128 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FARM. 



covert under the young turnip-leaf, every county 

 journal had its broad page of ' Sales of Farming 

 stock ' set in types in which he who ran might read 

 something more than met the eye. 



" Fallen upon bad times ! all up with farming, 



I doubt, Sir !" said a muffled voice, out of a red- 

 striped neck- warmer ; joggingly : for the utterer of 

 the sentiment was on a rough nag, not a ' good'un to 

 look at,' but he went as an old clock does, by habit 

 with an ash stick steadily going, for pendulum, on 

 one side, and a spur peeping under the left gaiter, and 

 steadily going too, on the other, for regulator. 



"All up with farming, I doubt!" 



And the speaker threw an eye sideways to one who 

 rode on his left, as he repeated the last words, an eye 

 most expressive forwith the good natured 'crow's foot' 

 that nestled close up to it and seemed to tell of home- 

 feelings and fire-side memories, there was a momentary 

 wrinkle, a peep of something well accustomed to con- 

 cealment, that glanced out for an instant telegraph- 

 ing (how rapidly !) a half century's experience of the 

 words ' FROM THE SWEAT OF THY BROW SHALT THOU 

 EAT BREAD !' Yet not complainingly : too truthfully 

 and heart-whole for that. 



No answer came. The ash stick went on steadily : 



