The Mouchers Calendar 135 



breaking off the coarser sprays, snipping away pieces 

 of root, sorting and washing, and thinking of the 

 amount of work to be got through before a shilling is 

 earned, one would imagine that the slow, idling life 

 of the labourer, with his regular wages, would be far 

 more enticing. 



Near the stream the ground is perhaps peaty : 

 little black pools appear between tufts of grass, some 

 of them streaked with a reddish or yellowish slime 

 that glistens on the surface of the dark water ; and 

 as you step there is a hissing sound as the spongy 

 earth yields, and a tiny spout is forced forth several 

 yards distant. Some of the drier part of the soil the 

 moucher takes to sell for use in gardens and flower- 

 pots as peat. 



The years roll on, and he grows old. But no 

 feebleness of body or mind can induce him to enter 

 the workhouse : he cannot quit his old haunts. Let 

 it rain or sleet, or let the furious gale drive broken 

 boughs across the road, he still sleeps in some shed 

 or under a straw-rick. In sheer pity he is committed 

 every now and then to prison for vagabondage — not 

 for punishment, but in order to save him from 

 himself. It is in vain ; the moment he is out he 

 returns to his habits. All he wants is a little beer — - 

 he is not a drunkard — and a little tobacco, and the 



