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January 11, 2010

'Crowly, who is now grown a great lion and very tame': The Tower Menagerie

It has long been traditional for foreign dignitaries to make gifts of the exotic creatures of their kingdoms to the countries they visit.  In this way Britain acquired a polar bear from Norway in 1252.  He was at first allowed to roam about the Tower of London, but when he became huge his keeper was given a muzzle and a chain and they were sent to spend their days outside, fishing and bathing in the Thames.  Many of these animals were a burden to the recipient, and often quietly hived off to parklands where they lived out shortened lives.  However, by the time England had begun to squabble over a fair proportion of the globe under Elizabeth Ist, the animals were arriving thick and fast.  Ever the public relations guru, Elizabeth improved the menagerie and had it opened to the populace on high days and holidays.  

In 1603, James Ist overhauled the menagerie again, providing much larger cages for the animals, running water 'for the Lyons to drinke and wasche themselves in,' and a viewing gallery so that visitors could look down upon them in safety.  Lions were the obvious choice as a gift for England, being as fond of them as an emblem as we are. During the Georgian period the Tower contained up to eleven lions at any time, although sadly the cubs tended not to survive the shedding of their milk teeth for some reason.  As lions of similar origin (Bengal and Cape seem to be the two clearest labels) were housed together, the females were regularly pregnant, and therefore their temperaments were naturally changeable.  The male lions were regarded as the tamer of the two and Samuel Pepys records going to the Tower on the 11th of January 1660 to see 'Crowly, who is now grown a very great lion and very tame'.  When young, all the lions were allowed out to play in the Tower grounds, much to the amusement of the visitors, who patted and played with them.  The Duke of Sussex was particularly fond of a brother and sister who had been fostered by a goat, and he visited often to see them.  In 1729 the cost of 'seeing the lions' was threepence, a figure that rose to ninepence by the end of the century.  Dead cats and dogs were used to supplement the feed of the big cats and free entry could be had for anyone bringing one of either.  In 1741, the guide to the Tower included an introduction to the lion Marco, his wife, Phillis and their son Nero.  The lions roared at dawn, and before their feed arrived, which consisted of eight to nine pounds of raw beef daily, excluding any bones and any dogs or cats.  Given the acoustics of the Tower, this must have been quite a racket, and audible for some distance.  On Sunday, the Tower was closed to visitors, and the keepers noted that the lions would often roar all day until someone came and paid them some attention.  

Other big cats kept in the menagerie included tigers (Dicka was recorded as a cub in 1741), leopards (a single Willa in the same guide), 'hunting-leopards' as cheetahs were known, lynx and ocelot.  Visitors commonly agreed that the ocelot was the prettiest cat, but that the cheetah the most affectionate.  The cheetahs were led about the grounds on leashes in pairs for exercise and as a spectacle.  There appears to have been a great deal of respect for the natures of the animals, and 'responds to kindness' is regularly noted.  Animals that did not show any such response included the famous grizzly bear, Old Martin, who was an old man in 1823, but still regarded his keepers as 'perfect strangers' and would no doubt prove dangerous should he be allowed out.  Allegedly, Martin died in 1838, aged well over a hundred years old, but I imagine this was Martin mark two or three.  Other dangers included the hyena and the jackals.  I'd imagine they were pretty ripe in summer as well.  The disconsolate solitary mongoose was made happy by the addition of a friend, and the two slept together, interlacing 'their limbs and tails in a singular fashion' so that they can each see over the other's back, 'and like that fall comfortably asleep'.

The area I would happily avoid would be the monkey enclosure, or 'The School of Monkeys' as it was known in the 18thC, which lay in an outer yard near the Lion Tower.  Chimps occasionally cannibalize the young of their most vulnerable mothers for fun, baboons are vicious and the smaller the monkey, the more it looks at you as if it wants to kill you as soon as you turn your back.  A marmoset in a drummer jacket would not have been my pet of choice; I'd have spent all my time hiding from it.  The visitors to the Tower didn't always like the monkeys either, particularly the baboon, who 'becomes disgusting in habits as he advances in age.' In 1753, the guidebook issued a warning about one of the baboons had become expert in throwing missiles and would 'heave anything that happens to be within his reach with such Force as to split Stools, Bowls and other Wooden Utensils in a Hundred Pieces'.  Not only were the baboons disgusting in their habits, they 'were gay, playful and docile; but as he grows older he becomes intractable, malicious and ferocious'.  As far as I can discern, there were no apes in the Tower Menagerie.  The monkeys were removed in 1810 for 'one of them having torn a boy's leg in a dangerous manner'.

