Hurdles in Worcestershire are generally made of "withy" (willow), and it is interesting to watch the hurdle-maker at work. The poles have first to be peeled, which can be done by unskilled labour, the pole being fixed in an improvised upright vice made from the same material. Then comes the skilled man, who cuts the poles into suitable lengths, and splits the pieces into the correct widths. Next with an axe he trims off the rough edges, shapes the ends of the rails, and pierces the uprights with a centre-bit. Then he completes the mortise in a moment with a chisel, the rails being laid in position as guides to the size of the apertures. The rails are then driven home into the mortise holes, and he skips backwards and forwards, over the hurdle flat on the ground, as he nails the rails to the heads; two pieces, in the form of a V reversed, connect the rails and keep them in place.
In counties where hazel is grown in the coppices, a wattled or "flake" hurdle is the favourite, and they afford much more shelter to sheep in the fold than the open withy hurdle, but, being more lightly made, they require stakes and "shackles" to keep them in position. The hazel hurdle-maker may be seen in the coppice surrounded by his material and the clean fresh stacks of the work completed. The process of manufacture differs from that of the open-railed hurdle: he has an upright framework fixed to the ground with holes bored at the exact places for the vertical pieces, and indicating the correct length of the hurdle, when finished. The horizontal pieces or rods are comparatively slender and easily twisted, and so can be bent back where they reach the outside uprights, and they are interlaced with the others in basket-making fashion. At this stage the hurdle presents an unfinished appearance, with the ends of the horizontal rods protruding from the face of the hurdle. Then the maker with a special narrow and exceedingly sharp hatchet chops off at one blow each of the projecting ends, with admirable accuracy, never missing his aim or exceeding the exact degree of strength necessary to sever the superfluous bit without injuring the hurdle itself. The hurdle-maker is paid at a price per dozen, and he earns and deserves "good money."
The art of making wattled hurdles is passed on and carried down from father to son for generations; the hurdle-maker is usually a cheery man and receives a gracious welcome from the missus and the maids when he calls at the farm-house, often emphasized by a pint of home-brewed. He combines the accuracy of the draughtsman with the delicate touch of the accomplished lawn-tennis player. His exits and his entrances from and to the scene of his labours are made in the remote mysterious surroundings of the seldom-trodden woods; overhead is the brilliant blue of the clear spring sky; the sunshine lights up the quiet hazel tones of his simple materials, his highly finished work, and his heaps of clean fresh chips; and his stage is the newly cut coppice, carpeted with primroses and wild hyacinths. I have never seen a representation of this charming scene, and I commend the subject to the country-loving artist as full of interest and colour, and as a theme of natural beauty.
Our blacksmith came twice a week to the village when work was still plentiful in the early days of my farming, and I was not yet the only practical farmer in the place. I need not describe the forge: it has been sung by Longfellow, made music of by Handel, and painted by Morland; everybody knows its gleaming red-hot iron, its cascades of sparks, and the melodious clank of the heavy hammer as it falls upon the impressionable metal. In all pursuits which entail the use of an open fire at night, its fascination attracts both busy and idle villagers, and more especially in winter it becomes a centre for local gossip. At that season the time-honoured gossip corner, close to the Manor gate, was deserted for the warmth and action of the forge. Blacksmiths, like other specialists, vary, and the difference may be expressed as that between the man who fits the shoe to the hoof, and the man who fits the hoof to the shoe—in other words, the workman and the sloven. Doubtless many a slum-housed artisan in the big town, driven from his country home by the flood of unfair foreign competition, looks back with longing to the bright old cottage garden of his youth and in his dreams hears the music of the forge, sees the blazing fire, and sniffs the pungency of scorching hoof.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE DAIRY—CATTLE—SHEEP—LAMBS—PIGS—POULTRY.
"And brushing ankle-deep in flowers,
We heard behind the woodbine veil
The milk that bubbled in the pail,
And buzzings of the honied hours."
—In Memoriam.
My farm had the reputation of being a good cheese farm, but a bad butter farm; in spite, however, of this tradition I determined to establish a pedigree Jersey herd for butter-making. For early in my occupation I had abandoned the cheese manufacture of my predecessor and later the production of unprofitable beef. My wife attended various lectures and demonstrations and was soon able to prove that the bad character of the farm for this purpose was not justified. Within a few years she covered one wall of the dairy with prize cards won at all the leading shows, and found a ready market for the produce, chiefly by parcel post to friends. The butter, although it commanded rather a better price than ordinary quality, was considered not only by them but by the villagers more economical, as owing to its solidity and freedom from butter milk, it would keep good indefinitely, and "went much further."
The cream from my Jerseys was so thick that the cream crock could be lifted up by the wooden spoon used for stirring, by merely plunging it into the crock full of cream and raising it, without touching the crock in any other way. With fifteen cows and heifers in milk on an average, the Jerseys brought me in quite £300 a year in butter and cream, without considering the value of the calves, and of the skim-milk for the pigs, and they were worth a good deal besides from the æsthetic point of view. I think that the word "dainty" describes the Jersey better than any other adjective; their beautiful lines and colouring in all shades of fawn and silver grey make them a continual delight to behold. After all, however, the shorthorn is a magnificent creature; they, too, have their aesthetic side; the outline is more robust, their colouring more pronounced, and I think that "stately" is the best description to apply to their distinguished bearing.
At Worcester, on market days, a great deal of butter is brought in by the country people and retailed in the Market Hall, and many of these farmers' wives and daughters have regular customers, who come each week for their supply. On one occasion when the inspector of weights and measures was making a surprise visit, and testing the weights of the goods on offer, a man, standing near a stall where only one pound of butter was left unsold, noticed that as soon as the owner became aware of the inspector's entrance, she slipped two half-crowns into the pat, obliterating the marks where they had been inserted. She was evidently aware that the butter was not full weight, but with the addition it satisfied the inspector's test, the two half-crowns just balancing the one ounce short. No sooner was he gone than the spectator came forward to buy the butter. She guessed that he had seen the trick, and dared not refuse to sell, although she tried hard to avoid doing so; so the cunning buyer walked off with fifteen ounces of butter worth 1s. 2d., and 5s. in silver for his outlay of 1s. 3d.