“This glorious land!” he thought, walking away from the beech clump, with Blink at his heels; “how wonderful to see it being restored to its former fertility under pressure of the war!  The farmer must be a happy man, indeed, working so nobly for his country, without thought of his own prosperity.  How flowery those beans look already!” he mused, glancing at a field of potatoes.  “Now that I am here I shall be able to combine my work on German prisoners with an effort to stimulate food production.  Blink!” For Blink was lingering in a gateway.  Moving back to her, Mr. Lavender saw that the sagacious animal was staring through the gate at a farmer who was standing in a field perfectly still, with his back turned, about thirty yards away.

“Have you——­” Mr. Lavender began eagerly; “is it—­are you employing any German prisoners, sir?”

The farmer did not seem to hear.  “He must,” thought Mr. Lavender, “be of the old stolid English variety.”

The farmer, who was indeed attired in a bowler hat and Bedford cords, continued to gaze over his land, unconscious of Mr. Lavender’s presence.

“I am asking you a question, sir,” resumed the latter in a louder voice.”  And however patriotically absorbed you may be in cultivating your soil, there is no necessity for rudeness.”

The farmer did not move a muscle.

“Sir,” began Mr. Lavender again, very patiently, “though I have always heard that the British farmer is of all men least amenable to influence and new ideas, I have never believed it, and I am persuaded that if you will but listen I shall be able to alter your whole outlook about the agricultural future of this country.”  For it had suddenly occurred to him that it might be a long time before he had again such an opportunity of addressing a rural audience on the growth of food, and he was loth to throw away the chance.  The farmer, however, continued to stand with his hack to the speaker, paying no more heed to his voice than to the buzzing of a fly.

“You shall hear me,” cried Mr. Lavender, unconsciously miming a voice from the past, and catching, as he thought, the sound of a titter, he flung his hand out, and exclaimed: 

“Grass, gentlemen, grass is the hub of the matter.  We have put our hand to the plough”—­and, his imagination taking flight at those words, he went on in a voice calculated to reach the great assembly of farmers which he now saw before him with their backs turned—­“and never shall we take it away till we have reduced every acre in the country to an arable condition.  In the future not only must we feed ourselves, but our dogs, our horses, and our children, and restore the land to its pristine glory in the front rank of the world’s premier industry.  But me no buts,” he went on with a winning smile, remembering that geniality is essential in addressing a country audience, “and butter me no butter, for in future we shall require to grow our margarine as well.  Let us, in a word,