A BARN 



more, and they disappear behind the ridge. Look 

 away again and read or dream, as you would on 

 the beach, and then, see, the head and shoulders 

 of the leading horse are up, and by-and-by the 

 plough rises, as they come back on the opposite 

 tack. Thus the long hours slowly pass. 



Intent day after day upon the earth beneath his 

 feet, or upon the tree in the hedge yonder, by 

 which, as by a lighthouse, he strikes out a straight 

 furrow, his mind absorbs the spirit of the land. 

 When the plough pauses, as he takes out his bread 

 and cheese in the corner of the field for luncheon, 

 he looks over the low cropped hedge and sees far 

 off the glitter of the sunshine on the glass roof of 

 the Crystal Palace. The light plays and dances 

 on it, flickering as on rippling water. But, though 

 hard by, he is not of London. The horses go on 

 again, and his gaze is bent down upon the furrow. 



A mile or so up the road there is a place where 

 it widens, and broad strips of sward run parallel on 

 both sides. Beside the path, but just off it, so as 

 to be no obstruction, an aged man stands watching 

 his sheep. He has stood there so long that at last 

 the restless sheep dog has settled down on the 

 grass. He wears a white smock-frock, and leans 

 heavily on his long staff, which he holds with both 

 hands, propping his chest upon it. His face is set 

 in a frame of white white hair, white whiskers, 



