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The Troutbeck shepherd is standing some yards away beside a pen containing five half-bred ewes. As I approach he turns, and remarks, with a laugh: ‘These are mine! All together, and t’ first lot I’ve looked at!’

I congratulate him on his luck, then ask him how he will prove his claim.

‘Well, look here’—he vaulted within the enclosure and laid hands on the nearest animal—‘all my sheep are marked with a R burnt on the horn; there’s t’ same on t’ hoof, wi’ a red stripe down t’ left flank like this. Well, anybody from our dale knows these marks, and if anyone doubted me I should bring some of them to prove it.‘

The shepherd and I walked round the strays still unclaimed; the wan morning light had broken into clear day I noticed, but my companion, by his remarks on fells life and customs, kept my attention closely. Then he suddenly stopped, and, pointing to a single ewe folded by itself, he said:

‘That sheep’ll not be claimed to-day, I guess.’ Then, turning to the lad in charge, he continued: ‘Jimmy, wharriver hesta gitten that fra?’ [wherever have you got that from?].