48 FIELD AND HEDGEROW. 



cloudless blue sky blown pale, a summer sun blown 

 cool, deep draughts of refreshing air to man and horse, 

 clear definition of red- tile roof and conical oast, perfect 

 colour of soft ash-green trees. In the evening, fourteen 

 black swifts rushing together through the upper atmo- 

 sphere with shrill cries, sometimes aside and on the 

 tip of one wing, with a whirl descending, a black trail, 

 to the tiled ridge they dwell in. Fine weather after 

 this. 



A swooning August day, with a hot east wind, from 

 which there is no escape, which gives no air to the chest 

 — you breathe and are not satisfied with the inspiration ; 

 it does not fill ; there is no life in the killed atmosphere. 

 It is a vacuum of heat, and yet the strong hot wind bends 

 the trees, and the tall firs wrestle with it as they did with 

 Sinis, the Pine-bender, bowed down and rebounding as if 

 they would whirl their cones away like a catapult. Masses 

 of air are moving by, and yet there is none to breathe. No 

 escape in the shadow of hedge or wood, or in the darkened 

 room ; darkness excludes the heat that comes with light, 

 but the heat of the oven-wind cannot be shut out. 

 Some monstrous dragon of the Chinese sky pants his 

 fiery breath upon us, and the brown grass stalks threaten 

 to catch flame in the field. The grain of wheat that was 

 full of juice dries hard in the ears, and water is no more 

 good for thirst. There is not a cloud in the sky ; but at 

 night there is heavy rain, and the flowers are beaten 

 down. There is a thunder-wind that blows at intervals 

 when great clouds are visibly gathering over the hayfield. 

 It is almost a calm ; but from time to time a breath 

 comes, and a low mournful cry sounds in the hollow 

 farmhouse— the windows and doors are open, and the 

 men and women have gone out to make hasty help in 



