WITHOUT DEFEAT

Dominion, Volume 28, Issue 254, 24 July 1935, Page 13

WITHOUT DEFEAT

A Story with a Call to a Nation

By

OLIVER BLACK

Herein arc being set forth the wanderings up and down the North Island of a young Englishman anxious to learn by observation and personal contacts something of the life, the outlook, the aspirations and the genius of the New Zealand people, as expressed in their daily round, their achievements as a community—a nation in the chrysalis—and their social and political development10 This Farming Business. * Oliver sat by the window while his host piled him with questions about the college and its doings. When he had satisfied Mr. Wilson’s curiosity, he said: ‘May I ask a personal question?” Mr. Wilson waved his pipe, and Oliver went on: “I read and hear a lot about the evil plight of the farmer to-day. Your place bears on the face of it every sign of prosperity. Are you making money to-day or are you living and running your farm on a camel’s lump accumulated during better times?” “Of course I’m making money. Not as much as I have made in the past, naturally, but still good money.” “How? And why?”

“In the first place, I love my landlove it better than anything else in the world. In the second place, as a lad of twenty-two I realised what most farmers haven’t learned yet, namely, that farming is above all else a business, and you must run a farm just as you run any other kind of business. And lastly, I did not gamble in land, and my land is not saddled with a load of mortgages which the land cannot carry.” “I’m terribly interested in all this,” said Oliver, “Do explain a bit.” Mr. yvilson -walked over to a desk and returned with a sheet of paper. “Look at this. When I bought this place over fifty years ago it was all bush. I had to clear it, plough it, and sow and plant it. This is the plan I made at that time of what I proposed to do with my land, and what I was going to make of it at the end of fifty years. If you look at it carefully, you’ll see that I’ve done it; with a few modifications, of course.” Oliver gazed at the plan, speechless. “Turn it over,” continued Mr. Wilson. “On the back you will find a list of what I proposed to do year by year. And, generally speaking, I’ve done it. Now you see what I mean by farming being a business. You’ve got to plan ahead like any other business. Haphazard farming never got anyone anywhere.” “I wonder how many farmers in the country could produce a plan like that,” observed Oliver. “Or any kind of plan, for that matter,” said Mr. Wilson. “And I suppose you keep detailed books?” “Of course. I know exactly how each branch of my farming stands; what my chickens cost me, what profit the pigs show, whether my turkeys are carrying too heavy overheads. As I say, { run a business. The money doesn’t only come from cows, you know. Especially these days. Take my chickens—last year I made a clear profit of £2O after deducting all the eggs and fowls bought for the house.” “Bought for the house?” asked Oliver. „ “Certainly. If the household wants anything from the farm, it has to be bought from me. Then it goes through my farm books and I know exactly what is being used for ourselves. And now, here’s the point; even if I only broke even with my chickens after using all the birds and eggs we wanted in the house, it would still pay me to keep chickens, for I should be getting food which otherwisewe should have to buy. That’s what so many people don’t realise.”

“You deserve to succeed, sir,” said Oliver, sincerely. “Lunch,” said Mr. Wilson. “I’m sorry the family is out. They’ve gone to Palmerston for the day.” He led the way into the dining-room. “How you must love the land!” remarked Oliver, as he tackled a plate of roast beef.

“I do,” answered Mr. Wilson, simply. “It’s quite useless to farm unless you do. If my son had not given me proof as he grew up that he did love the laud, I shouldn’t have allowed him to have anything to do with a farm.” “Does your boy farm here, too?” asked Oliver. Can Farming Pay?

“He’s got a farm near Palmerston. He’s a good boy and a good farmer. Here’s something for you to think over; he paid all his expenses last year, including his living expenses and in addition made 15 per cent, on his capital. Don’t tell me there isn’t money to be made in farming to-day, or that there’s no future for our children in it. Rubbish!”

“But,” said Oliver, “there seems to be quite a number of people who are. not making money, to say the least of it.” “That is true, but why aren’t they? Either they are rotten bad farmers, in which case it’s nobody’s fault but their own; or else they are lazy farmers who eat, sleep and drink well and think that the trouble about work is that it takes up so much time I or else they are men who bought their land at prices far in excess of its true value.” “You wouldn’t say the last class have only themselves to blame, sir, would you?” “No, only in the case of real gamblers, who were buying for a rise that didn’t come and so got landed with the property. The others made an error of judgment; they thought the boom would last for ever and that the regular price for butterfat was around 2/The Government is trying to help this class by tackling the question of their impossible overheads—interests and sinking fund. The problem is not the fall in prices (I think we are at a normal level now) except, of course, insofar as the fall in prices had brought about the fall in land values.” “So you think that the efficient hardworking farmer can make a living today provided that he is not burdened with an excessive capital sum on his land?” Mr. Wilson snorted. “I know he can not only make a living, but put good money in the bank as well. . . . Gamblers! Why, I was offered over £lOO an acre for my farm in the boom! £100! It was lunacy! And I said so. And a pretty position I should have been in to-day if I had accepted and retired to live on the interest . . . no money at all from what had been owed me for the farm and the place