There was usually an elephant in the menagerie, and it was almost always an Indian one.  The English understanding of the temperament and requirements of the elephant seems to be very limited from the documents I have seen.  They were largely judged to be inferior to a dog or a horse in understanding, yet they were observed to play by spraying things with water from their trunks, and Mr Cops, one of the better, and later keepers at the Tower was convinced of their 'wisdom'.  Quite how they found out that elephants are 'fond of wine, spirits and other intoxicating articles' is probably best consigned to the past, but the elephant rations contained a gallon of wine daily until the closure of the menagerie.

The bird house must have been unspeakably noisy, with macaws, cockatoos, eagles, owls and all manner of ornamental and song birds and sadly, some seabirds, who must have suffered due to their large size and the confinement.  It was noted that few developed their full plumage in captivity.  

Kangaroos and emus wandered about in the grounds, sometimes confined and sometimes not.  The Royal Park at Windsor had quite a stock of freely roaming kangaroos, and they were breeding successfully at the Tower sometime before 1820.  An aside in an account of the Tower Menagerie of this period notes that there were various parklands around England where kangaroos were present in some quantity, so they were not quite as much of a novelty as I would have imagined.  

By far my favourite account of an animal in the Tower is from the 1820s, when a zebra was recorded in the menagerie.  Zebra are stubborn, and remain wild under all but the most confined circumstances (such as being bred in circuses), and the Tower zebra had retained her character, suffering the indignities of her confined state with a tolerably good nature, provided she got her reward:

The subject of the present article, which has now been about two years in the Menagerie, will suffer a boy to ride her aboiut the yard, and is frequently allowed to run loose through the Tower, with a man by her side, whom she does not attempt to quit except to run to the Canteen, where she is occasionally indulged with a draught of ale, of which she is particularly fond.  

The Menagerie was much improved by Mr Cops, and during his tenure, it became clear that it was no longer acceptable to house animals in such conditions as the Tower afforded.  The menagerie, housed 280 animals by 1832, mainly in the Lion and Tower was finally closed in 1835, when the animals left to form the basis of the collection for London Zoo.

 

               
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January 6, 2010

London on Ice

The English obsession with weather means we have one of the oldest sets of climate records in the world.  They reveal a very different London than the one we know now.  In the 21stC, London and particularly the City, possesses a distinct micro-climate created by the buildings, the heat and gases they produce and the underlying geography.  Why is it always windy in Farringdon, and at Bank?  Why is it bizarrely still in Paternoster Square?  Why is the air quality on Holborn regularly the worst in Britain when it has less standing traffic, and certainly fewer buses than the King's Road?  Who knows, but one thing we do know is that London is much warmer than it was three centuries ago.  Hundreds of thousands of centrally heated buildings and offices spill heat into the air, meaning if it does snow it doesn't settle and it never gets cold enough to really freeze.  Three hundred years ago, the City of London froze regularly between December and March, and the 1690s recorded six winters when the temperature was consistently below 3'C for more than three months; definitely the sort of weather when a man like Samuel Pepys would have worn two shirts, a waistcoat and a jacket.  

The streets weren't salted, but many were paved so they became treacherous in freezing weather.  Horses had sacks tied to their metal-shod feet, and 'slippers' fitted to the wheels of their vehicles to prevent dangerous sliding.  Working men wore hobnailed boots, sometimes with sacking tied over them (with the studs poking through) for a bit of extra grip.  Many gentlemen would resort to them in freezing weather, although the sacking was unlikely.  Women did not wear pattens in icy conditions (I have tried on a pair of pattens and attempted to walk around in them, and I am not convinced anyone wore them in the street let alone worked in them as they are lethal).  Where the streets and passages were just mud or dirt and on the banks of the Thames, duckboards were put down for people to walk over.  It was not uncommon to find vagrants, or unfortunates who had frozen during the night, including one man in the Fleet ditch, discovered standing upright, but dead and solid.  The price of coal rose, and the poorest Londoners had to cut wood from the common land, if they hadn't already.

