The angler will come in the evening when the May-fly is floating and drying his wings, and the trout are lively, and the bream leaves its dim retreat at the bottom of the deepest pool. After lying on the grass till we are cool, we strip and go in, and do not come out again till the last minute that I can allow, after being reminded that in going home it is downhill all the way.
We trip it fast enough to be glad to find ourselves under the shade of the horse-chesnuts near the church. Those chesnuts are a superb spectacle now—each a great dome crocketed all over with little spires of glorious blossom. Whatever may be the charms of an early spring, it too often brings the drawback of spoiled horse-chesnuts. For many seasons in succession I have grieved over the stunted leaves and flowers which had been touched with frost after a brilliant early promise. Serious as have been the effects of the ungenial spring of this year, we now find some little compensation in the rich development of everything that waited for May before making any show. The splendid and safe late blossoming of our fruit-trees and forest-trees, and the profusion of cherries, gooseberries, and currants now ripening, are some reward for our efforts at patience when the winter would not go away. In two or three weeks now we shall have full bowls of cherries on the table, and we shall have gooseberry pies or gooseberry-fool every day now till the currants come in.
We dine early on sheep-shearing days because the work is always, by some means or other, done in time for the squire’s shearing supper. We like to witness the ending of the business, and to do our part towards making the syllabub-under-the-cow, which is the most conspicuous dainty of the evening. In three days from the washing the fleeces are sufficiently dry for the shearing, provided the weather is fine, and the animals have been kept meantime on an airy and sound pasture. We have tried our hands on almost every one of the processes of the day; but I am afraid we are not regarded as effectual helps; so it is time enough to go after dinner. I have made an attempt at clipping: and my wife has rolled fleeces; and the children have daubed themselves with warm tar or with ochre in trying to mark the frightened and starting sheep just released from the shears; but I believe the real workers prefer our room to our company, unless we stand aside to admire people cleverer than ourselves. I own I am not soon tired of watching a clipper who is quick and dexterous, and does not wound the animal, nor yet leave it in a streaky state all over with wasted remnants of wool. He manages the creature as confidently as Rarey does the restless horse; makes it take its proper attitude, begins and ends always at the same point, clears all away, and never has to go back, makes no waste of wool or time, and sets the creature on its legs again before the raw hands have turned their victims. It is pleasant, too, to see the women’s part of the work. My wife considers it a pity that they put on their Sunday clothes for the occasion: and certainly, while there are stock-farmers who advocate a late shearing on the ground that hot weather adds half a pound to the weight of the fleece by “the perspiration of the animal,” it seems fitting that the coarsest dress should be brought into contact with the wool: but not the less does the trim and festive appearance of the girls add to the charms of the scene. They handle the wool, cut away and throw out the dirty and knotty parts, and then roll up the fleece, the cut side outwards, ending with the neck, which serves to bind the parcel round. After all the washing and squeezing and paring away, it is a dirty business at best, as any one will say who has unfolded a fleece in the mill.
Then comes the marking; and all the while observations are made, as every clipper well knows, on the work of the shearers. One is full of pride as his sheep are picked out for their appearance, and their number counted; and another is irritated or ashamed as his victims are pointed at with a giggle, or the bailiff shakes his head at his awkwardness, or the ladies and children pity the wounded animals as they come from his hands. He can only mutter that he should like to see them do it better.
There is more slashing, and some haste even in the best shearers as the sun gets low, and bustle is heard from the barn, and a clatter of knives and forks and plates. Then the idlers begin to look out for the cows—the two cows which are to supply the syllabub. There is not such a show of fashion and finery to frighten the kine as scared the late Duchess of St. Albans’ cow, when her syllabub was spoiled on the Duke’s birthday by the animal’s fret at her blue ribbons and alarm at the grandeur around her. Allured by young ladies in white muslin, holding potatoes before her, and driven from behind, she was in course of time brought up the lawn: but what should make her stay there before the windows? She smashed the splendid old china bowl, overthrew the milker, turned tail, and careered down the lawn, flinging her blue ribbons about in frantic style, and leaving on the grass a too plentiful libation of wine, lemon, sugar, and spices. Our cows are brought up to the barn by their proper dairymaids. The ingredients are in large wooden bowls; and the vanity of the hour is not to let a drop be spilt. For my part, I never could discover the charms of that kind of syllabub, beyond the ideal aspect of its manufacture; but I have quite pleasure enough in seeing it relished by man, woman, and child at the barn supper.
Then we go round, and see that everybody has beef and beer enough; and then we drink everybody’s health, and success to the wool-trade, and so on; and the next day the bare white sheep remind us that we have left behind us one of the annual observances of summer.
The longest day, however, is the gravest memorial of the lapse of the seasons. We let each evening go with reluctance for a week or two before the 21st. The nights are so exquisite that we make the most of them, in preference to the mornings, which we can enjoy as well further on in the year. We are on the water till eleven, and even twelve o’clock; sometimes with the lines set, and somebody on the watch for a bite; sometimes merely floating, to see the twilight creep over the water, after it has dimmed the shores. The sky