144 CHRONICLES OF A CLAY FARM. 



assuredly concealed behind the veil of centuries, 

 when the first daring mariner, as old Herodotus tells 

 us, was scared back by the * Fog and falling feathers ' 

 from the sacred coast of Albion. Far away in the 

 thirsty regions of the South, as sun rolled after sun, 

 in dry and blazing sameness through the sky, un- 

 screened by the mercy of a single cloud, I have 

 gasped and pined for an English wetting for one 

 day in the most dripping covert for the murkiest 

 downpour for the darkest clouds that ever ga- 

 thered in gloomy council over a November day, 

 till the very memory of it seemed like a dream too 

 delightful to have been ever true ! And often since, 

 when the very drainers (and they stand the waters 

 from above the firmanent, and under it, pretty 

 well) have cast up furtive eyes out of their soak- 

 ing trenches to see if ' the Master budged,' giving 

 sundry hints that ' it's a'most time to give in, I've 

 stood my ground for hours against the welcome fog 

 and shower and darkness, from the sheer inward 

 force of well-remembered contrast, determined to 

 have it out with Nature, and come to a final arrange- 

 ment a sort of water-level with her, for having 

 been cheated out of two or three English winters. 

 And I sometimes think she has whispered me a 



