A WORD AT PARTING. 89 



food, and temperature, down to the once sluggish 

 and unawakened subsoil that never felt its animating 

 touch before. 



' Oh ! Sir ! it's a fine tiling, 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 utter- 

 ance of an abstract thought or reflection is never so 

 precious as when it struggles from the lips of one 

 whose frame is bent 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 

 wonder how the land was ever worked before with- 

 out it.' 



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

 see, 'twas like a different traade. Lor' blesh you, 

 I remember the time when arter Wheat-sowing was 

 done (and sometimes there was many fields so as it 

 couldn't be got in at all, when it came a wet season), 



