Eight: Far From The Madding crowd: Thomas Hardy

Warren's Malthouse was enclosed by an old wall wrapped by ivy, and not much of the exterior was visible. An overhanging thatched roof went up from the walls, and slopped upto a point in the centre, upon which a wooden lantern fitted with the louvre-boards [1] on all the four sides, and from these openings a mist was dimly perceived to be escaping into the night air. There was no window in front; but a square hole in the door was glazed with a single pane, through which red comfortable rays now stretched out upon the ivied wall in front. Voices were to be heard inside.

Oak's hand skimmed the surface of the door with fingers extended to find out the latch as it was dark. He found a leather strap, which he pulled. This lifted a wooden latch, and the door swung open.

The room inside was lighted only by the red glow from the kiln mouth, which shown over the floor with streaming rays of the setting sun, and threw upwards the shadows of the men assembled. The stone flake floor was worn out from the door way to the kiln and moved up and down as one walked over it. A curved settle [2] of unplaned oak stretched along one side, and in a remote corner was a small bed and bedstead, the owner and frequent occupier of which was the malster.

The aged malster was now sitting opposite the fire, his frosty white hair and beard overgrowing his gnarled figure like the grey moss and lichen upon a leafless apple tree. He wore breeches and the laced up shoes called ankle jacks; he kept his eyes fixed upon the fire.

Gabriel was delighted by the sweet smell of new malt. The conversation ceased at the entrance of Gabriel.

"Oh, it is the new shepherd." 

"We thought we heard a hand pawing about the door for the bobbin, but weren't sure 'twere not a dead leaf blowed across," said another. 

"Come in, shepherd, sure you be welcome, though we don't know your name." 

"Gabriel Oak, that's my name, neighbours." 

The ancient malster sitting in the midst turned at this; his turning being the turning of a rusty crane.

That's never Gable Oak's grandson over at Norcombe --- never!" he said, as a formula expressive of surprise, which nobody was supposed for a moment to take literally.

"My father and my grandfather were old men of the name of Gabriel," said the shepherd, placidly.

"Thought I saw the man's face, I saw him on the rick! Thought I did! And where you be trading of it now, shepherd?"

"I am thinking of biding here," said Oak.

"Knew your grandfather for years!" continued the malster, the words coming forth of their own accord.

"Ah --and did you?"

"Knew your grandmother."

"And her too!"

"Knew your father when he was a child. Why, my boy Jacob and your father were sworn brothers -- that they were sure -- weren't you, Jacob?" 

"Ay -- sure," said his son, a man about sixty five, with a semi bald head and one tooth in the left centre of his upper jaw, which made much of itself by standing prominent like a milestone in a bank. But 'twas Joe had most to do with him. However, my son William must have known the very man afore us -- didn't you Billy? Before you left Norcombe?" 

"No, 'twas Andrew," said Jacob's son Billy, a child of forty or there about, who manifested the peculiarity of possessing a cheerful soul in a gloomy body, and whose whiskers were assuming a chinchilla shade here and there.

"I remember Andrew," said Oak, "as being a man in the place when I was  quite a child."

"Aye -- the other day I and my youngest daughter Liddy were over at my grandson's christening," continued Billy. "We were talking about this very family, and it was only last Purification Day in this very world when the use-money is given to the second best poor folk, you know, shepherd, and I can mind the day because they all had to traipse upto the Vestry [3]-- yes this very man's family.

"Come, shepherd, and drink. 'Tis gape and swaller with us [4] a drop of something, but not much," said the malster, removing his eyes from the fire. "Take up, see if it's warm." Jacob stooped to a two handled mug standing in the ashes, cracked and charred with heat, rather furred with dirt outside, especially in the crevices of the handle: ashes wet with cider and baked hard. The rim and inside of the cup were neat, and the sensible found it not bad. In Weatherbury these class of mugs were called God-forgive-me.

Jacob, on receiving the order to see if the liquor warm enough, placidly dipped his forefinger into it, and announced that it was ready, raised the cup, dusted some of the ashes from the bottom with the skirt of his smock-frock, because shepherd Oak was a stranger.

"A clean cup for the shepherd," said the malster commandingly.

