up courage to attempt it.

One day in March--and this is the last disaster I have to record
concerning our butter--we were particularly anxious to have it good,
as we expected visitors, to whom we had frequently boasted of our
skill as dairywomen: the day was very warm, and the cream appeared
much thicker than usual; we churned for more than an hour without its
appearing to undergo any change; we frequently removed the lid to see
if there was any sign of butter coming, but each time we were
disheartened when we discovered it looked just the same as when placed
in the churn. At last the handle went round as easily as if no cream
were in it, and presently it began to run over the top of the churn.
When we looked in a curious sight presented itself: the cream had
risen to the top, just as milk does when it boils! We were greatly
astonished. In nine months' butter-making we had seen nothing like it.

Tom, who milked the cows was supposed to know something of the art of
churning; he was, therefore, called into the dairy: as soon as he saw
the state of the matter he exclaimed, "Why, the cream's gone to
sleep!"

"The cream gone to sleep!" What in the world could that mean? Such a
propensity we had never discovered in cream before; we could gain no
solution of the mystery from Tom; all he said was, that we must go on
churning till it "waked up."

H. and myself had been hard at work for two hours, so willingly
yielded to his request that he might be allowed to rouse the cream
from its slumber. He, the cook, and housemaid, churned away by turns
till seven in the evening, but the sleep of the cream remained