220 THE LIFE OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



' 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 sunshine 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 gleams, men's 

 faces brighten, the cart-horse's coat looks glossy, the straw 

 a pleasant yellow. It is gone, and lights up the backs 

 of the sheep yonder as it runs up the hill swifter than a 

 hare. Swish ! The north wind darkens the sky, and 

 the fly-wheel moans in the gloom ; the wood-pigeons go 

 a mile a minute on the wind, hardly using their wings ; 

 the brown woods below huddle together, rounding their 

 shoulders to the blast ; a great air-shadow, not mist, a 

 shadow of thickness in the air, looms behind a tiled roof 

 in the valley. The vast profound is full of the rushing 

 air. ... * 



Here nothing is created. It might have been done 



* T^e Life of the Fields. 



