I had about forty cherry trees in one of my orchards, and among them a very early kind of black cherry, as well as Black Bigarreaus, White Heart and Elton Heart. The early ones made particularly good prices, but when the French cherries began to be imported, being on the market a week or two before ours they "took the keen edge off the demand," though wretched-looking things in comparison. The cherries from my forty trees made L80 one year when the crop was good, but they are expensive to pick as there is much shifting of heavy ladders, and the work was done by men. In Kent, I believe, women are employed at cherry-picking, ascending forty-round ladders in a gale of wind without a sign of nervousness, but with a man in attendance to pack the fruit and shift the ladders when required. I found Liverpool the best market for cherries, where they were bought by the large steamship companies for the Transatlantic liners, and where they were in demand for the seaside and holiday places in North Wales and Lancashire. Like the pear-trees, the cherry-trees are very beautiful in spring, and again in autumn, and as mine could be seen from the house and garden, they added a great charm to the place.

I must put in a word here for the bullfinch, which is unreasonably persecuted for its supposed destruction of the cherry crop when in bloom; it undoubtedly picks many blossoms to pieces, but probably no ultimate loss of weight follows; very few comparatively of the blooms ever become fruits in any case, and even if some are thus nipped in the bud, it is probable that the remainder mature into larger and finer cherries in consequence. The advantage of thinning is recognized in the case of all our fruits, and is indeed, the reason for pruning. The vine-grower knows well the truth of the saying that, "You should get your enemy to thin your grapes," and I would sacrifice many cherries for a few of these beautiful birds in my garden, for man does not live by bread alone.

One of the old couplets, of which our forefathers were so fond, runs:

"A cherry year is a merry year, And a plum year is a dumb year."

I have seen the explanation suggested that cherries being particularly wholesome contributed to the happiness of mankind, but that the less salubrious plum tended to depression of health and spirits. There is, however, a small black cherry still grown in this and other parts of Hampshire and Surrey called the "Merry," from the French merise, and it was natural that when cherries were abundant the merry would also be plentiful. The word "dumb" is an archaic synonym for "damson," and the same rule would apply between it and the plum, as with the cherry and the merry. My own small place here, in the New Forest, has been known for centuries as "the Merry Gardens," and no doubt they were once grown here, as at other places in the south of England, called Merry Hills, Merry Fields, and Merry Orchards. Even now as I write, on May Day, the buds on the wild cherries in my hedges are showing the white bloom just ready to appear, and in a few days, these trees will be spangled with their little bright stars. I imagine that they are no very distant relation of the old merry-trees that once flourished here.



CHAPTER XVI.



TREES: ELM—OAK—BEECH—WILLOW—SCOTS-FIR.

"O flourish, hidden deep in fern, Old oak, I love thee well; A thousand thanks for what I learn And what remains to tell." —The Talking Oak.

Keats tells us that

"The trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self,"

and had he included the trees around a dwelling-house, the epigram would have been equally applicable. Sometimes, of course, it becomes absolutely necessary to cut down an ancient tree that from its proximity to one's home has become a part of the home itself, but it is a matter for the gravest consideration, for one cannot foresee the result, and to a person who has lived long with a noble tree as a near neighbour, the place never again seems the same.

The Elm is said to be the Worcestershire weed, as the oak is in Herefordshire; the former attains a great size, but it is not very deeply rooted, and a heavy gale will sometimes cause many unwelcome gaps in a stately avenue. Big branches, too, have a way of falling without the least notice, and on the whole it is safer not to have elms near houses or cottages. One of the finest avenues of elms I know, is to be seen at the Palace of the Bishop of Winchester at Farnham in Surrey, but the land is quite exceptionally good, and in the palmy days of hop-growing, the adjoining fields commanded a rent of L20 an acre for what is known as the "Heart land of Farnham," where hops of the most superlative quality were grown. When the dappled deer are grouped under this noble avenue, in the light and shade beneath the elms, they form an old English picture of country life not to be surpassed.

The elm is a sure sign of rich land, it is never seen on thin poor soils. An intending purchaser, or tenant, of a farm should always regard its presence as a certain indication of a likely venture. It is a terrible robber, and therefore a nuisance round arable land, causing a spreading shade, under which the corn will be found thin, "scrawley," and "broken-kneed," with poor, shrivelled ears; and the alternating green crops will also suffer in their way. In an orchard it is still worse; I had several at one time surrounded by Blenheim apples, which were always small, scanty, and colourless. Eventually, I cut the elms down, the biggest, carrying perhaps 100 cubic feet of timber at 9d. a foot at the time, was only worth 75s., though it must have destroyed scores of pounds worth of fruit during its many years of growth. The elm seems particularly liable to be struck by lightning, possibly owing to its height, and several suffered in this way during my time at Aldington.

From the scarcity of oak in the Vale of Evesham elm was often used for making the coffers or chests we generally see made from the former wood. I have one of these, nicely carved with the scrolls and bold devices of the Jacobean period, and it is so dark in colour as to pass at first sight for old oak. The timber is not much used in building, except for rough farm sheds; as boards it is liable to twist and become what is called "cross-winding." The land in the New Forest is mostly too poor for the elm, and this should warn the theorists, who during the war have advocated reclaiming the open heaths and moors for agricultural purposes, against such an ignorant proposition. I suppose it would cost at least L100 an acre to clear, drain, fence, level, make roads, and erect the necessary farm buildings, houses and cottages, with the result that it would command less than L1 per acre as annual rent; and I should be sorry to be compelled to farm it at that.

Oaks are somewhat scarce in Worcestershire, and are rarely found in the Vale of Evesham. I had one remarkably fine specimen in a meadow on Claybrook, the farm I owned, adjoining the Aldington land. It covered an area measuring 22 yards by 22 yards = 484 square yards, the tenth part of an acre. The trunk measured 12 feet in circumference, about 7 feet from the ground. The rule for estimating the age of growing oak-trees is to calculate 15 years to each inch of radius = 540 years to a yard, therefore a tree 6 feet in diameter, and about 20 feet round, including bark and knots, would be just that age. According to this rule my tree would be not less than 330 years old, which of course is young for an oak.

The life of this oak was saved in a peculiar way by "a pint of drink," and the story was told me by the agent of an old lady, the previous owner. It had been decided to fell the tree, and two professional sawyers, who were also "tree-fallers" (fellers), arrived one morning for the purpose with their axes and cross-cut saw. They surveyed the prospect and agreeing that it presented a tough job, an adjournment was arranged to the neighbouring "Royal Oak" for a pint of drink before commencing operations. Coming back, half an hour later, they had just stripped and rolled up their shirt sleeves, when the agent appeared on the road not far off. "Hullo," he shouted, "have you made a start?" "Just about to begin," replied the head man. "Well then, don't," said the agent, "the old lady died last night, and I must wait till the new owners have considered the matter." So the tree was saved, and curiously enough by its namesake the "Royal Oak." The new owner spared it, and later when it became my property I did likewise, for I should have considered it sacrilege to destroy the finest oak in the neighbourhood. Some years after I had sold the farm I heard that the tree was blown down in a gale, its enormous head and widespread branches must have offered immense resistance to the wind, and the fall of it must have been great.

The most celebrated, if not the biggest oak in the New Forest is the Knightwood oak, not far from Lyndhurst; it is 17 feet in circumference, which would make it not less than 450 years old by the above rule. It is strange to think that it may have been an acorn in the year 1469, in the reign of Henry VI., and that 200 years later it could easily have peeped over the heads of its neighbours in 1669, to see Charles II., who probably went riding along the main Christchurch road from Lyndhurst with a team of courtiers and court beauties, in all the pomp of royalty. We know that in that year with reference to the waste of timber in the Forest during his father's reign he was especially interested in the planting of young oaks, and enclosed a nursery of 300 acres for their growth. It is also recorded that he did not forget the maids of honour of his court, upon whom he bestowed the young woods of Brockenhurst.

"Oak before ash—only a splash, Ash before oak—a regular soak,"

is a very ancient proverb referring to the relative times of the leaves of these trees appearing in the spring, and is supposed to be prophetic of the weather during the ensuing summer. I have, however, noticed for many years that the oak is invariably first, so that like some other prognostications, it seems to be unreliable.

