the passage of cattle has trodden away the turf, the mud, once almost impassable, is now hardened, and every cloven hoof that pressed it has left its mark as if cast in metal.  Along the furrows the ice has fallen in, and lies on the slope white and broken, the shallow water having dried away beneath it.  Dark hedges, dark trees—­in the distance they look almost black—­nearer at hand the smallest branches devoid of leaves are clearly defined against the sky.

As the northerly wind drifts the clouds before it the sun shines down, and the dead, dry grass and the innumerable tufts of the ‘leaze’ which the cattle have not eaten, take a dull grey hue.  Sheltered from the blast behind the thick, high hawthorn hedge and double mound, which is like a rampart reared against Boreas, it is pleasant even now to stroll to and fro in the sunshine.  The longtailed titmice come along in parties of six or eight, calling to each other as in turn they visit every tree.  Turning from watching these—­see, a redbreast has perched on a branch barely two yards distant, for, wherever you may be, there the robin comes and watches you.  Whether looking in summer at the roses in the garden, or waiting in winter for the pheasant to break cover or the fox to steal forth, go where you will, in a minute or two, a redbreast appears intent on your proceedings.

Now comes a discordant squeaking of iron axles that have not been greased, and the jolting sound of wheels passing over ruts whose edges are hard and frost-bound.  From the lane two manure carts enter the meadow in slow procession, and, stopping at regular intervals, the men in charge take long poles with hooks at the end and drag down a certain quantity of the fertilising material.  The sharp frost is so far an advantage to the tenant of meadow land that he can cart manure without cutting and poaching the turf, and even without changing the ordinary for the extra set of broad-wheels on the cart.  In the next meadow the hedge-cutters are busy, their hands fenced with thick gloves to turn aside the thorns.

Near by are the hay-ricks and cow-pen where a metallic rattling sound rises every now and then—­the bull in the shed moving his neck and dragging his chain through the ring.  More than one of the hay-ricks have been already half cut away, for the severe winter makes the cows hungry, and if their yield of milk is to be kept up they must be well fed, so that the foggers have plenty to do.  If the dairy, as is most probably the case, sends the milk to London, they have still more, because then a regular supply has to be maintained, and for that a certain proportion of other food has to be prepared in addition to the old-fashioned hay.  The new system, indeed, has led to the employment of more labour out-of-doors, if less within.  An extra fogger has to be put on, not only because of the food, but because the milking has to be done in less time—­with a despatch, indeed, that would have seemed unnatural to the old folk.  Besides which the milk carts to and fro the railway station require drivers, whose time—­as they have to go some miles twice a day—­is pretty nearly occupied with their horses and milk tins.  So much is this the case that even in summer they can scarcely be spared to do a few hours haymaking.