We walked across to that wheat field, wasn't all cut.
There were one hundred acres of wheat there, all but
Half a mile long and one hundred rods wide.
Man, were we stooking the whole country side?
Golly, we could get lost in all that grain,
Two green Englishmen never seen again!
"Now boys," said Jack, "Watch me, I'll show you how to start.
Put one sheaf under each arm, that's the hardest part.
Then give'em a flip, they'll stand together."
We looked on, awed, it was really clever.
"Then pick up two more, stand one on either side,
Then place four more to make it round and wide."
"Begin on one row," he said, "then work another."
(I gazed at their length and said to myself, oh brother!)
"You can each take a row." he said, "The best way,
Reduces the talking, cuts out the play."
Unnecessary remark near made me balk;
Two hours of this then I will never talk!
Jack lent us a jar, gallon-size, wrapped in sacking.
"Contains water, that's all, if your thirst needs slacking."
We set it down by the stook he had made,
Close in on the North side there in the shade.
These fields, like the roads, run perfectly square,
East-West, North-South, easy to get there.
Now, roads East and West, you see are two miles between
But those running North and South at one mile are seen.
A Township is six miles each way, starting
At United States-Canada parting.
Thirty-six square miles (sections) is then a Township,
Each section with its number equipped.
The South-East corner section then is number one
Continuing West to number six and so on
North to number seven, now East to the twelfth,
The last, (thirty-six) well, do it yourself;
Four quarters to each section, (each half a mile square)
Hundred and sixty acres contained there.
Each quarter of any one section then must be
South-East, South-West, North-West or North-East you can see.
Meridians, imaginary tracers
Span at hundred and eighty mile paces.
These reckoned South at the boundary line
Proceeding North they do perforce incline.
With parting advice (much needed) Jack left us then,
Retracing his steps to the barn, figuring when
Would he ever finish cutting his grain.
He was thinking something over, that's plain.
Pretty soon we saw four plum fat horses.
Jack, behind, was a'steering their courses.
Now, back to stooking, I grabbed a couple of sheaves
And were they long and heavy! Each binding string leaves
A mild stinging sensation in each hand.
I jerked them up too but they didn't land
Under my armpits, only part way there.
I staggered and tried to stand 'em up square.
One stood on its head a moment then fell flat;
The other one just went that way, right off the bat.
There they lay like a couple of dead men.
How stupid of me! How could it happen?
Practice, I said to myself, is the key.
Then help thyself to practice-it's all free.
We worked together for a while right after that
No more repeat performances we vowed-that's flat.
We shook hands on it, sampled that water.
Darned queer tasting stuff it was, it caught a
Fellow right in his middle and stayed there.
What things diabolic would it prepare?
We worked for an hour out there in that increasing heat.
How many stooks did we count: I never repeat!
Then a brain wave struck, such a bright idea!
Why not roll our sleeves to our shoulders clear?
There I was with boots-don't want 'em bigger,
Cycling stockings, breeches, what a figure!
I don't remember what Bill wore, wouldn't help me.
I was the city lad out on the lone prairie.
Autos rumbled past, those drivers sure grinned
Real happy to see us. We weren't chagrined.
"So come on now, Bill, and let's get stooking,
Soon that rare beef steak'll be a'cooking."
Jack's binder was chattering round those acres few,
Cutting, packing and tying sheaves like binders do.
Every few yards he would let fall a bunch,
Keeping those lines of sheaves as straight as punch.
When you do any job then do it neat.
Always use that old bean to save the feet.
We knew it was noon before he unhitched a horse.
The sun had reached that point on his Westerly course
Where he lined up true with the stubble rows,
Those parallel rows of grain the drill sows.
A man dare glimpse that sun but a second,
Long enough for the hour to be reckoned.
We walked back to the house while Jack his horses fed.
Give me a cushy seat first then give me the bread,
Bring on that beef steak we've had on our minds,
Cabbage, gravy and potatoes-all kinds.
Just then Jack came in, the screen door clicked.
Something's a little off or I'd been tricked.
It might have been an unfounded notion of mine.
No one should be judged 'til he's had meat and wine.
How often a man comes in to dinner
Like a cranky bear until his inner
Being is satisfied and has had its fill!
The bear clear vanishes, the lamb reigns still.
