THE DAILY LIFE OF OUR FARM. 15 



like shrimps in the biting? The only consolation is 

 that soy is said to be made from cockroaches, and soy is 

 wholesome. 



But aren't we entirely in despair ? I emphatically 

 repeat. Haven't we bought patent medicines by the 

 score of packets? haven't we strewn everywhere the 

 rind of peeled cucumber ? haven't we scalded myriads 

 as they scamper about in the darkness of the deserted 

 kitchen ? haven't we intoxicated and drowned whole 

 milkpans-full in beer and sugar ? but still there is the 



" Whispering with white lips — * The foe ! 

 " * They come ! they 



" * They come ! they come ! " 



Haven't we had in a hedgehog that did abundant 

 benefit, until unhappily he ensconced himself for the 

 day between cook's blankets, which she painfully found 

 out by the feeling of her trotters, when she went up 

 and tucked them in for an afternoon siesta ? The poor 

 hedgehog has been a sore subject ever since. They are, 

 though, perhaps somewhat less numerous than they 

 were. 



When the female household has retired with tucked 

 raiment, shuddering frames, and little screams, as ever 

 and anon they crack an unhappy wight that has been 

 wandering up the back-stairs, then begins on our own 

 part another sort of destruction — a raid in slippers that 

 are more slippery before the day is won. The horde is 

 certainly less numerous than it was — so many of the 

 old ones have gone in search of crumbs down the fatal 

 glass pitfall of the wooden trap. It is certainly com- 

 forting of late that, instead of the extended black 

 masses which did swarm over the floor when the kitchen 

 door was opened suddenly, there is apparent now rather 



