--Bank holiday, and wet, of course. The weather is never
propitious on the feast of St. Lubbock. The old Saints apparently owe a
grudge to this latest addition to the calendar. How beastly it must be
in town, with the slushy streets and the beshuttered shops! How
depressing for Paterfamilias who arose at seven in the morning to set
off with his wife and his brats and the family food-basket to catch some
early excursion train! How much more depressing for him who has no train
to catch, and nothing at all to do but worry through twelve mortal
pleasure hours!
St. Lubbock's malevolent influence doesn't fortunately extend down here,
where everything seems to work in time-worn ruts. I walked over the
fields opposite. There were a great many new-dropped lambs in the second
meadow. They didn't appear to mind the drizzle, but kneeling with their
little front legs doubled under them, they sucked vigorously at their
mothers, while their long tails danced and quivered in the air.
There was one lamb lying quietly on its side. The ewe stood by, staring
down at it with a sort of quiescent curiosity from her brown, stupid,
white-lashed eyes.
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