As time went on my cattle presented a noticeable change from the original type; they were larger, developing much more hair and bone, and though they gained in strength of constitution, and were handsome and profitable, they gradually lost the dainty deer-like appearance of the imported stock; and though quite as valuable for the purposes of the dairy, they would have been regarded in the show ring by connoisseurs as having a tendency to coarseness. I was, at first, successful at the shows, but as the character of my cattle altered I recognized that they would stand no chance against Jerseys bred on lighter land, and in a climate more nearly approximating to that of their native country.

Precisely the same thing happened with my pedigree Shropshire sheep; environment altered their character and produced a different type—bone, wool, and size all increased. The wool was coarser and darker in colour; they were good, useful, hardy stock, but could not compete in quality with the pedigree sheep bred in their own county. No pedigree Shropshire breeder will, as a rule, buy rams bred outside his own district, for fear of introducing coarseness and an alteration of the established exhibition type.

An amusing incident happened at Mr. Graham's sale at Yardley near Birmingham, at which I was present. Mr. Graham had a reputation as a Shropshire sheep-breeder; though not actually farming in the county, his land was not unsuitable, and, on one occasion, I believe, he won the first prize for a shearling ram at the show of the Royal Agricultural Society of England.

I noticed a very non-agricultural individual in a top hat, who tried to get into conversation with me and who succeeded in getting a luncheon ticket gratis. These sale luncheons were at the time very bountiful spreads, including plenty of champagne, and the man under my observation made a very hearty meal. Short speeches and toasts always follow, but an adjournment is quickly made to the sale tent, before the evaporation of the effects of the hospitality. It is the custom for a glove to be passed round to collect subscriptions for the shepherd, during the progress of the sale, and on this occasion two young fellows undertook the duty of collectors. The man, who had done himself so well at Mr. Graham's expense, was evidently not buying or even making bids, and to each of the collectors he said he had already contributed to the other. Being suspicious they compared notes, and found that he had made the same excuse to both. Such meanness after the hospitality he had received was intolerable; shouting, "He's a Welsher," they lifted him bodily, protesting and struggling, rushed him out of the tent into a neighbouring field, and cast him into a dirty pond covered with green and slimy duckweed! A miserable object he scrambled out, for the pond was shallow, and took his dishevelled and bedraggled presence away as fast as he could limp along, amid the laughter and jeers of the crowd.

The Hampshire Down ram sales in the palmy days of farming were organized upon the same scale of liberality, and while the sale was proceeding steam was kept up by handing round boxes of sixpenny cigars, and brandy and water in buckets. It is, of course, good policy to keep a company of buyers in good humour, but I think it has long since been recognized that hospitality was carried a little too far in those times of prosperity, and, in these degenerate if more business-like days, extravagance is much less evident, though there is a hearty welcome and abundance for all.

Agricultural shows under favourable weather conditions are always popular and well-attended. The large exhibitions of the Royal Agricultural Society of England, the Bath and West of England, and the Royal Counties, especially attract immense crowds; much business in novel implements, machinery, seeds, and artificial fertilizers, was done when times were good, and the towns in which the shows are held benefit by a large increase in general trade. The weather, however, is the arbiter as to the attendance, upon which the financial result of the show depends.

In 1879, the last of the miserable decade that ruined thousands of farmers all over the country with almost continuous wet seasons, poor crops, and wretched prices, the Royal Agricultural Society held its show at Kilburn. The ground had been carefully prepared and adapted for the great show with the usual liberal outlay; the work for next year's show always commencing as soon as the show of the current year is over; but the site was situated on the stiff London clay, and, after weeks of summer rains and the traffic caused by collecting the heavy engines and machinery and the materials used in the construction of the sheds and buildings, the ground was churned into a quagmire of clay and water, so that in places it was impassable, and some of the exhibits were isolated. Thousands of wattled hurdles were purchased in Hampshire, and laid flat on the mud along the main routes to the tents and sheds, but they were quickly trodden in out of sight. Many ponderous engines were bogged on their way to their appointed places; nothing could move them, and they remained looking like derelict wrecks, plastered with mud, sunk unevenly above the axles of their wheels.

I attended the show and shall never forget the scene of disaster. One afternoon the Prince of Wales—the late King Edward—and a Royal party made a gallant attempt, in carriages, to see the principal exhibits, and succeeded, by following a carefully selected and guarded route. The crowd was dense by the side of the track, and people were making a harvest by letting out chairs to stand on, so as to get a view of the procession, with cries of, "'Ere you are, sir; 'ere you are, warranted not to sink in more than a mile!" Outside the show-yard, too, the streets were lined with long rows of nondescripts, scraping the adhesive clay off the shoes of the people leaving the show.

I had a pocket of my hops on exhibition entered in the Worcester class, and had great difficulty in getting near it. I found the shed at last, deserted and surrounded by water, with a pool below the benches on which the hops were staged. My pocket was sold straight from the show-yard, and when my factor sent in the account, I found that the pocket had gained no less than seventeen pounds from the damp to which it had been subjected since it left my premises, about ten days previously; hops, at that time, were worth about 1s. a pound, so that the increased value more than balanced all expenses.

A story is told of Tennyson at the Royal Counties show at Guildford. Accompanied by a lady and child he was walking round the exhibits, closely followed by an ardent admirer, anxious to catch any nights of fancy that might fall from his lips. Time passed, and the poet showed no signs of inspiration until the party approached a refreshment tent; then, to the lady he said, to the astonishment of the follower, "Just look after this child a minute while I go and get a glass of beer!" I cannot vouch for the truth of this story, but I tell the tale as 'twas told to me.

It is surprising how long farm implements will last if kept in the dry and repaired when necessary. I remember a waggon at Alton in the seventies, which bore the name of the original owner and the date 1795; it was still in use. When I decided to give up farming, or rather, when farming had given up me, I disposed of my stock and implements by the usual auction sale. The attraction of a pedigree herd of Jerseys, and a useful lot of horses and implements, brought a large company together, and Aldington was a lively place that day. I was talking to my son-in-law some time afterwards, and spoke with amusement about the price an old iron Cambridge roller had made, not in the least knowing who was the purchaser, until he said, "And I was the mug who bought it!" I believe, however, that a year or two later it fully maintained its price when valued to the next owner, and probably to-day it must be worth at least three times the money. I can trace its history for a period of fifty-three years, and I don't think it was new at the beginning.



CHAPTER XII.



FARM SPECIALISTS.

"And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes." —The Miller's Daughter.

Many specialists, in distinct professions, visited the farm in the course of every twelve months, and each appeared at the season when his particular services were likely to be required. Among these an ancient grafter was one of the most important, and April was the month which brought him to Aldington. In January we had usually beheaded some trees that we considered not worth leaving as they were: these would be trees producing inferior and nondescript cider apples, or perry pears. And we had already cut, and laid in a shady place, half covered with soil, the young shoots of profitable sorts to furnish the grafts for converting the beheaded trees into valuable producers.

The old man's function was to prepare the grafts, and unite them in deftly-cut notches with their new parents. His was a rosy-cheeked and many-wrinkled face, reminding one of an apple stored all the winter, and, in his brown velveteen coat, with immense pockets, he made a notable figure. He loved a chat and was always happy and communicative, and his arrival seemed as much a herald of spring as that of the welcome cuckoo. He was paid "by the piece," "three-halfpence a graft and cider," quantity not specified, but an important part of the bargain because of a superstition that grafts "unwetted" would not thrive! Some of these large trees would have ten or more limbs requiring separate grafting, and therefore they earned him a considerable sum, but it is surprising how soon they make a new head, come into bearing, and repay with interest the cost of the work.

He was a thoughtful old man and a moralist. I can see him now, standing with his snuff-box open ready in his hand, and saying very solemnly, "I often thinks as an apple-tree is very similar to a child, for you know, sir, we're told to train up a child in the way he shall go, and when he is old he will not depart therefrom." He then refreshed himself with a mighty pinch of snuff, closing his box with a snap that emphasized his air of complete conviction.

I think the sheep-dipper was one of the early arrivals. He brings with him an apparatus which provides a bath, and a kind of gangway, rising at an angle from it, upon which the sheep can stand after immersion, to allow the superfluous liquid to find its way back into the bath; each sheep is lifted by two men into the bath containing insecticide, and has an interval for dripping before it rejoins the flock. In the days when Viper was young, he was introduced to the process and given a dip himself, much to his disgust; but that was the only time, for ever afterwards no sooner did the sheep-dipper and his weird-looking apparatus appear at night, in readiness for the performance on the morrow, than Viper remembered his undignified experience, and, before even the overture of the play commenced, vanished for the day. Nobody saw him go, or knew where he went, but it was useless to call or whistle, he was nowhere to be found.

I believe the active ingredient of the dip was a preparation of arsenic, and upon one occasion I lost several sheep after the dipping, presumably from arsenical poisoning absorbed through the skin. I met the dipper a few days later, and he said with a beaming face that he had "given 'em summat," meaning the parasites. His smiles disappeared when I told him the result, and that the remedy had proved more fatal than the disease. After this experience I used a more scientific dip which was quite as effective and without the element of danger to the sheep.

