t 



WALKS IN THE WHEAT-FIELDS. 127 



and runs it as swiftly as if he were lifting a clue of thread. 

 The dull surface is all written over with hieroglyphics 

 to the hound, he can read and translate to us in joyous 

 tongue. Or the foxhounds carry a bee-line straight 

 from hedge to hedge, and after them come the hoofs, 

 prospecting deeply into the earth, dashing down fibre 

 and blade, crunching up the tender wheat and battering 

 it to pieces. It will rise again all the fresher and 

 stronger, for there is something human in wheat, and 

 the more it is trampled on the better it grows. Despots 

 grind half the human race, and despots stronger than 

 man — plague, pestilence, and famine — grind the whole ; 

 and yet the world increases, and the green wheat of the 

 human heart is not to be trampled out. 



The starlings grew busier and busier in the dark green 

 Spanish oaks, thrown up as if a shell had burst among 

 them ; suddenly their clucking and whistling ceased, the 

 speeches of contention were over, a vote of confidence 

 had been passed in their Government, and the House was 

 silent. The pheasants in the park shook their wings and 

 crowed ' kuck, kuck — kow,' and went to roost ; the water 

 in the furrows ceased to reflect ; the dark earth grew 

 darker and damper ; the elms lost their reddish brown ; 

 the sky became leaden behind the ridge of the Downs, 

 and the shadow of night fell over the field. 



Twenty-five years ago I went into a camera obscura, 

 where you see miniature men and women, coloured 

 photographs alive and moving, trees waving, now and 

 then dogs crossing the bright sun picture. I was only 

 there a few moments, and I have never been in one 

 since, and yet so inexplicable a thing is memory, the 

 picture stands before me now clear as if it were painted 

 and tangible. So many millions of pictures have come 

 and gone upon the retina, and yet I can single out this 



