254 



THE NATURE BOOK 



to the burden of his complaint : " Little 

 bit of bread and no cheese." 



In the corn yet standing the sparrows 

 are busily taking their toll : poising for 

 a moment and choosing a stout stalk, they 

 grip it with their claws just beneath the 

 ear, and hang sideways whilst they deftly 

 pick out corn after corn. One would 

 hariUy suppose such portly little bodies 

 could be sustained by so frail a support, 

 but no doubt these little acrobats are 

 masters of equilibrium. 



So the day goes on, and the work. The 

 slow-moving wagons gather up the long 

 ranks, and tiie great rick in the lower 

 corner of the field grows apace. 



Easy the work may seem, but not so 

 easy is it in the doing. Sheaves are slip- 

 pery things, and to pile a waggon with a 

 towering load so that it will ride in safety, 

 rocking and swaying over rough and hilly 

 ground, is not the work of unskilled 

 labour. 



The rick, too, is something of a work of 

 art ; the builder uses no plummet and 

 line, and, standing as he does upon his 

 work, has no view of the growing outline 

 to guide him. An occasional call to a 

 " pitcher " on the ground, " How's the 

 rick a'gwain, Thomas : is ur toward or 

 vromard ? " " Middhn', Jan : a bit to- 

 ward, mabbe." is all the help he gets. 

 Yet look at the shapely stacks, especially 

 those that stand on " staddle stones," 

 that cluster round the farms in Autumn : 

 sheer curves of beauty, some of them, 

 and well deserving the crowns of plaited 

 straw with which old-fashioned thatchers 

 used to top them. 



The field is large, and night falls with 

 the crop ungathered. The labourers ride 

 home in the wagons, women and children 

 amongst them, the latter with their little 

 limbs well stubble-scratched ; but they 

 ha\'e decked their rusty straw hats with 

 bindweed, and carry treasures : perhaps 

 a tiny red harvest mouse or two, wide- 



eyed and panting with fright, to be the 

 pets of a week. 



All are tired, but happy ; for though 

 Harvest has no longer the deep significance 

 of old times — expressed in merry-makings 

 and rustic ritual — yet the ingathering of 

 the crops is still, and always must be, 

 felt to be a blessed and happy work. 



The call of the moonlit downs draws 

 one out for a ramble. The dew lies 

 heavy, and the cool air of the heights is a 

 draught more precious than wine. How 

 black are the shadows of the furze bushes, 

 liow full of mystery the darkened coombs, 

 and all the hill region a very home of 

 romance. If those smooth barrows would 

 but reveal the secrets they hold so 

 closely, and the weather-worn and lichen- 

 spotted stones tell their tale, what stories 

 of earth's wonders and the dim beginnings 

 of man would be unfolded ! But with the 

 secret divulged, the charm would be 

 gone ; so let the sepulchres remain 

 sealed, and the stones keep that silence 

 of the ages, more eloquent than words. 



And upon the corn-field, too, the spirit 

 of the past has laid its hand ; reared yes- 

 terday, vanished to-morrow, with the 

 caressing of scarcely faded flowers still 

 about them, yet these groups of sheaves 

 seem old as the hills : peaceful tents in 

 which slumber the ghosts of all the ages of 

 agriculture : the health and innocence of 

 the husbandman's life ; strength of the 

 men who laboured, patience of women 

 who gleaned ; is it not all here ? The 

 dewdrop on the stubble, a tear wrung 

 from the sad heart of Ruth ; and the 

 cornflower with a deeper blue to-day, 

 caught from the eyes of Highland ]\Iary, 

 as she bound the sheaves for her lover. 



Deep and all-pervading is the spell of 

 the moonlit scene, and here the very 

 centre of the mystery : earth and air, the 

 stars, the hills, and the restless heart of 

 man, all held in enchantment by the mid- 

 night Hush of the Corn. 



Arthur Scammell. 



