Boarding schools -- England -- Juvenile fiction; Girls -- England -- Juvenile fiction
The girls had now reached the farm, a little low-built, whitewashed
house almost on the summit of a hill. Though the principal occupation of
its owner lay among sheep, he had a clearing of fields, where he grew
swedes, potatoes, and a little barley. In a sheltered place behind his
stable-yard he had a stock of last year's potatoes still left; they were
piled into a long heap, covered with straw and then with earth as a
protection. He took the girls round here, measured the potatoes in a
bushel bin, and then filled the baskets.
"They won't keep much longer," he informed Miss Norton. "I'd have carted
them down to Whitecliffe, only I've no horse now, and it's difficult to
borrow one; and I can't spare the time from the sheep either. Labour's
so scarce now. My two sons are fighting, and I've only a grandson of
fourteen and a daughter to help me."
"Everybody is feeling the same pinch," replied Miss Norton. "We're only
too glad to come and fetch the potatoes ourselves. It's a nice walk for
us."
The girls, who overheard the conversation, felt they cordially agreed.
It was fun wandering round the little farm-yard, looking at the ducks,
and chickens, and calves, or peeping inside the barns and stables.
Several of them began to register vows to work on the land when
school-days were over.
"They've got a new German camp over there," volunteered the farmer. "I
suppose their first contingent of prisoners arrived yesterday. Hadn't
you heard about it? Oh, they've been busy for weeks putting up barbed
wire! It can't be so far from your place either. You'd pass it if you
crossed the stile there and went back over the moor instead of round by
the road."
At the news of a German camp a kind of electric thrill passed round the
company. The girls were wild with curiosity to see it, and pressed Miss
Norton to allow them to return to Brackenfield by the moorland path. The
mistress herself seemed interested, and consented quite readily. It was
a much quicker way back to the school, and would save time; she was
grateful to Mr. Briggs for having pointed out so short a cut.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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