ONE:Yesthere was no denying his father had been happy. But what a happiness! Even there by his side Reuben despised it. He, Reuben, would never be happy till he had torn up that gorse and lopped those firs from the top of Boarzell. In a kind of vision he saw the Moor with wheatfields rolling up to the crest, he smelt the baking of glumes in brown sunlight, the dusty savour of[Pg 25] the harvest-laden earth. He heard the thud of horses' hoofs and the lumber of waggon-wheels, the shouts of numberless farm-hands. That sinister waste, profitless now to every man, should be a source of wonder and wealth and fame. "Odiamthe biggest farm in Sussex. Backfield made it. He bought Boarzell Moor acre by acre and fought it inch by inch, and now there's nothing like it in the south." ...Every now and then the crowd would break into the latest rhymings of MacKinnon's poet:
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Nulla pretium lectus vel justo iaculis blandit. Nulla facilisi. In hac habitasse platea dictumst. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit.
ONE:Reuben's domestic catastrophes might be summed up in the statement that he had lost two farm hands. It is true that Albert had never been much goodif he had his father would probably not have turned him awaybut he had been better than nothing, and now Reuben would have to hire a substitute. One would be enough, for Jemmy and George were now able to do a man's full work each. So another hand was engaged for OdiamPiper, a melancholy, lean-jowled cowman from Moor's Cottage.
