In fact, there seemed hardly to be a time when we were not looking after young things of some kind. From my first Sunday there were the young chickens, which are always a joy to watch. Then the goslings began to hatch, and I saw them struggle from the thick shell, occasionally with a little help from us, as some of the shells were double and too tough for them to break. I loved to see the tiny bundles of wet, bedraggled feathers and the pink skin fluff out gradually into balls of yellow down and stand up on long yellow legs to survey this new and interesting world with very bright eyes.
It is rather wonderful, too, to see a very young calf, perhaps after a difficult birth, stagger onto its wobbly legs and bump against you in its efforts to keep its balance. I thought I would get used to this in time, and that it wouldn't thrill me as it did the first time. But however often I saw it, each time seemed even more wonderful.
Some cows calved easily, without needing any help from us. One day when we were cutting a field of barley, Mr. Pick said 'Mary, will you slip back to the fold and see how the cow is getting on?'
The cow was expected to calve sometime that day. I went along and opened the door. The cow was standing straight up, and as I went toward her the calf was born straight into my arms, while the cow continued to stand up and munch at some turnip as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened! It was a big, strong heifer calf, and I rubbed it dry and went back to Mr. Pick to announce that we had a new arrival.
By this time, I had got fairly used to the proceedings. At first Mr. Pick had kept the Land Girl occupied in another part of the farm whenever a cow was due to calve, But when I had been there about six months, and Darkie the black cow (whose kicking was one of the trials of my life at first) was about to have her calf, he said I could watch if I would like to. I did, and was able to help a bit too.
And wasn't I glad later on that I had seen what to do! For not very long after this Mr. Pick was in bed ill.
About 2 a.m. (as usual!) we heard a lot of noise from the cow house. Mrs. Pick came to my bedroom door. 'Mary,' she said, 'the cow has begun to calve. I can't do it, but I'll hold the lantern for you if you can deal with it.'
So now I was really up against it! I hastily pulled on dungarees and a pullover and wellingtons, and followed Mrs. Pick downstairs. Out we went to the fold, while I racked my brains to remember just what Mr. Pick had done, and in what order, when Darkie had calved. How on earth would I manage, I wondered? Then we were in the fold, and I had to stop wondering and get on with the job.
Fortunately for me, and the cow, there were no complications and before very long the calf was born and on its feet, and the cow was up again and feeding on a warm bran mash. Then I had to milk her, and give the first deep yellow milk (called the beestings) to the calf, inducing it to drink by letting it suck my fingers and gradually lowering them into the milk. Then back we went to the farmhouse for a much-needed wash, and very thankful I was that nothing had gone wrong.
Perhaps it was as well for my peace of mind that I had not had as much experience then as I had later. If I had known all the things that could happen when a calf is born I am sure I would never have dared to do anything!
The next one to be born had one leg doubled back, and after the calf had begun to breathe it started to slip back again. I had to hold one tiny hoof to keep its head out, while Mr. Pick straightened out the other leg. If its head had really gone back, it would have smothered.
Sometimes in very bad cases it was necessary to use ropes, and sometimes we had to send for the vet. One night in the winter I dashed off to get Mr. Clark to come and give a hand. Mrs. Pick's bike was nearest to the door, and as the matter was urgent I grabbed it and went off up the lane at full speed. I didn't realise until I wanted to stop that the brakes were not working, and coming to Clark's gateway I put them on - with no results. At the same time the wheels got onto a sheet of ice which I couldn't see in the darkness, and doing a beautiful skid I finished up with my arms around the gate post, and my feet entangled in the handle-bars. Having called Mr. Clark, I returned with more caution to the farm, and did what I could to help. It was the most difficult birth I have seen, but ended successfully after what seemed to be hours of struggling.
Another calf we had about this time was not breathing after it was born. I asked Mr. Pick if I could try to bring it round, and he said 'Yes, go on and try if you like.'
I tried a kind of artificial respiration, somewhat complicated by the calf's front legs, and to my surprise he began to breathe. From then on he became quite a pet of mine. We called him Jimmy. One day, when he was quite a good sized bullock, he came up to me in the field, and he rubbed his head against me. I saw that he had got some chaff in his eye. So Mr. Pick gave me some oil, and Jimmy stood still in the field and let me turn his eye-lid up and bathe the chaff out.
Teaching a young calf to drink from a bucket, with its head downwards instead of the normal feeding position is an encounter from which you are likely to emerge with damaged knuckles and liberal splashes of milk.
