52 FARMING IT 



east has brought a fierce drifting snow-storm in 

 its wake. All day long it has snowed and drifted, 

 and with increasing cold. The storm has driven 

 pedestrians indoors, scarcely a sleigh-bell is 

 heard, while the sifting snow whirls and ed- 

 dies and dashes against the window-panes, and 

 the wind wails and shrieks and sobs around the 

 building. 



It is three o'clock, there are no clients, and I 

 start for home. The blast stings as I strike the 

 open, and I have to pause to get my breath, then 

 with lowered head plunge through the drifts, 

 beaten, lashed, and staggering in the cutting wind, 

 while the fine, dry snow stings my face like 

 needles. 



Arrived at the farm, out of breath and half- 

 frozen, I put on my stable clothes, a heavy sweater, 

 lumbermen's felt boots and a woolen toque, in- 

 case my hands in heavy woolen gloves, mix up a 

 mess of hot mash with enough hard grain in it 

 to last, and a dash of cayenne pepper, and stag- 

 ger through the drifts to the hencoop. 



The hens are already on the roost, as the after- 

 noon is growing dark in the storm, but they read- 

 ily come down and fill themselves to repletion on 

 the steaming mess. I see that all windows are 

 fast and all water-cans emptied, and when the 

 last morsel is eaten and the satisfied birds are 

 beginning to fly back to their roosts and settle 



