204 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 



ale. But for all young life he has a passion equal to a 

 mother's, so he laces up his boots and does not grieve. 

 See him in the dim outlying barn with the sick heifer 

 which is sure to die. The wet killed several in the open 

 field; this one is to die on dry hay. She lies with stiff, 

 high-ridged back, patient and motionless, except that her 

 ears move now and then like birds — ^they alone seem alive. 

 There is a deep blue gleam in her eyes. Her head is 

 stretched forward upon the ground. She is alone. 

 Through the open door the sunlight falls, and the swal- 

 lows fly in and out or hang twittering at the dark beams 

 over her head. Twice a day the cowman comes to the 

 door and salutes her with deep, slow voice, hearty and 

 blithe: "Hoho! Cowslip; how's Cowslip?" He pulls 

 away the foul hay from under her and puts in fresh, 

 talking now in a high falsetto voice as to a child; he raises 

 her head that she may lap the bucket of gruel, still talk- 

 ing unintelligible baby talk interlarded with her pretty 

 name. She holds up her head for a minute or two, 

 heartened by her moist lips and full stomach and that 

 friend's voice. He stands in the doorway watching and 

 silent now, as her head slowly sinks down, and she sighs 

 while her limbs find their position of least pain. "She's 

 going to die," he mutters in the deep voice as he goes. 



A very different earth child, an artist, used to live in 

 a cottage at the foot of the opposite Downs. The village 

 itself, whether you saw it from its own street or from the 

 higher land, was wrought into such a rightness of form 

 as few other artists than Time ever achieve; it made a 

 music to which the hands unconsciously beat time. But 

 though apparently complete in itself, it was as part of a 

 huge and gentle harmony of sky, down and forest that 



