GRASS COUNTRIES
On the ground beside the bramble bushes that project into the field the
grass is white with hoar frost at noon-day, when the rest of the meadow
has resumed its dull green winter tint. Behind the copse, too, there is a
broad belt of white--every place, indeed, that would be in the shadow were
the sun to shine forth is of that colour.
The eager hunter frowns with impatience, knowing that though the eaves of
the house may drip in the middle of the day, yet, while those white
patches show in the shelter of the bramble bushes the earth will be hard
and unyielding. His horse may clear the hedge, but how about the landing
on that iron-like surface? Every old hoof-mark in the sward, cut out sharp
and clear as if with a steel die, is so firm that the heaviest roller
would not produce the smallest effect upon it. At the gateways where the
passage of cattle has trodden away the turf, the mud, once almost
impassable, is now hardened, and every cloven hoof that pressed it has
left its mark as if cast in metal. Along the furrows the ice has fallen
in, and lies on the slope white and broken, the shallow water having dried
away beneath it. Dark hedges, dark trees--in the distance they look almost
black--nearer at hand the smallest branches devoid of leaves are clearly
defined against the sky.
As the northerly wind drifts the clouds before it the sun shines down, and
the dead, dry grass and the innumerable tufts of the 'leaze' which the
cattle have not eaten, take a dull grey hue. Sheltered from the blast
behind the thick, high hawthorn hedge and double mound, which is like a
rampart reared against Boreas, it is pleasant even now to stroll to and
fro in the sunshine. The longtailed titmice come along in parties of six
or eight, calling to each other as in turn they visit every tree. Turning
from watching these--see, a redbreast has perched on a branch barely two
yards distant, for, wherever you may be, there the robin comes and watches
you. Whether looking in summer at the roses in the garden, or waiting in
winter for the pheasant to break cover or the fox to steal forth, go where
you will, in a minute or two, a redbreast appears intent on your
proceedings.
Now comes a discordant squeaking of iron axles that have not been greased,
and the jolting sound of wheels passing over ruts whose edges are hard and
frost-bound. From the lane two manure carts enter the meadow in slow
procession, and, stopping at regular intervals, the men in charge take
long poles with hooks at the end and drag down a certain quantity of the
fertilising material. The sharp frost is so far an advantage to the tenant
of meadow land that he can cart manure without cutting and poaching the
turf, and even without changing the ordinary for the extra set of
broad-wheels on the cart. In the next meadow the hedge-cutters are busy,
their hands fenced with thick gloves to turn aside the thorns.
Near by are the hay-ricks and cow-pen where a metallic rattling sound
rises every now and then--the bull in the shed moving his neck and
dragging his chain through the ring. More than one of the hay-ricks have
been already half cut away, for the severe winter makes the cows hungry,
and if their yield of milk is to be kept up they must be well fed, so that
the foggers have plenty to do. If the dairy, as is most probably the case,
sends the milk to London, they have still more, because then a regular
supply has to be maintained, and for that a certain proportion of other
food has to be prepared in addition to the old-fashioned hay. The new
system, indeed, has led to the employment of more labour out-of-doors, if
less within. An extra fogger has to be put on, not only because of the
food, but because the milking has to be done in less time--with a
despatch, indeed, that would have seemed unnatural to the old folk.
Besides which the milk carts to and fro the railway station require
drivers, whose time--as they have to go some miles twice a day--is pretty
nearly occupied with their horses and milk tins. So much is this the case
that even in summer they can scarcely be spared to do a few hours
haymaking.
The new system, therefore, of selling the milk instead of making butter
and cheese is advantageous to the labourer by affording more employment in
grass districts. It is steady work, too, lasting the entire year round,
and well paid. The stock of cows in such cases is kept up to the very
highest that the land will carry, which, again, gives more work. Although
the closing of the cheese lofts and the superannuation of the churn has
reduced the number of female servants in the house, yet that is more than
balanced by the extra work without. The cottage families, it is true, lose
the buttermilk which some farmers used to allow them; but wages are
certainly better.
