All among the Barley. 83 



rich meadows like a fate, linger in the valleys like 

 phantoms, sullenly retiring in the dawn. 



On the hills there is the first warm flush of heather 

 that ere long, mingling its purple with the gold of 

 blossomed furze, will spread over all the broad brown 

 slopes like the light of sunset. 



The trees begin to brighten as under the touch of 

 Midas. The chestnut wears a tinge of gold. The 

 hedgerow is lighted with the fiery foliage of the maple. 

 The sombre tones of the woodland are broken with 

 the young leafage of the oak here pale yellow 

 changing into bronze, there tipped with points of 

 vivid scarlet. 



Each gust of wind shakes down a shower of rustling 

 leaves, and in all the air there is an odour of decay. 



There are broader dashes of colour in the fields of 

 corn, where, under the magic of the sunlight, green is 

 melting into gold. 



Through the long wet summer days, while the 

 ruined hay lay rotting on the ground, while the farmer 

 was chafing at the dull weather and the frequent rain, 

 the corn grew tall and strong, until the well-filled ears 

 wanted nothing but a spell of sunshine. 



But, alas ! the sky is leaden and the air is chill. 

 Ours is a fickle climate, at the best. We know it well. 

 The only disappointments it brings us are for the most 

 part when the weather turns out better than we had 

 hoped for. 



We have long abandoned to the poets the praises 



62 



