Ir is a common complaint against the country-folk of the present day that they are not satisfied with their lot in life that they leave their pleasant rural homes for our already overcrowded towns, there to make the terrible struggle for existence more terrible still, and to be sucked too often into the whirlpool of degradation, misery, and helpless despair.

Now we who live in the country do not deny that such an exodus is taking place, nor do we deny that it is often productive of much mischief both in town and country. But we see-and we should like other people to seethat there is another side to the question.

No doubt the condition of the agricultural labourer varies considerably according to the county in which he finds himself. I have not studied his lot with any minuteness except in one of our eastern counties, and there, I am willing to admit, it may be rather specially hard. Still, it is just in these purely agricultural counties that we can best see what attractions the life of an agricultural labourer really offers; and it is partly to give what information I can upon this question, partly to claim some sympathy for the poor agricultural labourer and his wife, that this paper has been written.

Will you hear the homely tale of a labourer and his family, as told by his wife to one who has known her now for eight years, and has taken pains to verify her statements, lest the instinctive love for a telling story, which is to be found among poor and rich alike, might lead her to colour them? Conscious deceit I could not suspect her of; she tells you without reserve of all that has been done for her by others-and that is a test of honesty and straight-dealing which very few, either in town or country, can stand. She is

but forty-one now-a worn and yet cheery-faced little woman, though the tears are very near the surface with a stout heart, a strong love for her family, and a patience which seldom, if ever, deserts her. Her husband is a very steady and "wonderful still" man. It is only by little things said here and there that you will learn from him, and from the majority of his class, men and women alike, the state of their affairs. But she-it is evidently a blessed relief to her to pour her simple tale into sympathetic ears. Guiltless of any fears that she may be taking up your precious time, of any apprehensions that she may be repeating tales which you have heard once, twice, half-a-dozen times already, she will hurry on in an uninterrupted flow of words, the tears now and then rolling down her cheeks, but never quite chasing away the smiles which are almost as ready to come as the tears; and when at last she has done, she will wipe her eyes with her apron, thank you warmly for your visit, and turn to her work with an evidently lightened heart. Truly a half-hour well spent, if your patient listening has done no more than lift for a few hours the weight of care from that poor, burdened creature. Others there are who cannot talk or even weep over their hardships and worries as she can still less, think or speak of the shifts to which they are put with the humorous, almost merry smile which will now and then flit across her face as she chats to you. Perhaps they, in their inarticulate trouble, are even more to be pitied than she.

But let us hear her tale, which shall be as nearly as possible in her own. words-the very words she used to me as we sat together not long ago in her bare, brick-floored room-I in her tidiest chair, she on her favourite

three-legged stool, with her baby, a tiny, "tuly" little thing, at her breast.

"Just tell me, Mrs. Allen, exactly what you have to manage with, and how you make it last out", I said, instead of letting her run on in her usual promiscuous way; and then the long tale came out with a rush.

"Well, miss, I'll tell you jus' as near 's ever I can. There's John-he don't get but nine shill'n's a week now, being as it's winter-time, but in summer like he'll get ten shill'n's; and then there's harvest-he count upon takin' pretty near seven pounds then, and the money's jus' the same whether harvest last four weeks, or whether that last eight. That's all his arnin's; and he don't get the chance to make no overtime. Then there's Jimmyhe's gettin' a big booy now, fifteen come his birthday. He arn half-a-crown a week, and sixpence on Sunday, when he goo the whole day. They 'on't let Oliver goo to work till come next Michaelmas, so he can't arn nothin'; but Laura, she do a bit o' straw plait, and we reckon she can make fivepence clear in the week, when the man'll take it. You know, miss, she ain't like other girls, bein' as her back's not straight, and her health fare that bad; so we can't look for her to goo to sarvice I've said times and times I'd be glad if she could. My little Annie's a fierce un [strong and lively], and I warrant she'll goo as soon 's ever she can".

"Then that is all you have to look to? Nine shillings a week for four or five months in the year; ten shillings for the rest; your husband's harvest; your little boy's half-a-crown a week, and Laura's fivepence for straw-plaiting. Now tell me how you lay it out".

