THE NEW LEVELS.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 263, 5 November 1932, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE NEW LEVELS.

rural brotherhood.

effect of the slump.

(By M.E.S.)

Turning a sudden bend, the two riders came unexpectedly across half a dozen men working on the road, cleaning out ■water tables, cutting back encroaching scrub widening the hair-pin bonds. The run-holder raised his hat, greeting one and all—"Good morning, Mi?. A"; "An early spring, Mr. B"—witfi somewhat more ceremony than the townsman had expected him to show to a. gang of roadmen. One he introducofl to his companion, the stranger wa#j startled by the precision of the English.*voice, the obvious culture of this grey-haired man in his worn dungarees and hob-nailed boots. "A remittance man?" he asked, when presently they had ridden on their way. The farmer laughed. "Not on your life. You won't find ttie remittance man working in tho bacfcblocks; they're mostly having a soft/time in town. No, Mr. B. is one of cwir old-established settlers here; I don't know a man more widely respected." ""Then why on earth is he •working on. the road 1" "Because he can't pay his rates and is thankful for tho chance of "working them off. All those men wo passed are farmers. The majority came here ten to twenty years ago -with a little .capital and have been working their holdings honestly and intelligently ever since. Yet none of them can fay their hands on a five-pound note to-day in case of emergency. They're small slieepfarmers —and you know what that means—three years' wool in the shed with a bank mortgage over it, or gold, with tho balance,gone to the firm. [Where. it's possible, they're milking a few cows and sledging their cream for miles up this muddy road. But those poor little cheques aro needed for store bills —no money for rates or interest." A Great Leveller. The townsman sighed sympathetically. horribly humiliating for that class of man to - come down to road work." But the other laughed cheerily. "Humiliating?, Not a hit of it. that sort of false shame is dead—killed by this slump. No one's ashamed of any kind of wo A: to-day, and no one dreams of looking down on a chap, for working on - ' the road or anywhere else. That's one good to have come out of much evil. Yea, they spoke of the war as a great leveller, but, believe me, the slump's the mightiest leveller of all. Why, my wife's help—she only keeps one nowadays—is a cousin from town, a trained secretary, who could* hardly be persuaded to spend the briefest holiday in the dull old country before. Now she's finding that a girl can have a jolly good time in the backblocks. The cook at the men's whare has a B.Sc.—and he told me yesterday that it took all his science to cope with those appetites! They're neither of them grumbling at this change of. fortune and work —-just carrying on and getting some fun out of it." "Itigoes. deeper than that. You townsfolk would hardly be aware, of it, but once'.upon a time the country , was as full of .petty class distinctions as any of your fashionable suburb.?. We eheep men. r&the'r fancied ourselves—lords of the land, don't, you know. We were a little inclined to look down upon the dairy farmer and his- 'beastly cows' — butterfat stank, in short,, although wool, with its even more penetrating odour, would admit to the most select circles. Now air that nonsense is dead. The sheep man has lost his crown, and looks with longing at the cow-cocky's modest but certain living. He goes further; if he can, he buys some cows and a cheap separator, and to-day you'll eee many a new cream can fitting at a gate that once opened to only the most exclusive cars. Your big .runholder, who prided himself on his beef, . Hereford and Polled Angus, and sneered • disdainfully at the modest Jersey, is hurriedly introducing Jersey blood to-day. He shows as keen an interest in that humble monthly cream cheque as he once felt when handling the yearly wool returns that ran into many hundreds." "Yes, I suppose it's salutary," agreed the townsman, "but one regret.? the passing of s those spacious country days." "They'll come again," his friend assured him, "but never with quite the same arrogance. Your big owner has known hardship, and with it has learnt sympathy. It's spread right through the family. The large homestead that once was run by a staff of servants is managed to-day by the mistress and her daughters. In a household where there are no sons these girls are to be found in the sheep yards, riding round the ewes, helping to muster and dip. The children who were intended for exelusive boarding schools now mingle With the cow-cocky's urchins at the local school. The expensive cars are scrapped, and the young people must find their amusement in the local pleaeures tlicy once despised. Mingling of Classes. "The result has been a general Mingling of the country sets and the buryi n g of all that foolish old snobbery. If the dairy farmer's daughters have to hurry home early from their tennis parties to the milking sheds, the runholder's girls must refuse all invitations, however, alluring, while shearing is on. 'And at least you get something for your work,' they say, thinking enviously of those monthly cheques. 'The boys have learnt that expensive ichook and athletic championships are not going to cut much ice to-day. Their degrees are not of much use in a world where every profession is overcrowded. The primary industries are the gainers for those trained muscles and alert intelligences. I have a couple of boys on cutting scrub just now. One has a degree and a college 'blue'; the other is the son of a small farmer, and never eucceeded in passing Standard IV. But they are fast friends, and the college hoy has the greatest admiration for his friend's prowess with the slasher. I believe the arrangement is that the cocky's son tackles the supplejacks and his friend writes the weekly letter, to which the mother on that backblock farm looks forward so eagerly. Both seem p.eastd with their bargain." "The new levels," mused the townsman. "Yes, it's a healthy process—but [where is it going t.o stop?" "At a greater understanding, a wider brotherhood, I hope," replied the other seriously. "When, did you say? Ah, that's another matter. Not in the year of grace 1932, I fear—whatever the optimists say"—and he-urged his horse to a reluctant canter.