"No, not at all," said Gabriel in a reproving tone of considerateness. "I never fuss about dirt in its natural state, and when I knew what sort it is." Taking the mug he drank an inch or more from the depth of its contents, and passed it to the next man. "I wouldn't think of giving much trouble to neighbours in washing up when there's so much work to be done in the world already," continued Oak, in a moister tone, after recovering from the stoppage of breath occasioned by proper pulls at large mug.

"A right sensible man," said Jacob.

"True, true," observed Mark Clark a young friendly man, whom you meet anywhere in your travel. And when you meet you get acquainted, and when acquainted, get drunk; and when get drunk, you pay for the drink.

"And here is a mouthful of bread and bacon that mis'ess have sent, shepherd. The cider will go down better with a bit of food. Don't you chew quite close, shepherd, the bacon fell in the road outside while I was bringing it. It's gritty. There, 'tis clean dirt. And we all know what that is. Be not a particular man we see, shepherd." 

"True, true, not at all," said Gabriel friendly.

"Don't let your teeth quite meet, and you won't feel the sand in it." 

"My own mind, exactly, neighbour." 

"Ah, he's grandfather's own grandson -- his grandfather was such a nice in particular man!" said the malster.

"Drink, Henry Fray -- drink magnanimously," said Jan Coggan, who held Simonian Notion of Share and Share Alike [**]notions of share and share alike where liquor was concerned, as the mug was approaching him in its gradual circulation among them.

Having at this moment reached the end of a wistful gaze into the mid-air Henry did not refuse. He was of more than middle age, eyebrows high up in his forehead, who laid it down that the law of the world was bad. He always signed his name Henery instead of Henry. If anyone ventured to remark that the second "e"  was superfluous, would receive the reply that he was christened "Henery" and would stick to it.

Mr Jan Coggan, who had passed the cup to Henry was a crimson man with a spacious countenance, and a private glimmer in his eyes, who as a witness signed marriage register of Weatherbury and neighbourhood parishes on countless occasions for the previous twenty years. He also frequently filled the post of head Godfather in the baptisms of the subtly jovial kind.

"Come, Mark Clark, come. There's plenty more in the barrel," said Jan Coggan.

"Aye, that I will, as the doctor said," replied Mark Clark, who was twenty years younger than Jan Coggan. He secreted mirth on all occasions for special discharge at popular parties. His productions were superior than Jan Coggan's in the popular parties.

"Why, Joseph Poorgrass, you haven't had a drop!" said Mr Coggan to a very shrinking man in the background thrusting the cup towards him.

"Such a shy man as he is!" said Jacob Smallbury.

"Why, you have hardly had strength of eye enough to look in our young mis'ess's face, so I hear Joseph?"

All looked at Joseph Poorgrass with pitying reproach.

"No -- I have hardly looked at her at all," faltered Joseph, shrinking himself while talking, from a meek sense of undue prominence. And when I see her it was nothing but blushes with me!"

"Poor fellow," said Mark Clark.

"Curious nature for a man," said Jan Coggan.

"Yes," continued Joseph Poorgrass, brooding over his shyness, "It were blush, blush, blush with me every minute of the time, when she was speaking to me."

"Aye, Joseph Poorgrass, a shy man." 

"Terrible bad for a man, poor soul,"  said the malster. "And how long have you suffered from it, Joseph?" 

"Oh, ever since I was a boy. Mother was very much concerned about it." 

"Did you ever try to stop it?"

"Oh, aye, tried all sorts. They took me to Greenhill Fair [5] and into a large Jerry-go-nimble show, where there were woman folk riding round -- standing upon horses with hardly anything on but their smocks, but it didn't cure me a morsel - no, not a morsel. Then I was put errand man at the woman's Skittle alley at the back of the Tailor's Arm in Caster bridge. 'Twas a terrible gross situation, and altogether a very curious place for a good man. I had to stand and look wicked people in the face from morning till night, but 'twas no use. I was just as bad as ever after all. Blushes have been in the family for generations. There, 'tis a happy providence that feel my few gratitudes."

"True," said Jacob Smallbury, deepening his thoughts to a profound view of the subject. " 'Tis a thought to look at, that you might have been worse, but even as you be, 'tis a very bad affliction for you, Joseph. For you see, shepherd, though 'tis very well for a woman, dang it all, [6] 'tis awkward for a man like him, poor fellow." He appealed to the shepherd by a heart feeling glance.

