A brood of young ducklings have a naughty habit of wandering in my lady’s garden. They themselves are not very destructive but the same cannot be said of their industrious and affectionate mother. They wriggle through the side garden while she flies over.
We sparred and blocked that gate but they discovered a tiny hole through which their soft bodies could be squeezed and this morning I found that their faithful, foster mother had scraped almost to destruction a bed of pansies in search of slugs for her darlings. I was so wroth with them that they cry wee, wee, wee in alarm when they see me.
Hay-making is in progress and if this fine weather continues it will soon be over without incident. We were in a little pickle tonight on account of the hay. We had no man in at the milking but orders had been given for a man to come and start the engine for separating.
When I am about, I light up but to start the big wheel is beyond my strength. We might have managed among us but none of the women cared to try and our man did not put in an appearance for long. He “thought he would finish.” They are always thinking something for their own convenience.