The Open Air 



him it was a time for adding yet another crust of 

 hardness to the thick skin of his hands. 



Though the haze looked like a mist it was per- 

 fectly dry; the wheat was as dry as noon; not a 

 speck of dew, and pimpernels wide open for a burning 

 day. The reaping-machine began to rattle as he 

 came up, and work was ready for him. At breakfast- 

 time his fellows lent him a quarter of a loaf, some 

 young onions, and a drink from their tea. He ate 

 little, and the tea slipped from his hot tongue like 

 water from the bars of a grate ; his tongue was like 

 the heated iron the housemaid tries before using it on 

 the linen. As the reaping-machine went about the 

 gradually decreasing square of corn, narrowing it 

 by a broad band each time, the wheat fell flat on 

 the short stubble. Roger stooped, and, gathering 

 sufficient together, took a few straws, knotted them 

 to another handful as you might tie two pieces of 

 string, and twisted the band round the sheaf. He 

 worked stooping to gather the wheat, bending to tie 

 it in sheaves; stooping, bending stooping, bending, 

 and so across the field. Upon his head and back 

 the fiery sun poured down the ceaseless and increasing 

 heat of the August day. His face grew red, his neck 

 black; the drought of the dry ground rose up and 

 entered his mouth and nostrils, a warm air seemed 

 to rise from the earth and fill his chest. His body 

 ached from the ferment of the vile beer, his back 

 ached with stooping, his forehead was bound tight 

 with a brazen band. They brought some beer at 

 last; it was like the spring in the desert to him. The 

 vicious liquor " a hair of the dog that bit him " 

 sank down his throat grateful and refreshing to his 

 disordered palate as if he had drunk the very shadow 

 of green boughs. Good ale would have seemed 



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