“Why do you suppose so?”
“Because, so be, there be no sheep, no milk, you know; and what there ben’t is not worth having.”
“You could not have argued better,” said I; “that is, supposing you have argued; with respect to the milk you may do as you please.”
“Be still, Nanny,” said the man; and producing a tin vessel from his scrip, he milked the ewe into it. “Here is milk of the plains, master,” said the man, as he handed the vessel to me.
“Where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were speaking of,” said I, after I had drunk some of the milk; “are there any near where we are?”
“Not within many miles; the nearest is yonder away,” said the shepherd, pointing to the south-east. “It’s a grand place, that, but not like this; quite different, and from it you have a sight of the finest spire in the world.”
“I must go to it,” said I, and I drank the remainder of the milk; “yonder, you say.”
“Yes, yonder; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the river lies between.”
“What river?”
“The Avon.”