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.

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

“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.”