lJ4 Wild Life in a Southern County 



About half-past two of a morning in June a faint twitter- 

 ing under the eavea announces that the swallows are 

 awaking, although they will not commence their flight for 

 a while yet. At three o'clock the cuckoo's call comes up 

 from the distant meadows, together with the sound of the 

 mower sharpening his scythe, for he likes to work while 

 the dew is heavy on the grass, both for coolness and 

 because it cuts better. He gets half a day's work done 

 before the sun grows hot, and about eight or nine o'clock 

 lies down under the hedge for a refreshing nap. Between 

 three and four the thrushes open song in the copse at the 

 corner of the Home-field, and soon a loud chorus takes up 

 their ditty as one after the other joins in. 



Then the nailed shoes of the milkers clatter on the 

 pitching of the courtyard as they come for their buckets ; 

 and immediately afterwards stentorian voices may be 

 heard in the fields bellowing ' Coom up ! ya-hoop ! ' to 

 which the cows, recognising the well-known call, respond 

 very much in the same tones. Slowly they obey and 

 gather together under the elms in the corner of the 

 meadow, which in summer is used as the milking-place. 

 About five or half-past another clattering tells of the 

 milkers' return ; and then the dairy is in full operation. 

 The household breakfasts at half-past six or thereabouts, 

 and while breakfast is going on the heavy tramp of feet 

 may be heard passing along the roadway through the 

 rick-yard — the haymakers marching to the fields. For 

 the next two hours or so the sounds from the dairy are 

 the only interruption of the silence : then come the first 

 waggons loaded with hay, jolting and creaking, the carter's 

 lads shouting, 'Woaght!' to the horses as they steer 

 through the gateway and sweep round, drawing up under 

 the rick. 



