162 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FARM. 



as it has now the reputation of, if it had not been 

 always parting with its sand by this continual process 

 of superficial scraping ?' When I came to drain it, I 

 found that my suspicion was correct. Every here 

 and there the subsoil was chequered by little ' pots ' 

 of pure sand, embedded in red clay, and so full of 

 water that the drainer w r as obliged to tap them care- 

 fully to prevent large masses breaking off and rushing 

 down with the fluid that burst out of them when the 

 sides were cut through. The effect of the drainage 

 was already most remarkable. The workmen called 

 it ' beautiful ;' and though nothing can present a 

 more dreary look than a fresh drained field with all 

 the cold varieties of subsoil lying exposed along the 

 lines of the drains, I could not help feeling the truth 

 of the expression applied as it was prospectively rather 

 than to the actual scene before the eye. It was 

 ' beautiful ' in the same sense that many a rough- 

 looking act, and many a painful soul -subduing 

 thought, and many a rainy day of life's adversities, 

 is ' beautiful ' by its consequences ; and I always 

 liked the word, so pregnant with faith in what is un- 

 seen except by the mental eye that ' views the Future 

 in the Instant/ Inexperience or ignorance would 

 have called it intensely ugly, and would have pre- 