Entries are to be found in the old parish records of sums paid and chargeable to the parish for killing "woonts" (moles), but later private enterprise was alone responsible. A mole-catcher had been employed throughout the whole of my predecessor's time at Aldington, with a yearly remuneration of 12s. On my arrival he called and asked me to forward the account for the last year to his employer; it ran as follows: "To dastroyin thay woonts, 12s." The man hoped that I should continue the arrangement, but, as I had not seen a mole or a mole-hill on the farm, I told him I would wait, and would send for him if I found them troublesome. As a matter of fact I never saw a mole, or heard of one on my land, throughout the twenty-eight years of my occupation.

Rat-catchers are necessary when rats are very numerous, but rats appear to be very capricious, abounding in some seasons and scarce in others. My particular rat-catcher was not a very highly evolved specimen of humanity; he was thin and hungry-looking with an angular face, bearing a strong resemblance to the creatures against whom he waged warfare; he had a wandering, restless and furtive expression, and appeared to be perpetually on the lookout for his prey, or for manifestations of their cunning and other evil characteristics in the humanity with which he came in contact. His terms were, "no cure, no pay," which impressed one with his confidence in his own remedies; but these were profound secrets, and I had to be content with the assurance that he used nothing harmful to man or domestic animals. He was certainly successful, and effectually cleared the ricks and buildings at one of my outlying places previously badly infested; no dead rats were ever found, but all disappeared very soon after I engaged him.

It is well known that rats will unexpectedly desert quarters which they have occupied for a long time, and travel in large bodies to a new locality. An old man told me that, in walking by the brook-side footpath from Aldington to Badsey, he once encountered one of these armies; they looked so threatening and were in such numbers, that he had to turn aside to allow them to pass, as they showed no signs of giving way for him.

One morning my bailiff came in to say that a bean-rick had suddenly been taken possession of by an immense number of rats, where shortly before not one could have been found. A man going to the rick-yard quite early had seen the roof of the rick black with them; they were apparently drinking the dew hanging in drops on the straws of the thatch. They were so close together, "so thick," as he expressed it, that one was killed by a stone thrown "into the brown" of them. We sent for the thrashing machine a day or two later, and killed over seventy, and many escaped. Every dead rat was plastered with mud underneath, especially on their tails, and it was evident that they had only just arrived when first seen, and had travelled some distance, probably the evening before, along the clayey overhanging bank of the brook.

We always had great numbers of water-rats about brook; they are no relation of the land-rat, having blunter, noses, shorter tails, and very soft fur. They have not the loathsome appearance of the land-rat, and live, almost entirely, on water-weeds, rushes, and other vegetable matter. It is pretty to see them swimming across a stream; they dive when alarmed, and remain out of sight a long time; they never leave the water or the bank, and are quite innocent of depredations on corn.

In some counties, but not so far as I am aware in Worcestershire, one of the harmless snappers up of unconsidered trifles is the truffle-hunter. At Alton, in Hampshire, one of these men appeared in summer; he carried an implement like a short-handled thistle spud, but with a much longer blade, similar to that of a small spade but narrower; he was accompanied by a frisky little Frenchified dog, unlike any dog one commonly sees, and very alert. The hunting ground was beneath the overhanging branches of beech-trees, growing on a chalky soil; the man encouraged the dog by voice to hunt the surface of the land regularly over; when the dog scented the truffles underneath, he began to scratch, whereupon the implement came into use, and they were soon secured. I have since been sorry that I did not interview this truffle-hunter as to his methods and as to his dog, for I believe he is no longer to be seen in his old haunts. But I did get a pound or two to try, and was disappointed by the absence of flavour. I have since read that the English truffle is considered very inferior to the French, which is used in making pate de foie gras.

The wool-stapler makes his rounds as soon as shearing is completed; his first call is to examine the fleeces, and if a deal results a second visit follows for weighing and packing. He is of course well up in market values, probably receiving a telegram every morning, when trade is active, from the great wool-trade centre, Bradford. He is not unwilling to give a special price for quality, but will sometimes stipulate for secrecy as to the sum, because farmers, naturally, compare notes, and everyone thinks himself entitled to the top price no matter how inferior or badly washed his wool may be. The Bradford stapler has the northern method of speech, which sounds unfamiliar in the midland and southern counties, but it is not so cryptic as that of the Scottish wool trade. The following colloquy is reported as having passed between two Scots over a deal in woollen cloth.

Buyer. "'Oo?"

Seller. "Ay, 'oo."

Buyer. "A' 'oo?"

Seller. "Ay, a' 'oo."

Buyer. "A' a 'oo?"

Seller. "Ay, a' a 'oo."

Which, being interpreted, is: "Wool?"—"Yes, wool." "All wool?"—"Yes, all wool." "All one wool?"—"Yes, all one wool."

When the stapler arrives for the weighing he brings his steelyards and sheets; the wool is trod into the sheets, sewn up, and each sheet weighed separately, an allowance being made for "tare" (the weight of the sheet), and for "draught" (1/2 a pound in each tod, or 28 pounds). This last is a survival of the old method of weighing wool, when only enough fleeces were weighed at a time on the farmer's small machine to come to a tod as nearly as possible. Buyers did not recognize anything but level pounds (no quarters or halves), and consequently they got on the average half a pound over the tod at each separate weighing, gratis.

Owing to the immense importations of Australian wool, the price of English, which at one time was half-a-crown a pound, fell to the miserable figure of sevenpence or thereabouts. When I was in Lincolnshire, the tenant of the farm where I was a pupil clipped 14 pounds each from 200 "hoggs" (yearling sheep), which at 2s. 6d. per pound produced 35s. per sheep, equal to L350, so the fall of three-quarters of the value was a serious loss.

A story is told of a cunning wool buyer in the dim past weighing up wool on an upper floor of some farm premises. As the fleeces passed the machine they were thrown down an opening to the floor beneath in readiness for packing. The pile of wool upstairs had been there some time, and was full of rats. As the fleeces were moved a rat would sometimes rush out trying to escape. No farm labourer can resist a rat hunt, so the buyer being left alone beside the still unmoved fleeces, whenever a rat appeared, and the men scattered in every direction in pursuit, he took the opportunity to kick a few fleeces unweighed down the opening. When the owner came to reckon the quantity the buyer should have had, and compared it with the weight, the fraud was discovered, and the deficiency had to be made good.

I heard of a Hampshire farmer whose wife was anxious for a drawing-room to be added to an inadequate farmhouse, and the tenant with some difficulty persuaded the landlord to make the alteration. When the work was complete the farmer expressed the great satisfaction of his wife and himself with the addition, and the landlord was anxious to see the new room. Every time he suggested a day, the farmer objected that it would be inconvenient to his wife, or that he himself would be away from home. Time went on, and the landlord, finding it impossible to arrange a day that was not objected to, made a surprise visit, when shooting over the farm. The farmer protested as to the inconvenience, but the owner insisted, and was conducted to the new drawing-room. The door was thrown open, and the room was seen to be stacked from floor to ceiling with wool, without a stick of furniture in the place!

The veterinary surgeon is a necessary, but not very welcome visitor, for, of course, his attendance means disease or accident to the stock. He is not often mistaken in his diagnosis, though his patient cannot detail his symptoms, or point to the position of the trouble. But the vet is a man to be dispensed with as long as possible when epidemics, like swine fever or foot and mouth disease, are raging in the neighbourhood, because he may be a Government Inspector at such times, and there is great danger to healthy stock if he has been officially employed shortly before on an inspection. We had very little disease at Aldington, being off the highroad, but we had one bad attack of foot and mouth disease which I always thought was brought by a veterinary surgeon. The complaint went all through my dairy cows and fattening bullocks, and soon reduced them to lean beasts, but it was surprising how quickly they picked up again in flesh and resumed their normal appearance. It was curious to notice that, with the cows standing side by side in the sheds, the disease would attack one and miss the next two perhaps, then attack two and miss one, and so on; doubtless it was a matter of predisposition on the part of those affected.

The veterinary lecturer at Cirencester College told me that during the cattle plague in the sixties he had a coat well worth L50 to any veterinary surgeon, so impregnated was it with the infection. This man was fond of scoring off the students, and had a habit at the commencement of each lecture of holding a short viva voce examination on the subject of the last. I remember when the tables were turned upon him by a ready-witted student. The lecturer, who was a superior veterinary surgeon, detailed a whole catalogue of exaggerated symptoms exhibited by an imaginary horse, and selecting his victim added, with a chuckle, "Now, Mr. K., perhaps you will kindly tell us what treatment you would adopt under these circumstances?" K. was not a very diligent student, and the lecturer expected a display of ignorance, but his anticipated triumph was cut short by the reply: "Well, if I had a horse as bad as all that I should send for the vet." The lecturer expostulated, but could get nothing further out of K., and was forced to recognize that the general laugh which followed was against himself.

At a post-mortem, however, he was more successful in his choice of a butt. A dead horse with organs exposed was the object before the class, and the lecturer was asking questions as to their identification. "Now, Mr. Jones, perhaps you will show us where his lungs are?" Jones made an unsuccessful search. "Well, can we see where his heart is?" and so on—all failures. Finally and scornfully, "Well, perhaps you can show the gentlemen where his tail is!"

