**A Farmer’s Tale**
I once knew a farmer. Just an ordinary bloke, not well-off by any means. An old cottage, a bit of land, and a motley crew of animals—two cows, three goats, three ducks, and a dozen hens that kept him in eggs. Decent plot, too. He grew corn one year, potatoes the next, sometimes God knows what else—just enough to get by. And, of course, all those creatures expected their supper, same as he did.
There was an ancient tractor in the barn, along with the usual tools for sowing and reaping. But his animals? They adored him. Because he treated them like family. Talked to them, shared his last crust. If one fell ill, he’d bring it inside, nurse it like his own child.
The other farmers in Yorkshire laughed at him. Said he ought to sell the lot for meat—he’d get good money, buy new equipment, maybe even catch some woman’s eye. Who’d want a pauper like him otherwise? But he’d just smile and say, *”Can’t do it. They’re my kin.”*
Every Saturday, the lot of them gathered at the pub—The Black Sheep. A pint or two, a round of darts, and dancing if the local band struck up a proper country tune. Farmers, barmaids, the whole lot kicking up their heels. But not our man. His boots were cracked and worn, hardly fit for a jig.
One barmaid, Emily, kept stealing glances at him. Liked his quiet ways, the kindness in his eyes. She’d tried more than once to pull him onto the floor, but he’d blush scarlet, tuck his feet under the table, and mutter, *”Sorry, miss. Had a bit too much—head’s spinning.”*
*”Liar,”* she huffed. *”You’ve barely touched your ale.”*
One of the lads filled her in. *”He’s got a house full of beasts he can’t afford to feed. We’ve told him—sell ’em, ease the burden. But the daft sod calls them family.”*
Emily’s eyes softened. Started slipping him free meat pies when she could. He’d turn red as a beet, stammering refusals. Hard to say what she saw in him—unrequited love, maybe. Or worse: she fancied him, and he thought himself a burden.
Then came planting season. His animals trailed after the tractor like a ragged procession, cheering him on in their way. His terrier, Biscuit, sometimes rode along, hidden under the pub table to nibble smuggled scraps. Emily watched, torn between throwing her arms round him or giving up altogether.
One evening, the farmer collapsed in the yard, clutching his chest. The animals panicked—cows bellowing, hens squawking—until Biscuit barked, *”Quiet! His heart’s fading! I’ll fetch help!”*
She tore off to The Black Sheep. Inside, the band was in full swing, rowdy with whisky and smuggled brandy. Biscuit’s barks went unheard—until the pub doors exploded inward. Two cows barrelled through, followed by goats, ducks, and cats.
Chaos. But the message got through. The farmers piled into their Land Rovers, hauled the menagerie back, and got the man to hospital.
Emily quit her job that night. Moved into the cottage, tended the animals, visited him daily. He’d blush, promise to repay her, begging her not to abandon his *”little ones.”*
A month later, he came home to a shock. Emily had sold her flat, poured the money into repairs—new roof, fresh paint, even a proper tractor. He gaped at his patched-up Stetson. *”I can’t repay this.”*
The animals mobbed him, nuzzling close. Emily stepped forward. *”Can I…?”*
He hugged her. They married soon after.
Now they run the farm together, though she handles the piggery—a hundred sows for market. *”Out,”* she scolds when he lingers. *”You’ll name them, turn them loose, and ruin us. The bank wants its due by autumn.”*
So he retreats to the garden bench, surrounded by his motley family. The cows rest their heads on his shoulders as he spins tales. Emily watches from the doorway, smiling.
She prays only one thing: that this never ends.
What’s the moral? Oh, I reckon you know. It’s always the same old story, isn’t it?
Love.
