My pal Bill (of stooking days) he was threshing, too.
A few miles north, near Lawson, there he worked his time.
He was free and needed a job to do,
And sure, to be a hired man's no crime.
Bill threshed on Ed's place and all Winter there he stayed.
He mentioned me to Ed and my next move was made.
I stayed with Ed six weeks and did some work and played.
Ed was from Quebec and a hustler through and through;
A fine all round stockman, his horses rolling fat,
Mile and a half north he lived, there's the clue.
Two green men around – can you stomach that?
A small white house, just off the road, unpretentious
With lovely plants in the windows on their benches
Upstairs none, just three rooms, non extravagentious.
Balmy September passes and with frosty breath
October scrawls "finis" to Summer's late green growth.
He withers the leaves in colorful death,
A beautifier and destroyer both.
In russets and gold he dots the field and hedgerow.
His premature visits lay our garden stuff low.
The vines are blackened and green tops droop, row on row.
October: a pause between the Seasons' changes,
Time's varied pathway between Summer's stifling heat
And frigid Winter's stark hidden dangers;
Nature's plain reminder; garner thy wheat
And bring in the sheaves now for the Winter's feeding.
Plug up those cracks for if you're wise you'll be heeding;
Throw in the coal and wood, of these you'll be needing.
October: the fickle, full of contrariness,
He whispers to Summer, come back, please stay awhile.
Now begone and in mood precarious
He consorts with Winter in shameless guile.
He presents us a time of sheer Summery hue
Then whips up a blizzard like a bolt from the blue.
He's the toy of two Seasons, one past and one due.
Down to zero he'll descend in his free-lance style,
This whimsical uncertain month of October,
Glassing sloughs over for many a mile,
Then relents, becoming quite sober.
He thaws out the ice and running waters trickle,
Shed roof snows thaw and drip from each long icicle.
One week no frost, is he or is he not fickle?
October: mellowed by Summer's sad caresses
Decks out a day in rosy garb of Summer's best,
Waves farewell in gorgeous sunset dresses.
Night and myriad stars fill in the rest,
The sun's light receding, then starlight replaces
Nothing, that whole canopy of points effaces
The cold moon, just hanging there, with blue light graces.
October: frenzied by Winter's insistent call
Skids down the temp. with furious wind and whirling snows.
Sun, sky and clouds no more - nothing at all
But murderous wind striking with cruel blows,
Nothing but blinding snow eddying and piling deep,
Birds on lee-side under the eaves for safety keep.
Sometimes it's sad but true, for one, someone doth weep.
An Irishman from Chicago, I'll call him Mike,
Was threshing for Ed, at the time I first went there,
Sophisticated and a rare green strike.
He could, I guess, tell a horse from a mare!
He set out one day with his team rubbing noses.
They returned in the same affectionate poses.
What happened to Chicago Mike - who supposes?
Mike had harnessed the team, this talent he applied
But the left horse was now right and vice-versa,
While both inside spread lines, now were outside.
These had no effect, just made things worser,
Just two long lines, crossed, leading to each inside bit.
The harder friend Mike pulled then the closer they knit
"To heck," says he, "they went all right, so what of it?"
He knew things were goofy, in fact, awful crummy.
There was no daylight between their heads - lummy!
And why the deuce did they get so chummy?
Heck, that one there is the other's mummy.
Ed explained it to him as simple as could be.
If the left horse stays left, then they are both right - see!
If the left horse stays left, the one left is right - phoo-ee!
Mike was good company and he added much zest
To our supper time talks no matter what topic.
Bill and he matched wits - I, a silent guest,
From their word slinging derived a great kick.
Ed laughed heartily in no uncertain fashion.
But algebra - that dope - sent his reason crashin',
Though for good topics he had a hearty passion.
Male talk inevitably switched to the fem'nine.
Well, that's natural, is there any other sex?
A certain damsel it seems, plain as sin,
Was being discussed from varying aspects.
I felt sorry for the gal, as heaven's above.
But Mike it was slammed the door with a wordy shove
"Hers is a face as only a mother could love!"
One night we slept in a shack, oat sheaves for pillows,
Three of us on the floor, was Ed's last threshing day.
Snores issued in undulating billows
And mice in straw, late on, how do they play!
Oats, like cheese, an inducement they cannot resist.
Loud snorings, jumpy rustlings, I just had to list.
Of such stuff and nonsense did that dark night consist.
Chilly morn filtered in through those murky windows.
Noisy dark died away and peaceful slumber reigned.
Now I could have slept, goodness only knows,
But Mike, waking up otherwise ordained.
"Hey, get up, Bill," he shouts, in his jovial way,
"Bring your pillows, we are feeding hot oats today."
Was I mad at his snoring? The horses said neigh!
Now the threshing was over and Mike had to leave
For that biggest pork shop in the whole U.S.A.
Then suddenly that idea I conceive
Within thy confines I'll spend my heyday.
I'll snap this prairie bond while the thread is flimsy.
I'll gaze on thee, Chicago, thou art my whimsey.
I'll mingle with thy millions - a nonentity.
The crossroads had been reached, the sign pointed ahead
Over snowy wastes to green trees and sparkling lights
Where millions lived, here a few existed.
I nursed the illusion to fictitious heights,
Determined I was and so, with Mike's promised aid,
My last and sad adieus to all the friends were made.
Yet are the schemes of mice and men often waylaid.
Moose Jaw, the C.P. station, this the very place
Mike and I arranged it - it was our rendezvous.
The time arrived, passed but I saw no trace
Of Mike's stalwart form, then suspicion grew.
