The two girls were usually known by their surnames, Banford and
March. They had taken the farm together, intending to work it all
by themselves: that is, they were going to rear chickens, make a
living by poultry, and add to this by keeping a cow, and raising
one or two young beasts. Unfortunately, things did not turn out
well.
Banford was a small, thin, delicate thing with spectacles. She,
however, was the principal investor, for March had little or no
money. Banford's father, who was a tradesman in Islington, gave
his daughter the start, for her health's sake, and because he loved
her, and because it did not look as if she would marry. March was
more robust. She had learned carpentry and joinery at the evening
classes in Islington. She would be the man about the place. They
had, moreover, Banford's old grandfather living with them at the
start. He had been a farmer. But unfortunately the old man died
after he had been at Bailey Farm for a year. Then the two girls
were left alone.
They were neither of them young: that is, they were near thirty.
But they certainly were not old. They set out quite gallantly with
their enterprise. They had numbers of chickens, black Leghorns and
white Leghorns, Plymouths and Wyandottes; also some ducks; also two
heifers in the fields. One heifer, unfortunately, refused
absolutely to stay in the Bailey Farm closes. No matter how March
made up the fences, the heifer was out, wild in the woods, or
trespassing on the neighbouring pasture, and March and Banford were
away, flying after her, with more haste than success. So this
heifer they sold in despair. Then, just before the other beast was
expecting her first calf, the old man died, and the girls, afraid
of the coming event, sold her in a panic, and limited their
attentions to fowls and ducks.
In spite of a little chagrin, it was a relief to have no more
cattle on hand. Life was not made merely to be slaved away. Both
girls agreed in this. The fowls were quite enough trouble. March
had set up her carpenter's bench at the end of the open shed. Here
she worked, making coops and doors and other appurtenances. The
fowls were housed in the bigger building, which had served as barn
and cow-shed in old days. They had a beautiful home, and should
have been perfectly content. Indeed, they looked well enough. But
the girls were disgusted at their tendency to strange illnesses, at
their exacting way of life, and at their refusal, obstinate refusal
to lay eggs.
March did most of the outdoor work. When she was out and about, in
her puttees and breeches, her belted coat and her loose cap, she
looked almost like some graceful, loose-balanced young man, for her
shoulders were straight, and her movements easy and confident, even
tinged with a little indifference or irony. But her face was not a
man's face, ever. The wisps of her crisp dark hair blew about her
as she stooped, her eyes were big and wide and dark, when she
looked up again, strange, startled, shy and sardonic at once. Her
mouth, too, was almost pinched as if in pain and irony. There was
something odd and unexplained about her. She would stand balanced
on one hip, looking at the fowls pattering about in the obnoxious
fine mud of the sloping yard, and calling to her favourite white
hen, which came in answer to her name. But there was an almost
satirical flicker in March's big, dark eyes as she looked at her
three-toed flock pottering about under her gaze, and the same
slight dangerous satire in her voice as she spoke to the favoured
Patty, who pecked at March's boot by way of friendly demonstration.
Fowls did not flourish at Bailey Farm, in spite of all that March
did for them. When she provided hot food for them in the morning,
according to rule, she noticed that it made them heavy and dozy for
hours. She expected to see them lean against the pillars of the
shed in their languid processes of digestion. And she knew quite
well that they ought to be busily scratching and foraging about, if
they were to come to any good. So she decided to give them their
hot food at night, and let them sleep on it. Which she did. But
it made no difference.
War conditions, again, were very unfavourable to poultry-keeping.
Food was scarce and bad. And when the Daylight Saving Bill was
passed, the fowls obstinately refused to go to bed as usual, about
nine o'clock in the summer-time. That was late enough, indeed, for
there was no peace till they were shut up and asleep. Now they
cheerfully walked around, without so much as glancing at the barn,
until ten o'clock or later. Both Banford and March disbelieved in
living for work alone.
