BLANCHE'S LETTERS.
Land-Ladies.
A Farm,
Somewhere in the Country.
Dearest Daphne,—I'm on the land! Several of us are on the land! No one need worry any more about agriculture and rotation of crops and all that sort of thing being stopped by the War. We're going to see to it. It is positively enthralling work! Lady Manœuvrer wrote me an agonised letter the other day, asking me if I thought there'd be any season in London, and if it would be worth her while to take a house and give some parties for Bluebell. And I wrote back: "Please—please don't talk to me about London and seasons and parties! I know absolutely nothing of such matters. I'm on the land!" And I wound up with, "This comes hopping," in real farmers' style.
Recruit (much perturbed). "If you please, Sergeant, the other fellows say I've got to grow a moustache."
Sergeant. "Oh, there's no compulsion about growing a moustache, my lad; but you mustn't shave your upper lip."
I wish you could see me ploughing, dearest. My ploughman's pinny, big soft hat and leggings are a dream. (À propos, the "ploughman's pinny" is going to be the summer coat this year.) Oh, my Daphne, I plough such an adorable furrow! Yesterday, when I was at it, the oldest inhabitant came and leaned on a gate to watch me—one of those fearful creatures, you know, who've lived through six reigns and can read small print and smoke six pipes a day, and end by getting into the daily papers.
"Be you one o' they fine Lunnon ladies wot 'ave come to these parts to blay at varmin'?" he asked.
"We haven't come to play at farming," I told him; "we've come to take the men's places and help save the country."
"Yon's a wunnerful bad furrow," said the creature. "And what be goin' to sow in it?"
"Oh, corn or chaff, or whatever it is people eat, I suppose," I said.
"Seems to Oi the right crop for such a wunnerful crooked furrow as yon 'ud be tares," said the horrid old thing; "but happen you don't know what tares be—happen you don't read your Bible."
I was starting up the field again by that time and paid no more attention to him. The oldest inhabitant is proverbially a most unpleasant character, I believe. Beryl and Babs are also doing very well down here. And now that we've learned all about farming and agriculture we're training numbers of girls and putting them on the land, (Entre nous, chérie, it's not so difficult to put them on the land as to keep them on it. Some of them are a wee bit inclined to "put their hands to the plough and look black," to quote dear Shakspeare, that we've all been talking of so much lately.) Beryl has developed positively shining gifts as a drover. She drives cattle into the nearest market town twice a week, and does it à merveille. (I can't say the dear thing's drover's coat and hat are becoming—indeed, I never saw her look worse!) She has a large class of women and girls learning to be drovers. But unluckily, the other day, there was a regrettable little affair. Beryl was taking a big herd of cattle along to the market town, with her class in attendance, when one of the bullocks stopped to nibble at the hedge. Beryl told a girl in the class to give it a tap and send it on.
"I'm afraid to," said the girl.
"Oh," said Beryl, "you city girls are duffers at country life! What's there to be afraid of?" and she went up to the bullock and gave it a smart whack with her drover's stick. "Come," said, "no nonsense! Go on with the others," and she gave it a harder whack.
In a moment the creature turned upon her with a simply odious expression in its eyes and began to bellow; and then, dearest—wasn't it a pity?—Beryl suddenly lost her nerve, dropped her drover's stick, and climbed to the top of a big gate near at hand, while the class ran back along the road, shrieking. As for the cattle, terrified by the shrieks of the class, they took to their heels (if they have such things), and were finally stopped by a farmer, who drove them into the market himself.
Everyone's so glad General Dodderidge is better. You remember his marrying Mittie Jermyn en troisièmes noces some years ago? The wedding was at Newmarket; Mittie was married in her racing colours, and her famous Oaks and One Thousand winner, "Give-'em-beans," was her only bridesmaid. It was quite a nice marriage, but they've not seen much of each other for several years. Poor Mittie was fearfully affaissée when the War hit racing so hard; but she's found herself again now, and the last we heard of her she was buying and breaking horses for the Remount Department somewhere in the world. The dear General, being enormously old, couldn't take any part in the War, but he was like the war-horse, you know, dearest, mentioned by the Psalmist, that "sayeth Ha, ha! through a trumpet"; he read every daily and weekly paper, with all the conflicting reports from both sides, till at last he was in a frightful state. Sir William Kiddem took him in hand, he said, only just in time to save his cerebral spheres and nerve centres from doing something horrible in a dozen syllables. And now, with newspapers taboo and a milk and egg diet, the old darling is so much better that he helped at our matinée in town the other day in aid of the "Fund for Manicuring Amateur Farm Hands."
All the people one knows were perfectly sweet in placing their talents at one's disposal for the benefit of the Fund. (Has it ever struck you, my Daphne, how much readier people are to offer their talents than their money?—even though they may have immensely more of the latter than the former.) It was a tremendous programme. General Dodderidge, who said he'd been considered a very good ventriloquist in his time, gave a turn with one of those doll-things. I'm sure it was a topping turn, because the dear General laughed so often himself at the things he was saying. Several people, however, said that the voice, when they could hear it, seemed to be always the General's and never the doll's; but there'll always be grumblers.
The gem of the afternoon was certainly Hermione Shropshire's song and dance, "Sal of the Supper Club." She was coached by the famous Jenny Jolliwell, who's called "The Diva of the Dials;" and I hear that Jenny (who was one of our programme-sellers) said afterwards, "Lumme, duchess, you went one better than me, you did, straight! If I dared to give 'Sal' like that at the Syndicate Halls I'd have the Lord High What's-his-name down on me in two ticks!"
Wasn't that a triumph for dear Hermione?
Ever thine,
Blanche.
Judge. "Anything to say?"
Prisoner. "Well, not meself, me lord. But if you'll allow me little daughter here to recite a passage out o' 'The Merchant o' Venice'——"