The “leasings” would be thrashed by husband or brother with the old flail, in one of my barns, to be then ground at the village mill, and lastly baked into fragrant loaves of home-made bread—­the “dusky loaf,” as Tennyson says, “that smelt of home.”  One good old soul brought me every week, while the “leased corn” lasted, a small loaf called “a batch cake,” and continued the gift later, made from wheat grown on the family allotment; her loaves were some of the best and the sweetest bread I have ever tasted.

“The man who makes two blades of grass grow where one grew before” is said to be a national benefactor, and, I suppose, the same adage applies a fortiori to wheat, but I have never seen a monument raised to his memory or even the circulation of the national hat for his benefit.  Too often the only proof of his neighbour’s recognition of his improved crops is the notification of an increased assessment of the amount of his liability to contribute to what is, still quite unsuitably, called the poor rate.

Wheat rejoices in a tropical summer, and it never succeeds better than when stiff land like mine splits into deep cracks, locally called “chawns.”  You can see the root-fibres crossing these cracks which go so far into the earth that a walking-stick can be inserted to touch the drain pipes in the furrows at a depth of 2-1/2 or 3 feet.  Apparently this cracking acts as a kind of root-pruning, and lets in the heat of the sun to the lower roots of the corn, with the result of, what is called, a great “cast” (yield) to the acre.

In building wheat ricks the most important point is to arrange the sheaves with the butts sloping outwards, so that should rain fall before thatching, the water will run away from the centre.  I remember at Alton, where the rick-builder was an old and experienced man, he neglected this precaution; some weeks of heavy rain followed, but in time the thatching was completed, and nobody dreamed of any harm.  When the thrashing machine arrived, and the ricks were uncovered, the wheat was found so damp that, in places, the ears had grown into solid mats, and the sheaves could only be parted by cutting with a hay-knife.  The old man was so discomfited that the tears rolled down his cheeks, and the master’s loss amounted to something like L300.  There was not a sack of dry wheat on that particular farm that winter, though some was saleable at a reduced price.  He told me that it was a costly business for him, but worth any money as a lesson to me.  I took it to heart, and we never left a rick uncovered at Aldington; as fast as one was completed, and the builder descended the ladder, the thatcher took his place, and temporarily “hung” it with straw, secured by partially driven-in rick pegs until we could find time to attend to the regular thatching.