Dreamt last night (the old diarists always chronicled their dreams) that I was one of the four hundred guests at the “little dance” given by the king and queen at Buckingham Palace and had a waltz with Mr Balfour. Why he, I do not know, except that he is an amiable creature and I sympathise with him in his religio-political difficulties.

He said that, before the next dance, Lord Hugh Cecil was going to sing a hymn and would like me to play his accompaniment. Which I replied I would be happy to do if he would wait till I helped to feed the calves. Truly, dreams are more democratic than Keir Hardie himself.

A strong smell of gasodyne in the kitchen this morning; two calves ailing and refusing their milk. This is always the time of year when calves are apt to trouble us. Both they and their houses are in need of air and sunshine. With so many winter calvers, when it comes to March, the houses are rather too full.

There is not an empty pen anywhere, but the calves were removed for a few hours that their house might be thoroughly disinfected, walls lime-washed and the floor ‘’eenged with carbolic acid solution. We shall see in a day or two.”

Ae ill never comes the lane o’t, though they be but small ills. A cock flew down from a high baulk and broke its neck before our very eyes.

He was a lazy fellow and always late of coming down in the mornings. It occurred to us that the ladder was too steep, the baulk too high, and that he was afraid of the flight on to the hard cobbles; and as he refused to sit anywhere else, we were mediating either a longer ladder or the removal of the high baulk, when lo! here he is dead at our feet.

So, there was a fowl to pluck and dress and a hen ladder to lengthen. I do not profess any skill in carpentry myself but I can hold the wood steady for stronger hands, and I can pass the hammer and see that the nails do not go a-balwaverin’”