It _was_ hard work; and I was so afraid of John coming.

Mary, you won't tell tales ?" "No, Harry.

But I don't think you ought to have taken it without Mother's leave." "I don't think you can call it stealing," said Harry.

"Fields are a kind of wild places anyhow, and the paddock belongs to Father, and it certainly doesn't belong to John." "No," said I, doubtfully.
"I won't get any more; it's dreadfully hard work," said Harry, but as he shook the sack out and folded it up, he added (in rather a satisfied tone), "I've got a good deal." I helped him to wash himself for breakfast, and half-way through he suddenly smiled and said, "John Parkinson will be glad when he sees _you-know-what_, Mary, whatever the other John thinks of it." But Harry did not cut any more turfs without leave, for he told me that he had a horrid dream that night of waking up in prison with a warder looking at him through a hole in the door of his cell, and finding out that he was in penal servitude for stealing top-spit from the bottom of the paddock, and Father would not take him out of prison, and that Mother did not know about it.
However, he and Arthur made a lot of compost.

They said we couldn't possibly have a Paradise without it.
It made them very impatient.