Farmer's Glory

  Farmer’s Glory

  A. G. STREET

  With decorations by

  GWENDOLEN RAVERAT

  To

  EDITH OLIVIER

  who encouraged me

  to write this book

  FARMER’S GLORY

  The hours of gold come back to me

  That time has pinched (he can’t return ’em),

  The well-remembered chestnut tree

  (Or was it, after all, laburnum?)

  The rural rill,

  The shriek of dying pigs—I hear them still.

  ’Tis out of no bucolic whim

  I promulgate agrarian measures;

  But, now that Farmer’s Glory’s dim,

  And Agriculture holds no pleasures,

  I’d give a lot

  If I had farmed, when times like these were not.

  With many apologies to Punch,

  4th August 1909

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author’s Note

  INTRODUCTION

  I. THE SPACIOUS DAYS

  II. A CANADIAN INTERLUDE

  III. THE WANING OF THE GLORY

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  Copyright

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book is simply an attempt to give a pen picture of farming life in Southern England and Western Canada. Whilst the characters are drawn in some measure from life, no names used refer to anyone in actual life bearing a similar name. Should any rural dweller consider that his or her particular type has been depicted unfairly, it has been done in honesty and without malice.

  INTRODUCTION

  As I was turning out some shelves in the storeroom the other day, I came across one of my father’s farm diaries dated 1906. The principal entries in it were the weekly wages paid to the farm labourers, but it also contained many notes as to cropping, stock, payments for shearing, threshing, and other entries connected with the working of the farm according to the season of the year.

  For instance, in March there was a record of the number of lambs tailed, the payments made to the head shepherd, and also those to the tailer for his gruesome services. Later on in June came the piecework prices per acre for hoeing the various roots, and in August I found that Tom Scullard had mowed round one hundred and eighty acres of corn for one penny per acre. In these days it seems a lot to do for fifteen shillings, but I can remember Tom Scullard, and am sure that he would have been mortally offended if any other man had been detailed for the job, as he counted it as one of his privileges.

  In the same month there was the curious entry of ‘Hiling’. This referred to stooking the sheaves of corn. I am not quite certain in my mind as to whether it should have been spelt ‘Aisleing’, likening the rows of stooks to the aisles of a church, or whether ‘Isleing’ would have been more correct, as each stook is a separate isle of about ten sheaves. Possibly my father’s spelling was entirely phonetic; anyway, it doesn’t matter now, and it evidently served the purpose in those days, for I found that in that particular week six men had drawn eighteen shillings each on the ‘Hiling’. Some weeks later I read that the balance coming to the men on the ‘Hiling’ was thirty-six shillings, which was paid to one, Charles Bailey; his faded signature sprawls right across the page.

  I can remember him quite well: a short, thick-set peasant with a hatchet face. He was called Lawyer Charlie by his mates, as he always had charge of the financial side of their collective jobs. When the price of a piece of hoeing had to be settled, he was always the spokesman, and his great word in these discussions was ‘feasible’. Apparently to single turnips at six shillings per acre was feasible, but the suggestion to do mangolds at anything less than seven shillings per acre always brought the retort: ‘No, zur, bain’t feasible.’ Poor old Charlie is dead now. In my early days he was a good craftsman at all farm work, scrupulously honest, and he had a personal pride in the farm and everything and everybody connected with it. He was a chapel preacher on Sundays, and was greatly exercised in his mind because my father played cards. He would reprimand him for this deadly sin in the middle of a discussion on farm matters, and then switch back to the business in hand very abruptly.

  I heard him once say to my father: ‘Devil’s picture books, they be. You be headin’ fur eternal damnation, zur. What did Christ say? Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. Now about thic main carriage in Big Maid. …’

  On looking through the list of names I found that quite a large proportion were not entered by their correct names, but by nicknames. ‘Shiner’ was one; his name was Frederick Strong. How or why he shone I cannot remember, but in that year he appears to have received a regular weekly wage of thirteen shillings plus his cottage, so he must have been a stockman of sorts.