The village thatcher, Obadiah B., was an ancient, but efficient workman when engaged upon cottages or farm buildings, for ricks require only a comparatively temporary treatment. He was paid by the "square" of 100 feet, and, although he was "no scholard," and never used a tape, he was quite capable of checking by some method I could never fathom my own measurements with it. The finishing touches to his work were adjusted with the skill of an artist and the accuracy of a mathematician; and a beautiful bordering of "buckles" in an elaborate pattern of angles and crosses—"Fantykes" (Van Dycks), his hard-working daughter Sally called them—completed the job. He "reckoned" that each thatching would last at least twenty years, and being well stricken in years, or "getting-up-along" as they say in Hampshire, he would add gloomily, "I shall never do it no more." He was a true prophet, for on every building he thatched for me the work outlived him, and even after the lapse of thirty years is not completely worn out.

Passing him and his son in the village street, outside his house, when he was packing fruit for market, I heard him, his voice raised for my benefit, thus admonishing his son who was casually using some of the newer hampers: "Allus wear out the old, fust." But I must not attribute to his son the unfilial retort which another youth made under similar circumstances, when told to fetch some more hampers from a shed some distance away: "No, father, you fetch them, allus wear out the old fust, you know."

Occasional visitors come with goods for sale in quest of orders, and some are very persistent and difficult to get rid of. A man professing to sell some artificial fertilizer called upon me with a small tin sample box, containing a mixture which emitted a most villainous odour. He sniffed with appreciation at the compound, probably consisting of some nitrogenous material such as wool treated with sulphuric or hydrochloric acid, and began his address. He had not gone far before I remembered a story of a similar person in Hampshire. This man had called upon the leading farmers, and offered them a bargain, explaining that some trucks of artificial manure that he had consigned to Walton Station had been sent by mistake to Alton. He sold many tons in this way without any guarantee as to the analysis, but the buyers found on using it that it was worthless. The seller tried his game on again the following year, without success. One farmer whom he followed from the farm-house to a turnip-field went so far as to show him his hunting-crop, and pointing to the field gate at the same time, intimated that if he did not with all speed place himself outside the latter, he would make unpleasant acquaintance with the former. So now when my caller mentioned a truck of the manure which had come by mistake to Evesham Station, though consigned to Evershot in Somerset, my suspicions were confirmed, and when I innocently remarked, "I think I remember that truck, didn't it go to Alton once in mistake for Walton?" his countenance fell, and he wished me "good-morning" in a hurry.

Hurdles in Worcestershire are generally made of "withy" (willow), and it is interesting to watch the hurdle-maker at work. The poles have first to be peeled, which can be done by unskilled labour, the pole being fixed in an improvised upright vice made from the same material. Then comes the skilled man, who cuts the poles into suitable lengths, and splits the pieces into the correct widths. Next with an axe he trims off the rough edges, shapes the ends of the rails, and pierces the uprights with a centre-bit. Then he completes the mortise in a moment with a chisel, the rails being laid in position as guides to the size of the apertures. The rails are then driven home into the mortise holes, and he skips backwards and forwards, over the hurdle flat on the ground, as he nails the rails to the heads; two pieces, in the form of a V reversed, connect the rails and keep them in place.

In counties where hazel is grown in the coppices, a wattled or "flake" hurdle is the favourite, and they afford much more shelter to sheep in the fold than the open withy hurdle, but, being more lightly made, they require stakes and "shackles" to keep them in position. The hazel hurdle-maker may be seen in the coppice surrounded by his material and the clean fresh stacks of the work completed. The process of manufacture differs from that of the open-railed hurdle: he has an upright framework fixed to the ground with holes bored at the exact places for the vertical pieces, and indicating the correct length of the hurdle, when finished. The horizontal pieces or rods are comparatively slender and easily twisted, and so can be bent back where they reach the outside uprights, and they are interlaced with the others in basket-making fashion. At this stage the hurdle presents an unfinished appearance, with the ends of the horizontal rods protruding from the face of the hurdle. Then the maker with a special narrow and exceedingly sharp hatchet chops off at one blow each of the projecting ends, with admirable accuracy, never missing his aim or exceeding the exact degree of strength necessary to sever the superfluous bit without injuring the hurdle itself. The hurdle-maker is paid at a price per dozen, and he earns and deserves "good money."

The art of making wattled hurdles is passed on and carried down from father to son for generations; the hurdle-maker is usually a cheery man and receives a gracious welcome from the missus and the maids when he calls at the farm-house, often emphasized by a pint of home-brewed. He combines the accuracy of the draughtsman with the delicate touch of the accomplished lawn-tennis player. His exits and his entrances from and to the scene of his labours are made in the remote mysterious surroundings of the seldom-trodden woods; overhead is the brilliant blue of the clear spring sky; the sunshine lights up the quiet hazel tones of his simple materials, his highly finished work, and his heaps of clean fresh chips; and his stage is the newly cut coppice, carpeted with primroses and wild hyacinths. I have never seen a representation of this charming scene, and I commend the subject to the country-loving artist as full of interest and colour, and as a theme of natural beauty.

Our blacksmith came twice a week to the village when work was still plentiful in the early days of my farming, and I was not yet the only practical farmer in the place. I need not describe the forge: it has been sung by Longfellow, made music of by Handel, and painted by Morland; everybody knows its gleaming red-hot iron, its cascades of sparks, and the melodious clank of the heavy hammer as it falls upon the impressionable metal. In all pursuits which entail the use of an open fire at night, its fascination attracts both busy and idle villagers, and more especially in winter it becomes a centre for local gossip. At that season the time-honoured gossip corner, close to the Manor gate, was deserted for the warmth and action of the forge. Blacksmiths, like other specialists, vary, and the difference may be expressed as that between the man who fits the shoe to the hoof, and the man who fits the hoof to the shoe—in other words, the workman and the sloven. Doubtless many a slum-housed artisan in the big town, driven from his country home by the flood of unfair foreign competition, looks back with longing to the bright old cottage garden of his youth and in his dreams hears the music of the forge, sees the blazing fire, and sniffs the pungency of scorching hoof.



CHAPTER XIII.



THE DAIRY—CATTLE—SHEEP—LAMBS—PIGS—POULTRY.

"And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honied hours." —In Memoriam.

My farm had the reputation of being a good cheese farm, but a bad butter farm; in spite, however, of this tradition I determined to establish a pedigree Jersey herd for butter-making. For early in my occupation I had abandoned the cheese manufacture of my predecessor and later the production of unprofitable beef. My wife attended various lectures and demonstrations and was soon able to prove that the bad character of the farm for this purpose was not justified. Within a few years she covered one wall of the dairy with prize cards won at all the leading shows, and found a ready market for the produce, chiefly by parcel post to friends. The butter, although it commanded rather a better price than ordinary quality, was considered not only by them but by the villagers more economical, as owing to its solidity and freedom from butter milk, it would keep good indefinitely, and "went much further."

The cream from my Jerseys was so thick that the cream crock could be lifted up by the wooden spoon used for stirring, by merely plunging it into the crock full of cream and raising it, without touching the crock in any other way. With fifteen cows and heifers in milk on an average, the Jerseys brought me in quite L300 a year in butter and cream, without considering the value of the calves, and of the skim-milk for the pigs, and they were worth a good deal besides from the aesthetic point of view. I think that the word "dainty" describes the Jersey better than any other adjective; their beautiful lines and colouring in all shades of fawn and silver grey make them a continual delight to behold. After all, however, the shorthorn is a magnificent creature; they, too, have their aesthetic side; the outline is more robust, their colouring more pronounced, and I think that "stately" is the best description to apply to their distinguished bearing.

At Worcester, on market days, a great deal of butter is brought in by the country people and retailed in the Market Hall, and many of these farmers' wives and daughters have regular customers, who come each week for their supply. On one occasion when the inspector of weights and measures was making a surprise visit, and testing the weights of the goods on offer, a man, standing near a stall where only one pound of butter was left unsold, noticed that as soon as the owner became aware of the inspector's entrance, she slipped two half-crowns into the pat, obliterating the marks where they had been inserted. She was evidently aware that the butter was not full weight, but with the addition it satisfied the inspector's test, the two half-crowns just balancing the one ounce short. No sooner was he gone than the spectator came forward to buy the butter. She guessed that he had seen the trick, and dared not refuse to sell, although she tried hard to avoid doing so; so the cunning buyer walked off with fifteen ounces of butter worth 1s. 2d., and 5s. in silver for his outlay of 1s. 3d.

In farm-houses where old-fashioned ways of butter-making are still followed, and the thermometer is ignored, it happens sometimes that after some hours' churning the butter does not "come." The traditional remedy is then tried of introducing one or two half-crowns into the churn, partly, I think, as a kind of charm, and partly with the idea of what is called "cutting the curd." The remedy is certainly sometimes successful, probably the coins set up a new movement in the rotating cream, which causes an almost immediate appearance of the butter. On the outside of the framework of the windows in some of these old places, the word "dairy" or "cheese-room" may still be seen, painted or incised. This is a survival from the days of the window tax, and was necessary to claim the exemption which these rooms as places of business enjoyed by law.

