of course it is embarrassing to one s friends 
 to be held up in pulpits as a bad example, but 
 really there are worse people than I. Not many, 
 perhaps, but occasionally such are mentioned in 
 the newspapers as malefactors of great wealth, 
 thieves, robbers, and highwaymen. 
 
 It seems scarcely possible that July will come 
 in to-morrow, the hot, dry month. I have added 
 scythe-mowing to my lot of accomplishments. 
 The grass has got so long in the field part of my 
 farm that I use the scythe. I was advised to buy 
 several blades. It was good advice. 
 
 Monday, July 1, 191-. Time was when I should 
 have been hoarding every penny for the Fourth 
 and thinking that the Fourth would never come. 
 Now I am grudging the days that fly past and 
 hoarding every penny to keep abreast of the high 
 prices. 
 
 Tuesday, July 2, 191-. I am learning something 
 about scythe-mowing. I was told to always keep 
 my heel down. To obey instructions, which did 
 not specify which heel, the right or left, I walked,
 
 Scythe Mowing 169 
 
 when mowing, flat-footed, and thereby kept both 
 heels down. I now find that it was the heel of 
 the scythe that I was to keep down. I learned 
 this too late to save three scythe blades. I did not 
 break them, but left them looking somewhat like 
 gigantic flattened corkscrews or Malay kris or 
 the spiral horns of a South African koodoo. 
 
 Wednesday, July 3, 191-. I have one scythe blade 
 left. I know how to mow now. I also put in my 
 daily promenade behind the lawn-mower, but 
 the dry weather has shortened my beat. My pigs 
 are a delight to the eye. 
 
 Thursday, July 4, 191-. Holiday and cool enough 
 to make a fine work day. I put in almost the en 
 tire day, mowing, cultivating, cleaning up, hoeing 
 and other work. 
 
 Friday, July 5, 191- . Glad I did so much work 
 yesterday. Tried a case before a referee to-day 
 that left me no time for the farm. It is true that 
 the law is a jealous mistress. Still, a man must 
 have some exercise to avoid going stale. On the 
 whole, I think I get it. 
 
 Saturday, July 6, 191-. A thunderstorm in the 
 night turned into a steady rain which lasted all 
 day. I was disappointed at not being able to
 
 170 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 work in the garden, but found enough to do in 
 the barn, including oiling the pigs. I bought a 
 patent oiler which so far no skilled artisan in 
 this vicinity has been able to set up. I find a 
 currycomb dipped in oil very soothing to the pigs. 
 Indeed, I find, somewhat to my surprise, that 
 a currycomb is appreciated by pigs and cows 
 much more than by horses. Also that a cow s 
 coat will take a polish much more readily than 
 will a horse s coat. 
 
 Sunday, July 7, 191-. Some young chipper birds 
 are out of the nest. Although they are less con 
 spicuous than young robins and much better 
 flyers, yet I am minded of the injunction, "In 
 time of peace prepare for war." And I have got 
 out my rifle once more. Saw the droop-eared Tom 
 walking on the fence to-day. It was a fine target 
 and I felt sure I scored a bull s-eye. In trying to 
 jump off on both sides of the fence at once he de 
 layed long enough for me to get in another shot. 
 He may be running yet. He started as if he never 
 meant to stop. I wish he never would. 
 
 By this simple, homely, but effective agency 
 I try to instil into the minds of vagrant Toms a 
 warning to keep their distance. 
 
 Monday, July 8, 19 1-. With fresh milk and 
 cream, fresh eggs, peas, string beans, beet
 
 Blight 171 
 
 greens, chard, and radishes, life seems one grand 
 song. 
 
 Tuesday., July 9, 191-. Still singing. Nailed a cat 
 wearing a nickel-plated collar to-day. She did not 
 stop long enough for me to read the inscription 
 thereon. Indeed, he who runs would have had 
 to be a phenomenal sprinter to have read it. 
 
 Wednesday, July 10, 191-. Planted turnips again 
 to-day. Also sprayed potatoes. 
 
 Thursday, July 11, 191-. Some sort of infernal 
 bug or decay or blight has struck one of my rows 
 of beans. Yesterday they were green and fair to 
 look upon. To-day between dawn and noontide 
 they have turned a dark brown, leaves, fruit, and 
 stems, and have dried up as if they had been 
 scorched by the flames of burning Ilium. 
 
 "Yesterday they might have stood against the world, 
 Now none so poor to do them reverence." 
 
 I at once took counsel with the hardware man 
 who sells all sorts of anti-bug mixtures. He told 
 me to pluck, pile, and burn at once the affected 
 plants. Then to spray the undersides of the plant 
 with a certain liquid designated by a series of 
 numbers neatly embossed on the can in scarlet 
 letters. 
 
 I took the can, and at his suggestion bought
 
 172 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 a new hand-sprayer, notified my clerk that urgent 
 business matters required my instant presence 
 at the farm, and hurried thither with my can and 
 squirt gun. I at once pulled every plant in the in 
 fected row, piled them, poured on a liberal liba 
 tion of kerosene, and in a few moments they were 
 reduced to the finest ashes. Then I unscrewed the 
 cap of the can, sniffed once, replaced the cap with 
 averted face and trembling fingers, and took a 
 hurried walk. 
 
 Now, I have smelled horrid odors full many a 
 time. Any man who has dealt with all sorts of 
 animals and all sorts of humans, as I have, has 
 taught himself to weather almost every variety 
 of odors without repining. Up to this time the 
 most awful odor I ever experienced was when, 
 on returning from a two weeks vacation with 
 my family, I found I had neglected to remove 
 from an old-fashioned refrigerator a few dozen 
 frogs legs, and as a result I had to give the re 
 frigerator to a junkman upon the condition that 
 he would remove it instantly and without argu 
 ment or examination. 
 
 But the dreadf ulness of the odor was as nothing 
 compared to the acute and amazing villainy of the 
 smell of this compound. I would n t have used 
 it if my entire crop was at stake, and after 
 playing the garden hose on it for a while I buried 
 the sealed can in the garden, and sprayed the
 
 Whew! 173 
 
 rest of the beans with the usual preparation. It 
 may be effective and may not. Just at this mo 
 ment I do not care particularly. I have washed 
 my hands with every sort of soap, but although 
 none of that dreadful remedy touched them, I 
 can still smell it. I wonder if I always shall. 
 
 Friday, July 12, 191-. We have peas at least three 
 times a week. Regular gorges. Somewhere I have 
 heard or read that 
 
 "The honest farmer, who by intelligent toil 
 Tills the soil, 
 Will surely win respect." 
 
 I have quoted this, but I have n t the least idea 
 where I got it. 
 
 Saturday, July 13, 191-. Two more broods of 
 young robins are hopping round the yard. One 
 brood from the big oak behind the house and one 
 from the Porter apple tree in the orchard. Broke 
 the spring of my rifle to-day. I could not get a 
 new one in town and have sent to Boston. Worked 
 all day on farm. 
 
 Sunday, July 14, 191-. That infernal droop-eared 
 cat got a young robin to-day. I heard the cries 
 of the parent birds and of a dozen others coming 
 to the rescue and I ran toward the noise. I was 
 in time to see the cat with the bird in its mouth
 
 174 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 dash over the fence and disappear in the bushes 
 on the adjoining place. I yelled for Dick to bring 
 his gun and he responded with two and a dozen 
 shells. We quartered over the ground for a half- 
 hour, but did not find the cat. I have thought 
 of it all day. Damn cats, anyway! 
 
 Monday, July 15, 191-. Too busy at the office to 
 do more than the routine work on the farm, milk 
 ing, feeding, cleaning stalls, etc. 
 
 Tuesday, July 16, 191-. A heavy thunder-shower 
 to-day. Juvenile Court to-day in my private of 
 fice. I don t believe the boys are very much 
 afraid of me. 
 
 Wednesday, July 17, 191-. This noon I had a 
 great stroke of luck. I had finished my dinner, 
 fed my animals, and was doing a little weeding 
 on my hands and knees when I heard- the frantic 
 cries of the robins and the agonized chirping of a 
 young bird. I jumped up in time to see old droop- 
 ear leaping across the garden with a shrieking 
 young bird in its mouth. Suddenly it leaped fran 
 tically in the air, turned a somersault, sprang up, 
 and then crumpled in a heap. Dick who had just 
 come out, equipped for a trap shoot, had fired 
 twice as the cat raced across the yard, and both 
 shots had taken effect. The bird was dead, but
 
 Requiescat 175 
 
 not from the shot, and best of all the cat was dead. 
 I took the greatest possible enjoyment in con 
 ducting a little private funeral. 
 
 Thursday, July 18, 191-. My corn is up to my 
 shoulders now and is beginning to spindle. The 
 high-water mark of amateur farming is getting 
 a couple of dozen ears of sweet corn and making 
 a dinner of them. 
 
 Friday, July 19, 191-. My cow broke out of jail 
 to-day, but was rounded up before she did much 
 damage. My clerk starts on her vacation of two 
 weeks Monday. I shall have to stick to the office. 
 Farming will receive a very severe setback. 
 
 Saturday, July 20, 191-. Worked with clerk all 
 day in office. 
 
 Sunday, July 21, 191-. Busy at the office. Some 
 times I think hot weather makes for litigation. 
 Why not? Hot weather makes the average man 
 uncomfortable and therefore touchy. I have 
 heard that all professional cooks are quick-tem 
 pered and ready with a rolling-pin, and that this 
 is a direct result of the heat in which they work. 
 Well, if that is the case, I wish it would cool off, 
 for I don t feel particularly like trying cases. It 
 is just the weather to draw briefs and bills in
 
 176 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 equity and declarations, and to take one s time 
 at it. Then, after a day at it, it is delightful, in 
 the cool of the afternoon, to get into one s old 
 clothes and do farm work. 
 
 Monday, July 22, 191-. It has rained all day. A 
 steady, slanting rain. It has been good to sit at 
 my old battered desk, and to look out over the 
 square, and to see the slanting lines of rain pour 
 ing down on the pavements, and to smell the soft 
 air. For the past two weeks the farmers have 
 been haying and to-day they are probably trying 
 to catch up with their indoor work. 
 
 Nobody has been in the office, and although 
 there is plenty of work to do, I don t feel in the 
 mood, and sit and look out over the square, and 
 plan my farm work, and think over the handicaps 
 I have been laboring under, and what fun it has 
 all been. 
 
 Indeed, when I sought anew to turn my modest 
 estate into a miniature stock and truck farm, I 
 did not fully realize some of the responsibilities 
 I was ignorantly shouldering. 
 
 There are dangers, on the physical side, of 
 breaks, strains, sprains, contusions, bites, kicks, 
 and crowdings in the stalls. Only yesterday morn 
 ing I was leaning over my cow s back and giving 
 her a particularly thorough rubdown under the 
 big elm in front of the barn, when the maid clum-
 
 Diplomacy 177 
 
 sily poked an ironing-board through a window 
 taking out several panes of glass and the attend 
 ant sash, and causing that patient and milk-in 
 fested animal to make a demi-volte which carried 
 me for a considerable distance in a position simi 
 lar to that of a towel on a towel rack. 
 
 Of course, when such things are done by a 
 trained acrobat in a circus they seldom injure 
 the performer, but when performed involuntarily 
 by a more than middle-aged farmer of little train 
 ing for that particular stunt, the result is fre 
 quently painful if not lasting. 
 
 Then again one owes a duty to one s neigh 
 bors, who may not be wildly enthusiastic over 
 the change from smooth lawns, and comparative 
 peace and quietude, to potato and turnip patches 
 and the homely sounds and scents of the barn 
 yard. And so I endeavor to be very diplomatic 
 in all my moves in relation to my farm and the 
 introduction of animals alien to the quiet and 
 aristocratic habits of the people dwelling in my 
 neighborhood. 
 
 Were I to do otherwise, I fear that neighbor 
 hood reciprocity might take the form of criminal 
 prosecutions or of poisoned potatoes. But a 
 timely pitcher of cream will do much to avoid the 
 operation of the lex talionis; and a few dozen 
 of golden bantam corn is a panacea for all evils 
 arising from strained neighborly relations.
 
 178 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 Another thing one has to consider; the smell 
 of barnyard animals is not unpleasant in its na 
 tive heath, but when carried to other localities, 
 such as to dwellings, churches, both for religious 
 and social purposes, public meetings in crowded 
 halls, secret society visitations and public in 
 stallations, it is sniffingly resented by the cap 
 tious, and one finds himself the target for re 
 sentful and reproachful looks and indignant 
 sniffs, and the rungs of the social ladder exceed 
 ingly difficult to climb. 
 
 Then again a quick-tempered man, such as I 
 am, ought to be a bit quite a bit circum 
 spect. It must never happen again that the Pro 
 fessor of English, whose study windows over 
 hang my garden fence, be so seriously annoyed 
 as he was some time ago, when, having gathered 
 a bevy of local savants to discuss the recondite 
 beauty of Chaucer s "Troilus and Cressida," 
 they were scandalized by a burst of objurgation, 
 delivered by me in hoarse and impassioned tones, 
 as I passed his windows at terrific speed in a 
 perspiring, panting, and profane pursuit of an 
 escaped pig. 
 
 And I am quite sure that the superintendent of 
 the Sunday School, who lives across the street, 
 will never fully forgive me for compelling his 
 class of young men who had gathered at his 
 house for Y.M.C.A. discussion, to listen to a
 
 Neighborly Kindness 179 
 
 soliloquy delivered by me with all the strength 
 of my lungs and the stimulating influence of a 
 vivid imagination, at viewing the remains of 
 about four dollars worth of cauliflower plants 
 that had suffered from a joint attack of all the 
 cutworms in the vicinity overnight. 
 
 And yet my neighbors have been exceedingly 
 kind and considerate. They have borne much 
 from me, possibly more than I would have borne 
 from them had the conditions been reversed. 
 They have even tried to help me. Indeed, their 
 attentions have at times been positively embar 
 rassing. I am constantly receiving kindly offers 
 of assistance. One lady telephoned me to please 
 call at her house on my way home from my of 
 fice. Anticipating a legal consultation I called. 
 Judge of my feelings when she led me to the 
 back door, informing me that when she heard 
 that I had a pair of pigs she had saved every bit 
 of waste from her table for a week, and would 
 I please carry it home to them. 
 
 What could I say? She was a kindly old lady 
 and her face beamed with altruism. I could n t 
 tell her that I would as soon feed pigs with rat 
 poison as with swill. I could n t tell her to keep 
 her old swill and eat it or bury it or burn it as 
 she pleased. 
 
 And so with loathing and rebellion in my heart 
 I almost dislocated my arms and strained my
 
 180 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 tendons in lugging about a hundred pounds of 
 dreadful waste to my house a quarter of a mile 
 away. 
 
 Another lady, more considerate of my dignity, 
 sent a boy with a squeaking cart in which was a 
 bucket filled to overflowing with horrid stuff. 
 
 Just out of curiosity and for the purpose of 
 ascertaining the probability of a lingering and 
 awful death for my pigs, should I feed the stuff 
 to them, I took as careful an inventory of the 
 two buckets as the nature and condition of their 
 contents allowed. The first bucket inventoried as 
 follows : 
 
 Item several quarts of dishwater. 
 
 Item the necks of two broken bottles with wire at 
 tachments. 
 
 Item the remains of the two bottles in fragments of 
 unassorted sizes. 
 
 Item the semi-globular skins of several muskmelons, 
 scraped so thin as to be transparent. 
 
 Item several roundish articles that I took for char 
 coal (excellent for |>igs), but which on examina 
 tion proved to be hard-baked and incinerated 
 biscuits. 
 
 Item a chain of safety pins strung together. 
 
 Item a very large "gob" of sour dough. 
 
 Item the skins of several baked potatoes. 
 
 Item a fine-toothed comb very much the worse for 
 wear. 
 
 Item a T bone thoroughly polished. 
 
 Item a roll of twisted handbills advertising an auc 
 tion.
 
 I could n t tell her that I would as soon feed pigs 
 with rat poison
 
 Popularity and False Teeth 181 
 
 Item the yellow legs of a chicken and the skeleton 
 from which every particle of meat had been 
 scraped. 
 
 Item part of a suspender. 
 
 Item various articles impossible to classify. 
 
 The second bucket analyzed as follows: 
 
 Item one half-dozen of " Curved Plug Tobacco " 
 tins, empty. 
 
 Item mass of pressed raw currants from which the 
 life and virtue had long since departed leaving 
 hulls and seeds about as nutritious as sawdust 
 or chopped oyster shells. 
 
 Item about two quarts of raw potato peelings. 
 
 Item ditto apple peelings. 
 
 Item cracked porcelain doorbell with several yards 
 of wire. 
 
 Item part of scrim curtain with broken stick. 
 
 Item empty mucilage bottle with brush. 
 
 Item broken lamp chimney, blacked on one side. 
 
 Item lower set of false teeth with red rubber gums. 
 
 Item sundry unrecognizable articles. 
 
 Item large quantity of slop containing many sub 
 stances in solution. 
 
 I removed the set of teeth, played on them 
 with the hose, and when they were dried, used 
 gloves to wrap them up with and then sent them 
 by mail to the kind lady. Think how she must 
 have hunted and worried over their loss. Cer 
 tainly one good turn deserves another. 
 
