ONE OF THE NEW VOTERS 

 I 



IF any one were to get up about half -past five on 

 an August morning and look out of an eastern window 

 in the country, he would see the distant trees almost 

 hidden by a white mist. The tops of the larger groups 

 of elms would appear above it, and by these the line 

 of the hedgerows could be traced. Tier after tier 

 they stretch along, rising by degrees on a gentle slope, 

 the space between filled with haze. Whether there 

 were corn-fields or meadows under this white cloud 

 he could not tell a cloud that might have come down 

 from the sky, leaving it a clear azure. This morning 

 haze means intense heat in the day. It is hot already, 

 very hot, for the sun is shining with all his strength, 

 and if you wish the house to be cool it is time to set 

 the sunblinds. 



Roger, the reaper, had slept all night in the cow- 

 house, lying on the raised platform of narrow planks 

 put up for cleanliness when the cattle were there. 

 He had set the wooden window wide open and left 

 the door ajar when he came stumbling in overnight, 

 long after the late swallows had settled in their nests 

 in the beams, and the bats had wearied of moth 

 catching. One of the swallows twittered a little, 

 as much as to say to his mate, " my love, it is only 

 a reaper, we need not be afraid," and all was silence 

 and darkness. Roger did not so much as take off his 

 boots, but flung himself on the boards crash, curled 