My former tutor, the late vicar of Old Basing in Hampshire, decided to keep a cow on his glebe, and consulted the old parish clerk as to the kind of cow he would recommend. The old man was the oracle of the village on all matters secular as well as those connected with his calling. "Well," he said, "what you wants is a nice pretty little cow, not a great big beast as'll stand a-looking and a-staring at you all day long." The vicar followed his advice, avoided the stony regard of an unintelligent animal, and purchased a charming little tender-eyed Brittany, which was quite an ornament to his meadow.

People were very shy of American beef when first imported but, being lower in price than English it was bought by those who were willing to sacrifice quality to cheapness. It was said that the most inferior English was sold under the name of American, the best of the American doing duty for medium quality English. I remember seeing a very ancient and poverty-stricken cow knocked down to a Birmingham dealer, who exclaimed exultingly as the hammer fell, "I'll make 'em some 'Merican biff in Brummagem this week."

The neglected and overgrown hedges, now so often seen on what was formerly good wheat-growing land, have a useful side as shelter when surrounding pasture. In the bitter winds which often occur in May, when the cattle are first turned out after a winter in the yards well littered with clean straw, they can be seen on the southern side protected from the blast. Referring to the May blossom of the white-thorn, an old proverb says, with a faulty rhyme:

"May come early or May come late 'Tis sure to make the old cow quake."

May Day has always been the customary date for turning out cattle to grass, but people forget that old May Day was nearly a fortnight later, which makes a great difference as to warmth and keep at that time of year.

With changes of dates and times old customs and sayings lose their force. Under the "daylight saving" arrangement we should alter, "Rain before seven, fine before eleven," to "Rain before eight, fine before twelve," which spoils the rhyme. And "Between one and two, you'll see what the day means to do," into, "Between two and three, you'll see what the day means to be."

A few years ago, when Antony and Cleopatra was reproduced at a London theatre by an eminent actor-manager, it was reported that his mind was much exercised over the lines referring to the flight of Pompey's galley:

"The breese upon her, like a cow in June, Hoists sails and flies."

It was suggested that for "cow," the correct reading should be "crow," who might very well spread her wings to the breeze and fly. The difficulty was caused by the word "breese" (the gad-fly)—no doubt presumed to be an archaic spelling of "breeze." Shakespeare knew all about farming, as about nearly everything else, and a year on a farm would illustrate many of his allusions which the ordinary reader finds somewhat cryptic; anyone who has seen the terrified stampede of cattle with their tails erect when attacked by the gad-fly, will recognize the force of the simile. The gad-fly pierces the skin of the animal, laying its eggs beneath, just as the ichneumon makes use of a caterpillar to provide a host for its progeny. No doubt the operation is a painful one, but the caterpillar may survive, even into its chrysalis stage, and the cow in due time is relieved, after an uncomfortable experience, by the exit of the maggot or fly.

A branch of the Roman road, Ryknield Street, commonly called Buckle Street, leaving the former near Bidford-on-Avon and running over the Cotswolds via Weston Subedge, was known in former times as Buggilde or Buggeld Street, derived possibly from the Latin buculus, a young bullock. No doubt vast herds of cattle traversed the road from the vale to the hills, or vice versa, according to the abundance of keep and the time of year. Similar roads in Dorset and Wiltshire are still known as "ox droves," and in the former county, at least, both young heifers and bullocks are known as "bullicks."

Cattle are subject to all manner of disorders which, though puzzling to the owner to diagnose, are not as a rule beyond the skill of a good veterinary surgeon to alleviate; but there are also accidents which are much more annoying, being impossible to foresee. I had occasional losses from the latter causes: once in the night when a cow was thrown on her back into a deep brick manger; and once when a small piece of sacking, part of a decorticated cotton-cake bag, was somehow mixed in with the food, and induced internal inflammation.

It is a difficult matter for a farmer when selling fat cattle direct to the butcher, to compete with him in a correct estimate of the weight, and it is therefore advisable to sell at a price per pound of the dead weight when dressed; this, however, is not always feasible, and a very close estimate can be arrived at by measurement of the girth and length of the live animal, following rules laid down in the handbooks on the subject of fat stock. It is a mistake to suppose that the fattening of stock is a profitable undertaking per se. On all arable farms there is a certain amount of food, hay, straw, chaff, roots, etc., which must be consumed on the premises for the sake of keeping up the fertility of the land, but I believe that only under very exceptional circumstances can a shilling's-worth of food and attendance be converted into a shilling's-worth of meat, so that if in the future the price of corn is to fall back into anything approaching pre-war values, the corn crops, as well as the intermediate green crops, which are only a means for producing corn, must be discontinued, and the land will again become inferior pasture. Old-fashioned farmers recognized the absence of direct profit in the winter of fattening cattle especially on the produce of arable land, and the saying is well known that, "the man who fattens many bullocks never wants much paper on which to make his will."

There are few pleasanter sights about farm premises than to see, as the short winter day is drawing to an end, and the twilight is stealing around the ricks and buildings, a nicely sheltered yard full of contented cattle deeply bedded down in clean bright wheat straw, and settling themselves comfortably for the night; and, when one pulls the bed-clothes up to one's ears, one can go to sleep thinking happily that they too are enjoying a refreshing sleep. Cattle and sheep can stand severe cold, if they are sheltered from bitter winds and have dry quarters in which to lie; even lambs are none the worse for coming into the world in a snow-covered pasture; and an opened stable window without a draught will often cure a horse of a long-standing chronic cough. It was pitiful in the early days of the war to see the Indian troops with their mountain batteries at Ashurst, near Lyndhurst, in the New Forest, the mules up to their knees and hocks in black mud, owing to the unfortunate selection of an unsound site for the camp.

A "deadly man for ship"—one of those expressions not uncommon in Worcestershire, on the lucus a non lucendo principle—signifies a celebrated sheep breeder; the word "deadly," in this sense, is akin to the Hampshire and Dorset "terrible," or, "turrble," as a term of admiration or the appreciation of excellence; but there are occasions even in the most carefully tended flocks where accidents cannot be anticipated. Such an event occurred to a Cotswold ram, which after washing was placed in an orchard near my house to dry before shearing. The ram had an immense fleece on him, nineteen pounds as it afterwards proved, and the wool round the neck was somewhat ragged. As he lay asleep with his head turned round and muzzle pointing backwards, some little movement caused his head to become entangled in the loose wool, and he was found hanged in his own fleece.

I was watching, with my bailiff, a splendid lot of lambs fat and ready for the butcher; two of them were having a game—walking backwards from each other, and suddenly rushing together like two knights in a medieval tournament, their heads meeting with a concussion and a resounding smack—when one instantly fell to the ground with a broken neck. Had no one been present the meat would have been worthless, but my man was equal to the occasion, and, borrowing my pocket knife, produced the flow of blood necessary to render the meat fit for human food. My villagers had a feast that week, and my own table was graced by an excellent joint of real English lamb. Of course we never attempted to consume any of the meat from animals which had been killed when suffering from a doubtful complaint, though some people are by no means particular in this matter.

A doctor told me that when attending a case at a farmhouse he was invited to join the family at their midday meal, and was surprised to see a nice fore-quarter of lamb on the table. His host gave him an ample helping, and he had just made a beginning with it and the mint sauce, green peas, and new potatoes, when the founder of the feast announced by way of excusing the indulgence in such a luxury: "This un, you know was a bit casualty, so we thought it better to make sure of un." My informant told me that then and there his appetite completely failed, and, to the dismay of his host he had to relinquish his knife and fork.

It is always policy to kill a sheep to save its life, as the saying is, and the way to make the most of it is to send any fat animal, which is off its feed and looking somewhat thoughtful, to the butcher at once. He knows quite well whether the sheep is fit for food, and if he decides against it, all one expects is the value of the skin. But people are very shy of buying meat about which they have any misgiving, and my butcher once told me not to send him an "emergency sheep" in one of my own carts, but to ask him to fetch it himself: "It's like this," he explained, "when a customer comes in for a nice joint of mutton, if he is a near neighbour, he will perhaps add, 'I would rather not have a bit of the sheep that came in a day or two ago in one of Mr. S.'s carts'!"

It was always cheering in February, "fill dyke, be it black or be it white," on a dark morning, to hear the young lambs and their mothers calling to each other in the orchards, where there is some grass all the year round under the shelter of the apple trees; or when a springlike morning appears, about the time of St. Valentine's Day, and the thrushes are singing love-songs to their mates, and the first brimstone butterfly has dared to leave his winter seclusion for the fickle sunshine, to realize that Spring is coming, and the active work of the farm is about to recommence. There is a superstition that when the master sees the firstling of the flock, if its head is turned towards him, good luck for the year will follow, but it is most unlucky if its head is turned away.