"Tis --'tis," said Gabriel, recovering from a meditation about the usage of dang instead of damn, "Yes, very awkward for the man."

"Ah, and he is very timid too," observed Jan Coggan. "Once he had been working late at Windleton [7] and had a drap [8] of drink and lost his way as he was coming home along through Yalbury Wood, didn't you Master Poorgrass?"

"No, no, no; not that story!" expostulated the modest man, forcing a laugh to bury his concern, and forcing out too much for the purpose --- laughing over the greater part of his skin, round to his ears, and up among his hair, insomuch that shepherd Oak, who was rather sensitive himself, was surfeited, and felt he would never adopt that plan for hiding trepidation anymore.

"And so, he lost himself quite," continued Jan Coggan with an impassive face, "and as he was coming along in the middle of the night, much afraid, and not able to find his way out, cried out, 'Man lost! man lost his way!' An owl replied, 'Whoo whoo-whoo-whoo!' as owls do, you know, shepherd." 

Gabriel nodded. And Jan Coggan continued, "and Joseph all in trouble, said, 'Joseph Poorgrass of Weatherbury, sir!'" 

"No, no, now -- that's too much!" said timid Poorgrass, with brazen courage all of a sudden. "I didn't say so, I will take my oath. I didn't mean Joseph Poorgrass of Weatherbury. What's right is right. I shouldn't have said that, if I hadn't been for Keeper Day's metheglin [9]. It ended mercifully," continued Joseph, swallowing his breath in content.

"And  he was the fearfullest man, aren't you Joseph? Another time you were lost in Lambing-Down Gate? Weren't you?" Jan Coggan went on.

"I was," replied Joseph Poorgrass, "Yes, that were the middle of the night. The gate would not open."

"Try how he would," Jan Coggan picked up the thread, "tried his best, and knowing there was the devil's hand, he knelt down."

"Aye," said Joseph Poorgrass; the warmth of the fire, the cider and the growing course of the narrative had built confidence in him, "My heart died within me. But I knelt down and said the Prayer, then the Belief, and the ten Commandments earnestly. The gate did not open. Then I went on with Dearly Beloved Brothren, it was all I know out of book, and if this didn't, I am a lost man. When I got to Saying After Me, I found the gate opened. Yes, neighbours, the gate opend for ever."

All in meditation looked at the ash-pit which glowed like a desert in the tropics under a vertical sun and  each of them drawing his own picture of Joseph Poorgrass under the conditions he had related.

Gabriel broke the silence, "What sort of place is this to live at, and what sort of mis'ess is she to work under?"

Gabriel's bosom thrilled gently as he aired the question.

"We do know little of her. She only showed herself a few days ago. Her uncle was took bad, and the doctor was called, but he couldn't save the man. As I take it, she is going to keep the farm," said Jan Coggan. He continued, "Aye, 'Tis a very good family. I would soon be under them. Her uncle was a very fair sort of man. Did you know one, shepherd, a -- bachelor?

"Not at all."

The inquirer paused a moment, and then continued, "I used to go to his house, courting my first wife, Charlotte, who was his dairymaid. Well, a very good hearted man was farmer Everdene, and I being a respectable young man was allowed to call and see her and drink as much ale I liked, but not to carry away any.

"Aye, aye, Jan Coggan we know what you meant."

"And you see, it was good ale, and I wished to value his kindness as much as I could, and not to be ill-mannered as to drink a thimbleful,. which would have been insulting the man's generosity."

"True, Master Coggan, 'twould so," corroborated Master Mark Clark.

"So I used to eat a lot of salt before going, and by the time I got there I was as dry as a lime basket, and so through the dry that ale would slip down -- ah, 'twould slip down sweet! Happy times! Heavenly times! Aye it were like drinking blessedness itself. Pints and pints! Can you mind Jacob? You used to go with me sometimes." 

"Yes, I remember," said Jacob, "At Buck's Head on a White Monday [10] was a pretty tipple -- a very pretty tipple, indeed."

 " 'Twas . In Farmer Everdene's kitchen, 'twould have been a great relief to a merry soul." 

"True," said the malster.

"But Charlotte," continued Jan Coggan, not an offending word  would Charlotte allow, I wonder if she were lucky to get into heaven. But she was not lucky here, poor soul." 

"And did anyone know Miss Everdene's father or mother?" inquired the shepherd, who wanted the conversation in that direction.

