"
Yesterday morning, then, I got out earlier than usual. It was a perfect
June morning, one of the brightest and clearest I think I ever saw. The
mists had not yet risen from the hollows of my lower fields, and all the
earth was fresh with dew and sweet with the mingled odours of growing
things. No hour of the whole day is more perfect than this.
I walked out along the edge of the orchard and climbed the fence of the
field beyond. As I stooped over I could smell the heavy sweet odour of
the clover blossoms. I could see the billowy green sweep of the
glistening leaves. I lifted up a mass of the tangled stems and laid the
palm of my hand on the earth underneath. It was neither too wet nor too
dry.
"We shall have good cutting to-day," I said to myself.
So I stood up and looked with a satisfaction impossible to describe
across the acres of my small domain, marking where in the low spots the
crop seemed heaviest, where it was lodged and tangled by the wind and
the rain, and where in the higher spaces it grew scarce thick enough to
cover the sad baldness of the knolls. How much more we get out of life
than we deserve!
So I walked along the edge of the field to the orchard gate, which I
opened wide.
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