NATURE NEAR LONDON 



About harvest time it is common to meet an 

 Irish labourer dressed in the national costume : a 

 tall, upright fellow with a long-tailed coat, breeches, 

 and worsted stockings. He walks as upright as if 

 drilled, with a quick easy gait and springy step, 

 quite distinct from the Saxon stump. When the 

 corn is cut these bivouac fires go out, and the camp 

 disappears, but the white ashes remain, and next 

 season the smoke will rise again. 



The barn here with its broad red roof, and the 

 rickyard with the stone staddles, and the litter of 

 chaff and straw, is the central rendezvous all the 

 year of the resident labourers. Day by day, and at 

 all hours, there is sure to be some of them about 

 the place. The stamp of the land is on them. 

 They border on the city, but are as distinctly agri- 

 cultural and as immediately recognisable as in the 

 heart of the country. This sturdy carter, as he 

 comes round the corner of the straw-rick, cannot 

 be mistaken. 



He is short, and thickly set, a man of some fifty 

 years, but hard and firm of make. His face is 

 broad and red, his shiny fat cheeks almost as promi- 

 nent as his stumpy nose, likewise red and shiny. 

 A fringe of reddish whiskers surrounds his chin 

 like a cropped hedge. The eyes are small and set 

 deeply, a habit of half closing the lids when walk- 

 ing in the teeth of the wind and rain has caused 

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