The attitudes of oak trees are a very interesting study. There is the oak which, bending forwards and stretching out a kindly hand, appears to offer a hearty welcome; the oak that starts backward in astonishment at any familiarity advanced by a passing stranger. The oak that assumes an attitude of pride and self-importance; the oak that approaches a superior neighbour with an air of humility and abasement, listening subserviently to his commands. The shrinking oak in dread of an enemy, and the oak prepared to offer a stout resistance. The hopeful oak in the prime of life, and the oak that totters in desolate and crabbed old age. The oak that enjoys in middle age the good things of life, with well-fed and rounded symmetry; and the oak that suggests decrepitude, with rough exterior, and a life-experience of hardship; the sturdy oak, the ambitious oak, the self-contained oak, and so on, through every phase of character. No other tree is so human or so expressive, and no other tree bespeaks such fortitude and endurance. To say that a well-grown oak typifies the reserve and strength of the true-born Briton, is perhaps to sum up its individuality in a word.

There is one old fellow who throws back his head and roars with laughter when I go by; what can be the joke? I must stop some day and look to see if the sides of his rather tight jacket of Lincoln green moss are really splitting, and perhaps, if I can catch the pitch of his voice, I shall hear him whisper:

"A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' the forest."

I like to think that these old personalities are transmigrations, and that each is now at leisure to correct some special mistake in a previous existence. Perhaps, out there in the moonlight, they tell their stories to each other, and to the owls I hear at midnight performing an appropriately weird overture.

These talking oaks can only be found where they have grown from acorns naturally, and where they have survived the struggle of life against their enemies, including the interference of man, the attacks of grazing animals, the blasts of winter and the heavy burden of its snows. The natural woods, as distinct from the plantations of the New Forest, offer many examples of these varying trees and the lessons they convey. Such a piece of old natural forest almost surrounds my present home, and every time I pass through it I bless the memory of William the Conqueror. Randolph Caldecott, that prince of illustrators of rural life, evidently noticed the characteristic attitudes of trees; look at the sympathetic dejection displayed by the two old pollard willows in his sketch of the maiden all forlorn, in The House that Jack Built. The maiden has her handkerchief to her eyes, and in a few masterly strokes one of the trees is depicted with a falling tear, and the other bent double is hobbling along with a crutch supporting its withered and tottering frame.

Far otherwise is it with the plantations where the oaks are artificially cultivated for timber. These are planted close together on purpose to draw each other upwards in the struggle for air and sunlight, which prevents their branching so near the ground as the natural trees, the object being to produce an extended length of straight trunk that will eventually afford a long and regular cut of timber, free from the knots caused by the branches. All round the plantations Scots-firs are planted as "nurses," to keep off the rough winds and prevent breakage; these also help to lengthen the trunks by inducing upward development. As the trees get nearer together they are repeatedly thinned out, and, eventually, only those left which are intended to come to maturity. Under this artificial, though necessary system, the trees lose all individuality, and they never regain it because they are all more or less controlled when growing, and so become uninteresting copies of each other.

The motto of the natural oak is festina lente, mindful of the proverb, "early maturity means early decay." It is well known that oak, slowly and naturally grown on poor soil, is far more durable than that which is run up artificially or produced on rich land. The branches of oaks rarely cross or damage each other by friction, like those of the beech, they are obstinate and will sooner break in a gale, than give way. Where an oak and a beech grow side by side, close together, the oak suffers more than the beech, from the dense shade of the latter; and if they are so near as to touch and rub together in the wind, the oak will throw out a plaster or protection of bark, to act as a styptic to the wound in the first place, and eventually as a solid barrier against further aggression.

Paintings of landscape in which trees occur are rarely satisfactory; if you look at children playing beneath timber trees, or passers-by, the first thing that strikes you is the majesty and the height of the tree, as compared with the human figure. In paintings this is not as a rule expressed; the trees are too insignificant, and the figures too important, so that the range and wealth of tree-life is lost. Gainsborough's Market Cart is a notable exception, but the cart is a clumsy affair, and the shafts are much too low both on it and the horse. Constable's Valley Farm, The Haywain, The Cornfield, and Dedham Mill are all striking examples of his sense of tree proportion, lending no little to the nobility of his pictures, and speaking eloquently of the reverence man should feel in the presence of Nature, untainted by his own fancied importance.

What is known as "heart of oak" in Worcestershire is called "spine-oak" in the New Forest, and the latter is perhaps the better name of the two as expressive of greater durability. The outer part of the trunk is called "the sap," and whilst the heart or spine is almost indestructible, the sap-wood quickly decays, and is rejected in using the timber for any important purpose. Pieces of the sap adhering to the heart-wood of which the old oak coffers were made, may often be found riddled with worm holes and almost gone to dust, while the remainder of the chest is as sound as the day it was made two or three hundred years ago.

It is interesting, too, to notice marks of charring on the edge of the lids of these coffers; it is said that they were caused by placing the rushlight in that position, the flame just overhanging the edge, to give time to jump into bed by its light leaving it to be automatically extinguished on reaching the wood; and that the charring occurred when sometimes the flame continued to burn a little longer than expected.

Oak is usually felled in the spring when the sap is rising, to allow of the easier removal of the bark for tanning. It is a pretty sight to see, amidst the greenery of the standing trees, the stripped and gleaming trunks and larger limbs stretched upon the ground, with the neatly piled stacks of bark arranged for the air to draw through and dry them before removal. This is called "rining" in the New Forest, and good wages are earned at it by the men employed.

It is perhaps the only timber, with the exception of sweet chestnut, that is worthy to be used for the roofs of ecclesiastical buildings. At Badsey, when we removed the roof of the church prior to restoration, we found the oak timbers on the north side as sound as when placed there many years further back than living memory could recall, and of which no record or tradition existed. These timbers were all used again in the new roof, but those from the south side had to be discarded, having been much more exposed to driving rain and daily changes of temperature.

I had a number of oak field-gates made, but as the timber was barely seasoned, we were afraid shrinkage might take place in the mortises and tenons, and it was an agreeable surprise to find in a year or two that nothing of the kind had happened. The mortise hole had apparently got smaller, and still fitted the shrunken tenon to perfection. Oak gates will last, if kept occasionally painted, sixty or seventy years in farm use, and there were gates on my land fully that age and still quite serviceable.

The acorns from oaks in pastures are a trouble, as cattle are very fond of them and sometimes gorge themselves to such an extent as to prove fatal, if allowed unrestricted access to them when really hungry; but in the New Forest they are welcomed by the commoners (occupiers of private lands), some of whom possess the right of "pannage" (turning out pigs on the Crown property).

In old days the oak timbers of which our battleships were constructed were supplied from the New Forest; and the saw-pit in which the timbers of the Victory were sawn by hand is still to be seen in Burley New Plantation. But Government methods appear to have been generally conducted in later times somewhat on the independent lines which distinguished them in the Great War. Some years ago it was said that a department requiring oak timber advertised for tenders in a newspaper, in which also appeared an advertisement of another department offering oak for sale. A dealer who obtained an option to purchase from the latter, submitted a tender to the former, succeeded in obtaining the business, and cleared a large profit.

The oak has figured repeatedly in English history and occupies a unique place in our national tradition, commencing with its Druidical worship as a sacred tree. It was from an oak that the arrow of Walter Tyrrel which struck down William Rufus is said to have glanced, and Magna Charta was signed beneath an oak by the unwilling hand of King John. It is associated in all ages with preachings, political meetings, and with parish and county boundaries. These boundary oaks were called Gospel-trees, it is said, because the gospel for the day was read beneath them by the parochial priest during the annual perambulation of the parish boundaries by the leading inhabitants in Rogation week. Herrick alludes to the practice in the lines addressed to Anthea in Hesperides:

"Dearest, bury me Under that Holy-oke or Gospel-tree, Where (though thou see'st not) thou may'st think upon Me, when thou yeerly go'st Procession."

But perhaps the oak that appeals most to the lively imagination venerating old tales of merry England, and with whose story generous hearts are most in sympathy, is that

"Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim, And far below the Roundhead rode, And hummed a surly hymn."

The beech is not a common tree in the Vale of Evesham, preferring the dryer soils of the Cotswold Hills. It is said to have been introduced by the Romans, and is familiar as the tree mentioned by Virgil in the opening line of his first Pastoral:

"Tityre tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi;"

the metre, and the words of which, apart from their signification, suggest so accurately the pattering of the leaves of the tree in a gentle breeze. This device like alliteration is a method of intensifying the expression of a passage, and is frequently adopted by the poets.

In another famous onomatopoeic line—

"Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum"

—Virgil imitates the sound of a galloping horse, and the shaking of the ground beneath its hoofs.

Tennyson renders very naturally the action of the northern farmer's nag and the sound of its movement, by—

"Proputty, proputty sticks an' proputty, proputty graws."

And an excellent example of the effect of well-chosen words, to express the sound produced by the subject referred to, occurs in the Morte d'Arthur:

"The many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge."

