134 THE DAILY LIFE OF OUR FARM. 



think I did it ? Why, I'll tell you ; I went and bought 

 one of the butter-makiiig implements, which, for the 

 sake of such as may be ignorant, as I was of the 

 existence of this household treasure, I will endeavour 

 roughly to describe. You have a pewter cylinder per- 

 forated around, for half an inch at the bottom, with 

 small holes ; this cylinder is fixed in a frame, with two 

 extended elbows that rest on the sides of a tub filled 

 with cold spring water, in which the cylinder is immersed 

 just over the holes. Into the cylinder you throw a 

 lump of butter, it matters not how rancid or salt, and 

 you squeeze it down by means of a screw piston. First 

 spurt forth the imprisoned globules of foul water and 

 butter-milk ; then follow, as a cloud of maccaroni, a 

 mass of spun-out butter-threads, as really sweet as 

 when in earliest infancy the lump was gathered from 

 the churn. This mass you leave for a few seconds to 

 harden in the chill water ; then sprinkle it with salt, 

 and beat it into pats of exquisite grain, by means of 

 the ribbed flat wooden trowels which dairy-maids use. 

 The effect is really wonderful. What we next did was 

 just to tint it with an atom of golden sjn-up — the Irish 

 put sugar into their butter — and it was served up and 

 mistaken for a true Guernsey yield. 



And now, having invested in a keg of Cork salt 

 butter, and a ha'porth of treacle, by connivance of the 

 cook, I am clear of the rocks, so long at least as I can 

 defer her ocular appreciation of our new treasure, with 

 regard to which event I can only hope. I know, at 

 least, that until Christmas is gone she will be sufficiently 

 occupied ; so, on her busiest morning I shall relieve my 

 fretting mind by this pleasant remark, " Bessy, dear, 

 you've not seen our new butter prize : won't you come 



