"What, up already, Mary?" she said, "I did not expect to see you till nine o'clock."
"I rise early at home always," she replied; "papa often leaves for London at half-past eight, and I breakfast with him."
"Ah, yes, I forgot that you live at some distance from London now, and therefore our country manners and ways are not quite new to you."
"It is very pleasant country where we live, but not so rural as this," said Mary; and then, as she observed her cousin take some barley from a bin in the outer kitchen, she exclaimed, "Oh, cousin Sarah, if you are going to feed the chickens, do let me go with you, I am longing to see the farmyard, and I can carry something for you."
"Of course you shall go, my dear; I shall be glad to have you. Ned and Jack are away at school now in Southampton, and I miss their help very much."
Mary was soon loaded with a basket containing provision for the farmyard pensioners, and while they walked she asked many questions about her cousins John and Edward, boys of eleven and fifteen, cousin Sarah's only surviving children. But the strange farmyard scenes soon occupied all Mary's attention. Never in her life had she seen so many geese, ducks, chickens, and pigeons, and until they were all fed and satisfied nothing else could be attempted.
At length Mary was at liberty to look round her. The farmyard was surrounded by barns, stables for horses and cattle, waggon-sheds, hen and pigeon-houses, rabbit-hutches, and a pond in the centre, by no means small, for the ducks and geese, near which stood their comfortable nests.
"The man is going to feed the pigs, Mary," said her cousin; "their sties are at the back of the stables, opening into a field."
She led the way from the farmyard as she spoke, and as they drew near the spot Mary heard a most unmelodious sound, half-grunting, half-squeaking, with which the little hungry animals greeted their keeper. There appeared about a hundred little pigs in a portion of the field adjoining the sties, and railed in from the other part by wooden palings and hurdles. At intervals, close to the fence, stood troughs, and the moment their keeper appeared in sight there arose such a perfect yell and growl of grunting and squealing that Mary could not attempt to speak.
The little animals, who varied in age from six weeks to three months, were beautifully clean and white, and when Mary saw them looking through holes in the palings, and many of them standing on their hind-legs to put their noses over, she could scarcely speak for laughing.