r8o A FARMER'S YEAR 



They are: 



Peace with Dishonour. 



Peace, not because the ancient strength of England is broken, 

 but because its citizens are wrath with hunger and have the power 

 to make their rage felt in high places. Absit omen ! may I be 

 wrong ; at least may I not live to see the day. Still, the most 

 ardent lover of democracy will admit that our present system has 

 its dangers, especially in a narrow land where the production of 

 food-stuffs, and notably of corn, is in practice discouraged. 



In America the case is different. Were America cut off from 

 any intercourse with the outside world for a long period of time it 

 could still produce enough food to feed itself. 



It is curious to notice the change caused in the aspect of the 

 country by the recent rains and mild weather ; the growth of the 

 grass and the bursting of the leaves are almost visible. To-day on 

 the Bath Hills I saw a sure sign that the winter is over and past 

 a grass-snake basking in the sun. He was a fine fellow, over two feet 

 long I should say, and when, resisting the first instinctive impulse 

 to kill him, which is natural to anyone who, like myself, has lived 

 in a land of poisonous snakes, I contented myself with stirring 

 him up with my spud, he retreated up hill till he was tired, then, 

 having apparently no hole to go to, turned round and hissed at me 

 with open mouth and flickering tongue. Indeed, had he been a 

 cobra instead of a poor painted worm he could not have looked 

 more ferocious. I thought of holding out my hand to see if he would 

 strike at it with some hereditary recollection of past aeons, when 

 his forefathers were poisonous, but coming to the conclusion that 

 it would be better to persuade some one else to try this experiment, 

 since I might possibly have made a mistake as to the breed, I 

 refrained and went away. 



Writing of cobras- reminds me of an incident which is perhaps 

 worth recording, although I have little business to introduce it here. 



Once, many years ago, I was riding in search of small game 

 upon the veld in the Transvaal when a hare jumped up before 

 me. Halting the horse, I shot at it from the saddle, and with the 



