While watched they scarcely move; but now look away for a time and on
returning the plough itself and the lower limbs of the ploughman and
the horses are out of sight. They have gone over a slope, and are "hull
down"; a few minutes more, and they disappear behind the ridge. Look
away again and read or dream, as you would on the beach, and then, see,
the head and shoulders of the leading horse are up, and by-and-by the
plough rises, as they come back on the opposite tack. Thus the long
hours slowly pass.

Intent day after day upon the earth beneath his feet or upon the tree in
the hedge yonder, by which, as by a lighthouse, he strikes out a
straight furrow, his mind absorbs the spirit of the land. When the
plough pauses, as he takes out his bread and cheese in the corner of the
field for luncheon, he looks over the low cropped hedge and sees far off
the glitter of the sunshine on the glass roof of the Crystal Palace. The
light plays and dances on it, flickering as on rippling water. But,
though hard by, he is not of London. The horses go on again, and his
gaze is bent down upon the furrow.

A mile or so up the road there is a place where it widens, and broad
strips of sward run parallel on both sides. Beside the path, but just
off it, so as to be no obstruction, an aged man stands watching his
sheep. He has stood there so long that at last the restless sheep dog
has settled down on the grass. He wears a white smock-frock, and leans
heavily on his long staff, which he holds with both hands, propping his
chest upon it. His face is set in a frame of white--white hair, white
whiskers, short white beard. It is much wrinkled with years; but still
has a hale and hearty hue.

The sheep are only on their way from one part of the farm to another,