XOTES ON LANDSCAPE PAINTING. 133 



memories read strange to the present generation, 

 proving thereby that the threshing-machine has 

 already grown old. It is so accepted that the fields 

 would seem to lack something if it were absent It 

 is as natural as the ricks: things grow old so soon 

 in the fields. 



On the fitful autumn breeze, with brown leaves 

 whirling and grey grass rustling in the hedges, the 

 hum of the fly-wheel sounds afar, travelling through 

 the mist which hides the hills. Sometimes the ricks 

 are in the open stubble, up the Down side, where the 

 wind comes in a long, strong rush, like a tide, carrying 

 away the smoke from the funnel in a sweeping trail ; 

 while the brown canvas, stretched as a screen, flaps 

 and tears, and the folk at work can scarce hear each 

 other speak, any more than you can by the side of the 

 sea. Vast atmospheric curtains what else can you 

 call them ? roll away, opening a view of the stage of 

 hills a moment, and, closing again, reach from heaven 

 to earth around. The dark sky thickens and lowers 

 as if it were gathering thunder, as women glean wheat- 

 ears in their laps. It is not thunder; it is as if the 

 wind grew solid and hurled itself as a man might 

 throw out his clenched fist at the hill The inclined 

 plane of the mist-clouds again reflects a grey light, 

 and, as if swept up by the fierce gale, a beam of sun- 

 shine comes. You see it first long, as it is at an 

 angle ; then overhead it shortens, and again lengthens 

 after it has passed, somewhat like the spoke of a 

 wheel. In the second of its presence a red handker- 

 chief a woman wears on the ricks stands out, the 

 brass on the engine glows, the water in the butt 