To give me the slip Ed and Mike had so designed.
A verbal pact to me did most solemnly bind.
But Ed was right, this grudgingly I admitted.
Mike was the main prop, on him much depending.
Without his aid was I ever fitted
To find my way through those streets unending?
The longing, like Michael, vanished and I know where
He quickened it and he returned it to its lair.
So, unconsciously he set my course back on "fair."
The tale now continues in familiar vein.
Back to the farm I went. Ed wasn't expansive.
He held the joker and why should he deign
To show his hand or any inkling give?
He was waiting, sure, for the incident to cool,
Maybe guiltily conscious he'd made me a tool
But Ed was honest, he followed the golden rule.
Now back to earth and the job of stacking oat sheaves.
October is the month and before the snow flies
The straw should snap and be dry as dead leaves.
Then each sheaf in the stack moisture defies.
Ed built round stacks, long ones the best, at least, I find.
Sheaves can be pried out from each end and do not bind.
Round stack, outside layer off, then from the top unwind.
A round stack, therefore open, a long one not so;
The long stack from adverse weather well protected.
The first one exposed to all the winds that blow.
Ideas vary - this can be expected.
Some like round stacks, less loads per stack, less high pitching.
Maybe they stand firmer when the wind is switching.
Let both settle, the wind no sheaves will be ditching.
We started out, Bill and I, with a rack a piece
To load up with oat sheaves a full half mile away.
Pep's all that's needed mixed with elbow grease.
Brains not wanted here; it's brawn the mainstay.
So let's get on with the job and load the racks high.
Fill to capacity, less trips that will imply.
We'll show Ed we can do it and at the first try.
Wheat sheaf straw is rough, the sheaves hang well together.
But oat sheaves are slippery, like the proverbial eel.
So keep the load flat. You aren't sure whether
The sheaves will all stay put or, over, keel.
Oh! oh! that badger hole did it, I looked behind.
Fifty sheaves departed in a manner unkind
And they left a cavity perfectly streamlined.
What a mess! I almost inwardly cussed outloud.
The near horse sniggered, looked round and one ear sagged low.
Some sassyfied remark was meant, I vowed.
Sore, I backed the rack to the scene of woe,
Forked out a few more sheaves and got down to bedrock.
Carefully I built up the side and then took stock
And there was Bill a'crowing like a barnyard cock!
There is a saying: "He who laughs last laughs longest."
I must cling to something to bolster my ego.
Bill's muscle I allow was the strongest.
He had 'nough on but would he quit? Oh, no!
He piled up the sheaves about four feet 'bove the rack.
His team looked like two ponies hitched up to a stack.
Bill, away up there, looked like a glorified lack!
He waved me to go on; he would bring up the rear.
Old Dick and Sam gave a great heave and did they groan!
He shadowed me along almost in neutral gear,
His load swaying sideways to every hole and stone.
I saw the dead furrow ahead of me, all right.
Bill didn't and he realized too late his plight
And then he most gracefully disappeared from sight!
Plowing round a field, the furrows are thrown outside,
Till the center is reached when no furrow remains.
Foot shear leaves a dead furrow two feet wide,
Its full depth that of the plowing attains;
Its length same as the field less half its width each end.
Working the land, to smooth this depression will tend.
Its stubble growth with the rest of the field doth blend.
Consider a field of a hundred acres now.
This can be staked out into certain widths or lands.
With horses this is the best way to plow;
A tractor, pay load at all times demands.
Now plow a furrow at each end, a few rods in,
This gives enough room to pull out, turn and pull in
Then follow a stake line and throw a furrow thin.
Continue down the half mile stretch, then trip the plow;
A few yards more, then swing the three lead horses round,
A full right turn and you should be by now
All ready to return and plow more ground.
Retrace the half mile and lay the next furrow near
To the one just plowed, all the way to the end clear:
Thus a hump of earth, half a mile long, will appear.
With perseverance and in this fashion progress.
So will a streak of black the landscape decorate.
If the plowed and unplowed land - at a guess —
Are equal in width, then switch to its mate,
And, always turning left, plow in the counterpart
Where, at the center, a dead furrow crowns the art
In that treacherous "ditch" did Bill's misfortunes start.
I had a rosy view from the top of my load.
I saw his team, unchecked, pull for the furrow,
Then two side wheels in that depression rode
And as the rack teetered, Bill hollered, "Ho!"
Too late! Bill and his load, both timed to perfection,
In a manner unhurried, suffered ejection;
Bill, sprawled in that sheaffy sea - picture of dejection!
I never saw so many sheaves all in one place,
That is, strictly speaking, where they shouldn't have been.
I'll mention this to Bill - seeing his face,
The urge fled, my intuition too keen.
Bill stood, scratched his head and surveyed the sad scene o'er.
"Listen, Bill, there is a saying," I said no more.
But I was, in truth, stifling an inward roar.
Ed built the stacks, his two hired men forked the sheaves.
That high pitching knots a man round the middle.
Hunger so grips him he could eat dead leaves.
A meal though and he's fit as a fiddle.
Ed, up there in that narrowing circle unsteady,
Warns his enthusiasts, "Don't pitch till I'm ready.
One biff in the rear and I'll land on my head-y!"
I was too hungry, I vow, to hand him that biff.
Longingly I gazed past Ed (not at) to that spot
Where supper was waiting, its fragrant whiff
Lingered around me, most temptingly hot.
Couldn't Ed smell it - read clearly my thoughts?
I shot thought waves towards him, they ended in naughts.
Innocent make-believe lulls but never supports.
