A GARDEN DIARY 99 



stepped into the paddock or the farmyard. In 

 reading lately Mr. Rider Haggard's Farmer s 

 Year, I found my pleasure a good deal interfered 

 with by the eternal and the detestable apparition 

 of the butcher ! Whenever the small lambs, that 

 frisked so delicately, were beginning to grow 

 plump ; whenever certain Irish bullocks, whose 

 vicissitudes one followed, were pronounced to be 

 not improving as they ought ; even when the old 

 milch cow, who had given so much good milk, 

 and had brought so many calves into the world, 

 began to flag always there was that abominable 

 apparition in a smeared apron waiting for them 

 close at hand, or peering in sinister fashion from 

 round a corner. No, whatever other functionary 

 I might be willing to share my pursuits with, 

 assuredly I could never consent to share them 

 with Mr. Bones ! The objection may be merely 

 sentimental, but so are most of our likings and 

 dislikings merely sentimental. As for these green 

 clients of ours, it is true that they do die pretty 

 frequently upon our hands, and the fact is, no 

 doubt, very distressing, the more so as in nine 

 cases out of ten we are aware that it is entirely 

 our own fault. In their case there are at least no 

 heartrending cries or groans, heard or unheard. 

 They go to their own place in peace, wafted as it 

 were by slow music towards the gentlest of dis- 

 solutions. While as for ourselves, if we are their 

 murderers, well, we manage to hold up our heads, 



