28 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FARM. 



One of the points referred to, first presented itself 

 to the notice of the Chronicler, in this wise : 



' A queer lot this, Sir ! ' 



' Well, it is queer] replied I, as the drainer threw 

 out first 'a lump of blue clay, then a lump of red, 

 then a horrible spadeful of white, then a dripping 

 mass of yellow sand, then a kind of grey gravelly 

 conglomerate, that had puzzled the very pickaxe 

 whose delicate style of dissection had been brought 

 to bear upon it, then a few spadefuls of beautifully- 

 veined red marl, and then broke into a carboniferous- 

 looking bed of black peat, and then but let the 

 old drainer christen it, for my heterology is exhausted. 



( A QUEER LOT, this, Sir ! What shall I do 

 with it ? ' 



I stood for a moment dramatically silent, working 

 up my courage to a great effort. Out it came at last. 

 * Let it be spread over the land I ' 



He was just raising his face to look up in mine. 

 I knew what was coming ; I caught one sight of his 

 mouth screwing into an agony of contortion, as the 

 idea loomed painfully, by degrees, upon his per- 

 ceptions. I waited for no more, but turned quietly 

 round, trying to stifle a fit of inward laughter not 

 at my own words, but at the effect I knew they were 



