They Were Gravely Discussing The Value Of A
Wonderful Goose Owned By One Of Them.
I do not think the owner of a fast
horse could go into greater raptures or more minute description of his
good points than these two ladies did about the goose.
One declared that
she had been offered eight shillings ($2) for the goose and had refused
it. This is one proof of the high figure at which all animals, birds and
beasts, common to a farm are held. Although this goose was exceptionally
valuable, yet a goose is worth five shillings or $1.25.
A laborer's wages is two shillings, without food, so it would take him
two and a half days' work to earn a goose, a day's work to earn a hen or
a duck, fifteen days' work to earn a suckling pig, nearly four months to
buy the cheapest cow; always considering that he has food to support him
while so earning. I have heard poor men blamed for not raising stock.
When the price of stock is considered, and that a small field for
grazing purposes is rented at L8, I confess I wonder that any poor man
has a cow. If he has, butter is now thirty cents per pound in this
locality, and a cow is therefore very valuable.
Before I leave bonnie Ramelton behind altogether, I must say that it has
been in the past fortunate in a landlord. Old Sir Annesly Stewart, lord
of this fair domain at one time, invariably advised his tenants who
purposed to build houses, to secure titles first, saying, "Do not trust
to me, I am an old man and will soon pass away: who knows what manner of
man may succeed me? I will give a free farm grant, equivalent to
guarantee deed, I am told, to anyone wanting to build." So the owners of
houses in Ramelton pay ground rent, while at Milford, Kilmacrennan and
Creaslach the strong hand has seized the tenants' houses without
compensation. It is said that the present owner of old Sir Annesly's
estate, who is not a lineal descendant, however, feels as Bunyan
describes the two giants to feel, who can grin and gnash their teeth,
but can do no more.
All this and more I hear, as the sun comes up and the frost disappears,
and we sail over bright waters. One might enjoy sailing over Lough
Swilly, the whole of a long summer day. Everything pleasant comes to an
end, and we land at Fahan, and while waiting for the train my attention
is drawn to the fair island of Inch, with its fields running up the
mountain side, and the damp black rocks through which the railway has
cut its way at Fahan. The train comes along, and we go whirling on past
Inch, Burnfoot Bridge, and into Derry. A Presbyterian doctor of divinity
is in our compartment, and some well-to-do farmers' wives, and again and
yet again the talk is of the land and the landlords.
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