still damp with dew, though it is ten o' the 

 clock. No wonder the ballad heroine 



" Draiglet a' her petticoatie 

 Coming thro' the rye." 



The stay and solace of high latitudes, it 

 holds moisture in a fashion that is simply 

 amazing. This it is which enables it to 

 grow rank and tall upon soil where less 

 hardy grain would attain but a few starve- 

 ling inches. Indeed it is, in some sort, the 

 savage among cereals. There is more than 

 a suggestion of spear and arrow in blade 

 and beard and long, lithe straw. Withal, it 

 is graceful beyond words. Now the heads, 

 just bursting out of sheath, are level with a 

 tall man's shoulders. By harvest they will 

 bend and droop above his head. To walk 

 through it then will be a plunge into green 

 gloom, with the stalks, crushed by the tread, 

 writhing serpentwise at foot. Light winds 

 barely ripple the heavy heads. When it 

 comes out of the west, a lion of the air, 

 there are billows and heavings almost to 

 match a stormy sea. For minutes the whole 

 breadth of it will be flattened as with a heavy 

 roller. As the gust upcurls, the tough stalks 

 writhe upward too, and dance in the teeth of 

 lesser gales ; that is, if the seed fell among 

 stones or a holding clay. 



