st have hay. And before long, since we're to go in more and more
for live stock, we must have a silo at Alabama Ranch. Now that the
open range is a thing of the past, in this part of the country at
least, the silo is the natural solution of the cattle-feed problem. It
means we can double our stock, which is rather like getting another
farm for nothing, especially as the peas and oats we can grow for
ensilage purposes give such enormous yields on this soil of ours.

_Tuesday the Sixth_

For the second time the unexpected has happened. Lady Alicia has gone.
She's off, bag and baggage, and has left the redoubtable Sing Lo in
charge of Casa Grande.

Her ladyship waited until one full day after the time-limit imposed
upon her by Whinstane Sandy in that barbarous armistice of his, and
then, having saved her face, joined the Broadhursts of Montreal on a
trip to Banff, where she'll be more in touch with her kind and her
countrymen. From there, I understand, she intends visiting the Marquis
of Anglesey ranch at Wallachie.

I don't know what she intends doing about her property, but it seems
to me it doesn't show any great interest in either her crop or her
cousin, to decamp at this particular time. Struthers protests that
she's a born gambler, and can't live without bridge and American
poker. Banff, accordingly, ought to give her what she's pining for....

But I'm too busy to worry about Lady Allie. The Big Drama of the year
is opening on this sun-steeped plain of plenty, for harvest-time will
soon be here and we've got to be ready for it. We're on the go from
six in the morning until sun-down. We're bringing in Peter's crop of
hay with the tractor, hauling three wagon-loads at a time. I make the
double trip, getting back just in time to feed my babies and then
hiking out again. That means we're all hitting on every cylinder. I've
no time for either worries or wishes, though Peter once remarked that
life is only as deep as its desires, and that the measure of our
existence lies in the extent of its wants. That may be true, in a way,
but I haven't time to philosophize over it. Hard work can be more than
a narcotic. It's almost an anesthetic. And soil, I've been thinking,
should be the symbol of life here, as it is with the peasants of
Poland. I feel that I'm getting thinner, but I've an appetite that I'm
ashamed of, in secret.

Dinky-Dunk, by the way, is not back yet, and there's been no wor