**The Tale of a Farmer**
There once was a farmer. An ordinary bloke, not particularly wealthy—just an old cottage with a bit of land, a couple of cows, three goats, three ducks, and a dozen hens that kept him in eggs. Decent little patch, really. He grew corn one year, potatoes the next, sometimes whatever took his fancy—enough to get by.
Two cows, three goats, three ducks, the chickens, his dog Bess, and two cats. And let’s be honest, they all wanted feeding, same as him. He wasn’t one to skip a meal either.
An old tractor sat in the shed, along with bits and bobs for planting and harvesting. His animals adored him, though. Why? Because he treated them like family—spoke to them, shared his last crust of bread. If one fell ill, he brought it indoors and nursed it like a child.
The other farmers in the county laughed at him. Said he ought to sell the lot for meat—get himself some proper kit, maybe even save up. Then some woman might look twice at him. As it stood, who’d want a penniless sod like him?
But he never minded. Just smiled and said, “Can’t do it. They’re family to me.”
Down the pub on weekends, where the farmers gathered for a pint or two, those words got a chuckle. Folk drank, played a bit of darts, danced to the local band’s folk tunes. The barmaids and farmers’ wives twirled about—proper lively, it was.
Our farmer never joined in. His boots were too worn, barely holding together. Not like the proper leather ones the others wore.
One barmaid, though—she kept glancing his way. Liked his quiet smile, his kind eyes. Tried more than once to pull him onto the floor. But he’d blush scarlet, tuck his scuffed shoes under the table, muttering, “Apologies, miss—had one too many. Head’s spinning.”
“Liar,” she huffed to herself. “You’ve only had the one!”
One of the lads finally filled her in. “He’s got a houseful of animals barely keeping fed. We’ve told him—sell ’em, make life easier.”
“And?” she asked.
“Stubborn old fool,” the farmer laughed. “Says they’re his family.” Then he tried to grab her for a kiss. Bad move.
Barmaids in England? They don’t take kindly to that. One right hook later, he was flat on the floor, and the pub roared with cheers.
After that, the barmaid watched the farmer different. Started slipping him free pies. He’d turn beetroot, stammering refusals. Hard to say what it was—unrequited love, or the other way round. Mutual, maybe, but he reckoned himself a burden. Too poor, too weighed down.
Then came planting season. His animals trotted after his tractor, keeping him company. Bess sometimes snuck under the pub table for spare scraps—he’d feed her instead of eating himself. The barmaid saw it all, torn between giving up on him or bursting into tears right there.
One evening, things took a turn. The farmer sat on his bench, his creatures around him, when his heart gave out. Collapsed right there.
The animals went wild—bleating, squawking, barking. Bess hushed them quick. “Quiet! His heart’s fading—I’m off for help!” She bolted for the pub.
Half an hour’s hard run later, she burst in. The band was in full swing, men stomping to fiddles, too loud to hear her barks. Then—BANG. The doors flew off their hinges.
Two cows barrelled in, followed by goats, ducks, chickens—utter chaos. “I TOLD you not to leave him!” Bess yapped.
The farmers cottoned on quick. They loaded the lot into Land Rovers and raced back. Found the farmer just breathing. Rushed him to hospital.
The barmaid quit her job that night. Moved into his cottage, tended his animals, visited him daily. 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 own place, fixed up his, bought new equipment.
He gaped, old hat in hand. “I—I can’t pay for this.”
The animals mobbed him, nuzzling close.
“Can I?” the barmaid asked.
He hugged her tight. The creatures watched, quiet for once.
They wed soon after. Now they work the farm together—easier that way. Built a proper piggery too, though she won’t let him near it. “Off with you,” she scolds. “I know you—you’ll name them, spoil them, turn ’em loose. Bank wants paying back by autumn!”
So he sighs, wanders to the bench where his cows rest their heads on his shoulders, and spins them tales. His wife watches from the door, smiling, praying to God it never ends.
What’s the tale about?
Love, of course.
