WHEATFIELDS 87 



sparkles this afternoon as if it really were crystal under 

 the bright rays. But it was concealed by mist when the 

 ploughs in the months gone by were guided in these 

 furrows by men, hard of feature and of hand, stooping to 

 their toil. The piercing east wind scattered the dust in 

 clouds, looking at a distance like small rain across the 

 field, when grey-coated men, grey too of beard, followed 

 the red drill to and fro. 



How many times the horses stayed in this sheltered 

 corner while the ploughmen and their lads ate their 

 crusts ! How many times the farmer and the bailiff, with 

 hands behind their backs, considering, walked along the 

 hedge taking counsel of the earth if they had done right ! 

 How many times hard gold and silver was paid over at 

 the farmer's door for labour while yet the plant was 

 green ; how many considering cups of ale were emptied 

 in planning out the future harvest ! 



Now it is come, and still more labour look at the 

 reapers yonder and after that more time and more 

 labour before the sacks go to the market. Hard toil 

 and hard fare : the bread which the reapers have brought 

 with them for their luncheon is hard and dry, the heat 

 has dried it like a chip. In the corner of the field the 

 women have gathered some sticks and lit a fire the 

 flame is scarce seen in the sunlight, and the sticks seem 

 eaten away as they burn by some invisible power. They 

 are boiling a kettle, and their bread, too, which they will 

 soak in the tea, is dry and chip-like. Aside, on the 

 ground by the hedge, is a handkerchief tied at the 

 corners, with a few mushrooms in it. 



The scented clover field the white campions dot it 

 here and there yields a rich, nectareous food for ten 

 thousand bees, whose hum comes together with its odour 

 on the air. But these men and women and children 



