“Thou’s despert proud of what thou knows about sheep an’ dogs, Peregrine, but there’s mony a lad down i’ t’ dale that’s thy marrow.”

“Aye, I’s proud o’ what I’ve larnt misel through tendin’ sheep on t’ Craven moors for mair nor sixty year; and thou’s proud o’ thy meadows and pasturs down i’ t’ dale, aye, and o’ thy beasts an’ yowes and all thy farm-gear; but it’s t’ pride that gans afore a fall.  Think on my words, Timothy Metcalfe, when I’s liggin clay-cowd i’ my grave.  Thou’s tramplin’ on t’ owd shipperd an’ robbin’ him o’ his callin’; and there’s fowks makkin’ brass i’ t’ towns that’ll seean be robbin’ thee o’ thy lands.  Thou’s puttin’ up walls all ower t’ commons an’ lettin’ t’ snakes wind theirsels around my lile biggin; and there’s fowks’ll be puttin’ up bigger walls, that’ll be like a halter round thy neck.”

As he uttered these words, Peregrine drew himself up to his full height, and his flashing eyes and animated gestures gave to what he said something of the weight of a sibylline prophecy.  Then, calling his dog to heel, he moved slowly away.

By the end of August the walls had reached the top of the fells and there had joined up with those which had mounted the other slope of the moors from the next valley.  And now began the final stage in the process of enclosure—­the building of the cross-walls and the division of the whole area into irregular fields.  This work started simultaneously in the dale-bottoms and on the crests, so that Peregrine’s cottage, which was situated midway between the valley and the mountain-tops, would be enclosed last of all.  The agony which the shepherd endured, therefore, during these weeks of early autumn was long-drawn-out.  He still pursued his calling, leading the sheep, when the hot sun had burnt the short wiry grass of the hill-slopes, down to the boggy ground where runnels of water furrowed their courses through the peat and kept the herbage green.  But go where he might, he could not escape from the sound of the wallers’ tools.  It was a daily crucifixion of his proud spirit, and every blow of the hammer on the stones was like a piercing of his flesh by the crucifiers’ nails.

October brought frost, followed by heavy rains, and the moors were enshrouded in mist.  But the farmers, eager that the enwalling should be finished before the first snows came, allowed their men no respite.  With coarse sacking over their shoulders to ward off the worst of the rain, they laboriously plied their task, but the songs and jests and laughter which had accompanied their work in summer gave way to gloomy silence.  They rarely met Peregrine now, though they often saw him tending his flocks in the distance, and noticed that his shoulders, which six months before had been erect, were now drooping heavily forward and that he walked with tottering steps.  They reported this in the farm-houses where they were lodging, and two of the farmers wives, who in happier days had been on friendly terms with Peregrine, paid a visit to the old man’s cottage in order to try to induce him to come down to the dale for the winter or go and stay with one of his sons in the towns.  The shepherd received them with formal courtesy, but would not listen to their proposal.