The
ploughman walks in the furrow his share has made, and presently stops to
measure the 'lands' with the spud. His horses halt dead in the tenth of
a second at the sound of his voice, glad to rest for a minute from their
toil. Work there is in plenty now, for stone-picking, hoeing, and other
matters must be attended to; but the moucher lounges in the road
decoying chaffinches, or perhaps earns a shilling by driving some
dealer's cattle home from fair and market.
By April his second great crop is ready--the watercress; the precise
time of course varies very much, and at first the quantities are small.
The hedges are now fast putting on the robe of green that gradually
hides the wreck of last year's growth. The withered head of the teazle,
black from the rain, falls and disappears. Great burdock stems lie
prostrate. Thick and hard as they are while the sap is still in them, in
winter the wet ground rots the lower part till the blast overthrows the
stalk. The hollow 'gicks' too, that lately stood almost to the shoulder,
is down, or slanting, temporarily supported by some branch. Just
between the root and the stalk it has decayed till nothing but a narrow
strip connects the dry upper part with the earth. The moucher sells the
nests and eggs of small birds to townsfolk who cannot themselves wander
among the fields, but who love to see something that reminds them of the
green meadows.
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