Country Life
By IAN NIALL
THE county roadman, with his two red warning flags fastened to sticks, has a comparatively uneventful life, working his way along his stretch of highway, trimming hedges and clearing drains and so on, and knowing, 1 think, just where he will be at Michaelmas or New Year, if the weather is average and seasonal. The town roadman's lot is a little different. Ours works under the local authority and seems to be migratory in his habits, coming our way once in a while, pushing his brush or hanging upon its shaft for long intervals while he ponders. I spoke to him the other day. A spell of cold had brought a deluge of leaves from the trees which are now almost bare. The road was carpeted with leaves and the wind seemed set to drive the poor madman out of his mind. He brushed and brushed and then stood rather helplessly on his sweepings, wondering how he could keep them 'intact while he manipulated his shovel and got the harvest into his barrow. Each time he cleared a small area it was immediately. covered, and each time half his sweepings took to the air before he got them boxed. 'This,' he said with feeling, 'is what we pay rates for!' I might have disputed the fact, but instead smiled tactfully, for he was very near the end of his tether.
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