THE PLOUGHMAN AND HIS TEAM.
THERE are few prettier rural sights than that of a number -1- of ploughs at work. The writer once passed a small field lying open to the breeze, where as many as six were Pursuing the slow tenor of their way. Each plough was drawn by three horses harnessed "unicorn" fashion,—hand- some creatures they were: dappled greys, browns, and blacks, with one piebald showing conspicuous, and not a " screw " or a
weakling among the eighteen. The little carter-lad attached to----
es...a team might well feel himself almost a man as he stalked beside his splendid charges, now resting his long whip harmlessly on his shoulder, now stinging them to more vigorous exertion- Behind the horses crept the plough, its bright share cleaving the brown earth, its clumsy handles balanced this way and that by the skilful hands that guided. Along the edge of the field six heaps were dotted where nosebags containing provender, " nunchin' " baskets, and great-coats had been piled, for the morning was damp and chilly though spring was passing out of sight. Cold winds and rain had dimmed the first brightness of the young foliage, which seemed to have absorbed something of the grey sky's sombre hue. The dull tints all around made doubly welcome the vivid touches of colour—sup- plied by the labourers' blue linen jackets and the gleams of scarlet about the harness, which moved to and fro across the dark patch lying on the breast of a sea of green corn. The spectacle was not merely picturesque. The fine horses, their proud bearing, whether they stood motionless with heads erect or bent their sleek necks to the collar, their measured pace, the number of teams engaged within the narrow area, the regular intervals maintained between them, combined to lend the picture a certain stateliness and dignity of which the setting was worthy. The strong, patient animals before the plough, the uncouth instrument itself, the strong, patient man at the "tail," as he would call it, were fitly framed by broad, wide- stretching, wind-swept fields, over which the eye travelled far and slowly, where nothing small or cramped found place. Year in, year out, through centuries, the plough driven by such men had travelled thus across these fields, and one could not imagine the future bringing any change to the quiet land where the slow, heavy work breeds like natures that are con- tent to plod along the furrow in which they chance to find themselves, and to plough it deep, without undue haste, to the end.
The farm labourer who has to do with horses begins his day betimes. Winter and summer he rises at five o'clock, if not earlier, and by seven the teams are led out. During the morr genial seasons of the year the early hours are no hardship ; in winter, however, when the world drips moisture from every pore, and the damp creeps into one's bones, when the sun lies late abed, and thick mists too often threaten to strangle the sickly day at birth, then the carter is of opinion that "them as can bide indoors med think theirselves in the best place." For close upon four hours the monotonous work goes co—" to an' agenst" the field, backwards and forwards, horses and men, toilsomely, clumsily, step by step, never hurrying, seldom stopping, turning, with lifting of the plough and much " whoa-hoaing," at the end of the furrow, to start a new one just like the others. Two furrows—from the starting-point, that is, across the "land" and back again—constitute what is known as a "bout," the word being possibly derived from the French bout; and a common question among the men is—" How many bouts hast thee made to-day h'wever ? " The human part of the machine must be always alert. The horses may and do refresh themselves with a nap while they walk. They are wakened from their dreams of a warm stable and an extra feed by the crack and the smart of the whip, and the voice of the carter-boy crying in would-be gruff tones, "Pull up, Buller ' !" And poor 'Buller' responds with alacrity to the call, knowing full well that "if a dwun't answer to his name purty quick, he'll get another taste o' the whip." Some ploughmen pace in stolid silence ; others—they are usually those who have not tempted fortune by matrimony—whistle and sing. The particular class of ditty these cheerful spirits elect at different periods is decided by current events of local or general interest. Thus during the war martial airs held the scale. About Christmas-time "Shepherds watch their flocks by night," "Herald angels sing," and the " Faithful " are exhorted to " come " in every field, so that at last the passer-by is fain to soothe his vexed ear with the thought that this season, once fled, will not return until the hymns have had a chance of renewing their freshness, like clothes that are put away for a while. One year revivalist hymns were the fashion, and the horses stepped out to the tune of "To the work, to the work, there is labour for all," which somehow seemed a gratuitous statement in the mouths of these sons of toil. A cynically-minded employer, however, declared that "though them young chaps are wonderful fond o' goin' to class an' singin" To the work," he did not find be benefited much by their enthusiasm. From time to time throughout the morning short halts are made to scrape the clogged share. Occasionally the tedium is relieved by a scud of rain, when men and boys huddle under the lee of