Cats Are Connoisseurs Of Comfort.

No Animal Is A Better Judge Of Comfort Than A Cat.

And There Was That Letter From The Bramleys—that Really Made Me Feel Good. You Don’t Find People Like The Bramleys Now; Radio, Television And The Motorcar Have Carried The Outside World Into The Most Isolated Places So That The Simple People You Used To Meet On The Lonely Farms Are Rapidly Becoming Like People Anywhere Else. There Are Still A Few Left, Of Course—old Folk Who Cling To The Ways Of Their Fathers And When I Come Across Any Of Them I Like To Make Some Excuse To Sit Down And Talk With Them And Listen To The Old Yorkshire Words And Expressions Which Have Almost Disappeared.

It Was Sunday Morning (one A.m.), A Not Unusual Time For Some Farmers, After A Late Saturday Night, To Have A Look Round Their Stock And Decide To Send For The Vet.

I Am Never At My Best In The Early Morning, Especially A Cold Morning In The Yorkshire Spring With A Piercing March Wind Sweeping Down From The Fells, Finding Its Way Inside My Clothing, Nipping At My Nose And Ears.

I Became A Connoisseur Of That Nasty Thud A Manuscript Makes When It Comes Through The Letter Box.