Nevertheless there was something cheerful and delightful even to the workers about the bustle and stir—the sight of the rich milk, the faintly sour smell of the curds, the pure, sweet air that circled round hot faces through the wide open door, the little shifting lights and shades that played about shining tins and whitewashed walls as the branches of the trees that surrounded the house were set dancing in the wind. Yes, Thorncombe Dairy was a pleasant place, and never more so than on this particular June afternoon, when the roses outside the milk-house door were in full bloom, and the sweet odours of the old-fashioned flowers in the borders beneath the windows came floating in to mingle with the homelier scents within.
Mrs. Meatyard had duly “cleaned herself” and changed her dress, and now, with the cuffs of her stuff gown turned up, was delicately enswathing roll after roll of golden butter in small squares of gauze, and packing them, when thus protected, in baskets ready for to-morrow’s market. Old Rebecca was busy at the other end with scrubbing-brush and pail, “swilling down” the shelves. Her spare form was encased in a somewhat faded cotton garment, the sleeves of which were rolled up high; the sparse wisps of her grey hair were ruffled and untidy, but her ruddy, wrinkled old face was cheery and good-tempered, and she crooned a song to herself as she scrubbed the boards.
In the outer milk-house one of the labourers was also at work cleaning up, hissing as he used the broom as though he were rubbing down a horse, and every now and then making a great clatter with the piled-up cans.
Through the open door the imposing form of the “master” could be seen leaning over the gate which opened into the farmyard, contemplating the operations of two of the farm hands who were engaged in cleaning an outhouse. On the cobble-stones near his feet pigeons were strutting up and down, bowing and cooing; a little group of calves lay sunning themselves in a corner of the yard, flapping their ears and waving their tails as the flies teased them. Cocks and hens were crowing and clucking, pigs were grunting, sheep and lambs in the pasture behind the house were bleating, bees in the lime-blossom were humming, and throughout all the din of outdoor life Rebecca’s quavering, voice could be plainly heard:—
For Do’set dear
Then gi’e woone cheer;
D’ye hear? Woone cheer.
But louder even than her ditty sounded all at once a shrill, tuneful whistle, and the head of a young man came presently in sight, moving rapidly along the irregular line of hedge that divided the farm premises from the lane; and presently the owner of the head rounded the corner and entered the yard.
“’Tis you, Charl’?” observed Farmer Meatyard, without removing his pipe from his mouth. “You be come in nice time to fetch cows up.”
“Jist what I was a-thinkin’,” said Charl’. “I was kept a bit longer in town nor I looked for, but I did hear sich a funny bit o’ noos.”
“Did ’ee now?” inquired his father, much interested.
“’Ees, I do ’low I did. That there new show as they be all a-talkin’ about—the Agricultural Show they calls it—ye wouldn’t never think what they be goin’ to give a prize for.”