But why should he note the colour of the butterfly, the
bright light of the sun, the hue of the wheat? This loveliness gave him
no cheese for breakfast; of beauty in itself, for itself, he had no idea.
How should he? To many of us the harvest--the summer--is a time of joy
in light and colour; to him it was a time for adding yet another crust of
hardness to the thick skin of his hands.
Though the haze looked like a mist it was perfectly dry; the wheat was as
dry as noon; not a speck of dew, and pimpernels wide open for a burning
day. The reaping-machine began to rattle as he came up, and work was
ready for him. At breakfast-time his fellows lent him a quarter of a
loaf, some young onions, and a drink from their tea. He ate little, and
the tea slipped from his hot tongue like water from the bars of a grate;
his tongue was like the heated iron the housemaid tries before using it
on the linen. As the reaping-machine went about the gradually decreasing
square of corn, narrowing it by a broad band each time, the wheat fell
flat on the short stubble. Roger stooped, and, gathering sufficient
together, took a few straws, knotted them to another handful as you might
tie two pieces of string, and twisted the band round the sheaf.
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