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 and entwined ivy coverlets for the red houses. My uncle, a Czech farmer, would have shaken his head with disapproval on seeing the red and black flocks of cows on the finest meadows in the world, and would have said: “What a pity to waste such splendid manure.” And he would say: “Why don’t they sow turnips here, and here again you could have wheat and here potatoes; and here too, I would plant cherry-trees and service-berries instead of this shrubbery, and here clover, and here too, oats, and on that stretch of land corn or rape-seed; why, just look at the clay soil, fit to smear on bread, and they leave it for pasture-land.” You see, Uncle, they don’t think it worth the labour; they get their wheat from Australia and sugar from India and potatoes from Africa or wherever it is; you see, Uncle, these people aren’t peasants; this is only a sort of garden.” “But you know, my boy,” he would say, “I like our way better; it may only be a turnip, but at least you can see the work. But here, why, there’s nobody looking after