Blackmore's passage in Lorna Doone, describing the superlative ease and speed of Tom Faggus's mare, when John Ridd as a boy was allowed to ride her—after a rough experience at the beginning of the venture—is, though printed as prose, perhaps better poetry than most similar efforts. To emphasize its full force it may be allowable to divide the phrases as follows:

"I never had dreamed of such delicate motion, Fluent, and graceful, and ambient, Soft as the breeze flitting over the flowers, But swift as the summer lightning. I sat up again, but my strength was all spent, And no time left to recover it, And though she rose at our gate like a bird, I tumbled off into the mixen."

The last line is a delightful bathos, adding immensely to the completeness of the catastrophe.

In spring the beech is the most beautiful of forest trees, putting forth individual horizontal sprays of tender green from the lower branches about the end of April as heralds of the later full glory of the tree. These increase day by day upwards in verdant clouds, until the whole unites into a complete bower of dense greenery. The beech is known as the "groaning tree," because the branches often cross each other, and where the tree is exposed to the wind sometimes groan as they rub together. The rubbing often causes a wound where one of the branches will eventually break off, or occasionally automatic grafting takes place, and they unite. In the Verderer's Hall at Lyndhurst specimens are to be seen which have crossed and joined a second time, so that a complete hollow oval, or irregular circle of the wood could be cut out of the branch.

Estates where extensive beech woods existed have been bought by speculative timber dealers, who shortly installed a gang of wood cutters and a steam saw, on which the timber was sawn into suitable pieces, to be afterwards turned on a lathe into chair legs and other domestic furniture, and very often finally dyed to represent mahogany. There are beeches in the New Forest which vie with the oak for premier place, measuring over 20 feet in circumference, and the mast together with the acorns affords abundant harvest, or "ovest," as it is called, for the commoners' pigs.

There was a curious saying in use by persons on the road to Pershore, when asked their destination. In a good plum year the reply was, "Pershore, where d'ye think?" And in a year of scarcity, "Pershore, God help us!" The same expressions were formerly current regarding Burley in the New Forest referring to the abundance or scarcity of beech-mast and acorns, called collectively "akermast."

When the nation had presented the Duke of Wellington, after the Battle of Waterloo, with Strathfieldsaye, an estate between Basingstoke and Reading, the Duke wishing to commemorate the event planted a number of beech trees as a lasting memorial, which were known as "the Waterloo beeches." Some years later, the eminent arboricultural author, John Loudon, writing on the subject of the relative ages and sizes of trees, wrote to the Duke for permission to view his Waterloo beeches. The Duke had never heard of Loudon, and his writing being somewhat illegible he deciphered the signature "J. Loudon" as "J. London" (the Bishop of London), and the word "beeches" as "breeches." "For what on earth can the Bishop want to see the breeches I wore at Waterloo?" said the Duke; but taking a charitable view of the matter he decided that the poor old Bishop must be getting irresponsible and replied that he was giving his valet instructions to show the Bishop the garments in question, whenever it suited him to inspect them. The Bishop was equally amazed, but took exactly the same view about the Duke as the latter had decided upon concerning the Bishop. No doubt the mystery was eventually cleared up, and Bishop and Duke must have both enjoyed the joke.

The shade of the beech is so dense that grass will not grow beneath it; it gradually kills even holly, which is comparatively flourishing under the oak. The beech woods in the Forest are thus quite free from undergrowth, and the noble trees with their smooth ash-coloured stems can be seen in perfection, giving a cathedral aisle effect, which is erroneously said to have suggested the massive columns and groined roofs of Gothic architecture.

"Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise."

There is, too, an unearthly effect at times to be seen beneath them, so exaggerated as to remind one of the stage setting of a pastoral play, with all the enhancing artificial contrivance of light and shade. It is to be seen only on a brilliantly sunny day, where the contour of the space around the stem and below the branches takes the form of an arched cavern, flooded by a single shaft of sunlight, piercing the foliage at one particular spot, lighting up the floor carpeted with last year's red-brown leaves, and emphasizing the gloom of the walls and roof. Imagination instantly supplies the players, for a more perfect setting for Rosalind and Celia, Orlando and the melancholy Jaques, it would be impossible to conceive. It is said that the ancient Greeks could see with their ears and hear with their eyes, a privilege doubtless granted to the nature lover in all ages. In the Forest some of the most ancient and remarkable trees have borne for generations descriptive names such as the King and Queen oaks at Boldrewood, and the Eagle oak in Knightwood. The communion between human and tree life is well illustrated by a passage from Thoreau's Walden: "I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech tree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines."

At Aldington a most valuable tree was the willow, or "withy," as it is called in Worcestershire, though in Hampshire the latter name is given to the Goat willow, or sallow ("sally," in Worcestershire), bearing the pretty blossoms known as palms, which in former times were worn by men and boys in country places on Palm Sunday. My brooks were bordered on both sides by pollard withies, the whole being divided into seven parts or annual cuts, so that, as they are lopped every seven years a cut came in for lopping each year. They were then well furnished with long and heavy poles, which were severed close to the head of the pollard with a sharp axe. When on the ground, the brushwood was cut off and tied into "kids" (faggots) for fire-lighting, the poles being made into hurdles or sold to the crate-makers in the potteries for crates in which to pack earthenware goods of all descriptions. The men employed at the lopping had to stand on the heads of the pollards, and it was sometimes quite an acrobatic feat to maintain their balance on a small swaying tree, or on one which overhung the water.

There was a local saying that "the withy tree would buy the horse, while the oak would only buy the halter," and I believe it to be perfectly true; for the uses of the withy are innumerable, and throughout its seven years' growth from one lopping to another there is always something useful to be had from it, with its final harvest of full-grown poles. One year after lopping the superfluous shoots are cut out and used or sold for "bonds" for tying up "kids" or the mouths of corn sacks. As the shoots grow stronger more can be taken—with ultimate benefit to the development of the full-grown poles—for use as rick pegs and "buckles" in thatching. The buckles are the wooden pins made of a small strip of withy, twisted at the centre so that it can be doubled in half like a hairpin, and used to fix the rods which secure the thatch by pressing the buckles firmly into it. In Hampshire these are called "spars," and they are sold in bundles containing a fixed number.

I heard an amusing story about these spars. A certain thatcher, we may call him Joe, was engaged upon the roof of a cottage, when the parson of the parish chanced to pass that way. Joe had of late neglected his attendance at church, and the vicar saw his way to a word of advice. After "passing the time of day" he took Joe to task for his neglected attendance and waxing warm expressed his fears that Joe had forgotten all his Sunday-school lessons; he was doubtful even, he said, if Joe could tell him the number of the Commandments. Joe confessed his ignorance. "Dear me," said the vicar, "to think that in this nineteenth century any man could be found so ignorant as not to know the number of the Commandments!" Joe bided his time until the vicar's attention had been called to the spars, when Joe asked him how many a bundle contained. It was a problem that the vicar could not solve. "Dear me," said Joe, "to think that in this 'ere nineteenth century any man could be found so ignorant as not to know the number of spars in a bundle!" Joe always added when telling the story, "But there," I says, "every beggar," I says, "to his trade," I says.

Sometimes a picturesque gipsy would come to the Manor House with clothes-pegs for sale, and she generally negotiated a deal, for everybody has a sneaking regard for the gipsies and their romantic life sub Jove. Walking round the farm shortly afterwards I would come upon the remains of their fire and deserted camp by the roadside close to the brook, the ground strewn with the peel and refuse from the materials with which they had supplied themselves gratis, and I recognized that we had been buying goods made from my own withies. Even so we did not complain, for no real harm was done to the trees.

The heads of these old pollards are favourite places for birds'-nests, and all kinds of plants and bushes take root in their decaying fibre, the seeds having been carried by the birds; so that ivy, brambles, wild gooseberries, currants, raspberries, nut bushes and elders, can be seen growing there. Whenever the foxhounds ran a fox to Aldington he was always lost near the brookside, and it was said that the cunning beast eluded the hounds by mounting a pollard and jumping from one to another, until the scent was dissipated. It was also a tradition that when hunting began on the Cotswolds the experienced foxes left for the Vale, leaving the less crafty to fight it out with the hounds; for the Evesham district was seldom visited by the hunt, owing to possible damage to the highly cultivated winter crops of the market-gardeners.

Jarge had a very narrow escape when grubbing out an old willow overhanging a pool. He had been at work some hours, and had a deep trench dug out all round the tree, to attack the roots with a stock-axe. He had cut them all through except the tough tap-root, when I reached him, and he was standing in the trench at work upon it. He was certain that it would be some time before the tree fell, the tap-root being very large; but, as I stood watching on the ground above, I thought I saw a suspicious tremor pass over the tree, and an instant later I was certain it was coming down. I shouted to him to get out of the trench. It took a second or two to get clear, as the trench was deep, and he was not a tall man, so he was scarcely out when the tree fell with a crash on the exact spot where he had been at work. Had I not been present it must have fallen upon him, for not expecting the end was so near he had not been watching the signs. Though not a tall tree, it was a very stout and heavy trunk, and the tap-root on inspection proved to be partly rotten.

