The crop of clover coming up in the stubble was magnificent.
It had survived everything, and stood up vividly green through the broken stalks of last year's wheat.
The horse sank in up to the pasterns, and he drew each hoof with a sucking sound out of the half-thawed ground.
Over the ploughland riding was utterly impossible; the horse could only keep a foothold where there was ice, and in the thawing furrows he sank deep in at each step.