**The Tale of a Farmer**
There once was a farmer—your average, run-of-the-mill chap. Not exactly rolling in money. His house was a bit shabby, and he had a motley crew of animals: two cows, three goats, three ducks, and a dozen hens who kept him in eggs. Plus a decent little plot of land where he grew whatever took his fancy—corn one year, potatoes the next, something entirely unidentifiable the year after—just to keep food on the table.
Oh, and let’s not forget the dog, Betsy, and two cats. All of whom, incidentally, expected to be fed. Regularly. And the farmer himself? Well, he wasn’t one to skip a meal either.
An ancient tractor sat in the shed, along with an assortment of farming tools. But his animals adored him, and why wouldn’t they? He treated them like family—chatted with them, shared his last crust of bread, and if one fell ill, he’d bring them indoors and nurse them like they were his own child.
The other farmers in the village? They laughed at him.
“Sell ‘em for meat,” they’d say. “Turn a tidy profit, buy some decent machinery. Then you won’t have to feed this rabble. Save up from the harvest, maybe even catch some woman’s eye—right now, who’d want a penniless sod like you?”
But the farmer just smiled.
“Can’t do it,” he’d reply. “They’re family.”
At the local pub, where the farmers gathered on weekends for a pint (or three), this was met with chuckles. They drank, played darts, danced to the rustic tunes of the village band—old-school country, the proper stuff. Farmers, farmhands, barmaids, all stomping their boots in time.
But not *our* farmer.
His boots were more hole than leather. Couldn’t exactly waltz in like the others, could he?
One barmaid, though—she kept sneaking glances at him. There was something about him—gentle, kind, with a smile that reached his eyes. She even tried pulling him onto the dance floor a few times.
But he’d flush crimson, tuck his scuffed shoes under the table, and mumble, “Sorry, miss. Had one too many. Head’s spinning.”
“Oh, what rot!” the barmaid huffed. “He’s only had the one!”
One of the other farmers took pity and explained: “He’s got a house full of animals he can barely feed. We’ve told him—sell ‘em, make your life easier.”
“And what does he say?” asked the barmaid.
“Says they’re his family,” the farmer scoffed, rolling his eyes.
Just then, another farmer—tipsy and bold—tried to steal a kiss from the barmaid. Bad move. In England, let it be known, barmaids are not to be trifled with. One swift right hook later, he was flat on his back, much to the pub’s roaring delight.
And the barmaid? She looked at the farmer in a whole new light. Started slipping him free sausage rolls. He’d turn scarlet, stammer, refuse.
Was it love? Unrequited? Or mutual but hopeless—him thinking he was nothing but a burden, a broke farmer barely keeping his beasts fed?
Not exactly the stuff of fairy tales.
Then came planting season. His animals trailed after his tractor like a bizarre support group. Betsy the dog sometimes got smuggled into the pub under the table, where she’d happily scarf down the free sausage rolls he didn’t dare eat himself.
The barmaid watched, torn between shaking sense into him or bursting into tears. Maybe even climbing onto his lap mid-pint and demanding, “You’ll feed the dog but not kiss me?!”
(At this thought, her eyes might’ve misted over.)
But how this tale *might* have ended, no one could say—until one evening.
The farmer sat on his rickety garden bench, animals gathered ‘round, when suddenly—his heart gave a nasty twinge. He clutched his chest, gasped, and toppled over.
The animals erupted in panicked squawks, bleats, barks.
Betsy, though—she pressed an ear to his chest.
“QUIET!” she barked. The chaos stilled.
“Bad news,” she announced. “Heart’s slowing. We need help—now.”
And with that, she bolted for the pub.
It wasn’t far, but still—half an hour’s sprint.
Inside, the band was in full swing, villagers hammered on cheap whiskey or (allegedly) homebrewed cider, stomping so hard the floor shook. Betsy’s barks went unheard.
Then—*CRASH.*
The pub doors exploded inward. Not by magic, but by two very determined cows charging at full tilt.
Silence.
Then in poured the goats, ducks, hens, cats—bedlam. Betsy scolded, “I *told* you not to leave him!”
The humans, now grasping the emergency, piled into trucks, loaded the menagerie, and raced to the farm.
The farmer survived—just. Rushed to hospital.
And who looked after his animals, his farm? The barmaid. Who quit her job on the spot.
She visited him daily. He’d blush, promise to repay her, beg her not to abandon his “little ones.”
A month later, he came home—and barely recognized the place.
The barmaid had sold her cottage, poured the money into repairs, new equipment. The farmer gaped. “I—I can’t afford this.”
His animals mobbed him, nuzzling, clucking.
“Can I join?” the ex-barmaid asked softly.
He hugged her.
The animals watched, approving.
They married. Built a proper piggery—a hundred porkers, strictly *her* domain.
“Out,” she’d order when he lingered. “I know you—you’ll name them, weep when they’re sold, ruin the business. We’ve a loan to pay!”
So he’d retreat to the garden bench, where two cows, three goats, three ducks, a dozen hens, Betsy, and two cats would gather. He’d tell them stories as they leaned on him.
His wife, returning from the pigs, would pause, watching. Smiling.
She was happy.
And all she prayed for?
That this—this perfect, ridiculous life—would never end.
What was the moral of this tale?
Ah, yes.
Love.
