The roan cow disliked music and kicked over the milk-pail with inartistic persistence.

The sun on the hay made his head ache.
As for a picturesque task for which he had no song--well, he had promised Joan to keep away from the punt when the horn beneath the willow blew for a ferryman.

He had sculled the old white-haired minister into a rock with delight to no one but Adam Craig, who had spent a whole evening cackling about it.

He must always remember that it had not been his fault.

The rock had merely scraped the punt while he was listening with politeness to why the old man had "doubled up" his charge and had a church on either side of the river.