Before Bazalgette's Embankment the Thames was a wider, slower river with gently sloping muddy banks, again covered in duckboards, which must have been very slippy in wet and icy conditions.  The bridges were shored up with wide wooden 'sparrows' which trapped debris and slowed the current, making it easier for ice to form.  Sets of stone steps jutted out to the water, where people could hop on and off the little boats plying their passenger trade.  When the Thames froze all river traffic stopped, but some people were not quick enough to get out of the water: in the hard winter of 1771 the Thames began to freeze and 'a waterman...had his boat jammed in between the ice and could not get on shore, and no waterman dare venture to his assistance.  He was almost speechless last night and it is thought he cannot survive long'.  The couple of days it took for the Thames to freeze completely must have been a dangerous time.  The watermen, some of London's poorest workers would have wanted to keep trading as long as possible and some traded their lives for the opportunity of one last fare.  

The Thames froze more often than is commonly thought, due to it being fairly shallow, but it froze in chunks as the picture in the gallery from 1677 shows.  Whilst dramatic and great fun, it meant that it wasn't easy to venture out onto the ice, and was unsuitable for one of the famous Frost Fairs for which the Thames is so well-known.  Frost Fairs have been recorded since Elizabethan Times, when it was customary to push a printing press out onto the ice as a test, and if it held, souvenir cards were printed off and sold as a memento of the occasion.  Booths and cook-stalls were set up, selling skates made from whalebone, puppets, gloves, hats and scarves as well as hot chestnuts and pork sandwiches from spits, along with sticky gingerbread and baked apples eaten from newspaper with a spoon.  There were street performers, puppet shows and other entertainments such as singing.  Sometimes, as in 1683, the freeze was so solid that the Thames became a miniature shopping village and the booths were arranged into 'streets'.  I'd imagine the overall feel was like that of the German Christmas markets with their covered, but portable wooden stalls.

The most famous Frost Fair is that of 1814, but I think the one of 1683 sounds more fun, despite the fug caused by the smoke of coal-fires hanging heavy in the air.  The souvenir card in the gallery records the following carried out on the ice (including booths set up as 'branches' of land-based businesses):

The Duke of York's Coffee House
The Tory Booth (?)
The Roast Beefe Booth
The Half way House
The Musick Booth
The Printing Booth
The Lottery Booth
The Sledge drawing coals
The Horne Tavern Booth
The Toy Shoppe
A boat drawn by a horse
A boat drawn on wheels
Bull-baiting and Bear-baiting
Boys sliding (proof that some things never change)
Nine-Pinn Playing
Sliding on Scates

You can see from both pictures there seems to be little or no snow on the ground (but lots of dogs and cats).  Even the earliest Frost Fairs had merry-go-rounds for children, boat-swings and pony-drawn rides, but life off the river probably wasn't quite so much fun. One of the greatest problems during freezes such as this is that the ground froze to depths of two or three feet, making the drawing of water from the wells in the streets difficult, if not impossible and ice had to be gathered and melted, then boiled for domestic use.  One group of people not complaining were the ice merchants who used this weather to fill their under-ground stores and cellars with the cold stuff, packed in straw so that it could be sold in warmer weather.  By the 1720s, the demand for ice had become great enough for dealers in 'ice and snow' to be making a living.  

The thaws, when they came, were sudden and terrifying.  I can find no accounts of booths falling through the ice, so the stallholders were savvy enough to realise when to get out, but there are stories of a ship, moored to the quay of a public house which pulled down both when it fell back into the thawed river in 1789.  There is also the piteous tale in the Gentleman's Magazine in 1763 of a wretch, 'with skaits on..found frozen to death upon some floating ice over against the Isle of Dogs.'

The Thames froze for the last time in 1814 and was solid for four days; solid enough to lead an elephant across the ice near Blackfriars Bridge and erect fairground rides.  The innovations of the Victorian period, such as the new London Bridge and the Embankment caused the river to become narrower, deeper and faster thus ending London's life on ice.

