"Ay, sure, shepherd," said the conclave.
The door was flung back till it kicked the wall and trembled from top to bottom with the blow. Mr. Oak appeared in the entry with a steaming face, hay-bands wound about his ankles to keep out the snow, a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and looking altogether an epitome of the world's health and vigour. Four lambs hung in various embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and the dog George, which Gabriel had contrived to fetch from Norcombe, stalked solemnly behind.
"Well, Shepherd Oak, and how's lambing this year, if I may say it?" inquired Joseph Poorgrass.
"Terrible trying," said Oak. "I've been wet through twice a-day, either in snow or rain, this last fortnight. Cainy and I haven't tined our eyes to-night."
"A good few twins, too, I hear, so to speak it?"
"Too many by half. Yes; 'tis a very queer lambing this year. We sha'n't have done by Lady Day."
"And last year 'twer all over by Sexagessamine Sunday," Joseph remarked.
"Bring on the rest, Cain," said Gabriel, "and then run back to the ewes. I'll follow you soon."
Cainy Ball—a cherry-faced young lad, with a small circular orifice by way of mouth, advanced
