Farmer's Glory

by A G Street

  Of course, it was not all honey. We had many setbacks and vicissitudes of fortune to overcome. An oil engine does not always start, or at least it does not do so until you have found out the reason why by bitter experience. It is dark until 7 a.m. on winter mornings, and electric lighting sets are not infallible. When one wrestles personally with a faulty connection by the light of a lantern in a hurricane of wind and rain, one sometimes wonders if it is worth continuing the struggle.

  But the job always got done somehow. It is wonderful what one can accomplish when there is no possible hope of getting any assistance. I think that everything that can happen to an outdoor milking outfit happened to mine that winter. We smashed the under-carriage of the engine house whilst hauling it through an awkward gateway. We arrived one morning to find that the wind had blown the milking-shed upside down, owing to our neglecting to shut down the veranda. We had it frozen up many times, so that although the engine ran merrily enough, the milkers refused to function. We barked our fingers, cows trod on our toes—rubber boots are small protection against this painful happening—we swam at times in a sea of mud, and froze in an east wind on other occasions. But each and every day the job was done, and done at small expense.

  Generally speaking, the cows gave but little trouble. They were eager to come in at each milking time, for in the bail was their cake. They became extraordinarily docile, and for the most part completely ignored the milking machine, giving down their milk immediately it was attached. The bull ran loose with them, and he also became quite docile. I expect that we lived so much with these animals that we took them as a matter of course. Sometimes when one left the glare of the light and went outside the shed to open the gate for another cow to come in, Billy, the bull, would loom majestically out of the dark, unconcernedly push by you, and take his place in the bail. I am afraid that we did not let him occupy a stall for long enough to eat a decent breakfast, as we had some seventy cows to milk, and could not waste time with him. So the door in front of him would be quickly pulled up, and William would be prodded forth into the pasture once again to make way for one of his lady friends. He used to grumble to himself at this treatment, and would presently come rumbling round to the end of the shed and try to force his way in once more. When one of us went out to see if the churn was full and wanted changing, William would be sure to be hanging about there in the way, but we had no time to take any notice of him. A slap on his nose with the bare hand was usually all the attention he got.

  It is rather curious to think that the milking and feeding of some seventy cows depended on only two men. At 4.30 a.m. on a winter morning the great majority of our population are in their beds. Very certainly the Wiltshire downs at this time of day are not thickly populated. As I walked to work each morning I seemed alone in an uninhabited country. Then far ahead a light would suddenly spring into being; evidently Dick had arrived all right and had just switched on. In a few moments I would blunder into a cow. Having prodded her into a slow and disgruntled walk towards the light, I would scout around and perform the same office for her companions. Very reluctantly they would struggle to their feet, and slowly amble towards the light. Ah! What was that? The ‘put, put’ of the oil engine commenced to chatter cheerfully in the distance. At this the cows abandoned their reluctant, sluggardly pace for a brisk walk. They had heard their breakfast bell, and now had a purpose in view.

  I had been warned that it was inadvisable to put old hand-milked cows on to a milking machine, and that January I was to find out the penalty for so doing. We had a slight outbreak of mastitis or inflammation of the udder. This often occurs in hand-milked indoor herds, but it is more easy under those conditions to deal with it. Isolation of the affected cattle is obviously the best method. With a milking machine under our conditions, in spite of every precaution, it spread quickly.

  The only way out was to take away the old herd and begin again with first-calf heifers, which I should have done in the first place. First-calvers, having never been hand-milked, take to a milking machine more easily than do old cows, and, considering that method to be the natural order of things, give no trouble of any sort. I engaged another milker, and with him, the old dairyman, and the drowner, Dick and I started hand-milking once again, and found it a dreary, dirty business. I sold some of the cows as barreners as soon as possible to reduce the numbers of the hand-milked herd to reasonable proportions, and also to get some money with which to buy some heifers. By April we had them reduced so that the dairyman, the drowner and the new man could manage them.

  Meantime we had thoroughly cleaned and sterilized the outdoor plant, and in May started it going once more with fifty Irish heifers. These cattle were purchased from a dealer in Ireland as springing to calve with their first calf. They arrived at our local station looking very sorry for themselves, but in a few days they improved out of all knowledge.

  The arrival of one lot of these cattle gave great heart-searchings to our local policeman. They were all imported under licence, on which was stated the number and class of cattle together with the different numbers of their ear tags. This licence had to be given up on their arrival to the policeman, who then had to inspect the cattle and check the number. On this occasion the licence said that sixteen cattle were to arrive, and we unloaded seventeen from the trucks, as one calf had been born on the railway somewhere between Fishguard and our local station. Accordingly the policeman was worried. Sixteen cattle were licensed to arrive at our station, and seventeen had been detrained. His opinion was that a breach of the regulations had taken place, so the law must take its course.

  Dick and Bill, who had gone up to the station to get the cattle, argued that there were sixteen Irishmen and one Englishman, regardless of sex. ‘Nice little veller,’ said Bill, fondling the calf which he had placed in the milk float. ‘He wor born under the British flag, and I be takin’ ’is part as a trueborn Englishman. I ’low if thee’s been born like ’ee wor, thee ussent never a wore no blue trousies.’ Subsequent inquiry to high officials proved that Bill had the right of the matter.

