156 Autumn 



Yet an experienced old rustic has told me that 

 the sorest bones he ever did have were got at a wash- 

 ing. It is a delightful scene : A glassy river winding 

 round a broad flat meadow golden with buttercups ; 

 a drooping and branchy green willow ; thigh-deep 

 in the pool, three sturdy bumpkins at regular dis- 

 tances ; a wattled pen full of sheep ; and, ever and 

 anon, some rustic haling one of them into a little 

 passage, and forcing it to jump a bank into the water. 

 Washer the first catches the creature swimming, turns 

 it on its back, sways it hither and hither upon the 

 water, and then shoves it on to washer the second, 

 who, almost in midstream, enacts a similar perform- 

 ance, and passes it on to the third washer, who is 

 somewhat closer to the bank : whereafter the poor 

 beast clambers, white, and dripping, and bleating, up 

 the bank. Now, my informant asserts, and one can- 

 not help believing it, that there is no labour under 

 the broad heavens more frightfully tiring than that 

 of the man on the bank, with a big flock of obstinate 

 old ewes to handle. It looks like sport ; but to go on 

 for hours, catching sheep after sheep and compelling 

 them into the river, is to strain every muscle and sinew 

 in the body. 



One other act of husbandry that of tossing hay 

 or a heavy crop of wheat or oats, may compete for 

 difficulty with any. When leading-time comes, the 

 farmer hands the fork to his strongest harvester ; an 

 elderly man, whose fame as a builder of stacks ex- 