 I have made half promises to call at other 
 houses. The situation is becoming critical. It is 
 perhaps my first and only touch of popularity.
 
 182 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 I don t like it one single bit. Years ago with my 
 cronies, Beany and Pewt, I drove a swill cart for 
 a short time until the failure of the man that 
 employed us, but I have been trying hard ever 
 since to live it down. True, there are several 
 ways of disposing of this waste. I can burn it on 
 a funeral pyre; I can bury it, carrying the simile 
 one step farther; or I can wait for the shades of 
 evening and throw it into the grove behind the 
 house of the Professor of English. Which shall it 
 be? I am really uncertain and dreadfully in need 
 of advice. 
 
 But I am determined that I will not, even 
 to court popularity, become the scavenger, the 
 hysena, the turkey buzzard, the jackal of the 
 neighborhood. I swear it. 
 
 Tuesday, July 23, 191-. To take a walk or ride 
 into the country now and to smell the freshly 
 cured hay is worth almost any sacrifice, even 
 breakfast. And if you have lost your breakfast, 
 it is but four hours to lunch or to dinner, and 
 as soon as you have arisen from lunch or dinner 
 you have forgotten the sacrifice. 
 
 I took a walk this morning after I had finished 
 my barn work and became so absorbed in the 
 delights of the newly mowed field that it was 
 long after breakfast when I got home, and I had 
 an appointment at nine. I had no breakfast, not
 
 The Hay Field 183 
 
 even a cup of coffee, but I kept my appointment, 
 worked like a pup until noon, and came home 
 with a headache that reached from the bridge of 
 my nose to the back of my neck. 
 
 But after a good dinner and a cup of black 
 coffee I was as good as new, and could think of 
 that beautiful field with its haycocks, its half- 
 dozen nests of field mice each full of naked young 
 mice; of the two nests of bobolinks with the 
 young nearly full-fledged and bearing the unmis 
 takable colors of the male bird s winter garb; of 
 the headless black snake decapitated as he was 
 about to make a meal of some of these innocents; 
 of the numerous fat toads, each in the smooth 
 round shallow cup it had either dug or worn 
 in the earth; of the woodchuck s hole on the 
 knoll, with its bold advertisement of yellow sand 
 thrown out of a hole large enough for a fox. 
 
 Really it was well worth the loss of a breakfast 
 and the splitting headache. 
 
 Wednesday, July 24, 191-. Every time I get a 
 chance to get out into the fields and woods I take 
 a solemn vow to repeat the experience often. But 
 I seldom get the time or take the time to do it. As 
 a boy and youth I spent a third of my time dur 
 ing the long summer days and evenings on the 
 river, and each spring I make up my mind that 
 I will buy a skiff or canoe and emulate the brave
 
 184 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 deeds of Ossian as set forth in his once well- 
 known serenade. 
 
 But I never do it. I wonder why. Perhaps old 
 man Osier may be able to explain it. Hang Osier, 
 anyway. 
 
 Thursday, July 25, 191-. I wish my clerk would 
 get back. I don t mind sticking close to the office 
 during office hours, but I hate to take so much 
 time out of my evenings to write longhand let 
 ters. I wonder if I am really the worst writer of 
 a profession noted for the abandoned character of 
 its penmanship? My correspondents are unani 
 mous in the opinion that I am far and away the 
 worst. I think they are not above prejudice in 
 the matter. 
 
 However, it is sometimes convenient to be able 
 to read your own handwriting in various ways. A 
 really intelligent man can adapt his correspond 
 ence to almost any situation that may arise. It 
 is well to make the best out of these peculiarities. 
 
 Friday, July 26, 191-. In almost every Christian 
 community except my own, Saturday afternoon 
 is given up, at least by the lawyers, to the pur 
 suit of golf balls. This is the most praiseworthy 
 undertaking possible and should be encouraged 
 by drastic legislation. Unfortunately the wily 
 farmer, having worked intensively during the
 
 An Accident 185 
 
 entire week, takes Saturday afternoon to renew 
 his supplies and to call upon his lawyer friends for 
 gratuitous advice. 
 
 Saturday, July 27, 191-. Imagination is a curious 
 thing and plays curious tricks. Yesterday my life 
 was despaired of owing to a dreadful accident 
 that befell me when I was in the peaceful per 
 formance of my duties as a plain and ornamental 
 agriculturist and stock-breeder. It seems posi 
 tively unjust that an 
 
 "Integer vitce scelerisque purus" 
 or at least reasonably so who 
 
 " Non eget Mauris jaculis neque arcu " 
 
 or at least is not supposed to should be cut 
 down in his prime or thereabouts while doing 
 the plain and homely duties pertaining to home 
 agriculture. Especially is this so, when steeple 
 jacks are steeple-jacking in perfect safety all over 
 the country; when birdmen are loudly flapping 
 their wings and crowing thousands of feet above 
 the earth, with their life insurance policies still in 
 force; when motor-cyclists, with their best girls 
 in abbreviated costumes and wearing their skirts 
 about their ears, are dashing around corners and 
 adown crowded streets at seventy miles an hour 
 with no danger to themselves and the deuce take 
 the public; when all over the country people are
 
 186 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 risking their lives without mishaps in a thousand 
 dare-devil ways. 
 
 Such thoughts crowded into my brain as I 
 tottered into the house to die yesterday morn 
 ing and so frightened my wife that I am afraid 
 she will never be the same woman again. 
 
 I had arisen unusually early, as there had 
 been a heavy thunder-shower and I could n t 
 sleep. It was still so cloudy that the stalls in the 
 cow stable were rather dark. When I entered the 
 stall my cow swung her head round fretfully and 
 stuck me a blow that nearly knocked the wind 
 out of me for a moment. I retired gruntingly to 
 regain my wind so as to more fully express my 
 sentiments, when to my horror I found that I 
 was covered with blood. She had evidently driven 
 her sharp horn deep into my side. Somehow I 
 felt but little pain, and supposed it was from 
 the sudden paralysis of the nerves. I dully 
 recollected that really serious and fatal injuries 
 are seldom painful, and I realized then that if 
 I had any alterations to make in my will I had 
 better see about it as soon as possible. I was evi 
 dently bleeding to death very rapidly and I did 
 not like to be found lifeless in a cow stable 
 
 " Weltering in my gore " 
 
 as the victims of one Captain Kidd erstwhile were 
 prone to do, according to that delightful poem.
 
 Impending Demise 187 
 
 I realized, of course, that a ligature or tourni 
 quet, would, from the locality of the wound, be 
 ineffective except to shut off my wind, and that, 
 in the progress of events, would be shut off soon 
 enough. So, holding my hand over the jagged 
 puncture in my side, I walked feebly, but with 
 determination, into the house and called my 
 wife. Something in the quiet precision of my 
 voice told her that something serious had hap 
 pened, and she came running down in her night 
 gown, and as soon as she saw my blood she broke 
 into a loud and exceedingly bitter cry. 
 
 She knew that dreadful, horrid, dangerous, 
 ugly beast would kill me ! She never had wanted 
 me to get her ! I never knew anything about cows 
 anyway ! Any one could cheat me, and would sell 
 me kicking horses and hooking and goring cows 
 and all manner of awful beasts and I might have 
 known it, and she knew it all the time and knew 
 just what would happen, and why could n t I 
 have been contented to buy my milk and not go 
 risking my life every moment I was in that hor 
 rid barn, not knowing anything about animals 
 and not being able or wishing to hire a man to 
 take care of them who knew something about 
 them, and whose life or death did n t amount to 
 anything, and who did n t have any one de 
 pending on him as I did, etc., etc. 
 
 All the time she had been helping me to the
 
 188 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 couch in the living-room, for I was growing very 
 faint and weak with the loss of blood, while Dick, 
 who had come down stairs like a man in the 
 delirium tremens pursued by centipedal rattle 
 snakes, was ringing up Central and demanding 
 why in blankety blank and rippety dash they 
 were all asleep in the middle of the day (Dick 
 who never gets up before half-past eight unless 
 he is pulled out of bed), and telling the doctor 
 to come up to the house, and not caring a hang 
 if the doctor had been up all night on a confine 
 ment case, and that it was a case of life or death, 
 and not to wait to put on his clothes; and then 
 he came charging in with a glass of whiskey which 
 I drank as if it w r ere water. 
 
 While waiting for the doctor, we decided not 
 to cut away my shirt from the wound, fearing 
 that the flow of blood, which had somewhat 
 slackened, might start again. So while Dick 
 held a wet compress over my wound, my wife 
 bathed my head and fanned me, and I gave Dick 
 some instructions about the management of the 
 office after I had been laid away. I even made a 
 feeble quotation: 
 
 "Oh, bury Bartholomew out in the field, 
 In a beautiful hole in the ground." 
 
 I suppose I was somewhat affected by my pota 
 tion to which I was unaccustomed.
 
 A Delicate Operation 189 
 
 Then an automobile tore into the yard and 
 a hastily dressed man without collar or tie, and 
 with his coat and vest flapping open and his 
 shoelaces dangling, hurried up the steps and into 
 the room. As soon as he saw my blood-stained 
 form he became at once the cool, calm, self- 
 possessed, resourceful surgeon. 
 
 " Get me a glass of water and a spoon ; open that 
 window and pull up that curtain; a washbowl of 
 hot water." Then he opened his bag, laid out his 
 shining knives, nippers, clamps, calipers, and 
 other cutlery, spools of adhesive plaster, rolls of 
 antiseptic dressing, and bottles of disinfectants; 
 lit a little tin lamp, and a smell of creosote and 
 iodoform stole across the room. 
 
 Then he threw off his coat and vest, rolled up 
 his sleeves, and prepared to cauterize a few veins, 
 to tie up an artery or two, and to hemstitch some 
 Butterick patterns on my torso. 
 
 Then he wet a cloth in the warm water, knelt 
 by the couch and carefully moistened my shirt 
 over the wound, lifted it quickly and cut it from 
 me, with a pair of shears. Then he washed away 
 the blood, stared a moment, said, "Hell!" 
 told me to sit up, and removed my shirt, care 
 fully examined me, ejaculated, "Well, I ll be 
 damned!" in a fervent tone that admitted no 
 contradiction; and said, "What in the devil s 
 name did you get a man out of bed for at this
 
 190 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 time of day to perform an operation on a per 
 fectly sound man?" 
 
 "But, Doc," I stammered, "ain t there a 
 wound?" 
 
 "Wound, nothing!" he replied with huge dis 
 gust. "You have n t a scratch!" 
 
 "But the cow certainly hooked me," I in 
 sisted, "and if she did n t gore me, where did the 
 blood come from?" 
 
 "I don t know," replied the doctor testily, 
 "but I m going to find out." 
 
 So we all went to the barn after I had put 
 on my coat, and there found that the cow had 
 evidently caught her horn in the tie-ring and 
 had broken it off close to her head, with the 
 result that it had bled freely over her frontlet, 
 and when she rubbed against me she had thor 
 oughly smeared me with her blood instead of 
 mine. 
 
 "Well, of all the cussed fools I ever saw, you 
 are the cussedest!" said the doctor as he strode to 
 the house to pack up his instruments. However, 
 he found something to do after all, for my wife, 
 who has a horror of blood, as soon as the danger 
 was over had an attack of hysterics which took 
 the doctor some time to quiet. Indeed, it was an 
 hour before she was quiet in bed, the doctor had 
 returned to his interrupted slumber, and I, re 
 joicing in my escape, was milking a cow with
 
 Saved 191 
 
 a bandaged stump and a large appetite for a 
 steaming bran mash. 
 
 I paid the doctor ten dollars, for his morning 
 trip and thought it cheap. I would willingly give 
 that sum any day to avoid a horrid and unheroic 
 death, or indeed any sort of a demise, heroic or 
 otherwise. 
 
 There are people, I feel sure, who would not 
 part with anything like that sum to keep me 
 alive, but I am not one of them. 
 
 But, had I thus untimely perished, how my 
 friend the editor of our local weekly would have 
 whooped up the obituary column! I dare not 
 imagine how many hitherto unsuspected virtues 
 would have been attributed to me, how many 
 undesirable qualities suppressed. Ah, well, "De 
 mortuis nil nisi bonum." 
 
 But one thing puzzles me. I know that my son 
 and wife were genuinely alarmed about me, and 
 are genuinely thankful that I was not injured. 
 But in spite of this they are peeved with me and 
 appear to think that I played a joke on them. 
 They do not discuss the subject. At least, I have 
 one friend in court, for my daughter was luckily 
 away at the time and does not view the matter 
 in the same light. 
 
 Sunday, July 28, 191-. I have misjudged farmers 
 as a class. The farther I delve into the cultiva-
 
 192 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 tion of the soil, and the raising of stock, the more 
 I have come to realize that the life of a farmer 
 is a long and hand-to-hand fight with sun and 
 wind, rain and frosts, poison ivy, Paris green, 
 hog cholera, grapple bugs, and all manner of creep 
 ing, crawling, and flying things. 
 
 Does the price of pork on the hoof arise to 
 hitherto unknown altitudes, straightway his 
 brood sow has from nine to thirteen pigs and 
 promptly eats them all as a sort of cocktail ap 
 petizer; or cholera or some other infernal pesti 
 lence cuts them down. 
 
 Does he succeed in raising an especially likely 
 colt, which he has just sold for an unheard-of 
 price to a man perfectly willing and able to pay, 
 he finds that the animal has got into a barbed- 
 wire fence and has permanently lamed himself 
 and the deal is off. 
 
 Does he have the banner cow of the commu 
 nity, which he is grooming for the County Fair, 
 where she will undoubtedly break all the milk 
 and butter-fat records to date, she gets into a 
 neighbor s orchard, eats about two bushels of 
 half -ripe apples, and goes so dry that he does n t 
 dare use a lantern in the barn. 
 
 I am beginning to realize that the life of the 
 farmer is not one merry and care-free accumula 
 tion of money, automobiles, blooded stock, blue 
 ribbons, and other insignia of wealth and happi-
 
 Pygmalion r 193 
 
 ness, but is much like the working lives of other 
 classes, full of no-thoroughfares and pitfalls, to 
 avoid which and to climb out of which, when not 
 successfully avoided, requires great skill and 
 great expenditure of time and money. 
 
 Only a short time ago skilled veterinarians and 
 hideous combinations of nauseous materia medico, 
 were battling for the life of my beloved Jersey. 
 To-night, in secret, and behind the "something" 
 Von Hutei bushes, I laid away Pygmalion stiff 
 and cold. 
 
 I did not consult a veterinarian. I did not think 
 his malady was serious enough to warrant any 
 thing but a course of light feeding. I only found 
 out my mistake when this morning I found him 
 dead. Why, I cannot say, but in a moment a line 
 of Horace flashed into my mind from my Acad 
 emy days 
 
 " Psittacus Eois imitatrix ab Indis occidit 
 Exequias ite frequenter aves." 
 
 Then I decided to have the funeral extremely and 
 exclusively private. I did not wish my wife, my 
 son, or my daughter to know just how many 
 kinds of an infernal idiot I was. For the death of 
 the pig was entirely my fault, and in no way 
 caused by any ill to which pigs are heir. I had 
 deliberately, but with no guile in my heart, given 
 Pygmalion a feed of corn after he had eaten his
 
 194 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 usual and generous allowance of milk and stock 
 feed. 
 
 I liked to see his sides bulge out and his skin 
 tighten. I wanted to make Pyg. and Gal. beat out 
 all porcine wonders of the year. Any fool would 
 have known better than to do what I did. I mean, 
 of course, any other fool. But I did not, and 
 "Hinc illce lacrimce." It is a wonder that both 
 had not died, but Galatea is apparently as good 
 as new. Either she was more elastic or less in 
 dulgent. At all events, Pygmalion died, and 
 Galatea lives and flourishes. How to lay Pyg. to 
 rest without alarming the neighborhood? That 
 was the question. 
 
 I cautiously climbed into the pen and hoisted 
 him out, carried him to the harness room and 
 covered him with bagging; then finished my work 
 in the barn, hoed a few rows of potatoes, and 
 mowed one lawn before breakfast, and then went 
 whistling into the house as one without a care 
 in the world, but realizing that I had lost prop 
 erty to the value of at least twenty dollars and 
 was up against a problem of concealment that 
 called for the very highest ingenuity. 
 
 At noon I fed Galatea and was sorry to see that 
 she apparently did not miss her chum a bit. Pigs 
 are, I am afraid, not sensible of the finer emotions. 
 I opened the harness-room door, half hoping I 
 would be greeted by the comfortable grunt and
 
 Digging In 195 
 
 the good-natured sparkle in the twinkling eyes of 
 Pyg., but the outline of his poor stiff form under 
 the bags was unchanged. 
 
 When I returned for supper my wife asked 
 where my other pig was. She said she had been 
 to the barn and saw only one. I pretended some 
 surprise and went out to see for myself. Had she 
 accompanied me I should have explained Pyg. s 
 absence on the theory that he had jumped the 
 fence and escaped. But as she did n t, I came 
 back with the statement that Pyg. had got into 
 the barn and was probably hiding when she was 
 out there. 
 
