mop of hair in irritation. ‘They’re a blasted nuisance, that’s what my dad says! Have you seen what rabbits do to a rape crop?’ I answered that I had not. ‘Rabbits with little cotton-wool tails and pipe-cleaner whiskers,’ he sneered, ‘and fur as soft as velvet. Huh! We shoot ’em! They can eat their way through a rape crop in a week, can rabbits. Clear nine acres in a month! Millions of pounds’ worth of damage when it’s a mild winter. No amount of fencing will stop ’em.’
‘We gas ours,’ added the little girl of about ten with round cheeks and closely-cropped red hair who I had met earlier, and who was sitting nearby. ‘That stops ’em, I can tell you.’
‘Nay, Marianne,’ retorted the boy curling a small lip, ‘gassin’ doesn’t work.’ Then, looking me straight in the eyes, he added, ‘Never mind poor old Peter Rabbit. It’s Mr McGregor I feel sorry for – trying to grow his vegetables with a lot of ’ungry rabbits all ovver t’place!’
‘Perhaps we should look at another book,’ I suggested feebly.
At morning break, Mrs Brown told me that John lived on a farm way out across the moors. It was a hard but happy life he led. He was expected, like most children from farming families, to help around the farm – feed the chickens, stack wood, muck out and undertake a host of other necessary jobs, and all that before he started his homework. He was a shrewd, good-natured, blunt-speaking little boy with a host of stories to tell about farm life. When he was little, Mrs Brown told me, he had been awakened by his father one night and taken into the byre to see the birth of a black Angus calf. The vet had suggested that it was about time the boy saw this miracle of nature. John had stood on a bale of hay in the cattle shed, staring in the half light as the great cow strained to deliver her calf. The small, wet, furry bundle soon arrived and the vet, wet with perspiration and with a triumphant look on his face, had gently wiped the calf’s mouth and then held up the new-born creature for the little boy to see. John had stared wide-eyed.
‘What do you think of that?’ the vet had asked him. ‘Isn’t that a wonderful sight?’
John had thought for a moment before replying. ‘How did it swallow the dog in the first place?’ he had asked.
In the infants, I chose a bright picture book about a brave old ram who went off into the deep, snow-packed valley to look for a lost lamb. I decided that a story about sheep, which were clearly very popular in this part of the world, would be more appropriate and less risky than rabbits. Graham, a six-year-old, began reading the story with great gusto. ‘Ronald was an old, old grey ram who lived in a wide, wide green valley near a big, big farm.’ At this point he promptly stopped reading and stared intently at the picture of the ram for a moment. It had a great smiling mouth, short horns, a fat body and shining eyes like black marbles.
‘What breed is that?’ Graham asked.
‘Breed?’ I repeated.
‘Aye,’ said the child. ‘What breed is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answered in a rather pathetic tone of voice.
‘Don’t you know your sheep then?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I replied.
‘Miss,’ shouted the child, ‘could Tony come over here a minute? I want to know what breed of sheep this is.’
We were joined by Tony, another stocky little six-year-old with red cheeks and a runny nose. ‘Let’s have a look at t’picture then,’ he said. I turned the picture book to face him. The large white sheep with black patches and a mouth full of shining teeth smiled from the page.
‘Is it a Masham or a Swaledale?’ he asked me.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered in the same pathetic tone of voice.
Another child joined the discussion. ‘It looks like a blue-faced Leicester to me. What do you reckon?’
‘I have no idea,’ I replied.
‘Don’t you know your sheep, then?’ I was asked againand once more replied that I did not. By
‘We gas ours,’ added the little girl of about ten with round cheeks and closely-cropped red hair who I had met earlier, and who was sitting nearby. ‘That stops ’em, I can tell you.’
‘Nay, Marianne,’ retorted the boy curling a small lip, ‘gassin’ doesn’t work.’ Then, looking me straight in the eyes, he added, ‘Never mind poor old Peter Rabbit. It’s Mr McGregor I feel sorry for – trying to grow his vegetables with a lot of ’ungry rabbits all ovver t’place!’
‘Perhaps we should look at another book,’ I suggested feebly.
At morning break, Mrs Brown told me that John lived on a farm way out across the moors. It was a hard but happy life he led. He was expected, like most children from farming families, to help around the farm – feed the chickens, stack wood, muck out and undertake a host of other necessary jobs, and all that before he started his homework. He was a shrewd, good-natured, blunt-speaking little boy with a host of stories to tell about farm life. When he was little, Mrs Brown told me, he had been awakened by his father one night and taken into the byre to see the birth of a black Angus calf. The vet had suggested that it was about time the boy saw this miracle of nature. John had stood on a bale of hay in the cattle shed, staring in the half light as the great cow strained to deliver her calf. The small, wet, furry bundle soon arrived and the vet, wet with perspiration and with a triumphant look on his face, had gently wiped the calf’s mouth and then held up the new-born creature for the little boy to see. John had stared wide-eyed.
‘What do you think of that?’ the vet had asked him. ‘Isn’t that a wonderful sight?’
John had thought for a moment before replying. ‘How did it swallow the dog in the first place?’ he had asked.
In the infants, I chose a bright picture book about a brave old ram who went off into the deep, snow-packed valley to look for a lost lamb. I decided that a story about sheep, which were clearly very popular in this part of the world, would be more appropriate and less risky than rabbits. Graham, a six-year-old, began reading the story with great gusto. ‘Ronald was an old, old grey ram who lived in a wide, wide green valley near a big, big farm.’ At this point he promptly stopped reading and stared intently at the picture of the ram for a moment. It had a great smiling mouth, short horns, a fat body and shining eyes like black marbles.
‘What breed is that?’ Graham asked.
‘Breed?’ I repeated.
‘Aye,’ said the child. ‘What breed is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answered in a rather pathetic tone of voice.
‘Don’t you know your sheep then?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I replied.
‘Miss,’ shouted the child, ‘could Tony come over here a minute? I want to know what breed of sheep this is.’
We were joined by Tony, another stocky little six-year-old with red cheeks and a runny nose. ‘Let’s have a look at t’picture then,’ he said. I turned the picture book to face him. The large white sheep with black patches and a mouth full of shining teeth smiled from the page.
‘Is it a Masham or a Swaledale?’ he asked me.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered in the same pathetic tone of voice.
Another child joined the discussion. ‘It looks like a blue-faced Leicester to me. What do you reckon?’
‘I have no idea,’ I replied.
‘Don’t you know your sheep, then?’ I was asked againand once more replied that I did not. By
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