The Tale of Holly How by Susan Wittig Albert Page B

trespassing on Hill Top property.” And that made the badgers her badgers, didn’t it? Not really, of course, since one couldn’t own a wild animal. But the idea that somebody would steal a peaceable animal out of its home made her angry and indignant.
    “Did t’ law ever stop anybody who wanted to do a thing?” Mr. Jennings remarked with such scorn that Beatrix felt that her response had been naïve. Perhaps the village constable wasn’t interested in enforcing a law that protected animals. And as far as trespassing went, many of the poorer people in the district gathered berries and mushrooms wherever they could be found, and shot hares and rabbits and pheasants for their dinner tables. Who was to draw the line between poaching a rabbit for a meal and digging a badger for entertainment?
    They went along a little way in silence, until the road crested the steep shoulder of Oatmeal Crag and began to creep cautiously down into the valley. They crossed Wilfin Beck at a stony ford where small fish flashed like quicksilver in the shallow water, and drove along a well-used cart-track toward a cottage, its whitewashed walls topped by a roof of gray Coniston slates. The front of the house was covered with pink roses, and there was a blue door.
    “Holly How Farm,” Mr. Jennings said, as they drove down the track. “Hornby’ll be waitin’ for us. He’s glad to sell us those sheep.”
    “I hope he’s not wanting to sell because there’s something wrong with them,” Beatrix replied.
    Mr. Jennings shook his head. “Not a bit of it. Ben Hornby’s Herdwicks are t’ best between t’ lakes, b’yond a doubt. No, t’ truth of it is that his knees are allus givin’ him trouble these days—and then there was that bad business with t’ barn last winter.”
    “The barn?”
    “Aye. Caught fire and burnt to t’ ground. Disheartened him some, I expect. Told me he aims to retire and go to live with his daughter up Keswick way, although he’s keepin’ that dark, so doan’t go telling it around.” He chuckled dryly. “’Course, his daughter may not have him. Auld Ben’s not t’ easiest man in t’ world. Gruff and growly, much of t’ time.”
    Rascal gave an ironic chuckle. “He’s like an old bulldog, always snapping and showing his teeth. Not one to suffer fools, gladly or otherwise.”
    Mr. Jennings paused, as if he thought he might have said too much. “Auld Ben’s nivver a bad man, for all his tempers. And he’s fair. Whatever else tha may think of him, he’s fair.”
    “When he quits farming,” Beatrix said thoughtfully, “will he put the farm up for sale?” Of course, she reminded herself, Hill Top Farm demanded every penny she could scrape together, and she had recently bought that two-acre pasture across the road. It was silly to be thinking of acquiring any more land. Still—
    “T’ farm’s not his,” Mr. Jennings said. “’Tis a manor farm, let to him by Lord Tidmarsh under tenancy for his lifetime. Lady Longford might sell it when auld Ben quits, though. Now her son’s dead, there’s nae reason to keep t’ estate all in one piece.” There was a note of disapproval in his voice, for the farmers and villagers generally felt that the breakup of the large estates invited wealthy outsiders to come in and purchase property, creating instability. “Isaac Chance, at Oldfield Farm, just up t’ way a bit, tried to buy it, but her ladyship told him it’s Ben’s, long as Ben wants it.” He shrugged. “Expect Isaac Chance’ll put in his bid soon as Ben makes it known he’s leavin’.”
    “I see,” Beatrix said, thinking that perhaps she should keep an eye on the situation. She probably had no business with another property—at least until she had managed to get Hill Top under control—but it was something to keep in mind. The cart had stopped in front of the cottage gate, and she climbed down, glancing around with an even greater interest. The farm looked to be in apple-pie order,