1101747505
March. They had taken the farm together, intending to work it all
by themselves: that is, they were going to rear chickens, make a
living by poultry, and add to this by keeping a cow, and raising
one or two young beasts. Unfortunately, things did not turn out
well.
Banford was a small, thin, delicate thing with spectacles. She,
however, was the principal investor, for March had little or no
money. Banford's father, who was a tradesman in Islington, gave
his daughter the start, for her health's sake, and because he loved
her, and because it did not look as if she would marry. March was
more robust. She had learned carpentry and joinery at the evening
classes in Islington. She would be the man about the place. They
had, moreover, Banford's old grandfather living with them at the
start. He had been a farmer. But unfortunately the old man died
after he had been at Bailey Farm for a year. Then the two girls
were left alone.
They were neither of them young: that is, they were near thirty.
But they certainly were not old. They set out quite gallantly with
their enterprise. They had numbers of chickens, black Leghorns and
white Leghorns, Plymouths and Wyandottes; also some ducks; also two
heifers in the fields. One heifer, unfortunately, refused
absolutely to stay in the Bailey Farm closes. No matter how March
made up the fences, the heifer was out, wild in the woods, or
trespassing on the neighbouring pasture, and March and Banford were
away, flying after her, with more haste than success. So this
heifer they sold in despair. Then, just before the other beast was
expecting her first calf, the old man died, and the girls, afraid
of the coming event, sold her in a panic, and limited their
attentions to fowls and ducks.
In spite of a little chagrin, it was a relief to have no more
cattle on hand. Life was not made merely to be slaved away. Both
girls agreed in this. The fowls were quite enough trouble. March
had set up her carpenter's bench at the end of the open shed. Here
she worked, making coops and doors and other appurtenances. The
fowls were housed in the bigger building, which had served as barn
and cow-shed in old days. They had a beautiful home, and should
have been perfectly content. Indeed, they looked well enough. But
the girls were disgusted at their tendency to strange illnesses, at
their exacting way of life, and at their refusal, obstinate refusal
to lay eggs.
March did most of the outdoor work. When she was out and about, in
her puttees and breeches, her belted coat and her loose cap, she
looked almost like some graceful, loose-balanced young man, for her
shoulders were straight, and her movements easy and confident, even
tinged with a little indifference or irony. But her face was not a
man's face, ever. The wisps of her crisp dark hair blew about her
as she stooped, her eyes were big and wide and dark, when she
looked up again, strange, startled, shy and sardonic at once. Her
mouth, too, was almost pinched as if in pain and irony. There was
something odd and unexplained about her. She would stand balanced
on one hip, looking at the fowls pattering about in the obnoxious
fine mud of the sloping yard, and calling to her favourite white
hen, which came in answer to her name. But there was an almost
satirical flicker in March's big, dark eyes as she looked at her
three-toed flock pottering about under her gaze, and the same
slight dangerous satire in her voice as she spoke to the favoured
Patty, who pecked at March's boot by way of friendly demonstration.
Fowls did not flourish at Bailey Farm, in spite of all that March
did for them. When she provided hot food for them in the morning,
according to rule, she noticed that it made them heavy and dozy for
hours. She expected to see them lean against the pillars of the
shed in their languid processes of digestion. And she knew quite
well that they ought to be busily scratching and foraging about, if
they were to come to any good. So she decided to give them their
hot food at night, and let them sleep on it. Which she did. But
it made no difference.
War conditions, again, were very unfavourable to poultry-keeping.
Food was scarce and bad. And when the Daylight Saving Bill was
passed, the fowls obstinately refused to go to bed as usual, about
nine o'clock in the summer-time. That was late enough, indeed, for
there was no peace till they were shut up and asleep. Now they
cheerfully walked around, without so much as glancing at the barn,
until ten o'clock or later. Both Banford and March disbelieved in
living for work alone.