All too soon our rest was over, that stooking chore
Was beckoning us (but not too loud) to come o'er.
Ambition renewed we started away
To do much better the rest of the day,
But that depends on the job before us.
Will ambition win or the job floor us?
Handicapped we were and heavy, who can doubt it?
A stooker's day is eleven hours, so 'tis writ.
Who tramps hours bending, lifting in that heat,
Trying to assume experienced feet,
All in the short space of a day or two?
I ask again, who can do it—who?
I am writing this exactly the way I felt.
I was willing to set to and tighten my belt.
The trouble began on the other side.
Four dollars pay a day whate'er betide,
That was the promise that made us so sore,
A shabby way I say to get us o'er.
What of the farmers' view point then in this set up?
They naturally, (no wonder) got all het up
When expected to pay four good dollars
To a man who tries, but mostly hollers.
One good experienced man, they say,
Can stook eight acres of crop a day.
I could close this thorny subject right here and now.
Both sides have been stated fairly, you must allow.
Still, I might just as well lay down this pen
As try to suppose that that could happen.
Can a man with a sore spot just forget?
Don't fool yourself, it never happened yet.
So here we were stooking again with firm resolve
To set more of them up and our mistakes to solve
And thankful there were but few scattered sheaves.
(Means extra walking for him who retrieves.)
That was a first class job farmer Jack did,
Not carrying too many, none of them slid.
For two hours or so we kept it up then agreed
It was time to drink, slacken up, reduce the speed.
It was fatal, our muscles stiffened and then set.
We flopped down at the nearest stook and 'et!
We had lunch each morning and afternoon.
Grateful we were for that life saving boom.
Bill rolled a cigarette, he was great on smoking.
That fire of resentment in me was I stoking.
"Bill," I said, "this stooking's getting me down.
Let's pack our bags and leg it for the town.
This is one hell of a country, let's go."
Bill said, "All right, but what about the dough?"
That was the sticker; true, we had some put away,
Was of course for the proverbial rainy day.
So we had to stir up, like it or not,
Surmount this jackpot, jump to it cool or hot.
We had only worked seven hours so far
And we rant and rave like a drunken tar!
So we struggled to our feet again and, oh my back!
I ached all over like I had been on the rack.
Some real blisters I had on my hands.
My bare arms just ached like fiery bands.
We both should have had stookers' gloves to wear.
Our arms (what duds!) should never have been bare.
Did you ever hear of sunburn and prickly heat
And blisters thrown in? They very near had us beat.
Add to this that water mentioned before-
The pains at our belts near doubled us o'er.
My feet, like the deuce they just ached and ached.
Mugs: was it for this our all we had staked?
Jack knew we had been loafing there behind that stook.
This chancey farming game sharpened his every look.
We found our place in that pattern of rows
From that inner rectangle each row grows,
Spreads outwards at right angles like a prong
Each surrounded by that larger oblong.
We quit stooking that first day at the hour of six.
One hour early and were we in a real old fix!
Our arms were as sore as a bunch of boils
Mrs. J. suggested smearing with oils.
"Just come here, boys," she said, "who's a squealer?
I have something that's a perfect healer."
She held up a can, "You can have a guess apiece."
We took a whiff. "Oh, sure, it's good old mutton grease."
She laid it on, we looked worse than before.
Our arms looked like four chunks of shiny gore
But it proved its worth, so bother the looks.
We will yet win that battle of the stooks.
We were up next morning early, before the sun.
Did we sleep well? like two logs, a twelve-inch gun
At close range could not have disturbed our slumbers.
At least we had no need to count numbers.
I dreamed I was stooking a field of grain.
It was the same old field-that was quite plain.
I came to the first sheaves all set to go
And was just bending down when-hey, presto!
Up jumped a stook complete right there ahead.
I straightened up, surprised, to walk I started
But nothing happened, I went back again,
Bent down, walked on, stooks rose like things insane.
So, bending down and in this crazy position,
I walked aside each row on this moonlight mission,
From row to row I went and stooks just grew
All over the field except for those few
Already stooked, the job in just two shakes
Was all done, I woke with terrible aches.
The dream vanished and in a flash I remembered
Those images were and instantly dismembered
Reality and fantasy sublime,
Fused almost by that flimsy mist of time
So fine, no finite mind can it express
Is, is not, is close to true exactness.
