The Open Air 



begin to turn. At the one, I enjoy the summer that 

 is coming; at the other, the summer that is going. 

 At either, there is a freshness in the atmosphere, a 

 colour everywhere, a depth of blue in the sky, a 

 welcome in the woods. The redwings had not yet 

 come; the acorns were full, but still green; the 

 .greedy rooks longed to see them riper. They were 

 very numerous, the oaks covered with them, a crop 

 for the greedy rooks, the greedier pigeons, the 

 pheasants, and the jays. 



One thing I missed the corn. So quickly was the 

 harvest gathered, that those who delight in the colour 

 of the wheat had no time to enjoy it. If any painter 

 had been looking forward to August to enable him 

 to paint the corn, he must have been disappointed. 

 There was no time; the sun came, saw, and con- 

 quered, and the sheaves were swept from the field. 

 Before yet the reapers had entered one field of ripe 

 wheat, I did indeed for a brief evening obtain a 

 glimpse of the richness and still beauty of an English 

 harvest. The sun was down, and in the west a 

 pearly grey light spread widely, with a little scarlet 

 drawn along its lower border. Heavy shadows hung 

 in the foliage of the elms, the clover had closed, and 

 the quiet moths had taken the place of the humming 

 bees. Southwards, the full moon, a red-yellow disk, 

 shone over the wheat, which appeared the finest pale 

 amber. A quiver of colour an undulation seemed 

 to stay in the air, left from the heated day; the 

 sunset hues and those of the red-tinted moon fell 

 as it were into the remnant of day, and filled the 

 wheat; they were poured into it, so that it grew in 

 their colours. Still heavier the shadows deepened in 

 the elms; all was silence, save for the sound of the 

 reapers on the other side of the hedge, slash rustle, 



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