thrown back at my head 1” He snorted again. Thev rose from the table and returned to'the library. Mr. Wilson gave Oliver a cigarette and lit his pipe. Oliver remarked on the satisfactory way in which the Ottawa meat quota scheme had worked out. “That’s all right as far as it goes, replied Mr. -Wilson. “Myself, I'm oldfashioned enough to believe still in Free Trade. New Zealand is the best farm in the world and no one will ever make it anything else. We make the best; butter in the world, and if we are left'to ourselves we can compete with any other country in the world. We can sell our butter against anyone’s—people will always pay for the best.” “Don’t you believe there’s such a thing as overproduction?” asked Oliver. “Not of the best. Let’s get rid of the rotten farmers and then those of us who know our business can sell our stuff without any Government interference or subsidies or protection. “You’re very ruthless,’ laughed Oliver, “and I don’t really agree with you there; the problem is much broader and more difficult than that.’ Mr. Wilson stood up.

“Ah, well,” he said, “I’m only a farmer, not a politician; and unlike a great many farmers I don’t pretend to be a politician. I have a job of work to do and I get on with it and do it. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a job to do now.” Oliver rose hurriedly. _ “Don’t apologise,” said his host, I m really delighted to have met you. Look in and see me again sometime.” Oliver stammered his thanks and took his departure. He found plenty to think about as he walked slowly through the paddocks down to the gate. A Farm to be Ashamed Of. Oliver pushed open the gate of another place and walked up the old neglected path to the little house. He could see at a glance this was a very different type of farm from Mr. Milson’s. and that he would have to use considerable tact if he wanted to be taken over it. The house itself badly needed a coat of paint; the verandah railing was broken in two places and a green creeper, running riot for want of attention, hung around the front windows almost entirely excluding the light and air. He rapped on the door and it was opened by a small, grey-haired, dejected woman in an apron. Oliver asked if he could have a glass of milk and the woman invited him in. He followed her into a poor, bare living room. In the middle of the room stood a large table covered with a red cloth. The woman asked Oliver to sit down and brought him his milk. “Things pretty bad around here ’ he ventured. The woman shrugged her shoulders. “The only thing we have to be thankful for is that they couldn’t be worse.” Oliver started in desultory conversation about the climate and weather. He finished his milk and stood up. “I’m a stranger in this country. I wonder if you'd let me look over your farm?” The woman laughed bitterly. “There isn’t much to see: but if you’re interested in the pass that people like us have come to, you’re welcome.” They went out into the yard. Oliver picked his way through puddles of water and piles of mud. The woman smiled grimly:— “This is nothing. It gets much worse in the winter.”

“It only needs a bit of cleaning up and draining,” suggested Oliver. “You’re right, and who’s to pay for it? I can’t, and we don’t get time for cleaning up." A few wretched chickens were stalking about in the mud and filth of the yard. Oliver looked into the milking shed and caught his breath. The place was like a pig-sty—the proverbial pig-sty, not one of Mr. Wilson’s. The milking-machines looked old and neglected, the separator, covered with dust, was standing in a small storeroom amidst a litter of dirty sacks, rusty tools, and odds and ends. Oliver retreated rapidly.

“Any pigs?” he inquired. “Only three.” She led him behind the milking shed. The stench and filth of the sty in which three miserable pigs were wadingin inches of mud and droppings nearly turned his stomach. He could not refrain from remarking: “Now J know why they’re called pigs!” Back Goes the Land!

The woman took no notice. Oliver ran his eye over the paddock beyond the yard. Even to his inexperience it was obvious that the land was going back. He asked the woman how long she had been on the farm. “Six years or so—since my husband died. When he was alive we were over near New Plymouth. After his death we sold the old farm and came here.” “Why did you do that?” “Well, my brother is in this district and we wanted to be near him. and it seemed good business, too. We sold for £67 an acre and bought this place for £73.” "That was a pretty high price,” commented Oliver. • “It wasn’t at the time. Witii butterfat near 2/- we could make a good living, but with it down where it is today, we’re broke.” “Who helps you?” “My son. And we have a boy in co lend a hand.” They strolled round to the front of the house. “Do you and your sou like farming.'” asked Oliver. “That’s a good one! Does a miser like working in a coal mine? If my boy could get a job in town we’d be off this place is a moment. We’ve lost heart, and no one does anything to help us—not even the Government.” Oliver remarked that he understood that the Government had given and was giving considerable assistance to the farming community. He mentioned Ottawa. “Quotas and such like? That doesn’t help the dairy-farmer.” “I’m sure you’re wrong there. Britain agreed to receive dairy produce from tiie Dominions free, while putting a duty from foreign countries.” “You think it would have been better for the dairy-farmers if Britain had put a heavy duty on New Zealand butter?” “Oh well, perhaps you are right.” “Isn’t it obvious?” replied Oliver. He lit a cigarette and went on: “Your chief trouble is your mortgage, I suppose?” “One of them, but even it there wasn’t a mortgage at all I still eouldn t makc w a living.” Oliver pointed out that the Government’s proposals with regard to mortgagees would at any rate lighten the burden which had been created by the inflation of land values. “Well, nil I know is that. I shall be

