Things seemed determined to go wrong that spring. Phœbe affirmed that from the moment when she had set her teeth in that hard russet apple which had snapped off a perfectly good incisor misfortunes had come tripping on one another's heels. Excessive rains had swollen the stream until it had grown to a tumbling, coffee-coloured torrent, in which a ewe and her skipping lamb had lost their lives. Bessie, Derek's favourite Jersey, had given birth to twin calves, both of which had died, and she, herself, had been ailing ever since. Mike had torn his leg on a piece of barbed wire, carelessly left dangling at a fence corner—it was impossible to tell by whom—and had severed an artery. Derek would never forget Mike's hard breathing and the look in his distended eyes as he stood beside him miserably waiting for the veterinary, while the blood gushed from the wound as from a tap, making a thick puddle on the floor of the stall. Mike had recovered but must go easy for a while; another horse had to be purchased, and it turned out that he was full of nasty tricks, in stall and field—the men vied with each other in repeating Philip's misdeeds. The heavy rain produced a growth of rank weeds that fought for supremacy over the mangolds, turnips, and garden vegetables. Old Peek and Mrs. Orde's short-legged husband, and four boys from Mistwell were constantly employed in weeding, and in sorting the last of the apple crop in the apple-house. Carelessness in storing defective apples
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