foundations, and where fog, and the poisonous gases which are given out by rotting vegetables, cannot drain down either.  You will learn more about all that when you learn, as every civilised lad should in these days, something about chemistry, and the laws of fluids and gases.  But you know already that flowers are cut off by frost in the low grounds sooner than in the high; and that the fog at night always lies along the brooks; and that the sour moor-smell which warns us to shut our windows at sunset, comes down from the hill, and not up from the valley.  Now all these things are caused by one and the same law; that cold air is heavier than warm; and, therefore, like so much water, must run down hill.

But what about the rainfall?

Well, I have wandered a little from the rainfall:  though not as far as you fancy; for fever and ague and rheumatism usually mean—­rain in the wrong place.  But if you knew how much illness, and torturing pain, and death, and sorrow arise, even to this very day, from ignorance of these simple laws, then you would bear them carefully in mind, and wish to know more about them.  But now for water being life to the beasts.  Do you remember—­though you are hardly old enough—­the cattle-plague?  How the beasts died, or had to be killed and buried, by tens of thousands; and how misery and ruin fell on hundreds of honest men and women over many of the richest counties of England:  but how we in this vale had no cattle-plague; and how there was none—­as far as I recollect—­in the uplands of Devon and Cornwall, nor of Wales, nor of the Scotch Highlands?  Now, do you know why that was?  Simply because we here, like those other uplanders, are in such a country as Palestine was before the foolish Jews cut down all their timber, and so destroyed their own rainfall—­a “land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths that spring out of valleys and hills.”  There is hardly a field here that has not, thank God, its running brook, or its sweet spring, from which our cattle were drinking their health and life, while in the clay-lands of Cheshire, and in the Cambridgeshire fens—­which were drained utterly dry—­the poor things drank no water, too often, save that of the very same putrid ponds in which they had been standing all day long, to cool themselves, and to keep off the flies.  I do not say, of course, that bad water caused the cattle-plague.  It came by infection from the East of Europe.  But I say that bad water made the cattle ready to take it, and made it spread over the country; and when you are old enough I will give you plenty of proof—­some from the herds of your own kinsmen—­that what I say is true.