Early Morning. 125 



harmless farce. The lord of the manor's court is no 

 terror now. A* number of gentlemen, more for the 

 custom's sake than any thing, sit in solemn conclave 

 to decide whether or no an old pollard tree may be 

 cut down, how much an old woman shall pay in quit- 

 rent for her hovel, or whether there was or was not a 

 gateway in a certain hedge seventy years ago. How- 

 ever, it brings neighbors together, and causes the 

 inevitable sheny to circulate briskly. 



The long summer days begin very early at Wick. 

 About half-past two of a morning in June a faint 

 twittering under the eaves announces that the swal- 

 lows are awaking, although they will not commence 

 their flight for a while yet. At three o'clock the 

 cuckoo's call comes up from the distant meadows, 

 together with the sound of the mower sharpening his 

 scythe, for he likes to work while the dew is heavy 

 on the grass, both for coolness and because it cuts 

 better. He gets half a day's work done before the 

 sun grows hot, and about eight or nine o'clock lies 

 down under the hedge for a refreshing nap. Between 

 three and four the thrushes open song in the copse at 

 the corner of the Home-field, and soon a loud chorus 

 takes up their ditty as one after the other joins in. 



Then the nailed shoes of the milkers clatter on the 

 pitching of the courtyard as they come for their buck- 

 ets ; and immediately afterwards stentorian voices 

 may be heard in the fields bellowing, ' doom up ! 

 ya-hoop ! ' to which the cows, recognizing the well- 

 known call, respond very much in the same tones. 

 Slowly they obey and gather together under the 

 elms in the corner of the meadow, which in summer 

 is used as the milking-place. About five or half- 



