WHEATFIELDS 



THE cornfields immediately without London on the 

 southern side are among the first to be reaped. Regular 

 as if clipped to a certain height, the level wheat shows 

 the slope of the ground, corresponding to it, so that the 

 glance travels swiftly and unchecked across the fields. 

 They scarce seemed divided, for the yellow ears on either 

 side rise as high as the cropped hedge between. 



Red spots, like larger poppies, now appear above and 

 now dive down again beneath the golden surface. These 

 are the red caps worn by some of the reapers ; some of the 

 girls, too, have a red scarf across the shoulder or round 

 the waist. By instinctive sympathy the heat of summer 

 requires the contrast of brilliant hues, of scarlet and 

 gold, of poppy and wheat. 



A girl, as she rises from her stooping position, turns 

 a face, brown, as if stained with walnut juice, towards 

 me, the plain gold ring in her brown ear gleams, so, too, 

 the rings on her finger, nearly black from the sun, but 

 her dark eyes scarcely pause a second on a stranger. 

 She is too busy, her tanned fingers are at work again 

 gathering up the cut wheat. This is no gentle labour, 

 but " hard hand-play," like that in the battle of the olden 

 time sung by the Saxon poet. 



The ceaseless stroke of the reaping-hook falls on the 

 ranks of the corn : the corn yields, but only inch by 

 inch. If the burning sun, or thirst, or weariness forces 



So 



