their charges, in the cows, horses, or
sheep; some of them are really industrious, deserving men. The worst
feature of unionism is the lumping of all together, for where one man is
hardly worth his salt, another is a good workman. It is strange that such
men as this should choose to throw in their lot with so many who are
idle--whom they must know to be idle--thus jeopardising their own position
for the sake of those who are not worth one-fifth the sacrifice the
agricultural cottager must be called upon to make in a strike. The
hard-working carter or cattle-man, according to the union theory, is to
lose his pay, his cottage, his garden, and get into bad odour with his
employer, who previously trusted him, and was willing to give him
assistance, in order that the day labourer who has no responsibilities
either of his own or his master's, and who has already the best end of the
stick, should enjoy still further opportunities for idleness.

CHAPTER XXII

THE LABOURER'S CHILDREN. COTTAGE GIRLS

In the coldest weather one or more of the labourer's children are sure to
be found in the farmyard somewhere. After the mother has dressed her boy
(who may be about three or four years old) in the morning, he is at once
turned out of doors to take care of himself, and if, as is often the case,
the cottage is within a short distance of the farmyard, thither he toddles
directly. He stands about the stable door, watching the harnessing of the
great carthorses, which are, from the very first, the object of his
intense admiration. But he has already learnt to keep out of the way,
knowing that his presence would not otherwise be tolerated a moment, and
occupies a position which enables him to dart quickly behind a tree, or a
rick.

When the horses are gone he visits the outhouse, where the steam-engine is
driving the chaff-cutter, or peers in at the huge doors of the barn, where
with wide wooden shovel the grain is being moved. Or he may be met with
round the hay-ricks, dragging a log of wood by a piece of tar cord, the
log representing a plough. As you come upon him suddenly he draws up to
the rick as if the hay was his natural protector, and looks up at you with
half-frightened, half-curious gaze, and mouth open. His hat is an old one
of his father's, a mile too big, coming down over his ears to his
shoulders, well greased from ancient use--a thing not without its
advantage, since it makes it impervious to rain. He wear