Some of the drier part of the soil the moucher takes to sell for use in gardens and flower-pots as peat.
The years roll on, and he grows old.

But no feebleness of body or mind can induce him to enter the workhouse; he cannot quit his old haunts.
Let it rain or sleet, or let the furious gale drive broken boughs across the road, he still sleeps in some shed or under a straw-rick.

In sheer pity he is committed every now and then to prison for vagabondage--not for punishment, but in order to save him from himself.

It is in vain: the moment he is out he returns to his habits.

All he wants is a little beer--he is not a drunkard--and a little tobacco, and the hedges.