After the disastrous wet season of 1879 immense losses ensued from the prevalence of the fatal liver rot; many thousands of sheep were sold at the auctions for 3s. or 4s. apiece, and sound mutton was exceedingly scarce and dear. It was represented to a very August personage, that if the people could be induced to forgo the consumption of lamb, these in due course would grow into sheep, and the price of mutton would be reduced. Accordingly an order was issued forbidding the appearance of lamb on the Court tables. It had not occurred to the proposer of this scheme that a scarcity of food for the developing lambs would result, nor was it understood that the producers of fat lambs make special cropping arrangements for their keep, with the object of clearing out their stock about Easter, in time to plough the ground, and follow the roots where the ewes and lambs have been feeding, with barley. The "classes" copied the example of the Court, as in duty bound, and the demand fell to zero. But the lambs had to be sold for the reasons mentioned, and, in the absence of the usual demand, the unfortunate producers offered them at almost any price. The miners and the pottery workers in Staffordshire were not so loyal as the "classes"; they welcomed the unusual opportunity of buying early lamb at 9d. a pound, and trains composed entirely of trucks full of lambs from the south of England to the Midlands supplied them abundantly.

The edict, when its effect was apparent, was therefore revoked, but it was too late, the lambs were gone, and as everybody was hungry for his usual Easter lamb, the demand was immense, and the price rose in proportion. I had thirty or forty lambs intended for the Easter markets, and had, with great difficulty and the sacrifice of grass which should have stood for hay, managed to keep them on, scarcely knowing what to do with them. But the sudden demand arose just in time, and I sent them to the Alcester auction sale, where buyers from Birmingham and the neighbourhood attend in large numbers. A capital sale resulted, the price going as high as 60s., in those days a big figure for lambs about four months old. I was so pleased with the result and my deliverance from the dilemma, that, passing through the town on my way home, and spying an old Worcester china cup and saucer, and a bowl oL the same, all with the rare square mark, I invested some of my plunder in what time has proved an excellent speculation, and my cabinet is still decorated with these mementoes, which I never see without calling to mind the story of the lamb edict and its result.

During the Great War some controlling wiseacre evolved precisely the same scheme for bringing about an imaginary increase in the supply of mutton, by prohibiting the slaughter of any lambs until June. The Dorset breeders, who buy in ewes at high prices for the special production of early lamb—the lambs of this breed are born in October and November—were more particularly affected, and the absurdity of the prohibition having been later represented to the authorities, the order was withdrawn, though not before great loss and difficulty were inflicted upon the unfortunate producers. It goes to prove the necessity of the administration of such matters by competent men, and how easily apparently sound theory in inexperienced hands may conflict with economical practice.

Of late years the competition of the importations of New Zealand lamb has reduced the price of English lamb to an unremunerative level. This thin dry stuff bears about the same resemblance to real fat home-grown lamb, as do the proverbial chalk and cheese to each other; but it is good enough for the restaurants and eating-houses; and the consumer who lacks the critical faculty of the connoisseur in such matters, devours his "Canterbury" lamb, well disguised with mint sauce, in sublime ignorance, and, apparently, without missing the succulence of the real article—convinced as he is that it was produced in the neighbourhood of the cathedral city of the same name, and unaware of the existence of such a place as Canterbury in New Zealand, or that the name, if not exactly a fraud, is calculated to mislead. Doubtless it is the mint sauce that satisfies the uncritical palate. Just as the boy who, when asked after a treat of oysters how he liked them, said with gusto, "The oysters was good, but the vinegar and pepper was delicious!"

It is well known that there is a tendency among men in charge of special kinds of domestic animals gradually to approximate to them in appearance, and we are told that men sometimes gradually acquire a resemblance to men they admire. I knew a pedigree-pig herdsman, very successful in the show-ring, who was curiously like his charges, and I had at least two shepherds whose profiles were extraordinarily sheepish—though not in the ordinary acceptation of the term. Such an appearance confers a singularly simple expression. It must have been a man whose character justified such a facial peculiarity, who, having to bring the flock of one of my neighbours over a railway crossing between two of his fields, neglected to open the further gate first, drove the sheep on to the rails, and proceeded to do so, only to find the sheep, in the meantime, had wandered down the line. Before he could collect them a train dashed into them, and many were killed and others injured. The railway company not only repudiated all liability, but sent in a counterclaim for damage to their engine!

But the tables were turned morally, if not actually, by a friend of mine, who certainly scored off a railway company. My friend's waggon, with two horses and a load of hay, was passing over a level crossing on his land, when the London express came into view slinging downhill in all the majesty of triumphant speed, but far enough away to be brought up in time, ignominiously and abruptly. The railway company wrote my friend a letter of remonstrance suggestive of pains and penalties, and telling him that his waggoner should have made sure of the safety of crossing before attempting it—not an easy thing to do at this particular place. My friend replied that his right of way existed centuries before the railway was dreamed of, that the crossing was a concession for the company's convenience, it had saved the expense of a bridge, and that his hay was an urgent matter in view of the weather; and that uninterrupted harvesting was of more importance than the punctuality of their passengers.

I have sometimes passed through a remote village on a Sunday where the obsequies of a pig were to be seen in full view from the road; these were usually places where the church was in an adjoining mother-parish, and of course there are times when, for reasons of health or perhaps more correctly ill-health, it is impossible to defer the ceremony. As a rule, I should imagine that greater privacy is sought, at any rate so far as the public point of view is concerned. One remembers the story of the man doing some Sunday carpentering; his wife expostulated with him as a Sabbath breaker; he replied that in driving in the nails he could not help making some noise; "then why," said she, "don't you use screws?"

An old Dorset labourer who helped with the removal of the pig-wash, and did other small jobs for successive tenants of mine at a furnished cottage on my land in Hampshire, invariably estimated the social status and resources of each new tenant by the consistency of the wash. When some rather extravagant occupiers were in possession, he reported them as, "Quite the right sort; their wash is real good, thick stuff." The villagers at Aldington did not smoke their bacon, but, as it usually hung in the kitchen not far from the big open hearth, and as the place was often full of fragrant wood smoke, the bacon acquired a pleasant suggestion of the smoked article of the southern counties. The cottagers rarely complained of the smoky state of their kitchens, consoling themselves with the saying, "'Tis better to be smoke-dried nor starred [starved with the cold] to death." Bacon naturally suggests eggs; many of the villagers kept a few fowls which sometimes strayed into my orchards; as a rule, I made no objection, but it was not pleasing, when the apples were over-ripe and dropping from the trees, to notice the destructive marks of their beaks on some extra fine Blenheim oranges.

My wife determined to take over our fowls into her own jurisdiction; hitherto they had been under my bailiff's care, and he rather resented the change as an implication on his management, until it was explained that she was anxious to undertake the poultry as a hobby. One of the carter boys was detailed to collect the eggs, as some of the hen-houses were in out-of-the-way corners of the yards and difficult to approach. My wife thought the middleman was appropriating most of the profit; she was determined to get as directly to the consumer as possible and, among others, she arranged with the head of a large school for a weekly supply of dairy and poultry produce. All went well for a time until one day the boy, anxious to produce as many eggs as possible, as he received a royalty per dozen for collecting, discovered some nests which my man had set for hatching before he retired from the post. The boy, not recognizing this important fact, came in greatly pleased with an unusually large quantity, and it so happened that the school received the eggs from this special lot. Next morning forty eggs appeared at the boys' breakfast table, and forty boys simultaneously suffered a terrible shock on the discovery of forty incomplete chickens. The head wrote an aggrieved letter of complaint, and though my wife was by that time able to explain the matter, and regret her own loss too of forty chickens, he removed his custom to a more reliable source.

This schoolmaster was a collector of antique furniture and china, and, knowing that I was interested, he asked me to come and see some Chippendale chairs he had just acquired. It happened that some months before I had declined to buy four or five chairs that were offered at 10s. apiece. I had not then fully developed the taste for the antique, which once acquired forbids the connoisseur to refuse anything good, whether really wanted or not, and at that time there was much more choice in such matters than at the present day. The chairs were very dilapidated and I did not recognize their possibilities, but I noticed the arms of the elbow chairs were particularly good, being carved at the junction of the horizontal and vertical pieces with eagles' heads. Deciding that I did not want them I sent a dealer to the house and forgot all about the matter. The schoolmaster took me into his drawing-room, and I instantly recognized the set I had refused; they were quite transformed, nicely cleaned, lightly polished, and the seats newly covered. I duly admired them, and on inquiry found that he had purchased them in Worcester from the dealer I had sent to look at them; they cost him L5 each, and I suppose at the present time they would be worth L20 apiece at least.

I have previously mentioned old Viper as a family friend, but like all dogs he had his faults. He acquired a liking for new laid eggs and hunted the rickyard for nests in the straw. My bailiff determined to cure him; he carefully blew an egg, and filled it with a mixture of which mustard was the chief component. Viper was tempted to sample the egg, which he accepted with a great show of innocence; the effect when he had broken the shell was electrical; he fled with downcast tail and complete dejection, and nothing would ever induce him to touch an egg again.

The whirligig of time has indeed brought its revenge in the matter of the market value of eggs. In Worcestershire we have had to give them away at eighteen or twenty for a shilling; last (1918-1919) winter we sold some at 7s. a dozen, and many more at 5s.



CHAPTER XIV.



ORCHARDS—APPLES—CIDER—PERRY.

"Lo! sweetened with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow Drops in a silent autumn night." —The Lotus-Eaters.

