THE FAERY YEAR 



beefy, some of them, as their cattle in the pen. To 

 study this type one should roam the great square, 

 say, at Norwich, and enter one of the inns there on 

 a great cattle day. Midland towns in a grazing 

 country show the same samples. But beneath this 

 grade, in dress and style of life, there is a large 

 body of small, general farmers whose little but hard 

 bargains are driven in the open of the small, sleepy 

 market of the corn-growing, sheep-breeding districts, 

 where the old-fashioned rotation 'of crops remains 

 a great feature. It is a refreshing, invigorating 

 experience, now, in the time of the blackthorn 

 winter, to travel home with two or three of these 

 working-men farmers, who wear the collar of civiliza- 

 tion, but only on Sunday reach the necktie. Their 

 original knowledge of this field and that on the 

 way, their keen argument as to charlock and 

 couch, and the time for sowing corn to the best 

 advantage this is talk I hearken to with downright 

 reverence. 



My old friend, and constant shooting com- 

 panion at one time, who has lately left the Manor 

 Farm, and with it farming, was one of these 

 authorities. No wonder. He put by something, 

 I do believe, in the leanest of all years, when wheat 

 was under a sovereign a quarter. He might have 

 ended by buying the Manor Farm himself, instead 

 of going soon after the land changed hands. But 

 though the wrench was cruel, he and the missus 

 retired when their lease ended, and are living 

 happily in a little house at the edge of the land 