"Well, miss, there's rent, and that's a shill'n'. Master stop that out o' John's money every week, let him arn what he 'ull. And then there's bread. And we can't do with less than five pecks of flour a week, and that's eight shill'n's and three ha'pence. And then there's a pound of salt-a ha'penny; and the yeast, threepence. Then I

mostly buy a quarter o' butter-that's threepence; and three pound o' sugar -that's fourpence ha'penny; and two ounces o' tea, and that's threepence, and I make spare o' that for the week. And we must have soap and sodatwopence for soap, and a ha'penny for soda. I forced to wash twice a week, 'cause I never could get enough doddy clothes to keep the little 'uns clean all through the week, and that run away with a lot o' firin'. I can't reckon the firin' less than a shill'n' a week, take the winter round; for coal's eighteenpence a hunderd, and there's wood to buy as well. And we must have a fire; don't, we should be perished o' cowd. Then there's oil, twopence a quart, and the quart last a week. Then there's sixpence for John's 'baccy. Beer he can't have 'cept a half-pint a chance time; but he do suffer so with the misery in his head, and he can't get riddy of it a'thout his pipehe say that fare to do him good more than anythin'. He'd goo a'thout 'most anythin' afore he'd goo a'thout his baccy. Well, then there's his clubthat's eighteenpence a month; and Jimmy's club-that's sixpence, but that'll be a shill'n' afore long now; and schooling, fo'pence a week; and my clothin'-club, a penny."

I have been jotting down the items, as she tells me all this, and the result of my calculations is decidedly appalling.

"Why, the expenses you have told me of already are actually more than the money you earn!" I exclaim. "And you have allowed but one penny a week for clothes, nothing for boots, nothing for cheese, meat, or milk! There must surely be some mistake".

"No, no, miss, there ain't no mistake", she answers sadly,-"'cept

1 We East Anglians are much given to using this simple ellipsis, and its counterpart "Do where others would employ the more cumbrous, "If that is (or is not) the case". As, for instance-"I suppose they haven't begun harvesting in your part of the world yet?" "Why, no, no. Do, I don't know it". Or"Have you got a broody hen for that setting of eggs? Don't, I can lend you my ".

that you've taken the hardest time of all. And yet it ain't the hardest time of all, for we've reckoned as if he'd always got his full wages, and taken no heed o' wet days, or times when master sends him home 'cause there ain't no work. No, miss, there ain't no mistake; but you see, miss, we're forced to run into debt for flour and such-like in the winter-we can't help it nohow. Mrs. Smith, at the shop, she's wonderful good to trust me; she'll never let me want for bread. The winter afore last, I owed her for 'most three sacks o' flour at once; but she knew I'd always send her su'thin' by one o' the children when John took his money on Saturdays. You see, miss, I look to the harvestmoney to get us straight again; and the boot-bill has to run till then-it comes to 'twixt two pound ten and three pound, do what I 'ull. The children make a hand of a proper lot of boots; they midder paths-let alone the road-are so wonderful sluddy. And you see there's so many of 'em, miss-Laura, and Jimmy, and Oliver and Freddy, and Annie, and Georgie, and Elijah-and now there's the baby -I shall ha' to shoe her to-year".

"But what about cheese, and meat, and milk?" I ask again.

"I don't never buy no cheese, miss; I can't forspare the money for it. And I haven't bought a chice o' meatfat pork nor nothin'-since last harvest-time. And milk-we don't drink no milk, 'cept a chance time-same as the other day, Olly arned a ha'penny, carryin' the young girl Bush's boots to be mended, and I said to him,'Booy', I say, 'have some milk o' that ha'penny', and he say, 'Mother, I want a ball'. I said, 'Booy, you had a ball afore, and you lost it. Do you have some milk'. He's a good booy to give me what he get, so he goos to the farm and gets a pint o' fleet milk, and we has some in we tea, and the children was pleased".

