The trouble about wheat is that—like the grey squirrel---it carries
a sentimental appeal not evoked by any other crop or any quadruped. I have known cottagers grow almost lyrical and quite pathetic over the good old days when you could be sure of taking a summer walk between seas of golden wheat on either hand. I have heard a Norfolk farmer, who possessed and possesses a very spacious farm, speak of wheat in almost the same sentimental terms as an Oxfordshire cottage woman. He said that he had always grown wheat and would always grow wheat while he farmed. If he could no longer grow wheat he would cease farming. A farmer who did not grow wheat on wheat land was not worth his salt. This farmer was not narrow or parochial in most respects. He is a good and very eager naturalist, has travelled sufficiently to avoid the handicap of too homely wits, and is skilful enough as a breeder of stock. But he is as Midas : the farming life is no good to him unless he can convert a few hundred acres into golden wheat ; and even the danger that he may suffer Midas' fate is no deterrent : a new generation that knows not wheat is rising, perhaps to the great benefit of our island farms. * * * *
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