136 THE DAILY LIFE OF OUR FARM. 



January, 1868. 



For the life of me I cannot set hands upon the 

 letter of old Bates regarding Shorthorns, which I pro- 

 mised to quote. Somewhere it is safely deposited, and 

 will certainly turn up, unless our hopeful hath, in the 

 absence of his fond parent, made spills thereof. This 

 cannot be, though : the colt is better trained ; so we 

 will hope and proceed. 



" Farming this land, sir," said an observant old 

 neighbour to me lately, as we stood upon an arable 

 slope of light brashy sandstone soil, " is like farming 

 a sieve," strewn with some temporarily absorbent ma- 

 terial. Just so long as you can secure the use of the 

 layer in an inebriated state, you ensure a paying crop 

 of grain ; but then the virtue is so evanescent. There 

 is a tide in the affairs of — soils, &c. Once let the 

 occasion pass, and your seed-bed is worthless as the 

 vapid draught of a three hours' uncorked soda-water 

 drink. So have ingenious spirits grown salad vege- 

 tables, 'such as mustard and cress, on the surface of 

 moist flannel. The great secret of managing this soil is, 

 soak it well and sow it soaked : certain then will be 

 the remunerative return. "Ah, bless them clay lands," 

 he continued, " on which the clover thrives so bounti- 

 fully; we can't get it no how on these rubbishy side- 

 lands, leastways as a permanent resident. It's a hop- 

 and-go-one plant with us at best — now here and now 

 there a leaf. Dash these light soils ! them quite beats 

 me, they do." Dash them 1 we remark remonstratively, 

 in regard to the increasing vehemence of his expres- 

 sions — dash them ! pray with what ? " Dash, sir ? why 

 excuse me, but I meant it metaphorically. However, 



