In the coldest weather one or more of the labourer’s children are sure to be found in the farmyard somewhere.  After the mother has dressed her boy (who may be about three or four years old) in the morning, he is at once turned out of doors to take care of himself, and if, as is often the case, the cottage is within a short distance of the farmyard, thither he toddles directly.  He stands about the stable door, watching the harnessing of the great carthorses, which are, from the very first, the object of his intense admiration.  But he has already learnt to keep out of the way, knowing that his presence would not otherwise be tolerated a moment, and occupies a position which enables him to dart quickly behind a tree, or a rick.

When the horses are gone he visits the outhouse, where the steam-engine is driving the chaff-cutter, or peers in at the huge doors of the barn, where with wide wooden shovel the grain is being moved.  Or he may be met with round the hay-ricks, dragging a log of wood by a piece of tar cord, the log representing a plough.  As you come upon him suddenly he draws up to the rick as if the hay was his natural protector, and looks up at you with half-frightened, half-curious gaze, and mouth open.  His hat is an old one of his father’s, a mile too big, coming down over his ears to his shoulders, well greased from ancient use—­a thing not without its advantage, since it makes it impervious to rain.  He wears what was a white jacket, but is now the colour of the prevailing soil of the place; a belt; and a pair of stumping boots, the very picture in miniature of his father’s, heeled and tipped with iron.  His naked legs are red with the cold, but thick and strong; his cheeks are plump and firm, his round blue eyes bright, his hair almost white, like bleached straw.

An hour or two ago his skin was clean enough, for he was sent out well washed, but it is now pretty well grimed, for he has been making himself happy in the dirt, as a boy should do if he be a boy.  For one thing it is clean dirt, nothing but pure mother earth, and not the nasty unctuous filth of city courts and back lanes.  If you speak to him he answers you sturdily—­if you can catch the meaning of his words, doubly difficult from accent and imperfect knowledge of construction.  But he means well, and if you send him on an errand will run off to find ‘measter’ as fast as his short stature will allow.  He will potter about the farmyard the whole morning, perhaps turning up at home for a lunch of a slice of bread well larded.  His little sister, not so old as himself, is there, already beginning her education in the cares of maternity, looking after the helpless baby that crawls over the wooden threshold of the door with bare head, despite the bitter cold.  Once during the day he may perhaps steal round the farmhouse, and peer wistfully from behind the tubs or buckets into the kitchen, when, if the mistress chances to be about, he is pretty certain to pick up some trifle in the edible line.