THIS WONDERFUL SEASON

Evening Star, Issue 18714, 16 August 1924, Page 20

THIS WONDERFUL SEASON

MACDONALD GARDENS AND THEORISES. [Written by “ L.W.G.” for the ' Evening Star.'] There is something very extraordinary about this winter—something that seems to point to one of those mysterious cyclical changes which Nature is over mothering. Who ever heard of tomatoes being found in a southern glasshouse in August before, as an instance? ’Tis something out of the way, surely enough. 'this is the opinion of my neighbor Macdonald. Ho is one of those who can still proudly boast tomatoes. True, they are scarcely what a God-fearing greengrocer would describe as “ extra special ” tomatoes, but they are tomatoes all the same. You might not recognise them by their taste; but one has only to think of modern whisky (as an instance) to know that tho test of taste is but a memory of a bygone age. Appearances (which is tho label) and the guinea stamp (which is advertisement) are what wo put faith in now.

On Sunday mornings ray neighbor Macdonald works in his garden. He begins by putting on his oldest clothes (ho says this gives him a glorious care-free feeling after the conventions of tho city), Wien he rolls his shirt-sleeves, seizes a spado, and frowns menacingly at tho wilderness. 1 do not believe in unnecessary manual labor on tho .Day of Rest. There are six days that one can work in the garden, I always say, and if one cannot find time on those days, well—there are always men to bo hired. In fact, I look upon it as something of a shame to deprive tho unemployed of the chance of gentle exercise in my* garden, and morning and afternoon tea at mv expense. For all one knows, the man 1 engage may not have a garden of his own to exercise himself in, nor yet money enough to buy refreshment dearer than beer. That’s my view, for what it's worth, so I generally employ labor. Having begun to work in bis garden, my neighbor Macdonald strolls across to tho fence that separates his _ allotment from mine and informs mo that it is a fine morning. Macdonald is very strong on the subject of the weather. Ha knows all about the characteristics of the days for years past; if the beginning of tho wet spell in 1902 was accompanied by an easterly or a southerly; whether the rain that fell at flood time was 5.96 or 3.97 inches in an hour, and so on. I don’t know how lie does it, but he is very certain of his facts, for he simply will not brook opposition, and he’s a big, fierce-looking chap. In the earlier days of our aoquantanceship I sometimes ventured the opinion that (for example) the Monday before our talk was tho best day of tho season. But I soon learned that I know nothing about the matter, and that tho Tuesday was tho best dav for a decade. He used to get quite annoyed if I argued, and would swing his spado; then we would agree that the Monday was a blessing and a revelation.

Macdonald is very enthusiastic about this winter.

“ I was in the car with a follow this week,” he said to mo last Sunday, after he had begun to do his gardening, “ and he reckoned,,that there was as good a winter here ‘forty years ago. Did you ever hear such rot? If lie had not got olf on his own account I would have pushed him off. Ho made me sick and angry.” “ But do you remember the weather forty vears ago?” I asked, mildly. (You see, Ins wife confided to my wife, on one of those arduous washing days, that his age is thirty-five.) “ Duuh it, man,” he growled, conclusively, “ I know that there has never been such a season here since white men came to the country.”

I said no more, and Macdonald wont on. “ Twelve years ago there was a fairly good winter, bjit it was a poor affair compared with this one. Let me tell you, there’s going to bo a change in tho order of things. The North has had the good weather up to 1924, but a change has set in. Nature repeats herself, ■ like history. At one time this was a part of sunshine and heat and the North was a place of mists and cold Then there was a change, and now there is going to bo another swing of the pendulum.” Evidently to make sure that I accepted his theory, ho launched out on a lengthy discourse about ice ages and climatic changes (he has read Wells’s ‘ Outline ) that left me bewildered. And Dion, as a grand climax, ho produced tyro of his remarkable tomatoes. “Think of those growing in August!” he cried, triumphantly, holding the wizened and frost-bitten fruit aloft. “Here, eat it!” Commanding]y he thrust one of tho specimens into my trembling hands, and dazedly I placed tho thing in mv mouth. Suddenly is seemed as if the climatic revolution had matured in my anatomy. Providentially his wife called him to prepare for dinner as I stood swaying by the fence. . . . Macdonald had dug his garden. Next Sunday I shall not countenance his Sabbath-breaking by my presence.