A Tkotisand and One Grumbles 1 1 9 



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, fitting 

 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. 