The last stack was finished and Ed pushed in a stake,
Three feet down the center to bind the upper cone.
That mischievous and playful wind will ache,
Trying to upset that stack all alone.
So, "Hey-hup" to the teams, boys, and let's close the gate
With a most pressing engagement I have a date.
I'll discuss and do anything after I've "ate."
Fall work was over, each job now would be a chore,
Like feeding horses three times a day, or chickens,
Emptying ashes, fixing the old barn door,
Making swing poles, to curb a colt's kickings,
Wielding the axe expertly on a rooster's neck,
Bringing home the cows at eve along a winding trek,
Maybe cleaning windows of each defiling speck.
Tidying up the loose stuff which round the oat stacks lay,
Fixing that post backed into by the old gray mare;
Her head swings left, her rump the other way.
She's rubbed a strip each side her tail, clean bare.
She's happy now, she's lost the itch and the wire's slack.
What good is a post if it doesn't answer back?
"Oh, show me a post," she sighs, "that I cannot crack."
Ears, big one, suddenly loomed large before our eyes.
Long ears, head size were all around us and under.
We clawed 'em, removed their whiskery disguise.
Then arose a pile of naked plunder.
Maybe I was green but never a convict born.
But there we were on the ground one snowy morn
Ed, the jailer; we, the convicts a'husking corn.
"Great stuff for cows," Ed said, "and pigs, they think they're tops."
I fancied a dozen hogs just a' running round,
With a cob sticking out each side their chops.
I'd work like mad to replenish the mound.
But gol, each pig doubled and I couldn't do it.
Cows grabbed the stalks and the game was up - I knew it.
Corn pops, quite true, but tell me, how do you chew it?
Corn in the West is served on the cob steaming hot.
I made its acquaintance I would like to mention
When I stooked, to write of it I forgot.
It calls for undivided attention.
Bill was wise, he didn't intend to start out wrong.
Quite serene, an ear I spiked, nearly bust a prong!
Then I tried to saw it in two but not for long.
A titter went round and, of course, that was our Bill.
I recovered the fork and eased up on sawing.
Corn is edible but the cob's pig fill,
Is it ladylike or hog-like, clawing
Each end of a cob with wet buttery fingers?
Chewing, where melted butter round the mouth lingers,
Surely then, this, correct etiquette infringes.
But the elementals make up for niceties.
Back to raw nature without any pretenses,
Better than in a dish — just twice it is -
But yet one of the minor offences.
I'm not fond of corn but just give me ribs of pork,
Sizzling and dripping fat, I'll throw away the fork.
Follow the pattern of the corn and all can gawk.
Along with each Fall's blessings come also the pests,
Nature's wonders eternal brought to fruition.
She nurtures both useful and other guests
To perfect form born of intuition.
Products of the field excel in rare profusion.
Weeds, unwanted by man, flourish in seclusion
And insect pests are an unwanted intrusion.
Flies, how they do prefer the warm and sunny side
There by that screen door on those bright September days.
By scores they slip in when that door is pried
Open by the pup who outside there plays.
Lured by flypapers to slow and sticky death,
Swatted unawares knocks out some hundreds' breath.
Poisonous fly tox the same fate to the rest spelleth.
It was fly time at Ed's for the papers hung there.
They reminded Mrs. Ed this was the season.
But flies suffered death and instant, I swear,
Under her swatter. That was the reason
She swore vengeance on flies and I am happy to
Give her the distinction, which I now do.
That little house was spotless where flies never flew.
Fall days passed till one night the flies were no more.
Jack Frost snuffed out the embers and the heat all sped.
He painted the sky steely blue all o'er,
Shook down the cold then tramped with heavy tread.
He tramped all night gleefully till wires taut just sang;
Till an outside door shrinking, like a shot, goes bang;
Till shrivelled flies like black spots, to anything, just hang.
November takes over and with leisurely ease
Shakes his six point stars of pure white aimlessly down.
They sift around, stirred by the zero breeze,
Then gently settle, a feathery gown.
Pounced on by the playful wind, snow flakes, dry as dust,
Scurry and drift along over bare fallow's crust,
Then filtering in stubble, they rest, as so they must.
The air seems full of snow yet it's not a snowstorm.
This is light powdery stuff, easy it infiltrates,
But difficult to mould in snow-man form.
Frozen so cold and dry it separates.
Given enough of it and wind for driving power
Snowlike dust whirls and drifts and deepens by the hour,
More wind then a blizzard and all before it cower.
Grotesque forms and shapes, up to eight or more feet deep,
Rise near buildings, stacks and other confined spaces.
A West wind deposits snow straight and steep
On the East side away a few paces.
The wind striking a building in its path is bound
To lift up and blow over and also around,
Then, all unimpeded, its erstwhile course is found.
So whither goes the wind then thither goes the snow.
On the lee-side is a narrowed space calm and still.
In this neutral spot breezes cannot blow
Fenced by nothing but wind snow here doth fill.
It is formed below the wind on striking the peak,
In the rear of its path around of which I speak
And at each end by the wind's now unhindered streak.
These drifts packed by the wind harden like solid earth.
If a fence is straddled maybe the wires will break,
Pulled down vice-like by the drift's settling girth.
To retrieve the fence a good sharp spade take,
The next move is obvious and I need not expand.
Or Spring in due time will sever Winter's bonds, and
Her thaws will uncover and free each barbed wire strand.
November days were crisp and clear after the snow.
On such a day, for stock water Bill and I went
The temp. was steady, round twenty below.
