Wednesday, July 3:
They got the roof on the milking shed at the monastery, at least as far as the roofing felt, so the sisters will be under cover while we are at the wedding.
All those home-hatched chicks are doing well; I think the count is over twenty-five, which is about half what I need this summer, seeing that fifty percent of these will be little boys.
Sleeping bags in the playroom and bodies on the sofa; boys in the camper and families camping in the boys’ dormitory; we have a full house.
Rain every few days, and not in paltry tenths of inches, but great deluges of an inch, or one and a half, or even two; the garden is lush even to decay.
When the lambs’ electric fence is left off they somehow know it and slip out. Eight Katahdins skim around the south hill pasture like a school of silver fish, baaing now and then in the throes of their agoraphobia. When the paddock gate is opened they surge, hesitate, and then rush in, glad, perhaps, to see their options reduced. We are often the same way ourselves.