_A Car on the Electric Light Railway. TIME.--Twentieth Century._
FIRST FARMER (_recognising Second Farmer_). Why, 'tis Muster Fretwail,
surelie! didn't see it was you afore. And how be things gettin' along
with _you_, Sir, eh?
FARMER FRETWAIL (_lugubriously_). 'Mong the middlin's, Muster Lackaday;
'mong the middlin's! Nothen doin' just now--nothen 't all!
THIRD FARMER (_enviously_). Well, _you_ hevn't no call fur to cry out,
neighbour. I see you've got a likely lot o' noo 'oardins comin' up all
along your part o' the line. I wish mine wur arf as furrard, I know
thet!
F. FRETWAIL. Ah, them "Keep yer 'air on"'s, _you_ mean, Ryemouth. I
don't deny as they was lookin' tidy enough a week back. But just as I
was makin' ready fur to paint up "Try it on a Billiard Ball," blamed if
this yere frost didn't set in, and now theer's everything at a
standstill, wi' the brushes froze 'ard in the pots!
F. RYEMOUTH. 'Tis the same down with me. Theer's a acre o' "Bunyan's
Easy Boots" as must hev a noo coat, and I cann't get nothen done to 'en
till the weather's a bit more hopen like. Don' keer _'ow_ soon we hev a
change, myself, I don't!
F. LACKADAY. Nor yet me, so long as we don't 'ave no gales with it.
Theer was my height acre pasture as I planted only las' Candlemas wi'
"Roopy's Lung Tonics"--wunnerful fine and tall they was, too--and ivery
one on 'en blowed down the next week!
F. FRETWAIL. Well I 'ope theer wun't be no rain, neither, come to that.
I know I had all the P's of my "Piffler's Persuasive Pillules" fresh
gold-leaved at Michaelmas, and it come on wet directly arter I done it,
and reg'lar washed the gilt out o' sight an' knowledge, it did. Theer
ain't no standin' up agen rain!
F. RYEMOUTH. I dunno as I wouldn't as lief hev rain as sun. My
"Hanti-Freckle Salves" all blistered up and peeled afore the summer was
'ardly begun a'most.
[Illustration: "I cann't get nothen done to 'en till the weather's a bit
more hopen like."]
F. LACKADAY. 'Tis a turr'ble hard climate to make 'ead against, is
ourn. I've 'eard tell as some farmers are takin' to they enamelled hiron
affairs, same as they used to hev when I wur a lad. I mind theer wur a
crop o' "Read Comic Cagmag" as lingered on years arter the paper itself.
Not as I hold with enamelling, myself--'tain't what I call 'igh
farmin'--takes too much outer the land in _my_ 'pinion.
F. FRETWAIL. Aye, aye. "Rotation o' boards." Say, "Spooner's Sulphur
Syrup" fur a spring crop, follered with some kind o' soap or candles,
and p'raps cough lozengers, or hembrocation, or bakin' powder, if the
soil will bear it, arterwards--that's the system _I_ wur reared on, and
there ain't no better, 'pend upon it!
F. RYEMOUTH. I tell 'ee what 'tis; it's time we 'ad some protection agen
these yere furrin advartisements. I was travellin' along the Great
Northern t'other day, an' I see theer wos two or three o' them French
boards nigh in ivery field, a downright shame and disgrace I call it,
disfigurin' the look of the country and makin' it that ontidy--let alone
drivin' honest British boards off the land. Government ought to put a
stop to it; that's what _I_ say!
F. LACKADAY. They Parliment chaps don't keer _what_ becomes of us poor
farmers, they don't. Look at last General Election time. They might ha'
given our boards a turn; but not they. Most o' they candidates did all
their 'tisin' with rubbishy flags and balloons--made in Japan, Sir,
every blamed one o' them! And they wonder British Agriculture don't
prosper more!
F. RYEMOUTH. Speaking o' queer ways o' hadvertisin', hev any of ye set
eyes on that farm o' young Fullacrank's? Danged if ever _I_ see sech
tomfool notions as he's took up with in all _my_ born days.
F. FRETWAIL. Why, what hev he been up to _now_, eh?
F. RYEMOUTH. Well, I thought I shud ha' bust myself larfin' when I see
it fust. Theer ain't not a board nor a sky sign; no, nor yet a 'oarding,
on the 'ole of his land!
F. LACKADAY. Then how do he expect to get a profit out of it?--that's
what _I_ want to year.
F. RYEMOUTH. You'll 'ardly credit it, neighbours, but he's been buryin'
some o' they furrin grains, hoats and barley, an' I dunno what not, in
little holes about his fields, so as to make the words, "Use Faddler's
Non-Farinaceous Food"--and the best of it is the darned young fool
expecks as 'ow it'll all sprout come next Aperl--he do indeed, friends!
F. FRETWAIL. Flying in the face o' Providence, I calls it. He must ha'
gone clean out of his senses!
F. LACKADAY. Stark starin' mad. I never heerd tell o' such extravagance.
Why, as likely as not, 'twill all die off o' the land afore the year's
out--and wheer wull he be _then_?
F. RYEMOUTH. Azactly what I said to 'en myself. "You tek my word for
it," I sez, "'twun't never come to no good. The nateral crop for these
yere British Hiles," I told 'en, "is good honest Henglish hoak an'
canvas," I sez, "and 'tain't the action of no sensible man, nor yet no
Christian," sez I, "to go a-drillin' 'oles and a-droppin' in houtlandish
seeds from Canada an' Roosha, which the sile wasn't never intended to
bear!"
FARMERS FRETWELL and LACKADAY. Rightly spoke, neighbour Ryemouth, 'twas
a true word! But theer'll be a jedgment on sech new-fangled doin's, and,
what's moor, you and I will live fur to see it afore we're very much
older!
[_They all shake their heads solemnly as scene closes in._
[Illustration]