THE FARMER’S WIFE.

North Canterbury Gazette, Volume I, Issue 1, 12 August 1932, Page 3

THE FARMER’S WIFE.

' - . < —- FACTS AND SOME FANCIES. (WRITTEN FOR THE “ NORTH • - CANTERBURY GAZETTE ”) v [By Plain Anne.] - J MUST CONFESS that I was a little disappointed at first. I had had visions of a Cinderella-like change from my gum boots into the learned shoes of a ‘Minerva’ or the'classic sandals of a,. ‘Ceres,’ but I was asked to remain just myself—carpet slippers, common sense, and whatever grist Life sends to the mills of a farmer’s wife. The Open Road If, like ours, your gates open on to a main highway, you know why an ever-boiling kettle is now a necessity. The old time swagger, of course, has departed in favour of a varied host of unemployeds—trampers, hawkers, gold buyers, canvassers for various forlorn but highly hopeful money making schemes, if only one could “get in on the ground floor.” But farmers’ wives at present are not seeking investments for their spare cash. In my mending ■ basket are multi coloured skeins of wool, cards of buttons, needles, tapes, and a patent stocking mender —souvenirs of my visitors. When I am forced to -turn down a. patent cough cure, vehemently if huskily vouched for ..by a peddler who apparently can’t afford to try his own wares, oivto reject marvellous beauty creams —well, a. cup of tea softens the refusal. Of bourse I’m accused of being a hopeless gossip. Personally I prefer to think of myself as “one who loves her fellow men.” No. 4A, who is topping our trees, has long ceased to be “one of ■ the unemployed.” In return for his 10 o’clock tea, I hear that his two littlest ones are recovering nicely now from the whooping cough, that “Missus,” whose- hack was had, once again cuts lunches for the bigger boys and her man, and so on. Naturally, then, No. 4A knows that T don’t like those trees to be topped-. Apologetically,'he remarks: “Seems a pity, but the Boss is right, Mum. They’re wasting too much ground—froze it was half the day an’ more.” Avoiding those mutilated trees-, f murmur, “Yes! I’m sure.” What use to plead against stark reasoning? It- is true, the .tall .pine at the gate 'TbbHb.dr-ftho,. flower border shamelessly—yet through| spring and summer a thrush has sung his even song; its' branches have netted the rising harvest moon, or pierced the starlit heavens on frosty nights. / ".(] can almost hear that “Umph” from the person who knows that Anne will some day delight in the crackling flames of a pine wood fire, and in time; even be heard explaining to her friends ‘‘Yes! the raspberry patch is doing much better now that the trees are cut back ”). Eggs or Crickens? Wasn’t it Lord Bledisloe who advised us not to have all' our eggs in one basket? If, like me, you have your breeding pens made up, you’ll he gathering sittings in readiness for your first chicks or possibly filling your incubator. This season my trouble will he baskets for my various eggs, for I've planned to breed American Barred Rocks, Anconas, and two strains of Leghorns. Last week I epoked a Barred Rock Cockerel which weighed 7 lbs. dressed—a .tribute to the breed and a profitable use for our skim milk. These cold days are not inducing the hens to take sufficient exercise, so I am planning to gather fallen pine needles, with which to deepen the litter in the feeding pens. If “ variety is the spice of life ” (or is it wine?) then ours should be a ‘heady’ existence these days. My man certainly has his eggs well distributed —fowls, cows, garden truck; apples, pears, stone fruits and an assortment of small fruits, with flower specialities, and early potatoes. “Too many irons? ” Well, possibly, but if one grows cold, surely another will keep hot enough to iron out a crease or two in our farm finances. New Lambs. The grocer has just called, and tells me that Mr W— has 60 new lambs. It’s a cold welcome they’ve had —sleety rain, frost, and very little sunshine. The 1922 slump saw the last of Anne’s lambs, and sheep, too, for that matter. I recall August of that year—a nightmare time of falling prices, falling snow, rising mud, and mortality amongst our ewes and lambs! Never was our hearth free from half frozen little new-borns. Many of these, nursed back to life, lived just long enough to waste much time and milk. I know now that in my anxiety to feed them up I had ovei filled their little tummies. The Show. And aren’t the “Mrs Farmers” blossoming forth these days? Women’s Institutes and Women’s Branches of the Farmers’ Union are no longer in the experimental stage. At the Winter Show We farm wives set out deliberately to show our town sisters what can be done in that, to them, vague

place, “The Country.” Leather goods, home cured and fashioned, thrift articles, useful and ornamental; all manner' of arts and crafts took their place amongst the better known preserves and pickles of Jhe farmers’ wives. Strange as it seems, the progressive ideas which have led to the formation of country women’s organisations appear almost to have turned back the hands of time to the pioneer days. Old- forgotten arts are being revived. -. Spinning, weaving, vegetable dyeing of wools, are once more gaining popularity. A specially interesting “thrift” article was a suit of clothes the' cloth of which was spun and woven from wool gathered from fences and paddocks, hand spun and woven into as useful and cheap an exhibit as we can hope to see. Yet much as country women owe to their various institutions in the matter of the teaching of arts and crafts, a greatr gain has come to us in the widened scope, outlet for our' long pent-up energies mental as well as material, and in the breaking down of social barriers in this new companionship. Out of the Mouths of Babes. To-day our children go to town for wood-work and cookery instruction. As she rummaged for cap and apron, I was startled and somewhat humbled to hear my little maid saying, “Oh 1 Mum, aren’t you lucky to be allowed to cook, whatever you want to, every day?” Years of dish-washing, mutton cooking, and pudding planning have taken) the edge off my delight. Yet, after close on twenty years, perhaps it is an adventure to plan something quite different—to achieve still another successful pudding, or to capture more of those elusive vitamins! Who then can judge the value of these excursions to the child? Admittedly, our girls might learn to cook at home, but the contact with new folks, the stimulus of fresh viewpoints—surely these are gain beyond computation. With a dawning knowledge of cookery, our little maid has developed a sturdy philosophy. ‘ ‘ Last week we made a stew without meat—just vegetables' and ‘ dough boys ’ in it, and the week before that, vegetable soup. If I marry an unemployed or someone very poor, it will be useful to~ know. Anyhow I could .always put meat in if I had it, couldn’t I?” As the cook in embryo is not yet eleven years old, it is possible that times may be better by the time that she must make her family dinner. Anne has taken longer to learn that lesson than has her little daughter. Perhaps it’s the solution of our present troubles—just a matter of adjustment —“ out of the mouths of babes”! Who knows?