THE BARE, BROWN FIELDS 



this picture was a familiar one and was seen 

 usually on the higher ridges. A patient form 

 and a steady one, with awkward rhythmic 

 motion scattering the seed. And so even in 

 these times, when he is but a memory, he is a 

 vivid one enough to stand apparition-like in 

 the gray November weather, the right palm 

 thrown sideways, the left hand holding a 

 sack of grain. 



Where the stubbles lie in deep-rusted, wide 

 stretches from cornfield to country road, the 

 ploughs have tumbled them into bristly fur- 

 rows now, and nothing but the winds may 

 glean a stray kernel from them. The winds 

 are seldom quiet in the fields after October 

 has passed; even on the stillest days there 

 is always some mousing zephyr dipping down 

 now and then to dance a dusty saraband 

 with a stray cornstalk, or whirl a miniature 

 funnel of dust along a road-side rut. Winds 

 go in flocks and vary as birds do in their 

 movements and peculiarities. In dry standing 

 stalks they flutter and chase about in great 

 glee, rattling dangling shreds of stalks and 

 sometimes shaking the whole field furiously. 

 Or they will capriciously bend the tops of a 



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