I started the next morning to call upon St. Leonard. Near to the house I encountered young Hopkins on a horse. He was waving a pitchfork over his head and reciting "The Charge of the Light Brigade." The horse looked amused. He told me I should find "the gov'nor" up by the stables. St. Leonard is not an "old man." Dick must have seen him in a bad light. I should describe him as about the prime of life, a little older than myself, but nothing to speak of. Dick was right, however, in saying he was not like a farmer. To begin with, "Hubert St. Leonard" does not sound like a farmer. One can imagine a man with a name like that writing a book about farming, having theories on this subject. But in the ordinary course of nature things would not grow for him. He does not look like a farmer. One cannot say precisely what it is, but there is that about a farmer that tells you he is a farmer. The farmer has a way of leaning over a gate. There are not many ways of leaning over a gate.
I have tried all I could think of, but it was never quite the right way. It has to be in the blood. A farmer has a way of standing on one leg and looking at a thing that isn't there. It sounds simple, but there is knack in it. The farmer is not surprised it is not there. He never expected it to be there. It is one of those things that ought to be, and is not. The farmer's life is full of such.
Suffering reduced to a science is what the farmer stands for. All his life he is the good man struggling against adversity. Nothing his way comes right. This does not seem to be his planet.
Providence means well, but she does not understand farming. She is doing her best, he supposes; that she is a born muddler is not her fault. If Providence could only step down for a month or two and take a few lessons in practical farming, things might be better; but this being out of the question there is nothing more to be said.
From conversation with farmers one conjures up a picture of Providence as a well-intentioned amateur, put into a position for which she is utterly unsuited.
"Rain," says Providence, "they are wanting rain. What did I do with that rain?"
She finds the rain and starts it, and is pleased with herself until some Wandering Spirit pauses on his way and asks her sarcastically what she thinks she's doing.
"Raining," explains Providence. "They wanted rain--farmers, you know, that sort of people."
"They won't want anything for long," retorts the Spirit. "They'll be drowned in their beds before you've done with them."
"Don't say that!" says Providence.
"Well, have a look for yourself if you won't believe me," says the Spirit. "You've spoilt that harvest again, you've ruined all the fruit, and you are rotting even the turnips. Don't you ever learn by experience?"
"It is so difficult," says Providence, "to regulate these things just right."
"So it seems--for you," retorts the Spirit. "Anyhow, I should not rain any more, if I were you. If you must, at least give them time to build another ark." And the Wandering Spirit continues on his way.
"The place does look a bit wet, now I come to notice it," says Providence, peeping down over the edge of her star. "Better turn on the fine weather, I suppose."
She starts with she calls "set fair," and feeling now that she is something like a Providence, composes herself for a doze. She is startled out of her sleep by the return of the Wandering Spirit.
"Been down there again?" she asks him pleasantly.
"Just come back," explains the Wandering Spirit.
"Pretty spot, isn't it?" says Providence. "Things nice and dry down there now, aren't they?"
"You've hit it," he answers. "Dry is the word. The rivers are dried up, the wells are dried up, the cattle are dying, the grass is all withered. As for the harvest, there won't be any harvest for the next two years! Oh, yes, things are dry enough."
One imagines Providence bursting into tears. "But you suggested yourself a little fine weather."
"I know I did," answers the Spirit. "I didn't suggest a six months' drought with the thermometer at a hundred and twenty in the shade.
Doesn't seem to me that you've got any sense at all."
"I do wish this job had been given to someone else," says Providence.
"Yes, and you are not the only one to wish it," retorts the Spirit unfeelingly.
"I do my best," urges Providence, wiping her eyes with her wings. "I am not fitted for it."
"A truer word you never uttered," retorts the Spirit.
"I try--nobody could try harder," wails Providence. "Everything I do seems to be wrong."
"What you want," says the Spirit, "is less enthusiasm and a little commonsense in place of it. You get excited, and then you lose your head. When you do send rain, ten to one you send it when it isn't wanted. You keep back your sunshine--just as a duffer at whist keeps back his trumps--until it is no good, and then you deal it out all at once."
"I'll try again," said Providence. "I'll try quite hard this time."
"You've been trying again," retorts the Spirit unsympathetically, "ever since I have known you. It is not that you do not try. It is that you have not got the hang of things. Why don't you get yourself an almanack?"
The Wandering Spirit takes his leave. Providence tells herself she really must get that almanack. She ties a knot in her handkerchief.
It is not her fault: she was made like it. She forgets altogether for what reason she tied that knot. Thinks it was to remind her to send frosts in May, or Scotch mists in August. She is not sure which, so sends both. The farmer has ceased even to be angry with her--recognises that affliction and sorrow are good for his immortal soul, and pursues his way in calmness to the Bankruptcy Court.
