And when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the gate again, watching them across the lane along the Home Close, and through the far gate, till they disappeared behind a bend in the hedge.  For the hedgerows in those days shut out one’s view, even on the better-managed farms; and this afternoon, the dog-roses were tossing out their pink wreaths, the nightshade was in its yellow and purple glory, the pale honeysuckle grew out of reach, peeping high up out of a holly bush, and over all an ash or a sycamore every now and then threw its shadow across the path.

There were acquaintances at other gates who had to move aside and let them pass:  at the gate of the Home Close there was half the dairy of cows standing one behind the other, extremely slow to understand that their large bodies might be in the way; at the far gate there was the mare holding her head over the bars, and beside her the liver-coloured foal with its head towards its mother’s flank, apparently still much embarrassed by its own straddling existence.  The way lay entirely through Mr. Poyser’s own fields till they reached the main road leading to the village, and he turned a keen eye on the stock and the crops as they went along, while Mrs. Poyser was ready to supply a running commentary on them all.  The woman who manages a dairy has a large share in making the rent, so she may well be allowed to have her opinion on stock and their “keep”—­an exercise which strengthens her understanding so much that she finds herself able to give her husband advice on most other subjects.

“There’s that shorthorned Sally,” she said, as they entered the Home Close, and she caught sight of the meek beast that lay chewing the cud and looking at her with a sleepy eye.  “I begin to hate the sight o’ the cow; and I say now what I said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid of her the better, for there’s that little yallow cow as doesn’t give half the milk, and yet I’ve twice as much butter from her.”

“Why, thee’t not like the women in general,” said Mr. Poyser; “they like the shorthorns, as give such a lot o’ milk.  There’s Chowne’s wife wants him to buy no other sort.”

“What’s it sinnify what Chowne’s wife likes?  A poor soft thing, wi’ no more head-piece nor a sparrow.  She’d take a big cullender to strain her lard wi’, and then wonder as the scratchin’s run through.  I’ve seen enough of her to know as I’ll niver take a servant from her house again—­all hugger-mugger—­and you’d niver know, when you went in, whether it was Monday or Friday, the wash draggin’ on to th’ end o’ the week; and as for her cheese, I know well enough it rose like a loaf in a tin last year.  And then she talks o’ the weather bein’ i’ fault, as there’s folks ‘ud stand on their heads and then say the fault was i’ their boots.”