"Forth into the fields I went, And Nature's living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent.

"I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers: You scarce could see the grass for flowers.

"I wonder'd, while I paced along: The woods were fill'd so full with song, There seemed no room for sense of wrong."

Such is Tennyson's description of a spring day in the fields and woods, and nothing more beautiful could be written. And so it was with joy that my men and carter boys with waggons and teams started early on the spring mornings to bring home the newly purchased hop-poles from the distant woods. These poles are sold by auction in stacks where they are cut, and the buyer has to cart them home. Usually, after a successful hop year they were in great demand; prices would rise in proportion, and the early seller did well, but when the later sales came sometimes, the demand being satisfied, there would be a heavy fall in values, and as a cunning buyer expressed it, "The poles lasted longer than the money."

The dainty catkins of the hazel are the first sign of awakening life in the woods; they are well out by the end of January or early in February, and as they ripen, clouds of pollen are disseminated by the wind. Tennyson speaks of "Native hazels tassel-hung." The female bloom, which is the immediate precursor of the nut itself, is a pretty little pink star, which can be found on the same branch as the catkin but is much less conspicuous; and both are a very welcome sight, as almost the earliest hint of spring. The hazel bloom is shortly followed by the green leaves of the woodbine, which climbs so exultingly to the tops of the highest trees and breathes its fragrance on a summer evening. In the New Forest the green hellebore is early and noticeable from its peculiar green blossoms, but I have not seen it in Worcestershire.

My men and teams were generally off to the hills, Blockley, Broadway, Winchcombe, Farmcote, and suchlike out-of-the-way places, when the wet "rides" in the woods were drying up. The boys especially revelled in the flowers—primroses and wild hyacinths—and came home with huge bunches; they enjoyed the novelty of the woods and the wild hill-country, which is such a contrast to the flat and highly cultivated Vale.

When unloaded at home the poles have to be trimmed, cut to the proper length, 12 to 14 feet, "sharped," "shaved" at the butt 2 or 3 feet upwards, and finally boiled so far for twenty-four hours, standing upright in creosote, which doubles the lasting period of their existence. They were chiefly ash, larch, maple, wych elm, and sallow, and the rough butts, when sawn off before the sharping, supplied the firing for the boiling. Green ash is splendid for burning: "The ash when green is fuel for a Queen." Later, when I adopted a Kentish system of hop-growing on coco-nut yarn supported by steel wire on heavy larch poles, our visits to the woods were less frequent, and much wear and tear of horses and waggons was saved. Some of our journeys, in the earlier days, took us to the estate of the Duc d'Aumale, on the Worcester side of Evesham, where some excellent ash poles were grown. In one lot of some thousands I bought, every pole had a crook in it ("like a dog's hind leg," my men said), about 2 or 3 feet from the ground, which was caused by the Duc having given orders some years previously, on the occasion of a visit from the Prince of Wales (the late King Edward), to have a large area of young coppice cut off at that height, to make a specially convenient piece of walking and pheasant shooting for the Prince.

On this occasion many people went to Evesham Station to see the arrival of the Prince and retinue, and their departure for Wood Norton in the Duc's carriages. Our old vicar was returning full of loyalty, and passing an ancient Badsey radical inquired if he had been to see the Prince. "Noa, sir," was the reply, "I been a-working hard to get some money to keep 'e with." In some of the Wood Norton woods there are large numbers of fir trees, planted, it was said, as roosting places for the pheasants, so that they might not be visible to the night poacher; but it was found that the birds preferred the leafless trees, where they offer an easy pot shot in the moonlight or in the grey of the dawn.

The Scots-fir is an interloper in the New Forest, and always looks out of place; it was introduced as an experiment I believe, less than 150 years ago, and has been found useful as I have explained for sheltering young plantations of oaks. It grows rapidly, and has been planted by itself on land too poor for more valuable timber, chiefly for pit-props. During the war immense numbers of Canadians and Portuguese have been employed in felling these trees and cutting them up into stakes for wire entanglements, trench timbers, and sleepers for light railways. Huge temporary villages have grown up for the accommodation of the men employed, equipped with steam sawing-tackle, canteens, offices and quarters, and with light railways running far away into the plantations where the trees are cut. It was a wonderful sight to see these busy centres alive with men and machinery, in places where before there was nothing but the silence of the woods. And it is curious that, as in the old days the New Forest provided the oak timber for the battleships that fought upon the sea in Nelson's time, so now, in the fighting on land, we have been able to export from the same place hundreds of thousands of tons of fir for the use of our troops in France and Belgium.

Old railway sleepers are exceedingly useful for many purposes on farms, and as they are soaked in creosote, they last many years, for light bridges and rough shelters, after they are worn out for railway purposes. The railway company adjoining my land discarded a quantity of these partly defective sleepers, and left them, for a time, lying beside the hedge which separated the line from my fields. I applied to the Company for some, and suggested that they need only be put over the hedge, and I would cart them away. But that is not the routine of the working of such matters; though it appeals to the simple rustic mind, it would be considered "irregular." They had to be loaded on trucks sent specially on the railway, taken to Worcester sixteen miles by train, unloaded, sorted, loaded again, sent back to my station, unloaded, loaded again on to my waggons, and carted a mile and a half on the waggons which had been sent empty the same distance to the station!

Overgrown old hedges are exceedingly pretty in autumn when hung with clusters of "haws," the brilliant berries of the hawthorn, and the "hips" of the wild rose. There is, too, the peculiar pink-hued berry of the spindle wood, and, in chalky and limestone districts, the "old man's beard" of the wild clematis, bright fresh hazel nuts, and golden wreaths of wild hops. It is said that

"Hops, reformation, bays and beer Came into England all in a year."

But it is certain that the wild hops at any rate must have been indigenous, for one finds them in neighbourhoods far from districts where hops are cultivated, and the couplet probably refers to the Flemish variety, which would be the sort imported in the days of Henry VIII., though at the present time our best varieties are far superior.

The holly is only seen as garden hedges in the more sandy parishes of Worcestershire, but here in the Forest it is a splendid feature, growing to a great size and height. In winter its bright shining leaves reflecting the sunlight enliven the woods, so that we never get the bare and cheerless look of places where the elm and the whitethorn hedge dominate the landscape. In spring its small white blossoms are thickly distributed, and at Christmas its scarlet berries are ever welcome. Its prickles protect it from browsing cattle and Forest ponies, but it is interesting to notice that many of the leaves on the topmost branches being out of reach of the animals are devoid of this protection.



CHAPTER XVII.



CORN—WHEAT—RIDGE AND FURROW—BARLEY—FARMERS NEWSTYLE AND OLDSTYLE.

"He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling lanes Of his wheat-suburb, babbling as he went." —The Brook.

I do not propose to enter upon the ordinary details of arable farming, as not of very general interest, except for those actually engaged thereon. I am aiming especially at the more unusual crops, and what I may call the curiosities of agriculture. It is most interesting to turn to Virgil's Georgics and see how they apply after the lapse of nearly twenty centuries to the farm-work of the present day. Horace, too, was a farmer, though perhaps more of an amateur; he exclaims at the busy scene presented when men and horses are engaged in active field work:

"Heu heu! quantus equis quantus adest viris Sudor!"

which, by the way, was rendered with Victorian propriety by a well-known Oxford professor, "What a quantity of perspiration!" etc. Probably Horace had been watching the sowing of barley or oats on a fine March morning, "the peck of March dust," which we know is "worth a King's ransom," flying behind the harrows. George Cruikshank gives a very spirited and comic realization of Horace's lines, in Hoskin's Talpa, where ploughing, sowing, harrowing, reaping, harvesting, thrashing, grinding and carting away the finished product, are all actively proceeding in the same field.

The origin of the word "field," still locally pronounced "feld," as in "Badsey Feld," near Evesham, takes us back to primeval times when the country was mostly forest, of which certain parts had been "felled," and were thus distinguished as opposed to the untouched portions. We may be sure that the best pieces of land were the first to be brought under cultivation, and it is thus that the best land in most old parishes, at the present day, is to be found close to the village, and is generally a portion of the manor property. Later, where glebe was allotted for the parson's benefit, the poorer parts were apparently considered good enough for the purpose, so that we generally expect to find the glebe on somewhat inferior land.

