This is the weather and the season when, if one is asked out to tea or any other function, the reply has to be that we will go if it is wet but, if it is dry, we must stay at home because all hands will be required out and in for the harvest.
Ah! The discontent and the heartache I have undergone in past years when on lovely September mornings of dreamy sunshine, I would have to forego a delightful cycling picnic or a charming tea gathering of old school friends because the cows and the calves and the corn demanded my insignificant attendance at home. But age has so far laid his hand upon me that I can now bear these disappointments with almost philosophic calm — at least without too cruel pangs.
Have you ever observed the aggravation of being told by your elders in those circumstances that when they were young, they never attended so many outings as you and for their part a heavenly September morning does not tempt them outside the farm yard. Meanwhile no tempting invitations are on hand.
Our little brown chicken which we dosed with sulphur and fed on slops for two days is quite recovered. But she has grown petted and follows us into the kitchen having a keen memory for our kindness in contrast with the cruel peckings she got from her heartless brothers whose stomachs never gave them a pang.
A calf is ailing. Perhaps it’s a chill; perhaps inadvertently an overdose of meal. With such a large family, it is seldom all are perfectly well.