the horses, that stand with drooping heads and depressed mien as if conscious of the unfairness of their treatment. Or perhaps one of the lads will be allowed to guide the plough in order that he may get his hand in and learn to drive a straight furrow. Very apt pupils some of these little fellows are, and a lad of fifteen may be seen ploughing alongside his father, and managing his two horses with the skill of a grown man. Eleven o'clock brings a rest of half-an-hour, when what is locally known as " nunchin' " is brought forth. Nosebags are tied on, the teams are left to take care of them- selves, and the carters sit "simply chatting in a rustic row" while they discuss their bread and cheese or bread and bacon. This is their opportunity for talk. Their topics of con- versation cover no wide range : their own and their neighbours' ailments, the " guv'nor's " humour, good or otherwise, the exceptional vices of any one with whom the speaker happens lately to have had a slight difference of opinion,—these are the chief themes, which, being few in number, are handled with prudent economy. The method of conversation recalls that of Sisera's mother. A simple fact is stated, such as that So. and so's " missus never eats nothing." By process of expan- sion this is presently seen to signify that the lady in question will fancy a good many edibles provided they be sprung upon her as a surprise, or, according to the vernacular, if they " tek she unawar's." The interval for " nunchin' " is a product of later, degenerate days. Formerly the teams had no rest throughout the morning, and the men snatched their food as they could. The master who found his horses idle "went on more'n a,nuff," as an " old-fashioned " labourer remarked, with a remembrance untinged by regret, of the time when men worked longer, earned less, and lived harder than is the case nowadays. At three o'clock the ploughs are left in the furrow, or if the field is finished, are dragged away to fresh grouLd ready for the morrow.
It is pleasant to stand upon a grassy knoll of a winter afternoon, when the sun breaks through the purple clouds before dipping below the horizon, and floods the dun stretches with its pale amber light, bringing out the thousand delicate tints that lurk in tree trunks and branches, and pointing the contrast between the dark- green of fir and pine and the russet-brown of the young beeches that still wear last summer's leaves—it is pleasant to stand thus a little above the rest of the world and watch the ploughs go down the farm-road in the valley. The shouts of the men, the tramp of the great horses, the jingle of the harness, the creaking of the thirsty wheels that cry aloud for oil so long before they get it, make rustic music in the stillness. The ploughman, it may be noticed, seldom "homewards plods his weary way." Feet that have toiled since dawn are glad to rest when occasion allows, and almost any afternoon the carters may be seen jogging along towards the stables comfortably seated sideways on their placid steeds, much as they would recline upon a broad, deep sofa. The boys, whose legs are shorter, prefer to sit astride, in which position they can hold on with both hands to the hames. The arrival of the teams from the field creates some stir in the village. Housewives hasten to prepare hot dinner, the smaller ohildren run out to meet "our daddy," who slips to the ground and swings the youngster to the saddle, that he may be early " used " to horses. Familiarity from babyhood breeds contempt in these infant lords of creation towards the great animal; and a child scarcely able to toddle will bully it, order it hither and thither, and snatch at its mouth in amusing imitation of his father. We should like to know the horse's sentiments towards its small tyrant : whether it submits from the compulsion exerted by six-year-old mind over matter, or whether from a large good nature, a willingness to amuse the baby whose little life it could crush out by lifting its hoof. The ploughman as a rule treats his charges well, though the punishment for "spiteful" or refractory conduct on their part is sometimes unduly severe. Nor can he always be called gentle in his breaking in of young horses. Sharp and stern is the lesson taught those that are troublesome, and a carter's remark that the wildest colts make the quietest workers was not without significance. He quoted as an instance in point the case of a young creature that was "as wild as a buck. It kicked like —" The speaker broke off short at a warning look from his wife, to continue mildly: "As I was a-sayin', it just about
kicked, but three blows wi' a girt stick atween the ears tamed 'tn. It was that took aback an' dazed arter the third, it just guy in, an' it's been as harmless as a child ever since." Poor horses! Men take great credit to themselves for showing them consideration, but what about the patience of these faithful servants towards their masters ? This, indeed, to a lover of animals is apt occasionally to prove almost exasperating. It is to be hoped that in the golden future men will become less selfish, or horses will grow wiser and will strike for shorter hours, better treatment generally, and, above all, old-age pensions instead of the knacker's yard. For though the ploughman's lot as he draws towards the grave ia too often a hard one, that of his team is harder still.
Previous page
