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The field is just "in the boot." A little 

 space, and you shall see all over it the plu- 

 my, pale, pendulous pyramids of slender, 

 thickly-husked grain. Even more than rye, 

 it needs coolness and moisture. A week of 

 drought as it is heading, and the yield will 

 not pay for harvesting. Ripe, it is the tru- 

 est gold of the fields. All other straw and 

 stubble are pale and commonplace in con- 

 trast to its glowing yellow. A curious fact 

 about the grain is its deterioration in new 

 climatic conditions. The best Scotch oats 

 imported weigh nearly fifty pounds to the 

 bushel. The American product from such 

 seed sinks in two years to about thirty-two. 

 Now the wheat-field spreads you out its 

 hundred emerald acres. Here is no hint of 

 blue or gray, but that intense verdure that 

 best symbolizes the time of growth and 

 blowth. The grain is just fairly headed 

 waist-high, and all atoss in the mid -day 

 breeze. When the sun rose, each green ear 

 bent daintily earthward, dew-diamonded at 

 every point. Now they stand straight, and 

 feel ponderable as they brush the passing 

 hand. Note the pale, infinitesimal flower- 

 ets at tip of each bract. The whole field is 

 in bloom. Pouring rain to-day would scant 

 the harvest by half. For upon these small 



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