PREFACE.

This little Work was undertaken to excite the attention of those children, who live in the country, to the various objects by which they are surrounded; and to furnish those residing in the metropolis and other large cities, with some information relative to rural economy, which their situation prevents them acquiring by personal observation.

The author acknowledges that she is totally incompetent deeply to discuss the phenomena of nature, or the science of agriculture; she should indeed[iv] think it inconsistent to introduce scientific researches into a Work of this kind. But a slight investigation of the simple arts by which the nourishment of man is effected, or of some of those wonders of creative power which daily present themselves to view, cannot, in her opinion, be deemed an improper exercise even at an early age.

[1]

CHAPTER I. Cows.

“What a delightful morning!” exclaimed little Arthur Benson on opening his eyes, and seeing the sun shine bright into his room; “Charles, Charles,” continued he, turning to his brother, who was still asleep, “let us get up directly, and we shall have time for a little walk before grandpapa and grandmamma come down stairs.” Charles obeyed the summons, and[2] they were soon dressed. They then went into the garden, and from the garden into the field adjoining; both highly pleased with all they saw, for they had never slept out of London before, and the country was quite a new scene to them. “See,” said Charles, “how all the cows are gathered together by that gate; and here comes a man they call old Ralph with a pail on his arm. Pray, Ralph, what do the cows want there?” “They want to be milked,” said Ralph, “and through that gate is the way to the farm yard.” “Are you going to milk them, and may we come with you?” inquired Arthur.

Leave being given, they tripped along by the side of the good old servant;[3] but both stood at some distance behind when they came near the cows, as they felt rather afraid of going close to such large animals. “Why, now, masters, what is there to be afraid of?” said Ralph, who found they had left off talking and suddenly shrunk back. “The cows will not hurt you, if you do not hurt them.” “Don’t they sometimes toss people with their great horns?” asked Charles. “Here and there you may meet with a vicious one,” replied the man, “but in common they are very gentle.”

Arthur. I remember my papa told me never to run in the way of the cows that we meet in London streets.

Ralph. Aye, that is a very different thing. The poor cattle are not used[4] to be there, so sometimes they may be frightened; and then, the butchers are often cruel, and will beat and drive them about, as I have heard, so that for what I know it may be best to keep out of their way; but here there is nothing of the sort. I do not ill use them, and they are always quiet with me.

The little Bensons then recovered from their fears, and wanted to milk the cows themselves. The trial was made, and they were surprised to find that they were not able to do it as well as Ralph. Had they been older, they would have known that there are many things which are easy to those who are accustomed to do them, that one who had never tried would find difficult.

[5]

“Pray, Ralph,” asked Arthur, “why has the young calf that thing full of spikes round his mouth? See, he wants to suck the black cow, and she will not let him. Cannot you take it off?”

“Oh no, master Arthur, it is time the calf should be weaned. He is old enough now to eat grass, and we want the milk for the dairy; so we put the spikes on him, and because of them, as they would hurt her, the mother will not let him suck any more.”

“Is he to be killed?” inquired Charles.

“Not at present,” replied the old man. “Master means to keep him to draw in the team.”

“To draw in the team!” said Charles with some surprise.

[6]

“Yes,” returned Ralph; “we have always a team of oxen. You may see them ploughing in that field yonder; just there,” continued he, pointing with his finger, “beyond the holly hedge.”

“I see them; I see them,” said Arthur. “Poor creatures! how slow they go! Are not they tired, Ralph?” “No, sir,” replied Ralph, “they do not move so quick as horses; but they are vastly stronger. And though it is not always quite so easy to manage them, yet on the whole they answer very well.”

Ralph had now finished milking: and taking the little boys into the stable, he showed them a baby calf, as he called it, that was to be sold to the butcher the next day.

Page 6.

The baby Calf.

London. Published by W. Darton Jun. Oct. 5, 1815.

[7]

“O you pretty little thing!” said Arthur. “Only look, Charles, at these spots on its back. I should like to have it for my own. Why must it be killed, pray?”

Ralph. To serve us for food, master Arthur. If we were to suffer all the cattle to live, they would eat all the grass and corn that we could grow; and then we should be starved, and you would not like that.

