100 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FARM. 



bare fallows, from the time, three centuries ago, 

 when Sir Anthony Fitzherbert wrote ; and for three 

 more centuries before, perhaps. 



But it is trying work, no doubt, to see the fields 

 around you teeming with richest vegetation nature 

 all alive in every direction with the bursting wealth 

 of present produce and maturity, and to toil on 

 nevertheless upon the bare and burning fallow, where 

 the very dews of Heaven refuse their evening tear, 

 and the morning ray darts in wide, vain search after 

 the liquid Brilliant that it finds on every grass- 

 blade, every leaf, and every flower throughout the 

 rest of Creation. One has heard of "knocking a 

 man into next week;" such a misfortune might 

 chance to befall one inadvertently, and on suitable 

 provocation : but to be plowing next year for nine 

 months of this one, and three of the last, to see 

 every thing overtaking you as it were by a twelve- 

 month, leaves growing more juicy and green, and 

 crops getting richer and riper, and you and your 

 fallow, like a sort of converse Oasis, Desert amid 

 the Green, still dragging behind, "feeding the air, 

 promise-cramm'd," a heart-sick waiter upon the de- 

 ferred hope of next year, It is trying work no 

 doubt ! 



But Life is full of it : and especially of such as 



