The log cabin Democrat., 1909-10-05


 as the eye can see, stretches
 T the cornland heavy golden
 wheat breaking upon a shim- A mer of oats, and oats fading
 to the v'hiteness of barley. with never hedge or fence between to limit the sense of distance. Here and there a clump of willows bends to the breeze; and here and there a mass of rock, scattered and scanned m all directions, rises above the crop. For the rest, all is a glorious blending of gold and silver furnished by radi- ant sunshine-a plain of plenty reach ing to the southern horizon. On the north line of dark forest sweeps in a semi-circle, with a little gray viii lage sheltering within one end of its deep curve; and a mile away an ave nue of plane trees, seen across the waving corn and bleaching stubble, shows where runs the straight high road-the road that takes one to Paris.
 The corn grows up to the walls of the village, only sandy track divid- ing them. Here and there a cottage
 
 powered in vines that climb tc the very chimneys Over the suTs baked meadows are scattered little orchards of heavily-laden apple trees, and oth- CTS crimson with plums; and every where-at the cottage doors, among the wheat, almost in the dust of the lane-rise the feathery fronds of NrN are mingled with the corn, and rosy stained soapwort and the dainty blue of chicory fringe the path. Here and there the vivid azure of borage gleams above the general tangle of color. varied with masses of pink-spurred blossoms, not unlike columbine, but even more delicately fashioned and tinted. The weather has set in fair and harvest is in full swing In the great French plains machinery is still the exception rather than the rule, and the rhythmic swish of scythe and sickle mingles with the signing of the wind among the corn stalks, and makes a gentle music fitting for an August afternoon.
 We see little plot of perhaps half an acre actually enclosed that is to say, it's limits are defined by way ing green belt of asparagus; and with in it an old woman, in the spotless white cap which characterizes the peasant of northern France, is slowly gathering together the reaped oats with her curved hook and binding them in little sheaves. Her son cut her oats for her days ago, she says, but it has been too hot for her to work in the field. Only today the breeze has come, and by and by, when he has finished carting wonder, Pierre will help her again
 In the next fl ald, if one can say next" where everything seems to blend indefinitely, carting is in prog ress. Three big Normandy horses, wearing high wooden collars faced with brasswork, stand patiently under a half-empty wagon from which the men are pitching on to the stack; and the women and children are gleaning in the stubble. As the day wears on and they escape from their house. hold duties more women flock to the fields, big, sturdy women, some of whom turn up their sleeves and bow to the reaping with the strength of men. Others join the gleaners. Here and there may be seen an Hntire fam fly, the father hard at work loading or pitching, the mother and children gleaning. They do not talk much, these harvesters; their work is too ar duous, but the little ones, chattering in uninteligible patois, do not take life so seriously.
 The sun is sinking in golden haze that rises like the dust from some tremendous threshing floor, and the white road to Paris is barred with the shadows of the plane trees which Ma oleon planted to shelter his march ng troops. Motorists ought to bless he memory of Napoleon, for, once off ne evil pavee which surrounds the towns, there are no roads In the world SD good as those he made all over France. Behind the avenue of planes are apple and pear trees laden with ntit, and, although within reach of all