 

   
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January 1, 2010

Retail Therapy: An overview of shopping in Georgian London

Shopping had a different structure during the Georgian period and this post is little more than an overview of a massive subject.  Food shopping was a daily routine and based mainly around the markets all over the City.  Coal was delivered to the house by men who built up rounds and rented storage space in cellars in each locality, then carried individual sacks (or small barrow-loads) to each house.  This was also the same with water, which was usually local and clean well water, but also came from as far away as Epsom, or even Buxton for the discerning palate.  Water was delivered in hods, hence the term 'hod-carrier', now used mainly in the building trade.  Milkmaids who worked for a dairyman or woman carried their milk about the streets using a yoke and shouting their wares.  Self-employed milkmaids (almost always Welsh) lead their cow on their rounds and milked it at the door, ringing a bell in each square or when she arrived in the street.  Babies and those with a cow's milk intolerance (yes, it was recognised then) could have milk from the asses who were also led around the streets.  Pretty girls were deployed from the market gardens to sell perishable foods and herbs such as cherries, asparagus and lavender, from baskets often carried on their heads (probably not in this weather though).

Although most food was sold from roving basket carriers or market stalls, some foods with a longer shelf-life, such as cheeses and preserved meats were sold in large warehouses around the Strand, Covent Garden and Leadenhall in the City.  Many of these warehouses specialized according to nationality, and a few xenophobic pamphlets of the late 17thC complain of the stinking garlic sausages hung up to dry in the windows of the French warehouses.  Early shops, and particularly those trading before the fire of London were simply part of the house where the shopkeeper lived.  Beneath the front window was one large shutter on a hinge, which would be propped up in the morning, parallel with the window-sill.  The window were then opened and goods put out on the table, or arranged inside on shelving (typical of bakeries).  A visitor to London (Lorenzo Magalotti) remarked in his diary that these shops were 'mostly under the care of well-dressed women' who were aided by their young apprentices.  This seems an excellent system, appealing to almost all buyers.  It also sheds light on the employment of women in the 18thC (more in another post), who were not simply expected to stay at home, meek and mild, but to get involved in running the thousands of little family businesses throughout London.    

After the Fire, many shops, particularly those selling more expensive items were rebuilt with room inside to show goods, and the family moved upstairs.  The Royal Exchange was the model for these shops, which were fitted out in a commodious fashion and again, staffed mainly by women and the apprentices.  Fixed shop windows, where a permanent display of books, wallpapers, paintings, carving, silks and fabrics, gloves and lace could remain for longer than a day, became popular.  Many tailors' and dressmakers' shops doubled as places to drink tea and coffee and meet with the girls for a natter.  Most tailors and dressmakers sold clothes off the peg which could then be altered by seamstresses who often hung out wooden needles or signs from their lodgings when they were available to work.  It was a matter of knocking on the door, trying on the garments, discussing what needed to be done and picking them up later: an excellent arrangement (Samuel Pepys bizarre obsession with his 'little seamstress' makes interesting reading.  There were two garden centres selling everything from tools to seedlings to trees in the Strand for people with nothing better to do with their Sunday afternoon.  The pet-shops on the north side of Covent Garden sold everything from song-thrushes caught on Hampstead Heath to marmosets in little outfits.  There was a household emporium near Holborn specializing in domestic pewter for kitchens and taverns, but also buckets, spoons and other treen and there were plenty of opticians who tested the eyes and sold spectacles both made to measure and off the peg (plain green and blue lenses were also used to help with light sensitivity and quite possibly, dyslexia, by stabilizing the visual field).  

The largest and grandest shops were obviously those catering to the rich, including Thomas Chippendale's cabinet-making workshop and showroom, John Burroughs, the furniture-maker on Cornhill, Moxon's the scientific instrument maker in Warwick Lane, Paul de Lamerie, the goldsmith and jeweller in Soho.  These shops were beautifully fitted out and allowed customers to browse at their considerable stock accompanied by an apprentice to show them the merits of each piece.  This allowed the apprentices to learn about the stock, and about the nature of retailing.  It also helped them to build clientele which they could either take with them when they set up their own business, or for long-term relationships with whilst working for their master.  Customers were served with tea and coffee, shown pattern-books, entertained and generally spoiled.

Shops were dependent upon the rhythm of daylight hours.  Food shops opened at dawn and stayed open until they had sold out for the day, or until dark.  Most other shops opened at 8am and stayed open until nightfall, or 9pm in the summer.  It's also worth bearing in mind that as a nation of shopkeepers, there were no chain-stores and each shop traded as they saw fit; much more interesting than the modern high street.

Anyone interested in learning more would be advised to read Dorothy Davis's excellent History of Shopping.

