148 Idylls of the Field. 



A week ago. the bells in all the country-side were 

 ringing for the Harvest Home ; the tents of village 

 festivals were white on many a glebe. 



Five centuries, at least, this church has crowned the 

 hill-slope, looking down upon the hamlet. Five long 

 centuries the children of the village, week by week, 

 have gathered in the shadow of its ancient yew. For 

 ages the music of its mellow bells has summoned all 

 its sons of toil, when fields were reaped and sheaves 

 were safe at home, to bow the knee to the Giver of 

 seed-time and harvest, summer and winter. 



But never, perhaps, in all its history, has the old 

 Norman church been draped with richer trophies. 

 Never, in the memory of man, has a richer reaping 

 crowned a more generous year. And as they joined 

 with fervent hearts in the thanksgiving, a look of con- 

 tent was on the faces of the farmers that seemed to 

 soften down and smooth away the lines of care, that 

 years of hard times and barren seasons had graven on 

 their rugged foreheads. Yes, it has been a perfect 

 year. In golden weather the rich hay harvest was 

 gathered in. The August rains refreshed the thirsty 

 fields. The first weeks of September, bright and fair, 

 brought no rain to mar the sunshine, no clouds to dim 

 the splendour of the harvest moon. 



But in the church, among the ripened sheaves, deft 

 fingers had twined round the old Norman pillars, 

 festoons of bryony hung with dark purple leaves, 

 wreaths of the wild clematis white with winged seeds, 