A curious old punning Latin line, illustrating various meanings of the word malus, an apple, seems appropriate, as a commencement, to writing about apples; it is I think very little known, and too good to be forgotten. Malo, malo, malo, malo; it is translated thus:

"Malo, I would rather be, Malo, in an apple-tree, Malo, than a bad boy, Malo, in adversity."

The fruit was an important item on the Aldington Manor Farm, and when later I bought an adjoining farm of seventy acres with orcharding, and had planted nine acres of plum trees, my total fruit area amounted to about thirty acres. There was a saying in the neighbourhood which pleased me greatly, that "it was always harvest at Aldington"; it was not so much intended to signify that there was always something coming in, as to convey an impression of the constant activity and employment of labour that continued throughout the seasons without intermission, though it was true that with the diversity of my crops and stock, there was a more or less continuous return. I had a shock when an old friend in a neighbouring village spoke of me as a "pomologist," the title seemed much too distinguished, and personally I have never claimed the right to anything better than the rather pretty old title of "orchardist."

The position of an orchard is of the utmost importance; shelter is necessary, but it must be above the ordinary spring frost level of the district. I should say that no orchard should be less than 150 feet above sea-level, to be fairly safe, and 200 feet would in nearly any ordinary spring be quite secure against frost. The climate has a remarkable effect upon the colour of apples, and colour is one of the most valuable of market properties, for the ordinary town buyer is a poor judge of the merits of apples and prefers colour and size to most other considerations. Here in the south of England seven miles from the sea, in a dry and sunny climate, all apples develop a much more brilliant colour than in the moist climate of the Vale of Evesham.

I fear that very few planters of fruit trees think of following the routine which Virgil describes in his second Georgic, as practised by the careful orchardist, when transplanting. Dryden's translation is as follows:

"Some peasants, not t' omit the nicest care, Of the same soil their nursery prepare With that of their plantation; lest the tree, Translated should not with the soil agree. Beside, to plant it as it was, they mark The heav'ns four quarters on the tender bark, And to the north or south restore the side, Which at their birth did heat or cold abide: So strong is custom; such effects can use In tender souls of pliant plants produce."

Virgil was born in the year 70 B.C., and died, age 51, in 19 B.C., so that over nineteen centuries have elapsed since these words were written; as he was an excellent farmer, he would not have mentioned the practice unless he considered the advice sound. It is quite possible that the vertical cracking of the bark on one side of a young transplanted tree may be due to a change from the cool north aspect to the heat of the south. At any rate the experiment is well worth trying, and nurserymen would not find it much trouble to run a chalk line down the south side of each tree, when lifting them, as a guide for the purchaser.

As showing how conservative is the popular demand for apples, Cox's Orange Pippin, which is absolutely unapproached for flavour, and is perfectly sound and eatable from early in November till Easter if carefully picked at the right moment and properly stored, was cultivated thirty or forty years before the British public discovered its extraordinary qualities! I find it described as one of the best dessert apples in Dr. Hogg's Fruit Manual, and my copy is the third edition published in 1866, so it must have been well known to him some years previously, though we never heard much about it until after the twentieth century came in. Though the colour, when well grown, is highly attractive to the connoisseur, the ordinary buyer did not readily take to it as it is rather small. In 1917 Cox's Orange Pippin, however, really came into its own; I myself, here in the New Forest, grew over 3,000 pounds on about 120 trees planted in 1906, each branch pruned as a cordon, and very thinly dispersed, and the trees restricted to a height of about 14 feet. The apples were mostly sold in Covent Garden at 6d. a pound, clear of railway carriage and salesmen's commission. In 1918, a year of great scarcity, these apples were selling in the London shops up to 3s. 6d. apiece! Now that its reputation is fully established, it is likely to be many years before it becomes relatively low in price, as the foreign apples of this kind cannot compare in flavour with those grown in our own orchards. I appreciate the man whose attention was wholly given to some particularly dainty dish, and, being bored at the table by a persistent talker, gently said, "Hush! and let me listen to the flavour."

As an early market apple there is none more popular than the Worcester Pearmain, first grown in the early eighties by Messrs. R. Smith and Co., of Worcester, and said to be a cross between King of the Pippins and the old Quarrenden (nearly always called Quarantine). It is a most attractive fruit—brilliant in colour, medium size, with pleasant brisk flavour—and is an early and regular bearer. I recognized its possibilities as soon as I saw it, and getting all the grafts I could collect, and they were very scarce at the time, I had the branches of some of my old worthless trees cut off, and set my old grafter to convert them into Worcester Pearmains; they soon came into bearing and produced abundant and profitable crops.

This apple is not much use for keeping beyond a month or so, as it soon loses its crisp texture and distinctive flavour, and it is its earliness and colour that makes it so popular in its season. Its regularity as a bearer is due to its early maturity; it can be picked in August, which allows plenty of time, in favourable weather, for next year's fruit buds to develop before winter; whereas with the late sorts these buds have very little chance to mature while the current year's fruit is ripening, with the result that a blank season nearly always follows an abundant yield. The Worcester Pearmain is so highly decorative, with its large pale pink and white blossoms in spring and its glowing red fruit in autumn, that it would be worth growing for these qualities alone in the amateur's garden, and in any case it is an apple that nobody should be without.

An old apple, not sufficiently known, is the Rosemary Russet; it has the distinctive russet-bronze colouring, always indicative of flavour, with a rosy flush on the sunny side, and Dr. Hogg describes it further as, "flesh yellow, crisp, tender, very juicy, sugary and highly aromatic—a first-rate dessert apple, in use from December to February." In my opinion it comes next, though longo intervallo, to Cox's Orange Pippin, but it wants good land to make the best of it. It may with confidence be produced as a rarity across the walnuts and the wine to the connossieur in apples.

In Covent Garden Market King Pippins are known as "Kings"; Cox's Orange Pippins as "C.O.P.'s"; Cellinis as "Selinas"; Kerry pippins as "Careys"; Court pendu plat as "Corpendus"; and the pear, Josephine de Malines as "Joseph on the palings"! The Wellington is sold as "Wellington," but in the markets of the large northern towns it is known as "Normanton Wonder."

In Worcestershire St. Swithin's Day, July 15, is called "apple-christening day," when a good rain often gives a great impetus to their growth, and a little later great quantities of small apples may be seen under the trees; this is Nature's method of limiting the crop to reasonable proportions, the weak ones falling off and the fittest surviving. The inexperienced grower may be somewhat alarmed by this apparent destruction of his prospects, but the older hand knows better, and my bailiff always said: "When I sees plenty of apples under the trees about midsummer, I knows there'll be plenty to pick towards Michaelmas."

The Blenheim Orange was the leading apple at Aldington; some kind person had, sixty or seventy years before my time, planted a number of trees which had thrived wonderfully on that rich land. The Blenheim is a nice dessert apple and a splendid "cooker"; the trees take many years to come into bearing, and then they make up for lost time. Nature is never in a hurry to produce her best results. As a market apple the Blenheim has a great reputation; if an Evesham fruit dealer was asked if he could do with any apples, his first question was always: "Be 'em Blemmins?"

"September blow soft till the fruit's in the loft," is the prayer of all apple growers; it is pitiful to see, after a roaring gale, the ground strewn with beautiful fruit, bruised and broken, useless to keep, and only suitable for carting away to the all-devouring cider-mill, though, even for that purpose, the sweet Blenheim does not produce nearly so good a drink as sourer accredited cider varieties.

Many of the gardening papers will name apples if sent by readers for identification; I was told of an enquirer who sent twelve apples from the same tree, and received eleven different names and one "unknown"! Apples off the same tree do differ wonderfully, but I can scarcely credit this story.

It was the custom formerly at Aldington to sell the fruit on the trees by auction for the buyer to pick and market, growers as a rule being too busy with corn-harvest to attend to the gathering. A considerable sum was thereby often sacrificed, as the buyer allows an ample margin for risks, and is not willing to give more than about half of what he expects to receive ultimately. I discontinued the auction sales early in my farming, preferring to take the risks myself, and having plenty of labour available. It is instructive too to know how individual trees are bearing, and the sorts which produce the best returns.

Except for the choicest fruit, I consider London the worst market, and I could do better, as a rule, by sending my consignments to Manchester, Liverpool, Sheffield, and Glasgow; the latter especially for large coarse stuff. London is more critical, pays well for the very best, but requires apples to be carefully graded, and the grades separately packed; London is, moreover, naturally well supplied by the southern counties.

At the auctions the competition was generally keen, there being much rivalry between the buyers; and it was good for the sellers when political parties were opposed to each other, for in those days Evesham was inclined to be rather violent in such matters. I remember a lively contest between Conservatives and Radicals, when my largest orchard—about six acres—was sold to the champion of the former for L210, and the Radical exclaimed, as the lot was knocked down, for everybody to hear: "He offered me L10 before the sale to stand out, now that L10 is in Mr. S.'s pocket!"

A few strong gales in the winter are supposed to benefit apple-trees, acting as a kind of root pruning; but sometimes, when they are getting old, they come down bodily with a crash, partly uprooted, though even then they may be resuscitated for a time. We had a powerful set of pulley tackle by which, when made fast to a neighbouring tree, they could be restored to the perpendicular, after enlarging the hole left by the roots, making the ground firm again round the tree, and placing a strong sloping prop to take the weight on the weak side; good yields would then often continue for some years.

