The Open Air 



once upon his rude bed. Not being an animal, though 

 his life and work were animal, he went with his friends 

 to talk. Let none unjustly condemn him as a black- 

 guard for that no, not even though they had seen 

 him at ten o'clock unsteadily walking to his shed, and 

 guiding himself occasionally with his hands to save 

 himself from stumbling. He blundered against the 

 door, and the noise set the swallows on the beams 

 twittering. He reached his bedstead, and sat down 

 and tried to unlace his boots, but could not. He 

 threw himself upon the sacks and fell asleep. Such 

 was one twenty-four hours of harvest-time. 



The next and the next, for weeks, were almost 

 exactly similar; now a little less beer, now a little 

 more; now tying up, now pitching, now cutting a 

 small field or corner with a fagging-hook. Once now 

 and then there was a great supper at the farm. Once 

 he fell out with another fellow, and they had a fight ; 

 Roger, however, had had so much ale, and his oppo- 

 nent so much whisky, that their blows were soft and 

 helpless. They both fell that is, they stumbled, 

 they were picked up, there was some more beer, 

 and it was settled. One afternoon Roger became 

 suddenly giddy, and was so ill that he did no more 

 work that day, and very little on the following. It 

 was something like a sunstroke, but fortunately a 

 slight attack ; on the third day he resumed his place. 

 Continued labour in the sun, little food and much 

 drink, stomach derangement, in short, accounted for 

 his illness. Though he resumed his place and worked 

 on, he was not so well afterwards; the work was more 

 of an effort to him, and his face lost its fulness, and 

 became drawn and pointed. Still he laboured, and 

 would not miss an hour, for harvest was coming to 

 an end, and the extra wages would soon cease. For 



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