GREAT CHANGES AT BROOKE.
Brooke looked like a different place at the end of a very few years. In
our own house, nothing remarkable had happened, unless it was the growth
of my brothers, which was pronounced wonderful every time they appeared
from school at Christmas; or that Billy Gray (now called William) had
become quite an accomplished little footman. The improvement of his
family had advanced as rapidly as his own; and one of the pleasantest
changes visible in the place was that which every body observed in the
outward condition of George Gray, his wife, and children.
George was a pattern of industry. Before and after his hours of daily
labour he was seen digging, hoeing, planting, and pruning in his garden,
his boys and sometimes his wife helping him; his eldest girl tending the
cow; and the others mending or knitting stockings, or cleaning the
house. Even the very little ones earned many a shilling by cutting a
particular sort of grass in the lanes for seed for Mr. Malton’s pasture
land. Each with a pair of scissors, they cut the tops off about six
inches long, and filled their sack in a few hours. Mr. Malton’s steward
paid them threepence a bushel for it, measured as hay. Their work was
made easier by this grass being sown in lines along the hedges; and it
was well worth the little trouble this cost to secure a constant supply
of the seed, which was greatly in request; the sheep being very fond of
this pasture.
Gray’s boys had all shoes and stockings now, and the girls were tidily
dressed. The rent was regularly paid, and their fare was improved. How
happened this?—from having ground, and keeping a cow?—Not entirely,
though in some measure. The wages of labour had risen considerably at
Brooke since the common was inclosed, as there was more work to be done,
and the number of hands had not increased in proportion, though the
population was already one-third larger than five years before. Gray
felt the advantage of this rise of wages, and of having his family
employed. He now wondered at his neighbours for letting their children
be wholly idle as much as we once wondered at him. When he saw Hal
Williams’s little boys engaged in mischief, he observed to his wife that
one might earn a trifle in weeding, and another in gathering sticks and
furze for fuel, and sweeping up the dung and dead leaves from the woods
and lanes for manure. But neither Hal nor his boys liked to work when
they could help it, though Hal’s wife set them a better example than her
neighbours once expected of her. Many a mother shows an energy which
never appeared while she was a giddy maiden. So it was with Ann: but it
was a pity that she was ignorant of the ways of turning her industry to
the best account, so that her desire for the comfort of her husband and
children did not do them so much good as she intended.
Hal once observed to Gray that he wondered he could spend so much time
and toil on his bit of ground, such a trifle as it was.
“It is no trifle to me,” said Gray. “The time I spend upon it is not
great; and as for the toil,—a man with eight children must never grudge
labour.”
“Why now, Gray, how much time do you spend on your plot? I see you at
work when I get out of bed every morning; and when I come back from the
Arms in the twilight, I hear your everlasting spade behind the hedge.”
“That is because I have no hours I can call my own but those before and
after work. A couple of hours a day is the most I can spare; and surely
it is worth that to be able to keep my cow.”
“What is her value to you, do you suppose?”
“One time with another, she yields five quarts a day, and that is worth
two days’ wages a week, or perhaps three.”
“Five quarts a day! That never can be. Mine never gave three all the
time I had her.”
“Nor mine while she fed on the common: but you know the keep is
everything with a cow; and it is no more likely that a cow in the lanes
should yield like mine, than that mine should yield thirteen pounds and
a half of butter weekly, four months after calving, like a fine North
Devon cow of Mr. Malton’s that I was admiring the other day. But I call
my cow pretty well kept now, and she is worth the keeping. I manage to
get many a good dish of vegetables for ourselves, too, out of my
garden.”
“But no fruit, I see, neighbour. I like to see fruit-trees in a garden.”
“So do I, where there is ground and money and time enough; but it would
not suit me. My cabbages would not thrive if the ground was shaded; and
I could not raise fruit enough, or of a sufficiently good quality, to
sell to advantage.”
“But it would be a great treat to the children.”
“My children must wait for such a treat till we grow richer. I am
thankful enough to be able to give them bread and sometimes a bit of
meat, instead of the potatoes we used to live on. Apples and
gooseberries will come all in good time. Bread and clothes must be
thought of first.”
“And yet you managed to get a pig.”
“Yes. I knew, if I contrived to buy one, I could easily keep it. So we
made an effort to save in the winter, and in March I got a fine pig of
four months. He was able to graze and eat cabbages and turnip-tops, and
we have plenty of wash for him; so I hope, as he has thriven so far very
well, he will be in fine condition for killing at Christmas.”
“Will you be able to fatten him liberally?”
“I hope so. He shall have as much barley-meal as he can eat, if I can
afford it; if not, pease must do.”
“You will have a houseful of meat at that time. Bacon in plenty,
griskins, chines, cheeks, and I don’t know what besides; and
hog’s-puddings and lard for the children! Why, you will live like an
alderman’s family for weeks. It is a fine thing to keep a pig!”
“It is a great advantage; and considering that, I wonder you don’t try,
neighbour.”
“When I have eight children perhaps I may; but we get on somehow as it
is; and I have quite enough to do, for I don’t pretend to work as hard
as you.”
“No,” thought Gray, “You make your wife do it instead, while you go and
smoke at the Arms.”
