24 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FABM. 



' After the ridges had been twice cast ! ' Why, 

 those seven words that lie so smooth on paper, cost 

 me three times seven months of single-handed fight- 

 ing against the ' Experience ' of a whole neighbour- 

 hood. No hawk in a rookery ever got better belea- 

 guered. * One down ; t'other come on ! ' was the one 

 perpetual motto of the daily tongue-task that awaited 

 me, fresh and fresh on every side, whichever way 1 

 turned. My own working-bailiff (et Tu Brute ! ) 

 headed the attack within the camp the traitor ! 

 while a neighbouring clergyman led on the foe from 

 without, evidently viewing the heresy in a serious 

 light, and myself as a fit subject for an auto da fe. 

 The conclusion of our last skirmish was too good to 

 be lost to posterity. I entered it verbatim in my 

 farm memoranda. Here it is. 



* But tell me in earnest. Don't you mean to ridge 

 up that field again ? ' 



' No!' 



' What, you mean to lay it flat ? ' 



'Yes!' 



1 In the name of Goodness ! Why ? ' 



' Because THE NAME OF GOODNESS made 

 it so I ' 



If I had suddenly assumed some demoniacal 



