WALKS IN THE WHEAT-FIELDS. 125 
cock shine like’ a day-star as the sun goes down three 
miles away, over the dark brown field, where the plough 
has been going to and fro through the slow hours. I 
can see the plough and the horses very well at three 
miles, and know what they are doing. 
I wish the trees, the elms, would grow tall enough 
and thick enough to hide the steeples and towers which 
stand up so stiff and stark, and bare and cold, some of 
them blunted and squab, some of them sharp enough to 
impale, with no more shape than a walking-stick, ferrule 
upwards—every one of them out of proportion and 
jarring to the eye. If by good fortune you can find a 
spot where you cannot see a steeple or a church tower, 
where you can see only fields and woods, you will find 
it so much more beautiful, for nature has made it of its 
kind perfect. The dim sea is always so beautiful a view 
because it is not disfigured by these buildings. In the 
ships men live; in the houses among the trees they live ; 
these steeples and towers are empty, and no spirit can” 
dwell in that which is out of proportion. Scarcely any 
one can paint a picture of the country without sticking 
in one of these repellent structures. The oast-houses, 
whose red cones are so plentiful in Kent and Sussex, 
have quite a different effect ; they have some colour, and 
by a curious felicity the builders have hit upon a good 
proportion, so that the shape is pleasant; these, too, 
have some use in the world. 
Westward the sun was going down over the sea, and: 
a wild west wind, which the glow of the sun as it touched 
the waves seemed to heat into fury, brought up the 
distant sound of the billows from the beach. A line of 
dark Spanish oaks from which the sharp pointed acorns 
were dropping, darkest green oaks, shut out the shore. 
A thousand starlings were flung up into the air out of 
