Joan. I’m mortal afeared of cows, mistress. I could never abide the sight nor the sound of those animals.
Clara. You’ll soon get over that, Joan.
Joan. And I don’t care for poultry neither, very much. I goes full of fear when I hears one of they old turkey cocks stamping about.
Clara. [Pulling up the sleeve of her left arm.] There, do you see this little scar? I was helping George to feed the ducks and geese when the fierce gander ran after me and knocked me down and took a piece right out of my arm.
Joan. [Looking intently on the scar.] I have often seen that there mark, mistress. And do you think as that old gander will be living along of the poultry still?
Clara. I wish he might be, Joan.
Joan. What with the cows and the horses and the ganders, we shall go with our lives in our hands, as you might say.
Clara. [As though to herself.] When the days got colder, we would sit under the straw rick, George and I. And he would sing to me. Some of his songs, I could say off by heart this day.
Joan. [Looking nervously upward.] O do look at that nasty little thing dropping down upon us from a piece of thread silk. Who ever put such a thing up in the tree I’d like to know.
Clara. [Brushing it gently aside.] That won’t hurt you—a tiny caterpillar.