A WORD AT PARTING. 89 



peared through the soil, it has dragged the air after 

 it, and with the air, its burthen of medicament, food, 

 and temperature, down to the once sluggish and un- 

 awakened subsoil that never felt its animating touch 

 before. 



" Oh ! Sir ! It's a. fine thing, is this here draining/' 

 said an old labourer, lifting up one heavy foot on the 

 ledge of his spade, and composing himself with his 

 elbow resting on the handle, to say a few words, be- 

 fore he put his jacket on and parted for the night. 



"It's a fine thing is this here draining: what a 

 crop o' Turnips '11 be here next Autumn, I'll be 

 bound to say !" 



Of all things I like to catch the toiler in his spare 

 but hearty moment of contemplation. The utterance 

 of an abstract thought or reflection is never so pre- 

 cious as when it struggles for a moment from one 

 whose frame is almost bent double with the hard 

 practicality of daily labour. I prize it beyond words. 



" It is a glorious thing," replied I ; " the more I see 

 of its effects, the more I like it, and the more I won- 

 der how the land was ever worked before without it." 



" Ah ! well, Sir, 'twas a different sort of thing you 

 see, 't was like a different traade. Lor' blesh you, I 

 remember the time when after Wheat-sowing was 



