muddy, stagnant, covered with
duckweed, perhaps reached by a steep, 'pitched' descent, slippery,
and difficult for the cattle to get down. They foul the very water
they drink. The cow-house, as it is called, is really merely adapted
for one or two cows at a time, at the period of calving--dark,
narrow, awkward. The skilling, or open house where the cows lie and
chew the cud in winter, is built of boards or slabs at the back, and
in front supported upon oaken posts standing on stones. The roof is
of thatch, green with moss; in wet weather the water drips steadily
from the eaves, making one long gutter. In the eaves the wrens make
their nests in the spring, and roost there in winter. The floor here
is hard, certainly, and dry; the yard itself is a sea of muck. Never
properly stoned or pitched, and without a drain, the loose stones
cannot keep the mud down, and it works up under the hoofs of the
cattle in a filthy mass. Over this there is litter and manure a foot
deep; or, if the fogger does clean up the manure, he leaves it in
great heaps scattered about, and on the huge dunghill just outside
the yard he will show you a fine crop of mushrooms cunningly hidden
under a light layer of litter. It is his boast that the cow-pen was
built in the three sevens; on one ancient beam, worm-eaten and
cracked, there may perhaps be seen the inscription '1777' cut deep
into the wood. Over all, at the back of the cow-pen, stands a row of
tall elm-trees, dripping in wet weather upon the thatch, in the
autumn showering their yellow leaves into the hay, in a gale
dropping dead branches into the yard. The tenant seems to think even
this shelter effeminate, and speaks regretfully of the old hardy
breed which stood all weathers, and wanted no more cover than was
afforded by a hawthorn bush. From here a few calves find their way
to the butcher, and towards Christmas one or two moderately fat
beasts.

Near by lives a dairy farmer, who, without going to the length of
the famous stock-breeder whose stalls are the pride of the district,
yet fills his meadows with a handsome herd of productive shorthorns,
giving splendid results in butter, milk, and cheese, and who sends
to the market a succession of animals which, if not equal to the
gigantic prize beasts, are nevertheless valuable to the consumer.
This tenant does good work, both for himself and for the labourers,
the landlord, and the country. His meadows are a sight in themselves
to the experi