mic group that used to go to Ottawa as
delegations; that in his opinion the real Capital of Canada is not
economically Ottawa, but the ground floor of the Grain Exchange Building
in Winnipeg.

We may not all have been reared on the farm, but be it known to all of
us, our natural gravitation is back to the land.

Not many years ago also it was said that one large nation would Boss the
world; later that Soviets would do it. Both the Boss nation and the
Soviets seem to be reconsidering the contract. The world is a perversely
complicated technicality.

Meanwhile Crerar smiles when the Premier (by appointment) calls the
Agrarians "a dilapidated annex" to the Liberals. He thinks he knows
better. He smiles even more sarcastically when he sees Mackenzie King
chortle over that amusing fiction. He may have some use for King. If
the Liberal leader will be reasonable he may permit him to merge his
party with the Agrarians. If not he may threaten to rob him of Mr.
Lapointe and Quebec, and let him see how he will like that.

Last winter I met Crerar in a Toronto hotel. He had just been down east
proclaiming for United Farmers in the Maritimes. An ardent Crerarite who
spends his life watching Ottawa closely said as the leader came up:

"Tom, your one best bet is to make an alliance with Lapointe. That
combination could upset any other confederacy in Parliament."

Crerar smiled--warmly. He said nothing. At lunch no doubt he discussed
this with his supporter. The old ace of Quebec! When will that home of
race Nationalism ever get into the hand of cards held by Crerar who would
inundate Quebec with reciprocity? Perhaps one E. C. Drury can tell. He
is talked about as the man whom Crerar may call to the Premiership in a
Cabinet of fourteen Ministers of Agriculture and one Minister of Justice.

THE PREMIER WHO MOWED FENCE-CORNERS

HON. E. C. DRURY

MOWING FENCE-CORNERS.

A zig-zag old rack with its ivies and moss,
Just fifty-odd panels or so;
A wheat-field, a scythe and a boy his own boss;
He had the fence-corners to mow.

He slivered the whetstone clear out to the tip
Of his snake-handled, snubnosed old blade;
And he swung his straw hat with a sweep and a rip
With the sun ninety-four in the shade.

He thought of the water-jug cool as a stone
Right under a burdock's green palm,
By the leg of a fence-corner hickory half-grown,
Where the breeze always blew in a calm.