Wheat-growing at Aldington and on most heavy soils was practically killed by the vast importations from the United States, rendered possible by the extraction of the natural fertility of her virgin soils, and by the development of steam traction and transport, resulting in the food crisis at home during the war. The loss of arable land converted to inferior grass amounted, in the forty years from 1874 to 1914, to no less than four million acres. I made such changes in my own cropping that, where I formerly grew 100 acres of wheat annually, I reduced the area to ten or twenty acres, mainly for the sake of the straw for litter and thatching purposes.

Wheat can be planted in what would be considered a very unsuitable tilth for barley. We had often to follow the drills—where they had cut into the clayey soil, leaving the seed uncovered, and where the ground was so sticky and "unkind" that harrowing had very little effect—with forks, turning the clods over the exposed seed, and treading them down. Wheat seems to like as firm a seed-bed as possible, for the best crop was always on the headland, where the turning of the horses and implements had reduced the soil to the condition of mortar. The seed would lie in the cold ground for many weeks before the blade made its appearance, but the men always said, "'Twill be heavy in the head when it lies long abed." It is cheering in late autumn and early winter when no other young growth is to be seen on the farm, suddenly to find the field covered with the fresh shoots of the wheat in regular lines, and to notice how, after its first appearance, it makes little further upright growth for a time, but spreads laterally over the ground as the roots extend downwards.

Nothing in the way of weather will kill wheat, except continuous heavy rain in winter, where the land is undrained, and stagnant water collects. I have seen it in May lying flat on the ground after a severe spring frost, but in a day or two it would pick up again as if nothing had happened. And I have seen beans, 2 feet high, cut down and doubled up, revive and rear up their heads quite happily, though at harvest the exact spot in every stalk could be seen where the wound had taken place.

In May, if the weather is cold and ungenial, wheat turns yellow; this is the weaning time of the young plants, which have then exhausted the nourishment contained in the seed, and in the absence of growing weather they do not take kindly to the food in the land, upon which they now become dependent.

"The farmer came to his wheat in May, And right sorrowfully went away, The farmer came to his wheat in June, And went away whistling a merry tune."

His wheat was what is called "May-sick" the first time, but had recovered on the second visit, for another old saw tells us that, "A dripping June puts all in tune."

May is said "Never to go out without a wheat-ear," but I do not think this is invariably true, though by splitting open a young wheat stem it is easy to find the embryo ear, only about half an inch long. I have heard people exclaiming at the beautiful effect of the breezes passing over a luxuriant field of growing wheat, giving the appearance of waves on a lake; but when the wheat is in bloom, it is doubtful if this is a reason for congratulation, as the blooms are rubbed off in the process, which may be the cause of thin-chested ears at harvest, when, instead of being set in full rows of four or five grains abreast, only two or three can be found, reducing the total number in an ear from a maximum of about seventy to fifty or less.

"God makes the grass to grow greener while the farmer's at his dinner," is a proverb which may be applied to almost any enterprise, for optimism is largely a physical matter, and "it is ill talking with a hungry man."

I suppose that no man, even with the dullest imagination, can fail to walk across a wheat field at harvest without being reminded of some of the innumerable stories and allusions to corn fields in the Bible. He will remember how, when the famine was sore in the land of Canaan, Jacob sent his ten sons to Egypt to buy corn, and how Joseph knew his brethren, but they knew him not; with the touching details of his emotion, until he could no longer refrain himself, and, weeping, made himself known. How he bade them return, and bring their aged father, their little ones, and their flocks and herds, to dwell in the land of Goshen.

His mind, too, will revert to the commandment given to Moses, "When ye reap the harvest of your land, thou shalt not wholly reap the corners of thy field, neither shalt thou gather the gleanings of thy harvest"; so that he will meet the villagers with a word of welcome, when they invade his fields for the same time-honoured purpose.

He will remember the story of Ruth and Boaz, told in the exquisite poetry of the Bible diction, than which nothing in the whole range of literature can compare in noble simplicity. And the corn fields of the New Testament, where the disciples plucked the ears of corn, and were encouraged, and the accusing Pharisees rebuked; with the conclusive declaration that the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath. And, finally, the familiar chapter in the burial service, which has brought comfort to thousands of mourners, and will so continue till the last harvest, which is the end of the world, when the angels will be the reapers.

The word "gleaning" is never heard in Worcestershire for collecting the scattered wheat stems and ears; it is invariably "leasing" from the Old English, lesan, to gather or collect anything. When wheat was fairly high in price the village women and children were in the field as soon as it was cleared of sheaves, and they made a pretty picture scattered about the golden stubble, and returning through the meadows and lanes at twilight with their ample gatherings.

The "leasings" would be thrashed by husband or brother with the old flail, in one of my barns, to be then ground at the village mill, and lastly baked into fragrant loaves of home-made bread—the "dusky loaf," as Tennyson says, "that smelt of home." One good old soul brought me every week, while the "leased corn" lasted, a small loaf called "a batch cake," and continued the gift later, made from wheat grown on the family allotment; her loaves were some of the best and the sweetest bread I have ever tasted.

"The man who makes two blades of grass grow where one grew before" is said to be a national benefactor, and, I suppose, the same adage applies a fortiori to wheat, but I have never seen a monument raised to his memory or even the circulation of the national hat for his benefit. Too often the only proof of his neighbour's recognition of his improved crops is the notification of an increased assessment of the amount of his liability to contribute to what is, still quite unsuitably, called the poor rate.

Wheat rejoices in a tropical summer, and it never succeeds better than when stiff land like mine splits into deep cracks, locally called "chawns." You can see the root-fibres crossing these cracks which go so far into the earth that a walking-stick can be inserted to touch the drain pipes in the furrows at a depth of 2-1/2 or 3 feet. Apparently this cracking acts as a kind of root-pruning, and lets in the heat of the sun to the lower roots of the corn, with the result of, what is called, a great "cast" (yield) to the acre.

In building wheat ricks the most important point is to arrange the sheaves with the butts sloping outwards, so that should rain fall before thatching, the water will run away from the centre. I remember at Alton, where the rick-builder was an old and experienced man, he neglected this precaution; some weeks of heavy rain followed, but in time the thatching was completed, and nobody dreamed of any harm. When the thrashing machine arrived, and the ricks were uncovered, the wheat was found so damp that, in places, the ears had grown into solid mats, and the sheaves could only be parted by cutting with a hay-knife. The old man was so discomfited that the tears rolled down his cheeks, and the master's loss amounted to something like L300. There was not a sack of dry wheat on that particular farm that winter, though some was saleable at a reduced price. He told me that it was a costly business for him, but worth any money as a lesson to me. I took it to heart, and we never left a rick uncovered at Aldington; as fast as one was completed, and the builder descended the ladder, the thatcher took his place, and temporarily "hung" it with straw, secured by partially driven-in rick pegs until we could find time to attend to the regular thatching.

The high ridges and deep furrows, to be seen on the heavy arable lands of the Vale of Evesham, are a source of wonderment to people who come from light land districts, and who do not recognize how impervious is the subsoil to the penetration of water. The origin of these highly banked ridges dates from far-away days before land drain pipes were obtainable, and it was the only possible arrangement to prevent the perishing of crops from standing water in the winter. The rain quickly found its way into the furrows from the ridges, and, as they always sloped in the direction of the lowest part of the field, the superfluous water soon disappeared. Even now, when drain pipes are laid in the furrows, it is not advisable to level the ridges, because the water would take much longer to find the drains, and the growing crop would be endangered. It is not safe to drain this land deeper than about 2-1/2 feet, and many thousands of pounds have been misapplied where draining has been done on money borrowed from companies who insist upon 3 feet as the minimum depth for any portion of the drain, which would mean much more than that where the drain occasionally passes through a stretch of rising ground. As proving my statement that 2-1/2 feet is quite deep enough, I have seen great pools of water after a heavy rain standing exactly over the drain in the furrows, and we had sometimes to pierce the soil to the depth of the pipes, with an iron rod made for the purpose, before the water could get away.

On light land, the subsoil of which is often full of water, the case is quite different, and the pipes must be laid much deeper to relieve its water-logged condition; but on our stiff clay the subsoil was comparatively dry, and we had to provide only for the discharge of the surface water as quickly as possible, where the solid clay beneath prevented its sinking into the lower layers.

In the subsoil of the lias clay there are large numbers of a fossil shell, Gryphea incurva, known locally as "devils claws"; they certainly have a demoniac claw-like appearance, and worry the drainers by catching on the blade of the draining tool, and preventing its penetration into the clay.

