either side is one mat of clover and rye-grass. We display an increasing preference for the turf as distinguished from the roadway. The sun is becoming hotter. The clouds have retired. There is a hint of storm. The heavy air is charged with electricity. We put on the pace a little. One may as well have this sort of thing over in a condensed form.
Here we stop to look at a man ploughing for maize. Our brow is wet with 'honest ,' whatsy name? We must weigh pounds less than this morning. How far to the Gilmore Inn?' Four miles!' Thermometer over a hundred in the shade. We set our teeth and march on. We are acquiring the regular slouching swing of the 'sundowner,' it appears to us. There is nothing like similar experience for producing sympathy. We can almost fancy ourselves accosting the overseer with the customary, 'Got any work, sir, for a man to do?' and subsiding to the traveller's hut, with the regulation junk of meat and pannikin of flour. Can partly gauge the feelings of the honest son of toil, weary, athirst, somewhat sore-footed (surely there must be a nail?), when said overseer, being in bad temper, tells him to go to the deuce, that he knows he won't take work if it's offered, and that he has no rations to spare for useless loafers.
It is more than an hour later—we think it more than an hour hotter—as we sight the Gilmore Inn, near rushing stream, hidden by enormous willows. We have abstained from drinking of the trickling rill, hot and dusty as we are. Thoughts of 'that poor creature, small beer,' obtrude, if the local optionists have not abolished him.
In the parlour of this snug roadside inn we put down our 'swag,' and order a large glass of home-brewed and a crust of bread. We certainly agree with Mr. Swiveller, 'Beer can't be tasted in a sip,' especially after a twenty-mile trudge. When we put down the 'long-sleever' there is but a modicum left.
We give ourselves about half an hour here, by which time we are cooled and refreshed, as is apparently the day. Sol is lower and more reasonable. We sling on, by no means done—rather improving pace than otherwise—till overtaken by a friend and his family in a buggy. He kindly proffers to drive us in; but we have made it a point of honour to walk every
