A Farmer's Problem 'For a while it was touch and
go,' said my friend, who was talking of his experiences when his farm was snowbound. 'The lorry couldn't get to us to pick up the milk. We couldn't get it away ourselves. They failed to reach us in the morning and still couldn't get through in the afternoon. We found we had only one spare churn and had to hunt out every crock and vessel we had to store the milk. They all had to be scalded, and we moved about in a sea of milk and pots of all sizes. In the morning, when we heard them picking up the churns, we dashed down for the empties. It is one thing having milk when you know what to do with it and another when it accumulates.' To the average man, less in bondage to nature, the snow was an incon- venience. The milk was late on the doorstep and the postman seemed to take his time, but things were not so bad. The countryman takes the townsman and his 'work for granted often enough, but I think the latter imagines that millcand eggs originate in a factory or storehouse and the farmer is that chap seen on a tractor—part of the scenery to be expected between
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