 So I figured on burying poor Pyg. secretly and 
 buying another shoat of the same size and color, 
 and I felt sure that neither she nor any other 
 member of my family would ever know of the 
 substitution of an alien pig. So after supper I 
 donned my barn clothes and set about my duties 
 while my wife and daughter washed the dishes 
 and then sat on the piazza with some friends who 
 had run in for a short visit. 
 
 After I had milked and strained the milk and 
 fed and bedded my cow and attended to the 
 simple wants of my sheep, I put the pig into a 
 wheelbarrow, covered him with bags and wheeled 
 him down behind the Von Hutei bushes and tak 
 ing a sharp spade began to dig a grave. The ground 
 was soft and I made rapid progress, as I was in ex-
 
 196 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 cellent condition, owing to my intensive training 
 of the spring and summer, and before I knew 
 it I had dug through about eighteen inches of 
 rich loam to a stratum of clean sand, evidently 
 Myocene formation. I was keenly interested and 
 dug and threw out sand until I struck a stratum 
 which seemed to me to be a marine bed of the 
 older Tertiary, which should, in conformity to 
 the rule, cover a Cretaceous deposit. 
 
 By this time I had dug so deep that my shoul 
 ders were about on a level with the surface, but 
 far below the top of the mound of earth on each 
 side of the excavation. And so interested had I 
 become in the different strata and the geological 
 formation, that I had entirely forgotten the object 
 of my labors. 
 
 So I continued to dig and throw out the de 
 posit, and sure enough soon came to the Creta 
 ceous deposit which seemed to be mixed or 
 blended with an argillaceous stratum of the Up 
 per, Middle, or Lower Jurassic series. I felt sure 
 it was of the Jurassic, as I could plainly see the 
 concentric layers of short miniature concretions, 
 produced by the aggregation of calcareous mat 
 ters around centres, by a process of molecular 
 attraction to which fine sediments are exceedingly 
 liable. 
 
 Really it was exceedingly interesting, and I was 
 completely absorbed in my discoveries until sud-
 
 Digging Out 197 
 
 denly I struck a vein of water. It was a generous 
 vein, too, and in a minute or two I found it over 
 my ankles and gaining. There was nothing to do 
 but to give up further geological excavation and 
 climb out of the trench. This I started to do, and 
 throwing my spade out started to follow, and 
 then for the first time I realized that I was at the 
 bottom of a trench so deep that I could not reach 
 the top with my outstretched hands. 
 
 However, to climb out must be easy. Just dig 
 foot-holds in the side of the trench and step out. 
 I dug the holes and then to my disgust I found 
 I had built my house on the sands, and every 
 time I put my foot into the holes and threw my 
 weight on them, the sand crumbled. I tried again 
 and again, and made no headway. Well, I could 
 dig a slanting trench and crawl out. Then I 
 realized my stupidity in throwing away my 
 spade. The situation was awkward. I was not 
 worried, for I knew all I had to do was to yell for 
 help, and it would be forthcoming accompanied 
 by side-splitting ridicule. And I did not want to 
 call for help if I could in any way avoid it. So I 
 redoubled my exertions. Leaning my back against 
 one side of the trench I braced my feet against 
 the opposite side and tried to push myself up 
 and out of the trench the way I had seen well- 
 cleaners climb out of a well, but the sand crumbled 
 and I could make no progress, and for a moment
 
 198 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 the recollection came to me of Kipling s ghastly 
 story about the sand pit in which lepers were 
 kept and the sides of which crumbled whenever 
 the poor wretches tried to get out. For a moment 
 I felt very much inclined to call for help. 
 
 Then I tried to claw away the sides of the 
 trench and to fill it in sufficiently to bring my 
 head above the level of the ground so that I could 
 grasshopper out, on the principle of an athlete 
 on the parallel bars. I used to do the grasshopper 
 easily in my college days and believed that, un 
 der the desperate necessity of getting out with 
 out letting any one know of my plight, I could 
 do it again. 
 
 But I found that I only made a sticky, adhe 
 sive mud that gave me no support and had a 
 strong tendency to glue me to the bottom of the 
 trench. All I could think of for a moment, as I 
 wallowed in the wet, sticky mass, was the grue 
 some poem: 
 
 "They made her a grave too cold and damp 
 
 For a soul so warm and true, 
 And she s gone to the lake of the Dismal Swamp, 
 Where all night long with her firefly lamp 
 She paddles her white canoe." 
 
 I really do not know how I should have been able 
 to get out, had not some one called me up on the 
 telephone, and of course my wife came to the 
 back door and called me. In guarded tones I told
 
 An Eldritch Screech 199 
 
 her to come out, which she did wonderingly. 
 When I told her to get the stepladder, and be 
 quick about it, and not to unnecessarily advertise 
 it, she brought the ladder and I climbed out. 
 
 Then, woman-like, she wanted to know what 
 I was digging that hole for, and why I was down 
 there. I was trying to improvise a lie about water 
 pipes to the barn, when she caught sight of the 
 wheelbarrow with its bagging-covered form, and 
 still laboring under the fatal curiosity for which 
 woman is famous, lifted up the cloth, let out a 
 loud shriek, and fled to the house. Later I told 
 her the circumstances and explained my secrecy 
 on the plea, a very plausible if specious one, that 
 I did not want her to know about it until long 
 afterwards. This was, as a fact, true, but the 
 reasons were, I am sure, not what she thought. 
 
 At all events, I buried poor Pyg., first having 
 filled in the trench until his resting-place was dry 
 and soft, and covered him with clean bagging. 
 And there he lies to-day, a victim of his appetite 
 and the plumb idiocy of his owner. 
 
 Verily at this rate my farming venture will not 
 be wholly successful from a financial standpoint. 
 However, there are ups and downs in all business. 
 It is not so much the financial loss that I regret 
 as the loss of a friend with whom (which, perhaps, 
 would be better) I was gradually getting on terms 
 of intimacy. And I hate to realize, as I not infre-
 
 200 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 quently have to do, what an unmitigated and 
 extraordinary ass I am. 
 
 I have ordered a new pig, of the size, sex, and 
 color of my martyred Pygmalion. 
 
 Monday, July 29, 191-. I am confronted by an 
 unexpected and wholly unreasonable state of 
 affairs. I find that a vacation is absolutely neces 
 sary to my physical, mental, and moral welfare. 
 My wife said so. I rose to a point of order, got 
 the floor, and denied it with hoarse invective. 
 I asserted that I eat three square meals a day. 
 She admitted it, but said I eat too heartily and 
 altogether too fast and that my flesh is not 
 healthy. I came back with the statement that 
 possibly, when judged from the standpoint of 
 roast, boiled, fried, fricasseed, braized, potted, or 
 corned, it might not be exactly tempting or es 
 pecially appetizing, but I was sure it would have 
 a very sustaining quality. 
 
 She claimed that I am quick-tempered and ner 
 vous and never want to sit still. That I am tem 
 peramentally twisted. I retorted that I have so 
 much to do and so little time to do it that I can t 
 sit still even if I wished to, but that I sleep nights 
 as soundly as a hibernating woodchuck. 
 
 She said a vacation is a good thing for one. I 
 said it surely is provided a person both needs it 
 and wants it, but when a person neither needs it,
 
 An Argument 201 
 
 wants it, nor deserves it, to take it is like giving 
 up a good job to hold up a post or to hold down 
 a curbing on the sidewalk. 
 
 We argued all the evening when I wanted to 
 spray the roosts on my henhouse with kerosene. 
 
 There are too many loafers in the world, any 
 way. I wish some way could be devised to pry 
 loafers away from posts. The idea of a vacation 
 when there is so much work to do! 
 
 Tuesday, July 30, 191-. But for the hose my farm 
 would be pretty dry. As it is I cannot water the 
 lawn, and my daily promenade in the rear of my 
 lawn-mower has been called off. I am getting to 
 be a master hand at the scythe. It is seldom that 
 I break a blade now, not more than once or twice 
 a week. The cow gets all the grass and greens she 
 can eat. The hardware man speaks highly of me. 
 
 Wednesday, July 31, 191-. Had a light skirmish 
 with my wife about the vacation. Some women 
 have developed persistency to an obsession. 
 The absence of my clerk has given me much less 
 time to do my farm work. When she comes back 
 next Monday, there will be enough to do to put 
 the idea of a vacation entirely out of the question. 
 
 Thursday, August 1, 191-. To-day my daugh 
 ter Nathalie broached the vacation question.
 
 202 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 Said I looked drawn and tired. I feel sure she was 
 sicked onto me. 
 
 Friday, August 2, 191-. Still dry. The Water 
 Company has restricted us to two hours per 
 day for the use of the hose. Hang a soulless 
 corporation ! 
 
 Saturday, August 3, 191-. At breakfast this 
 morning my wife spoke very disparagingly of my 
 physical condition. She said I looked very much 
 like her brother just before he was taken down 
 with typhoid fever. I told her that I had been 
 called almost everything in my day; that my 
 name had been chalked up on fences coupled 
 with every epithet that ingenuity could invent 
 and malice prompt; that I had been caricatured 
 in the public prints, and had been called unbe 
 liever, cut-throat dog, and that my Jewish gab 
 erdine had been spit upon, but that it has been 
 reserved for the wife of my bosom to heap the 
 most venomous and unjust calumny of all upon 
 me; that it was bad enough to look like her 
 brother when he was in the bloom of health ; that 
 I was hurt, but I had learned by years of repres 
 sion to submit to almost anything; but that this 
 was too much, too much. 
 
 Beyond saying that I would perhaps realize my 
 condition when it was too late, she did not pur-
 
 Light Persiflage 203 
 
 sue the subject farther, but poured herself a second 
 cup of coffee. 
 
 Then Dick took up the thread of argument by 
 telling me that I looked like hell; and that my 
 ultimate destination would be the boneyard if 
 I did n t switch off. 
 
 I replied that a fellow who was five feet eight 
 inches tall and only weighed one hundred and 
 eleven pounds had better not talk of the bone- 
 yard, and the young man applied himself to his 
 bacon and eggs as if it were his sole interest in 
 life. 
 
 Then Nathalie, who had just returned from 
 a month s vacation at a New Hampshire lake, 
 suggested that quite often a man of my age, 
 working beyond his strength, was liable to a se 
 vere if not fatal shock, to which suggestion I 
 replied rather pointedly that a man who had re 
 ceived in one day a bill for a load of grain and a 
 bill for his angel daughter s summer suit and hat, 
 as I had done the day before and lived, was shock 
 proof. 
 
 She made no reply to this beyond an inarticu 
 late gurgle as she hastily quaffed a bumper of 
 milk. 
 
 It is by interposing this defence of raillery 
 and light persiflage that I keep them in their 
 trenches. However, I have a feeling in my bones 
 that some day they will land me. How or when
 
 204 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 I cannot say. But the odds are strongly against 
 me. I wonder what their next move will be. 
 
 I am afraid I rather exceeded the hose limit 
 to-day. I saw the superintendent of the Water 
 Company drive by in his touring-car this morn 
 ing with his family, and as there is no meter 
 indulged myself a bit. Probably not over four or 
 five hours extra. I wish it would rain. 
 
 Sunday, August 4, 191-. My clerk comes back to 
 morrow. It is my intention to shove all the office 
 work possible on her and put in some great work 
 on the farm myself. She has, I am very glad to 
 note, come back in a rude state of health, and 
 capable, I feel sure, of bearing any burdens not 
 too unreasonable. 
 
 Now, if my family will kindly call off their 
 interest in that infernal vacation of mine, I may 
 be able to do something. 
 
 Monday, August 5, 191-. It has been threaten 
 ing rain for a day or two, but I still keep the hose 
 going to the limit and sometimes a bit beyond. 
 My watch is not very accurate, I am afraid. My 
 wife commenced again to-day on a new tack. She 
 says she does n t see why we are the only people 
 in the community that do not own an automo 
 bile. I explained that generally, except in the case 
 of the criminally rich, an automobile went hand
 
 "Humph!" 205 
 
 in hand with a real estate mortgage, and that 
 having gone to the mat for years in a rough and 
 tumble with the homestead mortgage which I 
 had finally killed in a struggle that had left me a 
 care-worn, serious, wrinkled old man before my 
 time, I never wanted to deliberately invite an 
 other of the breed to be in my midst, go to bed 
 with me, rise when I rose, and sit at my table 
 like a death s head. 
 
 To all of which she said "Humph!" and re 
 tired. "Humph" may mean almost anything. 
 Still the way she pronounced it indicated only 
 too plainly that she was not impressed by my dis 
 course. 
 
 My pigs are really getting to be hogs now. My 
 grain bills are very disquieting. 
 
 Tuesday, August 6, 191-. I proposed a home va 
 cation to-day, in which I am to give my entire 
 attention to my farm and garden. It did not make 
 a hit. Indeed, both my daughter and my wife 
 predicted that I would be sorry when I was dead. 
 Never having been dead, of course, I cannot say. 
 It will be tough enough to be dead without being 
 sorry for it. 
 
 Wednesday, August 7, 191-. Sharp thunderstorm 
 to-day followed by a heavy, pouring rain for sev 
 eral hours. Everything was thoroughly soaked,
 
 206 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 and fairly steams to-night. My wife is always 
 very sensitive to atmospheric disturbances and 
 has gone to bed with a nervous chill. 
 
 Thursday, August 8, 191-. I never saw so rapid 
 a change in the crops overnight. The lawns are 
 a vivid emerald, the corn which had begun to 
 shrivel up like a cheap cigar, is lush and green. 
 It will be but a day or two before I shall be push 
 ing my lawn-mower again. I am not especially 
 keen about that lawn-mower. My wife is up 
 to-day, but feeling far from well. Thinks a Ford 
 Sedan would be about the thing. Now I can buy 
 one, but I positively cannot afford the time for 
 it. I know what it will mean. No more farming, 
 no time to write. 
 
 Friday, August 9, 191-. Had a bright idea last 
 night. Why not send my wife and daughter away 
 to the mountains and seashore until the fall term 
 of school. Then I can stay at home and keep the 
 farm from reverting to the wild and untamed 
 wilderness, the buildings from falling to pieces, 
 and my thoroughbred stock from deteriorating 
 to mere beasts of the field. 
 
 Proposed it at breakfast. It was promptly ve 
 toed unless I promised to go with them. Women, 
 irrespective of age, are most accursedly obstinate 
 and stiff-necked.
 
 Obstinacy 207 
 
 Saturday, August 10, 191-. I broke off an ear of 
 corn to-day and tried it. It was unformed as yet, 
 but in a week or ten days some of it will be ready. 
 Things are jumping ahead as in the first week of 
 June. It seems sad to be personally galloping 
 toward the grim and silent tomb, as my wife says 
 I am, while all nature, as well as hens, cow, pigs, 
 and sheep, is flourishing. It is strange that I, who 
 am so seriously distempered, still work like a 
 horse, eat like a hired man, and sleep like a busi 
 ness man under a prosy preacher. 
 
 Sunday, August 11, 191-. Unless I am mistaken 
 my wife said something about a Winton Six to 
 day. It looks as if I may have to do something 
 about that cussed vacation. I wonder why they 
 won t let me alone? 
 
 Monday, August 12, 191-. Tried another tack 
 to-day. Proposed that they write some near and 
 dear friend to go on a vacation with them and let 
 me stay home. The proposal was vetoed nemine 
 dissentiente. I wonder if obstinacy in women is 
 acquired or inherited or both? It is a deplorable 
 trait and they have the presumption to claim 
 that I am the one who is obstinate, and actually 
 they talk as if they really thought so. It seems 
 so absolutely ridiculous that I, who only wish to 
 be let alone, and to be allowed to cultivate in
 
 208 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 peace my little patch of land and to eat my own 
 vegetables and leave the madding crowd to mad 
 and be hanged to them, should be accused of 
 obstinacy because I do not want to waste time 
 at a mountain or seashore resort. 
 
 Tuesday, August 13, 191-. It rained to-day hard. 
 I was unable to do any work in the garden, but 
 cleaned and swept the barn pretty thoroughly 
 and, with a raincoat and a pair of rubber boots 
 as a protection, cut enough grass for the cow. 
 It is rather good fun running a mower in the 
 rain. The grass cuts easily and the wet makes 
 the machine run noiselessly. Then when the grass 
 is taken from the hood, it is sweet and fresh and 
 clean and I think the cow relishes it all the more. 
 
 We needed rain very much, and the farmers 
 have been quite a bit pessimistic over the crop 
 outlook. Of course I have kept my hose working 
 during the time allowed, which has done much 
 toward keeping my plants fresh, but a day of rain 
 will freshen things up more than a fortnight of 
 hose watering. Of course I shall have to spray my 
 potatoes again, but that is no great task. One has 
 to be careful not to leave any of the poison where 
 neither your ox, nor your ass, nor your cattle, nor 
 the stranger within your gates may get at it and 
 drink a bumper of it to your health. 
 
 I do not know the reason, but any domestic
 
 Thoroughbreds 209 
 
 animal of any considerable value will manage, 
 by hook or by crook, to take advantage of any 
 remissness on your part, and will promptly fill 
 itself to the brim with various poisonous com 
 pounds, however nauseous, and will inevitably 
 die of hideous and astounding abdominal dis 
 tension, which will render prompt inhumation 
 not only advisable, but absolutely necessary. 
 
