. He would start that old moon, if he fell
down and broke his neck. Kit was hungry now. It was a long time since
supper. Porridge is, no doubt, good feeding; but it vanishes away like
the morning cloud, and leaves behind it only an aching void. Kit felt
the void, but he could not help it. Instead, however, of dwelling upon
it, his mind was full of queer thoughts and funny imaginings. It is a
strange thing that the thought of rattling on the ribs of a lazy, sleepy
moon with a besom-shank pleased him as much as a plate of porridge and
as much milk as he could sup to it. But that was the fact.

Kit went next into the stable to get a lantern. The horses were moving
about restlessly, but Kit had nothing to do with them. He went in only
to get a lantern. It was on the great wooden corn-crib in the corner.
Kit lighted it, and pulled down his cap over his ears.

Then he crossed over to the cattle-sheds. The snow was crisp under foot.
His feet went through the light drift which had fallen during the night,
and crackled frostily upon the older and harder crust. At the barn, Kit
paused to put fresh straw in his iron-shod clogs. Fresh straw every
morning in the bottom of one's clogs is a great luxury. It keeps the
feet warm. Who can afford a new sole of fleecy wool every morning to his
shoe? Kit could, for straw is cheap, and even his aunt did not grudge a
handful. Not that it would have mattered if she had.

The cattle rattled their chains in a friendly and companionable way as
he crossed the yard, Tyke following a little more sedately than before.
Kit's first morning job was to fodder the cattle. He went to the hay-mow
and carried a great armful of fodder, filling the manger before the
bullocks, and giving each a friendly pat as he went by. Great Jock, the
bull in the pen by himself in the corner, pushed a moist nose over the
bars, and dribbled upon Kit with slobbering affection. Kit put down his
head and pretended to run at him, whereat Jock, whom nobody else dared
go near, beamed upon him with the solemn affection of "bestial"--his
great eyes shining in the light of the lamp with unlovely but genuine
affection.

Then came the cows' turn. Kit Kennedy took a milking-pail, which he
would have called a luggie, set his knee to Crummie, his favourite, who
was munching her fodder, and soon had a warm draught. He pledged her in
her own milk, wishing her good health and many happy returns. Then, for
his aunt's sake, he carefully wipe