16 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



upwards, flecked with great sparks, blackening the 

 elms, and carrying flakes of burning hay over out- 

 houses, sheds, and farmsteads. Thus from the clouds, 

 as it seems, drops further destruction. Nothing in the 

 line of the wind is safe. Fine impalpable ashes drift 

 and fall like rain half a mile away. Sometimes they 

 remain suspended in the air for hours, and come down 

 presently when the fire is out, like volcanic dust drift- 

 ing from the crater. This dust lies soft and silky on 

 the hand. By the burning rick, the air rushing to the 

 furnace roars aloud, coming so swiftly as to be cold ; 

 on one side intense heat, on the other cold wind. The 

 pump, pump, swing, swing of the manual engines ; the 

 quick, short pant of the steam fire-engine ; the stream 

 and hiss of the water ; shouts and answers ; gleaming 

 brass helmets; frightened birds; crowds of white 

 faces, whose frames are in shadow ; a red glow on the 

 black, wet mud of the empty pond ; rosy light on the 

 walls of the homestead, crossed with vast magnified 

 shadows ; windows glistening ; men dragging sail-like 

 tarpaulins and rick cloths to cover the sheds; con- 

 stables upright and quiet, but watchful, standing at 

 intervals to keep order; if by day, the strangest 

 mixture of perfect calm and heated anxiety, the smoke 

 bluish, the floating flakes visible as black specks, the 

 flames tawny, pigeons fluttering round, cows grazing 

 in idol-like indifference to human fears. Ultimately, 

 rows of flattened and roughly circular layers of 

 blackened ashes, whose traces remain for months. 



This is dynamite in the hands of the village ruffian. 



This hay, or wheat, or barley, not only represents 

 money; it represents the work of an entire year, the 



