THE STACKYARD POPULATION 



FOR farmer, or naturalist, or artist, with all who know any- 

 thing of the country and, not least, country children, a stack- 

 yard is a place to rejoice in above most. It is a part of the 

 scenery of the country. It is a sanctuary. It is full of 

 life and movement at any hour of the day or night. The 

 farmer perhaps rejoices less than he once did. Not so 

 many years ago the wheatstacks, which were thatched with 

 old-time thoroughness, stood ' foursquare to all the winds that 

 blow ' through autumn and winter into the spring. There is 

 a case of an old farmer he deserved more than a local 

 name who kept his stack fifty years. He swore a great 

 oath that he would not sell until wheat was again $ a 

 quarter. Every two years his stacks were rethatched with 

 the care that old port wine is recorked ; and they were not 

 taken down till a student interested in the life of seed asked 

 leave of the executors to seek for a vital grain, if peradventure 

 one was left. But like their master every one had died. It 

 was not uncommon for a rick to remain unthreshed till the 

 eve of the coming harvest. To-day it is quite uncommon 

 to find a full, even a half-full, rickyard as late as Feb- 

 ruary. Something more than a picturesque and satisfying 

 diagram of plenty has been wiped out ; for in these days 

 this natural reserve of corn is cut clean away, and when 

 February leads to spring, little corn but what is being 



