All among the Barley. 85 



linnets and buntings in sober brown, finches and 

 yellow-hammers in green and gold. 



Here, too, are the footprints of the Autumn. Here, 

 among the waving grain rises the graceful corn-cockle; 

 there, a patch of scarlet poppies shines like fire among 

 the wheat. 



In the meadow beyond, the long grass is aflame 

 with autumn crocus a blaze of colour in the noon- 

 day heat ; in the twilight a soft, warm glow that clings 

 about the slopes and in the hollows like a purple 

 mist. 



The field-gate opens into a lane, an old British 

 roadway from ancient lead-mines to the sea. 



The camps, that guarded once the line of devious 

 road, look down from the hills out of waves of bracken, 

 now just tinged with brown, or through the orderly 

 ranks of feathery larches. A flint arrow-head, a frag- 

 ment of pottery, or a rusted weapon turned up here 

 or there, are all that remain of the bold defenders of 

 these ruined ramparts. 



Centuries of wheel-tracks have worn down the 

 ancient way far below the level of the adjoining fields. 

 The elms that lean over it, through whose interlacing 

 boughs filters a dim green light, are centuries old. 

 Within their cavernous chambers, generations of owls 

 have lived and died. Troops of birds find shelter in 

 their friendly hollows. The straggling hedgerows, 

 unchecked by bill or pruning-hook, are draped with 

 trailing masses of bryony, or with pale festoons of 



