broader roof of the purest blue—­the landscape is so open that the sky seems as broad again as in the enclosed countries—­wide, limitless, very much as it does at sea.  On the rising ground pause a moment and look round.  Wheat and barley and oats stretch mile after mile on either hand.  Here the red wheat tinges the view, there the whiter barley; but the prevailing hue is a light gold.  Yonder green is the swede, or turnip, or mangold; but frequent as are the fields of roots, the golden tint overpowers the green.  A golden sun looks down upon the golden wheat—­the winds are still and the heat broods over the corn.  It is pleasant to get under the scanty shadow of the stunted ash.  Think what wealth all that glorious beauty represents.  Wealth to the rich man, wealth to the poor.

Come again in a few weeks’ time and look down upon it.  The swarthy reapers are at work.  They bend to their labour till the tall corn overtops their heads.  Every now and then they rise up, and stand breast high among the wheat.  Every field is full of them, men and women, young lads and girls, busy as they may be.  Yonder the reaping-machine, with its strange-looking arms revolving like the vast claws of an unearthly monster beating down the grain, goes rapidly round and round in an ever-narrowing circle till the last ears fall.  A crowd has pounced upon the cut corn.  Behind them—­behind the reapers—­everywhere abroad on the great plain rises an army, regiment behind regiment, the sheaves stacked in regular ranks down the fields.  Yet a little while, and over that immense expanse not one single, solitary straw will be left standing.  Then the green roots show more strongly, and tint the landscape.  Next come the waggons, and after that the children searching for stray ears of wheat, for not one must be left behind.  After that, in the ploughing time, while yet the sun shines warm, it is a sight to watch the teams from under the same ash tree, returning from their labour in the afternoon.  Six horses here, eight horses there, twelve yonder, four far away; all in single file, slowly walking home, and needing no order or touch of whip to direct their steps to the well-known stables.

If any wish to see the work of farming in its full flush and vigour, let them visit a corn district at the harvest time.  Down in the village there scarcely any one is left at home; every man, woman, and child is out in the field.  It is the day of prosperity, of continuous work for all, of high wages.  It is, then, easy to understand why corn villages are populous.  One cannot but feel the strongest sympathy with these men.  The scene altogether seems so thoroughly, so intensely English.  The spirit of it enters into the spectator, and he feels that he, too, must try his hand at the reaping, and then slake his thirst from the same cup with these bronzed sons of toil.