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December 20, 2009

For the Bite of a Mad Dog-

In modern rabies-free Britain we forget that the United Kingdom was once as prone to rabid animals as the rest of the world.  Without over-stating the matter, rabies is one nasty virus: its rod-like bacteria invade the central nervous system through a bite from an infected mammal (dog, person it's all the same).  A feeling of euphoria descends and the sufferer feels great, and certain they didn't get infected.  There's a variable incubation period before the paranoia and insomnia begin.  

Gradually, the anxiety will become delerium and the sufferer will begin to salivate, and their eyes will run, yet at the same time, they can't swallow properly.  They become frightened of drinking water because their throat is closing up, resulting in the famous hydrophobia, which was usually put down of the cause of death, even though it is always respiratory failure due to paralysis.  Rabies was known and feared in London throughout the Georgian period, with notable outbreaks in the 1750s, beginning in St James's in 1752 and reaching a peak in 1759, when rewards were offered for roaming dogs shot in the street, whether rabid or not.  It prompted a cull of London's strays that equalled the plague culls of the previous century.  

Londoners were quick to act, and well within their rights to shoot or otherwise kill a rabid dog.  Those who owned them were very quickly informed and fined if they tarried in destroying their dog.  London was a huge city full of tiny communities who, in general, knew their neighbours very well, or at least, lived in such close quarters they would have seen or heard the presence of a rabid animal.  Pigs and horses also contracted rabies in Georgian London, which was a blow for those who depended on their annual pig for food, or their horse for a living.  Hannah Glasse is famed for her Art of Cookery, published in 1747 (more of her Christmas recipes later in the week), but she also includes receipts for the treatment of those bitten by mad dogs:

A Certain Cure for the Bite of A Mad Dog

Let the patient be blooded at the arm, nine or ten ounces.  Take of the herb..liver-wort, cleaned, dried and powdered, half an ounce.  Of black pepper, powdered, two drams.  Mix these well together, and divide the powder into four doses, one of which must be take every morning fasting, for four mornings successively, in half a pint of cow's milk warm.  After these four doses are taken, the patient must go into the cold bath, or a cold spring or river every morning fasting for a month.  He must be dipt all over, but not to stay in longer than half a minute, of the water be very cold.  After this he must go in three times a week for a fortnight longer.  

Hannah's next recipe for the bite of a mad dog includes the following dosages for livestock: 

Eight or nine spoonfuls is sufficient for the strongest; a lesser quantity for those younger, or of a weaker constitution, as you may judge of their strength.  Ten or twelve spoonfuls for a horse or a bullock; three, four or five to a sheep, hog or dog.  This must be given within nine days after the bite; it seldom fails man or beast.

Before 1885 when Pasteur's work with infected rabbits produced a vaccine, rabies was deemed fatal in all cases.  I am sure Hannah's well-meaning instructions were no use to man, or beast, but to dismiss Georgian Londoners as ignorant would be wrong; Hannah's receipts concentrated on preventing hydrophobia through exposure (psychological, rather than physiological but still based upon observation), and her treatments are very strict about the nine day limit.  Over a century later, Pasteur discovered the Post Exposure Prophylaxis window (in which treatment was effective) was no more than ten days, so Hannah was definitely onto something.

 

       
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November 25, 2009

London's Lost Dogs

Between 1700 and 1800, there are almost 500 advertisements for lost dogs in the central London news-sheets.  The abduction of cosseted dogs seems to have been a rather lucrative trade, judging by some of the rewards offered.  It suits many modern historians to talk of cock-fighting and the riotous Cambridge students who tortured cats, but the nature of many of these advertisements leaves the reader in no doubt of the owners' affection for their lost companions, whether lap-dogs or working dogs:

Lost on Sunday Night, about Nine of the Clock, from my Lady Gouvernet in St James's Square, a Dutch Mastiff about 8 Years old, short Legg'd, with a large Neck and Head, pretty fat, big-eyed, short Nose and wide Mouth, his Back black, his belly, Breast, and Neck, Cream colour, with a black circle about his Neck, like a Collar exactly; and when he goes he straddles, and paws with his four Feet.  Whoever brings him to my Lady Gouvernet's House in St James's Square shall have a Guinea and Reasonable Charges. (Post Boy, February, 1701)

