FIELDS 



A little further down, and cut off partly from view 

 by the May tree that sheltered me, was a village, white 

 and grey, sheltered by Elm trees. In the midst of the 

 handful of cottages the square-towered flint church 

 stood with Ivy on the tower and dark Yews in the 

 churchyard. The graves in the churchyard looked 

 like the Daisies in the distant field, as if they grew 

 there. At the back of the church, and facing the high 

 road, was a line of trees from whence came an incessant 

 noise of rooks. 



Very few things moved on the high road, a lumber- 

 ing waggon, the doctor's trap, a bicycle, and then the 

 carrier's cart with a man I knew driving it, a very 

 pleasant man who preached in the Sion Chapel on 

 Sundays and chalked up texts in the tilt of his waggon 

 but with a shrewd eye to business : a man who 

 never forgave a debt. 



As I sat on my stile I felt this was all mine : no 

 person there knew the beauty of it as I did, or cared 

 to capture its sweetness as I did. No one but I saw 

 the field of Oats laugh, or cared to note the business of 

 the dragon fly, or the flashing patterns of the butter- 

 flies. I had seen these fields turned up, rich and brown, 

 under the plough, and tender green when the seeds 

 came up, and waving green, and gold when they bore 

 their harvest of Corn, or silver and green with roots 

 and red with Beets. I had counted the sheep on the 

 hillsides, and watched the cattle stray in a long line 

 to be milked at milking time, and though I did not 

 farm an acre of it, I owned it with my heart, and gathered 

 its harvest with my eyes. 



Every field footpath had its story, the road was 

 rich in old romance, and hidden by the trees at 

 the head of the valley was the big house where my 

 hostess lived and with a loving hand directed all 



25 D 