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I sit and think a little while. family of ten-and the weekly expenses such as I have given above. No meat,

no cheese, no milk or beer (except "chance times"), one quarter of a pound of butter, and two ounces of tea! Nothing but this, except dry bread, and the produce of the slip of gardenground-which, as I know, supplies them with potatoes, onions, and greens, a most valuable addition, no doubt, but even then

"Do the children complain about their food?" I ask next.

"Well, miss, they're wonderful hearty children, and wonderful contented. Jimmy, he take bread and sugar for his dinner; but the others scarce ever carry anythin' but dry bread to school. John, he take bread too; and when they all come home, I mostly boil 'em some potatoes, and make a mite o' toast for John, and he soak that in his tea. And then I keep the tea leaves over night; and when we get up in the morning, I put a little hot water over 'em, and that's somethin' hot for the children afore they start for school" (a two mile walk), "and if I've a chice o' sugar left to put in, that just please 'em. Well, I've got a good spirit, and 'tain't often as I complain, and I often feel thankful that we've got bread to eat. But we can't always feel thankful; and last winter I suffered terrible with the misery in my head-just in the noddle o' the neck it fared to lay. I had it all one week. And there was dry bread for breakfast, and dry bread for dinner, and dry bread for tea, and dry bread for breakfast next day, and bread for dinner; and when there was bread again for tea, I jus' as if I couldn't help it, and I sat down and cried. And I said to Laura, Gal', I say, 'it do seem hard. There, I've been the mother of nine children, and to have nothin' but dry bread to take to!' Bread don't seem to be always what you want. It don't seem to give you strength like".

"But John can't do his harvest on bread?" I ask.

"Well, miss, I don't rightly know how he do do it. All last harvest, he

beer; he keep reducin' and reducin' on account of his family. I often used to feel grieved for him when I sent him out in the mornin' with nothin' but dry puffs; and he'd say sometimes,'I don' know', he say, 'I feel as if I should like somethin' better than bread sometimes. I see the other min have meat pudden, or little bits o' meat dumplin', and I never have nothin''. And as I sot here, I could hear 'em next door a fryin' bits o' meat (my nybour-she's only herself and the man to keep, you know, miss), and I often cried 'cause I felt so grieved for John. And he say to me sometimes, he say,- Gal', he say, 'you never let me have a ha'penny. I'm bound just as if I was a wukhus child'. I say, 'Never mind; we must be thankful as we've got bread for us and the children; and happen things 'll be better'. He's a good father, John is; there never was a better. He'll goo a'thout any one thing to let his children have it. If there's ever such a little mite o' butter, he 'on't eat it-he say, 'Let the little uns have it "."

No need to say anything about herself; love and thoughtfulness for her children beam in her face, as she talks to you of them and of the countless shifts to which she is put to get them what they need. True, the prospect of an addition to their family is one which brings tears to her eyes whenever she speaks of it. I remember one day she came to our door to ask if we had an old dress for Laura (the rarest thing, for she is no beggar); and after telling me how the child's frock was "wholly to pieces", and she did so want to go to the concert the young ladies had promised her a ticket for, the poor mother broke down.

"I can't see as I can get her a dress nohow. There's eight on 'em, you see, and I'm half-way through my time to the next. O dear! O dear! I think sometimes whatever shall I do!"—and her spirit giving way for once, she broke into bitter sobs.

But when the children come, she loves them dearly, and I believe she would echo the answer which another woman, the mother of ten children, made to my remark that the last new baby seemed to be as much "made of " as any of its brothers and sisters had been," Well, miss, I ought to be 'shamed to say so, p'rhaps; but to my thinking, I love each one of 'em better than the last ". John himself comes in for a large share of his wife's warm heart, as is evident from the way she talks of him; and in his case, as in the children's, her love seems to have grown with the years. She tells you, smiling, "When I had him, I didn't care for he. But he always did drive such a trade about me he jus' as if he 'ouldn't gi' me no peace till I had him ".

