Farmer's Glory

by A G Street

  Rural communities were no exception. Hunting, shooting, fishing, and the like, suddenly reappeared in our midst. In the summer tennis parties became the order of the day. Farmer’s Glory was going to be as splendid as of old, only more so. More so because we all had money to burn. I find this hard to write. It is not a pleasant thing to set down on paper what a tawdry life one lived in those few years immediately after the war. But the majority of farmers took no thought for the morrow, their only idea was to have a good time. Instead of living for one’s farm, the only desire was to get away from it and pursue pleasure elsewhere.

  And I was as bad, or as daft, or, possibly more truthfully, as criminally extravagant as any one. I kept two hunters, one for myself and one for my wife; and glorious days we had together with the local pack. I went shooting at least two days a week during the winter. We went to tennis parties nearly every fine afternoon in the summer, and, in our turn, entertained up to as many as twenty guests on our own tennis-court, and usually to supper afterwards. It seems incredible now, but we began—God forgive me—to have late dinner in the evenings, and in addition to all these rural pleasures we journeyed far afield in search of excitement.

  In short, farmers swanked. It would not have mattered so much if they had confined their swanking to their immediate surroundings, but this was the last thing they wished to do. For this, I blame the motor car. Perhaps blame is hardly the word, but it was the motor car which made a lot of this swanking possible. Its advent marked an epoch in rural affairs rather more definitely, I think, than in urban ones.

  Prior to its arrival in country districts, the radius of a farmer’s social activities was restricted by the capacity of his horse and trap as a means of transport, but the car infinitely extended the possibilities. Farmers now went away from home for frequent holidays, to seaside resorts and to London. They discarded the breeches and gaiters of their ancestors for plus-fours of immaculate cut, incredible design, and magnificent bagginess, in which garb they were to be found on every golf course. The blue lounge suit for evening wear gave place to the dinner-jacket.

  Personally, I started golf in 1919, and in 1921 I was the proud possessor of a handicap of eight, which statement tells only too plainly the amount of time I must have spent at the game. The younger generation played tennis still more seriously. Instead of being content with local tennis, which was then, and is now, of a fair standard, they joined clubs in towns thirty miles off, where they were taught the correct style by professional teachers. It is curious to note that in spite of this, it was usually the middle-aged folk who won the local tournaments against these exponents of style.

  I imagine—no, I am sure—that the foregoing will annoy a great many people, but I have tried to write it truthfully, and I readily admit that I was one of the worst culprits in this feverish pursuit of pleasure. Possibly, and I think probably, people engaged in other industries did much the same things at this date. Anyway, in the farmer’s case, he could well afford it. I did all these things, paid the interest on the borrowed capital, and paid off about five hundred pounds per annum for a year or so immediately after the war.

  My world went very well then. I was newly married, and my wife was an ideal playmate. The war was over, for ever and ever, and farming had returned to its old splendour. Farmer’s Glory was then a glory of great brilliance. How were farmers to know that it was but the last dazzling flicker before the fusing?

  CHAPTER XVIII

  And what of the agricultural labourer amidst all this prosperity and extravagance? He shared in it to some extent certainly. His pre-war wage of twelve shillings per week rose year by year, reaching its highest point of forty-six shillings for a week of forty-nine and a half hours in 1921, thereby overtaking the rise in the price of agriculture produce for the first time. His wage not only overtook the price of produce at this juncture, but it passed it.

  This rise in wages was much greater than appears at first sight, as the wage then fixed was for a definite number of hours, all those hours worked in excess of this legal quota being paid for at the overtime rate. Generally speaking, the hours worked in pre-war years were about fifty-eight per week.

  This fixing of wages went hand in hand with a guaranteed price for grain until and including the harvest of 1920. This guaranteed price was altered in character for the harvest of 1921, giving instead a bonus in cash per acre on land on which wheat and oats were produced. In 1921 this bonus amounted to three pounds per acre for wheat and four pounds per acre for oats. After these payments in 1921 that section of the law was repealed, leaving the part relating to wages still operative.

  And here lies the farmer’s chief, and I think only legitimate grievance. Control of production costs allied to a guaranteed price for grain, he tolerated, in spite of his inherent objection to any form of governmental interference. A cancellation of all control hew ould have welcomed at that time, although subsequent events have proved that this would have found him in a difficult position to-day. To control his production costs, and to leave the price of his products to chance, was unjust, but it suited the politicians’ book, and no other consideration came into the question.

  In my own case, I was in a mess of my own making. I should have foreseen that these good times must come to an end some time, and should have made provision to meet it. But I did not, and neither did the majority of farmers who started farming when I did. The farmer who had been farming in 1914 and was still farming in 1921 had at least some war profits to lose. But the men who started in 1920 and 1921, relying on the good faith of the politicians, were let down badly. Their capital simply melted away. And these men were for the most part returned soldiers.

