4:8 CHKCNICLES OF A CLAY FARM. 



One of the points referred to, first presented itself 

 to the notice of the Chronicler, in this wise. 



"A queer lot this, Sir!" 



"Well it is queer" replied I, as the drainer threw 

 out first a lump of blue clay, then a lump of red, 

 then a horrible spadeful of white, then a drip- 

 ping mass of yellow sand, then a kind of gray, 

 gravelly conglomerate, that had puzzled the very 

 pickaxe whose delicate style of dissection had been 

 brought to bear upon it, then a few spadefuls of 

 beautifully-veined red marl, and then broke into 

 a carboniferous-looking bed of black peat, and 

 then but let the old drainer christen it, for my 

 heterology is exhausted. 



"A QUEEK LOT, this Sir! What shall I do 

 with it?" 



I stood for a moment melo-dramatically silent, 

 working up my courage to a great effort. Out it 

 came at last. 



" Let it be spread over the land ! " 



He was just raising his face to look up in mine. 

 I knew what was coming ; I caught one side of his 

 mouth screwing into an agony of contortion, as 

 the idea loomed painfully, by degrees, upon his 

 perceptions. I waited for no more, but turned 

 quietly round, trying to stifle a fit of inward 