worse off than ever under them.” Oliver expressed his surprise. "Look here, I haven’t paid any interest for years. My mortgagee knows that I can’t. Now the Government is going to reduce interest rates but it sopms I’m going to be compelled to pay some interest.” “You mean that, it’s better to go on owing £lOO a year and not paying it, than to have the debt reduced to £5O but have to pay up?” The woman assented. Oliver, slightly appalled by such barefaced dishonesty, remained silent. A big. tru-culant-looking lad of 23 or 24 came up the path. He greeted Oliver with a surly word. His mother pattea his arm:

“I’ve just been telling this gentleman we don’t know where to turn,” she said.

A Dole For Farmers? “That’s right,” answered the son. “Often as not we don’t know where our next meal is coming from. Working day and night for nothing, we are. The only thing that can save us is the Government to guarantee us a fair price.” “What, about 2/-?” asked Oliver. “That’s right.” “And where is the money to come from?”

“Oh,” replied the lad confidently, “That’s their job. They can find it some way. I’ll tell you what they should do. They ought to pay a national dividend to every man, woman and child on the land of a pound a week each. Let the new bank print special money for it.” “A national dole for farmers, eh?” asked Oliver. “And why not?” replied the woman. “The financiers are trafficking in the bodies and souls of people like us. Let them pay us for it.” Oliver decided it would be a waste of time to argue with people like this. He decided on one final thrust: “I see you didn't starve last year.” “We’re likely to starve any time,” said the son. “I should be very interested to have a look at your farm account?, for last year, if you would allow me,” said Oliver. “Accounts!” replied the son contemptuously. “If we kept accounts for last year they’d only show losses.” “Ah, I rather thought so. Well, I won’t keep you from your work any longer. Thank you so much for showing me around.” He paid for his milk and left them. “These people come into my Levin friend’s 20 per cent, of hopelessly involved and inefficient farmers,” said Oliver to himself. “Yes, I think that the sooner people like that are off the land the better for all concerned. I don’t suppose they would do any good in anything. But away from the land they would probably do less harm.” Oireland For Ever!

It was past six and getting dark. Oliver was tired, and, giving up all idea of reaching Wanganui that night, decided to stop at the first place he camo to where he could find food and a bed. He topped a rise and saw before him a group of twinkling lights. As he drew near he found that it was a tiny village—not more than a group of cottages and a couple of shops. On the right hand side of the road stood a weather-beaten hotel bearing over the door the name “Finnigan’s.” Oliver pulled in and got out of the car. In the dilapidated hall a dim light was burning, but no one was about. He rang a bell let into the wall beside the hole that did duty for an office; there was no result. He coughed and stamped noisily, but no one appeared. He looked into two sitting-rooms, hut the whole place was deserted. He was about to make his way into the kitchen in search of somebody if it was only the cook, when his ear caught the low murmur of voices behind a door in the smoking-room. Oliver tried the door but found it was locked. In desperation lie knocked loudly. The voices ceased at once. The door opened and a man’s head, covered with a mop of unruly black hair, appeared round it. “Eh! Oh! Come in,” said the head, and the door was pushed open a few feet. Oliver squeezed through. He found himself in a long bar. Some dozen or more men were leaning against it, their hats pulled over their eyes. The only illumination was provided by a candle stuck into the neck of a bottle on the counter. Oliver wondered whether lie had struck a secret meeting of smugglers or what it was. A moment's reflection, however, convinced him that he was wrong and that the assembly was the only normal ritual indulged in after 6 o’clock by the thirsty. He asked if lie could have a room for the night. “Number six,” said the shock-headed gentleman whom Oliver took to be Mr. Finnigan himself. “Tea’s on now.” He turned to serve one of the smugglers. That seemed to be that; so Oliver backed out into the smoking-room, fetched his bags and went upstairs in search of number six. The landing was in complete darkness, and he had to strike matches to see the numbers on the door. He found his number six and opened the door. . . A parson in a long black coat and knee breeches was washing his hands in the basin. Oliver retreated hastily and returned to the smugglers’ den to report progress. “Try number eight,” suggested Mr. Finnigan. “Likely there’s no one in there.” Oliver sat on the smokingroom table and laughed till he cried. He might have been back in Ireland again. He pulled himself together, went upstairs once more and found number eight not only unoccupied, but clearly expecting no occupant. There was no wash-basin, no towels and the bed was unmade. He looked in vain for a bell. Taking his courage in both hands he shouted: a tousled chambermaid appeared and Oliver explained what he wanted. “Oh!” said the maid, "we wash in the bathroom.” She departed indicating the passage to the left. Oliver found the bathroom, washed and descended to the dining-room.

(To be continued.)