 I have found that there is but little if any 
 element of chance in it. One can predict in ad 
 vance just what a certain animal will do. That is 
 to say, if you have two cows, one an extremely 
 valuable thoroughbred of any standard family, 
 due to freshen the next week, and the other 
 an old grade, giving at best scarcely enough 
 milk to pay for one s time, to say nothing of her 
 keep, and you carelessly leave a pail of Paris 
 green mixture on the border of a fresh patch of 
 green cabbages and with equal carelessness allow 
 your two cows the freedom of the yard, the 
 thoroughbred will drink the poison and die 
 promptly, while the old grade cow will eat the 
 cabbages and live. This result, while curious and 
 inexplicable, never fails. It is, I suppose, analo 
 gous to the fact, which every railroad claim agent 
 will vouch for, that none but thoroughbreds are 
 ever killed by locomotives. 
 
 Of course under these circumstances a wise 
 man never leaves poison exposed.
 
 210 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 It was still raining to-night when I went to bed. 
 The robins sang until nearly dark. They know 
 how rain, driving on the grass and ground, will 
 bring worms to the surface by thousands. Little 
 Tommy Tucker singing for his supper has noth 
 ing on Sir Redbreast in a summer rain. 
 
 Wednesday, August 14, 191-. I am wondering 
 what Dr. Osier would say if he had to follow me 
 for a day. It is scarcely probable that he would 
 at once recede from the position he has taken, 
 but he would, I think, be less annoy ingly cock 
 sure. I feel that I have demonstrated beyond a 
 peradventure that a man of sixty or more may, 
 by a judicious alternation of physical and mental 
 work, do as much and as good work as he could 
 were he but thirty. The saying, "Old men for 
 counsel, young men for war," sounds good, and 
 is true as far as the counsel goes. But it should 
 have stopped there. If by "war" is meant hard 
 physical work the statement is misleading in the 
 extreme. 
 
 I claim to have proved by my own experience 
 that I am as good physically as when I was a 
 youngster. Of course I do not do the things I did 
 then wrestle, box, ride, swim, play football, 
 row. And the reason is that I no longer feel the 
 same interest in those sports. I would rather 
 milk, split wood, and farm for my exercise. I
 
 A Doddering Old Dodunk 211 
 
 claim that I would have been more tired at hav 
 ing to do as a youngster what I now do at any 
 age when, as Osier says, I would better be dead 
 than alive. 
 
 I have worked with my hands and arms and 
 legs and back at least three hours every day 
 since March, without in the least interfering with 
 my office or court work or with my writing. In 
 deed, I am sure I have done better work in the 
 office from the mental cobweb clearing of my 
 outdoor work. And with the exception of one 
 week of sciatica I have been at the top of my 
 stride every minute. And yet Osier has the un 
 mitigated nerve to say well, what s the use? 
 He is not worth considering. But I would like 
 to have him follow me one day that s all. 
 
 Thursday, August 15, 191-. I wish here and now 
 to go on record as taking back, all and singular, 
 without reservation, what I have said about 
 Dr. Osier, and especially what I said yesterday. 
 When a doddering old dodunk of sixty tries to do 
 the work of a young man, and tries to convince 
 himself that he is as good as he was when thirty 
 years younger, he needs a lesson in humility and 
 he generally gets it as I am getting it. If Osier 
 were here I would personally apologize to him 
 and do him honor. This morning I rose early 
 feeling like a youth of twenty. I was wakened
 
 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 by the song of a rose-breasted grosbeak which 
 was enough to make a man feel young. Then 
 I heard the watchman s rattle of a kingfisher 
 making a short overland cut between Salt River 
 below the lower dam and Fresh River by the 
 park. 
 
 My cow gave more milk than usual, three hens 
 had already laid, and really everything seemed 
 coming my way. So after building the kitchen 
 fire, milking my cow and feeding the rest of my 
 pensioners I got down on my knees astride a row 
 of late hatched beets to hand- weed them. I had 
 been at work on hands and knees for a short time 
 when a bowstring in my back twanged sharply. 
 I instantly responded with a loud yell and fell 
 prostrate on my face. Indeed, my yell was so 
 prompt and so loud that it completely drowned 
 out the twang of the bowstring. I am very sorry 
 for that because if I could have found out the 
 exact tone of the string I could at once have de 
 termined whether I was sharp or flat, tuned to 
 high, low, or medium pitch. And having got the 
 note and pitch, science could have readily com 
 puted my vibrations. It would be extremely grat 
 ifying as well as instructive to know just what 
 one s vibrations are: how many in a given period. 
 And then I should have been able to determine 
 whether or not I had any overtones. While it may 
 not be of superlative importance to know whether
 
 Sharp or Flat? 213 
 
 one has overtones or not, it would be interesting 
 to know. 
 
 Of course, if there were overtones I probably 
 stopped them by my prompt response of my 
 hands to my injured back, in the same way that 
 an Ethiopian gentleman stops the vibrations of 
 his banjo strings by spreading his hands over 
 them. 
 
 After I fell on my face I was quite content to 
 lie there a moment while I regained part of the 
 breath that I had wasted in that soul-racking 
 yell. After regaining my breath I tried to get up 
 and found that I could n t without apparently 
 breaking in two. So I lay there awhile thinking 
 over what the next move should be. It was per 
 fectly evident that I could n t lie there all the 
 rest of the day, let alone the rest of the summer. 
 
 After a while I concluded that my abdominal 
 muscles were intact even if my back was broken, 
 and with much malediction I slowly rolled over 
 on my back, and from this position, using my 
 elbows vigorously and my abdominal muscles 
 rather gingerly, I managed to get up. 
 
 "Then rested he by the Turn Turn tree 
 And [stood] sat awhile in thought." 
 
 After I had rested a bit I slowly and with 
 many groans and grunts got onto my legs, but 
 in a much warped and twisted condition, and
 
 214 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 slowly crawled into the house and sent for the 
 doctor. 
 
 On his arrival he told me that I was not para 
 lyzed nor was my back broken, but that I had 
 dropped a stitch in my back. It was a relief to 
 be told in language that I could understand. 
 Heaven only knows what language a veterina 
 rian would have used to describe my ailment. I 
 am confident that a veterinarian would have 
 scared me to death. How fortunate it is that af 
 flicted animals cannot understand what a veter 
 inarian says about them. 
 
 Then the doctor laid me on my face on the 
 bed, after removing my shirt produced an im 
 mense spool of adhesive plaster and began to 
 weave curious designs in plaster on my prostrate 
 figure. I don t know how much he used, but I 
 am sure if I were unwound at this minute I 
 would produce several hundred yards of flesh- 
 colored ribbon. Indeed, when he got through 
 I resembled a cocoon spun by the lowly grub 
 that later bursts into the gorgeous butterfly. 
 
 I felt so rigid that I could not help thinking 
 of Mr. Bagnet, the ex-artilleryman in Dick- 
 ens s "Bleak House," who had "whiskers like 
 the fibres of a cocoanut," and "an unbend 
 ing, unyielding, brass-bound air, as if he were 
 himself the bassoon of the human orchestra." 
 
 But to my delight and surprise I found that I
 
 A Misery in My Back 215 
 
 could stand upright, walk, and, apart from feel 
 ing as stiff above my waist as a graven image, am 
 fairly capable. I have what is known as the mili 
 tary carriage. But I cannot help thinking of what 
 a time I shall have later when I unwind from my 
 shrinking hide several hundred yards of adhesive 
 plaster which by that time will have become a 
 component part of me. 
 
 Would it not have been better to have laid in 
 bed until that infernal bowstring or stitch was 
 taken up, rather than to have made of myself 
 a rigid and unyielding statue of spruce gum? I 
 have doubts. 
 
 At all events I did my office work to-day, 
 and to-night did my barn work without great 
 difficulty, so I am several degrees better than 
 dead. 
 
 Friday, August 16, 191-. I am not the man I was 
 once. I am not the man I was yesterday before 
 I tried to weed those infernal beets. I have a 
 "misery in my back." I do not believe I could 
 count the number of elderly people in the coun 
 try for whom I have drawn deeds or wills or 
 leases, or advised at their houses, who have had 
 a "misery in their backs." 
 
 The expression always amused me very much. 
 I cannot explain why. Perhaps it was the lugu 
 brious faces they drew when recounting this
 
 216 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 symptom; perhaps the tone of their voices was 
 amusing. 
 
 At all events, I am not a bit amused now. I 
 know what a misery in one s back is. No other 
 words are as expressive to describe it. I have a 
 misery in my back and I can pull as hideous a 
 face and let out as loud a yell as any one of the 
 afflicted, and when it comes to heartfelt and sin 
 cere language, why ! 
 
 "How miserable is man when the foot of the 
 Conqueror is on his neck." 
 
 The members of my family one and all have 
 taken advantage of my semi-helpless condition, 
 have suborned the doctor, and have ridden me 
 with whip, spur, and spade bit all over the prem 
 ises on the question of vacation. I had to give 
 in. How long can you expect a man who has a 
 misery in his back to stand out against such 
 odds? So I have agreed to go with my family on 
 a vacation to a certain lake resort. 
 
 Dingbust all such resorts to everlasting ding- 
 bustitude ! 
 
 I milked to-day, perhaps for the last time, 
 for I am positive that under the unskilful milk 
 ing of the man who has charge of the adjoining 
 estate my cow will be as dry as a prohibition 
 pamphlet by the time I get home. So will the 
 garden. Confound vacations, anyway!
 
 I Return 217 
 
 Saturday, September 14, 191-. Back to the farm. 
 I feel as if I had been away a year. I have swum 
 and paddled and fished and climbed mountains, 
 and have been smoke-dried by campfire smoke, 
 and have taken part in handicap competitive 
 athletics of every kind and nature, and have 
 vowed eternal friendship to the most delightful 
 people in the world who have in their turn vowed 
 the same, and who will forget my name before 
 Christmas as I will have forgotten their faces. 
 
 And I am as tanned and healthy as my wife 
 and daughter, and we have had a glorious time 
 and the vacation was after all a good thing for 
 every one. 
 
 But the best of it is the coming home again. I 
 really do not know which seems more delightful, 
 the battered old rolltop in the window or the 
 home place. I am glad that there will be no vaca 
 tions before next year at about this time. 
 
 I am sure the animals knew me and appre 
 ciated my return. My hogs have grown beyond 
 all calculations, my sheep looks like a new league 
 ball on four legs, and my cow is as smooth and 
 shiny as a new silk skirt. 
 
 And when I came to look into affairs at the 
 office I find that as far as efficiency is concerned 
 the office appears to have been run better without 
 me than with me. Really I do not make very much 
 of a dent in the world s affairs. Anyway, I am
 
 218 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 glad I am back. Now I must get down to work. 
 I have loafed long enough. No well man has a 
 right to loaf after he is sixty years of age. 
 
 Sunday, September 15, 191-. It seemed good to 
 milk again, to clean out the stall and the pigpen 
 and to bed down; to pluck corn and pull beets 
 and cabbages and to eat them, particularly the 
 corn. As soon as the corn is gathered I cut down 
 the green stalks for the cow, the sheep, and the 
 pigs. It is a perpetual thanksgiving day for them. 
 A good many people are sick with the prevail 
 ing distemper and the schools are not to open 
 for a week or two. 
 
 Monday, September 16, 191-. Really things have 
 changed very much for the better since I was 
 a boy yes, since I became a man. Every day 
 brings its surprises. As a college man I am sup 
 posed to be fairly well educated, and as a member 
 of a liberal profession I am supposed to have sup 
 plemented that education by the hard mental 
 work necessary to enable one to pass the bar 
 examinations. 
 
 And yet no single soul but myself knows full 
 well how little I know. I was a bit cocky, per 
 haps, when, just out of college, I went into a coun 
 try law office and began to meet all sorts of 
 people for my employer in a business way. I was
 
 A Pan-Educational Course 219 
 
 still cocky, but less so when I returned with my 
 certificate of admission to an office of my own, 
 and began to meet all sorts and classes of people 
 desiring advice. 
 
 I then found out, not wholly to my surprise, 
 how little I knew, but greatly to my surprise, 
 how much they knew, and particularly was I sur 
 prised at the amount of knowledge, legal, politi 
 cal, historical, and common- sensical the average 
 farmer had. It did me good, and taught me that 
 I could learn something from every one who came 
 to my office. 
 
 I am still learning. Indeed, just at present I 
 am taking a sort of pan-educational course. It 
 is never too late to learn. A bit more difficult, 
 perhaps, as one approaches the sere and yellow, 
 but not too late. 
 
 In my early professional life correctly dressed 
 gentlemen of insinuating manners persuaded 
 me to purchase bushels of reference books: En 
 cyclopaedias that I could not understand; "Fa 
 miliar Quotations " that somebody borrowed 
 and still covertly cherishes; Books of Synonyms 
 that I loaned for a week only to a man whose 
 identity I have forgotten and who still has it 
 after thirty years ; and other expensive and prac 
 tically useless tomes on an instalment plan that 
 proved a crushing financial burden for many and 
 weary years.
 
 220 The Real Diary of the Worst, Farmer 
 
 As soon as they were paid for I sold the un- 
 borrowed ones or exchanged them for articles 
 more to my taste if not to my needs. But while 
 they were there they made a brave show on my 
 office shelves and were seldom, if ever, disturbed. 
 
 Some distinguished ancient took up the study 
 of Greek at a very advanced age. This fact was 
 duly and daily impressed upon me by the Greek 
 Professor in the Academy, when I was studying 
 that defunct and bemummied language. 
 
 It made a great impression on me at the time, 
 but not precisely what the Professor desired. I 
 was convinced that the ancient was clearly in 
 sane or one of those perverted natures that know 
 no shame. But here am I, already an ancient, 
 daily receiving instruction in spelling, pronun 
 ciation, grammar, mathematics plain and orna 
 mental, and other branches. It is a weird experi 
 ence. 
 
 It came about in this way: My sole clerk be 
 came sick, distempered and ill, and withdrew, 
 temporarily, I hope, for a somewhat uninterest 
 ing vacation in bed. The prevailing epidemic of 
 influenza caused a postponement of the opening 
 of the schools, and I am fortunate, doubly for 
 tunate, in securing the services of one of the ma 
 rooned teachers to take the place of my afflicted 
 clerk until the delayed opening of the schools. 
 That she is thoroughly educated and scholarly
 
 Tact 
 
 up-to-date I am convinced beyond peradventure. 
 And although she is the daughter of a farmer, 
 and used to the good things of life, yet am I 
 surprised at her erudition. And I am equally 
 convinced that I am still an "also ran" in the 
 mere rudiments of education. 
 
 As a country lawyer I have all sorts of people 
 in my office. There is a pronounced lack of dignity 
 in the transaction of business and an apparent 
 lack of system. This is not wholly as true as it 
 seems, for with perseverance, a pitchfork, the 
 spur of necessity, a search warrant, and a coal 
 sifter I can usually find any paper needed in the 
 course of a few hours or of a day or two. 
 
 I have always tried to adapt myself to my 
 clients. If an Englishman comes in, whom I 
 wish to retain as my client or to put in good 
 humor, I manage during the interview to let him 
 know that I am a half Englishman by birth, and 
 he spills aspirates all over me. 
 
 If a Frenchman, I try him with 
 
 " Un octogenaire plantait 
 Passe encore de batir 
 Mais planter a cet age" 
 
 If he does not rise at this bait, I am sure to land 
 him by one of Drummond s or of William McLen- 
 non s "The Old France and the New." 
 
 If an Irishman I sedulously conceal the Eng 
 lish half of me and quote:
 
 222 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 "Paddy O Shane has no shoes to his fa-a-te, 
 Sorra a shoe, divil a shoe, 
 And his houghs they look rid 
 As he thramps on the sthra-ate, 
 Och, wirrahoo!" 
 
 If a German I either throw him bodily through 
 the door or assassinate him and conceal his body 
 under the papers on my desk. In this unostenta 
 tious way do I endeavor to hold my clients. I 
 trust it may not be deemed unethical. We law 
 yers may not advertise nor may we solicit. We 
 may at least make desirable clients welcome. 
 
 But to return to the schoolma am clerk, the 
 farmer s daughter. 
 
 My early experience with the country school- 
 ma am of the middle and late sixties had left 
 the ineradicable impression of an angular spin 
 ster with the power of concentrating the basilisk 
 glare of red-hot augers through her steel-bowed 
 spectacles, who, when she undertook a verbal 
 dressing down, successfully imitated a volcano 
 belching forth fire, smoke, ashes, and lava. 
 
 She invariably wore her hair in a knob on the 
 top of her head: a knob so tightly wound that 
 her eyeballs resembled those of an owl, the like 
 ness being occasionally made more realistic by 
 the iron grip of her claws on the collar of my 
 roundabout, in my hair, or on my ear. 
 
 She also wielded a flexible rattan that stung 
 like a yellow-bellied hornet, and wore on the
 
 Tattoos and Rataplans 223 
 
 second finger of her knuckled hand an iron 
 thimble with which she frequently beat tattoos 
 and rataplans, or played brilliant tympani fan 
 tasias on my shrinking skull until its emptiness 
 rang like an old tin kettle. 
 
