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"You've a cold in the head, Marty," he said, as they walked.
"That comes of cutting off your hair."
"I suppose it do. Yes; I've three headaches going on in my head
at the same time."
"Three headaches!"
"Yes, a rheumatic headache in my poll, a sick headache over my
eyes, and a misery headache in the middle of my brain. However, I
came out, for I thought you might be waiting and grumbling like
anything if I was not there."
The holes were already dug, and they set to work. Winterborne's
fingers were endowed with a gentle conjuror's touch in spreading
the roots of each little tree, resulting in a sort of caress,
under which the delicate fibres all laid themselves out in their
proper directions for growth. He put most of these roots towards
the south-west; for, he said, in forty years' time, when some
great gale is blowing from that quarter, the trees will require
the strongest holdfast on that side to stand against it and not
fall.
"How they sigh directly we put 'em upright, though while they are
lying down they don't sigh at all," said Marty.


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