Office to Farm

Otago Daily Times, Issue 26176, 12 June 1946, Page 2

Office to Farm

An Ex-Soldier’s Narrative For the Daily Times, by N. R. H, This is the third article of a series in which a man who, before the war had worked in a city office, describes his experiences—and those of his wife and family—in accustoming themselves to farm life. 111. Most townsfolk think, as I did, that sheep are delightful soft woolly creatures, somewhat stupid, but with such kind faces and quiet ways. Some day I hope to make a special study of the natures of sheep. I have seen some very fine tributes to them in print, one of which came near to being a psychological analysis of the animal. In the meantime I feel like doing a little genuine debunking. Sheep are not soft and woolly. The wool is a snare and a delusion, being composed of 42 per cent, wool, eight per cent, dirt and odd straws and 50 per cent, thorn or thistle. They are veritable pincushions, and whenever H. F. says, “We’ll have a full day on the sheep to-morrow,” I know that I shall spend the next evening endeavouring to remove elusive thorns from my hands, Nor are sheep stupid. They are amazingly crafty, persistent, wilful and annoying, but their pseudo-stupid-ity is merely a cunning cloak to cover their wily natures. When they wish, they can be as sagacious as any animal. Too, their faces are not really kind. They are so made that they have not much facial expression, nor can they alter what they have, but their eyes express every emotion from contempt and truculence to fear and rage. If sheep knew how to bite, they would be snapping half their time.

How to Muster I suppose that not many people ever try to muster sheep on foot and without a dog, No townsman ever does, and 1 should think that most country people have too much sense. It takes a betwixt and between, like myself, to make such an attempt, and to learn from it. This week I tried to muster some hundreds of lambs in order to drive them through one gateway on to feed which they greatly prefer to the paddock on which they were grazing. I had purchased, without trial, a likely looking sheep dog which was supposed to have had some training. I now know that training consisted of making the brute come to heel and stay there, regardless of circumstances. The dog was quite useless but, by dint of doing all the necessary running about, up hill and down, and even descending to doing the barking myself, I did get those lambs up to the required gate. They made a breakaway while I was opening the gate, but a further quarter of an hour's strenuous work got them once more into position and beginning to run through. By this time I was melting and almost exhausted but I enjoyed the feeling of having done a difficult job, quite without canine or equine assistance and eyed the milling babies with a sense of satisfaction. Came a whirr and a roar as a huge motor lorry dashed past m a cloud of dust and the whole mob was racing downhill past me and I was left facing an empty gateway. A further attempt lasted fifteen minutes but I had not the necessary reserve of energy to face the whole performances again and, indeed, doubt if the lambs could have been controlled without dogs. Now I am looking for a guaranteed dog. Why Farm?

One often wonders if all the many men one met in the army and in prison camps, who stated that they intended to go farming after the war, have really done so. All of the ones I was with in service and whose present whereabouts I know have carried out their intentions, but it would be interesting to know how the others fared. Most New Zealanders did a good deal of propaganda work among the better type of Englishmen, they met, and many of these English lads were very interested in settling in our country. I was disappointed to note in the news recently that no provision has been made for such men. We can do with them. It would be interesting to know, too, why so many men, New Zealanders and Englishmen, had farming in mind as a future occupation. My own idea may have been the general one, although I have had it since before the war. One knew that it would be hard work and, often, unpleasant. One did not have any ideas of making a fortune out of it. It was just the appeal of living and working on the land, more or less one’s own master, with rewards or losses proportionate to one’s initiative and ability. A way of living rather than a way of making a living. This idea was greatly strengthened when one saw the peasants in Italy living remarkably well while the townspeople were in dire need. The same thought occurred as one marched across war-torn Germany. The peasants were refugees on the roads in millions and their condition was pitiable. but the farmers and their families still had enough to eat and still tended their farms despite tanks and big guns all around. I stayed on many farms in England ard Scotland, and even one in Wales, and possibly the farms I saw were not typical but three and a-haif months among the farming communities of those Isles convinced me that one need not stagnate in the country. It is not necessary to become crude or to think only in terms of stock or land. As one farmer’s wife put it to me this week, “ One has more time to read in the country, and to think. I believe that most people in the towns simply haven’t the time to think things out." She was very near the truth and. I should say, very generous. A letter I received this week from my former R.S.M may or may not give the townsman’s idea of farm life, but I think his remarks on the country worth quoting. Among other things he says: “So you’re reaping and mowing and ploughing and soughing (pronounced sogging) and being a farmer’s bhoy, what? That’s very decent and all that, but kindly remember that, after all, you were graded 3P, so don’t start lifting your stud cattle over fences. “And take an old hunter’s advice and carry firearms when you visit those fee-rocious lambs of yours. I remember once, when on one of my exploration tours in Canterbury, being treed for eight hours by a dangerous threemonths old Romney, which tramped three of my bearers and broke four bottles of valuable provisions. It was only by making a noise like a fat-stock buyer, thus temporarily startling the animal that I was able to escape. “Tell me more of this farm, son. To my imaginative ear the name of the place conjures visions of far-flung pioneering effort, with Dad and Dave living on the next ranch and a grim faced bloke in a ten-gallon hat riding flftv miles to deliver this letter. I may. of course, be mistaken . . . “ May all your ewes have quads and may you be compelled to cut your corn ear by ear with a bushman’s axe . . . Horses It is with regret that I mention horses. Probably no person wl.o cannot ride should go to live in the country, but I have never had much opportunity for riding and I am quite prepared to walk. H. F. points out, very reasonably, that there is a great wastage of man-hours on a farm when work is done on foot which could be accomplished on horse back. Unfortunately the farm hack is built to suit H. F., who is somewhere about three feet taller than I. Luckily, it is a good tempered brute with some really generous impulses. For example, when I first attempted to dress him, I had only the vaguest ideas as to the correct positions of all the rigging. It is common knowledge that the bit goes into the mouth, but the various straps adherent thereto may go almost anywhere. My first difficulty was to find a method of introducing the bit between an awe-inspiring set of molars, and I was endeavouring to think out a suitable gambit when Duke gently but firmly leaned forward and swallowed the thing. He realised, too, that I could never reach over his head, so he leaned down and indicated the method of applying the

bridle. I tried it with the two straps in front of his ears but the thing would not stay on, so I tried them behind the ears. Duke looked hurt and lowered his head. I lifted the contraption again and he wriggled his ears in between the straps and held his head away from me. Apparently that is the correct method. He helped too, during the first undressing ceremony, lowering his head and regurgitating the bit at the correct moment. Though Duke helps with frocking and unfrocking, he is poweness to alter or amend his gait or to do anything to make horse-riding comfortable. As a means of progression, this method seems to me to be crude, cruel and ungainly. At first, I took all the jolts as they came and suffered with stiff muscles and back for days. H F. gave a few words of instruction on “ posting,” and that helped a little. Still, I find it most difficult to “ post ” at the right moment and usually suffer a double jolt before being propelled into the air for relief. Duke does not like it either, and usually breaks down to a walk after a short spasm of speed. Speed is, of course, relatiye. I remember smiling at Mr Pickwick whose horse bolted with the trap and some of the Pickwickians, and attained the appalling speed of 15 miles an hour. Duke may have attained one-third of that speed with me, but he seemed to be flying. I have been horrified at times of late, to find myself driving a tractor and plough at the distressingly fast rate of 2.8 miles per hour. This certainly seems very fast under some conditions and I prefer to get down into a lower gear.