IN THE OLD FIELD 



LWAYS, almost, the old field has 

 a history. Sometimes a trag- 

 edy lies back of it wrecked 

 lives, a ruined home. Oftener, 

 a long legal battle, with lands 

 in Chancery idly awaiting its issue. 



Again, sometimes, it is the manorial in- 

 stinct of English blood, which, under all 

 suns, delights to have and hold twice the 

 breadth of land it can keep in heart and tilth. 

 Whatever its reason for being, always 

 it is full of delicious vagrants. The very 

 breezes blowing over are tricksy sprites. It 

 lies, a clear hollow in the world of belting 

 woodland, with sunshine pouring in, a sea 

 of molten gold. 



Curious waters trickle into it from the 

 swamp's deep -stained pools, to vein with 

 brown threads the lush, dull - green, low 

 places. All manner of marsh growths fol- 

 low the streams : mallows pink and yel- 

 low blue-flag, calamus, reeds, rushes, tall, 