I have heard the suggestion that our highly banked ridges were intended to increase the surface of the land available for the crops, just as it takes more cloth to cover a hump back than a normal one, but of course the rounded ridge does not provide any more vertical position for the crop, and the theory cannot be maintained. Some of these ridges, "lands" as they are called, are so wide and so elevated that it was said that two teams could pass each other in the furrows, on either side of a single "land," so hidden by the high ridge that they could not see one another; and I myself have noticed them on abandoned arable land that has been in grass from time immemorial, so high as nearly to answer the description. Though the blue clay in the Vale of Evesham is so tenacious, it works beautifully after a few sharp frosts, splitting up into laminations that form a splendidly mouldy seed bed, so that frost has been eloquently called "God's plough."

It is a very curious fact that many of these old "lands" take the form of a greatly elongated , though not so pronounced as that figure, for the curves are only visible towards the ends, and these curves always turn to the left of anyone walking towards the end. Various explanations have been given, and one by Lord Avebury is the nearest approach to a correct solution which I have seen, though not, I think, quite accurate. My own idea is that, as the plough turns each furrow-slice only to the right, the beginning of the ridge would be accomplished by two furrows thrown together on the top of each other, and the remainder would be gathered around them by continuing the process, until the "land" was formed with an open furrow on each side. The eight oxen would be harnessed in pairs, or the four horses tandem fashion. When they reached the end of each furrow-slice, the plough-boy, walking on the near side, would have to turn the long team on the narrow headland, and in order to get room to reach a position for starting the next furrow-slice, he would have to bear to the left before commencing the actual turn. In the meantime the horse next the plough would be completing the furrow-slice alone, and would, naturally, try to follow the other three horses towards the left, so that the furrow-slice at its end would slightly deviate from the straight line. When the horses were all turned, the second furrow-slice would follow the error in the first, and the same deviation would occur at each end of the ploughing, gradually becoming more and more pronounced, until the curved form of each ridge became apparent. Lord Avebury says that when the driver, walking on the near side, reached the end of each furrow, he found it easier to turn the team by pulling them round than by pushing them, thus accounting for the slight curvature.

The saying,

"He that by the plough would thrive Himself must either hold or drive,"

is largely true, but only the small farmer can comply with it. The man of many acres cannot restrict his presence to one field, and must adopt for his motto the equally true proverb, "The master's eye does more than both his hands."

The thrashing-machine is the ultimate test of the yield or cast of the wheat crop, and it seems to have something itself to say about it. For when the straw is short the cast is generally good, and vice versa. In the first case the machine runs evenly, and gives out a contented and cheerful hum, but in the second it remonstrates with intermittent grunts and groans. Even when the yield is pretty good, the voice of the machine is not nearly so encouraging to the imaginative farmer, when prices are low, as when prices are up.

Throughout the course of my farming the gloomy note of the machine was that which predominated, but in the spring of 1877, on the prospect of complications with Russia, when wheat rose to I think nearly 70s. a quarter, it was again a cheerful sound, for I had several ricks of the previous year's crop on hand. I do not remember that bread rose to anything like the extent that occurred in the Great War. Forty years has marvellously widened the gap between the raw material and the finished product—that is, between producer and consumer; immense increases have taken place in the cost of labour employed by miller and baker, and rates and other expenses are much higher.

Farmers do not lose much in "bad debts"; they have to lay out their capital in cash payments so long before the return that they are not expected to give extended credit when sales take place, and for corn payment is made fourteen days after the sale is effected. I had one rather narrow escape. I had sold 150 sacks of wheat to a miller, and it had been delivered to the mill, but one evening I had a note from him to say that his credit was in question on the local markets. "A nod," I thought, "was as good as a wink to a blind horse"; so next morning I sent all my teams and waggons, and by night had carted all the wheat away, except twenty sacks, which had already been ground. The miller paid eventually 10s. in the L, so my loss was only a matter of about L10.

A similar "chap money," or return of a trifle in cash from seller to buyer, as that in vogue in horse-dealing, still exists in selling corn; it goes by the indefinite name of "custom," and in Worcestershire it was a fixed sum of 1s. in every sixty bushels of wheat, and 1s. in every eighty bushels of barley; each of these quantities formed the ancient load. I think the payment of "custom" arose when tarpaulin sheets were first used instead of straw to cover the waggon loads. The straw never returned; it was the miller's perquisite, and its value paid for the beer to which the carters were treated at the mill; but the tarpaulin comes back each time, so the miller gets his quid pro quo in the "custom."

Barley was not an important crop at Aldington, the land was too stiff, but I had some fields which contained limestone, where good crops could be grown. Even there it was inclined to coarseness, but in dry seasons sometimes proved a very nice bright and thin-skinned sample. Before the repeal of the malt tax, which was accompanied by legislation that permitted the brewers to use sugar, raw grain and almost anything, including, as people said, "old boots and shoes" instead of barley malt, good prices, up to 42s. a quarter and over, could be made; but under the new conditions, the maltsters complained that my barley was too good for them, and they could buy foreign stuff at about 22s. or 24s., which, with the help of sugar, produced a class of beer quite good enough for the Black Country and Pottery consumers.

I heard an amusing story about barley in Lincolnshire, some years before the repeal of the malt tax, which, I think, is worth recording. A farmer, after a very hot summer and dry harvest, had a good piece of barley which he offered by sample in Lincoln market. He could not make his price, the buyers complaining that it was too hard and flinty. He went home in disgust, but, after much pondering, thought he could see his way to meet the difficulty. He had the sacks of barley "shut" on his barn floor, in a heap, and several buckets of water poured over it. The heap was turned daily for a time, until the grain had absorbed all the water, and there was no sign of external moisture. The appearance of the barley was completely changed: the hard flinty look had vanished, and the grain presented a new plumpness and mellowness. He took a fresh sample to Lincoln next market day, and made 2s. or 3s. a quarter more than he had asked for it in its original condition.

The following lines, which have never been published except in a local newspaper, though written many years ago, apply quite well in these days of the hoped-for revival of agriculture. I am not at liberty to disclose the writer's identity beyond his initials, E.W.

FARMER NEWSTYLE AND FARMER OLDSTYLE

"Good day," said Farmer Oldstyle, taking Newstyle by the arm; "I be cum to look aboit me, wilt 'ee show me o'er thy farm?" Young Newstyle took his wideawake, and lighted a cigar, And said, "Won't I astonish you, old-fashioned as you are!

"No doubt you have an aneroid? ere starting you shall see How truly mine prognosticates what weather there will be." "I ain't got no such gimcracks; but I knows there'll be a flush When I sees th'oud ram tak shelter wi' his tail agen a bush."

"Allow me first to show you the analysis I keep, And the compounds to explain of this experimental heap, Where hydrogen and nitrogen and oxygen abound, To hasten germination and to fertilize the ground."

"A putty sight o' learning you have piled up of a ruck; The only name it went by in my feyther's time was muck. I knows not how the tool you call a nallysis may work, I turns it when it's rotten pretty handy wi' a fork."

"A famous pen of Cotswolds, pass your hand along the back, Fleeces fit for stuffing the Lord Chancellor's woolsack! For premiums e'en 'Inquisitor' would own these wethers are fit, If you want to purchase good uns you must go to Mr. Garsit.[1]

"Two bulls first rate, of different breeds, the judges all protest Both are so super-excellent, they know not which is best. Fair[1] could he see this Ayrshire, would with jealousy be riled; That hairy one's a Welshman, and was bred by Mr. Wild."[1]

"Well, well, that little hairy bull, he shanna be so bad: But what be yonder beast I hear, a-bellowing like mad, A-snorting fire and smoke out? be it some big Roosian gun! Or be it twenty bullocks squez together into one?"

"My steam factotum, that, Sir, doing all I have to do, My ploughman and my reaper, and my jolly thrasher, too! Steam's yet but in its infancy, no mortal man alive Can tell to what perfection modern farming will arrive."

"Steam as yet is but an infant"—he had scarcely said the word, When through the tottering farmstead was a loud explosion heard; The engine dealing death around, destruction and dismay; Though steam be but an infant this indeed was no child's play.

The women screamed like blazes, as the blazing hayrick burned, The sucking pigs were in a crack, all into crackling turned; Grilled chickens clog the hencoop, roasted ducklings choke the gutter, And turkeys round the poultry yard on devilled pinions flutter.

Two feet deep in buttermilk the stoker's two feet lie, The cook before she bakes it finds a finger in the pie; The labourers for their lost legs are looking round the farm, They couldn't lend a hand because they had not got an arm.

Oldstyle all soot, from head to foot, looked like a big black sheep, Newstyle was thrown upon his own experimental heap; "That weather-glass," said Oldstyle, "canna be in proper fettle, Or it might as well a tow'd us there was thunder in the kettle."

