“And yet you managed to get a pig.”
“Yes. I knew, if I contrived to buy one, I could easily keep it. So we made an effort to save in the winter, and in March I got a fine pig of four months. He was able to graze and eat cabbages and turnip-tops, and we have plenty of wash for him; so I hope, as he has thriven so far very well, he will be in fine condition for killing at Christmas.”
“Will you be able to fatten him liberally?”
“I hope so. He shall have as much barley-meal as he can eat, if I can afford it; if not, pease must do.”
“You will have a houseful of meat at that time. Bacon in plenty, griskins, chines, cheeks, and I don’t know what besides; and hog’s-puddings and lard for the children! Why, you will live like an alderman’s family for weeks. It is a fine thing to keep a pig!”
“It is a great advantage; and considering that, I wonder you don’t try, neighbour.”
“When I have eight children perhaps I may; but we get on somehow as it is; and I have quite enough to do, for I don’t pretend to work as hard as you.”
“No,” thought Gray, “You make your wife do it instead, while you go and smoke at the Arms.”
Hal’s cow had been sold long ago to pay his debts. It had been done during one of his wife’s confinements, and it was bad news for her, when she got about again, that it was actually sold and gone. It was some comfort that they owed no money; but it was a comfort which could not last long; for she knew that milk is a dear article to buy, while it is absolutely necessary where there are young children.—It was grievous to see in a short time how poorly they lived. One thing after another was given up. They had long contrived to do without meat; but now they could not afford beer, except a little on Sundays. Hal did not relish milk as when it came from his own cow, but took a fancy to have tea,—the least nourishing and most expensive diet a man can have. To indulge this fancy, the fire was kept in all day, the whole year round. There was an everlasting boiling, of the kettle in the morning, the potatoes for dinner, and the kettle again in the afternoon. Upon this miserable diet they grew thin and sickly; they ran in debt to the grocer till he refused their custom; and to Johnson’s wife for milk, till she declared she could not let them have any more. We were passing Hal’s door one day, when one of the children entered with an empty pitcher, on seeing which his mother burst into tears. There was but too much cause for her grief. Her hungry children must be content with a drink of water with their crust of bread, for Mrs. Johnson could afford no longer credit. My mother could not bear to see the cravings of the little ones; and she promised to go back with the messenger to Mrs. Johnson and persuade her not to disappoint them for this one day, and to see what could be done for the future: but she declared that the tea must be left off if the milk was to be continued. The poor woman said that she was willing to live in the cheapest way, if the children could but be fed; but that her husband made such a point of his tea that she had little hope of persuading him to give it up.
We took the child back to Johnson’s; and there we saw a cheerful sight. Mrs. Johnson was milking one of her fine cows, while the other two stood by; and her daughter was measuring out the milk to the various messengers from the village. There were Miss Black’s maid, and Wickstead’s boy, and Gregson’s apprentice, and Harper’s servant, and half a dozen children from the neighbouring cottages, having their pitchers filled with the warm, fresh, rich milk. My mother smiled as she observed to me that the division of labour was not fully understood by our people yet, or they would have devised a better plan than having the time of a dozen people wasted by coming for the milk, instead of employing a boy to carry it round. It struck us both at the same moment that Hal’s eldest boy might earn a share of the milk by saving the neighbours the trouble of sending for it. He might soon learn, we thought, to measure the milk and keep the tally.