"I know them a little," said Jacob Smallbury, "they were towns folks and didn't live here. They have been dead for years. Father, what sort of people Miss Everdene's father and mother?" 

"Well, he wasn't much to look at, but she was a lovely woman. And he was fond enough of her." 

"Used to kiss her in scores and hundreds, so 'twas said," observed Jan Coggan.

"He was very proud of her too," said the malster.

"Aye," said Jan Coggan,"He  admired her very much, that he used to kindle the candles three times every night to look at her."

"Boundless love, I shouldn't have supposed it in this world's universe!" murmured Joseph Poorgrass.

"Well, to be sure!" said Gabriel.

"Oh, it is true enough, I knew the man and woman both well. Levi Everden was his name, a gentleman tailor, worth scores of pounds. Became bankrupt two or three times."

"I thought, he was quite a common man," said Joseph Poorgrass.

"Oh, that man failed for heaps of money; hundreds in gold or silver." The malster being short of breath, Mr Coggan, after absently scrutinizing a coal which had fallen among the ashes took up the narrative, "Well, you would hardly believe it, that man, Miss Everdene's father, was one of the ficklest husbands alive, after a while. He didn't want to be fickle, but he couldn't help it. The true fellow was true and faithful to her, but his heart would rove, do what he would. He spoke to me in real tribulation about it once. 'Coggan," he said, I could never wish for a handsome woman than I have got, but feeling she is ticketed as my lawful wife, I can't help my wicked heart wandering, do what I will.' But at last I believe he cured it by making her take off her wedding ring and calling her by her maiden name as they sat together after the shop was shut, and so would fancy she was only his sweetheart and not married to him at all." 

"Well, it was a most ungodly remedy," murmured Joseph Poorgrass, "but we ought to feel cheerfulness, as I may say, unlwfulness." 

"You see," said Billy Smallbury, "man wanted to do right, but his heart didn't come in." 

"He was quite religious in his late years, wasn't he, Jan?" said Joseph Poorgrass.

"He got himself confirmed, and took to say 'Amen' as loud as a clerk, and he found comfort in verses on the tombstones. He used to hold holy money plates, and Let Your Light so Shine and stand Godfather to poor little children that had no father at all, and he kept a missionary box upon his table to nab folks unawares when they called; he would box the charity boys ears when they laughed in church, till they could hardly stand upright; and do other deeds of piety common to the saintly inclined."

"His second cousin John was the most religious of the family," said the old malster. He was a watch and clock maker by trade, and thought of nothing but godliness, poor man." 

"Their daughter was not at all a pretty child at that time," said Henry Fray. "Now she is a handsome woman." 

"Her temper is as good as her face, it is hoped." 

"Well, the bailiff would have to do the most with ourselves. Ah," Henry shook his head and looked into the ash-pit and smiled ironically.

"Ah, there are people of one sort, and people of another --- but that man! Bless your souls." 

"I believe, if be that bailiff, Pennyways' heart were put inside a nutshell, he would rattle," said Henry Fray. "He'll strain for money as a salmon will strain for a river's head. He's a thief and robber, that's what he's." 

Gabriel thought it fit to change the subject. "You must be a very aged man, malster, to have sons grown up so old and ancient."

"Father is so old that I can't mind his age, can you father?" interposed Jacob. "And he has grown terribly crooked too," Jacob continued surveying his father's figure, which was rather more bowed than  his own. 

"Crooked timber lasts long," said the malster.

"Shepherd would like to hear the pedigree of your life, -- wouldn't you shepherd?" 

"Aye, that I should," said the shepherd, anxiously. "What may your age be, malster?" 

Looking at the ash-pit, the malster cleared his throat, said slowly, "I don't know the year I was born in, but I know the places I have lived at, and so get it that way. Began with Juddle Farm, across there," nodding to the north, "till I was eleven. Then for seven years at Lower Twifford." He nodded to the east. "There I took to malting. From there to Norcombe. Malted there two and twenty years, before you were born, Master Oak." 

Oak smiled as a corroboration. "Then at Snoodly- under-Drool for four years. Turnip-hoeing for four years followed. Then fourteen years and four months at Moreford-St.Jude's" He nodded north-west-by-North. "Old Twill wouldn't hire more than eleven months at a time to keep me from chargeable to the parish. Then three years at Mellstock and I have been here one and thirty years come Candlemas. How much is that?"

