_A Farm,
Somewhere in the Country._
DEAREST DAPHNE,--I'm on the land! _Several_ of us are on the land! No
one need worry any more about agriculture and rotation of crops and
all that sort of thing being stopped by the War. We're going to see to
it. It is positively _enthralling_ work! Lady Manoeuvrer wrote me an
agonised letter the other day, asking me if I thought there'd be any
season in London, and if it would be worth her while to take a house
and give some parties for Bluebell. And I wrote back: "Please--_please_
don't talk to me about London and seasons and _parties_! I know
absolutely _nothing_ of such matters. I'm on the land!" And I wound up
with, "This comes hopping," in real farmers' style.
[Illustration: _Recruit (much perturbed)._ "IF YOU PLEASE, SERGEANT,
THE OTHER FELLOWS SAY I'VE GOT TO GROW A MOUSTACHE."
_Sergeant._ "OH, THERE'S NO COMPULSION ABOUT GROWING A MOUSTACHE, MY
LAD; BUT YOU MUSTN'T SHAVE YOUR UPPER LIP."]
I wish you could see me ploughing, dearest. My ploughman's pinny,
big soft hat and leggings are a dream. (_À propos_, the "ploughman's
pinny" is going to be _the_ summer coat this year.) Oh, my Daphne, I
plough such an adorable furrow! Yesterday, when I was at it, the oldest
inhabitant came and leaned on a gate to watch me--one of those fearful
creatures, you know, who've lived through six reigns and can read small
print and smoke six pipes a day, and end by getting into the daily
papers.
"Be you one o' they fine Lunnon ladies wot 'ave come to these parts to
blay at varmin'?" he asked.
"We haven't come to _play_ at farming," I told him; "we've come to take
the men's places and help save the country."
"Yon's a wunnerful bad furrow," said the creature. "And what be goin'
to sow in it?"
"Oh, corn or chaff, or whatever it is people eat, I suppose," I said.
"Seems to Oi the right crop for such a wunnerful crooked furrow as yon
'ud be _tares_," said the horrid old thing; "but happen you don't know
what tares be--happen you don't read your Bible."
I was starting up the field again by that time and paid no more
attention to him. The oldest inhabitant is _proverbially_ a most
unpleasant character, I believe. Beryl and Babs are also doing very
well down here. And now that we've learned all about farming and
agriculture we're training _numbers_ of girls and putting them on the
land, (_Entre nous, chérie_, it's not so difficult to _put_ them on
the land as to _keep_ them on it. Some of them are a wee bit inclined
to "put their hands to the plough and look black," to quote dear
SHAKSPEARE, that we've all been talking of so much lately.) Beryl
has developed positively _shining_ gifts as a _drover_. She drives
cattle into the nearest market town twice a week, and does it _à
merveille_. (I _can't_ say the dear thing's drover's coat and hat are
becoming--indeed, I never saw her look worse!) She has a large class of
women and girls learning to be drovers. But unluckily, the other day,
there was a regrettable little affair. Beryl was taking a big herd of
cattle along to the market town, with her class in attendance, when one
of the bullocks stopped to nibble at the hedge. Beryl told a girl in
the class to give it a tap and send it on.
"I'm afraid to," said the girl.
"Oh," said Beryl, "you city girls are duffers at country life! What's
there to be afraid of?" and she went up to the bullock and gave it a
smart whack with her drover's stick. "Come," said, "no nonsense! Go on
with the others," and she gave it a harder whack.
In a moment the creature turned upon her with a simply _odious_
expression in its eyes and began to bellow; and _then_,
dearest--_wasn't_ it a pity?--Beryl suddenly lost her nerve, dropped
her drover's stick, and climbed to the top of a big gate near at hand,
while the class ran back along the road, shrieking. As for the cattle,
terrified by the shrieks of the class, they took to their heels (if
they have such things), and were finally stopped by a farmer, who
drove them into the market himself.
Everyone's so glad General Dodderidge is better. You remember his
marrying Mittie Jermyn _en troisièmes noces_ some years ago? The
wedding was at Newmarket; Mittie was married in her racing colours, and
her famous Oaks and One Thousand winner, "Give-'em-beans," was her only
bridesmaid. It was quite a nice marriage, but they've not seen much of
each other for several years. Poor Mittie was fearfully _affaissée_
when the War hit racing so hard; but she's found herself again now,
and the last we heard of her she was buying and breaking horses for
the Remount Department somewhere in the world. The dear General, being
enormously old, couldn't take any part in the War, but he was like the
war-horse, you know, dearest, mentioned by the Psalmist, that "sayeth
Ha, ha! through a trumpet"; he read _every_ daily and weekly paper,
with all the conflicting reports from both sides, till at last he was
in a frightful state. Sir William Kiddem took him in hand, he said,
only just in time to save his cerebral spheres and nerve centres from
doing something horrible in a dozen syllables. And now, with newspapers
taboo and a milk and egg diet, the old darling is so much better that
he helped at our matinée in town the other day in aid of the "Fund for
Manicuring Amateur Farm Hands."
All the people one knows were perfectly sweet in placing their talents
at one's disposal for the benefit of the Fund. (Has it ever struck
you, my Daphne, how _much_ readier people are to offer their _talents_
than their _money_?--even though they may have _immensely_ more of
the latter than the former.) It was a tremendous programme. General
Dodderidge, who said he'd been considered a very good ventriloquist
in his time, gave a turn with one of those doll-things. I'm sure it
was a topping turn, because the dear General laughed so often himself
at the things he was saying. Several people, however, said that the
voice, when they could hear it, seemed to be always the General's and
never the doll's; but there'll always be grumblers.
The gem of the afternoon was certainly Hermione Shropshire's song and
dance, "Sal of the Supper Club." She was coached by the famous Jenny
Jolliwell, who's called "The Diva of the Dials;" and I hear that
Jenny (who was one of our programme-sellers) said afterwards, "Lumme,
duchess, you went one better than me, you did, straight! If I dared
to give 'Sal' like that at the Syndicate Halls I'd have the Lord High
What's-his-name down on me in two ticks!"
_Wasn't_ that a triumph for dear Hermione?
Ever thine,
BLANCHE.
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[Illustration: _Judge._ "ANYTHING TO SAY?"
_Prisoner._ "WELL, NOT MESELF, ME LORD. BUT IF YOU'LL ALLOW ME LITTLE
DAUGHTER HERE TO RECITE A PASSAGE OUT O' 'THE MERCHANT O' VENICE'----"]
* * * * *
Vaulting Ambition.
The Germans seem to have adopted a new method of hiding their losses.
We read in _The Edinburgh Evening Dispatch_ that the attack on the Mort
Homme "has brought no kudos to the Crown Prince--only more catacombs."
* * * * *