 And so I experience a sort of reminiscent dread, 
 when I engaged, after that method known in my 
 boyhood as "unsight and unseen," a young per 
 son and a schoolma am at that. I was, of course, 
 aware that in the half -century that had elapsed 
 since I was a small schoolboy, there had been a 
 marked and very welcome change in the species. 
 Indeed, I had seen many specimens of late years 
 that had made me 
 
 " Wish that I was young again, 
 I d lead a different life"; 
 
 and when an exceedingly attractive young lady 
 appeared and announced that if I pleased she 
 was the new clerk, I could not believe that I was 
 standing in the presence of an unalloyed New 
 England schoolma am. 
 
 I indicated where she might hang her coat and 
 hat, gave her a seat at the clerk s table and some 
 papers to arrange alphabetically, and retired in 
 good order, convinced that she was not a school 
 ma am after all. 
 
 Tuesday, September 17, 191-. Was rather in a 
 hurry this morning. I wanted to see if my school-
 
 224 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 ma am clerk, who is not a schoolma am, I feel 
 sure, was on time. One thing I am particular 
 about. I want my clerk to be on time. There may 
 be nothing for her to do. If so she may sit in the 
 window and look out over the square. It is worth 
 looking at, I assure you. There is always a row 
 of pigeons or sparrows on the rim of the fountain 
 struggling for a chance to drink or bathe. There 
 are familiar old horses, attached to delivery 
 wagons, that stroll unattended to the fountain 
 for a drink, and pay absolutely no attention to 
 the motors that roar and honk and rattle by. 
 
 And there are always interesting people in 
 the square, and loafers holding up posts and con 
 ferring weightily on questions of national impor 
 tance, and at certain regular periods the mill 
 blows off steam and the pigeons all rise in terror, 
 and you wonder if you can hold your breath as 
 long as the steam blows and find you cannot, 
 and when the roar stops the square seems silent 
 by contrast. 
 
 And there are always two or three crows fly 
 ing in from the marshes, and making their slow 
 progress high over the tall elms and far above 
 the church spire and the Goddess of Justice on 
 the town hall. 
 
 So a person can do no better, if he has a few 
 minutes at his disposal, than to sit in my window 
 and look out over the square.
 
 Visualization 225 
 
 At precisely five minutes before the hour my 
 new clerk entered, bade me a business "Good- 
 morning," removed her hat and coat and was at 
 her table before the stroke of nine. Her punctu 
 ality was refreshing, but it savored quite a little 
 of the schoolma am. But yet she did n t look like 
 one. 
 
 My conviction was somewhat shaken, when, 
 in making a suggestion, she said, "Don t you," 
 in that markedly grunting tone that indicates 
 a severe attack of laryngitis, or inflamed and con 
 gested tonsils, a method of late years affected by 
 schoolma ams and other highly educated people, 
 something like this: "Don t gnu?" 
 
 A half -hour later, when the papers I had given 
 her were sorted, neatly labelled, and I asked her 
 to copy them in longhand, and offered to read 
 them to her to insure expedition, her answer 
 upset my convictions completely, for she said 
 pleasantly and without the slightest attempt at 
 sarcasm: "Thank you, no. You need not waste 
 valuable time, for I can duplicate the slips with 
 greater accuracy and celerity by visualization as 
 a medium of coordination, than by auditory 
 images." 
 
 I was a little taken aback by this broadside of 
 erudition, but not wishing to be completely non 
 plussed I at once replied in the vernacular of the 
 trolley conductor and the fight fan:
 
 226 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 "I don t plumb savvy, lady, what them is, 
 but from now on my money is on you from the 
 call of time to the tap of the gong." 
 
 I do not think she fully comprehended me, but 
 after looking at me very composedly and rather 
 frigidly through her pince-nez glasses, she turned 
 to her task and began to write rapidly and very 
 copper-platedly, undoubtedly using "visualiza 
 tion as a medium of coordination," while I con 
 ducted a masterly retreat to my private office. 
 
 Is that, on the whole, the proper way to ad 
 dress one s employer on so very short a notice? 
 It does not seem so to me, but perhaps I am 
 wrong. At all events, I feel sure that she will see 
 that no one in my absence will take any liberties 
 with the office property. 
 
 I feel little if any doubt that she is a school- 
 ma am, and I think that with care and atten 
 tion I may be able to brush up quite a bit 
 in the rudiments of spelling, grammar, and the 
 arrangement of sentences, as well as history, 
 mathematics, and doubtless of law, in all of which 
 branches I am weak. 
 
 Wednesday, September 18, 191-. I gave away 
 to-day five dozen ears of golden bantam corn, 
 six cabbages, a bushel or more of beets, cucum 
 bers, beans, and a quart of cream, besides cut 
 ting a lot of truck for my cow and pigs. This is
 
 An Office Pest 227 
 
 one of the delights of farming. Counting the ex 
 ercise and pleasure as equal to the expense and 
 the value of your time, your produce costs you 
 nothing. Then your friends are so pleased with 
 the fresh vegetables that you feel just so much 
 ahead and that your farming has paid you well. 
 
 I took so long to pick my gift vegetables, to 
 wash them with the garden hose, and to pack 
 them and take them round to my friends, that I 
 was late at the office. 
 
 My little schoolma am was on deck and anx 
 ious for work. So as soon as I told her what to do 
 I went to my private office to work on a brief 
 that required concentration, when I heard rapid 
 and aggressive footsteps bounding up the stairs. I 
 recognized them as the footsteps of one of those 
 office pests who breeze into one s office making 
 all the noise he can, slaps you on the back, is fresh 
 with your clerk, calls you "Old Man," puts his 
 feet on your office table, lights a cigarette that 
 smells like a fire in a livery stable when several 
 horses have been burned, and tells a story that 
 is an offence equally to good taste and to de 
 cency. 
 
 I waited and chuckled. I knew something would 
 happen. Something did. There were rapid steps 
 through the hall, the rattle of the knob, and the 
 fluff-fluff of the window curtains as the door flew 
 open, and his great voice boomed out.
 
 228 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 "Hullo, little sister, is old man Pooh Bah in?" 
 There was a long and chilling pause during 
 which I could mentally visualize if not actually 
 see her bespectacled glance burning deep into 
 his abashed vitals. Then she spoke coldly, and 
 with a ring of very schoolma amish decision in 
 her voice. 
 
 "Judge Shute is in his private office. If it be 
 possible for you to knock on his door without 
 breaking the panels, he may be willing to see 
 
 you." 
 
 In a moment a subdued and very uncertain 
 tap sounded, and a very awed and impressed 
 man tiptoed into my office, closed the door softly, 
 and whispered, "Gosh! Where did you pick up 
 the Ice-Cold Soda Fountain?" 
 
 For the first time in history our interview was 
 short, businesslike, and satisfactory, and when 
 he left he asked permission to go out by the other 
 door so as not to be compelled to face her glit 
 tering spectacles again. As he left the room he 
 turned and in a hoarse whisper said: 
 
 "Is the freezer permanent?" 
 
 "I trust so," I answered. 
 
 "Do you expect to have any business?" he 
 whispered. 
 
 "I certainly do," I replied, "but not your 
 kind." 
 
 Really there are points about this young lady
 
 A Fair Bouncer 229 
 
 that are most commendable. This pest was re 
 duced to his least common denominator as 
 quickly as I had ever seen it done, and I had 
 good-naturedly suffered from this infliction for 
 years. 
 
 I do not dare to think how much I might have 
 saved from the rapacious maws of book agents, 
 typewriter-supply men, rubber-stamp peddlers, 
 magazine-subscription young ladies; unknown 
 youth struggling to work their way through col 
 lege, who never send the magazines you subscribe 
 for; sad-faced women of advanced years seeking 
 aid for a poor woman in Iowa whose home had 
 been blown away in a tornado; colored ladies 
 soliciting funds for the University of Ethiopia; 
 local firemen offering tickets for competitive 
 squirts; I.O.O.F. solicitors conducting lotteries 
 for a three days fair; ladies with spectacles de 
 manding subscriptions for the new church organ 
 or for a carpet for the small vestry; and the thou 
 sand and one Jabberwocks of business, that with 
 eyes of flame come whiffling through the Tulgey 
 Wood with loud and joyful burble and take toll 
 of my none too ample income. 
 
 Had this competent and resolute young woman, 
 or one like her, drifted into my orbit years ago, 
 I really do not know what might have hap 
 pened. I know what certainly would have 
 happened. I would have been spared much waste
 
 230 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 of time and money and unlimited annoyance, and 
 would have won the enviable reputation of be 
 ing a man independent of thought and action, 
 who did n t allow himself to be bothered by 
 cheeky mendicants, instead of having the repu 
 tation of being a sort of good-natured but weak 
 old cuss who cannot say no. 
 
 Thursday, September 19, 191-. If green corn, new 
 beets, butterbeans, little purple-topped turnips 
 were always accessible in a fresh state I should 
 no longer point the finger of scorn at the vege 
 tarian. But none the less I should not willingly 
 employ him to do hard work. I suppose, should 
 this statement be read by a vegetarian, straight 
 way the whole tribe of vegetarians would rise, 
 mightily refreshed by their hearty and invig 
 orating meal of hickory nuts, lettuce, and dis 
 tilled soft water, and denounce me as a coarse 
 and unregenerate meat-eater, a kit er of helpless 
 animals, a fattener on the flesh of innocents. 
 
 All the same I take so kindly to a broiled 
 chicken or roast fowl, to a juicy steak or chop, 
 a rare or medium roast, a succulent sparerib, a 
 crisp ham and eggs, a brace of sputtering sau 
 sages, that when I have satisfied the demands of 
 a naturally healthy appetite, there is little left. 
 "If this be treason make the most of it." 
 Read if you will, Dickens s description of a
 
 The Stew of the " Jolly Sandboys " 231 
 
 stew that the landlord of the Jolly Sandboys 
 prepared for the itinerant showmen of various 
 kinds: 
 
 "Mr. Codlin drew his sleeve across his lips, 
 and said in a murmuring voice, What is it? 
 
 " * It s a stew of tripe, said the landlord, smack 
 ing his lips, and cow-heel, smacking them again, 
 and bacon, smacking them once more, and 
 steak, smacking them for the fourth time, and 
 peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes and sparrow- 
 grass, all worked up together in one delicious 
 gravy. 
 
 "Having come to this climax, he smacked his 
 lips a great many times, and taking a long, hearty 
 sniff of the fragrance that was hovering about, 
 put on the cover again with the air of one whose 
 toils on earth were over." 
 
 Friday, September 20, 191-. By means of the 
 schoolma am, who is a glutton for office work, I 
 managed to do quite a lot of work on the farm. 
 I dug a half-dozen bushels of potatoes, bagged 
 them and wheelbarrowed them to the cellar. 
 I picked a peck or so of shell beans; that is to 
 say, there was a peck of the beans after the re 
 moval of about a bushel of pods. This took time 
 and was the acid test of my thumbnails. Then 
 I picked some late cucumbers and string beans, 
 a bushel or so, all of which my wife is canning, or
 
 232 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 bottling, or glassing, or embalming, or putting 
 down, whatever may be the proper term. 
 
 Saturday, September 21, 191-. If I could have a 
 real truck farm I believe I could raise milk with 
 practically no expense. My cow eats greens of 
 all kinds fronTmorning until night and her sides 
 stick out as tight as a drum. Got caught at the 
 office this afternoon. Dick was away and I 
 could n t pass the matter over to him. 
 
 Sunday, September 22, 191-. When I was a boy 
 and was not allowed to work on Sunday, and was 
 compelled by stern parental command to go to 
 church and Sunday School except on stormy 
 days, it was my infernal luck to experience a regu 
 lar procession of fair Sundays extending through 
 the entire year. 
 
 Now I am a man, and able to do about as I 
 wish on the Sabbath and I generally wish to 
 work on my farm, my barn, my garden, or my 
 woodpile, an unbroken succession of rainy 
 Sundays is my lot. It rained to-day. 
 
 Monday, September 23, 191-. Still raining. I de 
 cided to do an extraordinary amount of work in 
 the office to-day with the aid and cooperation 
 of my schoolma am clerk. To this effect I took the 
 result of a couple of hours hard work on some
 
 Higher Mathematics 233 
 
 promissory notes into her office and asked her 
 if she would verify the figures, and told her to 
 take her time, as the results were important. 
 
 She promptly laid aside her pen, glanced at 
 my work, and asked me whether I used the Amal- 
 fian, Sempronian, or Lycinian method, and when 
 I told her I used the method of one Colburn and 
 one Greenleaf in their standard works on the sub 
 ject, she replied, all the while figuring with as 
 tounding rapidity, that she ordinarily attained 
 greater accuracy by the use of Suffield s method 
 of Synthetic Division. 
 
 She also asked me if I had read Jeremy Ben- 
 tham s Letters on Usury written in 1787, and 
 when I was forced to admit that I had not, went 
 on to say that Locke, Hume, and Adam Smith 
 had entertained views mainly in accordance with 
 those of Bentham, and that the Sempronian Law 
 extended a uniform legislation on the subject. 
 
 I was exceedingly gratified to hear this, and 
 spoke of how pleased Sempronius must have 
 been to have received the commendation of such 
 men as Locke and Hume and Adam Smith and 
 Jeremy Bentham. 
 
 She said that, inasmuch as quite a number 
 of centuries had elapsed between the death of 
 Sempronius and the birth of the four other gen 
 tlemen, he had missed that gratification unless he 
 had been present in a somewhat nebulous state.
 
 234 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 Then before the hot blush of mortification had 
 retired below my collar, she confirmed my figures, 
 having performed in ten minutes and with per 
 fect ease that which I had toiled at painfully and 
 profanely a full two hours, multiplying and di 
 viding and adding and subtracting, and carry 
 ing figures to the next column, and borrowing 
 one, and moving decimal points from place to 
 place and dad-blaming the dingblasted luck in 
 losing my interest tables. 
 
 I was amazed. Interest simple, compound, an 
 nual, and even the New Hampshire rule, lost 
 their terrors. While I could not hope to compre 
 hend her method, I could at least hunt up all the 
 promissory notes entrusted to me and have them 
 scientifically brought to date. 
 
 I am wondering if she is an isolated specimen, 
 or have modern educational methods developed 
 a select species? 
 
 I am inclined to the latter belief and I rejoice 
 therein, thereat, and there-on-account-of . I have 
 learned of her something of the grammatical dis 
 tinctions between "may" and "can," "will" 
 and "shall." I have learned some of the rules 
 governing the use of "a" and "i" in words de 
 rived from the Latin. I have learned the correct 
 spelling of "comparative" and "comparison" 
 without confounding them. 
 
 I can say "are n t" fully half the time, and am
 
 Developing My Grip 235 
 
 trying hard and faithfully to discard the "ain t" 
 of the masses. But I balk on "nyether." There is 
 too strong a local prejudice against its use. But 
 in other respects my mind is open. Oh, yes, I am 
 learning! But alas! school opens next week, and 
 as I cannot pay the immense salaries lavished 
 by our municipality upon our schoolma ams, my 
 course will, I fear, cease rather abruptly. And 
 she is a farmer s daughter ! 
 
 Tuesday, September 24, 191-. A pleasant day with 
 everything too wet to work out. I find that 
 regular milking for several months has greatly 
 strengthened my wrists. When I was a boy at 
 school there were a number of boys from the farm 
 in the neighboring towns. There was a marked 
 difference between the farm boy and the town 
 boy. The farm boys worked harder in school and 
 generally took all the prizes. They could not 
 throw stones as well as the town boys, nor were 
 they as good baseball players. But they were 
 far better football players, and when it came to 
 games that required strength they were easily 
 the superiors of the town boy. 
 
 I remember very distinctly how strong they 
 were in their arms and what a grip they had. 
 
 Wednesday, September 25, 191-. Dug three bushels 
 of potatoes to-day. All in good shape.
 
 236 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 Thursday, September 26, 191-. As the days begin 
 to be crisp with the fall weather I wish I had a 
 saddle horse. I rode for many years until the au 
 tomobile made riding and driving a task rather 
 than a pleasure. There is little pleasure or ex 
 hilaration in going from place to place mainly 
 in the gutter to avoid being squashed flat by 
 truck, touring-car, or runabout. 
 
 Friday, September 27, 191-. I forgot all about the 
 kingbirds until to-day. They must have been 
 gone nearly a month. They generally disappear 
 about September 1 in this locality, and as far as 
 I have been able to judge they serve no notice 
 of departure on us by flocking or flying high. 
 They make no change in their habits. August 31 
 they are at their posts, making things lively for 
 passing birds, whatever their size, and simply 
 gorging the flies, bugs, moths, and other insects, 
 and acting as if they meant to stay until Christ 
 mas. September 1 they have disappeared and no 
 man has seen them depart. 
 
 Saturday, September 28, 191-. The tiny little 
 chipper birds have been very prolific this sum 
 mer. There are flocks of them and of the goldfinch 
 around the house and on the lawns. The robins 
 are flying high and screaming in the tall elms, 
 but it means little, for they will be here for six
 
 / Lose My Schoolma am, Alack! 237 
 
 weeks at least. It is mainly the full-grown young 
 birds. The old birds are ragged and keep closer 
 to the ground until their new feathers are grown. 
 
