PATH THROUGH THE CORNFIELDS 123 



Quite a circle clings round the edge, needing a 

 good strong blow from a little distance to clear the 

 disc. The ruddiest and likeliest of the band is 

 chosen for the final effort, and succeeds in clearing 

 away all but two. 



" Ten minutes past twelve," they reckon. 



It is really a quarter past, which is wonderfully 

 near for such a primitive timekeeper, quite as near 

 as most modern watches come. 



Thus warned of the flight of the slower winged 

 hours, and the quicker beat of the flock of smaller 

 minutes, the children jump to their feet, and with 

 a rattle of cans make off for the farm. 



The purple thistle is fading. To the few perfect 

 heads the foggies cling with a helpless indecision 

 which fears to trust itself away, lest they take 

 other than a bee-line home. It is with thistles as 

 with school games ; they have their season. That 

 for cheeses and foggies has gone by. 



The marsh thistle still raises itself out of the 

 ditch, until its crimson heads, brighter than ever, 

 are quite on a level with those of the children. 



These prickless cousins of the thistles, the purple 

 roadside centaureas ironweeds as they are called, 

 from the hard packing of their heads are in flower. 

 Of little use, and less ornament, they have no 



