all snap our fingers at
Parson Boase."

"Tom do talk a wunnerful passel o' nonsense," remarked John-James
placidly as his brother picked up his boots and went out. But Tom was of
the truly great who can always contain themselves when there is nothing
to be gained by an explosion, and he disappeared without answering.

Annie and John-James proceeded to put the finishing touches to the
kitchen--John-James doing all the real good that was done, and Annie
setting things backwards and forwards in her strange aimless way.
Upstairs Vassie was tying her hair--brushed out now into a short,
crimped fluff that made her look more like an angel than ever--with the
blue ribbon; while Archelaus and Tom greased their locks with the
remains of Tom's stolen butter. Soon Annie and John-James also went
upstairs to prepare themselves for the feast, and the kitchen grew
slowly dark.

Ishmael staggered across the last field with his bucket of fuel, his
lean little arms aching under its weight, but his mind singing the
triumphant refrain:

"The evening's coming, and I'm going to cry the Neck! I'm going to cry
the Neck!"

CHAPTER IV

PAGAN PASTORAL

The last of the corn had been reaped in Cloom fields and all was ready
for the ceremony of "Crying the Neck." The labourers, their womenfolk
and children, had gathered together, and Annie, with a select party of
friends, took her place in the forefront of the crowd. A very old
labourer who bore the splendid name of Melchisedec Baragwaneth, went
from sheaf to sheaf, picking out a handful of the most heavily-bearded
ears, which, though they are apt to grind the worst, still make the
bravest show. He was stiff with his great age and the cruel rheumatism
that is the doom of the field-worker; and against the brass and leather
of his boots the stubble whispered loudly. Overhead the rooks and gulls
gave short, harsh cries as they circled around hoping for stray grains;
but the thousand little lives which had thriven in the corn--the field
mice and frogs and toads--had been stilled by the sickles; some few had
escaped to the shelter of the hedges, but most were sacrifices to the
harvest.

Melchisedec Baragwaneth intertwined with his wheat ears some splendid
stalks of ragwort and chamomile, like a cluster of yellow and white
stars, and twisted tendrils of bindweed, with frail, trumpet-shaped
blossoms already drooping, around the completed bunch. His thick old
fingers fumbled over the nic