Free The Tale of Hill Top Farm by Susan Wittig Albert Page A

morning, Mr. Jennings,” Beatrix said. “I’ve been looking forward to it very much.”
    The man glanced down at Beatrix’s feet. “T’ missus can make t’ loan of her pattens,” he said curtly. “T’ barn yard’s a mire, and tha’ll spoil thi town shoes.”
    Beatrix colored. She should have thought to provide herself with something suitable to country walks. “I’d be glad of the loan,” she said, and followed him around to the front of the house.
    The sturdy leather clogs, Mr. Jennings told her as she took off her town shoes and slipped her feet into them, were made by a cobbler in Hawkshead from an old pattern that was favored by the local country women. They fit perfectly, and as Beatrix walked down the farm lane beside Mr. Jennings, the terrier and the ginger cat trailing behind, she felt very much like a country woman herself. As she looked around, an ecstatic joy welled up inside her, and perhaps she might be forgiven for thinking that Hill Top Farm was the most beautiful farm in the whole world. After all, it was her farm, and the grass was like emeralds, the sky an azure blue, the wind off the fells was as fresh and clean as if it had been newly laundered, and smoky London and her mother and father were quite far away.
    For the next several hours, as the morning sun lifted the mist from Esthwaite Water and the clouds wandered across the fells and moors beyond, Beatrix and John Jennings made their way around the small acreage, through the stone-built barns and the muddy barnyard, along a narrow cart-track through the grassy meadows, past the stone quarry and stacks of hay and the little autumn-colored coppice. They paused on the lane at the foot of the farm, so that Beatrix could look out over the green meadow toward Esthwaite Water, where a flock of white geese sailed on the placid surface. As they walked, Beatrix inquired about the farm carts and farm tools, the garden soil, the health of the animals, the state of the winter grass, the size of the summer’s hay crop, and the availability of quarry stone for walls and walks. Mr. Jennings replied in an increasingly respectful tone that revealed his surprise at the breadth and depth of her questions. Beatrix found pleasure in their conversation; for her, at least, the time passed quickly—and if Mr. Jennings would rather have been doing something else that morning, he didn’t reveal it. And Rascal, who was trotting along close behind, was as surprised as Mr. Jennings at the questions Miss Potter asked. Who would have thought that a famous lady author from London could care so much about a little farm in the Lake District?
    As they walked down the lane that marked the southern edge of the farm, Beatrix noticed a whitewashed cottage beneath an overhanging willow tree, some little distance away, in the direction of the lake. Looking at it, she suddenly felt the tingling in her fingers that always signaled an irresistible desire to draw a beautiful object—and the tiny cottage was beautiful, with its clean white walls and slate roof and chimney cap, and a tumble of roses in the door yard.
    “What’s that place?” she asked curiously, pointing to the cottage.
    “That’s Willow Cottage,” Mr. Jennings said. “Miss Crosfield and her nephew Jeremy live there. She spins and weaves for folk and keeps a few sheep for t’ wool. But since t’ steam looms ’ve come, times is bad for t’ likes o’ her. Bad for t’ sheep, too, now that linoleum’s come in to replace carpet.”
    “Linoleum is bad for the sheep?” Beatrix frowned, thinking of the linoleum on the floor of the Bolton Gardens servants’ quarters. “Why is that?”
    “T’ native sheep are Herdwicks, suited to t’ harsh winters in t’ fells. Their wool is coarse and springy, and best used to make carpets. But modern folk wants linoleum in their houses, and there’s no market for t’ fleece, so sheep farmers are turnin’ to other breeds.” He paused. “Pity, too. Herdwicks are a