I was watching, with my bailiff, a splendid lot of lambs fat and ready for the butcher; two of them were having a game—­walking backwards from each other, and suddenly rushing together like two knights in a medieval tournament, their heads meeting with a concussion and a resounding smack—­when one instantly fell to the ground with a broken neck.  Had no one been present the meat would have been worthless, but my man was equal to the occasion, and, borrowing my pocket knife, produced the flow of blood necessary to render the meat fit for human food.  My villagers had a feast that week, and my own table was graced by an excellent joint of real English lamb.  Of course we never attempted to consume any of the meat from animals which had been killed when suffering from a doubtful complaint, though some people are by no means particular in this matter.

A doctor told me that when attending a case at a farmhouse he was invited to join the family at their midday meal, and was surprised to see a nice fore-quarter of lamb on the table.  His host gave him an ample helping, and he had just made a beginning with it and the mint sauce, green peas, and new potatoes, when the founder of the feast announced by way of excusing the indulgence in such a luxury:  “This un, you know was a bit casualty, so we thought it better to make sure of un.”  My informant told me that then and there his appetite completely failed, and, to the dismay of his host he had to relinquish his knife and fork.

It is always policy to kill a sheep to save its life, as the saying is, and the way to make the most of it is to send any fat animal, which is off its feed and looking somewhat thoughtful, to the butcher at once.  He knows quite well whether the sheep is fit for food, and if he decides against it, all one expects is the value of the skin.  But people are very shy of buying meat about which they have any misgiving, and my butcher once told me not to send him an “emergency sheep” in one of my own carts, but to ask him to fetch it himself:  “It’s like this,” he explained, “when a customer comes in for a nice joint of mutton, if he is a near neighbour, he will perhaps add, ’I would rather not have a bit of the sheep that came in a day or two ago in one of Mr. S.’s carts’!”

It was always cheering in February, “fill dyke, be it black or be it white,” on a dark morning, to hear the young lambs and their mothers calling to each other in the orchards, where there is some grass all the year round under the shelter of the apple trees; or when a springlike morning appears, about the time of St. Valentine’s Day, and the thrushes are singing love-songs to their mates, and the first brimstone butterfly has dared to leave his winter seclusion for the fickle sunshine, to realize that Spring is coming, and the active work of the farm is about to recommence.  There is a superstition that when the master sees the firstling of the flock, if its head is turned towards him, good luck for the year will follow, but it is most unlucky if its head is turned away.