WHEATFIELDS 



a second on a stranger. She is too busy, her tanned 

 fingers are at work again gathering up the cut 

 wheat. This is no gentle labour, but "hard hand- 

 play," like that in the battle of the olden time sung 

 by the Saxon poet. 



The ceaseless stroke of the reaping-hook falls on 

 the ranks of the corn : the corn yields, but only 

 inch by inch. If the burning sun, or thirst, or 

 weariness forces the reaper to rest, the fight too 

 stays, the ranks do not retreat, and victory is only 

 won by countless blows. The boom of a bridge 

 as a train rolls over the iron girders resounds, and 

 the brazen dome on the locomotive is visible for a 

 moment as it passes across the valley. But no one 

 heeds it the train goes on its way to the great 

 city, the reapers abide by their labour. Men and 

 women, lads and girls, some mere children, judged 

 by their stature, are plunged as it were in the 

 wheat. 



The few that wear bright colours are seen : the 

 many who do not are unnoticed. Perhaps the 

 dusky girl here with the red scarf may have some 

 strain of the gipsy, some far-off reminiscence of 

 the sunlit East which caused her to wind it about 

 her. The sheaf grows under her fingers, it is 

 bound about with a girdle of twisted stalks, in 

 which mingle the green bine of convolvulus and 

 the pink-streaked bells that must fade. 



