124 GOLDEN DAYS 



times in blessing, the rich fat piles of 

 yellow grain. 



I hear the wailing skirl of biniouSy the 

 rhythmic shuffle of countless saboted feet 

 dancing the gavotte. 



Another page is turned to a re- 

 membered patch of buck-wheat that 

 gleamed^like rosin as the sun went down. 

 Between the next leaves lurks the scent 

 of clover buds, the undersong of bees, the 

 fancied echo of a landrail raking the 

 silence of the noonday heat, the winding 

 fairy path across the stepping-stones, the 

 washing-place where the women kneel 

 and gossip while they clout the dripping 

 clothes, the village, the long white street, 

 cut by its trailing vines and pale green 

 shutters, and the dappled fig-trees where 

 old men play at bowls. 



Here on a further page, there is this 

 entry : " Weather too hot for fishing ; 

 in the evening took three and a half 

 brace — small red palmer as usual." That 

 is all ; and yet I call to mind that morning 

 and blue-bloused haymakers mowing 

 down the dewy grass. Swathe upon 

 swathe it falls athwart the swishing 



