Alas! _quantum mutata
ab ilia_. Even when I saw her, a long distance off, leaning on her
crook, I did not desire to:--
"Assume her homely ways and dress,
A shepherd, she a shepherdess."
Still less, when I rode up closer, did I entertain any romantic ideas. I
had not been so fantastic in mind as to expect a war shepherdess to wear
a straw hat in December, wreathed with roses and forget-me-nots, or a
mixture of all the flowers of spring, summer, and autumn, as is the wear
of the pastoral Muse. Again, I did not look for a "Rogue in porcelain,"
with gold buckles on neat black shoes, and highly ornamented stays worn
outside her gown. A stalwart young woman, in a khaki smock and sou'-
wester, Bedford-cord breeches, and long leather boots, would have
satisfied my utmost demands in 1918. Instead, however, my shepherdess
was dressed, if her clothes could be called dress, like a female tramp.
Long draggle-tailed skirts, some sort of a shawl, and the most appalling
old cloth cap on her head, concealing a small quantity of grey hairs and
shading a wrinkled, aged face! It was a bitter disappointment. She would
have done far better for a Norn or one of the Weird Sisters.
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