  I hope that the inventor of these milking outfits will not be annoyed at my telling of that outbreak of mastitis and its consequent expensive reorganization, but I have tried to tell the truth of the matter, and can honestly say that I have had no further trouble since that time.

  By this time haymaking was imminent. I had one hundred and eighty acres of hay to cut and make, chiefly new leys, which had been sown in my last year’s corn. Three of my staff were busy with the old herd, and Dick and I had the new heifer herd to manage. It looked as if our hands were full enough without any haymaking to do. But it had to be done, so I put the drowner to help Dick, and said firmly that the other two must manage the old cows somehow. There are times when one must say firmly that things must happen, and not wait for any discussion as to their possibilities.

  I had kept my tractor when I gave up the other farm, and now purchased a power grass-mower with a seven-feet wide cut to attach to it, making a one-man mowing outfit. I drove this from 5 a.m. until about 8.30, when Dick returned from his breakfast, and took on while I had mine. He drove until 12.30.1 had an early dinner, and kept at it until he returned after tea, from which time he drove until 8 p.m., my last lap being from that time until ten o’clock.

  When the first day’s cutting was fit to pick up, we kept the mower going from 5 a.m. until the dew was off the hay, then attached a hay-sweep to the engine, and went on carrying until eight o’clock in the evening.

  This daily cutting is important. Nothing spoils hay more than sunshine. If you get a large acreage down, and rainy weather comes, everyone knows that it will be spoilt. What is not so generally known is that hot sunny weather will bleach a lot of it to the feeding value of straw before you can get it picked up.

  For ricking staff I got four men from the local labour exchange for three weeks. I think it best to give but few details of their performances in the hayfield. One was an old farm hand, two did their best, and one w
as hopeless. Still, I was only left alone with them during the afternoon milking, and I was very lucky with the weather. That summer of 1929 was an exceptionally dry one, and we made a moderate crop of hay in first-class condition very cheaply. Incidentally, I am employing the same methods during this haymaking of 1931, but Providence has not been so kind. Still, we are almost finished, although it is pelting with rain outside as I write.

  Haymaking finished, we settled down once again to our factory routine, and by the Michaelmas of that year the number of old cows had been reduced to a point where the old dairyman could handle them, with some assistance from the drowner in the morning milking, so I was able to dispense with the extra hand-milker.

  At this time, I began to realize that this grass farming was an uninteresting business as compared with the older ploughland system. The romance of farming was gone. There was no seed time, and apart from haymaking, no harvest. There was no plotting and planning ahead for future years. The few men I employed were engaged in a factory-like occupation day after day. The landscape of my farm presented a dull, green sameness throughout the year. The glorious patchwork of different kinds of grain crops, alternating with green fields or roots, and here and there a brown fallow, was now an expanse of prairie. Apart from the old dairyman pottering about the buildings, the steading was deserted. The stables were empty, and the gardens and grounds of the house were neglected and unkempt. Still, regarding this change as I did, I was glad that I had done it, for corn was going down and down.

  That there was resentment in the farming world at this new method of dairying cannot be denied. There is no disguising that its advent and increasing use caused great bitterness. Its advocates, though then few and far between, were enthusiastic. Its enemies were many and vindictive. This was understandable. Here were men on cheap hill land saying that they could produce milk at several pence less per gallon than could the older established dairy farmers on expensive valley land. The latter were in much the same position as were the stage-coach owners at the advent of the railway train. The greater production of milk, due to corn-growing farmers abandoning their old methods and engaging in dairying, caused the price of milk to fall a shade, and this was definitely laid at the door of the outdoor system, which rendered it easier for the arable man to change his mode of farming. This bitter feeling was the more acute in our district, as, for obvious reasons of climate, this outdoor method can only be generally practicable in southern districts.

  As no record of farming can be completed without some reference to the National Farmers’ Union, I would here say that that much-maligned body fulfils a useful purpose in our national life. Like most institutions of this character, its chief difficulties are its own members. Farmers are naturally individualists and do not take kindly to control or to co-operation. Their interests are diverse, not only as between county and county, but even between neighbouring farms. To present a united front to any Government on a national question is therefore a difficult job, which the Council of the Union accomplish far better than is usually supposed.

  Looking back on my own personal experiences while serving on a County Branch of the Union, I find them very curious. Whenever I voted with the majority on the popular side of any question, after-events have proved me to have been in the wrong, whilst on the rare occasions when I have voted with a very unpopular minority, after-events have proved my action to have been the correct one. Possibly most public life of this nature works out in about the same fashion.

  But the National Farmers’ Union is a responsible body with which any Government can discuss agricultural problems, and, as such, justifies its existence, whatever its many critics may say to the contrary. Naturally there are all types of men who take a leading part in it. Many of these may be justly described as seekers after personal glory and power, but thank heaven, there is a leaven of broadmirided common sense folk running right through the N.F.U., from Northumberland to Cornwall. These are seldom popular as they often point out unpalatable truths to their fellow members, but although they are usually disparaged by many farmers during times of prosperity, it is to these somewhat unpopular folk that the main body of farmers turn, when they are in a bad hole.

