A Thousand Grumbles. 147 
much work to do uz can’t get drough it. The fly be 
swarming in the turmots—the smut be on the wheat 
—the wuts be amazing weak in the straw. Gota fine 
crop of wheat this year, and prices be low, so uz had 
better drow it to th’ pigs. Last year uz had no wheat 
fit to speak on, and prices was high. Drot this here 
wet weather! the osses be all in the stable eating their 
heads off, and the chaps be all idling about and can’t 
do no work: a pretty penny for wages and not a job 
done. Them summer ricks be all rotten at bottom. 
The ploughing-engine be stuck fast up to the axle, 
the land be so soft and squishey. Us never gets no 
good old frosts now, like they used to have. Drot 
these here frosty mornings! a-cutting up everything. 
There'll be another rate out soon, a’ reckon. Us had 
better give up this here trade, neighbour!’ 
And so on for a thousand and one grumbles, fit- 
ting into every possible condition of things, which 
must not, however, be taken too seriously ; for of all 
other men the farmer is the most deeply attached to 
the labour by which he lives, and loves the earth on 
which he walks like a true autochthon. He will not 
leave it unless he is suffering severely. 
