The Farmer & His Wife

John Tay­lor’s not the only one who for­gets things.

The People's Friend - - This Week -

AT 10 a.m. yes­ter­day a po­lice car drove into the yard. Out stepped the local sergeant.

“Is Mr Tay­lor about?” “Yes, he’s down the yard,” Anne told him. “Has he got a gun?” “Yes.”

“Well, he hasn’t got a li­cence for it.”

At that mo­ment I ar­rived. I as­sured the sergeant I had ap­plied for a cer­tifi­cate.

He showed me the form I should have filled in and I as­sured him I’d done so.

I soon dis­cov­ered what had hap­pened – the un­posted en­ve­lope was stuck in the side of the grand­fa­ther clock.

The form had come early, so I’d filled it in, writ­ten the cheque and put it there ready for post­ing. And had for­got­ten all about it.

When the sergeant left Anne gave me the sharp edge of her tongue, but I re­called a sim­i­lar in­ci­dent from years ago . . .

Anne was the farm scribe and kept the books. She saw that the car, trac­tor and wire­less tax and li­cences were all re­newed.

One day when I came in for lunch I saw Anne was wor­ried about some­thing.

“There’s a new po­lice­man in Kings­barns,” she be­gan. “He’s young and look­ing for pro­mo­tion. And he was here.”

“Well, what did he want?” “He called to check the stock move­ment book and I couldn’t find it!”

At that time, it was com­pul­sory to keep a move­ment book for when we moved any an­i­mals off the farm. I could have laughed, but Anne was so wor­ried that I went across and gave her a kiss.

She burst into tears. “It’s my fault, John. I put it some­where and now I can’t think where!”

We spent that evening look­ing every­where: be­hind the clock; the pot cup­board; in­side the man­tel­piece or­na­ments and even in the pi­ano stool.

We found it even­tu­ally in Anne’s “en­gage­ment ring”. We hadn’t much money when we were court­ing and I gave her a sew­ing ma­chine in place of a ring.

How it got there I could never fathom. I don’t sup­pose it will be the last time we mis­lay some­thing.

To be hon­est, I’ve mis­laid my driv­ing li­cence, but I daren’t tell Anne! ■

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