For many years England has raised about twenty per cent of her wheat supplies. One reason was her dependence on grass instead of arable land; another was the inherent objection of the British farmer to adopt scientific methods of soil cultivation or engage in co-operative marketing. The old way was the best way; he wanted to go "on his own." The war has opened his eyes, and likewise the eyes and purse of the ultimate consumer. Denmark did some of this awakening. England depended upon her for enormous supplies of bacon, cheese, butter and eggs. When the war broke out and the ring of steel hemmed Germany in, the speculative prices offered by the Fatherland were too much for the little domain. Holland also "let down" her old customer, poured her food into Germany, and fattened on immense profits. Norway and Sweden, which were also important sources of more or less perishable British food supplies, have done the same thing. When peace comes you may be sure that England will have a reckoning. This scarcity of food, coupled with the incessant sinking of supply ships by enemy submarines, the rigid censorship of imports, and all those other factors that bring about the high cost of war, has made the Englishman sit up and take notice of his agricultural plight. "We must grow more of our food," is the new determination. To achieve it plans for collective marketing, for intensive farming, for co-operative land-credit banks, are being made. The gentleman farmer will become a working farmer. England's gospel of self-sufficiency has a significance for us that extends far beyond her growing independence in foodstuffs and raw materials. It is fashioning a weapon aimed straight at the heart of our overseas industrial development. Most people who read the newspapers know that many articles of American make, ranging from bathtubs to motor cars, have been excluded from England. The reasons for this--which are all logical--are the necessity for cutting down imports to protect the trade balance and keep the gold at home; the need of ship tonnage for food and war supplies; and the campaign to curtail luxury. Admirable as are these reasons, there is a growing feeling among Americans doing business in England that this wartime prohibition, which is part of the programme of military necessity, is the prelude to a more permanent, if less drastic, exclusion when peace comes. Habit is strong with Englishmen, and the shrewd insular manufacturer has been quick to see the opportunities for advancement that lie in this closed-door campaign. "Get the consumer out of the habit of using a certain American product during the war," he argues, "and when the war is over--even before--he will be a good 'prospect' for the English substitute." Here is a concrete story that will illustrate how the exclusion works and what lies behind: