nd;
but the turnips too are frozen hard and they cannot eat them until
Giles, following with his beetle, splits them up with vigorous blows,
and the cows gather close round him, sending out a cloud of steam from
their nostrils.

The dim short winter day soon ends, but the sound of the flails
continues in the barns till long after dark before the weary labourers
end their task and trudge home. Giles, too, is busy at this time taking
hay to the housed cattle, many a sweet mouthful being snatched from the
load as he staggers beneath it on his way to the racks. Then follow
the well-earned hours of "warmth and rest" by the fire in the big old
kitchen which he describes:--

For the rude architect, unknown to fame,
(Nor symmetry nor elegance his aim),
Who spread his floors of solid oak on high,
On beams rough-hewn from age to age that lie,
Bade his wide fabric unimpaired sustain
The orchard's store, and cheese, and golden grain;
Bade from its central base, capacious laid,
The well-wrought chimney rear its lofty head
Where since hath many a savoury ham been stored,
And tempests howled and Christmas gambols roared.

The tired ploughman, steeped in luxurious heat, by and by falls asleep
and dreams sweetly until his chilblains or the snapping fire awakes him,
and he pulls himself up and goes forth yawning to give his team their
last feed, his lantern throwing a feeble gleam on the snow as he makes
his way to the stable. Having completed his task, he pats the sides
of those he loves best by way of good-night, and leaves them to their
fragrant meal. And this kindly action on his part suggests one of the
best passages of the poem. Even old well-fed Dobbin occasionally rebels
against his slavery, and released from his chains will lift his clumsy
hoofs and kick, "disdainful of the dirty wheel." Short-sighted Dobbin!

Thy chains were freedom, and thy toils repose,
Could the poor post-horse tell thee all his woes;
Show thee his bleeding shoulders, and unfold
The dreadful anguish he endures for gold;
Hired at each call of business, lust, or rage,
That prompts the traveller on from stage to stage.
Still on his strength depends their boasted speed;
For them his limbs grow weak, his bare ribs bleed;
And though he groaning quickens at command,
Their extra shilling in the rider's hand
Becomes his bitter scourge....

The description, too long to quote, which follows of th