He was a savage old wretch was Crib.

Like all dogs that never bark--and men too--his bite was all the worse.
'Go and get the brands--confound you--don't stand there frightening the cattle,' says father, as the tired cattle, after smelling and jostling a bit, rushed into the yard.

'You, Jim, make a fire, and look sharp about it.

I want to brand old Polly's calf and another or two.' Father came down to the hut while the brands were getting ready, and began to look at the harness-cask, which stood in a little back skillion.

It was pretty empty; we had been living on eggs, bacon, and bread and butter for a week.
'Oh, mother! there's such a pretty red calf in the yard,' I said, 'with a star and a white spot on the flank; and there's a yellow steer fat enough to kill!' 'What!' said mother, turning round and looking at father with her eyes staring--a sort of dark blue they were--people used to say mine and Jim's were the same colour--and her brown hair pushed back off her face, as if she was looking at a ghost.