The Fox
The two girls were usually known by their surnames, Banford and
March. They had taken the farm together, intending to work it all
by themselves: that is, they were going to rear chickens, make a
living by poultry, and add to this by keeping a cow, and raising
one or two young beasts. Unfortunately, things did not turn out
well.
Banford was a small, thin, delicate thing with spectacles. She,
however, was the principal investor, for March had little or no
money. Banford's father, who was a tradesman in Islington, gave
his daughter the start, for her health's sake, and because he loved
her, and because it did not look as if she would marry. March was
more robust. She had learned carpentry and joinery at the evening
classes in Islington. She would be the man about the place. They
had, moreover, Banford's old grandfather living with them at the
start. He had been a farmer. But unfortunately the old man died
after he had been at Bailey Farm for a year. Then the two girls
were left alone.
They were neither of them young: that is, they were near thirty.
But they certainly were not old. They set out quite gallantly with
their enterprise. They had numbers of chickens, black Leghorns and
white Leghorns, Plymouths and Wyandottes; also some ducks; also two
heifers in the fields. One heifer, unfortunately, refused
absolutely to stay in the Bailey Farm closes. No matter how March
made up the fences, the heifer was out, wild in the woods, or
trespassing on the neighbouring pasture, and March and Banford were
away, flying after her, with more haste than success. So this
heifer they sold in despair. Then, just before the other beast was
expecting her first calf, the old man died, and the girls, afraid
of the coming event, sold her in a panic, and limited their
attentions to fowls and ducks.
In spite of a little chagrin, it was a relief to have no more
cattle on hand. Life was not made merely to be slaved away. Both
girls agreed in this. The fowls were quite enough trouble. March
had set up her carpenter's bench at the end of the open shed. Here
she worked, making coops and doors and other appurtenances. The
fowls were housed in the bigger building, which had served as barn
and cow-shed in old days. They had a beautiful home, and should
have been perfectly content. Indeed, they looked well enough. But
the girls were disgusted at their tendency to strange illnesses, at
their exacting way of life, and at their refusal, obstinate refusal
to lay eggs.
March did most of the outdoor work. When she was out and about, in
her puttees and breeches, her belted coat and her loose cap, she
looked almost like some graceful, loose-balanced young man, for her
shoulders were straight, and her movements easy and confident, even
tinged with a little indifference or irony. But her face was not a
man's face, ever. The wisps of her crisp dark hair blew about her
as she stooped, her eyes were big and wide and dark, when she
looked up again, strange, startled, shy and sardonic at once. Her
mouth, too, was almost pinched as if in pain and irony. There was
something odd and unexplained about her. She would stand balanced
on one hip, looking at the fowls pattering about in the obnoxious
fine mud of the sloping yard, and calling to her favourite white
hen, which came in answer to her name. But there was an almost
satirical flicker in March's big, dark eyes as she looked at her
three-toed flock pottering about under her gaze, and the same
slight dangerous satire in her voice as she spoke to the favoured
Patty, who pecked at March's boot by way of friendly demonstration.
Fowls did not flourish at Bailey Farm, in spite of all that March
did for them. When she provided hot food for them in the morning,
according to rule, she noticed that it made them heavy and dozy for
hours. She expected to see them lean against the pillars of the
shed in their languid processes of digestion. And she knew quite
well that they ought to be busily scratching and foraging about, if
they were to come to any good. So she decided to give them their
hot food at night, and let them sleep on it. Which she did. But
it made no difference.
War conditions, again, were very unfavourable to poultry-keeping.
Food was scarce and bad. And when the Daylight Saving Bill was
passed, the fowls obstinately refused to go to bed as usual, about
nine o'clock in the summer-time. That was late enough, indeed, for
there was no peace till they were shut up and asleep. Now they
cheerfully walked around, without so much as glancing at the barn,
until ten o'clock or later. Both Banford and March disbelieved in
living for work alone.