"Steam is so expansive." "Aye," said Oldstyle, "so I see. So expensive, as you call it, that it winna do for me; According to my notion, that's a beast that canna pay, Who champs up for his morning feed a hundred ton of hay."

Then to himself, said Oldstyle, as he homewards quickly went, "I'll tak' no farm where doctors' bills be heavier than the rent; I've never in hot water been, steam shanna speed my plough, I'd liefer thrash my corn out by the sweat of my own brow.

"I neither want to scald my pigs, nor toast my cheese, not I, Afore the butcher sticks 'em or the factor comes to buy; They shanna catch me here again to risk my limbs and loife; I've nought at whoam to blow me up except it be my woif."



CHAPTER XVIII.



HOPS—INSECT ATTACKS—HOP FAIRS.

"Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises; and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and despair most fits."

—All's Well that Ends Well.

In a very rare black-letter book on hop culture, A Perfite Platforme of a Hoppe Garden, published in the year 1578 and therefore over 340 years old, the author, Reynolde Scot, has the following quaint remarks on one of the disorders to which the hop plant is liable:

"The hoppe that liketh not his entertainment, namely his seat, his ground, his keeper, or the manner of his setting, comith up thick and rough in leaves, very like unto a nettle; and will be much bitten with a little black flye, who, also, will not do harme unto good hoppes, who if she leave the leaf as full of holes as a nettle, yet she seldome proceedeth to the utter destruction of the Hoppe; where the garden standeth bleake, the heat of summer will reform this matter."

Thomas Tusser, who lived 1515 to 1580, in his Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry, included many seasonable verses on Hop-growing, among which the following are worth quoting:

MAY.

Get into thy hop-yard for now it is time To teach Robin Hop on his pole how to climb, To follow the sun, as his property is, And weed him and trim him if aught go amiss.

JUNE.

Whom fancy perswadeth among other crops, To have for his spending sufficient of hops: Must willingly follow of choices to chuse Such lessons approved, as skilfull do use.

Ground gravelly, sandy, and mixed with clay, Is naughty for hops, any manner of way; Or if it be mingled with rubbish and stone, For dryness and barrenness let it alone.

Chuse soil for the hop of the rottenest mould, Well dunged and wrought as a garden plot should: Not far from the water (but not overflown), This lesson well noted is meet to be known.

The sun in the south, or else southly and west, Is joy to the hop, as welcomed ghest: But wind in the north, or else northerly east, To hop is as ill, as a fray in a feast.

Meet plot for a hop-yard, once found as is told, Make thereof account, as of jewell of gold: Now dig it and leave it the sun for to burn, And afterward fence it to serve for that turn.

The hop for his profit, I thus do exalt, It strengtheneth drink and it favoureth malt, And being well brewed, long kept it will last, And drawing abide, if ye draw not too fast.

In Worcestershire and Herefordshire hop-gardens are always called hop-yards, which seems to be only a local and more ancient form of the same word, and from the same root. The termination occurs also in "orchard"—from the Anglo-Saxon ortgeard (a wort-yard) —"olive-yard," and "vineyard."

The quotation from the Perfitie Platforme of a Hoppe Garden refers to "a little black flye," now called "the flea" (Worcestershire plural "flen"), really a beetle like the "turnip fly," and it is the first pest that attacks the hop every year.

"First the flea, then the fly, Then the lice, and then they die,"

is a couplet repeated in all the hop districts to-day, but the damage done by the flea is not to be compared to that caused by the next pest, the fly. The latter is one of the numerous species of aphis which begins its attack in the winged state, and after producing wingless green lice in abundance—which further increase by the process known as "gemmation"—reappears with wings in the final generation of the lice, and hibernates in readiness for its visitation in the spring next year.

So long as the hop plant maintains its health the aphis is comparatively harmless, for the plant is then able to elaborate to the full the bitter principle which is its natural protection. On a really hot day in July it is sometimes possible to detect the distinctive scent of the hop quite plainly in walking through the plantation, long before any hops appear, and when this is noticeable very little of the aphis blight can be found. There is however nearly always a small sprinkling lying in wait, and a few days of unsuitable weather will reduce the vitality of the plant so that the blight immediately begins to increase.

There is little doubt that all the distinctive principles of plants or trees have been evolved, and are in perfect health elaborated, as a protection from their most destructive insect or fungoid enemies; just as physical protective equipment, such as thorns, prickles, and stinging apparatus, is produced by other plants or trees as safeguards against more powerful foes. If it were not so, plants that are even now seriously damaged and kept in check by such pests would long ago have become extinct.

Pursuing this theory it seems likely that the solanin of the potato is its natural protection against the disease caused by the fungus Phytophthora infestans. The idea is suggested by the invariably increasing liability to the potato disease experienced as new sorts become old. The new kinds of potatoes are produced from the seed—not the tubers—of the old varieties, and the seed, when fully vitalized and capable of germination, may be assumed to contain the maximum potentiality for transmission of the active principle to the tubers immediately descended from it. During the early years of their existence these revitalized tubers contain so much solanin that they are not only injurious, but more or less poisonous, to man, and it is only after they have been cultivated, and have produced further generations of tubers from tubers, that they become eatable, showing that in the tuber condition the plant gradually loses its efficient protection.

In the case of the hop the most effective remedy is a solution of quassia and soft soap. The caustic potash in the soap neutralizes the oily integument of the lice and dries them up, but the quassia supplies a bitter principle not unlike that of the hop, though without its grateful aroma, which acts as a protection in the absence of the bitter of the hop itself. So closely does the hop bitter resemble that of quassia, that in seasons of hop failure it is said to be employed as a substitute in brewing, and at one time its use for that purpose was prohibited by law.

As a further proof that the bitter principle of the hop is distasteful to the aphis, it is noticeable that when the fly first arrives it always attacks the topmost shoots of the bine where the leaves have not developed, and where the active principle is likely to be weakest. The same position is selected by the aphis of the rose, the bean, and every plant or tree subject to aphis attack—it is the undeveloped and therefore unprotected part which is chosen.

It is remarkable that when a destructive blight is proceeding—generally in a wet and cold time—and a sudden change occurs to really hot dry weather, the hop plant often recovers its tone automatically, shakes off the disease, and the blight dies away, a fact which strengthens the assumption that in normal weather the plant can protect itself. Again, the blight is always most persistent under the shade of trees or tall hedges, or where the bine is over luxuriant, when owing to the exclusion of light and air the plant is unable to elaborate its natural safeguard.

Fertilizers not well balanced as to their constituents, and containing an excess of nitrogen, act as stimulants without supplying the minerals necessary for perfect health. The effect is the same as that produced in man by an excess of alcohol and a deficiency of nourishing food, the health of the subject suffers in both cases, leaving a predisposition to disease.

Reasoning by analogy, these causes affecting the success or failure of plants give us the clue to the remedies for bacterial disease in man. Disease is the consequence and penalty of life under unnatural or unfavourable conditions, which should first receive attention and improvement. When in spite of improved conditions disease persists, specifics must be sought. The conditions which produce disease in the vegetable world are fought by the active principle of each plant, and inasmuch as the germ diseases of man are probably, though distantly, related to those which affect vegetable life, the specific protections of plants should be exploited for the treatment of human complaints. This, of course, has for long been a practice, but possibly more success might be achieved by careful research to identify each distinct bacterial disease in man with its co-related distinct disease in plants, so as to utilize as a remedy for the former the natural protection which the latter indicates.

Our artificially evolved domesticated plants are more subject to disease than their wild prototypes, because they are not natural survivals of the fittest. They are survivals only by virtue of the art of man, inducing special properties pleasing to man's senses, and therefore profitable for sale; but in the development of some such special excellence, ability to elaborate protective defence is generally neglected, and the special excellence produced may possibly be antagonistic to the really sound constitution of the plant. It is thus that cultivated plants are more in need of watchful care and attention than their wild relations, and that, in the development of quality, a sacrifice of quantity may be involved.

The observant hop grower notices constant changes in the appearance of his plants from day to day under varying weather influences and other conditions: a retarded and unhappy expression in a cold, wet and rough time; an eager and hopeful expansiveness under genial conditions; a dark, plethoric and rampant growth where too much nitrogen is available, and a brilliant and healthily-restrained normality when properly balanced nourishment is provided.

There should be sympathy between the grower and his plants, such as is described by Blackmore in his Christowell; though in the following passage with consummate art he puts the words into the mouth of the sympathetic daughter of the amateur vine-grower, and gives the plant the credit of the first advance:

"'For people to talk about "sensitive plants,"' she says, 'does seem such sad nonsense, when every plant that lives is sensitive. Just look at this holly-leafed baby vine, with every point cut like a prickle, yet much too tender and good to prick me. It follows every motion of my hand; it crisps its little veinings up whenever I come near it; and it feels in every fibre that I am looking at it.'"

