In 
i) 
RICHES. 245 
He took it up, saying, ‘“‘ God be praised, it is, I 
think, a little flour.” He hastened to open the 
sack, but at the sight of its contents, he cried, 
“* How unfortunate I am! it is only some gold 
powder !”” 
We shall extract from that delightful work, 
Howitt’s ‘ Book of the Seasons,’’ a slight 
sketch of the harvest in Englaad. “‘ The harvest 
is a time for universal gladness of the heart. 
Nature has completed her most important ope- 
rations. She has ripened her best fruits, and 
a thousand hands are ready to reap them with 
joy. It is a gladdening sight to stand upon 
some eminence, and behold the yellow hues of 
harvest amid the dark relief of hedges and 
trees, to see the shocks standing thickly in a 
land of peace ; the partly reaped fields and the 
clear cloudless sky shedding over all its lustre. 
There is a solemn splendour, a mellowness and 
maturity of beauty, thrown over the landscape. 
The wheat- -crops shine on the hills and slopes, 
as Wordsworth expresses it, ‘ like golden 
shields cast down from. the sun.’ For the 
lovers of solitary rambles, for all who desire to 
feel the pleasures of a thankful heart, and to 
participate in the happiness of the simple and 
the lowly, now is the time to stroll abroad. 
They will find beauty and enjoyment spread 
abundantly before them. They will find the 
mowers sweeping down the crops of pale barley, 
every spiked ear of which, so lately looking up 








































