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Updated: September 12, 2025
It is now several years since I first met Caleb Bawcombe, a shepherd of the South Wiltshire Downs, but already old and infirm and past work.
"Why, it's alive the dog hasn't hurt it," said the farmer, taking it in his hands to examine it. "Watch never hurted any creature yet," said Bawcombe. He caught things just for his own amusement, but never injured them he always let them go again. He would hunt mice in the fields, and when he captured one he would play with it like a cat, tossing it from him, then dashing after and recapturing it.
She was a comely, round, rosy little woman, with black hair, black eyes, and a singularly sweet expression, and her three pretty little children were like her. She stayed half an hour in pleasant chat, then went her way down the road to her home. Who, I asked, was Mrs. Taylor? Bawcombe said that in a way she was a native of their old village of Winterbourne Bishop: at least her father was.
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