**A Farmer’s Tale**
There once was a farmer, an ordinary sort, not wealthy by any means. His house was old, his livestock modest—two cows, three goats, three ducks, a handful of hens that laid his eggs, and a patch of land. A decent enough plot where he grew maize, potatoes, or whatever else he fancied, just to get by. Two cows, three goats, three ducks, the hens, a dog named Jess, and two cats. And, mind you, they all expected to be fed. He wasn’t one to skip a meal either.
An ancient tractor sat in the barn alongside tools for sowing and reaping. His animals adored him, and why? Because he treated them like family. He spoke to them, shared his last crust of bread. When one fell ill, he brought it into the house and nursed it like a child.
The other farmers in the county laughed at him. They said he ought to sell the lot for meat—then he’d have money to upgrade his machinery. No more straining to feed them. Maybe even save up from the harvest. Perhaps then some woman might glance his way. As it stood, what use was a penniless man like him?
He never let it bother him. Just smiled and said, “I can’t. They’re my family.”
At the pub where the farmers gathered on weekends to share a pint, his words were taken as a joke. They drank, played darts, danced to the local band’s country tunes. Farmers, farmers’ wives, barmaids—all swinging about. A fine sight, but our farmer never joined in. He didn’t even own proper boots. Try dancing in worn-out shoes while the other men strutted in polished leather.
One barmaid kept stealing glances at him. A quiet, gentle man with kind, smiling eyes. More than once, she tried pulling him onto the floor, but he’d blush furiously, tuck his feet under the table, and mutter, “Sorry, miss. Had a bit too much. Head’s spinning.”
“What rot,” she fumed. “He’s only had the one!”
Another farmer filled her in. “He’s got a house full of animals he can hardly feed. We’ve told him—sell ’em. Ease the burden.”
“And?” she asked.
“He’s a fool,” the farmer snorted. “Calls ’em his family.”
One chap, emboldened by drink, tried wrapping an arm around the barmaid. Now, in Yorkshire, barmaids aren’t the type to stand for nonsense. A swift right hook sent him sprawling, much to the pub’s delight.
From then on, the barmaid saw the farmer differently. She’d slip him free pies, but he’d only flush and stammer, refusing. Hard to say what it was—unrequited love or something deeper. He thought himself a burden. A broke farmer who could barely keep his animals fed. Not exactly a prize.
Then came planting season. His creatures followed the tractor, lending moral support. Jess, the dog, sometimes came with him to the pub, hidden under the table where he fed her the pies he wouldn’t eat himself. The barmaid watched, torn between walking away or bursting into tears right there.
Who knows how it might’ve ended if, one evening, as the farmer sat on the bench outside with his animals around him, his heart hadn’t given out. A sharp pain, a gasp, and he collapsed. The animals erupted—barking, bleating, squawking—until Jess barked, “Quiet! His heart’s fading! I’ll fetch help—stay with him!”
She tore off to the pub. The band played, boots stomped, nobody heard her barks—until the doors blasted open. Not by force, but by two cows charging in like cannonballs. Then came the goats, ducks, hens, cats. Chaos. Jess howled, “I told you not to leave him!”
The farmers understood. They loaded the creatures into their trucks and sped to the farm. The farmer still breathed—just. They took him to hospital.
The barmaid quit her job that night. She moved into his house, cared for his animals, his land. Every evening, she visited him in hospital. He’d blush, promise to repay her, begged her not to abandon his “little ones.”
A month later, he came home to a transformed farm. She’d sold her cottage, used the money to fix his house, outbuildings, bought new equipment. He pulled off his battered hat. “I can’t afford this.”
The animals swarmed him, nuzzling close.
“May I?” the barmaid asked.
He embraced her. The creatures watched, still as stones.
They married. Together, they worked the land—easier now, with two. They built a piggery, stocked it with a hundred swine. That, she handled alone. “Get out,” she’d say. “I know you—you’ll raise ’em as pets and ruin the business. The bank wants repayment by autumn.”
He’d sigh, retreat to the bench outside where his cows, goats, ducks, hens, Jess, and the cats gathered. The cows rested their heads on his shoulders as he told them stories.
His wife returned from the piggery, watching silently. She wouldn’t disturb the scene. She listened, smiling, praying to God it would never end.
What was the tale about? Love, I suppose. Always love.
