24 THE DAILY LIFE OF OUR FARM. 



crushed peas. But more than this. To those which 

 were disordered I had administered a large teaspoon- 

 ful of carbonate of soda and "cordial powders" (so 

 delicious they smell), which came in my medicine- 

 chest — treatment that speedily stopped the scouring 

 by, I presume, correcting the acidity of the stomach. 

 Then on the two that died I had a post-mortem 

 examination. The butcher could detect nothing, nor 

 could I (I am afraid of the Y. S. bringing rinderpest 

 on his shooting-jacket) ; so I had to concur with my 

 friend in the usual intelligent verdict under such cir- 

 cumstances, " What could it have been ? " " Why, sir, 

 he had pain." " No doubt of it," we grumble inwardly, 

 devoutly wishing, for his stupidity, that he might just 

 have, for a few minutes, about half the disorder him- 

 self, as the cabman in Punch desired, when the as- 

 tounded old lady would inquire what was the matter 

 with the drunken man in the gutter. 



Yesterday afternoon, as I was going in the direction 

 in search of a rabbit with my gun, I relieved the 

 bailiff of his task of driving up a pet Southdown flock 

 of Jonas Webb's best sort, in which I invested at a 

 well-known Essex sale the other day. We were short- 

 handed on the farm, owing, I suspect, to the cider 

 curse ; and the mangold-wurzel was being stored. They 

 would scarcely leave the meadows for the hill-side 

 under the house, going grudgingly along, picking and 

 nipping as they passed, and so shy of the gateways 

 that they would not advance through for ever so long, 

 trying all they could to hark back, as though they 

 feared a trap, until the youngest and leanest made a 

 movement to spy round, and seeing no cause to inti- 

 midate, went on. Then they all passed ; and so across 



