28 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FARM. 



One of the points referred to, first presented itself 

 to the notice of the Chronicler, in this wise. 



1 A queer lot this, Sir !' 



'Well it is queer,' replied I, as the drainer threw 

 out first a lump of blue clay, then a lump of red, then 

 a horrible spadeful of white, then a dripping mass of 

 yellow sand, then a kind of grey gravelly conglome- 

 rate, that had puzzled the very pickaxe whose deli- 

 cate style of dissection had been brought to bear 

 upon it, then a few spadefuls of beautifully-veined 

 red marl, and then broke into a carboniferous-looking 

 bed of black peat, and then but let the old drainer 

 christen it, for my heterology is exhausted. 



1 A QUEER LOT, this, Sir ! What shall I do with 

 it? 3 



I stood for a moment dramatically silent, work- 

 ing up my courage to a great effort. Out it came 

 at last. 



' Let it be spread over the land! ' 

 He was just raising his face to look up in mine. 

 I knew what was coming ; I caught one sight of his 

 mouth screwing into an agony of contortion, as the 

 idea loomed painfully, by degrees, upon his perceptions. 

 I waited for no more, but turned quietly round, trying 

 to stifle a fit of inward laughter not at my own 



