A BARN, 87 



back on the opposite tack. Thus the long hours 

 slowly pass. 



Intent day after day upon the earth beneath his 

 feet, or upon the tree in the hedge yonder, by which, 

 as by a lighthouse, he strikes out a straight furrow, 

 his mind absorbs the spirit of the land. When the 

 plough pauses, as he takes out his bread and cheese 

 in the corner of the field for luncheon, he looks over 

 the low cropped hedge and sees far off the glitter of 

 the sunshine on the glass roof of the Crystal Palace. 

 The light plays and dances on it, flickering as on 

 rippling water. But, though hard by, he is not of 

 London. The horses go on again, and his gaze is 

 bent down upon the furrow. 



A mile or so up the road there is a place where it 

 widens, and broad strips of sward run parallel on 

 both sides. Beside the path, but just off it, so as to 

 be no obstruction, an aged man stands watching his 

 sheep. He has stood there so long that at last the 

 restless sheep dog has settled down on the grass. He 

 wears a white smock-frock, and leans heavily on his 

 long staff, which he holds with both hands, propping 

 his chest upon it. His face is set in a frame of 

 white white hair, white whiskers, short white beard. 

 It is much wrinkled with years; but still has a 

 hale and hearty hue. 



The sheep are only on their way from one part of 

 the farm to another, perhaps half a mile ; but they 

 have already been an hour, and will probably occupy 

 another, in getting there. Some are feeding steadily ; 

 some are in a gateway, doing nothing, like their 

 pastor; if they were on the loneliest slope of the 



