OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



comes pressing up so closely to the 

 metropolis. He still depends in the 

 nineteenth century, as in the dim ages 

 before the Pyramids, upon this tiny 

 yellow grain here, rubbed out from the 

 ear of wheat. The clever mechanism of 

 the locomotive which bears him to and 

 fro, week after week and month after 

 month, from home to office and from 

 office home, has not rendered him in 

 the least degree independent of this. — 

 * Nature near London ' : Wheatfields. 



THERE isa slight but perceptible 

 colour in the atmosphere of 

 summer. It is not visible 

 close at hand, nor always where the 

 light falls strongest, and if looked at 

 too long it sometimes fades away. But 

 over gorse and heath, in the warm 

 hollows of wheatfields, and round about 

 the rising ground there is something 

 more than air alone. It is not mist, nor 



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