SO SIMPLE.

Waikato Times, Volume 98, Issue 16152, 29 November 1924, Page 15 (Supplement)

SO SIMPLE.

THE CITY WORKER’S VIEW. (By Simple Simon.) Eustace is a City worker with dreams of a better, nobler, simpler, cheaper existence. I meet him sometimes on Monday mornings, and his enthusiasm for the simple life sweeps me away. To-day, for instance, fresh from the sylvan peace of somebody’s week-end cottage, he positively exuded simplicity as he propounded his theories.

“Here,” he said earnestly, waving a hand at London generally, “I am stifled. I cannot breathe. I am u different man.” I looked hard at Eustace and observed the almost offensive air of physical fitness which he wore —the result of being a City worker. I refrained from telling him that London is the healthiest city in the world, not excepting Ashton-under-Lyne and Chorlton-cum-Hardy.

“It makes me gasp," he continued, “whpn I think of what I spend in existing. Not living, mind you—just existing.” (Eustace is distinctly prosperous, and has a remarkably good time. But I let that pass.) “Most of my money goes in rates and rents and taxes. I pay through the nose for food. My wages bill is appalling. And what do I get for it? Nothing but a roof and four walls. Not even a garage or a garden.”

“Ah!” I said, “a garden. I didn’t know you were a gardener.” “I’m not —yet,” Eustace replied dreamily, “but I bought some green window-boxes this year and planted them out with pink geraniums. I used to water them in the evenings, and I g'ot rather keen. One does, you: know.”

“Tell me once more,” I said, “about the simple life.” And for the nth time Eustace the City worker became Eustace the rustic.

“Eustace,” I cried, when he had finished, “you fill me with enthusiasm. You beckon me from tile Royal Borough of Kensington and ihc busy haunts of men.. Let us go together with all our household goods and live

like honest, homely neighbours where the air is 90 per cent pure ozone. Let us till our three acres and milk our one cow. Look at the smoke and dust and grime around us. Hark at the ’buses roaring and rumbling in the street 1” “And then think,” said Eustace, “of your orchard in the spring. Above the trees—the blue sky. Beneath—" -“White chickens,” I said. Eustace nodded.

“Enough to keep you in eggs all the year round. Enough land to grow potatoes. Perhaps a small Held of wheat to make your bread. A cow for milk and butter.”

“A pig,” I said, “for pork and—er —ham."

“A goat,” Eustace suggested, “for curds and whey.” “And ducks,” I added, “for sage and onions, and geese for Michaelmas and turkeys for Christmas.” “One would grow all one’s own vegetables,” Eustace went on, “and never pay the greengrocer a farthing.” “What about meat?” I asked; “one must have meat. One would get tired of one veg. for lunch and two veg. for dinner.”

“Personally,” Eustace ' said, “I shouldn’t eat much meat. There wcuAl always be fish.”

“Fish,’’ I protested, “on a farm! Oh, no, Eustace. One or two goldfish in the lily pond, Ifut no hake or halibut, surely. You can’t keep cod in the bathroom or breed Dover solos in the kitchen sink.” “You forget," Eustace explained, “that my cottage is close to the sea. I sind have a boat—a good-sized seagoing yawl. in the line weather I shall cruise in her and explore the coast.”

“Tlie gardmer,” I suggested, “could slip out in the dinghy before breakfast and catch the fish for supper. I can see him staggering home with a gurnet and a bench of dabs tied together with siring. Eustace shook his head. “One can't live the simple life and keep a gardener. To employ labour is against the whole essence and spirit of the thing. Besides, I couldn’t, afford it. Tlicre'll he cnly just enough for gno's needs.”

“What about golf and tennis?" I asked. "At first,” Eustace said, “no.” Later

on, perhaps, if the chickens had a good year.”

I have thought deeply of the simple life all day. Viewed distantly from the haunts of City workers the prospect pleases. In an indefinite number of years (by a miracle) it might be done. I have been assuming just for fun that the miracle has happened. The cottage by the sea is mine. The orchard is there with its trees and its white chickens. In one corner of it, out of reach of the Cox’s Orange Pippins, is a bearded she-goat tethered by a chain to an iron bar. The latter is useful in case she escapes and eats the fruit trees. Near the house (which contains the usual modern inconveniences and a ‘ wealth of old oak”) is a barn and several farm buildings. These shelter a pig and her young, a cow and her calf, a guinea fowl and her guineas, and so on. vrhe kitchen garden is full of potatoes and satisfying green vegetables like cos lettuces and golden-crested broccoli. Near by is a lush meadow to keep the cow (a nice quiet Guernsey with a touch of Sark in it) overflowing, so to speak, with milk and honey. Probably there will be a few sheep in one corner fattening for market. That lithe, sunburnt figure leaning over the pigstyc, smoking a pipe and scratching the Gloucestershire Old Spots with a hoe, is ... of course. Yes, thanks, the life suits me splendidly. Fit as a fiddle. Poor, but honest. Perhaps you'd like to see the ferrets. Ethel, the white one, has just had twins. They’re worth five shillings apiece. . . I go on thinking deeply of the simple life and the picture changes. Would you believe it, but already things aren't quite—what shall I say?—quite so simple. Take the orchard. It wants pruning. The trees are all blight and no fruit. The sky above them is not so blue as it might be. It has rained steadily for a month, and the white chickens arc not laying as they should. It seems they don’t come from a good laying strain. The only thing to do is to sqrap the lot. One or two have died. Nobody knows why. Something internal, I believe. And the pigs. It seems that Gloucestershire Old Spots are deceptive. The oldest spot won't put on weight. Mrs Spot has had a disappointing family—only four instead of fourteen. The cow’s calf died in infancy from hay-fever. Its stricken mother refuses to eat, and the milk supply is threatened. The goat has got into the garden and eaten all Hie broccoli. When you attempt to milk it it becomes rough and rude. For some strange reason alt the fish have gone out of the bay. Local opinion blames the wireless. The same agency has upset the weather. What we farmers want is sun. The hay is being ruined. And when we get a spot of sun (if we ever do) wo shall wanti a spot of rain—otherwise the harvest will wither away under our very eyes.

You City workers don’t understand these tilings. How should you? Living tiie simple life you do —the easy, effortless, irresponsible existence where everything is done for you efficiently and cheaply. . . . I’m not worrying about Eustace. I know for a fact lie's just taken on his house for another fifteen years-. s 0 simple!