Sometimes I have thought that the poverty and hardships of married life among the poor drive away the love that was once warm in the hearts of husband and wife, and that it only returns again when the children have gone out into the world, and the old couple are once more left to themselves. But perhaps it is not so much troubles as troubles taken badly which destroy love-selfish ways, repinings, and mutual upbraidings. Anyhow, it is clear that this husband and wife have gained, not lost, in tenderness, as the long, hard years have rolled over their heads; perhaps their troubles have even drawn them closer together than they would ever have come without.

But the mention of Laura's dress reminds me that we have not yet allowed anything but a penny a week for clothes. I know that there is still one source of income-an occasional one- -which has not yet been mentioned in our talk; and so I go on to ask her a few questions about "broad work ". called so, presumably, because it is done abroad-in the fields. I may briefly state that there are five kinds of broad-work-stone-picking, carlicking (e. charlock-pulling), mangel-pulling, pea-picking, and gleaning-which is of

four kinds are paid for-at a very low rate. Stone-picking the women reckon the hardest work of all; it begins very early in the year, when the heavy land is "dreening wet", and the clay so "plucky" that the poor stone-pickers' boots soon become twice their natural size and weight. The constant stooping, and the ever-increasing weight of the bag of stones round the waist, are so back-breaking, that some of the women, eager though they are to earn a chance penny, find it too much for them to attempt. They are paid five farthings a bushel; and by working hard all day long one might perhaps pick six bushels, thus earning sevenpence halfpenny. Carlicking and mangel-pulling, as women's work, seem to be dying out; but pea-picking is on the increase. A woman might possibly get three weeks' pea-picking, if she were able to walk long distances to reach the different pea-fields; but ten days would probably be as much as most women, with houses and families to see to, could secure. Then, if they work twelve hours, beginning at three in the morning, they can earn ninepence a day; but here again it is obvious that a poor woman with a family can seldom be absent from home for the twelve hours' work and the walk both ways, even if her strength would hold her out. That they make gallant efforts to do as much as they can in this way, however, Mrs. Allen's tale will show. You will forgive its homeliness, I know; to cut out bits here and there would be to rob it of its simplicity and truth-or so, at least, I fancy.

"Well, miss, the clothes are a proper oneasiness to me, and I couldn't get them nohow if it warn't for the broadwork. There was last year I went stone-picking to get the booys' shuts; and then I did count on gettin' myself a new shimmy, for my was wholly rent to pieces, but then there's four o' the booys, and Annie, she forced to have two shimmies, and so-well, I don' know, I never got it, and I don't know

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when I shall. So I did my stone-picking as well as I could; but it was terrible lugsome work; and I made the children pick a few in the evenings, and on Saturdays; and I had a two-three days' carlicking. And then there come the pea-picking. But I couldn't lay that money out on clothes, for I forced to make spare on't for what I knew I should want when the baby come. But oh! I didn't know how to goo. There warn't no peas to pick just round here; and the fields were such a wonderful way off that master he carried some o' the women in a tumbril; but I couldn't stand the jounce, and so I forced to walk. And there was one day I got up 'twixt two and three, and I said to John, I don't know how ever I shall goo'. And he say, 'Lie down', he say, 'lie down. ain't fit to goo!' And I say, 'But whatever shall we do? There's twoand-six for the woman to tend me, and there's a shill'n' for liquor, and I must have that, and then there's some sheets I must have, and we ain't got a blanket-and what ever shall we do if I have them cold chills? And you ain't got the money to pay.' 'Gal', he say, 'I han't'. So I got up, and I made myself a cup o' tea; and I took Olly with me, and he carried a stool for me to sit on. I know he's been a wonderful owdacious booy at school, miss, and it's been a great oneasiness to me and John. John's towd him a plenty times he'd have to chine him up [a threat of which I have never learnt the precise meaning], and he's often hot him over the head when the other booys come home and said how Olly fit [fought] the little booy Plum up strit [in the village street]. But he's better than any o' the children to do things for Well, we had to go right through and 'most two mile fudder. Olly was a good booy, and he pulled the rice [pea-plants], and I sat and stripped the peas. But oh the sun had such a power, and when we'd finished, we set off to goo home, and I

me.

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