Do you know what a " master's cupboard"
is? Mr. Wordsworth could have told you;
ay, and have shown you one at Rydal Mount,
too. It is a cupboard about a foot in width,
and a foot and a half in breadth, expressly
reserved for the use of the master of the
household. Here he may keep pipe and
tankard, almanac, and what not; and
although no door bars the access of any
hand, in this open cupboard his peculiar
properties rest secure, for is it not " the
master's cupboard "? There was a fire in
the house-place, even on this hot day; it gave
a grace and a vividness to the room, and
being kept within proper limits, it seemed no
more than was requisite to boil the kettle.
For, I should say, that the very minute of
our arrival, our hostess (so I shall designate
the wife of the farmer at whose house the
sheep-shearing was to be held) proposed tea;
and although we had not dined, for it was
but little past three, yet, on the principle of
"Do at Rome as the Romans do," we
assented with a good grace, thankful to have
any refreshment offered us, short of water-
gruel, after our long and tiring walk, and
rather afraid of our children " cooling too
quickly."

While the tea was preparing, and it took
six comely matrons to do it justice, we
proposed to Mrs. C. (our real hostess), that we
should go and see the sheep-shearing. She
accordingly led us away into a back yard,
where the process was going on. By a back
yard I mean a far different place from what
a Londoner would so designate; our back
yard, high up on the mountain side, was a
space about forty yards by twenty,
overshadowed by the noble sycamore, which
might have been the very one that suggested
to Coleridge—

     "This sycamore (oft musical with bees—
       Such tents the Patriarchs loved)" &c., &c.

And in this deep, cool, green shadow sate
two or three grey-haired sires, smoking their
pipes, and regarding the proceedings with a
placid complacency, which had a savour of
contempt in it for the degeneracy of the
present times—a sort of " Ah! they don't
know what good shearing is now-a-days"
look in it. That round shadow of the
sycamore tree, and the elders who sat there
looking on, were the only things not full of
motion and life in the yard. The yard itself was
bounded by a grey stone wall, and the moors
rose above it to the mountain top; we looked
over the low walls on to the spaces bright
with the yellow asphodel, and the first flush
of the purple heather. The shadow of the
farm-house fell over this yard, so that it was
cool in aspect, save for the ruddy faces of the
eager shearers, and the gay-coloured linsey
petticoats of the women, folding the fleeces
with tucked-up gowns.

When we first went into the yard, every
corner of it seemed as full of motion as an
antique frieze, and, like that, had to be studied
before I could ascertain the different actions
and purposes involved. On the left hand was
a walled-in field of small extent, full of
sunshine and light, with the heated air quivering
over the flocks of panting bewildered sheep,
who were penned up therein, awaiting their
turn to be shorn. At the gate by which this
field was entered from the yard stood a group
of eager-eyed boys, panting like the sheep,
but not like them from fear, but from excitement
and joyous exertion. Their faces were
flushed with brown-crimson, their scarlet lips
were parted into smiles, and their eyes had
that peculiar blue lustre in them, which is
only gained by a free life in the pure and
blithesome air. As soon as these lads saw
that a sheep was wanted by the shearers
within, they sprang towards one in the field
—the more boisterous and stubborn an old
ram the better—and tugging, and pulling,
and pushing, and shouting—sometimes
mounting astride of the poor obstreperous brute,
and holding his horns like a bridle—they
gained their point and dragged their captive
up to the shearer, like little victors as they
were, all glowing and ruddy with conquest.
The shearers sat each astride on a long bench,
grave and important—the heroes of the day.
The flock of sheep to be shorn on this occasion
consisted of more than a thousand, and eleven
famous shearers had come, walking in from,
many miles' distance to try their skill one
against the other; for sheep-shearings are a
sort of rural Olympics. They were all young
men in their prime, strong, and well-made;
without coat or waistcoat, and with upturned
shirt-sleeves. They sat each across a long
bench or narrow table, and caught up the
sheep from the attendant boys, who had
dragged it in; they lifted it on to the bench,
and placing it by a dexterous knack on its
back, they began to shear the wool off the tail
and under parts; then they tied the two hind
legs and the two fore legs together, and laid
it first on one side and then on the other, till
the fleece came off in one whole piece; the art
was to shear all the wool off, and yet not to
injure the sheep by any awkward cut: if such an
accident did occur, a mixture of tar and butter
was immediately applied; but every wound
was a blemish on the shearer's fame. To
shear well and completely, and yet to do it
quickly, shows the perfection of the clippers.
Some can finish off as many as six score sheep
in a summer's day; and if you consider the
weight and uncouthness of the animal, and the
general heat of the weather, you will see that,
with justice, clipping or shearing is regarded
as harder work than mowing. But most good
shearers are content with despatching four or
five score; it is only on unusual occasions, or
when Greek meets Greek, that six score are
attempted or accomplished.

When the sheep is divided into its fleece
and itself, it becomes the property of two
persons. The women seize the fleece, and,