"Hundred and seventeen," chuckled another old gentleman given to mental arithmetic  and little conversation, who had hitherto sat unobserved in a corner.

"Well, then, that's my age," said the malster emphatically.

"Oh, no, father!" said Jacob remonstrated. "Your turnip-hoeing were in the summer and your malting in the winter of the same years, and you don't ought account both the halves of the same year." 

"Choke  it all! I lived through the summers, didn't I? That's my question. Suppose you will say next I be no age at all to speak of?"

"Sure, we shan't," said Gabriel, soothingly.

"You be very old aged person, malster," attested Jan Coggan, "we all know that, and you must have a wonderful talented constitution to be able to live so long, mustn't he neighbours?" 

"Yes, yes," said all of them.

The malster was pacified, and said that they were drinking out of cup older than himself.

While the cup was being examined, the end of Gabriel's flute became visible over his smock-frock pocket, and Henry Fray exclaimed, " Surely, shepherd, I saw you blowing into a great flute at Casterbridge."

"You did," said Gabriel, blushing faintly, I have been in great trouble, neighbours, and was driven to it. I lost all my money." 

"Never mind," said Mark Clark, "your time will come. But we could enjoy your tune, if you aren't too tired." 

"Neither drum nor trumpet have I heard this Christmas,' said Jan Coggan. "Come, raise a tune, Master Oak!" 

"Aye, that I will," said Gabriel readily, pulling out his flute and putting it together. "A poor tool, neighbours, an everyday chap, such as I can do, you shall welcome." 

Oak then struck up 'Jocky to the Fair' and played three times through, accenting the notes in the third round in a lively manners, bending his body in small jerks and tapping with his foot to beat time.

"He can blow The flute very well--" said Susan Tall's husband.

"He is a clever man, and it's a comfort for us to have him," said Joseph Poorgrass.

"True, true," said Mark Clark.

It's a pity that playing flute should make a man look a scarecrow," remarked Mark Clark. 

"I hope, you don't mind Mark Clark naming your features," whispered Joseph Poorgrass to Gabriel.

"Not at all," said Gabriel.

Gabriel played Dame Durden.[11]

"By nature you are a handsome young man, shepherd" continued Joseph Poorgrass, with winning confidence. 

"Aye, that you be, shepherd," said the company.

"Thank you very much," said Gabriel Oak, in the modest tone. He would never let Bathsheba see him playing the flute. A discretion equal to that Minerva [12] showed.

"Ah, When I and my wife were married at Norcombe church," said the old Malster, not pleased at finding himself left out of the subject, we were called the handsomest couple in the neighborhood - everybody said so."

"Damned if you aren't altered now, malster," said a voice, followed by a chuckle. 

"Oh, no,no," said Gabriel.

"Don't you play no more, shepherd," said Susan Tall's husband, "I must be moving, and if it were played when I left -- I feel melancholy."

"What is your hurry then, Laban? You used to leave last."

"Well, you see I am married now."

"New lords, new law, as the saying is," remarked Jan Coggan, with a very compressed countenance. But Susan  Tall's husband had already left. Henry Fray followed. Gabriel went off with Jan Coggan, who had offered him a lodging. A few minutes later, when the remaining ones were on their legs, and about to depart, Fray came back in a hurry. Flourishing his finger ominously, he threw a gaze teeming with tidings just where his glance fell on Joseph Poorgrass's eyes. 

"Oh, what's the matter, Henry?" he asked.

" What is brewing, Henry?" asked Jacob and Mark Clark.

"Bailiff Pennyways -- I said so; yes, I said so."

"What, found out stealing anything?"

"Stealing it is. After Miss Everdene got home, she went out again to see all was safe, as she usually do, and coming in found bailiff creeping down the granary steps with half a bushel of barley. She flew at him like a cat -- never such a tomboy as she is -- ofcourse I speak with closed doors?" 

"You do, you do Henry." 

"To cut a long story short, he owned to having carried off five sacks altogether, upon her promising not to persecute him. Well, he is turned out neck and crop [13], and my question is, who is going to be bailiff now?"

The question was a profound one, and Henry was obliged to drink from the mug till its bottom was visible inside. Before he had replaced it on the table, in came Susan Tall's husband, in a still greater hurry.

