THE WASTE. 3 



covery stimulate further exploration, and Iris plough 

 be set a couple of inches deeper, his ears might pre- 

 sently be regaled with a sound as of a heavy-laden 

 cart dragging over a newly-gravelled road ; and after 

 turning up a variety of conglomerates, as compacted 

 as the bed of an old Roman causeway, and as many- 

 coloured as Harlequin's coat, the stress of the pull 

 would suddenly be eased, and the plough be heard 

 swimming whisperingly through a bed of wet sand ; 

 and just as the filler-horse was congratulating himself 

 that it was all plain sailing now, bang goes a trace or 

 a spreader, and the plough comes to a standstill, just 

 revealing, at the share-point, the bruised side of a 

 quartz pebble, as big as a foot-ball, grinning at you 

 from its tight nook in the bed of the furrow. 



Have I described enough? or shall I add, to this 

 subsoil sketch, a faint and feeble idea of the surface, 

 some time about the month of February (surnamcd 

 ' fill-dyke ' not without reason) ; and endeavour to 

 paint the hopeless, currentless, resourceless, and piti- 

 able condition of water, whose unhappy fate has fallen, 

 or melted, upon fields as flat as a billiard-table, and 

 without even a 'pocket' to run into for escape or 

 concealment? There it would stand, day after day, 

 and week after week, and month after month, shining 



B2 



