; and the old
hands would say darkly that they had known measurers to be ducked in
qowponds on the last day of picking From the bins the hops were put into
pokes which theoretically held a hundredweight; but it took two men to hoist a
A Clergyman’s Daughter 321
full poke when the measurer had been ‘taking them heavy’ You had an hour
for dinner, and you made a fire of hop bmes-this was forbidden, but everyone
did lt-and heated up your tea and ate your bacon sandwiches After dinner you
were picking again till five or six m the evening, when the measurer came* once
more to take your hops, after which you were free to go back to the camp
Looking back, afterwards, upon her interlude of hop-picking, it was always
the afternoons that Dorothy remembered Those long, laborious hours in the
strong sunlight, m the sound of forty voices singing, m the smell of hops and
wood smoke, had a quality peculiar and unforgettable As the afternoon wore
on you grew almost too tired to stand, and the small green hop lice got into
your hair and into your ears and worried you, and your hands, from the
sulphurous juice, were as black as a Negro’s except where they were bleeding
Yet you were happy, with an unreasonable happiness The work took hold of
you and absorbed you It was stupid work, mechanical, exhausting, and every
day more painful to the hands, and yet you never wearied of it, when the
weather was fine and the hops were good you had the feeling that you could go
on picking for ever and for ever It gave you a physical joy, a warm satisfied
feeling inside you, to stand there hour after hour, tearing off the heavy clusters
and watching the pale green pile grow higher and higher in your bin, every
bushel another twopence in your pocket The sun burned down upon you,
baking you brown, and the bitter, never-pallmg scent, like a wind from oceans
of cool beer, flowed into your and refreshed you When the sun was
shining everybody sang as they worked, the plantations rang with singing For
some reason all the songs were sad that autumn- songs about rejected love and
fidelity unrewarded, like gutter versions of Carmen and Manon Lescaut There
was
There they go~in their joy-
’Appy gul-lucky boy-
But ’ere am /-/-/-
Broken- Va-arted 1
And there was
But I’m dan-cmg with tears-in my eyes-
’Cos the girl-in my arms-isn’t you-o-ou 1
And
The bells-are nnging-for Sally-
But no-o-ot-for Sally-and me'
The little gypsy girl used to sing over and over again
We’re so misable, all so misable,
Down on Misable Farm'
And though everyone told her that the name of it was Misery Farm, she
322 A Clergyman's Daughter
persisted in calling it Misable Farm The old costerwoman and her
granddaughter Rose had a hop-pickmg song which went
‘Our lousy ’ops'
Our lousy ’ops 1
When the measurer ’e comes round.
hands would say darkly that they had known measurers to be ducked in
qowponds on the last day of picking From the bins the hops were put into
pokes which theoretically held a hundredweight; but it took two men to hoist a
A Clergyman’s Daughter 321
full poke when the measurer had been ‘taking them heavy’ You had an hour
for dinner, and you made a fire of hop bmes-this was forbidden, but everyone
did lt-and heated up your tea and ate your bacon sandwiches After dinner you
were picking again till five or six m the evening, when the measurer came* once
more to take your hops, after which you were free to go back to the camp
Looking back, afterwards, upon her interlude of hop-picking, it was always
the afternoons that Dorothy remembered Those long, laborious hours in the
strong sunlight, m the sound of forty voices singing, m the smell of hops and
wood smoke, had a quality peculiar and unforgettable As the afternoon wore
on you grew almost too tired to stand, and the small green hop lice got into
your hair and into your ears and worried you, and your hands, from the
sulphurous juice, were as black as a Negro’s except where they were bleeding
Yet you were happy, with an unreasonable happiness The work took hold of
you and absorbed you It was stupid work, mechanical, exhausting, and every
day more painful to the hands, and yet you never wearied of it, when the
weather was fine and the hops were good you had the feeling that you could go
on picking for ever and for ever It gave you a physical joy, a warm satisfied
feeling inside you, to stand there hour after hour, tearing off the heavy clusters
and watching the pale green pile grow higher and higher in your bin, every
bushel another twopence in your pocket The sun burned down upon you,
baking you brown, and the bitter, never-pallmg scent, like a wind from oceans
of cool beer, flowed into your and refreshed you When the sun was
shining everybody sang as they worked, the plantations rang with singing For
some reason all the songs were sad that autumn- songs about rejected love and
fidelity unrewarded, like gutter versions of Carmen and Manon Lescaut There
was
There they go~in their joy-
’Appy gul-lucky boy-
But ’ere am /-/-/-
Broken- Va-arted 1
And there was
But I’m dan-cmg with tears-in my eyes-
’Cos the girl-in my arms-isn’t you-o-ou 1
And
The bells-are nnging-for Sally-
But no-o-ot-for Sally-and me'
The little gypsy girl used to sing over and over again
We’re so misable, all so misable,
Down on Misable Farm'
And though everyone told her that the name of it was Misery Farm, she
322 A Clergyman's Daughter
persisted in calling it Misable Farm The old costerwoman and her
granddaughter Rose had a hop-pickmg song which went
‘Our lousy ’ops'
Our lousy ’ops 1
When the measurer ’e comes round.
Orwell - A Clergyman's Daughter
