The shadows of the trees on the frosted ground are dull.  As the footpath winds by the hedge the noise of his footstep startles the blackbird roosting in the bushes, and he bustles out and flies across the field.  There is more rime on the posts and rails around the rickyard, and the thatch on the haystack is white with it in places.  He draws out the broad hay-knife—­a vast blade, wide at the handle, the edge gradually curving to a point—­and then searches for the rubber or whetstone, stuck somewhere in the side of the rick.  At the first sound of the stone upon the steel the cattle in the adjoining yard and sheds utter a few low ‘moos,’ and there is a stir among them.  Mounting the ladder he forces the knife with both hands into the hay, making a square cut which bends outwards, opening from the main mass till it appears on the point of parting and letting him fall with it to the ground.  But long practice has taught him how to balance himself half on the ladder, half on the hay.  Presently, with a truss unbound and loose on his head, he enters the yard, and passes from crib to crib, leaving a little here and a little there, for if he fills one first, there will be quarrelling among the cows, and besides, if the crib is too liberally filled, they will pull it out and tread it under foot.  The cattle that are in the sheds fattening for Christmas have cake as well, and this must be supplied in just proportion.

The hour of milking, which used to be pretty general everywhere, varies now in different places, to suit the necessities of the milk trade.  The milk has, perhaps, to travel three or four miles to the railway station; near great towns, where some of the farmers deliver milk themselves from house to house, the cows are milked soon after noonday.  What would their grandfathers have said to that?  But where the old customs have not much altered, the milker sits down in the morning to his cow with the stars still visible overhead, punching his hat well into her side—­a hat well battered and thickly coated with grease, for the skin of the cow exudes an unctuous substance.  This hat he keeps for the purpose.  A couple of milking pails—­they are of large size—­form a heavy load when filled.  The milker, as he walks back to the farmhouse, bends his head under the yoke—­whence so many men are round-shouldered—­and steps slowly with a peculiar swaying motion of the body, which slight swing prevents it from spilling.

Another man who has to be up while the moon casts a shadow is the carter, who must begin to feed his team very early in order to get them to eat sufficient.  If the manger be over-filled they spill and waste it, and at the same time will not eat so much.  This is tedious work.  Then the lads come and polish up the harness, and so soon as it is well light get out to plough.  The custom with the horses is to begin to work as early as possible, but to strike off in the afternoon some time before the other men, the lads riding home astride.  The strength of