JULY 181 



of the plenteous harvest-field there comes the cry for 

 bread ! 



As I pass along in the bright dawn of this last day of 

 July how fair stretch before me the fields of rustling, 

 whispering wheat, almost ready for the sickle, where 



" The tall wheat, coloured by the August fire " 



speaks of 



" The fulfilment of the year's desire." 



