Sturdy milkmaids may still be seen in London, sweeping the crowded pavement clear before them as they walk with swinging tread, a yoke on their shoulders, from door to door.  Some remnant of the traditional dairy thus survives in the stony streets that are separated so widely from the country.  But here, beside the hay, the hedgerows, the bees, the flowers that precede the blackberries—­here in the heart of the meadows the romance has departed.  Everything is mechanical or scientific.  From the refrigerator that cools the milk, the thermometer that tests its temperature, the lactometer that proves its quality, all is mechanical precision.  The tins themselves are metal—­wood, the old country material for almost every purpose, is eschewed—­and they are swung up into a waggon specially built for the purpose.  It is the very antithesis of the jolting and cumbrous waggon used for generations in the hay-fields and among the corn.  It is light, elegantly proportioned, painted, varnished—­the work rather of a coachbuilder than a cartwright.  The horse harnessed in it is equally unlike the cart-horse.  A quick, wiry horse, that may be driven in a trap or gig, is the style—­one that will rattle along and catch the train.

The driver takes his seat and handles the reins with the air of a man driving a tradesman’s van, instead of walking, like the true old carter, or sitting on the shaft.  The vehicle rattles off to the station, where ten, fifteen, or perhaps twenty such converge at the same hour, and then ensues a scene of bustle, chaff, and rough language.  The tins are placed in the van specially reserved for them, the whistle sounds, the passengers—­who have been wondering why on earth there was all this noise and delay at a little roadside station without so much as a visible steeple—­withdraw their heads from the windows; the wheels revolve, and, gathering speed, the train disappears round the curve, hastening to the metropolis.  Then the empty tins returned from town have to be conveyed home with more rattling, thumping and booming of hollow tin—­there to be carefully cleansed, for which purpose vast quantities of hot water must be ready, and coal, of course, must be consumed in proportion.

This beautiful afternoon the booming seems to sound more than usual; it may perhaps be the wind that carries the noise along.  But Mr. George, the farmer, who has been working among the haymakers, steps out from the rank, and going some way aside pauses awhile to consider.  You should not address him as Farmer George.  Farmer as an affix is not the thing now; farmers are ‘Mr. So-and-so.’  Not that there is any false pride about the present individual; his memory goes back too far, and he has had too much experience of the world.  He leans on his prong—­the sharp forks worn bright as silver from use—­stuck in the sward, and his chest pressing on the top of the handle, or rather on both hands, with which he holds it.  The handle makes an angle of forty-five degrees with his body, and thus gives considerable support and relief while he reflects.