fields, divided by high hedges, and interspersed with mellowed trees;
the orchards raining fruit that glitters in the sunshine as it falls;
the purple heath, the luxuriant ferns. There is '_une recolte
magnifique_' this year, and the people have but one thought--'the
gathering in;' the country presents to us a picture--not like Watteau's
'_fêtes galantes_,' but rather that of an English harvest-home.

We are in the midst of the cornfields near Villers-sur-mer, and the
hill-side is glorious; it is covered to the very summit with
riches--the heavily-laden corn-stems wave their crests against a blue
horizon, whilst, in a cleft of the hill, a long line of poppies winds
downwards in one scarlet stream. They are set thickly in some places,
and form a blaze of colour, inconceivably, painfully brilliant--a
concentration of light as utterly beyond our power of imitation by the
pencil, as genius is removed from ordinary minds. We could not paint it
if we would, but we may see in it an allegory of plenty, and of peace
(of that peace which France so urgently desires); we may see her
blood-red banner of war laid down to garland the hill-side with its
crimson folds, and her children laying their offerings at the feet of
Ceres and forgetting Mars altogether. The national anthem becomes no
longer a natural refrain--anything would sound more appropriate than
'partant pour la Syrie' (there is no time for _that_ work)--to our
little friend in fluttering blouse, who sits in the grass and 'minds'
fifty head of cattle by moral force alone; we should rather sing:--

'Little boy blue, come blow me your horn,
The orchards are laden, the cow 's in the corn!'

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