March. They had taken the farm together, intending to work it all
by themselves: that is, they were going to rear chickens, make a
living by poultry, and add to this by keeping a cow, and raising
one or two young beasts. Unfortunately, things did not turn out
well.
Banford was a small, thin, delicate thing with spectacles. She,
however, was the principal investor, for March had little or no
money. Banford's father, who was a tradesman in Islington, gave
his daughter the start, for her health's sake, and because he loved
her, and because it did not look as if she would marry. March was
more robust. She had learned carpentry and joinery at the evening
classes in Islington. She would be the man about the place. They
had, moreover, Banford's old grandfather living with them at the
start. He had been a farmer. But unfortunately the old man died
after he had been at Bailey Farm for a year. Then the two girls
were left alone.
They were neither of them young: that is, they were near thirty.
But they certainly were not old. They set out quite gallantly with
their enterprise. They had numbers of chickens, black Leghorns and
white Leghorns, Plymouths and Wyandottes; also some ducks; also two
heifers in the fields. One heifer, unfortunately, refused
absolutely to stay in the Bailey Farm closes. No matter how March
made up the fences, the heifer was out, wild in the woods, or
trespassing on the neighbouring pasture, and March and Banford were
away, flying after her, with more haste than success. So this
heifer they sold in despair. Then, just before the other beast was
expecting her first calf, the old man died, and the girls, afraid
of the coming event, sold her in a panic, and limited their
attentions to fowls and ducks.
In spite of a little chagrin, it was a relief to have no more
cattle on hand. Life was not made merely to be slaved away. Both
girls agreed in this. The fowls were quite enough trouble. March
had set up her carpenter's bench at the end of the open shed. Here
she worked, making coops and doors and other appurtenances. The
fowls were housed in the bigger building, which had served as barn
and cow-shed in old days. They had a beautiful home, and should
have been perfectly content. Indeed, they looked well enough. But
the girls were disgusted at their tendency to strange illnesses, at
their exacting way of life, and at their refusal, obstinate refusal
to lay eggs.
March did most of the outdoor work. When she was out and about, in
her puttees and breeches, her belted coat and her loose cap, she
looked almost like some graceful, loose-balanced young man, for her
shoulders were straight, and her movements easy and confident, even
tinged with a little indifference or irony. But her face was not a
man's face, ever. The wisps of her crisp dark hair blew about her
as she stooped, her eyes were big and wide and dark, when she
looked up again, strange, startled, shy and sardonic at once. Her
mouth, too, was almost pinched as if in pain and irony. There was
something odd and unexplained about her. She would stand balanced
on one hip, looking at the fowls pattering about in the obnoxious
fine mud of the sloping yard, and calling to her favourite white
hen, which came in answer to her name. But there was an almost
satirical flicker in March's big, dark eyes as she looked at her
three-toed flock pottering about under her gaze, and the same
slight dangerous satire in her voice as she spoke to the favoured
Patty, who pecked at March's boot by way of friendly demonstration.
Fowls did not flourish at Bailey Farm, in spite of all that March
did for them. When she provided hot food for them in the morning,
according to rule, she noticed that it made them heavy and dozy for
hours. She expected to see them lean against the pillars of the
shed in their languid processes of digestion. And she knew quite
well that they ought to be busily scratching and foraging about, if
they were to come to any good. So she decided to give them their
hot food at night, and let them sleep on it. Which she did. But
it made no difference.
War conditions, again, were very unfavourable to poultry-keeping.
Food was scarce and bad. And when the Daylight Saving Bill was
passed, the fowls obstinately refused to go to bed as usual, about
nine o'clock in the summer-time. That was late enough, indeed, for
there was no peace till they were shut up and asleep. Now they
cheerfully walked around, without so much as glancing at the barn,
until ten o'clock or later. Both Banford and March disbelieved in
living for work alone.
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The Fox
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013744479 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/13/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 71 KB |
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