A WORD AT PARTING. 117 



sort of chronicle call it the 'Chronicle of a Clay 

 Farm'?" 



"Oh that's capital! Lord how I should like to 

 see it : that 'ould be summat like, that would ! none 

 o' them there long words about Chemists and Drug- 

 gists and Doctors' stuff, as if Farmers was a parcel o' 



old women, like my poor old Missus oh! thank 



you kindly Sir for what you sent her, it did her a 

 sight o' good, she was able to eat her vittles better 

 arterwards than she's done for many a day " 



"But you won't believe I can doctor the field and 

 give that an appetite, eh, Dobson?" 



"Well I don't know I ben't no scollard, Sir 

 one thing however, you've tapped the dropsy on it, 

 for one thing, that's sartin!" 



" And you '11 believe the other when you ' ve seen 

 it. Well, good night Dobson/ " 



And with a hearty "good night" in return, 

 trudges poor old Dobson home from his hard ancl 

 wet day's work, with none the heavier heart or less 

 elastic tread for a few cheery words to enliven the 

 dull blank of the body's labor, and illuminate for a 

 moment that hateful chasm that lies too broad and 

 forbidding between employer and employed, in civ- 

 ilized England. 



When will this stain depart from our land? When 



