THROUGH THE LIGHT REMAINING. 
H the good smell of the hops ! The heavy penetrating 
smell that fills the air these September evenings as 
the rough wains lumber along the roads piled w'ith 
soft shapeless sacks. In one or other of these you 
may find a hole through w'hich the bright green scaly heads 
are showing. Walk behind the scented load, and help yourself 
to two or three of these oast-bound blossoms, then press the 
cool damp heads into the hollow of your hand and sniff hard. 
Must one hav'e lived among hops to appreciate this scent, 
which is almost a taste ? Is it possible that anyone not know- 
ing the smell of hops can exclaim (if you blindfold him, and 
make him smell a bunch) “ How nasty ! What is it ? ’’ 
To me the “passing” of the hops from their green alleys 
to the oast is an event which I store in my heart with the 
“passing of the swallows,” the “ Fare-you-well ” of the 
summer ; and as such it is a leave taking, an occasion for a last 
word — a last look — which is perhaps also a swift retrospective 
glance of gratitude. But so strong is the influence of the scent of 
things on our minds and memories, that I fancy sometimes the 
loaded waggons we watch every evening silhouetted against the 
sky as they move slowly over the old bridge, might pass almost 
unheeded but for the penetrating sweetness that fills the air and 
makes the whole land smell clean and healthy. 
So much for sentiment. Now for the reality of the things. 
Here come the hoppers ! Let us stand by this gate and watch 
them go by. But before we pass any remarks on these tired- 
looking mothers and dusty lagging children, I would like the 
outside world to know that our “ hoppers ” are purely local ; 
no London roughs or workers of the tramp class find their way 
into the hop-gardens I am writing about. Poor enough some 
of the pickers are, and all seem “ weary and heavy laden,” for 
a day’s hopping means shutting up house and carrying a wonder- 
ful lot of luggage of all sorts to the distant gardens ; stools and 
baskets, kettles, little stone “greybeards”; perambulators, in 
which it is sometimes difficult to find the baby ; umbrellas, 
jackets, more stools, more baskets. 
So the different groups stream along the rough uneven road, 
cross the red brick railway bridge, where in spring the first wild 
apple-blossom and soft grey palm are to be found, and climb the 
stile into the grass field which is the “ last bit ” for most of 
them. 
Hopping resembles golf, in that no one is apparently too old 
or too young to go forth and “hop! ” Unlike the ordinary 
result of the “ Royal Game ” on the temper, hop-picking seems 
to have the opposite effect. 
Every evening we are astonished anew at the cheeriness and 
good-temper of these dusty, tired men, women and children. 