  Dick Turpin was another name on the pay-roll. This was a Thomas Trowbridge, who used to sing a song about Dick Turpin at the harvest suppers in the big barn. I have never heard it anywhere else; the last verse went something like this:

  I am the last of Turpin’s gang,

  And I am sure I shall be hanged

  Here’s fifty pound before I die

  To gie Jack Ketch fur hanging I

  Tibby Hi Ho Turpin Hero

  Tibby Hi Ho Turpin Ho.

  Dick Turpin was a jolly old boy, an ex-shepherd who had become a day labourer, and helped with the flock at busy times. He found some of the piecework, especially hoeing, rather hard, as he had not been accustomed to it all his life. But he was always cheerful; and I was sorry on turning over the pages of the book to the date of the Michaelmas settlings, to find this sinister entry: ‘Received back from Dick Turpin five and sixpence overdrawn on hoeing.’ Poor old Dick must have struck some bad pieces that summer, for I found that most of the hoers had a pound or two to come, and that Lawyer Charlie had four pounds eleven shillings and sixpence to his credit. But Dick was never a good hoer, and as he liked his pipe and glass I expect he had drawn more heavily than the others. Lawyer Charlie was a dour teetotaller, and non-smoker, and as a boy I was a bit afraid of him, but I loved old Dick and wish he hadn’t had to pay back that five and sixpence.

  But what a number of names there were in those days; carters, shepherds, dairymen, labourers, a foreman, a groom-gardener, and boys and lads innumerable. Boys were rarely accorded the dignity of name in that payroll, as usually their fathers worked on the farm and drew the wages for the family. A man named Musselwhite had three sons working regularly. He was a head carter, and the entries went like this: Musselwhite 14s., ——9s., ——7s. 6d., and ——5s. In the harvest a boy still at school came to work, leading horses, and I saw that he was down as—Punch 2s. 6d. He was a very diminutive cherubic child with an uncanny knack with horses. To see him bring a load of sheaves hauled by two horses at length, into a stackyard through a gateway, was to realize that there is a special Providence watching over children and dumb animals. He was rather a favourite of my father’s, hence the entry ‘Punch’; an ordinary boy would have been just ——.

  On comparing that list of names with my present wages book in 1931, I find that the farm is now employing about 25 per cent to 30 per cent of the number of men. One or two of the younger men in that 1906 wage list are still with me on this same farm, but most of the old hands are dead and gone. Yet the perusing of that old diary brings back to my mind quite clearly memories of those days of my boyhood, and I cannot help thinking what a contrast the farm presents to-day, both in its appearance and personnel, as compared with a quarter century ago.

  Whether that period may be truthfully described as the bad old days or as the good old days, I do not know. However, I have lived through that twenty-five years of farming, and possibly my reminiscences will sh
ow how the change occurred. If the present state of things be considered a bad one for this England of ours, perhaps someone will suggest a remedy. Why it took place I do not know; I only know that it happened. Therefore, in the words of Kipling, I will let a plain statement suffice, and leave you to draw your own conclusions.

  PART I

  THE SPACIOUS DAYS

  CHAPTER I

  My earliest recollections of this farm seem to be the holidays home from school. Possibly I took things very much for granted, but I can remember quite definitely that the farm was an extraordinary nice place to come back to from school. I don’t know that I cared very much about the business side of farming in those days, but the pleasure side was another matter for a schoolboy.

  The Christmas holidays were connected chiefly with shooting. My father got a lot of good shooting in the large wood at the top end of the farm. The landlord had large shooting parties of his own friends before Christmas, but after that rarely had a shoot without inviting some of his tenants. In January it was usually tenants only, and rabbits were the bulk of the bag, with a few cock pheasants and an occasional woodcock in addition.

