All day long the lorries go by with their loads of roots. So fast do they go that, as they bump and sway over the cobbles, some of their cargo works loose, and, bouncing across the road, comes to rest in the gutter, Great ugly things they are, these sugar beets, like bloated parsnips, but to the village children, these windfalls are treasure. As one drops, two or three small boys are after it. Jimmie has it. 

"Give it to me," says Tom," and- and I'll give you some conkers.”.

 "No-ow"', drawls Jimmie, in the slovenly Fen dialect, “want it for me rab'ts". 

It is harvest time in our neighbourhood. Field after field of sugar beet has been dug, and the country roads are lined with great mounds of them, waiting for the lorries to collect. The little town is alive with traffic as the loads go through to the factory beyond. Here everyone is working at top pressure. The place has been silent all summer, but now they are at it day and night, working double shifts, a godsend to the local unemployed. The acres of yards round the factory are covered with a sea of beet, rising ever higher as the loads pour in, each one making another wave on the heaving surface. 

Soon the last load will have been emptied, and the workers faced with the stupendous task of clearing away those mountains. Like ants they look as they shovel away, but day by day the mountains sink to hills, the hills to plains, till at last the yards are bare, the chimneys stop smoking, and all is silent again for another summer. The work is done of turning English beet into English sugar.