238 A FARMER'S YEAR 



June 17. — Yesterday, which was as cold as usual, we finished 

 the steam-sawing. All the pile of rough timbers has been trans- 

 formed into heaps of sawn stuff of every size and character. I 

 think that there will be enough material for the framework of all 

 the three sheds, in addition to the ash, oak posts, planks, rails, 

 some gate stuff and waste for winter firing. 



To-day the wind has veered to the sou'-west, and we have 

 actually seen the sun, though not for long. The cutting of the 

 layer on All Hallows field. No. 37, has begun. It is a thick lush 

 crop, which looks as if it would weigh at least a ton and a quarter 

 per acre on the stack, and perhaps more, but I should not think 

 that the quality can be very good, owing to the lack of sunshine. 

 The tall ripe grasses, over which the swallows skim, looked very 

 beautiful rippling in the rare sunlight. It is the fashion to say 

 that machinery is ugly, but that is not my own opinion. Cer- 

 tainly, while I stood in the hay field and watched the cutter coming 

 up the slope of the hill towards me, the two great horses putting 

 out their strength as they breasted the rise, and the driver seated 

 behind them alert, watchful, his hand on the lever and his eyes 

 upon the knives, I did not think the sight ugly. Indeed, the 

 picture struck me as fine ; although, perhaps, it owed something 

 to its frame, for here, without being striking, the view has great 

 charm. Beyond the crest of the rise the land slopes down gently 

 to the meadow where the streamlet runs. Then it rises again, 

 and the eye, travelling up the wide fields, rests ui)on the dark 

 mass of Tindale Wood, and to the right is caught by the naked 

 rafters of a ruined barn. 



On my way back I stopped by the All Hallows pond to watch 

 the familiar scene of a hen half crazy with the spectacle of the 

 ducklings she had reared taking to the water. This caused me 

 to reflect that it must be the fact of incubation which in these 

 birds gives rise to the feeling of maternal love. Otherwise, why 

 should a hen be so fond of little ducks whose aspect, as they arise 

 out of the egg, must shock and terrify her, aware as she is that at 

 no period of her own career did she ever look like that? Yet 



