WHEATFIELDS. 93 



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. 



Heat comes down from above ; heat comes up from 

 beneath, from the dry, white earth, from the rows of 

 stubble, as if emitted by the endless tubes of cut stalks 

 pointing upwards. Wheat is a plant of the sun : it 

 loves the heat, and heat crackles in the rustle of the 

 straw. The pimpernels above which the hook passed 

 are wide open : the larger white convolvulus trumpets 