Blackmore was much more than a writer of fiction; I think he had a deeper insight into the spirit of Nature and country character than perhaps any writer of modern times; he combined the accuracy of the scholar with the practical knowledge of the farmer and gardener; the logic of the philosopher with the fancy and expression of the poet. I regard the appreciation of his Lorna Doone—a book in which one can smell the violets—as the test of a real country lover; I mean a country lover who, besides the gift of acute observation, has the deeper gift of imaginative perception. If only the book could have been illustrated by the pencil of Randolph Caldecott, such a union of sympathy between author and artist would have produced a work unparalleled in rural literature.

Like all insects the aphis has its special insect enemies, among which the lady-bird ("lady-cow" in Worcestershire) is the most important. It lays its eggs in clusters on the hop-leaf, and in a few days the larvae (called "niggers") are hatched, aggressive-looking creatures with insatiable appetites. It is amusing to watch them hunting over the lower side of the leaf like a sporting dog in a turnip field, and devouring the lice in quantities. I knew an old hop grower in Hampshire who had a standing offer of a guinea a quart for lady-birds, but it is scarcely necessary to add that the reward was never claimed.

The hop is dioecious (producing male and female blossoms on separate plants), but very rarely both can be found on the same stem—the plant thus becoming monoecious. In 1893, a very hot dry year, several specimens were found, including one in Kent, one in Surrey, one in Herefordshire, and one in my own hopyards at Aldington. It is curious that the same unusual season should have produced the same abnormality in places so far apart, practically representing all the hop districts of the country.

"Till James's Day be past and gone, You might grow hops or you might grow none."

St. James's Day is July 25, and so uncertain was the crop in the days before insecticides were in use, that the saying fairly represents the specially speculative nature of the crop in former times. As an instance of the effects of varying years I had the uncommon experience of picking two crops in twelve months: the first in a very late season when the picking did not commence till after Worcester hop-fair day, September 19th, and the second the following year when picking was unusually early, and was completed before the fair day. At Farnham, where many of the tradespeople indulged in a little annual flutter as small hop growers, in addition to a more regular source of income from their respective trades, it was said that the first question on meeting each other was not, "How are you?" but "How are they?"

Hop-picking is always somewhat reminiscent of the Saturnalia; with hundreds of strangers from distant villages and a few gipsies and tramps, it is not possible to enforce strict discipline, for it is very necessary to keep the people in good-humour. On the final day of the picking they expect to be allowed to indulge in a good deal of horse-play, the great joke being suddenly to upset an unpopular individual into a crib among the hops. Shrieks of laughter greet the disappearance of the unlucky one, of whom nothing is to be seen except a struggling leg protruding from the crib.

The last operation in the hop garden is stacking the poles, and burning the bine, a most inflammable material which makes a prodigious blaze. As the men watch the leaping flames the same remark is made year after year—"fire is a good servant, but a bad master." These fires seem a great waste of good fibrous matter, as in former times the bine was utilized for making coarse sacking and brown paper. During the war I suggested to the National Salvage Council that, owing to the scarcity of both these articles, it might be worth while to attempt the resuscitation of the manufacture. The suggestion was followed by experiments which produced quite a useful brown paper of which I received a sample, but the cost of treatment was unfortunately prohibitive from the commercial point of view.

Worcester hop fair is the start of the trade, and the market is held behind the Hop-Pole Hotel, where there are spacious stores and offices for the merchants. When the crop is bountiful the stores are filled to overflowing, and the ancient Guildhall built in 1721 has to be requisitioned. On either side of the doorway stand the statues of Carolus I. and Carolus II., who must have watched the entrance and the exit of innumerable pockets. Worcester is distinguished as the Faithful City, for like the County it had small use for Cromwell and his Roundheads; and to this day, on the date of the restoration of Charles II.—"the twenty-ninth of May, oak apple day"—a spray of oak or an oak-apple is in some villages worn as a badge of loyalty, the penalty for non-observance being a stroke on the hands with a stinging-nettle.

It was a great relief to get away from my 300 pickers and ride the eighteen miles to Worcester on my bicycle, through the lovely river scenery of the Vale of Evesham, the hedges drooping beneath the weight of brilliant berries, the orchards loaded with apples, the clean bright stubbles, and the cattle in the lush aftermath; then, after a visit to the busy hop-market and a stroll among the curio shops in New Street, to return by a different road as the shadows were lengthening beside the copses and the hedgerow timber trees.

In former times the October fair at Weyhill, near Andover, was the market for the Hampshire and Farnham hops; it was the custom for the growers to send them by road, and load back with cheese brought to the fair by the Wiltshire farmers. I heard of a Hampshire grower, who in a year of great scarcity had spent some time trying to sell several pockets to an anxious but reluctant buyer, unwilling to give the price asked—L20 a hundredweight. They continued the deal in the evening at the inn at Andover, where both were staying, and said "Good-night" without having concluded the bargain. The grower was in bed and almost asleep when he heard a knock at his door, and a voice, "Give you L18," which he refused. Next morning trade was dull and the buyer would not repeat his offer, and at the end of the week the grower sent his hops home again. Prices continued to fall, until two years later he sold the same lot at 5s. a hundredweight to a cunning speculator, who took them out to sea, after claiming a return of the duty (about L1 a hundredweight originally paid by the grower), which the Excise refunded on exported hops. The hops went overboard of course, and the buyer netted the difference between the price he paid and the amount received for the refunded duty.

At these old fairs the showmen and gipsies take large sums in the "pleasure" departments for admission to their exhibitions—swings, roundabouts, shooting-galleries, and coco-nut shies. In Evesham Post-Office a gipsy woman once asked me to write a letter; she handed me an order for L10, and instructed me to send it to a London firm for L5 worth of best coco-nuts and L5 worth of seconds. They were for use on the shies; it struck me as a large supply, and the economical division of the qualities as ingenious.



CHAPTER XIX.



METEOROLOGY—ETON AND HARROW AT LORD'S—"RUS IN URBE."

"But if I praised the busy town, He loved to rail against it still, For 'ground in yonder social mill We rub each other's angles down,

"'And merge,' he said, 'in form and gloss The picturesque of man and man.'" —In Memoriam.

During the terribly wet summer of 1879 the following lines were written—it was said by the then Bishop of Wakefield—in the visitors' book at the White Lion Hotel at Bala, in Wales:

"The weather depends on the moon, as a rule, And I've found that the saying is true; For at Bala it rains when the moon's at the full, And it rains when the moon's at the new.

"When the moon's at the quarter, then down comes the rain; At the half it's no better I ween; When the moon's at three-quarters it's at it again, And it rains besides mostly between."

Rather hard on Bala, for the summer was so abnormally wet that these lines would have been true of any part of England. I suppose everybody is more or less interested in the weather, but the custom of alluding to the obvious, as an opening to conversation, is probably a survival from the time when everyone was directly interested in its effect upon agriculture.

Nothing proves how completely town interests now dominate those of the country so much as the innovation called "summer time." During the war it was no doubt a boon to allotment holders, and of course it gives a longer evening to those employed all day indoors; but it inflicts direct loss on the farmer, who is practically forced to adopt it in order to supply the towns with produce in time for their altered habits. The farmer exchanges the last hour of the normal day, one of the most valuable in the old working time, for the first hour of the new day, one of the most useless, for owing to the dew which the sun has not had time to dry up, many agricultural operations cannot be properly performed or even commenced—hay-making and corn-hoeing for instance are impossible. We may be sure that the former times of beginning and ending farm-work, which I suppose had been customary for at least 2,000 years in England, did not receive the sanction of such a period without good reason, and it seems to me, that so far as outdoor work is concerned the new arrangement savours of "teaching our grandmothers to suck eggs."

There is a saving of lighting requirements, no doubt, but in such a six weeks of winterly mornings as we had, following the commencement of "summer time" this first year of peace, there is a considerable increase in the consumption of fuel. Wherever possible, I suppose, most houses are built to face the south, and the breakfast-room would be generally on that side, so that by 9 o'clock, old time, the sun had warmed the room, but at 9 o'clock, new time, the sun has scarcely looked in at the window; a fire is probably lighted and to save trouble kept up all day. If the new arrangement is continued, and I understand that it was tried more than 100 years ago and abandoned as a mistake, it would be much better to begin it at least a month later. Our present May Day is nearly a fortnight earlier than before the New Style was introduced, which is the reason why old traditions of May Day merry-makings appear unseasonable; and probably the promoters of summer time have not heard of "blackthorn winter" and "whitethorn winter," which, in the country, we experience regularly every year in April and May.