 Sunday, September 29, 191-. A kingfisher flew 
 over the yard this morning. They are irregular 
 in their migration schedule. A few years ago a 
 kingfisher spent the entire winter around the 
 raceway of the cotton mill, across the river from 
 my rear office. The water there is always open all 
 winter and warmed from passing through or un 
 der the mill. I have seen him dozens of times dive 
 into the water and bring out a fish in midwinter. 
 I could not find out where he spent the nights. 
 Possibly in the coal sheds or in the raceway tun 
 nel. This is probably not an isolated case, but 
 the first and only instance of the kind I have 
 observed or heard of. The leaves are brilliant and 
 are beginning to fall. Every frost will bring them 
 down in armies. 
 
 Monday, September 30, 191-. My schoolma am 
 clerk left on Saturday. She was thoroughly effi 
 cient to the last minute and I am desole at losing 
 her. Bless you, my slim little, trim little, prim 
 little schoolma am! If you marry and I feel 
 sure you will choose some clean, honest, able 
 young man who knows but little about the Amal- 
 fian or Sempronian method or Suffield s Syn-
 
 238 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 thetic Division, and may you have manly sons 
 and beautiful daughters to rise up and call you 
 blessed, and not adding machines that go with 
 a crank. 
 
 Tuesday, October 1, 191-. The delightful weather 
 is affecting my cow. When I lead her out to 
 her tether in the morning she prances in a cir 
 cle around me, shaking her head, taking short 
 jumps, and threatening me with her horns, and 
 occasionally bolting and dragging me at ter 
 rific speed down the yard. Sometimes she pre 
 sumes upon our acquaintance and I have to give 
 her a rap over the nose with the end of the rope, 
 at which she blinks and retires in manifest sur 
 prise. 
 
 Wednesday, October %, 191-. Both Dick and I are 
 very busy at the office, but I manage to do my 
 barn work and something every day on the place. 
 Although so early in October it is chilly. But the 
 robins, and the bluebirds, the chippies, the gold 
 finches, and other friends are still with us, and 
 the flocks of grackles are becoming longer and 
 longer as they fly over the farm mornings and 
 evenings. 
 
 Thursday, October 3, 191-. The flocks are becom 
 ing like the old-time pigeon flights.
 
 Habit 239 
 
 Friday, October 4, 191-. October has managed 
 a light frost just to say it is a bit more progres 
 sive in that line than September. I have ordered 
 half a dozen cords of hickory wood according to 
 habit. This I intend to have sawed by machine 
 and to split it at my lesisure. 
 
 Speaking of habit, it is interesting, at my age, 
 to observe the ease with which a habit is formed 
 and the difficulty with which it is discarded. One 
 of the most amusing instances is the following: 
 
 Several years ago I had the front steps of my 
 house rebuilt. The carpenter to whom I entrusted 
 the repairs must have been a man not having 
 the fear of God in his heart, but in other respects 
 was a most worthy artisan. 
 
 Acting on his passion for improvement, he built 
 the top step a half -inch higher than it had been 
 for years. I happened to be the first person to 
 use the new steps after the paint was dry and 
 the panels and boards that barred ingress had 
 been removed. 
 
 It was "Springtime, Gentle Annie," and I had 
 come from the office laden with the harbingers of 
 spring. I had, I think, a child s outfit of hoe, rake, 
 and shovel, a full-sized lawn rake, a paper pack 
 age of seed corn, ditto of beans, ditto of peas, a 
 pound of butter, a dozen of fresh eggs in a paper 
 bag, a paper of tacks, a pound of freshly ground 
 coffee. I may have omitted a few articles from the
 
 240 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 enumeration such as a bunch of bananas, a gas 
 stove, or a commode, but I am not sure. 
 
 I had lugged this collection from the stores to 
 my house, a distance of over half a mile, and 
 by the time I got there every tendon in my arms, 
 back, and chest was strained to the breaking 
 point, and my temper was similarly strained ow 
 ing to the fact that the only way I had been able 
 to keep my hat on in the fresh spring breeze was 
 by stopping at various trees on the way and but 
 ting my head against them to force my then 
 fashionable derby down to my ears. 
 
 Everything was slipping, and to avoid disaster 
 I bounded up the steps, caught my toe on the 
 extra half -inch of step, shot my head and most 
 of my hardware and the lurid contents of a dozen 
 eggs through the screen door, and scattered peas, 
 beans, and seed corn over the entire neighbor 
 hood. 
 
 I was passing suitable comments on the situa 
 tion when my wife appeared and asked if I had 
 fallen, whereupon my comments became almost 
 sublime in their picturesque intensity. 
 
 But for weeks afterwards we derived the great 
 est enjoyment from the ownership of these steps. 
 Every one of my friends who was in the habit of 
 running in of an evening invariably fell flat in 
 negotiating that top step and scattered various 
 articles over the piazza.
 
 The Delights of Habit 241 
 
 I do not remember having a more enjoyable 
 spring and summer. Pleasant evenings we would 
 hurry through our various tasks and take our 
 seats on the piazza and wait like spiders in a 
 web. 
 
 A fat woman from the country would drive up, 
 tie her horse to a valuable blue birch or smoke 
 bush, then puffingly ascend the steps with a ten- 
 quart pail of blueberries or raspberries, fall pros 
 trate and spill quarts of berries over us, which, 
 after she had retired with loud lamentations, 
 we would collect and devour, without money and 
 without price. 
 
 Then a musical neighbor would lightly run up 
 the steps with her arms full of classical duets 
 for the piano, which she wished to play with my 
 wife, and would trip and skitter all over the 
 piazza and scatter "Gems from Stephen Foster," 
 and "Excerpts from Mendelssohn s Midsum 
 mer Night s Dream, " and "Transcriptions from 
 Beethoven s Moonlight Sonata, " Last Hopes " 
 of Gottschalk, and "Rides of the Valkyries" over 
 the entire neighborhood. 
 
 Again, a very spruce and up-to-date youth, 
 with the superb agility of the chamois and of 
 youth, would lightly leap up the steps, bearing 
 a sheaf of roses that exactly measured his credit 
 at the greenhouse, only to fall resoundingly, to 
 rise painfully, and in his mortification to sputter
 
 242 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 a word or a sentiment that he would have given 
 worlds to recall. 
 
 It was noticeable that no stranger had any 
 trouble. Our friends and those coming frequently 
 were the ones that fell. I felt bereaved and de 
 prived of my just rights when I had the addi 
 tional half -inch of step cut down. 
 
 Another habit that in its dreadful effect puts 
 it in the same class with the drink habit, the 
 drug habit, and that sort of malignant gossip 
 known as "head-hunting," is the habit of throw 
 ing rugs out of the window without the constant 
 presence of an official announcer. 
 
 I maintain that there should be a law enacted 
 that would compel every person afflicted with 
 the out-of-the-window-rug-throwing-habit, un 
 der the heaviest penalties, to maintain an an 
 nouncer whose duties are to shout, "Look out 
 for your heads, rugs coming," just as a mounted 
 Oriental in gorgeous robes of state rides furiously 
 ahead of circus processions shouting: 
 
 " Look out for your horses, 
 The Elephants are coming!" 
 
 I hate to mention it, and hate more to ac 
 knowledge it, but there is a member of my house 
 hold addicted to this habit of rug marksmanship. 
 
 There is, to be sure, an element of humor in 
 bringing a strong man and several quarts of milk 
 to his knees and to temporary oblivion beneath
 
 The Accursedness of Habit 243 
 
 the dusty folds of a heavy rug flying from a two- 
 story window. But after he has clawed and crawled 
 his way out, preceded by muffled but perfectly 
 recognizable profanity, and you have led him to 
 the sink and have washed the dust out of his eyes 
 and ears, and have given him a drink and a cigar, 
 and have ordered three quarts of milk a day in 
 stead of one (this was before I bought my cow), to 
 soothe him, and have promised him that you will 
 see that it never occurs again, you feel that you 
 got out of it easier than some one deserved. 
 
 It was a bit different with the Italian fruit 
 dealer. I felt obliged to settle with him. He de 
 clined the drink "per Bacco"; he refused the 
 cigar, "carrambissimo!" He refused to consider 
 the purchase of a whole bunch of bananas, 
 " Chr-r-r-r-isto ! " I decline to say what it cost 
 me. I thought at the time he was hard. I thought 
 so up to yesterday. I do not think so now. Had 
 I been in his place I certainly should not have 
 settled for twice the amount. At least that is the 
 way I feel about it now. 
 
 You see I was leading my cow through my yard 
 peacefully, quietly, and with no guile in my 
 heart. I was several feet ahead, she behind. In 
 my hand firmly clasped was a strong rope at 
 tached to the heavy leather headstall which she 
 wore. Suddenly there was a snort behind me, a ter 
 rific yank of the halter. I was twitched violently
 
 244 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 into the air and slat literally slat clear 
 across the driveway. My heels fairly snapped 
 in the air. When I groggily rose to my feet I con 
 fronted a cow with upraised ears and with wild 
 eyes staring at a cloud of dust in the midst of 
 which lay a voluminous and dustily variegated rug. 
 And so I say this habit is in the same class as the 
 drink habit and the drug habit, and I look for 
 ward to the time when hospitals will be widely 
 established for its cure and rigorous laws enacted 
 for its prevention. 
 
 Saturday, October 5, 191-. Tried some of my 
 celery to-day. It seemed extremely strong and 
 flourishing on the tops, but although I had 
 banked it well, it was neither crisp nor white. I 
 have evidently not the wizard s touch, when it 
 comes to celery. 
 
 Three cords of hickory and pitch-pine landed 
 to-day. In spite of positive instructions given, 
 the cartman piled it just where it completely 
 blocked entrance to, and exit from, my barn. I 
 had to throw it over and re-pile it in another 
 place, and to-night I am dead tired, a mass of 
 pitch and splinters, and feel like a hedgehog. I 
 can at least rest to-morrow, as it is Sunday. 
 
 Sunday, October 6, 191-. Spent most of this sacred 
 day in pulling splinters out of my hands and
 
 A Human Pine Knot 245 
 
 other parts of me and letting out staccato howls. 
 The first thing I shall do to-morrow is to buy me 
 a pair of lumberman s leather-faced mittens. If 
 I had had them last night I should have felt less 
 like a family pincushion or a rough pine knot 
 to-day. Were it not too late in the season I might 
 expect a pine grosbeak to build a nest in me and 
 raise a brood, or a woodpecker to begin to ex 
 cavate a tunnel in me. 
 
 Monday, October 7, 191-. I bought the lumber 
 man s mittens to-day. Also an axe with a rather 
 short, curved handle. I am very particular about 
 the hang of my axe, as a good woodsman should 
 be. With a well-balanced axe and the right sort 
 of wood, wood splitting can be made an art as 
 well as a pleasure. I have often been asked why 
 I did not play golf. I did take it up nearly twenty 
 years ago and found that I could not afford the 
 time or the strain on my lingual limitations. 
 
 So I gave it up before I became a hopeless fan. 
 It was really a most delightful game, at once 
 democratic and suited to all times of life, as is 
 no other game under the sun. But if one thinks 
 golf is the only game of skill let him try split 
 ting wood, using a sharp axe with a rather short, 
 curved handle, on a block two feet across and 
 three feet high. It is really good fun and gives 
 one ample opportunity to develop skill.
 
 246 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 And as for the nineteenth hole, why, bless 
 your soul, after one has worked an hour at the 
 woodpile of a crisp, frosty morning, the break 
 fast of muffins, bacon, and coffee is, in my 
 opinion, far superior to anything the nine 
 teenth hole ever afforded or ever will afford. 
 
 And so I always welcome the annual return of 
 the woodpile, 
 
 Tuesday, October 8, 191-. Am gradually putting 
 my crops into storage. I am not especially keen 
 about digging potatoes. It perilously approaches 
 drudgery. There is a good deal of lifting and 
 bending over, and there is nothing particularly 
 stimulating about a bag or a wheelbarrow. I 
 wonder if it is because I am not a good finisher? 
 that I do not carry through? I do not quite 
 think so. 
 
 It is far more interesting to plant, for you do 
 that with a very delightful feeling of expecta 
 tion. And in hand-weeding or hoeing you see the 
 results immediately in the trim appearance of 
 your rows of vegetables or fruits. 
 
 To be sure, there is a satisfaction in seeing a 
 cellar well filled with crops, but the lugging in 
 and storing is plain, prosaic work. I much pre 
 fer splitting wood. 
 
 The machine came to-day and sawed up the 
 three cords of wood.
 
 The Doctor is Jocose 247 
 
 Wednesday, October 9, 191-. I tried my new axe 
 to-day. The doctor says I was very lucky to get 
 off as I did, and that unless blood-poisoning sets 
 in I will have but little trouble. 
 
 Thursday, October 10, 191-. A stout cane is all I 
 need. But I have to be careful and not break the 
 plaster cast. I feel like a Rogers Group. 
 
 Friday, October 11, 191-. My friend Angus, who 
 has charge of the next estate, does the milking 
 now. I am going to have the doctor put on a new 
 plaster cast so I can bend my leg. Then I can sit 
 down and milk. My hands and arms are all right. 
 
 Saturday, October 12, 191-. Evidently blood-poi 
 soning has not set in and now I can milk again. 
 The doctor says there is a special providence that 
 watches over fools and drunken men. He might 
 at least have coined something new, if he wanted 
 to be jocose. 
 
 Sunday, October 13, 191-. It was crisp and cool 
 to-night. I was feeling the need of exercise badly 
 as I had had an especially trying day in the 
 office. So I lighted two lanterns, stood them on 
 the woodpile, and started in splitting. I enjoyed 
 it very much and incidentally must replace the 
 globe of one lantern. It was an excellent shot and
 
 248 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 I am proud of it. My wife says it served me right 
 for splitting wood on the Sabbath. 
 
 Monday, October 14, 191-. Finished my potato 
 digging to-day. I have seventeen bushels of good, 
 clean Early Rose and Irish Cobbler potatoes in 
 a bin besides several bushels of small ones with 
 which I shall feed and gradually ripen my pigs. 
 Really they are hogs now and the next few weeks 
 will make a great difference in their weight and 
 general appearance. I am feeding corn meal now 
 with milk and potatoes. I only hope their skins 
 will stretch as fast as they grow. If not they will 
 look like a chestnut burr after a hard frost, or 
 like an overboiled potato. 
 
 They are certainly great animals and enjoy 
 life, having attained the poet s philosophy to 
 
 " Carpe diem, quam minimum 
 Credula postero" 
 
 Tuesday, October 15, 191-. Got another lantern 
 globe to-night. I thought it was out of gunshot, 
 or rather of splitshot, but I got it. It was a 
 straight bull s-eye and it went into nine thou 
 sand fragments. It was a new globe on the same 
 lantern. I must hereafter be more impartial. The 
 other lantern may feel hurt. 
 
 I have decided that when I split wood I must 
 have the entire yard to myself. It would be har-
 
 / tried my new axe to-day
 
 Migrations 249 
 
 rowing in the extreme to have some injured per 
 son take my farm under an execution obtained 
 in an action of tort for personal injuries. 
 
 Wednesday, October 16, 191-. Every now and 
 then I see and hear a bird from the North which 
 stayed a few days here last spring and then 
 passed on. I cannot help wondering about the 
 kingbirds. The only reason why the kingbirds 
 disappear so suddenly is, I believe, that they 
 seldom go farther North. Otherwise we should, 
 I am sure, have a season of migrating kingbirds 
 that would last some weeks. 
 
 That this is not the case I am convinced. The 
 kingbirds that are here all summer, alighting on 
 the same fence-posts, defending the same nests 
 and roosting-places, chasing the same crows as 
 they do day after day and week after week, dis 
 appear overnight and no others take their places. 
 My leg is nearly well again. 
 
 Thursday, October 17, 191-. If one sits in the open 
 any warm evening now, or cool evening, as for 
 that, only the average person does not sit in the 
 open on a cool evening, the high clear call of mi 
 grating birds may be heard, coming down from 
 the sky, and sometimes, of a moonlight night, a 
 row of dots passes rapidly across the yellow disk 
 of the moon.
 
 250 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 It gives one a curious feeling. Almost a desire 
 to go South with them and to get rid of the win 
 ter s wet, cold, and dreariness. The doctor took 
 off the cast to-day. I shall have a scar, but as 
 the fashion of wearing trousers still persists, it 
 will not add to or detract from my charms. 
 
 Friday, October 18, 191-. There is a nut tree in my 
 yard. The nuts are small and scarcely worth 
 gathering; at least we think so. It is fortunate 
 they are small, for we are spared the necessity of 
 early and rapid work to preserve our crop. A few 
 years ago a law was passed by our Solons es 
 tablishing a close season on gray squirrels for a 
 period of years. As a result they are very numer 
 ous and not tame enough to be a nuisance and 
 the way they work in gathering the nuts is re 
 freshing in this day of short working hours. 
 
