THE UNSENTIMENTAL FARMER

Evening Star, Issue 24139, 9 March 1942, Page 7

THE UNSENTIMENTAL FARMER

[Written by Maiiv Scott, for tho ‘ Evening Star.’] The man of the house cast his book aside with an exclamation of disgust. It was one of tiio.se charming farm novels in which everything—the land, tho labour, the beasts, and particularly the farmer—arc woven into one delightful idyll. A whimsical tale and full of pretty moralising. 1 can't think what possessed me to take it down from the library shelf. ’ “ What I can’t stand about some of these farm novels,” he exploded, “ is the way they sentimentalise the whole business. Farming’s a job, like everything else, isn’t it? I don’t see why I must be brother to the ox because 1 run cattle on the farm. Oh, yes, yes, certainly I believe in animals having a good spin, like everything else. But why be fulsome about it? Farmers are practical people; you’ll never find them sentimental about their animals, like this bloke.”

I agreed humbly and removed the offending book, taking a _ note of the author's name that 1 might not sin again. Realising that at all costs the farmer’s present mood of. exasperated “toughness” must ho respected, 1 agreed hastily that of course farmers were not often sentimental —making a private mental reservation as I did so. Next morning there was an SOS from the drafting yards where the man of the house was going through lambs preparatory to sending them to the sale. He was a deeply troubled man. “ Somehow those dratted pet lambs of the children’s have got into the mob and I can’t bo quite sure of them; could you come over and see which they are? Bettor bring a bottle and see if they’ll respond to that.” Now, I was particularly busy at the moment bottling hop beer —a last optimistic attempt to prove that I can make home-brew as well as anybody else. Moreover, upon the stove was a precious boiling of jam, into which 1 had put the small amount of sugar that I had been able to wheedle from my grocer for a whole fortnight. The day, too, was inordinately hot and the yards very dust}'. Still, I realised the urgency of the situation; five pet lambs —three of them unprofitable wethers—mixed with a mob destined for the sale. Well I knew that the first act of the children when they returned for the holidays would he to visit these objectionable creatures—and woe betide us if one were missing! _So I moved tho, jam from the fire, seized tho first available bottle—which happened to be half full of hop beer —and hurried over to the yards, remembering as 1 went that farmers are never sentimental about animals.

In a crowded pen, lambs look amazingly alike, and none responded visibly to my plaintive calls. So I seized my bottle, crammed an ancient Jambfeeder into its top, and climbed the fence into the yards. Certainly not even a pet lamb could be expected to relish home brew; but at least they would show a more amiable reaction towards the bottle and the feeder than could be expected from those more normally roared. The lambs seethed and crowded around me, treacling on my toes and filling my hair with dust. The first five thrust the bottle violently from them; the sixth proved to bo a pot; ho allowed the feeder to be thrust between, his lips, shook his head violently when the liquor reached him, and tried to bunt me. That was enough. Only pets behave like that, and we hustled him out of the pen. The two ewe lambs proved less difficult, for from babyhood they had boon remarkable—the one for her extraordinary greed, the other for her rod nose. Agnes rushed at me, nearly sent me off my feet, tore at the feeder, spat it out, and was proclaimed for one of the farm’s perennials. Dorothy, despite the redness of her nose—fortunately retained as a distinction—disliked the beer but was unmistakably a pet. We let her go with a private hope that her appearance might some day improve.

“ The twins are easy to find,” I murmured abstractedly. “ Edward has a black spot in one ear and Rutland has a little scar on the rumip, where ho once sat down in the hot ashes of the copper fire.” Thereupon two middle-aged and serious-minded people went laboriously through that yard of lambs, peering hope.fully into each ear, carefully scrutinising every rump. It took longer than you would expect —and all the time I had to bite back the words,_ “Of course, farmers are never sentimental.” But we had them at last—all but Winstone. He is not, strictly speaking, a pet lamb; he is worse—he is a pet wether —a lamb of the previous year, and therefore hopelessly and eternally set in his ways. But be had to be found and cajoled with the bottle that he still is unable to resist. When I thrust the feeder into his mouth, I expected an angry splutter; but picture my dismay when Winstone sucked appreciatively and drank long and greedily of the now lukewarm home-brew within. After his refreshment, I guided his wandering steps into the next yard, where ho subsided amongst the lambs and slept heavily during the rest of the morning. The lambs were not alone. Sitting in one corner of the yard were two long-tailed ewes. “Oh. surely .you’re not"going to keep those old things.” even I remonstrated. “They were, pets years ago, and you said yourself that it was a good chance to clean them out now that the children are away.” The farmer avoided my eye. “After all.” he muttered, “ a couple of sheep don’t make any difference; they’re fond of the place—they may ns well die on it.”.lt was too much. As 1 returned to my neglected house/ I remarked over my shoulder that it was indeed a good thing that farmers eschewed sentiment.