IN THE HAYFIELD 141 



Now the whole field is down. Purple self-heal, 

 yellow bird's-foot, starch- white moon daisies, 

 flaming sorrel, and blue geranium have dis- 

 appeared. A circle of uniform green or with only 

 islands of rose-bushes lies there ringed by a sky 

 whose blue has once more been smudged out by 

 clouds. The grass is down, but who can say 

 when the hay will be up. Only this morning, 

 the farmer said with the air of saying a new thing, 

 that the weather was really going to mend. To 

 my certain knowledge he has said it thrice before. 

 It seems that he will have to say it again. 



It is strange how industrious we feel when 

 an opportunity occurs for interfering in some 

 one else's business. Because I saw the hay cut 

 I feel impelled to offer my services in the carrying 

 of the hay, and indignantly spurning the offer 

 of lighter work, I undertake the task of pitching 

 the cocks into the waggon where my friend the 

 farmer is making the load. 



On a glorious summer day, with the lark carolling 

 on high and bees streaking the vault of heaven, 

 how delightful are the simple labours of the field. 

 To push one's pike into a neatly arranged hay- 

 cock, hoist it over the shoulder, and place it on 

 the waggon ; perchance to see a shrew or a vole 

 run off startled when the dome under which it 

 was sheltering is removed what unalloyed bliss ! 



When ten cocks or so, five on each side, have 

 been packed on the load the bed of the waggon is 