There has been, in fact, a general stir and movement in dairy districts
since the milk selling commenced, which has been favourable to labour. A
renewed life and energy has been visible on farms where for generations
things had gone on in the same sleepy manner. Efforts have been made to
extend the area available for feeding by grubbing hedges and cultivating
pieces of ground hitherto given over to thistles, rushes, and rough
grasses. Drains have been put in so that the stagnant water in the soil
might not cause the growth of those grasses which cattle will not touch.
Fresh seed has been sown, and 'rattles' and similar plants destructive to
the hay crop have been carefully eradicated. New gales, new carts, and
traps, all exhibit the same movement.
The cowyards in many districts were formerly in a very dilapidated
condition. The thatch of the sheds was all worn away, mossgrown, and bored
by the sparrows. Those in which the cows were placed at calving time were
mere dark holes. The floor of the yard was often soft, so that the hoofs
of the cattle trod deep into it--a perfect slough in wet weather. The cows
themselves were of a poor character, and in truth as poorly treated, for
the hay was made badly--carelessly harvested, and the grass itself not of
good quality--nor were the men always very humane, thinking little of
knocking the animals about.
Quite a change has come over all this. The cows now kept are much too
valuable to be treated roughly, being selected from shorthorn strains that
yield large quantities of milk. No farmer now would allow any such
knocking about. The hay itself is better, because the grass has been
improved, and it is also harvested carefully. Rickcloths prevent rain from
spoiling the rising rick, mowing machines, haymaking machines, and horse
rakes enable a spell of good weather to be taken advantage of, and the hay
got in quickly, instead of lying about till the rain returns. As for the
manure, it is recognised to be gold in another shape, and instead of being
trodden under foot by the cattle and washed away by the rain, it is
utilised. The yard is drained and stoned so as to be dry--a change that
effects a saving in litter, the value of which has greatly risen. Sheds
have been new thatched, and generally renovated, and even new roads laid
down across the farms, and properly macadamised, in order that the milk
carts might reach the highway without the straining and difficulty
consequent upon wheels sinking half up to the axles in winter.
In short, dairy farms have been swept and garnished, and even something
like science introduced upon them. The thermometer in summer is in
constant use to determine if the milk is sufficiently cooled to proceed
upon its journey. That cooling of the milk alone is a process that
requires more labour to carry it out. Artificial manures are spread abroad
on the pastures. The dairy farmer has to a considerable extent awakened to
the times, and, like the arable agriculturist, is endeavouring to bring
modern appliances to bear upon his business. To those who recollect the
old style of dairy farmer the change seems marvellous indeed. Nowhere was
the farmer more backward, more rude and primitive, than on the small dairy
farms. He was barely to be distinguished from the labourers, amongst whom
he worked shoulder to shoulder; he spoke with their broad accent, and his
ideas and theirs were nearly identical.
In ten years' time--just a short ten years only--what an alteration has
taken place! It is needless to say that this could not go on without the
spending of money, and the spending of money means the benefit of the
labouring class. New cottages have been erected, of course on modern
plans, so that many of the men are much better lodged than they were, and
live nearer to their work--a great consideration where cows are the main
object of attention. The men have to be on the farm very early in the
morning, and if they have a long walk it is a heavy drag upon them.
Perhaps the constant intercourse with the towns and stations resulting
from the double daily visit of the milk carts has quickened the minds of
the labourers thus employed. Whatever may be the cause, it is certain that
they do exhibit an improvement, and are much 'smarter' than they used to
be. It would be untrue to say that no troubles with the labourers have
arisen in meadow districts. There has been some friction about wages, but
not nearly approaching the agitation elsewhere. And when a recent
reduction of wages commenced, many of the men themselves admitted that it
was inevitable. But the average earnings throughout the year still
continue, and are likely to continue far above the old rate of payment.
Where special kinds of cheese are made the position of the labourer has
also improved.
Coming to the same district in summer time, the meadows have a beauty all
their own. The hedges are populous with birds, the trees lovely, the brook
green with flags, the luxuriantly-growing grass decked with flowers. Nor
has haymaking lost all its ancient charm. Though the old-fashioned sound
of the mower sharpening his scythe is less often heard, being superseded
by the continuous rattle of the mowing machine, yet the hay smells as
sweetly as ever. While the mowing machine, the haymaking machine, and
horse rake give the farmer the power of using the sunshine, when it comes,
to the best purpose, they are not without an effect upon the labouring
population.
