24 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FARM. 



' After the ridges had been twice cast' ! Why, those 

 seven words that lie so smooth on paper, cost me 

 three times seven months of single-handed fighting 

 against the 'Experience' of a whole neighbourhood. 

 No hawk in a rookery ever got better beleaguered. 

 " One down Mother come on \" was the one perpetual 

 motto of the tongue-task that awaited me, fresh and 

 fresh, on every side, which ever way I turned. My 

 own working-bailiff (et Tu Brute!) headed the attack 

 within the camp the traitor ! while a neighbouring 

 clergyman led on the foe from without, evidently 

 viewing the heresy in a serious light, and myself as 

 a fit subject for an auto da fe. The conclusion of our 

 last skirmish was too good to be lost to posterity. I 

 entered it verbatim in my farm memoranda. Here 

 it is. 



' But tell me in earnest. Don't you mean to ridge 

 up that field again \' 



'No!' 



'"What, you mean to lay it small?' 



'Yes!' 



' In the name of Goodness ! Why ?' 



'Because THE NAME OF GOODNESS made it so!' 



If I had suddenly assumed some demoniacal form, 

 and then, leaving a train of smoke and brimstone, 



