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RIPENING TO HARVEST. 



THE HUSH OF THE CORN 



By ARTHUR SCAMMELL 



WINTER evening in Wiltshire Down- 

 land. A faint glow at the edge 

 of the flat cloud ceiling in the 

 south-west ; home-going rooks in ones 

 and twos and stealthy clusters, slowly 

 flapping their way over the table-land, 

 and sinking downwards to their roosting- 

 places in the trees of the park and 

 churchyard, their Good-night cawing 

 mingling with the chime of the tower 

 clock as it strikes the hour of four. 



The long, long stretch of unbroken tiuf, 

 the virgin pasture of the hills, comes here 

 to an end, and a vast field of upland 

 arable drops in a gradual slojx; to the 

 valley. 



32 24Q 



Cold and barren are the winter downs — 

 " High tops bald with dry antiquity " ; 

 inch-long grass blades, stunted furze- 

 bushes, and wind-warped thorns, pale 

 ghosts of vegetation, are all that grow 

 there ; vet this ploughed land, this deso- 

 lation of frozen clods and thickly-strewn 

 flints, seems barrenness itself and makes 

 the downs luxuriant by contrast. 



And now cold grey fog fills the air, 

 making the twilight weirdness of tlie 

 scene more weird ; and, standing there 

 closed in bv those vaj>orous walls, the 

 wayfarer falls into a kiiul of maze : he 

 feels as one out of tt)ucli with time and 

 space. 