When the pickers had gathered the crop, by an ancient custom all the village children were allowed to invade the orchards for the purpose of getting for themselves any apples overlooked. This practice is called "scragging," but it is a custom that would perhaps be better honoured in the breach than in the observance, for hob nails do not agree with the tender bark of young trees. Like gleaning, or "leasing," as it is called, it is nevertheless a pleasant old custom, and seems to give the children huge delight.

Mistletoe did not find my apple-trees congenial, there was only one piece on all my fruit land, and it was regarded as something of a curiosity. But in other parts of the neighbourhood it flourished abundantly, though I noticed that it was most frequent where the land was poorer and the trees not so luxuriant. It was also to be seen on tall black poplars, and I have a piece—planted purposely—on a hawthorn in my garden here. It grows in parts of the Forest, especially on the white-beams in Sloden, in curiously small detached pieces like lichen. The white-beam was a favourite tree of the Romans for the wood-work of agricultural implements, being tough and strong.

Mistletoe is quite easy to propagate by rubbing the glutinous berries and their seeds on the under side of a small branch at the angle where it joins a limb. There it will often flourish unless snapped up by a wandering missel-thrush. It is very slow in growth, but, when it attains a fair size, is strikingly pretty in winter when the tree is otherwise bare, for its peculiar shade of faded green, with its white and glistening berries, makes an unusual effect—quite different from that of any other green thing. It is rare on the oak, and, possibly for that reason, the Druids regarded the oak upon which it grew as sacred.

The transition from apples to cider is a natural one, and cider is a great institution in Worcestershire. On all the larger farms, and in every village, an ancient cider-mill can be found. It consists of a circular block of masonry, perhaps ten feet in diameter, the outer circumference of which is a continuous stone trough, about 18 inches across, and 15 inches deep, called "the chase," in which a huge grindstone, weighing about 15 cwt., revolves slowly, actuated by a horse walking round the chase in an unending circle. The apples are introduced in small quantities into the chase, and crushed into pulp by the grindstone. The pulp is then removed and placed between hair cloths, piled upon each other, until a stack is erected beneath a powerful press, worked by a lever, on the principle of a capstan. As the pressure increases, the liquor runs into a vessel below, from whence it is carried in buckets, and poured into barrels in the cellar. Fermentation begins almost immediately, by which the sugar is converted in carbonic acid gas and alcohol; the gas escapes and the spirit remains in the liquor.

Such is the simplest method of cider-making, and it produces a drink thoroughly appreciated by the men, for we made annually 1,500 to 2,000 gallons, and there was very little left when next year's cider-making began. Where cider is made for sale, much greater care is necessary; only the soundest fruit is used, and the vinous fermentation is allowed to begin in open vessels before the pulp is pressed. When the extracted liquor is placed in the barrels every effort is made to prevent the acetic fermentation, which produces vinegar, and spoils the cider for discriminating palates. The stone mill has been superseded to some extent by the steam "scratter"; but the cider is not considered so good, as the kernels are left uncrushed, an important omission, as they add largely to the flavour of the finished product. After a hot dry summer, cider is unusually strong, because the sugar in the apples is much more fully developed. It is recognized that these hot summers produce what are known as vintage years for cider, just as, on the Continent, they produce vintage wines.

Jarge, of whom I have written, was the presiding genius in the cider-mill, and his duties began as soon as hop-picking was over. All traces of the downward inclination of the corners of his mouth, caused by the delinquencies of recalcitrant hoppers, quite disappeared as soon as his new duties commenced, and it was a pleasure to see his jovial face beaming over a job which seemed to have no drawbacks. A really Bacchanalian presence is the only one that should be tolerated in a cider-maker; the lean and hungry character is quite out of place amidst the fragrance of the crushed apples, and the generous liquor running from the press.

The cider-maker is always allowed a liberal quantity of last year's produce, on the principle of "thou shalt not muzzle the ox when he treadeth out the corn"—a principle that should always be recognized in the labourer's hire, and one which is too often forgotten by the public in its estimate of the necessities of the farmer himself. It is usual for the man in possession, so to speak, of the cider-mill, to mix, for his own consumption, some of the new unfermented liquor with the old cider, which, after twelve months, is apt to be excessively sour; but the quantity of the former must not be in too large a proportion, as it has a powerful medicinal effect.

"Wouldst thou thy vats with generous juice should froth? Respect thy orchats: think not that the trees Spontaneous will produce a wholesome draught, Let art correct thy breed."

So sang Philips in his Cyder in the distant days of 1706, but the advice is as sound as ever, for good cider can only be produced from the right kinds of apples. The names of new sorts are legion, but some of the old varieties are still considered to be very valuable. Among these, the Foxwhelp has been a favourite for 200 years, and others in great esteem are Skyrme's Kernal, Forest Styre, Hagloe Crab, Dymock Red, Bromley, Cowarne Red, and Styre Wilding. It requires about twenty "pots" (a local measure each weighing 64 pounds) to make a hogshead of cider; a hogshead is roughly 100 gallons, and in Worcestershire is hardly recognizable under the name of "oxsheard"—I have never seen the word in print, but the local pronunciation is faithfully represented by my spelling. Another local appellation which puzzled me for some years was "crab varges," which I eventually discovered to mean "verjuice," a terribly sour liquid, made in the same way as cider from crab apples. It was considered a wonderfully stimulating specific for sprains and strains, holding the same pre-eminent position as an embrocation, as did "goose-grace" (goose-grease) as an ointment or emollient. This substance is the melted fat of a goose, and was said to be so powerful that, if applied to the back of the hand, it could shortly be recognized on the palm!

The value of alcohol as a food is generally denied in these days by sedentary people, but very few who have seen its judicious use in agricultural work will be inclined to agree; it is possible that though it may be a carbo-hydrate very quickly consumed in the body, it acts as an aid to digestion, and produces more nourishment from a given quantity of food, than would be assimilated in its absence. The giving out of the men's allowances is, however, a troublesome matter and demands a firm and masterful bailiff or foreman, for "much" is inclined to want "more," and the line should, of course, be drawn far short of excess. It was related of an old lady farmer in the neighbourhood, who always distributed her men's cider with her own hands, that in her anxiety to be on the safe side after a season when the cider was unusually strong, she mixed a proportion of water with the beverage, before the arrival of the recipients. One of the men, however, having discovered the dilution, arrived after the first day with two jars. Asked the reason for the second jar, he answered that he should prefer to have his cider and the water separate.

My bailiff always said that sixpennyworth of cider would do more work than a shilling in cash. He was undoubtedly correct, and, moreover, the quantity worth sixpence in the farm cider store would cost a shilling or more at the public-house, to supply an equivalent in alcohol, and valuable time would be lost in fetching it. It is the alcohol that commends it to the agricultural labourer more than any consideration of thirst, and no one can see its effect without the conviction that the men find it not only stimulating, but supporting. A friend of mine, however, found so much satisfaction in a deep draught of cider when he felt really "dry," that he said he would give "a crown" any day for a "good thirst!"

Excess in drink was rare at Aldington, and it was very exceptional for a man to be seen in what were called his "crooked stockings." Fortunately, we had no public-house in the village, and if the men had a moderate allowance during a hard day's work, there was not much temptation to tramp a mile and back at night to the nearest licensed premises in order to sit and swill in the tap-room. I had one man who lived near a place of the sort, and he occasionally took what my bailiff called, "Saints' days," and did not appear for work. I notice that this sort of day is now called by the more suitable name of "alcoholiday."

Well-fermented cider contains from 5 to 10 gallons of alcohol, and perry about 7 gallons, to every 100 gallons of the liquor, which compares with claret 13 to 17, sherry 15 to 20, and port 24 to 26 per cent, of alcohol. I found the truth of the proverb in vino veritas; after a quite small allowance of cider on the farm the open-hearted man would become lively, the reserved man taciturn, the crabbed man argumentative; but the work went with a will and a spirit that were not so noticeable when no "tots" were going round.

An old gentleman in the neighbourhood used to tell with much enjoyment the following story of his younger days. "I found myself," he said, "gradually increasing my allowance of whisky and water, as I sat alone of an evening, and I said to myself: 'Now look here, H.W., you began with one glass, very soon you got on to two, and now you're taking three. I'll tell you what it is, H.W., you shan't have another drop of whisky for a month';" "and," he added, "H.W. did it, too!"

Shortly before I came to Aldington the men were suddenly seized with what seemed an unaccountable epidemic; their symptoms were all similar, and a doctor soon diagnosed the complaint as lead-poisoning. Nobody could suggest its origin until the cider was suspected, and, on enquiry, it was elicited that the previous year the stones of the cider-mill chase, which had become loosened by long use, were repaired with melted lead poured in between the joints. The malic acid of the apples had dissolved the lead, and it remained in solution in the cider. To the disgust of the men, the doctor advised removing the bungs from the barrels and letting the cider run off into the drains, but nobody had the heart to comply, for there was the whole year's stock, and it meant a wait of twelve months before it could be replaced. After some months the men got impatient, and told the master they were prepared to take the risk. They began with great caution, and finding no bad result, they gradually increased the dose, still without harm, until the normal allowance was safely reached. It is probable that the barrel which caused the symptoms was the first made after the repairs, and contained an extra quantity of the lead, and although the remainder was more or less contaminated, the poison was in such small amount as to be harmless.