  I used to accompany my father on these expeditions, and was very proud of his skill. He was a fair shot at wing game, but at rabbits dodging between trees and undergrowth, or darting across a narrow track, I have yet to see his equal. He and his friends were always playing tricks on each other, rather like overgrown schoolboys. A favourite one was to plant a rabbit skin stuffed with straw down a rack where a notoriously bad shot would go in the next beat, in the hope that he would shoot at it; it was infra dig to shoot at a sitting rabbit. As usual the best humour was the unplanned, for on one occasion a very good shot, with a habit of boasting about the size of his personal bag, went down the rack by mistake, and shot at the stuffed rabbit to the great joy of the keepers and everybody else.

  On rabbit days nearly every farmer would bring his own dog to help hunt, and it was necessary to shoot carefully, as there were dogs and rabbits running all over the place. One day, before lunch, someone shot a dog. Another individual, being a bit peppery, said after lunch that he wasn’t going to have his dog shot, and accordingly tied it up to a bush. We went on without it—it was a very wild liver spaniel—and when we came back at the end of the day, we found that it had hung itself in its endeavours to join in the sport.

  But the most enjoyable shooting party to me was a day’s ferreting. Two or three under-keepers would come with their ferrets, and my father would invite two or three neighbours. The keeper of our beat was an old wizened man named Frank Hard. He would always bring his own gun, and I would wait eagerly, oh so eagerly, for him to say to my father: ‘I don’t want to shoot, sir, if young master Jim can manage my gun.’ It was a very ancient hammer gun, but how proud I was to be entrusted with it. Throughout the day I was always placed in the most unlikely spot. ‘One’s guests must have the best places,’ my father would say.

  Presently the ferrets would lie up, the main party would move on to fresh ground, and I would be left with Ted Bridge to find the loose ferrets, and shoot anything that might bolt. Ted was a cheerful soul. He suffered from some form of bronchial catarrh, but he was a fine digger and drinker. He would cough, dig, spit, dig, swear, dig, and spit, in one continuous stream. On one never-to-be-forgotten occasion after a long dig, he pulled nine rabbits alive out of a hole, and put them in a bag. He then let them run one at a time for me to shoot, and I only let one get away. I was a very proud boy that day when we rejoined the main party, as Ted never breathed a word about the rabbits being first dug out.

  As I have mentioned, he was a great drinker. He could drink beer without visibly swallowing; it just went straight down.

  One day it was very cold, and he and I were sent ahead to a sheltered cover to build a fire, and put the lunch ready. He got a fire going nicely, and then tried the beer. Finding it too cold for his liking, he placed the jar close to the fire to warm it. When the party assembled for lunch it was found that the heat had cracked the jar, and that most of the beer was gone. Ted’s face was a study.

  One of the chief joys during the Easter holidays was connected with the water-keepers. At that season they were busy wiring pike. The essential thing for this sport was a still sunny day, so that there would be no ripple on the water, thus making it possible to spot the fish. Long slender ash or hazel wands with a wire noose at one end were the implements used.

  Pike lie absolutely motionless in the water until disturbed, and can be wired rather easily. At first it is a bit difficult to see whether your wire is round the fish or not, but you soon get the trick of it. Having spotted a pike within reach, you slide the wand gently into the water well above the fish, push it out to the estimated distance, and then let it drift gently downstream towards the pike. Sometimes you have not got it out quite far enough, and the far edge of the noose will scrape along the near side of the fish without disturbing it. When you judge it correctly, there are a few breathless moments as you watch your wire drift over the pike’s head, down past the first fins, and then you give a joyous pull, feel the weight of him, and in a trice he is out on the bank, snapping his jaws ferociously.

  The water-keeper who instructed me in this business was a gentle, lovable old man with a long beard. He is dead long since, but I shall never forget the happy days he gave me in the peaceful green Wiltshire meadows.