Just as in corn districts, machinery has not reduced the actual number of
hands employed, but has made the work come in spells or rushes; so in the
meadows the haymaking is shortened. The farmer waits till good weather is
assured for a few days. Then on goes his mowing machine and levels the
crop of an entire field in no time. Immediately a whole crowd of labourers
are required for making the hay and getting it when ready on the waggons.
Under the old system the mowers usually got drunk about the third day of
sunshine, and the work came to a standstill. When it began to rain they
recovered themselves, and slashed away vigorously--when it was not wanted.
The effect of machinery has been much the same as on corn lands, with the
addition that fewer women are now employed in haymaking. Those that are
employed are much better paid.
The hamlets of grass districts are not, as a rule, at all populous. There
really are fewer people, and at the same time the impression is increased
by the scattered position of the dwellings. Instead of a great central
village there are three or four small hamlets a mile or two apart, and
solitary groups of cottages near farmhouses. One result of this is, that
allotment gardens are not so common, for the sufficient reason that, if a
field were set apart for the purpose, the tenants of the plots would have
to walk so far to the place that it would scarcely pay them. Gardens are
consequently attached to most cottages, and answer the same purpose; some
have small orchards as well.
The cottagers have also more firewood than is the case in some arable
districts on account of the immense quantity of wood annually cut in
copses and double-mound hedges. The rougher part becomes the labourers'
perquisite, and they can also purchase wood at a nominal rate from their
employers. This more than compensates for the absence of gleaning. In
addition, quantities of wood are collected from hedges and ditches and
under the trees--dead boughs that have fallen or been broken off by a
gale.
The aspect of a grazing district presents a general resemblance to that of
a dairy one, with the difference that in the grazing everything seems on a
larger scale. Instead of small meadows shut in with hedges and trees, the
grazing farms often comprise fields of immense extent; sometimes a single
pasture is as large as a small dairy farm. The herds of cattle are also
more numerous; of course they are of a different class, but, in mere
numbers, a grazier often has three times as many bullocks as a dairy
farmer has cows. The mounds are quite as thickly timbered as in dairy
districts, but as they are much farther apart, the landscape appears more
open.
To a spectator looking down upon mile after mile of such pasture land in
summer from an elevation it resembles a park of illimitable extent. Great
fields after great fields roll away to the horizon--groups of trees and
small copses dot the slopes--roan and black cattle stand in the sheltering
shadows. A dreamy haze hangs over the distant woods--all is large, open,
noble. It suggests a life of freedom--the gun and the saddle--and, indeed,
it is here that hunting is enjoyed in its full perfection. The labourer
falls almost out of sight in these vast pastures. The population is sparse
and scattered, the hamlets are few and far apart; even many of the
farmhouses being only occupied by bailiffs. In comparison with a dairy
farm there is little work to do. Cows have to be milked as well as
foddered, and the milk when obtained gives employment to many hands in the
various processes it goes through. Here the bullocks have simply to be fed
and watched, the sheep in like manner have to be tended. Except in the
haymaking season, therefore, there is scarcely ever a press for labour.
Those who are employed have steady, continuous work the year through, and
are for the most part men of experience in attending upon cattle, as
indeed they need be, seeing the value of the herds under their charge.
Although little direct agitation has taken place in pasture countries, yet
wages have equally risen. Pasture districts almost drop out of the labour
dispute. On the one hand the men are few, on the other the rise of a
shilling or so scarcely affects the farmer (so far as his grass land is
concerned, if he has much corn as well it is different), because of the
small number of labourers he wants.
The great utility of pasture is, of course, the comparatively cheap
production of meat, which goes to feed the population in cities. Numbers
of bullocks are fattened on corn land in stalls, but of late it has been
stated that the cost of feeding under such conditions is so high that
scarcely any profit can be obtained. The pasture farmer has by no means
escaped without encountering difficulties; but still, with tolerably
favourable seasons, he can produce meat much more cheaply than the arable
agriculturist. Yet it is one of the avowed objects of the labour
organisation to prevent the increase of pasture land, to stop the laying
down of grass, and even to plough up some of the old pastures. The reason
given is that corn land supports so many more agricultural labourers,
which is so far true; but if corn farming cannot be carried on profitably
without great reduction of the labour expenses the argument is not worth
much, while the narrowness of the view is at once evident. The proportion
of pasture to arable land must settle itself, and be governed entirely by
the same conditions that affect other trades--i.e.. profit and loss.
