WALKS IN THE WHEAT-FIELDS. 127 
and runs it as swiftly as if he were lifting a clue of thread. 
The dull surface is all written over with hieroglyphics 
to the hound, he can read and translate to us in joyous 
tongue. Or the foxhounds carry a bee-line straight 
from hedge to hedge, and after them come the hoofs, 
prospecting deeply into the earth, dashing down fibre 
and blade, crunching up the tender wheat and battering 
it to pieces. It will rise again all the fresher and 
stronger, for there is something human in wheat, and 
the more it is trampled on the better it grows. Decspots 
grind half the human race, and despots stronger than 
man—plague, pestilence, and famine—grind the whole ; 
and yet the world increases, and the green wheat of the 
human heart is not to be trampled out. 
_ Thestarlings grew busier and busier in the dark green 
Spanish oaks, thrown up as if a shell had burst among 
them ; suddenly their clucking and whistling ceased, the 
speeches of contention were over, a vote of confidence 
had been passed in their Government, and the House was 
silent. The pheasants in the park shook their wings and 
crowed ‘ kuck, kuck—kow,’ and went to roost ; the water 
in the furrows ceased to reflect; the dark earth grew 
darker and damper ; the elms lost their reddish brown ; 
the sky became leaden behind the ridge of the Downs, 
and the shadow of night fell over the field. 
Twenty-five years ago I went into a camera obscura, 
where you see miniature men and women, coloured 
photographs alive and moving, trees waving, now and 
then dogs crossing the bright sun picture. I was only 
there a few moments, and I have never been in one 
since, and yet so inexplicable a thing is memory, the 
picture stands before me now clear as if it were painted 
and tangible. So many millions of pictures have come 
and gone upon the retina, and yet I can single out this. 