 They eat hundreds of the nuts; they carry away 
 to their nests and holes thousands; they bury 
 millions; and each spring with my trusty lawn- 
 mower I cut down countless tiny hickory shoots 
 and serve them to my stock. 
 
 Leg nearly well. 
 
 Saturday, October 19, 191-. One of the pleasures 
 of October is raking and storing dry leaves for 
 the winter. The farmer claims that leaves are 
 cold and have no value as bedding. I do not find
 
 Dead Leaves 251 
 
 them so. It all depends upon storing them when 
 perfectly dry. And a dry leaf is drier than any 
 thing I know. Yes, even drier than a no-license 
 town, because in the latter there may always be 
 found some sort of an oasis. 
 
 It is a pleasure to see the delight of my pigs 
 when I have filled their sleeping quarters two feet 
 thick with dry leaves. Their little piggy eyes 
 twinkle, then their tails take an extra twist, and 
 they wiggle their bodies with delight and race 
 around like children playing. 
 
 Then, when they are tired, they fairly cover 
 themselves with leaves and snore most com 
 fortably. 
 
 But the farmer says rye or oat straw is much 
 better. Agreed. But rye or oat straw costs as 
 much as hay, while leaves cost but the labor of 
 getting them in, and that is really a pleasant 
 labor. And when thoroughly mixed with stable 
 manure they make the best of fertilizer. 
 
 And as for scratching material in which to throw 
 grain for your fowl, there is nothing better, if 
 changed often enough to prevent them from 
 being powdered by constant scratching. 
 
 Sunday, October 20, 191-. Rainy to-day a cold, 
 shivery, wet rain; a rain that will strike through 
 a rain coat and give you a coat of goose pimples 
 of a quarter of an inch elevation; a rain that will
 
 252 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 strike a chill through your new, shiny, dollar- 
 and-a-half rubbers that will reach to your knees. 
 I am glad it did not rain yesterday. That is one 
 of my most profitable office days when farm 
 ers and working-men quit afternoons and drop in 
 for a few dollars worth of litigation of various 
 kinds and nature. And a rain of this kind keeps 
 them at home husking, picking over, and sorting 
 potatoes and apples, oiling up their motors, or 
 playing seven-up. 
 
 The subsidy of my farm comes direct from my 
 office. No office, no farm. 
 
 Monday, October 21, 191-. Weather very unset 
 tled. Built a fire in the furnace with wood to-day. 
 The open season on furnaces is about due. I have 
 been splitting wood every morning and evening. 
 While I am gaining in skill as a splitter, I seem 
 to have lost my somewhat uncanny marksman 
 ship in bagging lantern globes. I did manage to 
 send a stick whizzing through a window in the 
 henhouse this morning. This cheered me up some. 
 My skill is not wholly gone. I do not limp now. 
 
 Tuesday, October 22, 191-. A sunny day, but with 
 a fierce wind roaring in the tree-tops. Lost my 
 pail of milk this morning. One of the legs of my 
 milking-stool broke and let me down suddenly 
 flat on my back. The cow kicked and knocked
 
 Indian Summer 253 
 
 that pail fully a rod. Of course I had just about 
 finished milking and the pail was half full. 
 
 Well, I was lucky not to be the pail. I should 
 have been cherishing quite a dent in my mid 
 riff. Must get a new stool. 
 
 Wednesday, October 23, 191-. A day that beckons 
 one into the open. Just the day to roam the woods, 
 to ride horseback, to shoot partridges, to to 
 yes, to split wood. I really enjoyed it to-day, 
 although I made no bull s-eye. 
 
 Thursday, October 24, 191-. It was warm to-day. 
 Unreasonably so. There was a sort of blue haze 
 over the hills. The robins were singing as in spring, 
 the blackbirds were busy on every cornfield, the 
 squirrels were chasing each other through the 
 bare branches, and the crows were making a 
 great fuss in the grove which set the jays scream 
 ing. I could shut my eyes and really feel that it 
 was May again. I sent for a ram to-day to mate 
 my sheep. The owner told me he was kind if you 
 kept your eye on him and were ready to get in 
 the first lick. That no ram was reliable until 
 hung up in a provision store. I do not expect any 
 trouble. I shall face him and drink to him with 
 my eyes. I have seen the startling effects of a 
 rear attack. A venerable agriculturist spoke of 
 the weather to-day as a "weather-breeder." I
 
 254 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 have heard that expression many times. Just 
 what it means I never exactly knew, but it has 
 an ominous sound. 
 
 Friday, October 25, 191-. Alack! the time is rap 
 idly approaching when I must part with my 
 pigs. I don t like to think of it. I feel as I im 
 agine a man must feel whose relative or intimate 
 friend has been convicted of murder and sen 
 tenced to death. 
 
 Of course I could reprieve them and keep them 
 for years, but I should in time be ruined by pro 
 gressive mortgaging to stand off the grain bills, 
 and there must be no reprieve. 
 
 Saturday, October 26, 191-. The pigs are growing 
 tremendously under the combined stimulus of 
 boiled potatoes, milk, and corn meal. I have 
 had some flattering offers for them. Shall not 
 sell. 
 
 Sunday, October 27, 191-. I am working every 
 legitimate and reasonable bluff to settle such 
 cases as are likely to be marked for trial in the 
 Superior Court this term. It is an axiom that 
 there is more money in settling actions than in 
 trying them. I am working that for all I am 
 worth. There is so little time now after office 
 hours and before dark to work.
 
 Old Acquaintance Sake 255 
 
 Monday, October 28, 191-. The blackbirds are 
 beginning to flock. I have seen a dozen or more 
 flocks of fifty. Later on there will be big flocks, 
 then armies. 
 
 Tuesday, October 29, 191-. I feel like an acces 
 sory before the fact every time I feed my pigs. 
 I wonder if a butcher ever dies a quiet and peace 
 ful death? I should have raised mules instead of 
 pigs. 
 
 Wednesday, October 30, 191-. If I were a psychol 
 ogist, I might perhaps be able to explain why it 
 is that the fall chatter of a flock of blackbirds 
 or grackles does not remind one of spring, while 
 the fall warble of a bluebird gives one the same 
 thrill that it did in the early spring. 
 
 Thursday, October 31, 191-. Pulled my cabbages 
 and stored them in the cellar farthest from the 
 furnace. We have had a frost nearly every night 
 lately, but no freeze as yet. Long ago I forgot to 
 cover my tomatoes and of course the heaviest 
 frost of the season came that night. They looked 
 thoroughly discouraged in the morning. They 
 are very squashy now. Indeed, I do not believe 
 one would hold together for a good shot at a fat 
 man. I would like to try once for old acquaint 
 ance sake.
 
 256 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 Friday, November 1, 191-. In Portsmouth to-day 
 at court. Did n t want to be there, but had to. 
 Could n t get back until 6.20, and it was too dark 
 for any work except barn work with a lantern. 
 I did not finish the case and may not get through 
 to-morrow. I expect to be taken for a ghost and 
 to be shot at some night as I travel round with 
 old sheets, covering squashes and perishable 
 vegetables. 
 
 Saturday, November 2, 191-. I finished the case 
 to-day at four o clock in the afternoon. Jury out 
 about an hour. In some inscrutable way they de 
 cided my way. This is a legal set-off to the en 
 forced neglect of my farm for several days. It is 
 such a relief not to be obliged to say to a disap 
 pointed client, "Well, I did my best for you, old 
 man, but the evidence was too strong for us." 
 
 I wonder how many times I have said that in 
 the past twenty-five years. 
 
 There is a long list of cases before another one 
 of mine will be reached. Now for the farm. 
 
 Sunday, November 3, 191-. My wife has been 
 repining loudly and frequently over my unac 
 countable refusal to have the front hall repapered 
 according to a promise she claims I made. If 
 she could really appreciate, as I do, the fact that 
 I have been accumulating a most appalling pile
 
 A Burning Shame, So There!! 257 
 
 of unreceipted gristmill bills, I think she would 
 see the impossibility of fulfilling a promise, which 
 I firmly deny having made, with these bills star 
 ing me coldly in the face. 
 
 Instead of looking at the matter in the proper 
 and wifely manner she discovers that the ceilings 
 of three rooms must be whitened and the wood 
 work painted, and that the overhead plastering 
 of the dining-room is cracked in four places, and 
 that the "condition of the house is a burning 
 shame, so there!" 
 
 However, with great tact I managed to steer 
 the conversation toward the proper distribu 
 tion of the pigs when reduced to portable frag 
 ments by skilled dissection. 
 
 I have rather failed in distributing my farm 
 and garden produce among my friends this past 
 summer, as my cow, my sheep, and my pigs have 
 practically consumed almost all that we have 
 not used on the home table. The sole amende 
 honorable is to distribute among our friends the 
 component parts of a hog. I have two hogs. One 
 will surely carry us through a long and hard win 
 ter. The other is to be given away. We decided 
 after mature deliberation that the S. s shall have 
 one ham, the Y. s another; the B. s one shoulder, 
 the L. s the other; a pail of real lard shall gladden 
 and lubricate the household of M.; a sparerib 
 shall make things pleasant for G.; a roast shall
 
 258 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 help N. banish the gristly spectre of famine from 
 his door; a few dozen of chops shall convince G. 
 that God will protect the poor working-man; 
 a chine and the chitlins whatever they may 
 be shall furnish P. with increased momentum 
 up the long hill; and so on. 
 
 We really had a most delightful time in plan 
 ning our benefactions and went to bed feeling that 
 we were, indeed, philanthropists. 
 
 Monday, November 4, 191-. Thanksgiving month. 
 It looks bad for the pigs. I think I will economize 
 this year. I have often heard that a good roast 
 of pork, such as mine is, or will be when properly 
 dismembered, is as good as chicken or turkey 
 or goose. And as these birds are going to be ex 
 tremely dear this year, and as I have the pigs, 
 it really seems a duty to leave the turkey, the 
 chicken, and the goose for some one else. To be 
 sure, owing to the untimely demise of Pyg., which 
 I have never ceased to mourn, my roast pork will 
 be as expensive as the choicest turkey, but the 
 point is, I have the roast and I am spared the 
 necessity of buying turkey. 
 
 Tuesday, November 5, 191-. It is cold to-day and 
 I have commenced anew with the furnace. I was 
 told that the care of a furnace teaches one humil 
 ity, like a hair shirt. It may be so with some, but I
 
 My Wife Renigs 259 
 
 am quite sure that in my own case the word "pro 
 fanity" should be substituted for "humility." 
 Still, there is some satisfaction in diffusing genial 
 warmth throughout the house. It is depressing 
 to one s finer feelings to assume the burden of 
 coal bills before one has paid his grain bills. 
 
 Wednesday, November 6, 191-. My wife is showing 
 a disposition to renig on the distribution of the 
 pig. To-day she remarked that she had decided 
 not to give away any lard, for she had been long 
 ing for a home-made doughnut for over a year, 
 and it seemed a crime to give away a pail of lard. 
 
 This abrupt right-about-face rather nettled 
 me, and I said it was revolting extravagance to 
 give away a ham to the S. s, whereupon she 
 snapped that it was just as bad to give one to 
 the Y. s. 
 
 Upon my pointed and somewhat sarcastic in 
 quiry as to whom the pigs belonged, and who 
 bought them and fed them and cleaned up after 
 them, she returned a fervent and somewhat hec 
 tic demand for information as to whether or not 
 she had been obliged to clean up the kitchen and 
 indeed every room I entered after I had been in 
 that nasty barn. 
 
 In short, we quarrelled rather bitterly over 
 the matter. But we are none the less determined 
 to give away one of the pigs, but cannot agree
 
 260 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 as to whom we may saddle with our benefaction. 
 However, there is time, for the pigs are not killed 
 yet. 
 
 Thursday, November 7, 191-. There was a heavy 
 frost last night, and before I left the barn at 
 noon I had taken several rugs that had been 
 thrown out of the window by a certain person 
 whose name had better not be mentioned, and 
 which (the rugs and not the person in question) 
 had been beaten and hung up on the clothesline. 
 With these rugs I had carefully covered several 
 bushels of unusually fine turnips and carrots and 
 a dozen or more most unusually fine squashes 
 that I had not had time to store in the cellar as I 
 had done with most of my crops. 
 
 This morning I found that the rugs had been 
 removed to the clothesline, and that the valuable 
 vegetables that I had petted and encouraged and 
 stimulated and cared for for six months were 
 frozen harder than glass agates. My first idea 
 was to smash a window in the house with each 
 of them and to set fire to the rugs, and the idea 
 did much to calm my resentment. I like to think 
 up dreadful things to do, and then not do them. 
 
 Still, I do not feel pleased about the matter. 
 The old rugs would not have been hurt by be 
 ing spread over the vegetables. 
 
 I had already stored enough vegetables to
 
 A Cause for Divorce 261 
 
 last me through the winter. But some one could 
 have used these turnips and carrots and also the 
 squashes. There is just so much less food in the 
 world for some one. I do not like waste. Some 
 one may want some new rugs some day, that s 
 all. The trouble with me is that I forget the dis 
 agreeable things of life, but I shall try hard to 
 remember the rape of the rugs. 
 
 However, it is this lack of sympathy with one s 
 aims that has made of our court docket a con 
 gested list of divorce libels and separate main 
 tenance petitions. Beware, woman! Even if the 
 rugs did not cost more than twenty -four dollars 
 each and dated back to the Silurian Period, and 
 you had been waiting since the dawn of Christi 
 anity for some decent furniture and did n t pro 
 pose to furnish covers for my old vegetables, and 
 that I would be taking the bedclothes next, you 
 need n t have put it in just that way! 
 
 Friday, November 8, 191-. I had to be in Ports 
 mouth to-day at court. At four o clock on the 
 way home in a friend s automobile, we saw an 
 immense flock of grackles. The main body was 
 being added to by flocks joining it from corn 
 fields and marshy grounds. We travelled three 
 or four miles before the tail of the procession 
 passed us. I never saw so long a flock before. It 
 was interesting to watch individuals. Each bird
 
 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 makes five rapid strokes with its wings, rising as 
 it does so, then closes its wings and shoots down 
 to its former level, then rises again. But the 
 whole flock goes as straight as an immense black 
 ribbon and with a chatter of bird voices that can 
 be heard for miles. 
 
 They were fly ing north from day feeding grounds 
 to heavy woods for the night. At six o clock the 
 next morning the big army will come back, drop 
 ping small flocks along the line until the army is 
 dissolved into thousands of scattered companies, 
 to be mustered in at four o clock in the afternoon. 
 This may be the last day they will be with us. 
 
 Saturday., November 9, 191-. To-day I bought a 
 pork barrel and a bushel of coarse salt. It was 
 my first real preparation for the execution of 
 my pet pigs and I am not feeling a bit good over 
 it. I wish I did n t have to kill them. It seems 
 positively inhuman. But to keep them much 
 longer is out of the question. I don t dare to think 
 what my pork will cost me a pound, not counting 
 my labor, or my time, or the physical setbacks 
 that I have suffered from chasing them. I still 
 shrink from calculating what they have cost me. 
 One of the most interesting things to me has 
 been to have some farmer come into my office in 
 November, just after the weather has become 
 gray and cold, and say:
 
 I don t dare to think what my pork will cost me a pound
 
 Patriotism and Pigs 263 
 
 "Wall, I ve got a cellar full of taters, n tur 
 nips, n squashes, n cabbages, n I ve got a 
 bar l of home-raised pork, n a couple o crocks 
 of head cheese, n sassige meat, n sides, n 
 hams, n shoulders, n knuckles, n I guess I m 
 ready fer cold weather." 
 
 Why, it sounded much more satisfactory than 
 if he had told me that he had bought a few blocks 
 of Steel Preferred or United Fruit! 
 
 And it has been my ambition for years to face 
 a New England winter with the calm assurance 
 engendered by the knowledge that I, too, had a 
 cellar full of vegetables, n a bar l of home-raised 
 pork, n sassige meat, n hams, n shoulders, n 
 knuckles. 
 
 And that is why I bought pigs last spring, and 
 that is why I gave up the comparative freedom 
 of the practice of my profession for the over 
 whelming responsibility of raising a pair of pigs. 
 
 Of course I alleged it to be the result of pa 
 triotism and the awakened desire to do my part 
 in reestablishing on a firm footing the war- 
 depleted pork industry of the country. This was 
 not wholly the reason. I had long desired to keep 
 pigs. Local sanitary prohibition had been re 
 voked. 
 
 At any rate, I feel like a Shylock when I think 
 of subsisting on one, either, or both of those pigs. 
 Sometimes I wonder if I am as big a fool as I
 
 264 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 look. I have been told so plainly by some per 
 sons. I have been assured by others that such is 
 not the case. There seems to be some uncertainty 
 about it. I am undecided on two points. One as 
 to the fact, the other as to which statement is 
 complimentary or er er otherwise. 
 
 The ram came this morning before breakfast. 
 I went out and helped the owner lift him out. 
 He was a big white chap, hornless, with a head 
 that had a frontlet as curved and hard as an iron 
 ball, a massive neck, and the most glorious golden 
 eyes imaginable. They reminded me very for 
 cibly of "Krag, the Kootenay Ram." He and 
 Betty made a handsome pair. He seemed as 
 docile as an old ewe, but, as the owner said, a 
 ram is unreliable. So I shall keep my eye peeled to 
 guard against flank attacks. Armed with a club 
 I shall try to win him with appetizing food and 
 kind words. If he prefers to do business with me 
 through the medium of a blackthorn shillalah or 
 a cart stake, well and good. 
 
