This might have been an easy day but for some sickness among the stock. There is gruel to make and much walking to and fro, out and in. Two feminine heads are not equal to one male but they are useful for consultation and encouragement, for reading up additional “cattle” books; and female hands are not despised for helping to hold a cow’s head or tail, as the need may be.
Our fox is slaughtering his dozens — with increasing ingenuity. A pack of hounds and huntsmen have been after him for a week and their efforts have failed. A poisoned duck was set as a bait and carried off; but since then, an observant old man has seen his recent droppings in a field close by, and we fear that he is still keenly and hungrily alive.
To-day, I am at work with a winter blouse. If you would like to know, it is dark-red flannel, and it is to be finished with collar, cuffs and waistband of black velvet; cross over front, with imitation fastenings from shoulder to waist of black velvet buttons. Finished three bodices last week for another member of the family and three cut lying to make up. Home dressmaking is a great economy, but it is very toilsome, unless one has a genius and a taste in that line.
Recently we had a visitor, the cut of whose clothes put me out of humour with my own, over my tailor-made things. In the privacy of her bedroom, I peeped at the name inside her coatee and beheld “Peter Robinson, Regent Street,” and then I sigh.
Why does farming pay so poorly that I am not able to go and select all my garments yearly at Peter Robinson’s, and then sit at ease with my pen and instruct all you women how to make your hard lives easy? But, as the bewildered coster asked in election times, “wich is wich, and ‘oo is oo? Them is queschions wich calls for a hanser.”