  Take the case of any farm which changed hands at Michaelmas 1920, and again, say, in 1927. At the first change the incoming tenant would have been forced to stock the farm on the basis of the prices realized at the outgoing tenant’s sale, cows at sixty pounds each, horses at one hundred pounds each and sometimes more, and the other stock and implements at similarly inflated prices. His rent would also have been based on the prosperous condition of farming at that date. A risky business, possibly, but there was the law, which said quite definitely that his chief selling crop, grain, should be certain of a remunerative return. Instead of gambling against weather conditions and world prices, he had only the weather to battle against. For the first time in farming history he was farming on a certainty. What mattered the enormous capital required to finance a certain winner?

  And so farmers tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get farms. Poor devils! They soon had a rude awakening.

  At the second change of tenancy in 1927, the incoming man would have purchased his cows at about twenty-four pounds per head, and his other stock at a similar depreciation. In addition, the landlord would have had to reduce the rent of the farm considerably, in order to get a tenant, and, in the case of a large arable farm, would have probably grassed and fenced a large portion of it as an added attraction.

  It is obvious that the incoming tenant in 1927 would have only needed about forty per cent of the capital to stock the farm as compared with his predecessor, and, taking into consideration the reduced rent and other advantages, he would have been almost on an economic basis. Since 1927 even, a further depreciation has taken place, and should the same farm change hands to-day, the incoming man would need still less capital. In short, every thousand pounds invested in farming in 1920 is to-day worth only about two hundred and fifty pounds, and it is still depreciating, more especially on arable farms.

  I suppose that this depreciation will eventually reach such a point that owing to the deflation of capital, farming will automatically recover. Of course, politicians of every shade of political opinion are well aware of this, and are deliberately delaying any real political action with regard to agricultural matters. The fact that nearly every farmer who went into a farm soon after the war will have lost three parts of his capital does not worry them one bit. When it is fairly obvious that farming h
as started on the up grade once again, the party then in office will pass some agricultural legislation and not before. And it will not matter much what they pass (compulsory crossing of carrier-pigeons with parrots, in order that the offspring may transmit verbal messages, will be about the mark). If they can only time their action at the right moment, they will go down in history as the political party which saved British agriculture.

  Not only did the tenant farmer suffer through the repeal of the Corn Production Act, but those who purchased their farms at that date experienced a still greater loss. Farms, during the years immediately after the war, were at a premium. In addition to the farming population, who were keen buyers, there was an influx of town folk into this market. Town traders, who had amassed comfortable fortunes during the war, proceeded to retire from business, and to settle down on farms either by purchase or rent, especially in the south of England. Their arguments for so doing were perfectly reasonable. They were prepared to pay a little more for a farm than a farmer. What did it matter if they paid a hundred pounds per annum more? They would get a nice house, some good sport, and a background for their families. Even if their farming operations cost them a little each year, what matter? They had to live somewhere.

  So this class of buyer and renter came into competition with the ordinary farmer, and up went the price of farms in consequence. A tenant farmer might have rented his farm for thirty years. It was then not only his business but a home containing the memories of a lifetime. What was he to do if he gave up farming? His landlord was forced to sell, and these new buyers made the price almost prohibitive. Still, there was the legal guarantee of corn prices, and on the strength of this farmers purchased their farms or rented them at times prices.

  One man said to me in conversation the other day, when we were discussing this matter: ‘Grievance? I reckon I’ve got a just grievance. On the strength of the Corn Production Act I bought my farm and paid cash for it. I’ve been let down.’

  I murmured that he was fortunate in that he was able to pay cash, and asked what of the man who had purchased on mortgage.

  ‘God help him,’ he replied. ‘Look at old So-and-so. He bought his place for sixteen thousand pounds. ’Twas either that or turn out. He put down half of it, and the bank advanced the rest. Now it’s just been revalued at eight thousand pounds, and the bank are still willing to advance half of it as before, but they want him to find a matter of about four thousand to put things straight.’

  ‘What’ll happen?’ I asked.

  ‘What can happen?’ he retorted. ‘Nothing! If they insist they’ll bust him, and that’ll do ’em no good. They’ll wait for something to turn up, and meantime keep on worrying him.’

  And that was the farmers’ general attitude to the position. Like Mr. Micawber, we waited for something to turn up. Possibly we reduced our private expenditure in some minor way, or reduced the number of employees a little—a favourite method of doing the latter being to purchase a tractor for ploughing and threshing, thereby dispensing with some horses and carters.

  It was in 1921 that the first suspicion of anything wrong in the farming world was noted. In spite of the bonus paid under the Corn Protection Act of that year, money was a little tight. The harvest of 1922 left no doubt in my mind that things were going—no, had gone—wrong. It was a wet summer, and the price of both corn and milk had slumped badly. I found that I had great difficulty to pay my interest and meet my other liabilities.

  Something must be done, and that urgently.

  Now when a farmer finds that his yearly sales do not bring in enough money for him to pay his way, his most usual course is to try to increase his production. In my own case, I tried to grow more corn. To-day I am well aware that this procedure was idiotic, but at that time I was not alone in this idea. I had about four hundred acres of arable land, and, in good farming practice, I should have grown two hundred acres of corn each year. As a matter of fact the farm had been growing about two hundred and twenty-five acres of corn annually for several years. Still, I thought that I would grow more, perhaps up to three hundred acres, with the help of artificial fertilizers, which were at that time low in price compared with other commodities.

