256 SUMMER 



sudden festival, than it once was. We are robbed now of the 

 sight of the gleaners, women and children who pitched a 

 tentless camp on the stubble plain and went about, like 

 sparrows at nesting-time, picking up straws, all busy, till 

 even the midgets carried to the camp little snoods of corn, 

 gripped tight at the neck, with a stiff bunch of ears for 

 head and the straws stretching out in an extending circle 

 like a long-waisted gown. The sequels to this scene are 

 gone too. You no longer find half a cottage room packed 



,..'W>$>^ V -x \>?\ *\ \ 



close with the little sheaves rising from the floor till they 

 were pressed tight against the ceiling ; and the joy of ' the 

 gleaning loaf,' a bread sweet beyond comparison, is a for- 

 gotten thing. 



Harvest is what harvest was, nevertheless. Perhaps it is 

 a merrier festival than it used to be and hardly less elemental. 

 Doubtless the sickle is of a comely pattern, and the swing of 

 the body to the scythe is a rhythm no dancer or athlete 

 surpasses. But in Saxon days, up till the coming of the 

 machines, the first thing you thought of in harvest was 

 the labour. How 'mortal men 'did ' swink and sweat' to 



