OF THE MARSH 183 



possibility of appeal the earth's diurnal and annual 

 motions, and to be translated with all this orbis 

 terrarum toward an insignificant star in the con- 

 stellation Hercules at the undignified speed of 

 fifteen miles per second. 



Be all that as it may, I had, as I said, first wind of 

 the impending change; for, sweeping the marsh with 

 my field glass before going forward early one July 

 morning, I caught the glint of steel in the sunlight 

 where the reeds ended and the grass-clad embank- 

 ment of the river began. 



It was the municipal plough, lying with a list to 

 port, like a beached boat waiting for the tide. I had 

 liefer have seen it stranded for good, or sunk fathom 

 deep in the bog to rise no more. How finely they 

 build these things in this progressive age, with the 

 finish of a lancet, to fold back the fat earth like 

 opened flesh. Even as I stood over it, there came 

 from a neighbouring field, itself but renegade 

 bogland, the clatter of a mechanical whirligig that 

 reaps and gathers, bunches and binds, and flings the 

 finished stook to earth with American contempt. 

 But we note with satisfaction that there is a good 

 deal of water out, and this plough, being a dry-land 

 sailer, will have to gather some rust before it can be 

 got under weigh. 



The sun is not high, however, when our dry-land 

 pilot appears, and as he passes with scythe and 

 bill-hook, we inquire if he is going a-shrimping, a 

 suggestion that appears to be not altogether lost 

 upon him. 



The brown rats soon know of it ! They like the 

 outer ditches, which, being deeper, are seldom 



