A SUSSEX SHEEP-WASHING 



never been, I think, a more wonderful buttercup year 

 than that of 1902. The verdurous meadows were 

 everywhere arrayed in one marvellous golden glory. 

 Standing on the bridge, one looked down upon the 

 busy workers, and the struggling, choking, half- 

 drowned sheep, as submerged, turned over and over 

 again, they were passed, a steady stream of victims, 

 from one side of the river to the other. Looking up 

 the placid, sluggish stream, one's eye rested upon an 

 ancient, spreading hawthorn tree, white with May- 

 blossom ; then, gazing further afield, the pleasant hill 

 of Wartling breaks the horizon. Close by Wartling 

 nestles amid the woodlands the hoary ruin of Herst- 

 monceux Castle. Away to the right the marshes 

 stretch, pied with cattle and sheep, towards Hooe and 

 Little Common. Behind one, a mile away, is the sea, 

 into which the placid little river over which we stand 

 makes its gentle exit upon a flat shore-line. On our 

 left flank, close at hand, is the hamlet of Pevensey, 

 with its ancient church and yet more ancient ruined 

 castle, the latter one of the finest remains of feudal 

 and Roman strength in all Britain. It is a pleasant 

 scene, indeed, on this goodly morning, and, the sheep- 

 wash over, we turn with some reluctance to our cycles 

 and hie us homeward. 



Sheep-shearing, which quickly follows the washing 

 process, used to be, and still is, a much more cheery 

 and important, though scarcely a more picturesque 

 business than its watery forerunner. Many of the 

 quaint old forms and customs have departed from 

 this high function, yet the time of shearing is still 

 looked forward to with a good deal of pleasure and 

 anticipation by both master and men. I can well re- 

 member as a youngster the enormous rounds of boiled 

 beef which used to be prepared for the shearers in 



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