We were each dolled up like an Arctic gent,
Ear flaps, wool and leather mitts and leather lined coat,
Felt boots, overshoes, overalls wide as a boat.
I didn't feel giddy though I looked like a goat.
We took a team and stone-boat with barrel on top,
Two-inch planks, six feet by eight, four by four inch skids,
Pulled by a vee chain, it just slides to a stop.
It threw us jockeys, so stay away kids.
We were on but not for long, I bet a shilling.
One jerk, I hugged the tub, we both went a'spilling,
Playing leap frog in snow with a tub is thrilling!
I set the tub in place and set square behind it.
Spread-eagled I embraced the top like a first love.
"O.K., Bill, start up and see'f I mind it."
Now how from the back did I get that shove?
The boat hit a stone, frozen down, we didn't see'er.
The barrel thumped old Bill right square in the rear.
Slewed round, we scattered like empty bottles of beer.
I took a long jump, the team was starting to run,
My one endeavor right now that barrel to hug.
I missed the old tub, the son of a gun
More crazy than the most jitter-ist bug!
I barged into it, it barged back the next minute.
"You cut this out," I said, "I didn't begin it."
Then I went jittery too and jumped right in it.
But to imprint life then on imagination
The stone-boat, it was fun and we had lots of spills;
That first introduction spelt elation
As we slid and jingled up and down hills.
We hit a trail West for a strip of prairie land.
Intense cold like a knife sliced with an icy hand.
We turned our backs to it, just so much could we stand.
The breeze we encountered, just that and nothing more,
Made our teeth ache and breath in the nose near freezes.
Breathing is harder and cold numbs the jaw.
Unable to talk fast didn't please us.
Breath formed into ice hangs from the horses' noses.
Frost settling on hair each horse with white encloses.
No breeze at all then everything's right as roses.
The well was primitive, just a leaky pail and rope.
No pulley, drop and sink the pail then raise by hand.
So muscle it up, it's the only hope.
Flexible coils appear and then a frozen strand;
Three feet freeze instantly in contact with the air.
Drips are ice in a second under the pail there.
Water on our mitts changes to ice as we stare.
The team take up the slack then easy start away.
We try to prevent the water spilling too much,
But a little slops over in an icy spray
And some on the stone-boat forms an icy clutch.
It grips the boat and barrel in a weld complete.
Under that sidewise twist of the horses' hind feet,
Snow goes squeak, squeak, squeak, timed to each hoof's steady beat.
Another water hauling job I might mention.
No one tub outfit this but on a grander scale;
A water tank of bigger dimension,
We filled it with a stick-handle and pail,
A twelve or fourteen barrel tank of wood on sleighs.
We hooked up the team on one of those frosty days.
And made for a slough where water under ice lays.
North awhile we went then East on a well worn trail.
Now North-West we headed across a stubble field.
The crust of the snow eight swinging hooves crack,
Just two trails and sleigh runners through them steal.
The rough round shapes of hooves every three feet or so
Cutting through cleanly two straight-sided channels go
Smooth as the steel that moulded them - maybe more so.
Around a knoll and there over in the hollow,
Two acres of ice or more with snow upon it;
Some shiny streaks where the wind did follow
Patches of snow which into rough ice bit,
Held by weeds maybe, the frost taking and seizing
Or a gusty wind caused roughening in the freezing;
It's nature's way and a pattern not unpleasing.
We chopped a two-foot hole through ice six inches thick,
Then backed the tank till the rear end stopped quite near it
And like a net we used the pail and stick.
Golfer-fashion we swung our water kit,
With a fill and high swing then just upset the pail.
Five hundred gallons, five hundred swings, who would rail.
We each did half, filled it half, we don't need to wail.
This was a prairie slough, not in workable land;
Grassy bottom, water much cleaner, not muddied.
The team was fussy, didn't want to stand.
So the best way to pull out we studied.
It was an uphill draw right from the start, we knew
Could hardly be different hauling out of a slough.
The team was all set to go, their stuff they would do.
We climbed on top with just a few seconds to spare,
Runners to snow sometimes set held by static friction
But with a splash the tank went out of there.
They stood for no static contradiction.
Water surged to the back in one resounding thud.
The team or so it seemed momentarily stood,
Shouldered the backlash, then heaved and were out for good.
On these Western prairies when harvesting is done,
Which is about the end of October most years,
Horses are let loose to rustle and run,
Eat snow and fend for themselves, it appears.
Thousands of them keep fat and make a good living
Off prairie hay, the prairie much of this giving,
The rigors of Winter the older ones sieving.
A team at least is kept at home to do each chore,
Together with, quite often, the school kids' pony,
Rounding up the cows it's also used for
The rest beat it, together or lonely.
They will graze near or far where good feed can be found.
If no snow then the manger is right on the ground;
Much snow, they must paw for feed for so are they bound.
For weeks they'll ramble then may hit the homeward trail.
Often they are forerunners of storms approaching,
Uncanny they sense a blizzard or gale.
So to the homestead they come encroaching.
They will stand close by the trees and rub on the fence
Or hang over the gate expecting admittance.
Then, desultory fashion they retrace their ways hence.
A good grain crop then much hay and horses do well.
Each year they frequent, mainly, the old feeding ground.
For many an old horse, it's sad to tell,
This his last hunting, for him the last round.
Much snow, intense cold and blizzards, these lay him low.
He goes down, drifts cover him but it's calm below,
Just a hide bound frozen frame, there beneath the snow.
Both prairie wolves and dogs will in due course find him.
They'll chaw through the hide persistent, like rats through boards.
The foxy wolf hides till the light grows dim.
If no one near, in daylight he marauds.
