At the time the farmer's son is writing this, gleaning is over. It is winter. But he can tell gleaners of a farm containing sixty-six fields, some much larger than others, but all the fields grow the best corn that can be found at any market in the world. There is not one whole grass field found on the farm. There are a number of young and old people live near this farm, but they do not want to be gleaners. They look over the gates sometimes, but, having eyes so much like the mole, they either do not take that to be corn which is really so, or else they pursue other things they feel are so much better than gleaning in any of these fields; and not being very poor, but having enough gold to buy a few oxen, they tell some of the farmer's workmen they prefer _buying_ or _taking_ to gleaning, so they wish them "good morning"; but they are very polite to the men they join in conversation with. Then there are other people near these fields who say they hate the great farmer. In fact, they are so evil-disposed that they talk freely of hating the fields and the corn too; and there is not one workman on the estate they will give a good word to. This the farmer's son can vouch for truth; and he has a good many brothers belonging to his family, who could be called as witnesses if there was any need. But we must not overlook others who live near the farm. Most of them dwell in a very low-built house; there is no upstairs. They live on the ground floor, and not far from the spot where they dwell, some of the labourers on the farm live, and they join in conversation occasionally. But these poor people who dwell in the low-built cottages are shy, and think they take a liberty even in saying a few words to these labourers; and as for talking freely to the great farmer, they dare not. If he passes, they only bow before him and look on the ground. You would almost wonder how they are kept alive. They are nearly always hungry, but, now and then, they get just enough to keep them alive.