As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt the road，groups of women and children，piling the fruit in sieves，or gathering the scattered ears of corn，pause for an instant from their labour，and shading the sunburnt face with a still browner hand，gaze upon the passengers with curious eyes，while some stout urchin，too small to work but too mischievous to be left at home，scrambles over the side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security，and kicks and screams with delight.The reaper stops in his work，and stands with folded arms，looking at the vehicle as it whirls past；and the rough cart-horses bestow asleepy glance upon the smart coach team，which says，as plainly as a horse’s glance can，“It’s all very fine to look at，but slow going，over a heavy field，is better than warm work like that，upon a dusty road，after all.”You cast a look behind you，as you turn a corner of the road.The women and children have resumed their labour：the reaper once more stoops to his work：the cart-horses has moved on：and all are again in motion.