They will fight the dogs if the dogs are outnumbered,
Then chew on the frozen remains unencumbered.
They stage a yapping chorus to wake the slumbered.
Spring thaws set in and the sun's heat hastens decay.
The stench is sickening on the wind's leeward side.
Voracious raucous crows round about stay
And carnivorous hawks won't be denied.
Flies, attracted by such a rare feast, buzz around.
That bony frame by late Summer hugs the ground,
A perfect set of bones, bleached, no stench, there is found.
These disintegrate whose media now is dust
And bones, wondrously white and smooth, become scattered.
Dogs chew them over for marrow or lust.
Life's physical end stark bare and tattered,
Fitting homily here for man's saner moments;
This spark, strong yet frail, called life, which decay prevents,
Will science bare its secrets in experiments?
A heart immersed in life giving fluid will beat,
Laboratory discoveries have proven.
What then has the tortoise man can't repeat?
Longevity-slow tempo behooves then
A thousand years hence when present knowledge in dust lies.
Man's physical body, immortally, will rise.
This and perpetual motion are the future's whys.
What is a thousand years? Of sand it is one grain,
Slipping through Time's hour glass unendingly.
Raise to the n-th till minds become insane
Trying to grasp, uncomprehendingly,
That time, eternity, infinity are one.
No beginning, no end, but ever on and on,
Time will still be young when all creations are gone.
Since time's beginning expressly absurd
In pure fantasy imagine, ageless years hence
When all quickening was long since but a word,
When gravity, worn out, no more makes sense.
Then the waters of the earth, at fabulous rate,
Will hurtle outwards, upwards, in torrential spate
And, reverting to gases, will evaporate.
The oceans' floors, deep with ooze and derelict wrecks,
Compressed to matchwood under terrific impounds,
Now will burst asunder in myriad specks.
The whole World in holocaust of fire resounds,
Rent by the white heat of earth's interior gases;
With light speed, its fiery uncontrolled masses
Blaze a moment then in oblivion passes.
Further imagine the whole starry firmament
With the sun, moon and planets annihilated
And in their stead a vacuum permanent,
An endless void with nothing related.
Should there be neither conscious or unconscious thought,
No atom of dust, no air or ether, no nought,
This fantasy yet illustrates the axiom sought.
A vacuum, negative absolute or positive,
Undeniably represents a certain "state."
This evidence being deemed inconclusive
I will state my theory and affirmate.
Distance, finite and infinite enters therein.
A vacuum, unbounded or not, puts time square in
Time eternal and infinite, its rate ne'er varyin'.
Simplified: consider then the common light globe;
Dwell on the near perfect vacuum therein contained;
Vacuum without time here, a futile probe
Boost till hemispherical size attained
Finite distance obviously then, a plain fact
Now, plunging to infinity, need I retract?
Distance infinite gives time-my theory's intact.
How can time be old 'cept in a revering way?
Yet think of the billions dead down the ages
Like a sleeper who in hours of sleep lay,
But a fraction of time, his sleep gauges.
A million years to the dead is as nothing then.
If they never wake, but does the soul live again
Ethereally in space's fourth dimension
Will never be solved and no man returns to tell.
Yet it is true, matter is indestructible.
Are spirits reborn in shapes that repel?
Is the fate of the wicked terrible?
The good reborn, are they forgiven seven times seven?
Soul transmigration I'll not believe though relevant,
And is man's ultimate fate either Hell or Heaven?
A man, his conscience truly obeying, can live.
Shun it and he becomes a hollow mockery;
A conscience slave, true, bears a cross massive.
The other like froth, skims life's rockery.
Do good deeds and misdeeds mean nothing hereafter?
Does the narrowed path echo with drunken laughter?
A man lacks the faith if this he would fear, after.
Faith, hope, charity: the greatest and most rare is,
In my opinion, Faith, this the cornerstone.
In faith's fulfillment glorious hope there is
No faith, no compass and a course unknown
But faith in self, our fellows and in the Divine
What unfolding panorama of beauty, mine
There deep in the sunset or beyond vision's line.
Charitable in spirit and deed, so does faith,
Abiding in us with good will, enrich the life.
Help, generously given, renews the wraith.
Enduring faith stems bitterness of strife.
Receptive minds, attuned to Nature's passing whims,
Joy in the music of her breezes; the spirit brims
More glorious each year till life's pageant fades and dims.
What a thought, sad and appalling that life will be
Forever lovely after I have passed along.
One day the sun will rise but I'll not see
Cloudy patterns with the sun's rays among
Fantasies of shapes and shadows at dawn and eve.
A new day born, then light, then a dying reprieve,
These things have I feasted ever-these must I leave.
Dear Lord, that I could forever live and each year
See thy beauties unfolding with no thought of death;
See the honkers on skies vee-mirrored clear.
List to the birds that trill to their last breath.
Hear thunder low rumbling far in the Western sky.
Gaze on that fermenting mass of black, edging nigh.
See, fascinated, lightning whose brilliance blinds the eye.
Hear the rain's dull thudding as it shimmers and sweeps,
Caught by the lightning's bluish gleams threading through it,
Thunder's crescendo as it trails the deeps.
Then, the sky washed clean, twinkling lights strew it.
Rains and noises pass, by fitful gleaming pursued.
The earth hot and dry, quenching its thirst, is renewed.
One day these will pass o'er my bed, lowly and rude.
To think that I'll not see the full moon and the sun,
The blue fading, the red ruddy, decline and rise,
The sun trailing, the other's course near done.
His blue light, enveloped by bright light, dies.