It is necessary to teach them this, because the cow gives usually much more milk than one calf could take. So it is milked by hand, and some is given to the calf in a bucket. It was easy to get the calf to lick my fingers when its head was up, but as soon as I began to lead its head down to the bucket it would snort, and take a step backwards. It took quite some time before I at last got its nose into the warm milk, and felt it sucking. Then it would make a sudden dive into the bucket, crashing my knuckles on the bottom, and nearly swamping itself. But at last it would drink properly, and had no more need of my fingers. Then I could stand the bucket on the ground and it would help itself. The last tablespoonful or so could not be sucked up, but most of the calves would drink it from the side of the bucket like a cup when I lifted it up.
Their rather ridiculous little tails would jerk quickly from side to side as they drank, and their big eyes would gaze up at me from time to time from under the long lashes which would have been the envy of the glamour girls.
When we fed the black heifer calf, she would jerk her head down to the bottom of the bucket, and send up a stream of bubbles.
This suggested her name, and 'Bubbles' she became. She would occasionally come up to breathe, and turn to look at me, dripping a large portion of the milk down the front of my dungarees.
A litter of young pigs is a very amusing thing to watch. Their one ambition seems to be to get on top of the pile! You see a jumbled mass of young pigs - all asleep and with legs, tails and sticking out in all directions. Then a great heaving begins, as the bottom pig wriggles and pushed his way out, scrambles over the others, and lies in temporary triumph on the top. There follows a moment of peace, punctuated by sundry contented grunts. Then the earthquake begins again as another pig struggles for the top. And so it goes on indefinitely. When not engaged in this way, they can usually be seen lying in two rows, more or less on top of each other, all suckling and falling asleep alternately. Young pigs both look and feel like pink satin. I once picked up a young gilt when she was fast asleep, and so hard on that even the squeals of the others as they careered round the sty did not waken her. When she did at last wake up, she gave a very startled grunt at finding herself in my arms, wriggled free, and shot into the far corner as fast as her short legs would carry her.
It always seemed rather a pity that young pigs have to grow up, though of course all our efforts were directed toward that end. But they are so nice when they are small.
The farrowing of a pig was quite a different affair from the calving of a cow. The sow hardly ever needed any help from us, but it was necessary to be there, for the sake of the young ones. She would drop a young one (and it was literally 'drop', for she walked around most of the time, and young pigs seemed to shoot in all directions!) then she would turn and walk back. And unless we immediately removed the baby to a safe place she was more than likely to walk over it and trample it to death, or flop down on it and smother it. So it was a question of grabbing each one as it arrived, and putting it safely in a corner with the others until it was all over. This could go on for quite some time - the first one I saw had fifteen piglets.
When we were sure that they had all been born, the mother would settle down, and it was safe for us to produce the young ones and leave them contentedly suckling. But it rather hectic while it lasted!
The young pigs grow very quickly, and it was soon easy to decide which of the gilts would be the best to keep for breeding. About this time, too, the young hogs had to be castrated so that they could be fattened up for bacon.
I had vaguely imagined that this would be job for the vet, and was more than surprised when I found myself holding the young hogs upside-down by their hind legs, while Mr. Pick did the job with a very sharp penknife. I must admit that the first time I was very nearly sick! But it soon became just another routine job, and didn't worry me at all.
When the calves had grown a bit, they were let out into the field. It was lovely to see their reaction to their first view of a green field. Just outside the fold they would spread their legs for better balance, and stand still and look. Then suddenly they would be off - dashing wildly about, bucking and leaping like young deer. They would go on like this for some time, then gradually calm down, and eventually they would stand lazily around with the cows like old stagers.
I remember one calf, however, which gave a leap in the air, fell, and was not able to get up. We got the vet and he said its back was broken and it had to be destroyed.
A young calf is surprisingly strong, particularly if you want get him somewhere he doesn't want to go. We had many a tussle getting them down the stack-yard to the shed at the far end - one pulling at the halter we had put on, the other one pushing, while the calf jumped and pulled and bucked in a very good imitation of a Wild West 'bucking bronco'. Enticement was of no avail either, and even sugar-beet pulp, the general favourite, could not make him take one step in that direction. So the only thing of any use was brute strength - pushing and pulling until we arrived, which we always did eventually.
In the fields, of course, young rabbits abounded, as also in the hutch where a few were kept for food. Moles were not particularly plentiful, but there were a few. They were rarely seen. I sometimes saw hedgehogs, shrews and field mice, to say nothing of numberless ordinary mice, and quite a few rats! In the spring the ponds were full of young ducklings, coots and mallards. Young frogs abounded too, and everywhere seemed full of life and youth.