170 THE DAILY LIFE OF OUR FARM. 



Here we left off last night, it being positively too 

 painfully sultry to get on with one's writing. Hand 

 and arm absolutely stuck to the paper, as our ideas 

 stuck resolutely, too, in the clay pocket of our muddled 

 brains. 



But, as the Irish song says, 



* * 'Twas of a "Wednesday night, 

 At two o'clock in the morning," 



when, glad sound, through the open window ! there was a 

 torrent descending. Good-luck now for the embrowned 

 pastures, good-luck for the mildewed swede-leaf, good- 

 luck for the farm in toto ; for now, at this hour of 

 9 a.m., a mist — quite a washing-day mist — covers the 

 face of the whole earth ; and there will be a luxu- 

 riant growth forthwith. With our abundant sweet 

 straw, there may not, after all, be a dearth of cattle- 

 food, supposing — as there is every present prospect — 

 that we can put in the breadth we intend of hybrid 

 turnips. 



There is an excellent plan of quaint old Drury's for 

 the multiplication of food, the secret of which consists 

 in soaking wheat-straw. I cannot lay hands on his 

 work just now ; but, if I remember well, his plan was 

 to cut wheat-straw of a short length, and then put it to 

 soak for some hours in cold water, until a thick muci- 

 lage be formed. He then boiled it, stirring in a portion 

 of meal. By this means he was enabled to keep a 

 large extra quantity of stock. I must look the volume 

 up, and give his exact words next time. 



I have just been called off to inspect a useful new 

 implement which I bought at Leicester, and which, 

 wonderful to relate, satisfies my honest, ruddy-faced old 



