Poyser, who had more than once said in
confidence to her husband, "You're mighty fond o' Craig, but for my
part, I think he's welly like a cock as thinks the sun's rose o' purpose
to hear him crow." For the rest, Mr. Craig was an estimable gardener,
and was not without reasons for having a high opinion of himself. He
had also high shoulders and high cheek-bones and hung his head forward
a little, as he walked along with his hands in his breeches pockets. I
think it was his pedigree only that had the advantage of being Scotch,
and not his "bringing up"; for except that he had a stronger burr in
his accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire people
about him. But a gardener is Scotch, as a French teacher is Parisian.
"Well, Mr. Poyser," he said, before the good slow farmer had time to
speak, "ye'll not be carrying your hay to-morrow, I'm thinking. The
glass sticks at 'change,' and ye may rely upo' my word as we'll ha' more
downfall afore twenty-four hours is past. Ye see that darkish-blue cloud
there upo' the 'rizon--ye know what I mean by the 'rizon, where the land
and sky seems to meet?"
"Aye, aye, I see the cloud," said Mr. Poyser, "'rizon or no 'rizon. It's
right o'er Mike Holdsworth's fallow, and a foul fallow it is.
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