At the Farm 
my uncle spoke of his milk-trade and of sanitary 
inspectors. Lately an inspector had suddenly 
seized him by the shoulders as he was going a- 
milking, and asked, “ Are your hands clean?”’ 
“Clean enough,” he had replied, not well 
pleased to be so disrespectfully treated. And 
in fact he was overdone with inspectors, men- 
tioning one from Aldershot Camp and two from 
civilian authorities. He enumerated these, urg- 
ing that there should be a limit to the number 
of inspections busy people were subjected to. 
From that he passed on to explain that pure milk 
might be as bad as any other, if taken into a dirty 
home—“‘in a bottle, for instance, that hasn’t 
been washed for two or three days, and put into 
a cupboard among old food, flies, boots, and so 
on. You see,” he said, ‘‘ we that deliver the 
milk have a very good chance of seeing how people 
deal with it.” We agreed that, as he put it, 
“you can’t make people sensible and cleanly 
by law, any more than you can make them good.” 
Here I quoted Bettesworth: ‘ All you can 
do is to dummer a little sense into ’em.” 
“ And that,” my uncle exclaimed, “is where I 
believe in education, only I don’t think they go 
far enough.” 
Those level pastures the boy was roaming 
over, dotted and enlaced with feathery trees and 
luxuriant hedges, all so tranquil in that May 
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