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LAND AND WATER 
, a • • 
f'^MmJA 
THE CALL 
OF THE COUNTRY 
AT 
Mrs. eric DE RIDDER 
ONCE upon a time a great poet bracketed England 
and April in an exquicite snatch of verse, one 
which we all know so well, that it is needless to 
repeat it here. And by reason of the beauty of 
his words England and April will always be 
associated together. Yet if most of us were given the choice 
we should probably not object' to the spending of April far 
away from our native shores in a place of less capricious 
climate than that vouchsafed by the tearful month. 
But in June — when June behaves — it is a very different 
matter. June and England are synonymous terms of beauty. 
In the early days of June, when the trees are strong with their 
fresh young foliage, when the chestnuts are in perfect cande- 
labra form, when lilacs, near the eve of waning, give their 
subtlest fragrance, nothing can approach our land. It is 
unique, it is a priceless possession, it is good to live in. 
With ghastliness past all description as part of our daily 
existence, it is a relief to turn, no matter for how short a time, 
from the thoughts of war, and nothing but the war. Not 
for the space of one half second are we allowed to do so in 
London. If we want to give our minds and hearts a rest in 
this, or indeed in any other great town, we must take our 
telephone off its stand, refuse to admit callers, and by no 
manner of means go forth into the streets, for the streets 
simply serve as vast hoardings for war news. Even if the 
gruesome side of war does not for the moment present itself, 
it is :till with thoughts of war that we are presented. We 
can see groups of khaki-clad men drilling in the parks, men 
that possibly in the shortest space of time from now will 
abandon these fair scenes for ones of destruction in Flanders. 
We meet at every turn things that echo the war. It is 
impossible to escape the all-pervading thought in all its 
many guises. 
The Contrast 
That is the reason why the inveterate country-lover 
finds that he had yet much to learn about the scenes in which 
he delights. Much though in years gone by he appreciated 
rural things, it has been left for this year of sharp contrasts 
to teach him their fullest value. And those to whom formerly 
country matters were as a sealed book, have opened the 
volume and started to turn its pages. They find peace there, 
or at any rate the comparative peace, which is all most of us 
at this moment can hope for. The country stands out in 
welcome relief from the strident clatter of great towns. It has 
come into its own at last. There is no agitation amongst the 
great forests of trees, with their galaxy in varying shades 
of green. T}iey stand immovable ; even the strongest gust 
of wind serves but slightly to ruffle them. There is peace 
and strength in the very sight of the great trunks, and when 
as in favoured beauty spots, they -are embedded in a wide 
carpet of bluebells, or in a thick undergrowth of moss and 
bracken, nothing is omitted to please the imagination. 
An American woman, who lived on her nerves if any 
woman ever did, once gave me the following information. 
When she found, or fancied she found, things had grown past 
bearing, she took a first-class railway ticket, secured a carriage 
to herself, by fair means or foul, and started forth on a journey 
through some lovely part of England, or wherever she 
happened to be. The recipe always worked. She returned 
home, once more a reasonable being, and in infinitely better 
temper and spirits. Besides, what is more to the point, she 
was bearable once more to live with, which she herself was 
the first to admit was not the case before. At the present 
moment, were my American an Englishwoman and were she 
in England, she would probably be tnve'ling all day long. 
With the present claims upon "our railway system we ma^ 
be thankful the United States in general, and Washington 
D.C. in particular, have once more claimed her as their own. 
But this has nothing to do with the subject in hand. 
The Rural Life 
I have another woman in my mind's eye, who since the 
war began has started chicken-farming. In days, which 
in reality are such a brief while ago, but seem to be separated 
from us by hundreds of years, her life was made up of one 
continuous round of social engagements. She was seen 
everjrwhere, at places at home during the season, and at 
places abroad where people congregate at other times of the 
year. The usual life of the woman of leisure and means, 
who enjoys the society of her fellow-creatures, seemed to 
have become second nature to her. She has three sons, 
all of whom are serving their King and Country in some 
capacity or another, and no other children. 
As soon as they scattered to different parts of the fighting 
area, she took to a small house with large garden in a remote 
part of England, and incidentally to chickens. These she 
declares she is rearing not only for pleasure, but for profit. 
How these profits are arrived at it is past me to imagine, for 
the chickens seem to the unsophisticated mind to be lodged 
in a kind of palace de luxe, and the egg-laying to be dis- 
appointingly small. Their owner, however, avows that 
these profits exist, and since she is devoting them to three or 
four different charities, and I have reason to know that these 
have received cheques from her in the course of the last few 
months, one must assume that they do. At any rate they do 
in her fertile imagination. And since the charities benefit, 
and she herself is given distraction in the intervals of waiting 
for news from the front, all gets what they require. 
Not excluding the chickens themselves, who until the day 
of reckoning, when they leave their feathered nest for food, 
and all undoubtedly live in fatness and contentment. 
A Peaceful Spot 
In the meanwhile, the small house is all that a smal 
house in the country should be. The lattice windows have 
leaded panes, and those of the rooms upstairs open to show 
a vista of far off wooded hills with a gleam of water in between, 
where the river runs its silvery way. Inside there are all 
kinds of quaintly patterned cottage chintzes, with just the 
amount of bright colouring that one looks for in a- country 
chintz, and is disappointed to find lacking. Were it not for the 
sword of Damocles hanging overhead, June in this quiet spot 
would give an idyllic existence. As it is life is made more toler- 
able. And for the smallest of mercies we have learnt to be 
duly grateful. 
A short while ago, in one of my articles, I suggested that 
an organisation should be started, enabling women to take 
the place of men, called away on active service. A corre- 
spondent has kindly written to tell me that one exists. It is 
called the Women's Defence Relief Corps, and has been started 
by Mrs. Dawson Scott. To help the country in its hour of 
need is the one aim and object of all belonging to the Corps, 
and the name that has been agreed upon for its members, 
is the simple and oplicit one of " Helper." A farmer has 
just engaged a band of Mrs. Dawson Scott's " Helpers " for 
hay in Middlesex at men's wages. She hopes to get many 
women in England roused to the fact that they can be of 
great help with the hay and corn harvest, that is so vital a 
matter. The Headquai 'ers of the Corps are at " Harden," 
(^, King Street, Southali, Middlesex, and from here a hand- 
book with full information is issued. 
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