Joseph grew up strong and lusty as a shepherd should grow, and together with his brothers, took to wrestling as all shepherds in Cumberland ought to do; but the lads, as they grew up, became so fond of the sheep and so devoted to their father, that as soon as he, seeing that they were likely to be drawn into the ring, and to lose some of their interest in the Herdwick sheep, begged them to give up the wrestling, they gave it up; and henceforth these brothers' one aim in life seemed to be how they could most help their father to improve the Herdwick breed, and maintain his honour as a shepherd. In 1869 the family migrated from Uldale to the secluded farm on Col. Watson's estate, between Lonscale and Saddleback; and what success the Hawells, father and sons, obtained {153} as breeders of pure Herdwicks can be seen by any who will call to-day at the Farm, and ask to be shown the prizes and cards that literally cover the walls from floor to ceiling. The old man, who had struggled with storm on Skiddaw through his laborious life, failed in health, suffered as shepherds often do from terrible rheumatism, and was troubled with asthma. At last he felt obliged to leave the ingle-nook and take to his bed upstairs; but his love of the shepherd's life was still so strong upon him that a few days before he died he insisted on seeing one of the prize Herdwick rams, and the sons had a tough job to get it to 'clim' the 'stee' and stand in the presence of the dying man. The old man felt death coming upon him shortly after, but he told those who watched they need not trouble to fetch the doctor, as he knew his hour had come, and he was ready to 'gang' home. I wrote this sonnet at the time of his death: The sheep are bleating in the fell-side field, The kine call sadly from the homestead near, But thou art far away, thou dost not hear. A greater Shepherd, for thy feet, doth wield {154} The rod that thro' the vale of death can yield Sole comfort. Round thy bed and round thy bier The trophies of thy hand in letters clear, Speak; but we speak not: grief our lips has sealed. Farewell, where Glenderaterra pours apace Rich music from her thousand upland springs! Thy name, old friend, the Lonscale streamlet sings; King-Shepherd thou of Skiddaw's fleecy race; And still in memory we behold thy face, Lined by laborious morns and evenings. And on the headstone in Greystoke churchyard, that records Edward Hawell's burial, may be seen the following lines: Here lies a simple shepherd, one who strove To leave behind a fairer, fuller flock; Lead him, Great Master Shepherd, in thy love, To wells of life from the Eternal Rock!