THE FARMER’S WIFE

North Canterbury Gazette, Volume 1, Issue 30, 3 March 1933, Page 2

THE FARMER’S WIFE

Facts and Some Fancies (Specially written for the Gazette). [By Plain Anne,] XXX. ,\yHEN the fishman called to-day I j was out in the orchard gathering windfalls, so I just met him at the gate. How different from the flyliaunted fisli-carts of old is this cool hygienic car, where the fish themselves look almost pleased to be hob-nobbing on great blocks of ice. The groper that I bought was half frozen, and above all the old suspicion that country fish was wont to rouse. Fish and Bluebells. If farmers who grow oats regret the passing of the horse, at least few of the wives who buy fish will long for the return of the ancient fish-cart. My fishman has a pleasant slow drawl that betrays the “Homie,” and I have become accustomed to his. references to ‘‘fields” —a more appealing word than our ugly-sounding “paddock.” After a fortnight of nor’-westers, it was pleasant indeed to agree “Lovely Day!” Generally we dismiss the crops or the weather, but to-day there was a special eagerness in the voice that said “That field”—pointing to a patch of blue looking like a reflection of the sky. “It’s just like our bluebells in spring—in the woods you know.” Regretfully conscious of the less romantic origin, I explained that they were blue lupins—grown for green manuring and soon to he ploughed in now. “1 expect your woods are much more beautiful though. • I’ve often tried to picture them.” “So have I. Leastways, I’ve tried to think how they used to look, an’ yet, somehow, I don’t remember that I set much store on them when I was home. Must bring the Missis to see it. She’s the one for flowers; goes dotty over primroses and violets in the spring—same as she used to get as a kid. We are all apt thus to sigh over departed joys that we accepted very casually at the moment. Bumper Cereal Crops. According to a correspondent in our daily paper, bumper cereal crops are by no means a matter for -rejoicing, nevertheless Bill and Martha are frankly jubilant over tlieir little har-vest—-their first venture in wheat growing—-which threshed out of stook at over fifty bushels. Martha had been anxious to stack the crop, but she and; Bill came in to tell us that everything is right, and the wheat- is sold and delivered already to a mill. “Guess we can do with the extra this year—better than all the rest of our farm.” This from Bill, but of course Bill has been used to butter fat and wool cheques, and does not realise how annoyed he should really be feeling. “My word, Martha,” 1 cautioned, “you’d better look out or some of those smart chaps will be investing your spare cash for you. There was one here last week who could just about persuade a. bald-headed man into buying a wire hair brush —tung oil debentures this time, and the previous week I heard of three others.” “Tongue” Oil “Oh him! I soon settled that! ‘Tongue oil,’ I says. ‘Well, I believe all you say of it, for yours is pretty slick; but it’s elbow grease and a shifting powder I’m needing with five drays carting to the mill. Tongue oil, indeed!’ But he seemed a bit queer, anyhow, and started to explain that he spelt it ‘Tung.’ However, I’m not always sure of my own spelling, so I didn’t pay much heed.. Just said quite finny, ‘Well, you can take it from me I don’t need any and I spell get g-e-tP” The End. of the World. “I wish you’d been here on Sunday then, Martha, to settle the man who has called for the past four years to tell me of the immediate end of the world—illustrated by lurid tracts, price 3d, and heralded by earthquakes, wars, etc. He explained carefully that his Sabbath was over, hut as I was just busy dishing our Sunday dinner, I felt no enthusiasm for his missions however worthy. Besides, as I remarked, if it takes three years to train your missionaries and the end of the world is once more at hand, I don’t see that it’s much use sending out any more. Also, you come at an awkward moment. I am just busy with the dinner.” With a solemnly lifted hand he reproached me: “Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow you die.” However, I’ve survived, and .was just going to tell how I escaped when my neighbour came over bringing me a nice tea canister which she had saved for me as a biscuit tin. At Christmas time, when L did a day’s baking in my oven, I remarked; that I had admired her collection of tins—so, after many days, she has emptied another and thought of me. Sevenpence a Peck. The last time we compared notes we were disgustedly picking peas at' 7d per peek, hut to-dav I learn that she has wrapped and packed 6000“ apples—a good day’s work, and while some of

these will go with the export apples, the local demand is quite good so far. “Something For Your Tired Back.” It makes a difference if you have something to show for your tired back. However, even 7d isn’t the worst of the pea episode 4 for I asked how the 70 pecks thaf they sent south had panned out: “Washed out, rather,” she laughed. “Our cheque for the 70 pecks came co 3/9 all told. The actual auction price of the peas was. IS/-, and the railage and other charges reduced it to 3/9 exclusive of cost of growing and picking. Even the latest factory returns, where butter fat, including the advantage of exchange, is quoted at Bd, is hardly as bad as that.” An Optimist. 'Here ,M pipes forth: “Mum, what’s a sentence with ‘optimist’ in?” “An optimist is a farmer who hopes to meet his interest in 1933,” I reply.