NOTES ON LANDSCAPE PAINTING. 133 



memories read strange to the present generation, 

 proving thereby that the threshing-machine has 

 already grown old. It is so accepted that the fields 

 would seem to lack something if it were absent. It 

 is as natural as the ricks : things grow old so soon 

 in the fields. 



On the fitful autumn breeze, with brown leaves 

 whirling and grey grass rustling in the hedges, the 

 hum of the fly-wheel sounds afar, travelling through 

 the mist which hides the hills. Sometimes the ricks 

 are in the open stubble, up the Down side, where the 

 wind comes in a long, strong rush, like a tide, carrying 

 away the smoke from the funnel in a sweeping trail ; 

 while the brown canvas, stretched as a screen, flaps 

 and tears, and the folk at work can scarce hear each 

 other speak, any more than you can by the side of the 

 sea. Vast atmospheric curtains — what else can you 

 call them ? — roll away, opening a view of the stage of 

 hills a moment, and, closing again, reach from heaven 

 to earth around. The dark sky thickens and lowers 

 as if it were gathering thunder, as women glean wheat- 

 ears in their laps. It is not thunder ; it is as if the 

 wind grew solid and hurled itself — as a man might 

 throw out his clenched fist — at the hill. The inclined 

 plane of the mist-clouds again reflects a grey light, 

 and, as if swept up by the fierce gale, a beam of sun- 

 shine comes. You see it first long, as it is at an 

 angle ; then overhead it shortens, and again lengthens 

 after it has passed, somew^hat like the spoke of a 

 wheel. In the second of its presence a red handker- 

 chief a woman wears on the ricks stands out, the 

 brass on the engine glows, the water in the butt 



