'Medders I' May'

THE young Vicar had lately been promoted from the South of England to a parish in the wilds of Yorkshire. After some weeks’ residence, in talking things over with his wife, he said he felt that he was getting nowhere. The people were so stolid, so unresponsive — even when he spoke to them in the street their faces never cracked; and as for preaching to them, he might as well be talking to a blank wall.

Well, this state of things could not continue; so after anxious deliberation it was decided to invite the leading farmers to a pleasant Sunday afternoon at the Vicarage — to get to know each other.

Accordingly, on the Sunday appointed, fifteen or twenty of these farmer chaps turned up at the Vicarage. They waited one for another, and then came in a bunch. The Vicar welcomed them. ‘Now, fellows, come along — no formality. Here are cigarettes — help yourselves, and make yourselves at home.’ None of them wanted cigarettes, but if they could smoke — hurrah! — they pulled out their old pipes, filled up with cavendish and cut cake, and in less than no time the atmosphere was a cross between a London fog and a prairie fire. The Vicar had to light a pipe in self-defense.

When all were settled the Vicar said, ‘I’ve lately been reading again that wonderful poem of Gray’s: the “Elegy in a Country Churchyard.” Any of you know it?’

Well, none of them knew it and none of them seemed to want to know it. ‘I’m surprised at that,’ said the Vicar, ‘because the opening stanzas, at any rate, have a distinctly agricultural flavor. I’ll read it to you.’ And he read: —

‘Now fades the glim —’

‘Owd on a minnit, Vicar,’said Farmer Jenkwistle. ‘Wod yer mind readin’ that bit agean?’

‘Splendid,’thought the Vicar, and readily complied. When he had finished: —

‘Aye,’said Owd Jenks, ‘carfew’s at eight o’clock, is n’t it, Parson?’

‘I believe so.‘

‘Then what the hengment wor he doin’ wi’ his cows not milked at eight o’clock at neet? He owt to ha’ hed his cows milked and his ’osses bedded dahn and be gerrin’ his supper by eight o’clock at neet.’

‘But I don’t find anything here about milking,’stammered the Vicar.

‘Nowt abaht milkin’! Them cows wor goin’ somewheer, worn’t they? An’ they wor lowin’, worn’t they? What more do yer want to know ’at they wor goin’ home to be milked?’

‘I’m really not sufficiently acquainted with the technique of the farm to argue the point. Perhaps there were special circumstances.‘

‘Speshul circumstances? What speshul circumstances could there ha’ been — unless he hed to get his milk to t’ tahn; and then he’d ha’ hed to get ’em milked by fower o’clock in t’afternoin.‘

‘An’ there’s another thing ’at strikes me,’piped up Owd Farmer Joster. ‘Carfew’s at eight o’clock an’ it wor gerriu’ dark then. That ’ud bring t’ sunset to abaht seven-fifteen. That ’ud bring us weel into t’ middle o’ May. An’ a “lea” is a medder, as everybody knaws.‘

‘I’ve always understood so,’ said the Vicar.

‘Then what the hengment wor he doin’ wi’ his beasts in his medders i’ May? Wheer’s his mowin’ grass comin’ fra in June, and wheer’s his winter fodder bahn to be if he had his beasts in t’ medders i’ May?’

‘I suppose the poet put “lea” to rhyme with “me,”’ said the Vicar.

’It may be rhyme all reight, but it’s not reason to hev t’ beasts in t’ medder i’ May.’

‘But the poet always claims a license, you know,’ said the Vicar.

‘License indeed! If yon feller hed a license he owt to ha’ hed it tahn fra him for hevin’ his beasts in his medders in prohibited months.’

‘Well, the point is of no importance beside the majesty of the verses following,’ quoth the Vicar.

‘No importance — hevin’ his beasts in t’ medders i’ May? Let any fathead o’ mine put t’ beasts in t’ medders when they owt to be in t’ pastures and he’d sooin get a thick lughoil. No importance indeed!‘

‘Well, now we have finished with the first verse, perhaps we can go on to the second.’

‘Owd on a minnit,’ squeaked Ratty Radler. ‘Let’s finish wit’ owd text before we start on another. We’ve nobbat getten to firstly and secondly yet. What I want to knaw is what wor he doin’ ploughin’ i’ May? He owt to ha’ hed his corn sown long afore that. What’s tha think, Jenks?’

‘Well, let’s be fair to t’ chap. Tha knows he mud a been ploughin’ for turmits. Oh, tha’s no need to tell me ’at it’s too early to be ploughin’ for turmits, but any chum’ ead ’at ’ud hev ’is beasts in his medders i’ May ’ud be gaumless enough to set his turmits too early and let ’em all run to seed a bit later on.’

‘I really don’t understand,’ said the Vicar.

‘Naw, an’ yer not t’ only one at does n’t understand, Vicar, or that senseless stuff hed nivver been written.’

‘But what hurts me in this job,’ said Charlie Grime, who was a bit of a wag, ‘an’ fairly cuts me to t’ heart, is to think of this poor owd ploughman ploddin’ his weary way ’ome after his hard day’s work. Wheer wor his ’osses? I nivver knew a tired ploughman walk ’ome when he had a couple of ’osses to ride on.’

‘Happen he’d forgotten to loose ’em aht, same as he forgotten what month it wor,’ said one.

‘Happen he wor ploughin’ wi’ a tracter,’ said another, and the conversation and hilarity became very general, developing into an uproar.

The meeting broke up in confusion. When all had left, the Vicar collapsed in his chair and gasped: ‘Mary, dear, if ever you think I’m getting “uppity,” just remind me of a ploughman who put his beasts in his medders i’ May and walked home when he had a couple of ’osses to ride on!’