  Of my small staff at this time I can speak only with grateful appreciation. Dick Williams never grumbled, however unpleasant the weather conditions might be for working the outdoor milker; Bill Turner, the drowner, was a willing jack-of-all-trades, and the old dairyman, George Strong, was a Rock of Ages, both in appearance and reality.

  It will be a bad day for British Agriculture when the older types of farm labourers are no more. They are lessening in number rapidly in these days, but usually there are still one or two to be found on most farms. They draw their legal wages for day work, but infinitely prefer to work by the piece. Employees they may be, but I prefer to call them quite sincerely, ‘Guides, philosophers, and friends’.

  We had a wet time in the autumn of 1929, and the gravel drive leading up to the house became green with weeds. My wife, who by this time had become resigned to an untidy garden, said firmly that the drive must be weeded. I was not surprised. She had cheerfully put up with a good deal during the past year, but this was the last straw. Struggle as she might to keep the garden passably tidy in her spare time, to weed a long gravel drive was out of the question. And she had spoken firmly you note. Any married man will realize the seriousness of the situation. Something had to be done.

  Of course, I might have done a little weeding personally in between milking, but I do not like weeding as an occupation nor as a hobby, so I cast about in my mind for a way out. The only possible available man was Bill Turner, but he was the drowner, a craftsman of high degree. I considered that gravel-weeding was beneath my dignity, and also that it was beneath his. He would do it if I told him to do it, but somehow I did not quite like to take this course.

  However, the difficulty was solved without my aid. I wandered over into the meadows next morning, and communed with the drowner—deep calling to deep. We talked of stops, of drawings, of hatches, of tail water, and other important technical matters. Incidentally I mentioned that the meadow work was well forward for the time of the year.

  ‘Ay!’ he said. ‘It be. We’m got ’em underhanded thease season. But I do want to lave ’em fer a few days. Thic gravel on the drive be got main weedy. Do look reel bad. I doan like to see it.’

  A day or two afterwards, when I came home from the afternoon milking, the gravel was being weeded. I went out to cheer on the weeder. I may be a poor weeder, but I am a good cheerer-on—a more valuable quality than many folk imagine. We discoursed on the weather and other serious matters for a while, and then he pointed out two paths, each about four inches wide, which curled away round the house in opposite directions.

  ‘Do ’ee know who do make they?’ he asked. I examined them carefully, but could not find no satisfactory solution as to their origin.

  ‘That be Trinket, that be. She do listen fur ’ee like a cat fer a mouse. When you be in dinin’-room, she do squat outside the front door. If she do hear your step goin’ to back or side door, she do trot round thic way. When you do go upstairs to shave er zummat in the bathroom, she do take t’other road, and sit under the window till you be done. I bin a watchin’ she to-day. Faithful old bitch, she be.’

  I agreed with his last remark, and took particular notice afterwards to find that he was right in every detail.

  Poor old Trinket had been having a dull time since I had given up shooting, and I had been taking her selfless devotion as a matter of course. Who am I to be loved so well? A man may not be a hero to his valet, and few of us, if any, are heroes to our wives. They know us in all our moods, when the limelight of public opinion is not shining on us with its merciless glare. I hope that I may be considered somewhere near average as a man, but nobody thinks that I am a fine fellow in the same way as does Trinket, my golden retriever.

  And what do I give her in return for this devotion? Precious little. An occasional pat
on the head, a few words of greeting when we meet, permission to come indoors and sit by the fire with me when the powers that be are not about, and some fairly daft one-sided conversations on these rare occasions, accompanied by much ear-pulling and tickling her under her collar. It is true that we occasionally go out and slay a rabbit together, but that is the serious business of her life, and not to be confounded with these gentler relaxations.

  In due course the gravel was weeded, and about once a year we continue to make an effort to keep it respectable. But usually the drive presents a green appearance to the caller instead of its spotless golden brown of years gone by. Well, I do not greatly care. Trinket is now seven years old, and, in the natural order of things, is getting a trifle slow, and more than a trifle deaf. Though I do not like to see weeds on the gravel, they cause me no real grief, but I shall be very sorry indeed when the day comes that I do not see those little paths.

  CHAPTER XXII

  During that winter of 1929 I found the situation to be decidedly better than it was a year before. This new method of dairying appeared to have stopped the leak in my farming ship, but, to continue the metaphor, there was still too much water in the boat. Stopping the leak was not enough. The dead water must be pumped out somehow. To find an efficient pump for this seemed impossible.

  Now when my old dairyman was managing the small dairy on the farm which I had given up, he had done a little milk-retailing in the small village in which this farm was situated. This retailing had been carried on even in my father’s day. It had been in no sense ordinary retail trading. There were only about a dozen cottages and one large house in the village which last was occupied by a retired Admiral. Most of the folk came to the dairy for their milk, and the old man toddled round to the others, including the Admiral’s. The accounts were kept in chalk on a child’s slate, which was hung on a nail in the dairy, and the takings were paid over by the dairyman on each weekly pay-day.