Arthur. No, I don’t want to starve; only I do not like to have things killed.

At this moment Mr. Mansfield came into the stable.

“We were talking about this poor calf, grandpapa,” said Charles. “Ralph says it is to be killed to-morrow to[8] make veal. I am sorry for it; it has such a pretty coat!”

“It cannot be helped, my dear,” replied his grandfather. “But when it is dead, do you know what will be done with its pretty coat?” The boys answering they did not, “It will be sold,” said he, “to the tanner, who dresses the skins of cattle, or hides as they are called; and when it is properly prepared, it makes that beautiful, smooth kind of leather, that the large books you were looking at last night were bound with. It is often prepared to write upon, and is then called vellum. The skins of oxen and cows make a thick coarse leather, such as the soles of our boots and shoes.”

[9]

“And what becomes of the hair?” asked Charles.

“After the hide has been soaked for a long time,” replied Mr. Mansfield, “it comes off easily, and is put into that kind of mortar which is used to plaster walls, in order to keep them from crumbling and falling away. Did you never see in a white wall broken down in part, a heap of short hairs, and here and there perhaps a little loose piece of mortar hanging to them?”

Arthur said he had, but he did not know it was cow-hair; and added, he could not have thought it could have been of any use.

“Every thing is of use, my dear,” said Mr. Mansfield. “I doubt if you[10] can name a part of the cow that will not turn to some account.”

“What the hoofs, grandpapa?” said Charles.

“Yes, Charles,” returned Mr. Mansfield. “The hoofs and the parings of the skin, by being boiled down to a strong jelly, make the glue which carpenters use to join things together.”

Arthur. The horns—Oh, I know what is done with the horns. I have seen horn lanterns, and I have got a little box at home that mamma says is made of horn.

Mr. Mansfield. Very well, Arthur. And you may have seen boxes, and knife-handles, and combs, and many other things, made of the bones of the ox. Even the dung is of some use.[11] It is a good manure for land; it is used in the process for bleaching linen; and poor women pick it up when it is dry, and make fires of it, to save coals.

[12]

CHAPTER II. The Dairy.

Mrs. Mansfield, hearing how much her little grandsons had been pleased with the cows, after breakfast took them into the dairy, to show them what was done with the milk which those useful animals give in such large quantities. The dairy was a little room with a brick floor, facing the north, and kept very cool, by means of a latticed window that let in fresh air. It was necessary that it should be built in that way, because heat[13] soon turns milk sour. Round the room were fixed a sort of trays lined with lead, which then were all filled with milk.

“Grandmamma, what is to be done with this milk?” inquired Arthur.

“It is set for cream,” answered Mrs. Mansfield; “and the cream will be made into butter.”

Charles. How is butter made, pray?

Grandmamma. Come here, and I will show you. The milk is poured into these trays, which are not deep, but broad, so as to cover a large space. When it has stood some time, the cream or greasy part, which at first is mixed with the milk, rises to the top in the manner you now see. Then it is skimmed off with this[14] ladle, and put into a pan by itself. This is done twice a-day; and when there is cream enough, it is churned into butter.

Charles. Is there any churn here, grandmamma? Sister Kate has got a plaything churn, but I never saw one fit for real use.

Mrs. Mansfield pointed to a large barrel fixed on a stand, with a winch handle to turn it, and told him that was the churn. Charles was surprised, and said it was not at all like his sister’s.

Grandmamma. Perhaps not. Sometimes they are made like a pail, with a long stick to pull up and down; but these I have give less trouble, and, I believe, are now common.

Page 14.

The Dairy.

London. Published by W. Darton Junʳ. Oct. 5, 1815.

[15]

Arthur. Well, grandmamma, how is this used?

Grandmamma. The cream is put in through that little square door, which is then shut quite close; and when the churn has been turned a good while, it is changed into butter.

Charles. So then butter is nothing but cream shaken about? I should like to see it made.

Grandmamma. You cannot see it now, my dear, because Rose churned yesterday. But I will give you a little cream in a phial: and you may shake it till you make it into butter.

Arthur. Oh, can we make it so? I should like it very much indeed, if you please, ma’am.

