We are once more settled for the night and settled for the Sabbath, in a delightful clovery meadow near a fine old Yorkshire farm, round which blue-rock pigeons are flying in clouds.
A herd of fine shorthorn cows have arranged themselves in a row to look at us. A healthful “caller” country lassie is milking one. Her name is Mary; I heard a ploughboy say “Mary” to her. Mary is singing low as she milks, and the sleek-sided cow is chewing her cud and meditating.
Yonder is a field of white peas all in bloom, and yonder a field of pale-green flax.
It must be a great satisfaction for those pigeons to see those peas in bloom.
“Good-night, Mary.”
“Good-night, sir.”
Away marches Mary, singing, “Tra, la, lalla, la lah.”
What a sweet voice the little maiden has!