flaymaking. 81

The work assigned me was turning and spreading
the new-mown hay, and I went at it cheerily all the
morning, keeping pace with the women of the
farm-house who were at the same work, laughing
and chatting over it as if it were mere child’s play.
But as the afternoon went on, my limbs dragged
more and more wearily, handling the fork became
misery to my blistered hands and aching arms, and
I perceived that my fears had been correct ; I could
not possibly go to Mr. Hurst that night—it was as
much as I could do to gct home. Once there, I
refused all food except a cup of tea, and tumbled
straight to bed, to be haunted by the scent and sight
of hay every time I closed my eyes. My sleep was
broken by that uncomfortable sensation which often
comes when one is overtired—of tumbling off a
height down to nowhere, and waking up with the
shock of not touching the bottom,

I was in the hayfield again, however, the next
morning ; and so was the farmer, this time, with
several other men and boys. In the course of the
morning I was put to “tump” or cock the long
lines of hay, under the leadership of young Simon,
my enemy during that one day at school, and at
all times my most inveterate teaser. He was 2
stout young fellow of twenty now, and pretended

to be above taking notice of me. But whenever
EF