Another day warm and bright now lay before us,
Our sleeves down and wearing gloves, these would restore us.
We worked with a will giving it the humps.
That darned old field was sure getting the mumps.
It still wasn't getting sick fast enough.
Give us time, boss, and we'll sure treat her rough.
We were lucky that afternoon to have a rest.
A cloud gathering itself out there in the West
The sun's rays trapped and on its edge caught fast,
Threw dark'ning shadows on areas vast.
We watched those shadows o'er the ground striding,
The edge of the cloud their pattern guiding.
It was a heavy shower but not long lasting.
The hot rays of the sun soon resumed their casting,
Hotter they were with that moisture around,
Humid heat rising upwards from wet ground.
"Whoa, boys," echoed at the first drops of rain.
And the rain said Jack won't be out again.
He threw the binder out of gear and headed for home.
The horses' feet slipped on that land of sandy loam.
"You can quit now, boys," came his voice across.
He slacked his canvases, unhooked each "hoss."
We caught up with him as he moved away.
We glanced behind, goodbye, stooks, for today.
Now was the time and we both knew it was coming.
Were we making good progress or only bumming?
So there near the corner of the garage
We opened a lengthy wordy barrage,
Anxious to probe that "something" on Jack's mind
Hoping to settle things nice 'fore we dined.
"Well, are we worth four dollars a day?" up I spoke.
"No, I'll say not. Bill does more work."-I knew, 'Twas no joke.
I've bucked that same thing since my first school days
To keep up had been my sore spot always.
A young brother in school-was he clever?
I tried but did I catch him up-Never.
Again it reared up in that same old mocking tone
That same old feeling, mentally to me well known,
Again I was forced to that second place
It was quite true I couldn't keep his pace
I made one vow-time proved it silver lined-
Some day I'd be boss and never behind.
"We weren't experienced men, who ever said it?
But we tried harder, you've got to give us credit."
It's the results that count, Jack made it plain.
For the time being we would have to remain
Unskilled workers at unskilled rates of pay.
Well, that's fair enough, at least I would say.
There was for sure nothing more to be said than that.
No use arguing on in circles and that's flat.
We called it off, not that we were happy.
Some of our statements had been quite snappy.
It was now up to us and us alone,
Quit chewing the rag and picking the bone.
I don't remember clearly how many acres
We stooked up, neither how long it should take us.
The stooks per hour ratio was not high.
What could you expect, numbers always lie!
The hour per stooks ratio, it was high,
But think of all that sweated labor MY!
We would have to say, "S'long." The time was drawing near
When this tenderfoot partnership would disappear.
Strange is human nature, never content.
It ever was a roving element.
Change is the essence of life I do believe.
I got the change they who ask for, receive.
My manly efforts having received due reward,
That little nest egg in my back pocket stored,
I said farewell to my genial hosts
And now was on the hunt for other posts.
Bill stayed on; I wished him the best of luck
Retrieved my suitcase and that East road took.
For some hundreds of yards I walked without a care;
Was late morning, the sun blazing and I sat down there
On that case in the middle of the road.
And, judging by this Western Prairie code,
Whoever comes along with team or car
Will give me a friendly lift, near or far.
I cogitated in retrospect, summed things up.
What good fortune did the tea leaves show in the cup?
To me it had been a comforting thought-
Real luck to be with a farmer who taught
Method and neatness, his whole place showed it.
First impression good-to them I owed it.
I trudged on some distance farther then sat again
A man can concentrate his thoughts on musing when
His mind is unfettered, free of strain and doubt.
I gazed on that house with trees round about,
Bay window, verandah on the North side,
Then West, in the dim something there I spied.
It wasn't an auto, too slow moving for that.
A team and a grain wagon, on it a man sat,
Their whole outline assuming definite contour
As the yards diminished and became fewer.
"Climb up" he said, as he stopped the team,
Another link in this slow moving theme.
The road swings on a curve round that Central Butte hill
That East-West design had to knuckle to its will
But it straightens out at its other end
And rambles East for miles without a bend,
Some three miles to the Butte there down below.
We made it: I asked, "How much do I owe?"
A bad blunder it was, of the first magnitude.
