belayed. His caution is justified in the night by a violent thunderstorm,
and in the morning it is raining steadily.

It rains again on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Thursday it does not
rain, but the hedges are wet, the ground is soaked, the grass hung with
raindrops, the sky heavy with masses of drifting cloud. The hay cannot be
touched; it must lie a day till sufficiently dry. Friday is more hopeful.
He walks out into the fields, and kicks a haycock half over. The hay is
still wet, but he congratulates himself that not much damage is done.
Saturday Is warm and fine--work goes on again. But Sunday is near. Sunday
is fiery hot. Monday, the rain pours down with tropical vehemence.

Thus the monotonous, heart-breaking days go by and lengthen into weeks,
and the weeks extend into months. The wheat is turning colour, and still
the hay lies about, and the farmer has ceased even to tap the barometer.
Those fields that are not cut are brown as brown can be--the grass has
seeded and is over ripe. The labourers come every day, and some trifling
job is found for them--the garden path is weeded, the nettles cut, and
such little matters done. Their wages are paid every week in silver and
gold--harvest wages, for which no stroke of harvest work has been done. He
must keep them on, because any day the weather may brighten, and then they
will be wanted. But the weather does not brighten, and the drain of ready
cash continues. Besides the men, the mowing machine is idle in the shed.
Even if the rain ceases, the crops are so laid that it is doubtful if it
can be employed. The horse-rake is idle, the elevator is idle, the
haymaking machine is idle, and these represent capital, if not to a large
amount. He notes the price of hay at the market. For months past it has
been low--so low that it has hardly paid him to sell that portion of old
hay which he felt he could spare. From October of last year to June of
this [1879] the price remained about the same. It is now rising, but he