At Alderlea on a night like this, when a wind blows wildly in the treetops and blusters gustily about the eaves, it is good to come abroad to the barns with James, and follow as he settles away his last chores. These are of course, shared with the younger farmer and it is always interesting for us to see how perfectly the two work together to complete the set pattern.

The stables are never cozier than when high winds blow, warmed as they are by breaths and bodies of the animals, so comfortably sheltered within. And reflecting on this, we could heartily agree with James when shaking another flake of straw on the youngest’s calf’s bed, he offered “I often think Ellen that if a traveller were to be bewildered in a snowstorm, a stable would be a right good shelter to come to”

Outside the wind blew, not one seasonally edged with frost, nevertheless of Fall cool and gusty, making the indoors seem an oasis of safety and content.

There is a saying that a farmer’s goodness, indeed his religion we have heard and old minister say, is reflected favorably or otherwise but most obviously in the appearance and attitude of his cats. A pair of ours, silken coated, black as ebon except for the white of their vests emerged softly from the shadows of the group and pressed against James’ overalled legs for a word of attention, during a moment’s halt there.

“You haven’t seen the summer calves lately, have you, Ellen?” he said, preceding us down steps and along a corridor to their stall, where in a company they were cleaning up their supper of hay.

“Why, they’re done well!” we said

“Not bad, are they” he smiled. “These are only cross-breds, but they’re fair-good in shape, and growthy I’d say. When they get  a spell on the grass” he nodded, thinking ahead to the June time.

We like to follow him to that last rite of his round, which takes him to open one after another the shutters in front of the horses and drop handfuls of grain to the mangers. Not hurriedly but taking time to smooth a forelock. Or pet a velvet muzzle and chat with each one in turn. And tonight, names of remembered horses came back to our lips- Old Cleveland… the old-mare-of-all… the young mare, a comely animal we lost, of whom all, like the years flown, have now vanished into the past.

We came then from a world of animals, none anywhere we may say better tended, to the quiet house that is ours. Back to the old clock’s tick and the scent of maple sticks’ burning, to the peace and serenity of a work-day’s close… when a wind blows wildly in the treetops and blusters gustily about the eaves it is good to come abroad to the barns with James and follow as he settles away his last chores.

                                                                                –  Ellen’s Diary, January 23, 1958

Source: Islandnewspapers.ca