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FARMING IN SOUTH AFRICA --

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FARMING IN SOUTH AFRICA BVERY bUMMER A TRAGEDY. The following article, taken from a South African paper, will doubtless be read by our agri- cultural readers with great interest, because it pic- tures a state of things which is almost incredible to tillers of the soil in this country, and yet is, we believe, only the bare truth. It was forwarded to us by an old friend and sulfcscjriber, Mr. Robert L. Kyle, a native of Carmarthen, who is farming m South Africa, and to whom, we fear, the conditions described in the article must be only too familiar. Readers will, of course, remember that summer in South Africa occurs when we are having our winter here:— It is all over. The tragedy of the past four ( c five months is at an end. In thirty minutes all the appalling conditions, all the ghastly sights on the drought-stricken veld of January, 1914, have been completely transformed. Thirty minutes sufficed to put an end to the worst drought the country has "Ter known. Such is the wonder of rain. On January 10th. the sun went down, leaving a land in the deadly grip of the worst drought in the history of the country. Unless you are on the land —living on it-looking to the land to mako for you a living; unless you have given to your land, year after year, all the best of your body and brain and youth, you can never realise the appalling hopeless- ness, the overwhelming tragedy of the conditions on January 10th, "'J.4. For days and weeks and months, cloudless skies, raging winds, and scorching suns—for days and weeks and months drought and drought and only drought. And the irony of it is. that this should be the rainy season. This should be the season for vast stretches of luxuriant green pasture-of run- ning streams and rushing rivers—of sleek, fat, shiny- coated stock-of rich green lands—of regular rains- busy days with ploughs and harrows and planters, days full of rich promise amongst a hopeful, happy people—that is what a Free State January should be. Instead what did we have? For miles and miles and miles you could travel along a hard, sweltering, scorching road, under a steely blue sky, and go for hours through a bare, brown waste—a dried up. parched up, waterless desert, quivering in oily heat waves given off bv the red hot, baking soil. IFor miles and miles and miles never a sign of water— dam after dam, bone dry, just a bare stretch of hard-baked mud, a mazo of cracks and fissures, where, but a few months ago, stood a miniature lake. Lands of mealies-but a few months ago standing green and healthy and full of life-now contained but a few odd patches of dried up wilted leaves on yellow stalks a foot high; other lands again with the mealies still limply clinging on to life, and all surrounded by a lifeless. brown, dirty-yellow, parched-up veld. If you walk on it it crackles under foot like so much scorched straw. IN THE SHADE OF THE SHEEP. For miles and miles, small panting mobs of sheep stand in the sweltering heat, their heads hanging down for the shade of the next sheep's body-cattle, mere bone and skin, crawl hopelessly about, nib- bling at the dry, brittle tufts of veld and all -ihe water that they have is probably miles away—a small muddy-looking little pool containing about one day's supply that is pumped up by an old windmill from a .borehole that is getting weaker and weaker every day. Across some of the older lands— lauds that were once irrigated—are great crac.ks, inches wide, and you can put your stick down into them three or four feet deep. Here and there is a silent, sleepy, sweltering homestead. The gardens are withered — the trees are turning brown the windmill has not been running for weeks, for the borehole has long been dry. A barrel on a sleigh contains the sole water supply—obtained from Heaven knows ht-re-for the entire homestead. Take hold of a wheel of the wagon and pull it—the spokes have about half an inch play; put a load on and try and get it a few hundred yards away the wheels would crumple up like a box of matches. The moulding of the windows—the panels of the doors-the trellis- work on the verandah—have all warped and "given inches. Bone-dry—in and out—everything. And above all the steely-blue sky—the sweltering heat- and the unearthly, deadly silence that makes a drought so much like Hell, that when you see the man who is facing it—the man who is going through every hour of it for days and weeks and months—oyu feel at once that here is something more than a man —here is something fashioned out of steel, and that has a will of iron. All his life's work—ail the re- sult of his efforts against the most colossal odds any man ever faced—lies before him wilted and wither ing—parching up, drying out, and dying, an tne grip of a drought such as the country has never known for fifty years. That was the position in this part of the Free State on January 10th, 1914. IFINALE OF THE TRAGEDY. And in half an hour, between the hours of 2 a.m. and .3. a.m., on January 11th, all this was changed. In thirty minutes, a four or five months' tragedy was over. Such is the wonder of rain. Men (and women) went to bed on January 10th, as they had gone to bed for days and weeks and months—tired out—worn out with fruitless longing -tinder a blue-black sky splashed with billions of bright, clear stars. Gone to rest, in buildings that seemed to give off the oppressive heat of days and days of scorching drought. Buildings, that at mid- night, were hot to the hand—and that cracked or creaked with relief in the dead, cool silence of the night. I At ten minutes to two tho rain started. To hear the first huge drops on the iron roof-drops at five seconds intervals and huge because of the real big plop they made—brought back some very distant recollections. As a matter of fact it was only 70 days since you had heard rain on the roof- only 70 days—but it seomed as if you had not heard the sound for years. At five minutes past two it was pouring torrents; the roar on the roof was glorious. Outside you could see, in the lightning flashes, one solid wall of rain an round. On every side—one solid wall of rain, thick enough to hide anything and everything 50 yards away. For thirty minutes this steady continual pouring rain just teemed down; you could sec, in the lightning flashe- thousands of gallons of it racing away n.cross the poor, parched, shrivelled-up veld. And inside the house, if you were lucky enough to have someone h say to, "This is all right," you'd have had to shout very loud to make yourself heard. And when the *un rose? Dams—the once (hi "d up. cracked old dams, were running ov(-.i, -him ni(,r. ing sheets of water, wherever you lnokNl-Janrb nf ■aealies looking strong and healthy again-allds waiting for the grain, saturated—sopping soil. oooh of water, running spruits, new life, new hoo<\ everything transformed under an hour—the gre~te'' pnrt of it in thirty minutes. Yesterday the Free State was the very worst- in all the world—to-day I is on* of the best. Such is the wonder of rain.

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