Hal’s cow had been sold long ago to pay his debts. It had been done
during one of his wife’s confinements, and it was bad news for her, when
she got about again, that it was actually sold and gone. It was some
comfort that they owed no money; but it was a comfort which could not
last long; for she knew that milk is a dear article to buy, while it is
absolutely necessary where there are young children.—It was grievous to
see in a short time how poorly they lived. One thing after another was
given up. They had long contrived to do without meat; but now they could
not afford beer, except a little on Sundays. Hal did not relish milk as
when it came from his own cow, but took a fancy to have tea,—the least
nourishing and most expensive diet a man can have. To indulge this
fancy, the fire was kept in all day, the whole year round. There was an
everlasting boiling, of the kettle in the morning, the potatoes for
dinner, and the kettle again in the afternoon. Upon this miserable diet
they grew thin and sickly; they ran in debt to the grocer till he
refused their custom; and to Johnson’s wife for milk, till she declared
she could not let them have any more. We were passing Hal’s door one
day, when one of the children entered with an empty pitcher, on seeing
which his mother burst into tears. There was but too much cause for her
grief. Her hungry children must be content with a drink of water with
their crust of bread, for Mrs. Johnson could afford no longer credit. My
mother could not bear to see the cravings of the little ones; and she
promised to go back with the messenger to Mrs. Johnson and persuade her
not to disappoint them for this one day, and to see what could be done
for the future: but she declared that the tea must be left off if the
milk was to be continued. The poor woman said that she was willing to
live in the cheapest way, if the children could but be fed; but that her
husband made such a point of his tea that she had little hope of
persuading him to give it up.
We took the child back to Johnson’s; and there we saw a cheerful sight.
Mrs. Johnson was milking one of her fine cows, while the other two stood
by; and her daughter was measuring out the milk to the various
messengers from the village. There were Miss Black’s maid, and
Wickstead’s boy, and Gregson’s apprentice, and Harper’s servant, and
half a dozen children from the neighbouring cottages, having their
pitchers filled with the warm, fresh, rich milk. My mother smiled as she
observed to me that the division of labour was not fully understood by
our people yet, or they would have devised a better plan than having the
time of a dozen people wasted by coming for the milk, instead of
employing a boy to carry it round. It struck us both at the same moment
that Hal’s eldest boy might earn a share of the milk by saving the
neighbours the trouble of sending for it. He might soon learn, we
thought, to measure the milk and keep the tally.
“I hope we are in time, Mrs. Johnson,” said my mother. “I was afraid
your pails might be emptied before we came. You must fill this child’s
pitcher, if you please, and I will pay to-day.”
“I assure you, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Johnson, “it made me very sorry to
send the boy away; but what can I do? They have not paid me these six
weeks, and I cannot afford them a quart a day at my own expense. I have
often threatened to send them no more, but I never had the heart to
refuse them till to-day.”
“You cannot be expected to lose by them, certainly,” replied my mother;
“but I am very sorry they are such bad customers to you. I am sure such
milk as that is far better for them than the tea they make.”
“Do you know, ma’am,” said the busy Mrs. Johnson, as the milk went on
spurting and fizzing into the pail, “I do believe that tea-drinking
alone is enough to ruin a very poor family. We tried it once, and fond
enough we are of it still; but though we might afford it better than
some people, we now never touch it but on Sundays and particular
occasions. Now, can you wonder that I refuse to give further credit to
my neighbours, when I know they might pay me, if they chose to manage
better, and to give up a luxury which I cannot afford?”
“Certainly not, Mrs. Johnson.—What very fine cows yours are! I suppose
you are glad your husband did not dispose of the first you had, when he
was tempted to do so?”
“Glad indeed, ma’am. I was always fond of a dairy, and desirous of
having one of my own. If you would please to wait a few minutes, I
should like to show you and Miss Lucy my dairy. My husband has been
making it larger and improving it very much, for I find it a profitable
business now, and I believe my neighbours think it answers to get their
milk of me; for I could sell the produce of three more cows if I had
them.”
“Perhaps we shall see you with a dairy of twenty cows one of these days,
if our village flourishes.”
“No, ma’am. Three are as many as I can well manage now, and as many as
we can feed. Our lot of ground is carefully managed; and we brew at home
now, and the grains come in very well for the cows; so that we are at no
loss, so far. But if we were to take in more ground, my husband would
not have time to attend properly to it; and we are particularly anxious
that he should not neglect his work, so good as wages are now.”
When the milking was finished, Mrs. Johnson took us to the dairy. It was
clean, cool, and in beautiful order. A range of cheeses was on a shelf,
and they were to be sent to M—— for sale. The butter she made was sold
to the neighbours. My mother understood the management of this most
delicate part of household economy, and agreed with Mrs. Johnson that
the habits of cleanliness and care which are necessary to the success of
a dairy are most useful to young people, and cannot be more effectually
taught than by making them assist in the management of cows.
“My girl was telling me, ma’am, how a neighbour wondered why her cow’s
milk was not so good as ours; and how, with all the trouble she took,
her husband complained, and the children left half their breakfast in
their basins. The thing was clear enough. She milked her cow into the
first pail that came to hand, and let the milk stand in the heat and
smoke of the kitchen, in pans that had been used for potatoes, or any
thing else they might have had for dinner the day before. My girl told
her she might take a lesson from the cow herself; for no cow will taste
a drop from a vessel that has held grease. The very breath of the cow is
sweet enough to show what care should be taken to keep her milk pure.
There is nothing so disgusting in the way of food as tainted milk; and
nothing to my mind, ma’am, so wholesome as fresh, rich milk, as sweet as
the new-mown grass. Do me the favour to taste some, miss, and I think
you will say so too.”
When we had finished our delicious draught, we took our leave of Mrs.
Johnson, agreeing that it was certainly a good thing for her that her
husband followed my father’s advice about his allotment of land, as she
seemed so happy among her cows that it was difficult to imagine how she
would have lived without one.
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