"An' what wilta do when t' winter storms coom?" Peregrine continued. "It's not o' thee an' thine, but o' t' yowes I's thinkin'; they'll be liggin theer for mebbe three week buried under t' snow. It's then thou'll be wantin' t' owd shipperd back, aye, an' Rover too, that can set a sheep when shoo's under six foot o' snow." "Thou's despert proud of what thou knows about sheep an' dogs, Peregrine, but there's mony a lad down i' t' dale that's thy marrow." "Aye, I's proud o' what I've larnt misel through tendin' sheep on t' Craven moors for mair nor sixty year; and thou's proud o' thy meadows and pasturs down i' t' dale, aye, and o' thy beasts an' yowes and all thy farm-gear; but it's t' pride that gans afore a fall. Think on my words, Timothy Metcalfe, when I's liggin clay-cowd i' my grave. Thou's tramplin' on t' owd shipperd an' robbin' him o' his callin'; and there's fowks makkin' brass i' t' towns that'll seean be robbin' thee o' thy lands. Thou's puttin' up walls all ower t' commons an' lettin' t' snakes wind theirsels around my lile biggin; and there's fowks'll be puttin' up bigger walls, that'll be like a halter round thy neck." As he uttered these words, Peregrine drew himself up to his full height, and his flashing eyes and animated gestures gave to what he said something of the weight of a sibylline prophecy. Then, calling his dog to heel, he moved slowly away. By the end of August the walls had reached the top of the fells and there had joined up with those which had mounted the other slope of the moors from the next valley. And now began the final stage in the process of enclosure--the building of the cross-walls and the division of the whole area into irregular fields. This work started simultaneously in the dale-bottoms and on the crests, so that Peregrine's cottage, which was situated midway between the valley and the mountain-tops, would be enclosed last of all. The agony which the shepherd endured, therefore, during these weeks of early autumn was long-drawn-out. He still pursued his calling, leading the sheep, when the hot sun had burnt the short wiry grass of the hill-slopes, down to the boggy ground where runnels of water furrowed their courses through the peat and kept the herbage green. But go where he might, he could not escape from the sound of the wallers' tools. It was a daily crucifixion of his proud spirit, and every blow of the hammer on the stones was like a piercing of his flesh by the crucifiers' nails.