THIS ENGLAND.

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 89, 16 April 1927, Page 8

THIS ENGLAND.

XIV—THE FARMER

(By EDGAR WALLACE.)

The snow It fell clown on a father and mother. As up to the workhouse they helped one nuother. The poor old man cried in a voice full of sorrow : "Our children will learn of this come-down with borrow. "Young Harry's in Dartmoor: a seven he's doin". And Alfred's In Hanwell —young winimin his rulu. hi the Infirmary Jim's a hit silly. And Maude has a business on Piccadilly." • The tears of the father they couldn't be hided. "Thank Gawd that our children is amply provided! Let's lay our old bones in the workhouse so cruel. An' live till we're ninety on ratepayers' gruel." —"The Ballad of the Lump." I met hi in on a country road, ami I thought ho was a tramp who hud stolen a ready-made suit of clothes. His eye was a little wild and he walked unsteadily. He was sober enough, but he confessed that he had "fairly put it away" last night. Him and a Birmingham chap and a-feller from Poplar. His profession? "Fannin'," he said without a blush. I will not arouse to resentment the humanitarian society or Red municipality whose experiment he is by setting down in cold print their style and title. All over the country arc well-meaning but illbalunccd people who believe that farming is the natural and proper outlet for its unemployable*. Back to the land is only the feeblest bleat of a slogan, but there are various associations that are plodding along the sticky path of illusion. "Fannin'—hard work! Diggin' an' tlitchin*," said the victim. "Slave drivin'—a dog's life!" In fact unpleasant. He by trade was a plumber. A plumber? Well, not exactly a plumber, a sort of plumber's mate. Anyway, he once worked for a plumber. Before that he was in the docks, and after that he had l>eeu a watchman on a road-mending job. Also his misguided relatives had once set him up in the fried lish and stewed eels business. "Eels never die till sunset," he said, zoologically. The business was a failure from some cause— he was rather vague about this—and then a man he knew started backing horses on a system. The system was good, but the horses refused to conform to it. "It's a pretty hard life farinin'. I don't know how theso farm labourers stick it. Xo life, no cinemas, nothin'! Just gcttin' up in the niorniu' an' workin' all da v. Lord love a duck, what a life!" The Importance of Life. Possibly, I suggested, there were compensations —a healthy life for the children, a freedom from care, congenial employment in the open air. "A pal of mine went out to Canada," he went off at a tangent. "Took his wife and family. A nice chap, one of the best bird fanciers in Barkin'. But somebody put this silly idea in his head about Canada, and somebody else paid the money for the fare, an* he pops off. And where do you think' they sent him 7 To a place called " I told him that he probably meant "Manitoba." "That's right—you've heard ahrfut it—Manitoba. They put him in the country in a wood house; had to get his water out of a well. -Xo life—nothin'." "Life" is, of course, essential to the happiness of the townsman. It is made up of seeing people walk down the street, and the sound of motor buses and trams, and the final "Star" with all the results. And a picture palace round the corner: "Soft Bodies" on Mon., Tues., Wed., and "She Sold Her Soul for Extras" on Thurs., Fri., Sat. Something innocuous. Something innocuous, with all the -dirt in the title. "They couldn't stick it, so they came back. As Joe said: 'We've only got to live once—let's have a bit of Life!' Poor old Joe, he's in the lump now—him an' his missus and the three children— four, as a matter of fact, and one coming." "The Lump," I would explain, is the workhouse. "Lloyd George is behind all this. Didn't he say this was goin' to be a country fit for heroes? Is it? No." He was thirty-eight years of age, but he hadn't been to the war. "Let them that make the wars fight 'cm," he said, but offered no explanation as to his escape. Indeed, he returned to the question of farming. "It's unhealthy. It stands to reason it must be—out of doors in all sorts of weather. Up before it's daylight, dodgin' here and dodgin" there. Lookin' after pigs and what not. You're never done'! It's not like plumbin'. There's your job, and when it's over it's over. But farmin' is blacklegs' work. You're no sooner finished mendin' a fence—which is carpentry—than you're shovcllin* muck into a cart —which is transport. You take it from me, no man can beta farm labourer 'without blacklcggin' on some other union." He had a wife and a number of children (he wasn't quite certain how many) in the care of the Guardians. He came from one of those generous municipalities that never spoil their own ship for a ha'porth of somebody else's tar. "I've been doin* this farmin' for nearly two months. The food's not bad—but the life! I'm blest if these country yokels didn't start coraplaiuin' to the police because a lot of our boys had a bit of a beanfeast the other night! They're not used to Life. There was no harm in it—a lot of us went down to the pub and had a bit of a sing-song. There was a sort of fight, but nothin' that was wrong, if you understand me. Thev don't expect us to go farmin' in this dead-and-alive hole and not try to enjoy ourselves when wo can, do they?" Slave Driving the Proletariat On the science of farming he is something of an authority. Pigs interested him. I told "him the story of the labourer explaining to a more obtuse friend the theory of transmigration of souls. "When you die, Fred, your soul goes into something else —maybe into a pig. And then I cornea along one day and looks in the sty an' says: 'Bless my soul, there's old Fred! He ain't changed a bit!"* My farming acquaintance was not amused. "You ought to 6ee the stuff they cat!" That is what he knew about pigs. As to such matters as root-crops "Mind you, I know a lot about gardenin'. I used to go hoppin' regularly, so did my mother and missus. That's different. You all pull together there—even the kids do something. Mind you, I never did much because I hurt my hand— fell over a hop pole first day. But between us we used to make a good thing of it. This kind of farmin' is different—messin' about with carts an' horses an' spades. You go an' work for a day in the fields, turnin' over earth ... by dinner time you're fit to drop if the foreman's anywhere about. You can have a mike when he's away—but that man never thinks of goin' away. There's some talk of gettin' up a petition to the guardians about it. The proletariat are bein' put on. Slave drivin' and nothin' else!" But (here he brightened) he was giving up farming. A gentleman he knew had written to him offering him a job. The gentleman in question sold unpatent medicines at street corners, and he wanted somebody to go round with him. As a matter of fact, our friend's retirement from agriculture was not entirely volitionarv. There had been some trouble at the farm about illegal absences. "I ought to have been in last night, but me an' one of these clod-'oppers had a few drinks last DJSr-' *"' I "kP I at his house," he volunteered. This old so-and-so in charge of the farm is bound to get saucy about it—but I've got me answer ready for him! The new job ain't much in the way of money, but thank Gawd I'll sec a bit of life!" I left him at the entrance of the Farm Settlement and walked back to the village. I had intended interviewing the superintendent, and had come down for that purpose. I Somehow It did not seem necessary now,