[16]

Mrs. Mansfield fetched a phial, and the two boys amused themselves a long time with their experiment. But they found that with all their pains they could not turn the whole into butter; their grandmamma told them there was always some waste; that it was called buttermilk, and given to the pigs.

Arthur and Charles, quite proud of their success, went to look for Rose, that they might tell her they could make butter as well as she. They found her in the dairy, where their attention was drawn to a new circumstance. Rose was standing before a large tub, full of a white substance rather thicker than jelly, which she was very diligently employed in breaking.

[17]

They forgot the butter they had intended to boast of, and both began to ask a variety of questions, which she answered with great good humour.

Both the Boys. What is that for? What are you doing now, Rose?

Rose. Making cheese.

Charles. Making cheese? Well, since I have been at my grandpapa’s, I have seen things I never saw before.

Arthur. But how do you make it, Rose? What have you got there?

Rose. Curd.

Arthur. What is curd?

Rose. It is made from milk, master Arthur. When the cream is taken off, we take the milk and mix it with rennet, and then—

Arthur. Rennet! What is that?

[18]

Rose. A sour juice that is made by boiling a part of the inside of a calf. We put a little rennet to the milk, which makes it part into curds and whey. This thick white part is the curd, and the thin watery part is called whey.

Arthur. Is that the whey people take for a cold?

Rose. No. That kind of whey is made with wine instead of rennet; but the curd parts just in the same manner as this.

Charles. I will ask our Sally to let me look at it the next time she makes whey. But why do you break it?

Rose. That there may be no lumps. Wait a little, if you please, and you shall see how I go on.

She then took a large round bag[19] made of coarse cloth, into which she put all the curd, and pressed it with very heavy weights in order to squeeze out as much of the whey as she could. This done, she turned it out of the bag into a vat which has holes like a cullender, and, leaving it to drain, then told them the cheese was finished.

“I did not know,” said Charles, “it was so easy to make cheese. But what is the rind, pray?”

“’Tis the same as the rest,” replied Rose; “only, being left to the air, it grows hard in time.” Then leading them into another room, she showed them a great number of cheeses; some were still soft, having been lately made; others, that had been longer kept, were grown quite hard.

[20]

“What is the whey good for?’ asked Charles, as they came back through the dairy.

“We give it to the pigs,” said Rose.

“So then,” said Arthur to himself as he walked away, “butter and cheese are both made from milk; but the butter is the greasy part, and the cheese is the curdy.”

“Yes, master Arthur,” said Rose, “you are right, for that is our way of making butter and cheese in this country: but in many places, where richer cheese is made, they use the milk without skimming off the cream; and to make good cream cheese, the cream only is used when skimmed from the milk.”

[21]

CHAPTER III. The Pigs.

When dinner-time came, it happened that there were brought to table some custards and gooseberry tarts, of which Charles was tempted to eat very greedily. He had already been twice helped, and the servant was going to carry away the remainder of a tart that had been left in the dish, when Charles, not satisfied whilst any remained, stopped him, and once more filled his plate with it.

[22]

The footman stared; and his grandpapa and grandmamma looked at him with surprise, but said nothing.

In the evening Mr. Mansfield led his grandsons into the yard, just at the time his man was giving the pigs their supper. Arthur and Charles were diverted at the eagerness with which the whole family squeaked and grunted over their food, which they devoured with the utmost haste, treading one over another as they scrambled for a share.

“O grandpapa,” exclaimed Charles, “how droll it is to see the pigs eat! Look there! look there! One has got a cabbage leaf, and another wants it. Now it has got it away,[23] and it eats it as fast as ever it can. And now it is come for more. I dare say they will soon empty the trough.”

“Perhaps so,” replied his grandpapa, smiling. “Pigs are as fond of cabbage leaves and bean stalks, as little boys are of gooseberry pie.”

Charles blushed.

“Hey, Charles!” continued he, putting his hand upon his head so as to look full in his face, “this is not the first time to-day I thought I had a pig for my companion. Do you know any body that ate voraciously, and at last emptied the dish?”

Charles softly answered, “Yes, sir.”

“Well, I believe he is ashamed of his greediness,” said Mr. Mansfield; “I only advise him another time to[24] be more upon his guard for fear we should take him for a pig.”