 Sunday, November 10, 191-. This morning after 
 milking I went into the sheep pen. Betty came 
 running up as usual, but the ram held back. I 
 imagine he did not feel sufficiently acquainted. 
 I threw down some hay and a few turnips and 
 watched him carefully, gradually drawing near. 
 As I approached holding out my left hand, I saw
 
 An Unchristian Wallop 265 
 
 the light gradually go out of his eyes leaving 
 them as cold and hard as flint. He stamped his 
 front foot, bent his neck, when I handed him a 
 most unchristian wallop on his skull that sounded 
 like a three-base hit connecting with the trunk 
 of a tree. 
 
 He blinked, turned tail and ran, wiggling his 
 tail. It is well to have him understand at the out 
 set that he can t fool with me for a moment. I 
 have an idea that the owner is laughing in his 
 sleeve expecting that I shall be careless and get 
 knocked endwise. I always wondered how it 
 was that so many people allowed themselves to 
 be knocked down by rams, when a little care, a 
 little courage, and confidence in one s powers are 
 all that is needed to insure mastery over the 
 largest and fiercest ram that ever wore a helmet. 
 
 Monday, November 11, 191-. The ground was 
 frozen for the first time to-day. This means a 
 speedy exodus for all the insectivorous birds 
 except the woodpeckers. I have not seen the 
 grackles for two days and I am sure they have 
 gone. The robins still have the berries, but they 
 will leave soon. The swallows have been gone 
 a month or more, the swifts being the last to go. 
 
 Tuesday, November 12, 191-. Had to take a crack 
 at the ram to-day. He began to stamp and to
 
 266 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 shake his head the moment I entered the pen 
 this morning. I did n t wait for him to get set, 
 but cracked him over the head hard enough to 
 knock down a horse. It did not knock him down 
 or apparently do him any injury, but he turned 
 tail and I chased him two or three times around 
 the pen to make the lesson sink in. 
 
 In spite of this I took care to back out of the 
 pen when I got ready to leave. It is undignified 
 to go out heels over head accompanied by the 
 rattling of two pails and the unfeeling laughter of 
 neighbors. 
 
 Wednesday, November 13, 191-. My wife is still 
 deploring the need of repairs on the house. Ac 
 cording to her the place is going to fall down very 
 soon if something is not done. I paid my daugh 
 ter s term bills to-day and a small instalment on 
 my grain bills. When the pigs are killed my grain 
 bills will be small. Not negligible. No grain bills 
 are negligible in these days of high prices. The 
 sheep eat but a handful, the cow but a small 
 amount, but those pigs! Och, wirrahoo! 
 
 Thursday, November 14, 191-. The first real snow 
 storm of the season. It was a dry, swirling storm 
 that lasted a good part of the night and left at 
 least six inches on a level. There is scarcely any 
 thing more beautiful in nature than the morning
 
 I handed him a most unchristian wallop
 
 Snow and Chickadees 267 
 
 after a snowstorm. The sun striking the snow 
 crystals makes a million of diamond flashes. It 
 was so white and smooth and unsullied this morn 
 ing that I hated to mar its smoothness by wading 
 through it. It was sharp and cold, but I had 
 no sooner stepped out than I heard that most 
 delightful sound of winter, the cheerful five- 
 syllabled call of the chickadee, and saw a half- 
 dozen of the fluffy, beady -eyed little cupids on an 
 apple tree. There is nothing more delightful in 
 spring. It made me feel good all day. 
 
 Friday, November 15, 191-. Some people there are 
 who will not embark in any important business 
 on Friday, such as marriages, divorces, real es 
 tate or stock deals, cross -continent trips and the 
 like, and when Friday happens on the 13th they 
 will do nothing whatsoever but cross their fin 
 gers, walk around the table backwards, and re 
 peat gibberish in order to stall the omens. 
 
 I am glad to say I never had much of that su 
 perstition in my make-up, and what has happened 
 to me to-day is merely the result of being off my 
 guard for a moment the psychological mo 
 ment, let us say. I feel to-night like the gentle 
 man in the "Farmer s Almanac" who is depicted 
 as having a trapdoor in his abdomen, which trap 
 door has been removed, leaving an unobstructed 
 view of his bowels for the curious public.
 
 268 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 As far as my feelings are concerned I feel that 
 I can go the trapdoor gentleman one better, in 
 that not only my trapdoor has entirely disap 
 peared, but my bowels also. 
 
 You see the long-expected contest between 
 mind and matter has taken place, and as is usually 
 the case, it degenerated into a contest between 
 different entities in which mind had little part. 
 
 I had gone into the sheep pen feeling at peace 
 with all mankind and grateful for all good things. 
 The big ram seemed quiet and docile and came 
 forward with Betty for his share of the carrots 
 and hay. As I noticed his evident respect for me, 
 I laid aside my club and fed them, talking quietly 
 and stroking Betty. Just for a moment my at 
 tention was diverted by snow sliding off the barn 
 roof, when a thunderbolt struck me just above 
 the belt and knocked enough wind out of me to 
 have played a sonata for the tuba with four 
 movements and all in sustained notes. 
 
 At the same time I was knocked at least ten 
 feet, and would undoubtedly have gone much 
 farther had not my head struck the side of the 
 pen, lighting up the atmosphere with a shower 
 of comets, shooting stars, pin-wheels, whistling 
 devils, serpents, and every sort and kind of pyro 
 technics. 
 
 I thought my breath never would return, al 
 though I groaned and wheezed and coughed and
 
 I am Knocked Endwise 269 
 
 retched. I had rolled over on my face and lay 
 there wondering what I had done to induce some 
 one to bomb my premises. Little by little my 
 scattered wits returned as my breath had, and 
 I raised my head to see that infernal ram doing 
 a grotesque two-step in readiness to flatten me 
 again should I come to the scratch. As he nodded 
 his head I had a grotesque idea that he was count 
 ing me out. So little by little I raised myself on 
 my hands when he charged again. I dropped flat 
 and he went over me like a shot and struck the 
 side of the pen. It was a wonder his head did not 
 go through. 
 
 After he had backed away I still lay there 
 feeling curiously sick and hollow, but gradually 
 feeling better and determined to lick that ram 
 if I had to bite him. 
 
 He was evidently in a vicious humor, for when 
 Betty got between us he charged and knocked her 
 flat. By this time I made up my mind where his 
 weakness lay, and again I raised myself on my 
 hands and knees and he came at me like a bullet, 
 but I dropped and he went over me as before, but 
 with this difference, that before he backed off I 
 had him by the legs and in another moment he 
 was on his back and I was astride him hammering 
 him with both fists on the nose and eyes as hard 
 and fast as I could send them in. He stood it 
 as long as he could and then bleated like a lamb,
 
 270 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 but I pounded him until I had to stop from 
 sheer weariness. Then I wrenched open his mouth 
 and filled it with coarse sand and earth. 
 
 When I let him up he ran his head into a corner 
 where he cowered and trembled. He was com 
 pletely humbled, but as a matter of fact I think 
 he was not nearly as badly shaken up as I was, 
 and I don t believe his head is any sorer than 
 my knuckles are. 
 
 Saturday, November 16, 191-. Pretty sore to-day. 
 When I went into the sheep pen the ram ran his 
 head into the corner and would n t come out. 
 I think he thinks I am the devil. I wish he had 
 thought so before he hit me that lick. 
 
 Sunday, November 17, 191-. The owner came for 
 the ram to-day. When he went in the ram ran 
 into the corner. He wanted to know what I had 
 done to him. I said he had charged me and I 
 had flopped him and filled his mouth with sand. 
 He roared with laughter and appeared greatly 
 pleased. Perhaps he would not have been so 
 pleased if he had seen the fight. As the ram was 
 unhurt I thought it would be as well to cherish 
 it as a secret. 
 
 Anyway, the devilish ram has been taken 
 away and I am sure he is much less dangerous 
 than before. Now I can let Betty out.
 
 Chuck! Woof! Thud! Woof! 271 
 
 Monday, November 18, 191-. Resumed work at 
 the woodpile to-night by lantern light. Got the 
 globe on the other lantern. It is the first time I 
 have managed to hit that one. My skill is re 
 turning. I only need practice. 
 
 I am wondering if it would not be a good idea 
 to offer a prize for the man breaking the largest 
 number of lantern globes in honorable compe 
 tition. It would be interesting to be able to point 
 to the champion. Then if I could excite sufficient 
 competition I could get my wood split up 
 promptly. And with my undoubted skill I ought 
 to keep the prize at home. I shall think it over. 
 It is worth considering. 
 
 Tuesday, November 19, 191-. I remember a man 
 who used to love to split wood. He was a well- 
 educated man and very fond of reading and re 
 peating poetry, and he had a way of splitting 
 wood with a grunt that all real wood-splitters 
 give and say it keeps them from laming their 
 sides, and as he split he repeated poetry. It was 
 a most remarkable and interesting exhibition, 
 occasionally with digressions. It was something 
 as follows: 
 
 "The curfew chuck! woof! tolls the knell thud! 
 
 woof! (reversing the axe) 
 
 Of parting thud! woof! day chuck! woof! 
 The lowing herd chuck! woof! wind slowly chuck! 
 
 woof!
 
 272 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 O er thud! woof! the lea thud! woof! 
 
 The plough chuck ! woof ! crash ! Damn that window. 
 
 I did n t think that stick would go so far ! 
 Man homeward chuck! woof! plods his wear 
 
 thud ! y way 
 And chuck ! woof ! Ow ! Ow ! There I did n t mean to 
 
 hit you! Did it hurt? Well, I m sorry. I guess I ve 
 
 done enough for one day. Broken a window and 
 
 nearly broken your head ! " 
 
 Wednesday, November 20, 191-. As a boy I always 
 dreaded to go in swimming in cold water. Most of 
 the boys would rush in with a shout and a tre 
 mendous splash. I would wade in and shiver and 
 hold myself with both hands until I got to a cer 
 tain point when I would go under like a frog, and 
 I wondered why I hesitated. It was so in making 
 up my mind to have my pigs killed. I hated to 
 give the word, and ducked and side-stepped and 
 stalled and dawdled and postponed and manana d 
 until I had waded to a certain point of financial 
 indebtedness, and then I took the plunge. 
 
 This morning I sent word to the man to take 
 away the pigs, and left town feeling like an ac 
 cessory to wilful and deliberate murder. At noon 
 I was back again, but the place did not seem the 
 same. I missed the raucous complaints of my 
 friends before their meals and their satisfied 
 grunts after. The barn seemed like Water Street 
 on the Sabbath deadly quiet. My cow might 
 low her head off, my sheep bleat until her tongue
 
 Bereaved 273 
 
 ran out a foot, my fowls crow and cackle until 
 their throats cracked, but the barn and the 
 premises reminded me of Goldsmith s "Deserted 
 Village." 
 
 And yet I was glad it was over. Spared the 
 necessity of buying pork and lard and ham and 
 sausage and knuckles and head cheese and chit- 
 lins and sparerib, I might in time pay up my 
 grain bills and be a free man once more at 
 least tolerably free. There were still the front 
 hall, the ceilings of the three rooms and the 
 dining-room to think about. On the whole I de 
 cided that I would n t give away one pig, after 
 all. It would save much discussion, some ill- 
 feeling, and some money. 
 
 This afternoon the butcher called at my office. 
 I was very much pleased to see him, as I had been 
 mentally computing the dressed weight of my 
 pigs at twenty-three cents a pound and upwards. 
 
 Judge of my amazement and my consterna 
 tion when he informed me that the smaller pig 
 was tubercular. 
 
 "Tubercular!" I gasped. "Why, you wild- 
 eyed, staring, gibbering idiot, those pigs never 
 missed a meal in their lives, never had a sick 
 day. They have been fed on sweet milk and boiled 
 potatoes and corn meal and ground oats and 
 have had dry quarters and plenty of sun! You 
 are crazy, man!"
 
 274 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 " Wa al Squire, perhaps I be, but I know when 
 pigs is tubercular as well as you know the law. If 
 you don t believe it, send down a vet." 
 
 "I will," I replied. And at once called Dr. W. 
 and instructed him to repair with all speed to the 
 shambles and to examine those deceased animals 
 for tuberculosis and for any and every other 
 disease under the heavens. 
 
 An hour later the doctor informed me that 
 not only one pig, but both were far gone with 
 tuberculosis, and should be sent to the fertilizer 
 factory as soon as possible; that he had found 
 in both animals marked evidence of Introsus- 
 ception, Valvulus, Enteritis, and Electropium. 
 
 I asked the doctor if that was all he found, and 
 he replied that that was all he had found so far, 
 but that by a more complete examination he 
 might be able to diagnose a few more diseases, 
 such as Thumps, Rickets, and Valvular Disease 
 of the Heart. 
 
 I told him that he need make no further ex 
 amination of the pigs for those diseases, but that 
 I felt sure that I was suffering from them, espe 
 cially the last. 
 
 I then asked him if these diseases, when added 
 to the tuberculosis, rendered the carcasses any 
 less valuable than if affected by the tuberculosis 
 alone. 
 
 He said that he thought not; that, as long as
 
 A Red Rubber Squeal-Bag 275 
 
 the tuberculosis rendered them of no value what 
 ever, the four other diseases found, and the three 
 more that he might have found, did not affect 
 their value materially. 
 
 I told him I was interested in the poor ferti 
 lizer man, who had a hard time to make a liv 
 ing, and that if the carcasses were still good for 
 fertilizer I should feel as if I had not lived in vain. 
 
 He told me that I need not worry about that, 
 and then, for the kindly purpose of diverting my 
 thought into a new channel of apprehension, he 
 said he would send me his bill when he had made 
 it out. 
 
 I feel as I imagine a small boy must feel, 
 who has saved money for an entire year for the 
 purchase of a red rubber squeal-bag that soap- 
 bubbled at the very first blow and left him 
 nothing but a red stick and a host of bitter 
 memories. 
 
 Thursday, November 21, 191-. It has been a most 
 interesting, amusing, and instructive experi 
 ment, and cruelly expensive. Yet, being by na 
 ture somewhat optimistic, I am by no means 
 discouraged nor cast down. It is hard to be 
 optimistic with a pile of unreceipted grain bills 
 on my office desk, and with the disturbing reali 
 zation that painters, grainers, glaziers, paper- 
 hangers, and more or less skilled and horribly
 
 276 The Real Diary of the Worst Farmer 
 
 expensive and highly paid artisans are working 
 on the ceilings for the front halls and three rooms 
 and on the plastering of the dining-room. 
 
 But there is a bright side to it. I still have my 
 pork barrel, and so far no medical expert whether 
 homoeopath, allopath, or veterinarian, has inti 
 mated that the pork barrel is afflicted with 
 Tuberculosis, Introsusception, Electropium, or 
 Varicose Veins, nor has any living person ac 
 cused my bushel of salt to be afflicted with Val 
 vular Disease of the Heart. There is great com 
 fort in this, and I can look into the future with 
 some confidence. 
 
 I once knew a man who built a four-hundred- 
 and-fifty-dollar piano-box buggy to match a 
 three-dollar carriage mat that struck his fancy. 
 He had a fidelity to his ideals that was admirable, 
 although expensive. Is there any reason why I, 
 having a pork barrel and a bushel of salt, should 
 not provide the pigs? It seems to me to be a sort 
 of sacred duty. Some people would be disheart 
 ened and quit, but not I. I refuse to be crushed, 
 although my pork has cost me about a dollar and 
 thirty cents a pound for every pound I lost and 
 I am glad I did not have the pigs weighed. 
 
 Spring will come again. And until it comes and 
 I know again the delights of ploughing, of plant 
 ing, and of cultivating my own crops, I may have 
 the real satisfying pleasure of milking, bedding,
 
 I still have my pork barrel
 
 The Rose of the After Sunset 277 
 
 feeding, and caring for my stock twice a day by 
 lantern light. And it is a pleasure to see them 
 warm and well fed and comfortable. 
 
 And it will be a pleasure to get about one egg 
 in three days from thirty hens during the winter, 
 and on the days when I get the one egg I shall 
 rejoice in the mathematical certainty that the 
 one egg is just so much more than if they had not 
 laid at all. Oh, there is a pleasant side to every 
 thing if you only look for it! 
 
 And the all-too-short winter days in the office 
 will be crowded with the intensely interesting 
 details of a general practice which will eventu 
 ally, I trust, pay those grain bills before the time 
 comes to contract others. And every pleasant 
 day, as the afternoon wears on and the shadows 
 begin to deepen, I may look across the square 
 to the west where the tall elms and the colonial 
 houses stand stark and black against the rose of 
 the after sunset, and as this fades into darkness 
 a single brilliant star appears, telling me that an 
 other day of professional work is ended, and that 
 it is time to get into my barn clothes and assume 
 my badges of labor, the lantern, the shovel, and 
 the pitchfork. 
 
 THE END
 
 (Cfie nitirrsibc prrs 
 
 CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
 U . S . A
 
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