Читать книгу Neighbourhood: A year's life in and about an English village онлайн

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‘I knowed by th’ bark o’ him, who ’twur,’ he said, in his slow, deep, quiet voice. ‘Rowster, ’a has a name fer all o’ ye. That there little happy shruck, ’tis yerself an’ nane other. When ’a perks up an’ bellers, ’tis th’ poodle-dorg an’ Miss Sweet. An’ when ’a grizzles, I an’t no call to look around; there be a black coat no gurt ways off, sure as big apples comes from little uns.’

He smiled to himself, as though the memory of some recent encounter with the black coat had returned to him. Then he took a quick glance at the sun.

‘Drinkin’-time!’ said he.

His sheep were all on the far hill-side, half a mile off perhaps, feeding—as sheep always do on windy days—with their heads to the breeze; and shouldering together in long, straight lines, roughly parallel—as, again, sheep generally will, in spite of the prettily ordered groups on painters’ canvases. It is only on days of perfect calm that grazing sheep will head to all points of the compass, and on the South Downs such days are rare indeed.