It has already been pointed out that the labourer finds it possible to
support the Union with small payments, and also to subscribe to
benefit-clubs. The fact suggests the idea that, if facilities were
afforded, the labourer would become a considerable depositor of pennies.
The Post-office Savings Banks have done much good, the drawback is that
the offices are often too distant from the labourer. There is an office in
the village, but not half the population live in the village. There are
far-away hamlets and things, besides lonely groups of three or four
farmhouses, to which a collective name can hardly be given, but which
employ a number of men. A rural parish is 'all abroad'--the people are
scattered. To go into the Post-office in the village may involve a walk of
several miles, and it is closed, too, on Saturday night when the men are
flush of money.
The great difficulty with penny banks on the other hand is the
receiver--who is to be responsible for the money? The clergyman would be
only too glad, but many will have nothing to do with anything under his
influence simply because he is the clergyman. The estrangement that has
been promoted between the labourer and the tenant farmer effectually shuts
the latter out. The landlord's agent cannot reside in fifty places at
once. The sums are too small to pay for a bank agent to reside in the
village and go round. There remain the men themselves; and why should not
they be trusted with the money? Men of their own class collect the Union
subscriptions, and faithfully pay them in.
Take the case of a little hamlet two, three, perhaps more miles from a
Post-office Savings Bank, where some thirty labourers work on the farms.
Why should not these thirty elect one of their own number to receive their
savings over Saturday--to be paid in by him at the Post-office? There are
men among them who might be safely trusted with ten times the money, and
if the Post-office cannot be opened on Saturday evenings for him to
deposit it, it is quite certain that his employer would permit of his
absence, on one day, sufficiently long to go to the office and back. If
the men wish to be absolutely independent in the matter, all they have to
do is to work an extra hour for their agent's employer, and so compensate
for his temporary absence. If the men had it in their own hands like this
they would enter into it with far greater interest, and it would take root
among them. All that is required is the consent of the Post-office to
receive moneys so deposited, and some one to broach the idea to the men in
the various localities. The great recommendation of the Post-office is
that the labouring classes everywhere have come to feel implicit faith in
the safety of deposits made in it. They have a confidence in it that can
never be attained by a private enterprise, however benevolent, and it
should therefore be utilised to the utmost.
To gentlemen accustomed to receive a regular income, a small lump sum like
ten or twenty pounds appears a totally inadequate provision against old
age. They institute elaborate calculations by professed accountants, to
discover whether by any mode of investment a small subscription
proportionate to the labourer's wages can be made to provide him with an
annuity. The result is scarcely satisfactory. But, in fact, though an
annuity would be, of course, preferable, even so small a sum as ten or
twenty pounds is of the very highest value to an aged agricultural
labourer, especially when he has a cottage, if not his own property, yet
in which he has a right to reside. The neighbouring farmers, who have
known him from their own boyhood, are always ready to give him light jobs
whenever practicable. So that in tolerable weather he still earns
something. His own children do a little for him. In the dead of the winter
come a few weeks when he can do nothing, and feels the lack of small
comforts. It is just then that a couple of sovereigns out of a hoard of
twenty pounds will tide him over the interval.
It is difficult to convey an idea of the value of these two extra
sovereigns to a man of such frugal habits and in that position. None but
those who have mixed with the agricultural poor can understand it. Now the
wages that will hardly, by the most careful management, allow of the
gradual purchase of an annuity, will readily permit such savings as these.
It is simply a question of the money-box. When the child's money-box is at
hand the penny is dropped in, and the amount accumulates; if there is no
box handy it is spent in sweets. The same holds true of young and old
alike. If, then, the annuity cannot be arranged, let the money-box, at all
events, be brought nearer. And the money-box in which the poor man all
over the country has the most faith is the Post-office.