A Farmer’s Life 
The cloud was increasing a little. Vast 
stretches of it spread out—if anything higher 
than ever ; and above them again, at an inconceiva- 
able distance, was another flock of clouds, glowing 
softly in the unseen sunshine. Indeed, a tran- 
quil evening glow was settling on everything. 
Especially I noticed it on a waste patch in the 
old yard, where a crop of ripe seeding grass 
swayed carelessly.. Once more came the sug- 
gestion of idyll. Everything was ready; but 
where was the story ? 
Towards sunset the rick was finished. A 
tarpaulin was pulled over the surplus sheaves in 
the waggon; the tools were put together under 
the shed. We moved off homewards again, 
avoiding the fields this time; choosing instead 
the narrow lane. On either side of the lane 
brambles on the low banks took a metallic lustre 
from the tinted evening; and below them, in 
the dry ditches, brake-ferns stood up, tall and 
expectant. I think Corydon and Phyllis should 
have been there; but in faét there was Mr. - 
Smith, grey-headed and hobbling, with yet 
another of his tales to tell. 
“T told you,” he began, “we had a man 
here at work for a fortnight. He came on 
just before the haying; and a capital chap he 
was, too, wasn’t he?” ‘The farmer addressed 
his son. ) 
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