Charlotte Hart Claudio Milo
For Dad -
You believed in me.
The family of Morton lived a prosperous life. For a little over two centuries the estate, which sat at the forefront of a well-cultivated, yet never exhausted, farmland and dairy shelter, yielded quarterly a living which saw them a healthy family.
Spoilt children would, through the rolling of Time, become parents, and would have children themselves: the generations would therefore be bred within walls of finery, wealth and self-indulgence.
The culture of the estate, and life, thereon, for the servants, land-tillers and dairy maidens was also, generally, come by through a line of succession: a butler was given his charge, after old age, to his son; dairy maidens the same taught their little ones, from the girl-age of five or so years how best to collect milk unstressed.
Butter in these days, for example, was left its churning business to be conducted by a team of Fairchild boys. Tasting, though in earlier days was performed finally by a Morton head, was given up not reluctantly by the present, indolent Mortons, to the Fairchild palate. The tastes of the latter became notable and dependable, whereas for the former, they could not deduce anything material in the butter product; so that when, as it did happen occasionally, a certain piquant sting made the butter peculiar, the dear, indulgent Mortons, whose very name appeared on every box exported, could not discern it to be garlic. Certain wild garlic growths on the fields were spurts the cows ingested during grazing, and thus the milk was become almost bitter or altered.