The Carlisle independent., 1909-10-07


 to the v'hiteness of barley. with never a hedge or a 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 in all directions, rises above the crop. For the rest, all is a glorious D ending 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 semi-circle, with little gray viii lage sheltering within one end of it's deep curve; and mile away an ave hue 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 a sandy track divid- ing them. Here and there a cottage stands on the edge of the crop, em- powered in vines that climb tc the very chimneys. Over the sur oaked meadows are scattered little orchards
 
 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 asparagus. Topples and cornfowers are mingled with the corn, and rosy stained soapwort and the dainty blue of chicory fringe the path. Here and hA irrfI rf 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 gentle music fitting fog an August afternoon.
 We sec a 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 sheayes. 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 to-day the breeze has come, and by and by, when he has finished carting wonder, Pierre will help her again
 In the next fl cid, 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 Yields, big, sturdy women, some of
 aom turn up their sleeves and bow the reaping with the strength of men. Others join the gleaners. Here and there may be seen an entire fam ily, 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 unintelligible patois, do not take life so seriously.
 The sun is sinking in a 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 poleon planted to shelter his march ing troops. Motorists ought to bless the memory of Napoleon, for. once off the evil pavee which surrounds the towns, there are no roads in the world So good as those he made all over France. Behind the avenue of planes are apple and pear trees laden with fruit, and. although within reach Of all