“What is Plough Monday?”
Maggie could only stare at this question—she could not answer it, except by saying:
“Well, they always keep Plough Monday round here, though not properly, like they used to do. They came to the gate last year, but I told them not to come singing with your mother lying ill.”
“I shall go and see,” said Anne, and she ran across the landing from her bedroom, which faced the garden, into her father’s, which overlooked the road.
TWO: PLOUGH MONDAY
The sound of voices came again, men and boys singing, one out of tune with the others, but all ringing with the same fresh gaiety and purity through the frosty air, reminding the hearer of the sharp notes of the blacksmith’s hammer raining on the anvil, and giving him the same assurance that the very texture of man’s ordinary life is a beautiful and joyous fabric.
This time Anne could hear the words of the song.
One morning very early,
The ploughboy he was seen
All hastening to the stable