[XV]
IN WHICH SOME PEOPLE MEET IN A WHEAT-FIELD
Never was such a harvest—such crops—such long splendid days—such great yellow moons. Even now the folk tell of it when harvest-time comes round.
"Ah," say they, and shake their heads, "that were a harvest an' no mistake, an' long, an' long will it be afore us sees another such a one."
Through the great white fields of wheat the binders sang from dew-dry to dew-fall, and over the hills rang the call of the reapers.
All hands were called to the gathering, the gipsies from the hedge and the shepherd from his early fold, and the stooks were built over the stubble and drawn away into stacks, and still the skies shone cloudless and the great moons rose over the dusk. Never was such a harvest. And little we at home saw of Tommy in these days, save when, late at night, he would wander back from one and another field, lean and sunburnt and glad of sleep. One day the poet tracked him to the harvesting on the down-side fields, and found him in his shirt-sleeves, stooking with the best.
For a little while the poet, under considerable pressure from Tommy, assisted also, but the unaccustomed toil soon became distasteful, and he retired to the shade of a stook for purposes of rest and meditation.
And here, as he sat, he was joined by the same genial shepherd whom they had met on the day they trod the downs to the Roman ruins.