"Have you heard the news that's all over parish?"

"About baily Pennyways?"

"Ah -- but besides that?"

"No. Not a morsel of it." They all replied, looking into the very midst of Laban Tall, to meet his words half way down his throat." 

"What a night of horrors! murmured Joseph Poorgrass waving his hands spasmodically.

Miss Fanny Robins -- Miss Everdene's youngest servant -- is missing. They have been waiting her to lock up the door these two hours, but she isn't come in. And they do not know what to do. She had been found in low spirits these last few days. Maryann did think that a crowner's inquest or something like that connected with her." 

"Oh, it's burned!"  said Joseph Poorgrass.

"No, it is drowned!"  said Laban Tall.

"Well, Miss Everdene wants to speak to one or two of us before we go to bed."

They all went up to the farmhouse, except the old malster, whom nothing disturbs.

Bathsheba was seen at her window robed in mystic white.

"Are any of my men among you?" she was anxious.

"Yes ma'am, several," said Laban Tall.

"Tomorrow morning I wish two or three of you to make inquiries in the villages round if they have seen such a person as Fanny Robins. Do it quietly; there is no reason for alarm as yet. She must have left while we were all at the fire."

"I beg your pardon, but had she any young person courting her, in the parish, ma'am?"

"I don't know," said Bathsheba.

"I have never heard of any such thing, ma'am," said two or three.

"It is hardly likely either,"  continued Bathsheba. "For any lover of hers might have come to the house if he had been a respectable lad. She was seen to go out of the house of Maryann with only her indoor working gown on -- not even a bonnet. That is mysterious."

"And you mean, ma'am, excuse my words, that a young woman would have hardly went out to see her young man without dressing up," said Jacob.

"She had, I think, a bundle, though I am not sure," said a female voice from another window, which seemed to belong to Maryann. "But she had no young man about here. Hers lives in Casterbridge, and I believe, is a soldier." 

"Do you know his name?" said Bathsheba.

"No, mistress, she was very close about it."

" Perhaps I might be able to find out if I went to Casterbridge barracks," said William Smallbury.

"Very well, if she doesn't return tomorrow, mind you go there and try to discover which man it is, and see him. I feel more responsible if she had any friend or relations alive. I do hope she has come to no harm through a man of that kind..... And then, there is this disgraceful affair of the bailiff --- but I can't speak of him now." She had many reasons for uneasiness, and did not think it worthwhile to dwell upon any.

"Do, as I told you then," she concluded, closing the casement.

"Aye, aye, mistress," they replied and moved away.

That night Gabriel spent at Coggan's.

Bathsheba was very near to him; but she was far away. It was his pleasure; it was his pain.

End of the the chapter.

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1. Louvre-boards: An old arrangement for ventilation using a window blinds or shutters with horizontal slats (ചട്ടം, അഴി) that are angled to admit light or air, but to keep out rain and direct sunrays. 

2. Settle: A wooden bench with a high back and arms typically incorporating a box under the seat. 

• For breeches and ankle jacks, see images on Google search.

3. Vestry: • A room in church where clergy dress and store sacred items. 

• Governing body of church parish, responsible for its administrative affairs. 

4. 'Tis gape and swaller with us: A colloquial expression that means whatever comes our way without question. 

5. Green Hill Fair: A local festival, held at the culmination of farming works. The fair was held on a hill with an ancient rampart. Sheep trade is an important feature of the Festival. More about this will come in a later chapter. 

• Jerry-go-nimble show is an old type of entertainment involving acrobatic movements. 

6. Dang it all= Damn it all. An informal euphemism, a figure of speech to convey politely. 

7. Windleton must have been an old toponym inside the Wessex. The evidence is the family name or surname in the records like marriage, death etc. Toponyms often change for political reason, eg. Bombay to Mumbai, Madras to Chennai. Wessex  means the kingdom of West Saxons, or Wessex. And Thomas Hardy fictionalized it, adopting his home country of Dorset and neighbourhood counties in the south and west of England. Yalbury Wood likewise is a fictional toponym.

8. Drap is a corruption of drop.

9. Keeper Day's metheglin: A traditional Welsh spiced mead or fermented honey mead. 

10. White Monday marks the resumption of Eastern.

11. Dame Dame Durden

12. Minerva Minerva

13. Neck and crop: Completely, entirely.