'I'd have you know,' said Vessons, 'as I take 'em off neater--ah! a
deal neater. Bees and cows and yew-tree swans,' he went on
reflectively, 'I can manage better than any married man. For what he
puts into matrimony I put into my work. Now I ask you'--he fixed his
eyes on her with the expression of a fanatic--'I ask you, was there
ever a beekeeper or a general or a sea-captain as was anything to boast
of, being married? Never! Marriage kills the mind! Why's bees clever?
Why's the skip allus full of honey at summer's end? Because they're all
old maids!'

'The queen inna. They all come from her.'

Vessons glared for a moment; then, realizing defeat, turned on his heel
and went to feed the calves. He had an ingenious way of getting the
calves in. He had no dog; it was one of his dreams to have one. But he
managed very well. First he opened the calfskit door; then he loosed
the pigs; then he fetched a bucket and went to the field where the
calves were, followed by a turbulent, squealing, ferocious crowd of
pigs. He walked round the calves, and the calves fled homewards, far
more afraid of the pigs than of a dog. This piece of farm economy
pleased Vessons, and, peace being restored, they laid tea amicably.

When Reddin came home to a pleasant scent of toast and the sight of
Hazel's shining braids of hair, new brushed and piled high on her head,
he felt very well pleased with himself. He stretched in the red
armchair and flung an arm round her. His hard blue eyes, his hard
mouth, smiled; he felt that he could make a success of marriage, though
the parson (as he called Edward) could not. Women, he reflected, were
quite easy to manage. 'Just show them who's master straight off, and