Free A Croft in the Hills by Katharine Stewart Page B

when I felt my ears twitch. I listened intently: it was the sound we had been waiting weeks
to hear—the patter of rain on the tin roof of the scullery. We jumped up and looked out. The branches of the rowans were stirring, a breeze was rising and the rain was hissing on the parched
ground. I think no sailor on a waterless raft in mid-Pacific ever greeted a thunder-plump as deliriously as we did!
    In a remarkably short time the water-butt was overflowing. As we couldn’t bear to see this water going to waste, I struggled into gum-boots, mackintosh and sou’-wester and put every
available pail, basin and bath, in turn, under the overflow spout. Jim quickly bored a hole in the scullery window-frame, inserted a length of rubber tubing in the top of the butt, passed it
through the hole and into the sink. To see the sink filling with this lovely, soft rain-water sent me nearly crazy with delight. We rushed in and out carrying pails, till we were soaked to the
skin, our eyes bright in our gleaming faces. The supply of water we accumulated that night lasted us until the weather resumed its normal dampness.
    We had a really grand crop of potatoes that year, at the cost of a deal of labour and anxiety. The field they were in had borne such an exceptionally heavy growth of corn the year before that
the weeds had been well smothered. It had been ploughed each way, in the spring, so that the tilth was as fine as one could wish. We had borrowed a ridge plough to open the drills. The planting had
been heavy work, but with three and a half of us on the job we had managed it fairly quickly. Then came the closing of the drills, a tricky operation with a tractor. The implement being in
one’s rear, it is the easiest thing in the world to knock the tubers out of place when covering them, with the result that they are liable to come up unevenly spaced, or through the side of
the drills, or even in the spaces between the drills. Many people prefer to use a horse-plough to close the drills as, by this method, you can see exactly where you are and have greater control of
your implement. However, Jim was determined to use the tractor and, at bottom, we applauded his courage, but our hearts were in our mouths as we watched the great, shining blades scattering the
nicely placed tubers in all directions.
    After completing the first few drills, Jim got into the way of the work and the crop certainly seemed to be covered, Next day we went up and down the field with hoes, pushing an odd tuber here
and there into place. Then other things claimed our attention and we had to leave the potatoes to their fate.
    Soon we began to cast an anxious eye over the field. Sure enough, the dark green, crinkled shoots were coming through the ground in the most unexpected places. The field, which had hitherto had
the beautiful symmetry of a chessboard, now began to look like something that had come out in a rash.
    We refused to be dismayed. Each armed with a hoe, we worked up and down the field, pushing and scraping, until we had virtually transformed each drill into a space, and vice versa. The effect
was slightly irregular, of course, but when the plants came to maturity the leafiness of them hid the waywardness of their ranks and they were a noble sight. The heavy hoeing had killed every
would-be weed at birth and the potatoes had it all their own way throughout the summer.
    The turnips, too, were good that year, though by the time we finished singling them we felt we’d been born with a hoe in our hands. Smack, pull, smack, pull we went, day after day, along
the interminable drills. We saw turnip seedlings sprouting in our dreams and wished the cows were not so desperately fond of the things. It was only the thought of being able to dump a pailful of
succulent slivers under the nose of a stalled beast on a winter morning that kept us going. A turnip is indeed a handy thing to have about the place in winter: it gives a savour to the family soup