WHEATFIELDS 85 



only held up by the roots of the grasses, is a forget-me-not 

 with a tiny circlet of yellow in the centre of its petals. 



The coming of the ears of wheat forms an era and a 

 date, a fixed point in the story of the summer. It is 

 then that, soon after dawn, the clear sky assumes the 

 delicate and yet luscious purple which seems to shine 

 through the usual atmosphere, as if its former blue be- 

 came translucent and an inner and ethereal light of colour 

 was shown. As the sun rises higher the brilliance of his 

 rays overpowers it, and even at midsummer it is but 

 rarely seen. 



The morning sky is often, too, charged with saffron, 

 or the blue is clear, but pale, and the sunrise might be 

 watched for many mornings without the appearance of this 

 exquisite hue. Once seen, it will ever be remembered. 

 Upon the Downs in early autumn, as the vapours clear 

 away, the same colour occasionally gleams from the 

 narrow openings of blue sky. But at midsummer, above 

 the opening wheatears, the heaven from the east to the 

 zenith is flushed with it. 



At noonday, as the light breeze comes over, the wheat 

 rustles the more because the stalks are stiffening and 

 swing from side to side from the root instead of yielding 

 up the stem. Stay now at every gateway and lean over 

 while the midsummer hum sounds above. It is a peculiar 

 sound, not like the querulous buzz of the honey, nor the 

 drone of the humble bee, but a sharp ringing resonance 

 like that of a tuning-fork. Sometimes, in the far-away 

 country where it is often much louder, the folk think it 

 has a threatening note. 



Here the barley has taken a different tint now the 

 beard is out ; here the oats are straggling forth from their 

 sheath ; here a pungent odour of mustard in flower comes 

 on the air ; there a poppy faints with broad petals flung 



