The Open Air 



of his spirits. There was life enough left for a little 

 rough play as the group gathered together and passed 

 out through the gateway. Life enough left in him to 

 go with the rest to the alehouse; and what else, oh 

 moralist, would you have done in his place? This, 

 remember, is not a fancy sketch of rural poetry; this 

 is the reaper's real existence. 



He had been in the harvest-field fourteen hours, 

 exposed to the intense heat, not even shielded by a 

 pith helmet; he had worked the day through with 

 thew and sinew; he had had for food a little dry 

 bread and a few onions, for drink a little weak tea 

 and a great deal of small beer. The moon was now 

 shining in the sky, still bright with sunset colours. 

 Fourteen hours of sun and labour and hard fare! 

 Now tell him what to do. To go straight to his plank- 

 bed in the cowhouse; to eat a little more dry bread, 

 borrow some cheese or greasy bacon, munch it alone, 

 and sit musing till sleep came he who had nothing 

 to muse about. I think it would need a very clever 

 man indeed to invent something for him to do, 

 some way for him to spend his evening. Read! To 

 recommend a man to read after fourteen hours' burn- 

 ing sun is indeed a mockery ; darn his stockings would 

 be better. There really is nothing whatsoever that 

 the cleverest and most benevolent person could 

 suggest. Before any benevolent or well-meaning 

 suggestions could be effective the preceding circum- 

 stances must be changed the hours and conditions 

 of labour, everything; and can that be done? The 

 world has been working these thousands of years, and 

 still it is the same; with our engines, our electric 

 light, our printing press, still the coarse labour of the 

 mine, the quarry, the field has to be carried out by 

 human hands. While that is so, it is useless to 



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