Genuine thanks is the mark of true gratitude.
What did he want a quarter (shilling) for?
A sense of usefulness was worth far more
And never would he accept any pay.
Would he descend to that commercial way?
Central Butte, those days, was a thriving little spot,
Typical of thousands of others, each a dot
Linked together in an orderly scheme,
Realization of that fond pipedream
When parallel strips of steel stretched away.
These branch off that main C.P.-C.N. way.
Green trees by the sidewalks and in front of the church,
Bank of red brick assuming a prominent perch,
A picture house, two garages and stores
Lumber yard, post office, with open doors,
Butcher shop, hotel and, lingering near,
Pool room with barber shop-plenty of beer!
Just below the bank there, in unpretending style,
In touch with man's voice for many a hundred mile,
There the telephone operator lives.
The village well abundant water gives.
If there's wind, then the windmill is willing,
If not, then pump, man, pump, for a filling.
It used to be (those days) on a Saturday night
Cars on the main and side streets would be all jammed tight.
Blue smoke afloat o'er each pool-room table;
Within, the noise of incessant babel
And sitting in there on the barber's chair
Some happy noodle a'losing its hair!
To gain admittance, one pries oneself round the door,
Gains a toehold, so to speak, then drops to the floor,
Dives into that sea of legs all around.
By wiggling and squirming a man is bound
To get out or land under a table,
Then he breathes again if he is able!
A two-room red brick school house stands on the North side,
Fine looking building discernible far and wide;
Then the Doc's office, located on Main
And the Hospital for the treatment of pain.
The Drug Store, that parasite of both,
Hugs the Doc's place and feeds fat on his growth.
Don't forget the Printing Office, that local rag
Where a guy's printed up just for leaving his bag
In his hotel room, his name marked on it
And he from the next village, doggonit!
Like printers' devils they sleuth for their men,
Set them up, embellish, mighty's the pen!
There's the curling rink, reserved for that Winter game.
Sometimes an exhibition takes place in the same.
There's welding, smithing and machine shop work.
The boss can make any old gadget perk.
The "Chink" in his laundry, landing big biz;
The dough-punching Scot, his stuff light as fizz.
The Funeral Parlor business, almost a racket,
It thrives on the dead, a profitable packet;
Insurance agencies and watch fixing,
A few more and that completes the mixing.
The village barn has ample resources,
Good feed and stabling for farmers' horses.
It was in the pool-room that end of August day
My suitcase I set down there out of the way.
I inquired of Bill (having learned his name).
He was oldish, stooped, and a little lame.
I asked him if he knew of anyone
Who was wanting to take a good man on?
He did: "You see that shack [pointing] there on the hill.
Just walk along the track a mile, keep on, until
You come to the road, then walk West awhile,
Oh, I'd say for about another mile."
Then I woke up and said, "Of course, I know.
I came down that road just an hour ago."
"But," I said, "I'm not allowed to walk on the track."
(That stern English law, you see, was holding me back.)
"Sure, take the track. It's much the shorter way.
You can walk tracks here any time of the day."
And I can see him now perfect and clear
As I said "Thank you" back those twenty year.
Old Bill has gone to his rest, many more have too.
Men I worked for in those early years, men I knew,
Some have left for other lands far and wide.
Some will be here for keeps what e'er betide.
This World moves on, impervious to change.
Time holds the arrows and Time has the range.
So there I was, now retracing my steps once more
To that East-West road now less happy than before.
Then I rode in style, now the going's rough.
Track walking's meant for jail birds, for they're tough.
A man trips along like a gentle maid
Or strides like a giant, way those ties are laid!
At last I leave those tracks and gain that uphill road
I'm looking for that shack, that bachelor abode.
It's on the South side, there against the hill,
Owned by Kenny as told to me by Bill.
Bill said Kenny was peculiar in some ways,
But I'm not worrying, believe me, not at all.
I'm out to see that farmer on a business call.
Three times upon his door I thumped and then three more.
Nothing happened, not at home, I'll go. Then I saw
A tall figure from the barn come striding.
So there it was he had been a'hiding!
"You are looking for a stooker? Well, I'm the man!"
I hired myself in advance in this my new post.
But not quite so easy, it doesn't do to boast.