  Now it is generally supposed that corn can be grown successfully year after year on the same land, so long as the requisite plant foods are put into the ground by means of artificial manures. Indeed, this is no longer a supposition, but a fact, as it has been proved by experiments at Agricultural Colleges and Experimental Farms. I am willing to admit that this may be possible in some small portions of our country, but I say definitely, from bitter experience, that it cannot be done for long on our south country hills. It may be said that I did not know how to do it, but I have seena a good many others fail at it in this neighbourhood besides myself, and I have yet to see it done with success.

  As the older labourers put it: ‘That chemical tackle ain’t got no proof in it.’ By ‘proof’ they mean an intangible something, which can best be described as ‘essential guts’. Anyway, something is lacking, call it what you will.

  What happens is this. You get good crops for a year or two. Then, for another year or so you get crops which look good, but their yield of grain in comparison with the quantity of straw is disappointing. Finally, you get crops, especially of wheat, which look well in the spring and early summer, but after coming into ear they go what is described locally as ‘kneesick’. By this I mean that the ‘knees’ or knots in the stems are too weak to carry the weight of the ear, and a large portion of the crop ‘bruckles’ over, and does not mature at all. ‘Bruckles’ is I think expressive enough in itself to require no explanation.

  It is obvious that these happenings brought me up against the law of diminishing returns year by year, against which increased grain acreage not only made no headway, but rather accentuated the discrepancy.

  By 1925 the financial position was serious. Ruin gibbered in the background not so very far away. I was not a moneyed man as were many of my neighbours. Something had to be done. But what? This corn-growing business was hopeless. I turned my attention to milk.

  Now this farm product had not slumped so badly as had corn. Milk products may be imported easily, but fresh milk is a different matter. The new idea of rationing and recording milch cattle seemed to me to have possibilities. Accordingly I went in more extensively for this branch of farming, and tried some sugar beet in order to give my impoverished arable land a rest from corn-growing.

  This new idea with regard to milk production was that a cow was a milk factory. If you fed her with the necessary ingredients to produce milk, in addition to a maintenance ration to keep her alive, there was apparently no limit to her capabilities. Roughly, twenty pounds of hay daily or its equivalent was ample for maintenance, and about three pounds of certain concentrated feeding stuffs would produce a gallon of milk. The more of this latter you could get in to her, the more milk you would get out of her, like a penny in the slot machine.

  I want to be quite fair about this matter. I believe that to-day research on these lines has improved results enormously, and also I know that many farmers are now making a success of this method. Enthusiastic advocates of this sytem will probably attack me for publishing my own experiences in this direction, and will no doubt say that I was an incompetent fool. That I was, and probably am, a fool, I will admit. No one is more cognizant of that fact to-day than I. But the results of other folk in this district were very similar to mine.

  For the first year I got splendid results. I made a dairy of thirty-seven inexpensive cows average nine hundred and thirty-seven gallons per head. I can remember buying one old cow for fifteen pounds, and her yield that year was over fifteen hundred gallons. This seemed like ‘money for jam’, so away I went into cows, ‘bald-headed’.

  And the next year came the reckoning. I had two dairies at that time, one of thirty-seven head, and the other of forty-five head. The second year eight cows simply faded away, being unable to stand the strain. There were
twenty-five cows which stopped breeding and had to be sold as barreners, making about half their cost as milk cattle. In addition milk prices were still on the down grade.

  The sugar beet business was a little better, but there was not enough in it to be worth while. It was only better in that the sale of the crop brought in a little money, while the fertility of the land was being improved instead of being impaired as by corn-growing. In the first place, the railway carriage to the nearest factory far away in Norfolk swallowed up too large a proportion of the price, and, in the second place, the land in our district was not well suited to this crop.

  Our land was much too shallow, thus causing the beets to ‘fork’. For the benefit of the townsman I must explain that a sugar beet should grow straight down like a parsnip. In my case they could only go straight down for four or five inches, and then were forced to spread out into three or four roots, or, as I have said, to ‘fork’. When lifting time came, I had forty acres of things like a fanged molar tooth to extract. We extracted them, but it was a painful and expensive process, the only gas used being bad language.

  Still, I do not regret growing sugar beet for two years, in spite of these handicaps, and think that on suitable land near a factory it may be a possible crop for English farming in years to come.

  I can see now that this hunting about for a way out of my financial troubles was an expensive business. Farming only pays when one farms on a definite system year after year, in a rut, so to speak, from which there is no escape. This dodging about from one thing to another was expensive. Still, with corn-growing a hopeless proposition, this painful process of finding an alternative system had to be undergone. And many others besides myself plodded on, searching anywhere and everywhere for a way of escape. Mostly we failed, but in looking back on that unhappy period, I take some small comfort in the saying that the only real failure in life is in giving up. In spite of our former foolishness, let it stand to our credit in life’s balance-sheet that at least we tried, and tried hard.