for want of fodder. The couple of cows, a team of horses, for which hay and straw might be mustered, were about all that had to be tended,—except, of course, poultry. The other beasts—kine and swine—were disposed of in salting-tubs; and when the beef and bacon were under smoke or in the rack, there was little more to do, unless with the flail.
So much the more was done by the fire-side, where a hundred things were made which we go to shops for now.
There may be more of these domestic handicrafts in farm-houses even yet than is supposed by people who live among shops. Let us see what the November work is in old-fashioned rural districts.
St. Martin’s summer is a marked season there;—the few days of fine, calm weather which usually occur about Martinmas. It is a mistake to confound this with “the Indian summer” of North America, as is so often done. We often read of “the Indian summer” as consisting of weeks of weather like our Martinmas; whereas, as everybody knows who has passed a “fall” in the United States, the Indian summer lasts three or four days, and no more.
The cause of the phenomenon is not understood, remarkable as are the appearances. The stillness of the atmosphere is profound. The nut falling in the wood, the tread of the squirrel on the dead leaves, the splash of the wild-duck in the pool, seem like loud interruptions of the silence of Nature. The sunshine is mild,—even dim; for a haze hangs over the whole country, so marked that the supposition was, to the last moment, entertained that the fires of the Indians in the forest and prairies were the cause of the whole phenomenon. It was wonderful that it should occur, every year, quite punctually, and last four days; but this was the popular explanation of the warmth and the haze till the Indians were gone far away, and the apparent smoke hung everywhere, as before, in the absence of fires to account for it.
The inhabitants do not use their Indian summer as we do our St. Martin’s. They give themselves up to the delicious languor that it induces, and loiter in the low and late sunshine, seeing the golden cob fall from the graceful maize-plant, and watching the latest flights of wild-fowl in the upper air, and catching the red and yellow leaves as they flutter to the ground. We, in our precious ten days of fine weather, have much to do.
The most important work is planting. Our woodmen and gardeners say that they will answer for ninety-nine trees in a hundred (in ordinary seasons), planted at Martinmas, and for not one planted after Candlemas. Hollies, so difficult to move to their satisfaction, must above all be humoured in their requirements. So we meet waggons, and carts, and wheelbarrows, laden with young trees; and we hear the spade in new plantations, and in gardens, and on lawns, and are tempted on all hands by the beguiling spectacle of planting. We all like to lend a hand, either in shifting the new tree to its place, upholding it, disposing or sousing the roots, earthing it up with dry soil, or staking it, to keep it upright under any
attack of wind. Then, the felling must get on while the weather favours; and it is important to build up the wood stacks, or secure the peat, before the rains come. The sheep must be turned out upon the turnips, and the ewes sheltered, and the bees brought in under winter cover. Lawns and fine pastures must be manured now, or half the benefit will be lost; so, while the ant-hills are levelled, and every drain and channel in the meadows is cleared out, the dung-cart and the load of crushed bones are coming along the lanes. Every foot of ground vacated by any garden crop must be trenched before wet weather; and all made manure must be not the less attended to. All the leaves that can be collected by the women and children living within hail must be heaped up in some place where they can be properly treated for next year’s manuring: and all compost, or material intended for it, must be saved from being washed away by the expected rains.
Last month’s rains having set the water-mills going, and the winter demands for straw being always severe, the threshing does not wait for bad weather, and the grain goes to the mill as soon as somebody tells that the great wheel is turning. The gardeners are giving the final pruning to the fruit-trees; and the households who love their orchard are clearing the stems of moss, and washing or coating them with lime and soot. There are early peas to be sown; and there is celery to be earthed up, and broccoli to be preserved; and dahlia roots must be taken up, and the beds deeply dug and manured. If we wish to open the new year with the promise of hyacinths, we must pot them now, and put them into the dark for six weeks, with a slight watering once a fortnight. By New Year’s Day they will be sprouting well, and before January is over they will be in bloom. This seems to be plentiful occupation for the few short days of Saint Martin’s summer, which is also far from being faithful in its attendance. But there is one more work which ought not to be delayed.
There are few neighbourhoods in which the labourers are so certain of subsistence during the winter as not to need the special care of the richer residents. The ordinary, and the best, way of exercising this care is by providing seasonable work. Now, therefore, is the time when engineers and landscape gardeners, or landowners who have a taste of their own, or think they have, are busy in settling the details of alterations and improvements in public and private property. November usually sees the beginning of changes and embellishments which will benefit generations to come. Pleasant as it is to watch old women and children busy in sweeping and clearing the grass-plats and walks, it is more so to see the stout labourers shouldering their tools, in the dawn of morning, cheerful in the prospect of a winter’s employment on the new drive in the park, or the squire’s new plantation, or the cut which is to make road or stream more available for public use. Within the house there is as much for busy hands to do. When the cry of the stag is heard from the deer-park, and the gobble of the turkeys, and the screech of the peacock from the paddock and lawn, the dismal last squeal of the porker comes from