There were many old apple-trees about the hedges and in odd corners, which went by the name of "the roundabouts," and the fruit was annually collected and brought to the cider-mill. Some of these were immense trees, and not very desirable round arable land, owing to their shade, but they were lovely when in bloom, for standing separately, they seemed to develop richer colours than when close together in an orchard.

The story of Shakespeare's carouse, and his night passed under a crab-tree near Bidford, about six miles from Aldington, is well known. It is stated, but not without contradiction, that he excused himself by explaining that he had been drinking with:

Piping Pebworth, dancing Marston, Haunted Hillborough, hungry Grafton, Dudging Exhall, papist Wixford, Beggarly Broom, and drunken Bidford.

A carousal at all these places would have been a heavy day's work, and I have often thought that if the lines can really be attributed to him, he might have meant that he had met people from all the villages at one of the Whitsuntide merry-makings annually held in the neighbourhood, and passed a jovial time in their company.

Perry is made in much the same way as cider, and when due care has been taken in its manufacture, it is a most delicious and wholesome drink. When bottled and kept to mature it pours out with a beautiful creaming head, and is far superior to ordinary champagne. Both cider and perry should be drunk out of a china or earthenware mug, whence they taste much richer than from glass; but my men always used in the field a small horn cup or "tot," holding about quarter of a pint. I have a very interesting old cider cup, of Fulham or Lambeth earthenware I think, holding about a quart, with three handles, each of which is a greyhound with body bent to form the loop for the hand. It was intended for the use of three persons sitting together at a small three-cornered oak table, specimens of which are still, though rarely, met with at furniture sales in farm-houses or cottages; the cup was placed in the middle, and each person could take a pull by using his particular handle with the adjacent place for his lips, without passing the cup round or using the same drinking space as another.

There are numerous kinds of perry pears, but certain sorts have a great reputation, such as Moorcroft, Barland, Malvern Hills, Longdon, Red Horse, Mother Huff Cap, and Chate Boy (cheat boy), a particularly astringent pear; these are all small, and require quickly grinding when gathered. In the New Forest there is a perry pear similar to the Chate Boy, called Choke Dog, which in its natural state, is quite as rough on the palate as the former, but it differs in colour and is not the same sort. I had a splendid specimen of the Chate Boy pear-tree at an outlying set of buildings, said to be the father of all the trees of that kind in the neighbourhood, and it was a landmark for miles, as it stood on high ground. It was fitted with a ladder reaching to the middle of the tree, where seats were arranged on a platform for eight or nine people; but it was unfortunately blown down on the night of the great gale of October 14, 1877, when twelve other trees on the farm were likewise overthrown.

Cider and perry drinkers were said to be more or less immune from many human ailments, including rheumatic affections, though one would expect the acetic acid they contain, unless very carefully made, would have an opposite effect. Certainly my men suffered neither from gout nor rheumatism, and there was a tradition that in 1832, when the cholera was rife in the country, the plague was stayed as soon as the cider districts were approached.

These noble old pear-trees are a great feature of the Vale of Evesham, especially in the more calcareous parts where the lias limestone is not far from the surface; they are exquisite in spring in clouds of pure white blossoms long before the apples are in bloom; in the autumn the foliage presents every tint of crimson, green and gold all softly subdued, and in winter, when the framework of the tree can be seen, it is noticeable how far the massive limbs extend, carrying their girth almost to the summit, in a way that not even the oak can excel. The timber is short in the grain, and wears smooth in the long wood ploughs, and is very suitable for carving quite small and elaborate patterns for such articles as picture frames; but it is somewhat liable to the attack of the woodworm.



CHAPTER XV.



PLUMS—CHERRIES.

"A right down hearty one he be as'll make some of our maids look alive. And the worst time of year for such work too, when the May-Dukes is in, and the Hearts a-colouring!" —Crusty John in Alice Lorraine.

The Vale of Evesham has the credit of being the birthplace of two most valuable plums—the Damascene, and the Pershore, or Egg plum. These both grow on their own stocks, so require no grafting, and can readily be propagated by severing the suckers which spring up around them from the roots of the tree. The Damascene, as its name implies, is a species of Damson, but coarser than the real Damson or the Prune Damson. They are not so popular on the London market as in the markets of the north, especially in Manchester, where they command prices little inferior to the better sorts, as they yield a brilliant red dye suitable for dying printed cotton goods. When really ripe they are excellent for cooking, and are not to be despised, even raw, on a thirsty autumn day. In years of scarcity these have fetched 30s. and over per "pot" of 72 pounds.

The Pershore is a very different plum, green when unripe, and attaining a golden colour later; they are immense bearers and very hardy, frequently saving the situation for the plum-growers when all other kinds are destroyed by spring frosts. They are specially valuable for bottling, and it is rumoured that in the hands of skilful manufacturers they become "apricots" under certain conditions. As "cookers," too, they are perhaps the most useful of plums, for they can be used in a very green and hard state. It is a wonderful sight to see them being despatched by tram at the Evesham stations, loaded sometimes loose like coals in the trucks for the big preserving firms in the north. The trees grow very irregularly and are difficult to keep in shape by pruning, as they send forth suckers from all parts when an attempt is made to keep them symmetrical. The only purpose for which the fruit is of little use is for eating raw, they are not unpleasant when just ripe, but that stage is soon passed and they become woody and unpalatable.

I planted a thousand of these trees in a new orchard, and took great pains with the pruning myself, for it was curious that in that land of fruit at the time no professional pruner could be found. I sought the advice of a market-gardener and plum-grower, who, in the early stage of their growth, gave me an object-lesson, cutting back the young shoots rather hard to induce them to throw out more at the point of incision, so as to produce eventually a fuller head; while he reiterated the instruction, "It is no use being afraid of 'em."

This young orchard adjoined the Great Western Railway, and one day when pruning there I saw a remarkable sight, and I have never found any one with a similar experience. The telegraph wires were magnified into stout ropes by a coating of white rime, and I could see a distinct series of waves approximating to the dots and dashes of the Morse code running along them. The movement would run for a time up towards London, cease for a moment, and then run downwards towards Evesham, and so on almost continuously. I thought it might be caused by the passage of electricity, but I cannot get a satisfactory explanation. No trains were passing, there was no wind, the rime was not thawing or falling off, and apparently there was nothing to agitate either poles or wires.

This orchard was not a lucky one; it was too low, having only one flat meadow between it and the brook, and therefore very liable to spring frosts. I have seen the trees well past the blossoming stage, with young plums as large as peas, which after two nights' sharp frost turned black and fell off to such an extent that there was scarcely a plum left; but I had a few very good crops which gave employment to a number of additional hands besides my regular people.

A season came when the plum-trees in my new orchard were badly attacked by the caterpillars of the winter-moth, but the cuckoos soon found them out, and I could see half a dozen at once enjoying a bountiful feast. When better plums are abundant the Pershore falls to very low prices; I have sold quantities at 1s. or 1s. 3d. per pot of 72 pounds, at which of course there was a loss; but it is needless to say that at such times the consumer never gets the benefit, 2d. a pound being about the lowest figure at which they are ever seen on offer in the shops.

The Victoria is a very superior plum to the Pershore, and a local plum called Jimmy Moore is also a favourite. I believe this plum is very similar to, if not identical with, one sold as Emperor; both it and the Victoria nearly always made good prices and bore well. The Victoria, especially, was so prolific that in some seasons, if not carefully propped, every branch would be broken off by, the weight of fruit, and the tree left a wreck. Not discouraged, however, it would shoot out again and in a few years bear as well as ever.

My best plum was the greengage, rather a shy bearer but always in demand. Living in a land of Goshen, like the Vale of Evesham, one gets quite hypercritical (or "picksome," as the local expression is), and scarcely cares to taste a fruit from a tree in passing; but I used to visit my greengages at times when the pickers had done with them, for they have to be gathered somewhat unripe to ensure travelling undamaged. I often found, on the south side of the tree, a few that had been overlooked which were fully ripe, beautifully mottled, full of sunshine, and perfect in melting texture and ambrosial flavour.

For restocking old worn-out apple orchards, in Worcestershire at any rate, there is nothing to equal plum-trees; they flourished amazingly at Aldington, and soon made up for the lost apples; they appeared to follow the principle that dictates the rotation of ordinary crops, just as the leguminous plants alternate satisfactorily with the graminaceous, or, as I have read that in Norway, where a fir forest has been cut, birch will spring up automatically and take its place.

My predecessor always sold his plums on the trees for the buyer to harvest, and I heard that when the former turned a flock of Dorset ewes into one of these orchards, the buyer complained—the lower branches being heavily laden, and within a few feet of the ground—that he had watched, "Them old yows holding down bunches of plums with their harns for t'others to eat." This I imagine was in the nature of hyperbole, and not intended to be taken literally.