The Summer sun's late farewell, darkness defeating,
Grants the moon a short luminant span, but fleeting,
Ere he drowns him in a blaze of boisterous greeting.
Or, at the end of a Winter's shortening day
The sun, enfeebled, glimpses the earth and is gone.
The moon low bows and receives his O.K.
And sees the sun, lost in murky saffron.
To the gazer he's the end of the skyline trail.
Push off from horizon's shore and there to him sail,
So near he looks when ruddy, before he turns pale.
I'll never know again shadowy moonlight, soft
Bush fire smoke for hundreds of miles, slowly drifting,
Incense from burning wood carried aloft,
Exquisite aroma seeping, sifting,
Its last smoky breath as a forest burning, died,
The high sun wilting through the smoke, nakedly eyed,
A rare fantasy of stark prairie, woodified.
The earth's surface beautiful, yet is bound in clay,
Its dark under-surface primal source of all life.
Strip the forest of its shade, let it lay,
A battlefield of stumps, ugly as strife.
Nature, all in good time, unhurried as the years,
Will raise new generations on the old dead biers
And green luxuriant growth and shade reappears.
Life and all things pertaining to it-thence yonder
Its thorny trail and its end inevitable,
That dead certainly should make us ponder
Time's sea immense and in it a bubble.
"Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die."
Was this coined in jest? There could be a deeper why
Eat, drink and inly digest for the morrow's nigh.
Our parents indelibly set their seals upon us.
They fashion our life's clay in those formative years.
Their natures blended are bestowed on us.
We balk at restraint yet soar with the spheres.
Perverse by nature, yet do angels inspire us.
Right and honest living are things most desirous,
Happy these acquiring 'fore death doth retire us.
Mimicry, inseparable to the child mind
Like example, is positive and compelling.
This urge dynamic needs copy refined,
Far better good than disaster spelling.
Fashion then a cradle design for there's the place
To plant in the mind good seed and the bad efface.
Verily child neglect is a crime and disgrace.
Accident of birth, inexplicable it seems.
Deep roots, in some a rare and fervent endeavor,
Though nursed in squalor yet cherished in dreams.
The soul within yearns its bonds to sever.
Authors, sculptors, think on all men of worthy name,
Who gave their best yet, in body and spirit lame,
Found poverty's grave, still their works live aflame.
Man wrapt in self who sees no beauty all around,
Seeking for nothing but dross and of truth afraid.
With eyes he sees not, his ears catch no sound
But the sounds within his own stock-in-trade.
Misguided he lives, or so he thinks then too late.
Insistent calls and notes deep through him reverberate.
Sad, he laments those years he ne'er can reinstate.
Living then - a string threaded, each happ'ning a stone
Of different value and varying color;
The humorous-not costly but bright in tone;
The trivial-cheap, drab, vastly duller;
The happy-all can buy and does it scintillate?
The sober-priceless, on its pure depth meditate.
The sad-rare sunset hue, god in man sublimate.
These thoughts have far wandered. So now I must retrace
And continue the tale in the Winter's cold.
Not for five months will fair Spring show her face.
But now from Ed's place the tale has been told;
Cold days and mild or snowy were with us to stay
Rarely a fog marred November's shortening day.
Beneath the sun but steeped in cold, prairie snows lay.
Winter, truly magnificent, with grand allure,
Sparkles the snows with a million points of light
Snow dazzles the eyes with its whiteness pure
Glare, produced by the sun, affects the sight.
Sun-dogs (reflected suns) stand off on either side,
Natural phenomena of cold intensified.
And a few flimsy clouds sail the blue high and wide.
Our partnership was dissolved for a second time.
By the middle of the month I packed up and went.
Sorry I was to break the six weeks' rhyme.
I harked back often with a sad lament,
A Scotsman and an Englishman-what a mixture!
How could this for me be an enduring fixture.
Did I in the beginning think I would stick?-Sure!
A two-story house on high ground close to the track,
Between Central Butte and (but closer to) Lawson;
A big red barn there from the road stands back,
Concrete foundation, worth a small fortune.
The farm was notable for its Clydesdale horses.
They were Hume's favorites, this breed he endorses,
But Dexter, he had the stamp of the race courses.
So here as at Ed's I was choring for my board.
This to me was quite all right, things had to be learned.
Considering my appetite then I scored.
In Mrs. Hume a rare cook I discerned,
From Scotland full of Scottish hospitalities.
For five weeks I enjoyed homelike realities
When she left I left-for other localities.
Hume was short-tempered and I was still grassy green.
Encouragement, not cussing, confidence inspires.
A man in fairness should let some things pass unseen.
Clashing tempers adds fuel to fires.
So, deeming this then sufficient explanation,
These few weeks are slated for examination.
They will be full of marks-mainly exclamation.
Jack Frost hadn't deeply entrenched himself yet,
For we plowed single furrows to bank up the house.
A two-horse scraper at slight angle set
Scooped up the dirt just as quick as a mouse.
A shovel three-sided held by handles straight back
Hitched above centre gave leverage, then, with a knack;
The handle is flipped, dirt falls like grain from a sack.
Strips of tar paper should be tacked on all around.
Dirt dumped close then shoveled in place and patted firm.
Insulation perfect between house and ground.
Manure straw serves as well and please don't squirm;
This prairie cold imposes on it forced respect.
It's used when frost makes dirt not easy to collect
But oust it 'fore Spring lets go its latent effect.
Pipes carrying water, to be safe and permanent,
Should be located at least eight feet below ground.
Running water needs no experiment.
