A TRUE TALE OF THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER.
"Now then—hold fast there—mind the furrow, Tim." The man who was loading prepared himself for the shock, and the waggon safely jolted over the furrow, and on between the wakes of light-brown hay, crackling to the touch as if it would catch fire in the brilliant sunshine. The pitchers, one on each side, stuck their prongs into the wakes and sent up great "pitches," clearing the ground rapidly, through emulation, for it was a point of honour to keep pace with each other. Tim, the old man who had led the horses, resumed his rake in the rear among the women, who instantly began teasing the poor wretch.
"Tim, she's allus in the way," said one, purposely hitching her rake in his. "Thur—get away."
"I shan't," said Tim, surly as crabbed age and incessant banter under a hot sun could make him. "Now—mind, thee's break th' rake."
They both pulled as hard as they dared—each expecting the other to give way, for the master was in sight, on horseback, by the rick, and a rake broken wantonly would bring a sharp reprimand.
"Go it, Sal!" cried the loader on the waggon hoarsely, half choked with hay dust. "Pull away!"
"Pull, Tim!" cried one of the pitchers.
"Ha! ha!" laughed two or three more women, closing round as the girl gave a tug which nearly upset Tim and broke half-a-dozen teeth out of his rake.