As they were sauntering about, a sow with a fine litter of pigs at her heels came across the yard.

“Pray, sir,” asked Arthur, “how many pigs may a sow have at once?”

“From ten to twenty,” said Mr. Mansfield. “But as she has not milk enough to suckle so many, she casts off some, and seldom brings up more than twelve.”

Arthur. What food do they like best, sir?

Page 24.

The Pigs.

London. Published by W. Darton Junʳ. Oct. 5, 1815.

Grandpapa. They are not very difficult. They will eat almost any kind of rubbish and offal: but vegetables of all sorts are best for them. Cabbage stalks, potatoe parings, bean[25] and pea shells, they like very well; and it is a good way to turn them out into the forests, where they meet with plenty of acorns, and mast nuts that grow upon beach trees. With their long snouts they turn up the ground, that they may get at the roots or plants: to prevent this, we are obliged to have a ring thrust through their noses, otherwise they would do a great deal of mischief.

Charles. Are they of much use, grandpapa?

Grandpapa. Not whilst they are alive. When dead, the flesh, you know, is eaten, and is called pork, or bacon if salted in a particular manner. The lard, or some of the fat, is used in making many sorts of plasters, and[26] the bristles are formed into brushes of various kinds; and are used by shoemakers and others in sewing leather, instead of needles.

Arthur. I like little pigs much better than I do great old ones.

Grandpapa. I cannot say the hog is a favourite animal with me. He is not only ugly, but his habits of life are disagreeable. You may have observed that he is very fond of grouting in the mire. Neither his grunting nor his squeaking is pleasant music; and the whole race are so greedy, that, if they have food enough, they will eat till they are too heavy to stand on their legs; even then they will lie on their sides, and eat still. Sometimes the sow will go so far as to devour her own young.

[27]

Arthur. Indeed? The unnatural brute!

Grandpapa. I should have told you that their stomach is made very large, and requires an unusual quantity of food. But if we are disgusted with the manners of a hog, we should be careful not to imitate them; as filth, gluttony, and want of natural affection, must surely be ten times more shocking in the creature man, who is blessed with reason.

[28]

CHAPTER IV. Sheep-Shearing.

The following day being appointed for sheep-shearing, a number of men and boys assembled at an early hour in the great barn. Arthur and Charles went with their grandpapa to see the process, and were greatly pleased with the hurry and bustle of the scene. The sheep were penned in a fold close to the barn, and were fetched away by the lads one by one, as fast as the shearers were ready for them. A few[29] days before, they had all been washed at a mill-pond, so that their fleeces were beautifully white, and they were so thick as to make the animals appear almost twice as large as they really were.

Page 28.

Sheep Shearing.

London. Published by W. Darton Junʳ. Octʳ. 5, 1815.

Arthur observed with surprise, that the poor creatures were perfectly quiet during the time of their being shorn; although they struggled with terror when they were first brought out, and bleated piteously as soon as they were set at liberty.

He wondered at the ease with which the men laid them on the ground, and afterwards turned them over from side to side, as was necessary in the course of the shearing. After watching one of the shearers for some time, he began[30] the following conversation with him:—

Arthur. Good man, does not it hurt the sheep to be pulled about in that way?

The Man. They do not like it; but I try to hurt them as little as I can.

Arthur. Are you not afraid of cutting them with the shears, when you put them down into the middle of the wool?

The Man. We take care to feel our way, but now and then they get an unlucky snip. That man there, that stands by the door, has some tar that he puts to them if they chance to be hurt.

Arthur. Poor things! how cold[31] they must feel when they lose such a quantity of wool!

The Man. It is time they should be shorn now, master. This is their winter coat, as one may say; and if it was left much longer, by little and little it would fall off of itself.

Arthur. Then why don’t you let it come off of itself, instead of taking all this trouble, and teasing the sheep?

The Man. My service to you, sir! What, are we to lose the wool, or to follow the sheep from place to place wherever they choose to stray, in order to gather it after them? No, no; they may suffer a little at first, but if the weather is warm they soon get over it.

[32]

Arthur. How many can you shear in a day, good man?

The Man. Why, fifty, more or less. The quickest hands can finish one in ten minutes.