That pipes above function has long been found,
Depending on water pressure, pipe size and length.
This, in the limit, applies to any frost strength,
Which just proved this assertion lacks intelligence!
Pails of water on my memory are impressed,
As was that collection-and-delivery trail.
Much rubber was worn out and my arms stressed
As I staggered up those steps, stooped and frail!!
This was no sentimental trail of winding,
This, the first course (Prelude to Farming) unwinding.
Success lurks here, this myself I keep reminding.
Below that well of endeavor never ending
And I'm here referring feelingly to the pump!
On a dug-out our time would be spending,
A large excavation or sump,
Like a slough it collects water from melting snow.
Naturally it must be accessible and low
Near barn or in pasture where stock in Summer go.
These improvements (now part Government supported)
Then on each enterprising farmer depended;
A time saving device where stock are watered
With no physical labor expended,
In varying sizes to suit each farmer's need;
Their design comforming to rules for safety, plead,
Should give water, most years without being emptied.
This dug-out on Hume's place was not yet quite complete.
Still more dirt from the center needed removing.
So, four white faces with white stockinged feet
Were (under the eyes of Hume reproving)
Hooked up to the walking plow there upon its side.
Then at the starting point, to hold it up I tried.
The horses stepped, I plowed nothing then I plowed wide!
On reaching the end of that furrow supposed
I dropped the plow and dog-like followed it around,
Held it gingerly like a gun loaded
And tried to disturb a little more ground.
Hume held the horses to a steady walking pace.
I supplicated Heav'n humbly to give me grace;
But on looking back I hadn't received a trace!
The third round came up, Hume, by then had had enough.
"You take hold of these lines," he snapped, "I'll take the plow."
I slid all the way down, that bunch were tough.
"Gee-haw!" bawled Hume, the team going anyhow.
So we managed till politeness was but a fad.
Then dinner butted in and somehow I was glad,
So I hawked two pails of water like a good lad.
After dinner I tried out the four-horse scraper.
That's a bucking outfit, if ever there was one.
That long handle cuts a merry caper.
A green man on the end of it is up and gone.
This scraper has one handle but works like the smaller.
Holding far more dirt it is quite a tough hauler.
I learned that "HO" means "STOP" and be quick and call-er!
The horses were hitched to the scraper for this trip.
No need for me to steer this invention crazy.
The team pulled, dirt rolled in then it began to tip,
The blade I mean; the handle went upsy-daisy.
It took me with it and my middle went sky high.
"Stop stop! what's the pass word? tell me'fore I die."
Then "Oh dear!" I sighed aloud and they stopped-now why?
We carried on in this fashion and I went up
And then I came down and then I went up just part.
I kept shouting "HO!" I was so pent up,
The horses never had a chance to start!
Certainly many true words are spoken in jest.
This was no exception and our tempers were stressed.
My impressions of those days are not of the best.
Big high mounds of dirt where each scraper full was dumped
Shadowed the length of the dug-out on its far side.
It would settle down though always be humped.
Weeds would flourish and its nakedness hide.
Snow waters of Spring just bubbling and hurryin'
Would mingle with water from snows already in,
Its purpose fulfilled with water deep and eddyin'.
One day I drove the team and rack up in the loft
And threw off a jag of straw for bedding mainly.
To back, I could see, would need practice oft,
That railed built-up driveway, a trap plainly.
Two rear wheels fixed, two wheels and eight legs could swivel,
Like steering a snake by the tail or such drivel.
I almost bumped the rail then Hume turned uncivil.
He took the team by the head and straightened them out
And in the same manner finally the knot untying.
He should know I'd say what he was about
After many years of practice trying.
There'd be nothing to say had he allowance made,
But through inexperience suffering a tirade-
Lacking those home comforts, I never would have stayed.
Ed had numerous turkeys and so had Mrs. Hume,
Fine bronze turkeys fattening to sell, many a tom
Decked with blood red wattles and shiny plume;
Inquisitive, endowed with rare aplomb.
They'Il size up strangers, necks sidestretched and edging near
A truck or car, watch them inspect and closely peer,
Then with jump and wing flip on top without a fear.
With a loud noise shooing try to scare them away.
The toms will drown the shout in derisive gobbles.
The hens scoot and feathers tight to them lay.
A tom's throat spasms and the head fore and aft wobbles.
They feed and roost outside on the veriest cold nights,
On buildings, high barn peaks; they just revel in heights.
In thirty below and wind they'll roost till day lights.
Sometimes the wolf, harmless to man but death to fowl,
Hungry, in the dead of some Winter's stilly night
Slinks to the barn-lot on a murderous prowl.
Stealthily, the breeze wrong befools the dog quite.
Round the corner he peeks, waits and sniffs the air.
On that loft rail, fencing the driveway, way up there
He sees, enraptured, shadows on the sky and rare.
The rail though high is nothing but a delusion;
It's just a stairway and each bannister a rail.
The wolf, safe in shadowy seclusion
Confidently hugs the bank. Would he fail?
Then up that driveway sunk in that carpet of snow
Warily, his senses alert, his body low-
In one spring he grabs his prey and never lets go.
Most instantly silences of night are shattered.
The dog, suddenly awake, starts a fierce barking.
The turkeys, all but one are confused and scattered.
Distant dogs chime in, the turmoil harking.
The wolf, all victorious, with his struggling prize,
Leaves a few tell-tale feathers and tops the first rise.
A pause for murder, red stains on snow, then he flies.
Quite true, it's agreed, this thief is mostly to blame.
But November's last Thursday is Thanksgiving Day
Birds have vanished coincident with same,
Prob'bly graced tables where the righteous pray.