Kenny was quite a character from way down East,
Of his long nose and length I shall say the least.
His voice was striking, kind of oflah-de-dah!
Sounds silly in a man, a social bar.
I'm not out to criticize but just explaining.
Without fear or favor I'll take that attitude.
I may incur wrath or receive true gratitude.
Bachelor he was, truly the title fitted.
His love and money on those work horses frittered,
Horses he had, weighing a ton at least.
He pampered each like a perfect show beast.
Those horses were supposed to increase his earnings.
They increased in fat at the expense of his pockets.
He finally lost the farm and all the profits.
His one-room shack about sixteen or so feet square
Possessed all the essentials all crowded in there.
Four-foot bed in one corner, coats for sheets.
A small "homesteader" stove to cook his eats;
Three-burner oil stove, instead, in the Summer time.
A four-foot square table with none too steady props,
Hand bowl on frame with pail under to catch the slops.
The paper on the half-inch board closing the studs
Ripped and torn and hanging in shreds like faulty goods.
The mice scamp'ring there up and down between,
Coming out, sittin' round, waiting to be seen;
Then, at night when a fellow's just about asleep,
Sounds of such mighty scurrying of tiny feet
Startles him into thinking rats are on the beat.
It wasn't so much the mice as those countless flies
For every one killed a thousand more would rise.
The heat there in the middle of the day,
The bacon sizzling and the flies well-say,
I'd sooner almost get outdo without the grub.
A man could sit down doing nothing and the sweat
Would ooze up out of him and drip on the floor wet.
The shade temp would reach eighty, maybe higher too.
The sun wasn't particular what he would do.
But the nights were getting cool and cooler.
When the sun retired cold was the ruler.
In a coupla weeks the cold would slip to the freeze.
But say, why go out and look around for trouble?
It always hunts a man around on the double!
I stooked two days for Kenny. He came out as well
And was he a fast stooker, that boy! I can tell.
He just stooped down and clawed a bunch of sheaves,
A few quick motions then a stook upheaves.
Down a row he goes and stooks come a'popping.
Why did he hire me? I couldn't figure it out
But I received full pay. Ken was gen'rous, no doubt.
I was there on Sunday and wasn't it a day!
I slept in, Ken rolled out to feed his horses hay.
Then he returned to make us each a meal.
How could any man more satisfied feel?
"Breakfast's ready," he says. So I just turn around,
Stick my feet out, they land right under the table.
Come, I sez to myself, I'm ready and able!.
The afternoon was hot, so right there near the shack
I took my shirts and socks and had a mighty whack
At catching up on washing: bachelors
(I make a guess) each washing day abhor.
And, judging by the faded looks of some of them,
They just do not believe it is perfectly clear,
That "Cleanliness is next to Godliness" here.
When I was through, there on the shack the tub I hung.
With it other utensils were already strung.
There was always plenty of room outside.
More than an extra chair we couldn't hide
Inside that shack. The flies almost had possession,
The fly papers were full, the fly swat was worn out,
And did the screen door fit? I interject a doubt.
Forgive me, Kenny. I am a little unfair.
Every house had flies (except in one were they there).
Neither was every screen a perfect fit.
But this subject, please let me now change it.
A shiny black stallion I recall to mind
A real trotting horse was hea real fast pacer
He had the build and the weight-he was a racer.
How Kenny acquired him I'm sure I do not know.
He knew one thing perfectly, that was how to go.
Kenny had a light two-wheeled racing cart.
Good fortune smiled down and gave me the part
Of enraptured partner on that one trip to town.
Could I but describe that true thrilling performance
It would have to be in words of true romance.
The stallion is maneuvered between the shafts.
He steps forward, retreats, paws the ground. Kenny laughs.
I hold the lines tight until he climbs in place
Then make a leap for the remaining space,
'Fore I settle, that stud's wild to show his mettle.
Kenny eases up just a little on the lines.
The black bounces to the road, to be gone he pines.
Now we are on the straight road, the road to the town.
That horse just wants to go, but first he wants to clown.
So Ken holds him till his feet he gathers.
He must calm the horse before he lathers.
Now Ken whistles kind of low, gives the horse his head.
With two jumps he's away on a mighty gallop.
This is fatal in a trotting horse, this must stop.
