84 The Amateur Poacher 



In July such a rickyard is very hot : heat radiates 

 from every straw. The ground itself is dry and hard, 

 each crevice choked with particles of white chaff; so 

 that even the couch can hardly grow except close 

 under the low hedge where the pink flower of the 

 pimpernel opens to the sky. White stone staddles— 

 short conical pillars with broad capitals — stand await- 

 ing the load of sheaves that will shortly press on them. 

 Every now and then a rustling in the heaps of straw 

 indicates the presence of mice. From straw and stone 

 and bare earth heat seems to rise up. The glare of 

 the sunlight pours from above. The black pitched 

 wooden walls of the barn and sheds prevent the cir- 

 culation of air. There are no trees for shadow — 

 nothing but a few elder bushes, which are crowded at 

 intervals of a iow minutes with sparrows rushing with 

 a whirr of wings up from the standing corn. 



But the high pitched roof of the barn and of the 

 lesser sheds has a beauty of its own — the minute 

 Vegetation that has covered the tiles having changed 

 the original dull red to an orange hue. From ridge 

 to eaves, from end to end, it is a wide expanse of 

 colour, only varying so much in shade as to save it 

 from monotony. It stands out glowing, distinct 

 against the deep blue of the sky. The ' cheep ' of 

 fledgeling sparrows comes from the crevices above ; 



