The very first desire of every agricultural labourer's heart is a garden, and so strong is the feeling that I have known men apply for permission to cultivate the vacant space between the large double mounds of the hedges on some pasture farms, and work hard at it despite the roots of the bushes and the thefts of the rooks. The facts mentioned above only add one more to the numberless ways in which the noble clergy of the Church of England have been silently labouring for the good of the people committed to their care for years before the agitators bestowed one thought on the agricultural poor.--I am, Sir, faithfully yours, RICHARD JEFFERIES. COATE FARM, SWINDON. (_Published in the "Times," Nov. 23, 1872._) _A TRUE TALE OF THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER._ "Now then--hold fast there--mind the furrow, Tim." The man who was loading prepared himself for the shock, and the waggon safely jolted over the furrow, and on between the wakes of light-brown hay, crackling to the touch as if it would catch fire in the brilliant sunshine. The pitchers, one on each side, stuck their prongs into the wakes and sent up great "pitches," clearing the ground rapidly, through emulation, for it was a point of honour to keep pace with each other. Tim, the old man who had led the horses, resumed his rake in the rear among the women, who instantly began teasing the poor wretch. "Tim, she's allus in the way," said one, purposely hitching her rake in his. "Thur--get away." "I shan't," said Tim, surly as crabbed age and incessant banter under a hot sun could make him. "Now--mind, thee's break th' rake." They both pulled as hard as they dared--each expecting the other to give way, for the master was in sight, on horseback, by the rick, and a rake broken wantonly would bring a sharp reprimand. "Go it, Sal!" cried the loader on the waggon hoarsely, half choked with hay dust. "Pull away!" "Pull, Tim!" cried one of the pitchers. "Ha! ha!" laughed two or three more women, closing round as the girl gave a tug which nearly upset Tim and broke half-a-dozen teeth out of his rake. "Darn thee!" growled the old fellow. The youngest of the girls at the same moment gave him a push under the arm with the end of her rake-handle. It was the last straw which broke the back of Tim's temper. Swearing, he dropped the rake and seized a prong, and hobbled after the girl, who danced away half in delight and half in terror. "I'll job this into thee--darn thee--if I can come near thee, thee hussy!" The "hussy" let him come near, and danced away again gracefully. She was at once the most handsome and most impudent of his tormentors. There's no saying whether the old man, roused as he was and incensed beyond control, might not really have "jobbed," _i.e._, stabbed, his prong at her, had not one of the pitchers left his wake and rushed on him. "My eye!" shouted the loader, "Absalom's at 'un!"