Monday brings the joy of work, second only to the Sabbath of rest,
and I settle to my heap by the white gate. Soon I hear the distant
stamp of horsehoofs, heralding the grind and roll of the wheels
which reaches me later--a heavy flour-waggon with a team of four
great gentle horses, gay with brass trappings and scarlet ear-caps.
On the top of the craftily piled sacks lies the white-clad
waggoner, a pink in his mouth which he mumbles meditatively, and
the reins looped over the inactive whip--why should he drive a
willing team that knows the journey and responds as strenuously to
a cheery chirrup as to the well-directed lash? We greet and pass
the time of day, and as he mounts the rise he calls back a warning
of coming rain. I am already white with dust as he with flour,
sacramental dust, the outward and visible sign of the stir and beat
of the heart of labouring life.
Next to pass down the road is an anxious ruffled hen, her speckled
breast astir with maternal troubles. She walks delicately, lifting
her feet high and glancing furtively from side to side with comb
low dressed. The sight of man, the heartless egg-collector, from
whose haunts she has fled, wrings from her a startled cluck, and
she makes for the white gate, climbs through, and disappears. I
know her feelings too well to intrude. Many times already has she
hidden herself, amassed four or five precious treasures, brooding
over them with anxious hope; and then, after a brief desertion to
seek the necessary food, she has returned to find her efforts at
concealment vain, her treasures gone.
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