230 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 



golden light hangs as if it were fruit among the leaves 

 over the ripples. 



Above the stream the elms open apart and disclose a 

 wandering grey land and clumps of beeches, a grey windy 

 land and a grey windy sky in which the dark clumps are 

 islanded. Flocks of sheep move to and fro, and with them 

 the swallows. Two shepherds, their heavy grey overcoats 

 slung about their shoulders and the sleeves dangling, their 

 flat rush baskets on their backs, stand twenty yards apart 

 to talk, leaning on their sticks, while their swallow- 

 haunted flocks go more slowly and their two dogs converse 

 and walk round one another. 



The oats have been trampled by rain, and two men are 

 reaping it by hand. They are not men of the farm, but 

 rovers who take their chance and have done other things 

 than reaping in their time. One is a Hampshire man, 

 but fought with the Wiltshires against " Johnny Boer " — 

 he liked the Boers ..." they were very much like a lot 

 of working men. . . . We never beat 'em. . . . No, we 

 never beat 'em." He is a man of heroic build; tall, lean, 

 rather deep-chested than broad-shouldered, narrow in the 

 loins, with goodly calves which his old riding breeches 

 perfectly display; his head is small, his hair short and crisp 

 and fair, his cheeks and neck darkly tanned, his eye bright 

 blue and quick-moving, his features strong and good, except 

 his mouth, which is over large and loose; very ready to 

 talk, which he does continually in a great proud male voice, 

 however hard he is working. A man as lean and hard 

 and bright as his reaping hook. First he snicks off a 

 dozen straws and lays them on the ground for a bond, 

 then he slashes fast along the edge of the corn for two 

 or three yards, gathers up what is cut into his hook and 