  Organized shooting being finished at this season, there were still young rabbits to be shot. This was chiefly an evening occupation, and the weapon used was a .22 rook rifle. My father was carefulness itself in the handling of a gun, and would allow no liberties to be taken by anyone in his company. The earliest smacking I can remember was administered by him in the nursery, because I had pointed a toy gun at the nursemaid. He had a great idea, too, of teaching children to connect cause and effect. The first time I accompanied him on one of these rabbit-stalking expeditions with a rifle, he said I could come if I would keep quiet. I agreed to do so, but was soon chattering gaily. During our walk he told me about it several times to no purpose. We got no rabbits that night. A few evenings later he took the rifle down from the gun rack, and I immediately asked if I could go. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want to get some rabbits. You talk too much.’ I remained at home, very miserable, but the lesson was learnt for all time, and what fun I had with him later on those expeditions, creeping, sometimes crawling, being especially careful never to put one’s foot on a stone or rotten twig, and, above all, learning to shoot with a rifle not only quickly but safely, always remembering that a rifle bullet goes a long way.

  I suppose boys still use catapults, but in those days I rarely went out of doors without this silent and efficient weapon. It has one peculiar joy in that you can watch the bullet in its flight until it strikes or misses the mark. The first victim of my skill was a sparrow on the cowhouse roof, which I slew with a small potato. I can feel it between my fingers now, still see the glorious curve of its flight finishing square on the sparrow’s chest, and sweeping him into oblivion from the ridge into the cow-yard on the other side of the building. And I ate him that night for supper, after roasting him on a string in front of the kitchen fire. Looking back on those days I do not think that I failed to slay a specimen of every species of bird and animal life on the farm with this weapon, save only the lordly heron and the elusive snipe.

  August holidays brought the joys of the harvest, both pleasure and toil. The main sport was the killing of the rabbits in the corn fields. I believe rabbits come under the heading of vermin, which is not a nice name to give to an animal which affords such a lot of pleasure to bloodthirsty boys. My father would stand with his gun between the burrows and the remaining piece of standing corn. The village boys and I had to keep back out of his way, but were at liberty to chase any rabbit that ran out on our side of the field. It sounds very cruel perhaps, but in those days to run a rabbit down, fall on it, and then slay it with one’s bare hands, was a gorgeous experience.

  Helping wi
th the harvest work, and, as one grew older, being promoted from the lowly leading of horses to the final peak of rick-making, was a satisfying pleasurable thing. Also, for this, I was paid in cash every Saturday with the men. More cause and effect.

  This record seems to be all about pleasure and sport. I suppose the business side of farming had its worries in those days, but it is difficult to recall any. There were good seasons and bad ones, doubtless. I can remember wet weather in harvest time and good weather. Good luck at lambing time and bad I can also call to mind, but nothing ever seemed to make any difference in our home life. It all seemed such a settled, certain, prosperous thing. Not that there was any display of luxury or any ostentation of any kind, but there was a spaciousness and an aura of solid well-being that is sadly lacking today.

  CHAPTER II

  I left school in 1907, when I was between sixteen and seventeen, and started in to the serious side of farming. The arrangement was that I should receive my board and lodging at home, and seven shillings weekly in cash, upon which I was to dress myself. It is a very long time now since I saved any money, but during that first year, I remember, I put away five pounds, in addition to dressing myself to my own complete adolescent satisfaction.

  Frankly, I cannot remember doing much actual hard manual work except in rush periods such as lambing, haymaking, or harvest. There was such a crowd of men about the place. Thirteen horses were kept; six ploughing teams, and an odd horse to wait upon the sheep. This meant seven carters. Sixty dairy cows necessitated six milkers. The Hampshire Down flock of four hundred ewes required two shepherds. Six day labourers were employed, a foreman, and a groom-gardener. A grand total of twenty-three employees all the year round, with many more at harvest and haymaking. There were four hundred acres of arable land, ninety acres of down, forty acres of water meadow, and about a hundred acres of pasture.