THE HUSH OF THE CORN 



251 



stem, stand the noble plants, the finest 

 product of the earth. 



In the most backward stalks, where the 

 ear has not fully emerged, the sheath is 

 strong and full of sap ; but where, 

 strengthened by a few days' — or, perliaps, 

 a few hours' — exposure, the ear no longer 

 needs protection, the hanging sheath is 

 already withered at the point, the nou- 

 rishment that had gone to support the 

 blade being, in the perfect economy of 

 the plant, at once directed to the grow- 

 ing grain. Notice, too, how carefully the 

 enclosing husk shelters the delicate pro- 

 cess of bloom and fructification now going 

 on, the withered and useless parts only 

 of the tiny florets being exposed to the 

 air. 



How prolific, too, is the wheat. An ear 

 of barley consists of two lines of corns in 

 single succession, but the wheat ear is 

 studded on both sides of the stalk with 

 closely packed bunches of four or five 

 corns each — the proper number is five, 

 but the middle corn suffers from over- 

 crowding, and is commonly abortive — 

 so that a single ear will yield from seventy 

 to a hundred grains. 



An hour with the wheat. An hour of 

 pleasant lingering, of release from that 

 tyranny of the commonplace which makes 

 us think by rote and act by mechanism ; 

 an hour for resuming one's birthright 

 freedom in the great liberty of the 

 Universe. 



It is a glorious evening : such an one 

 as flushes the mind with a sense of beauty, 

 and leaves a high-water mark in the caves 

 of memory. 



An immeasurable span of sky, its depth 

 of colour just stained at the zenith by a 

 faintest wave of cirrus cloud ; a feather 

 cast from some wandering wing of heaven, 

 and floating upwards, too light and pure 

 to fall. 



And yet the earth seems well-nigh as 

 clean to-day as the sky ; the white chalk 

 soil and the shining green of tree and 

 herb and grass that deck it ; the flowers 

 that spring, the flying swallow and the 

 lark, seem all to have put on some of the 

 glory of the sky and air ; and the sub- 

 dued murmur of life which makes the 

 summer air tremulous, sounds grand in 

 the ear, as it were the hum of the great 

 earth spinning upon its a.vis. 



Pass around the field to where, on the 

 western side, the corn is bounded by a 

 grove of ash and sycamore, and there 

 sit in great content, too happy even for 

 castle - building, for what could one 

 imagine better than this blessed reality ? 

 And so the hour passes, and another, 

 and the long shadows grow longer and 

 creep across the corn-field and up over 

 the downs, and away into the upper 

 sky, and the glory of afternoon glides 

 into the peace of evening. And as 

 glow and colour leave the sky, and the 

 ardour of the poppies abates, the broad 

 green harmony of the wheat-field more 

 and more entrances eye and mind ; dark 

 below, with a soft, pearly sheen above, 

 perfect in mass, perfect in detail ; 

 spacious, wide-spreading like the sea, 

 yet homely as the cottage border. The 

 peace of unnumbered ages slumbers upon 

 it. A peace which endures even through 

 the ages of violence : though ruthless 

 deeds may ravage the world, yet the 

 corn-fields will not all be dyed red: the 

 sorrow of many that sow in tears will be 

 comforted by the touch of Mother Earth, 

 and somewhere on quiet hills the harvests 

 of peace will be garnered. 



How many sweet associations of rural 

 summer time are suggested by this tran- 

 quil scene : the joy of many generations 

 of poppy-gathering children ; the happi- 

 ness of lovers' evening walks, and the sense 

 of rest which falls with the dew upon the 

 head of the tired labourer ; the beauty 

 which rises with the sun, and the tender- 

 ness of moonlit hours. 



To the continuous chorus of the day 

 succeed the quiet notes of evening, the 

 call of the partridge from the hill — 



" With distant echoes from the fold and lea, 

 And herd-boys' evening pipe and hum of 

 housing bee," 



whilst again from the valley comes the 

 sweetly solemn sound of the church clock 

 striking the hour. And the lingering 

 sound of the bell, the closed eyes of the 

 flowers, the dreaming of ancient oaks — 



" Branch charmed by the earnest stars," 



the last brooding note of the dove ; all 

 the gentle words and looks whereby the 

 parting day bids Good-night, seem 