The coyote in cunningness the fox displaces.
Hound hunting, trapping, poisoning, shooting he faces.
Mice he eats and gophers, yet he's in bad graces.
Came the day when turkey plumpness spelt departure
In a covered wagon box. This the beginning;
In good time that morn I'd have to start, sure
With Dexter and Tom I'd be a'spinning.
The roads for sleighs not good enough, so wheels I took
A load of live turkeys soon to hang on the hook.
So yonder to that village of Lawson I look.
Down the road a'trotting and hanging on each line,
I went, rumps a'bobbing, the wagon a'rumbling.
Suddenly in true jack-in-box design
Out popped a turkey, flapping and grumbling.
The team were startled and on the lines I seesawed,
Then like a whizz-bang out popped another and he hawed.
In due time I nailed over the canvas a board.
Two turkeys arrived home happy but misguided.
Who escapes dying once will die another day.
The rest arrived at the place decided;
Then after unloading I drove away.
Back I followed the trail and feeling much relieved.
Hume said little though naturally somewhat peeved.
It was different later if hearing is believed.
The team were in a frisky mood and bantering.
A horse on the homeward trail is a horse renewed.
From jog-trot they were soon a cantering,
With the devil himself were they imbued.
From a start prim and staid to a race course finish.
So did time and distance rapidly diminish
And they circled the barn twice in a tape-line swish.
In truth I'll tell the happenings in a backward scan.
Mrs. Hume saw the team slowing with hard held rein.
We both reached that swing gate as if by plan.
She had no mitts as she unhooked the chain;
An icy North wind, yet no head cover or coat;
A prairie incident preserved by mental note,
Etched in grateful relief on those five weeks remote.
The team went through the gate champing hard on the bit.
Gate closed, Mrs. Hume her household duties renewed.
I bet a coupla bucks I'm in for it,
Circumstantial evidence being reviewed.
The horses were sweaty and the next day frilly.
Dexter, not being Clyde, received scant courtesy;
But Lady, not Tom, she was the favored filly.
So I combed and brushed them down that Saturday night
In an effort to remove those tell-tale traces.
My dark deeds were bared by Sabbath Day light,
The hair still rough in all the wrong places.
I imbibed a sermon, the words unorthodox,
And certainly I agreed I deserved a few knocks.
Right then I vowed to pull up and straighten my socks.
Lady by name only, otherwise any name
Her master she knew, and in all ways respected.
Quietly I went aside and touched a hame
With bridling intent and, as expected,
Her head free, the halter off, she backed and was gone.
I chased her in, this time I'd put the bridle on.
Hume, his presence slipped in, and she became the swan.
One Sunday with ne'er a cloud the sun's face to hide
And the family absent a'visiting bent,
There in the far West on the trail's South side,
There I spied a horse and on top a gent.
With slow and plodding steps against horizon's blue,
Their toy-size forms approached and in approaching grew,
Till, there in distinctness I recognized the two.
Rider Bill was wrapped around Sam's massiveness warm.
Sam, no longer young, tramping the snow with steady beat,
Had moulded Bill's legs to barrel-like form
From the junction down to the very feet.
He slid a quarter turn, I tried to yank him loose
But his legs gripped Sam in a perfect body noose.
So, over Sam's head I slid 'im, 'tweren't so obtuse!
Bill stood up, he was short but now he was shorter;
Calves round him, but easier through him could gambol.
In old Sam's eye was a twinkle, sort'a,
As he mused on our Bill and his amble.
"Will my warped knees ever knock knees again!" Bill sighed.
We had a good pow-wow and we laughed till we cried.
Bill with one sore spot walked to Ed's, Sam by his side.
On Harry's place, northeast of Ed's, Bob there was hired,
Young, tall, willing and mentally far from woolied,
With cityfied eyes and ways attired.
He gazed on farming through orbs unsullied.
Bill, visiting there awhile, became acquainted,
An English lad, but by farming never tainted;
His innocence sublime 'most bordered the sainted.
Hired men, like church-goers on Sundays, congregate.
Farmers, their wives or both come up for discussion.
This farmer at last has hired men a'spate,
But suffers dire mental repercussion
As piles of grub appear only to disappear.
He weighs the price of grain against their goodly cheer.
Maybe he'll have to sell another hog or steer!
Western farmers, to their credit everlasting,
Are noted for their liberal hospitality.
Strangers, day or night, who come a'fasting
Are welcomed all and no formality.
Land is certain but the elements reign supreme;
Pay checks often void after hail and lightning's gleam.
Strangers seen are safe bets compared to things which seem.
We were standing near the barn that one afternoon.
Bill was fast talking 'bout Bob, the one and only.
Bob was choring and we heard laughter soon.
Who could, though green seas parted, with Bob feel lonely?
Harry at Bob's expense had gained his happy self,
Through clean unconscious humour of a greenish elf
Whose upright happy nature never stooped to pelf.
Bob, the unconscious jester, but without the frill,
Added color and zest to scenes humdrum and staid.
Only two such can I recall at will
And in these, animals, glamorous roles played.
"Harry," quoth he, "Do you often 'barth' the horses?"
A rear-bulgy hog ran his erratic courses.
"Is that a gentleman pig?" Bill's eyes were saucers!
With this brief introduction, Bob passes the scene.
From this time and forward, of him I heard no more.
His life and mine impinged then parted clean
A passing glance then fate fast closed the door;
Like glimpsing a feast and smelling the savories,
A happy view then a mist obscures the glories.
The first page read then lost is the book of stories.
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