162 A FARMER'S YEAR 



Whitrup is ploughing with the two in-foal mares in the eleven- 

 acre on Baker's, No. 44, while the mare that has foaled is rolling 

 barley, and the old horse has been fetching root into the sheds. 



I went this morning to look at the young cow which has just 

 calved. Her mother was one of the Shotley lot, of which I bought 

 six or seven at the sale some years ago. I remember that I gave 

 277. for her, because she was so beautiful to look at, but shortly 

 after she produced her calf (bred by a Shotley bull) she turned 

 out such a hopeless kicker that we were obliged to fat and sell her 

 to the butcher. Her daughter is now making a fine cow, and 

 yesterday produced a calf, I think her second. Like her mother, 

 she is rather wild at least, she did not at all appreciate my 

 appearance upon the scene ; indeed, I found it necessary to retire 

 quickly. Old New-born Pride knows better than to make a 

 fuss ; her calf is small but very pretty, and, perhaps from force of 

 long-continued habit, the production of it does not seem to have 

 affected her in any way whatsoever. I hear that after I left 

 Bedingham, the day before yesterday, the best colt there, a very 

 fine young animal, managed to hurt his shoulder, probably by 

 dashing himself against a gatepost. The farrier is of opinion that he 

 will be bad for about three months, and I trust that we may get 

 off so well. A year or two ago I had a foal which injured its 

 shoulder so badly that in the end we were obliged to kill it, a very 

 grievous loss. 



The wind still holds exceeding bitter, and owing to the night 

 frosts there is but little growth. A beech-tree one of several that 

 stand upon the garden lawn of this house has, however, come 

 into leaf. During all the many years that I have known this 

 place, whatever the season, that tree has never failed to be the 

 first to unfold its foliage, something in its constitution making it 

 of an earlier habit than its fellows. The hawthorns also have 

 dressed themselves in tender green, and down by the Bath Hills 

 I noticed an oak almost bursting its buds, while those of the ash 

 at its side were still asleep in their hard sheaths of winter black. 

 Although it was quite hot here under the hill, where the east 