So he reins him back firmly to a steady trot.
The black a'fighting that curb bit with all he's got,
He whistles low again, leaning forward,
His feet firm braced and set against the board.
Slightly the lines ease along the stallion's back.
He understands his master and knows what he needs.
He settles into a rhythmic fast trotting speed.
But faster and still faster yet, that true stud horse
Slices the air cleanly on that down sloping course,
His head held erect and his nostrils flared,
The muscles rippling, the shiny back bared.
Those miles recede under that perfect tattoo of feet,
The whirr and sway of those seemingly spokeless wheels,
Wondrous exhilaration, almost the head reels.
Not a word spoken, thought of, on that thrilling trip.
Would a man fine synchronized mechanism strip?
Would a man fool-like destroy that rhythm?
Then God help him, there's something wrong with him.
Rhythm, symmetry, that poetry of motion,
A thousand things there are here, if man but sees them.
But he's cluttered in dross and never perceives them.
We make a swift turn, now heading south for the town
Both wheels slip, the outer bearing hard on the crown.
Another horse and rig shows up in front,
Fair legitimate prey for us to hunt.
Excitement within me rises to fever pitch.
Kenny, still leaning forward, sits there like the Sphinx.
Match of wits coming up, each will win, so he thinks.
Two hundred yards between us on that last mile strip,
Central Butte, that village marks the end of the trip.
Can we catch him, overtake him in the time
Or will Kenny or the horse break the rhyme?
lean forward, tongue-tied and jam my feet down.
He's urging the black still faster in his paces.
Great guns! We're gaining, we're edging up on places.
But Herb, our good neighbor, was he going to sleep?
That slight chancey lead he was determined to keep.
He came from the north, heading south, you heed,
Clears the intersection with but few seconds' lead.
Stamina will tell, though, in the final showing.
Each horse is striving, at his master's insistence,
One to shorten, the other to hold the distance.
But still Ken sits immovable, his face a mask.
He whispers low, grim concentration on his task
The horses' feet a whirl, a tangled maze.
I glance to the other horse in a daze.
We've gained half the distance in this mighty effort.
This horse is made of real stuff-he has what it takes.
No cash in this but sport, that most worthy of stakes.
Then that black gives a whinny, long and derisive,
Knock out blow to the other, complete, decisive.
He just eats up that distance there between.
Was he to be licked by that other cheap spalpeen?
Then right alongside he goes completely berserk.
That hot fire of success a'burning bright within
He flashes to the Butte in a glorious win.
What a horse! what a ride! and now it was done.
And all that excitement in a few minutes' run!
My first and last ride behind that pacer
To heck with farming, I'll be a racer!
But how would I start and then would it be easy?
Might as well forget it, keep the feet on the ground
We're attuned to the ground and it's a homely sound.
I phoned from Kenny's place once. Yes he had the phone.
It caters to gossip but not to that alone.
It is a blessed boon here in the West,
In spite of some abuse and pointed jest.
It gets the dickens when all that's heard is chickens,
While a man waits and you don't have to believe it.
But I would sometimes sooner heave than reprieve it!
I finished at Kenny's so now where would I go?
Well, another little job showed up-so
I took the West road which winds round the hill,
Followed that familiar road, until
I came to a little white house with big red barn,
There against the hill's west side where the road runs straight.
Familiar house to be, I entered the gate.
A slim black-haired young man opened the door.
I set my well worn case down and-"Good day," I said.
He appraised my garb, took in what I wore
Then returned the salute and shook his head.
Would my gray tweeds (still green) for him bar me working?
Had he heard from Jack I had indulged in shirking?
Give a dog a bad name and it's always lurking.
My fears were unfounded and that to me was balm:
Twenty acres of oats-twenty cents an acre.
He was Doc's tenant and Doc owned the farm.
"But the job's yours if you want to take 'er."
He said he couldn't hire at four dollars a day.
The idea was Doc's and he was the one to say.
Only four dollars-I declined-not enough pay.
So here ends my short apprenticeship to stooking.
It ended unexpectedly the way things do.
But something else in the pot was cooking.
And Jack (this Jack) was the medium who
For better or worse, started that chain of events
Which dropped me in a motley throng of rowdy gents,
The darndest rarin' bunch of cussin' arrogants!
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