ii4 THE LAND'S END 



the farmer and his wife minded their farm and were 

 very proud of getting the highest price in the market 

 for their butter. 



Life on these small farms is incredibly rough. 

 One may guess what it is like from the outward 

 aspect of such places. Each, it is true, has its own 

 individual character, but they are all pretty much 

 alike in their dreary, naked and almost squalid ap- 

 pearance. Each, too, has its own ancient Cornish 

 name, some of these very fine or very pretty, but 

 you are tempted to rename them in your own mind 

 Desolation Farm, Dreary Farm, Stony Farm, Bleak 

 Farm, and Hungry Farm. The farm-house is a 

 small low place and invariably built of granite, with 

 no garden or bush or flower about it. The one I 

 stayed at was a couple of centuries old, but no one 

 had ever thought of growing anything, even a mari- 

 gold, to soften its bare harsh aspect. The house 

 itself could hardly be distinguished from the out- 

 houses clustered round it. Several times on coming 

 back to the house in a hurry and not exercising 

 proper care I found I had made for the wrong door 

 and got into the cow-house, or pig-house, or a shed 

 of some sort, instead of into the human habitation. 

 The cows and other animals were all about and 

 you came through deep mud into the living-room. 

 The pigs and fowls did not come in but were other- 

 wise free to go where they liked. The rooms were 

 very low ; my hair, when I stood erect, just brushed 

 the beams ; but the living-room or kitchen was 

 spacious for so small a house, and had the wide old 



