WHEATFIELDS 



reapers from the shadow of the copse, it seems as 

 if within that golden expanse there must be some- 

 thing hidden, could you but rush in quickly and 

 seize it some treasure of the sunshine ; and 

 there is a treasure, the treasure of life stored in 

 those little grains, the slow product of the sun. 

 But it cannot be grasped in an impatient moment 

 it must be gathered with labour. I have 

 threshed out in my hand three ears of the ripe 

 wheat : how many foot-pounds of human energy 

 do these few light grains represent ? 



The roof of the Crystal Palace yonder gleams 

 and sparkles this afternoon as if it really were 

 crystal under the bright rays. But it was con- 

 cealed by mist when the ploughs in the months 

 gone by were guided in these furrows by men, 

 hard of feature and of hand, stooping to their toil. 

 The piercing east wind scattered the dust in clouds, 

 looking at a distance like small rain across the 

 field, when grey-coated men, grey too of beard, 

 followed the red drill to and fro. 



How many times the horses stayed in this 

 sheltered corner while the ploughmen and their 

 lads ate their crusts ! How many times the farmer 

 and the bailiff, with hands behind their backs, con- 

 sidering, walked along the hedge taking counsel 

 of the earth if they had done right ! How many 

 times hard gold and silver was paid over at the 

 115 



