WHEATFIELB8. 9D 



again, would make a model for a lady's hat ; so would 

 a butterfly with closed wings on the verge of a leaf ; 

 so would the broom blossom, or the pink flower of the 

 restharrow. This hairy caterpillar, creeping along 

 the hawthorn, which if touched, immediately coils 

 itself in a ring, very recently was thought a charm 

 in distant country places for some diseases of child- 

 hood, if hung about the neck. Hedge mustard, yellow 

 and ragged and dusty, stands by the gateway. 



In the evening, as the dew gathers on the grass, 

 which feels cooler to the hand some time before an 

 actual deposit, the clover and vetches close their 

 leaves — the signal the hares have been waiting for to 

 venture from the sides of the fields where they have 

 been cautiously roaming, and take bolder strolls 

 across the open and along the lanes. The aspens 

 rustle louder in the stillness of the evening; their 

 leaves not only sway to and fro, but semi-rotate upon 

 the stalks, which causes their scintillating appearance. 

 The stars presently shine from the pale blue sky, and 

 the wheat shimmers dimly white beneath them. 



So time advances till to-day, watching the reapers 

 from the shadow of the co|)se, it seems as if within 

 that golden expanse there must be something hidden, 

 sould you but rush in quickly and seize it — some 

 treasure of the sunshine ; and there is a treasure, the 

 treasure of life stored in those little grains, the slow 

 product of the sun. But it cannot be grasped in an 

 impatient moment — it must be gathered with labour. 

 I have threshed out in my hand three ears of the ripe 

 wheat : how many foot-pounds of human energy do 

 ikese few light grains represent ? 