Lost on Saturday last, between Whitehall and Privy Garden, a small Red Dog of the Spaniel Kind, with four white Feet., a White Snip on his Nose, a few white Hairs on the outside of his Neck, and answers to the Name of MUFF.  Whoever, brings him to the Right Hon. the Earl of Waldegrave's, at Whitehall, shall receive Half a Guinea Reward. (Public Advertiser, Novemer 1768)

Lost, a Dog of the Pointer Kind, named Captain, fond of the Water, heavy made, fine Eyes, with an uncommon large Jowl of Flesh under his Throat, entirely white, about six Years old, strayed, or was stolen from Hutchinson's Stables in Water-Street, near Arundel-Street in the Strand, the first week of last November, (London Intelligencer, 1759)

LOST, on Saturday last, May 5th, near Grosvenor-gate, a yellow and white Spaniel Dog, rather old, very fat, and has lost an eye.  Whoever will bring him to Lady Robert Manners, Grosvenor-square, shall have Two Guineas reward. (Daily Advertiser, 1786)

LOST on Tuesday the 3d of July, near the Four Crosses on the Westchester Road, By Woolverhampton,   A red and white Bitch, of the Setting Breed, with a red Spot on her Forehead, answers to the Name of Phillis.  Whoever brings the said Bitch to Mr. Humphrey Wynne, of Shawberry, near Salop; or to Thomas Wieldup, at the Horse and Groom in Eagle- Street, Red Lion Square, shall receive a Reward of Five Guineas. (London Evening Post, 1753)

DOG. LOST - Strayed from the Door, in Line-street, about 9 o'clock on Sunday morning last, the 17th inst. a very small WHITE BITCH, of the French Breed.  She is all over white, excepting a small shade of brown, hardly perceptible, on the rump.  Her hair is very curly, stout, four years old, and answers to the name of CLARA.  Whoever brings her to Mr Maddocks, No.7 Lime-street will receive TWO GUINEAS for their trouble.  (The Times, July 19th, 1796)

Not all notices were for pets.  The unfortunate Cripple in this advertisement from the 1746 London Daily Advertiser was clearly a guard dog (but not rabid, just mad, probably because of his deformities and possibly cruel treatment):

Whereas a mad Dog has been missing ever since Sunday Night last, from Ivy-Lane, Newgate-Street, which said Dog snarls at the Name of Cripple, and is remarkable for having Wall Eyes, and a great bend in his Back; so this is to forewarn all Passengers passing through Cheapside to take Care they are not bit, knowing he is lurking about the said place. 

In July 1800, the Albion and Evening Advertiser carried the extensive case of Atkinson vs. Day, fought over one Caeser, or Charley, depending on which side one believed:

The plaintiff in this action (Atkinson), it appeared, had a bull-dog called Caesar, which was puppied in his premises, which he reared from its infancy, and of which he was very fond.  In November last, he lost this dog; he made enquiries after him, and for a long time, without success.  In May last, however, one of his servants happened to go into a cook's-shop about Moorfields, belonging to the defendant, to have a bason of soup; he then conceived that he saw the long lost and much lamented Caesar.  He claimed him; the defendant refused to give him up....The defence was, that if Mr Atkinson ever had such a dog as the one in questions, it was impossible that he could ever have had this dog, because it would be proved that this dog, called Charles, was the offspring of the Lover of Smut (best dog name ever? best name ever?), who belonged to a costermonger, otherwise a man who calls apples and vegetables about the street, and of Rose, who was the property of a lamplighter; that Charley was puppied in the premises of Moor, a horse-boiler; that he was one of six puppies, the produce of Rose; that these six were divided among the horse-boiler, the lamplighter, the lamplighter's wife, Faulkner, the costermonger, a man who drives a cart and another lamplighter called Fisher; that Charley had fallen to the lot of Faulkner, who had brought him up from his infancy, and that he had sold him to Mr Day, the defendant, for one guinea.

This goes on, and on, with both sides calling almost a dozen witnesses to prove their ownership of the dog.  A slip on behalf of one of those testifying reveals that he thought Mr Day purchased the dog from Charley 'the milk-man from over the water'.  As it was common for dogs to be named after their owners, the judge deemed that Charley had in fact come from the milk-man, whose round included the Atkinson property.  The dog was returned to the Atkinsons, and I'd imagine they bought their milk from someone else after that.  

     
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