CHAPTER IV.
The corn which had sprung up in Spring matured to yellow spikes, and sickles converted the copious crop of the field into rows of sheaves. Boldly now over it wander grey-fleeced sheep after a piping shepherd; the cricket hops insolently about the boundary stone, the partridge with her young scarce hides herself from the searching looks of the pointers, and St. Martin’s summer hangs from stalk to stalk in glittering threads.
The breast of mother earth now needs the showers of the Spring—no young corn bursts from it to ripen into fruit—or if some tinge of green yet bedecks the field, it is but the memory of that which was, but which alas shall be no more.
And man is like the divine field of nature, capable of all—of passion, learning, puissant deeds, noble actions—happy is he in whom all ripens which germinated in his spirit of lovely and exalted.
But the spiritual sowing hath also its ill seasons, which though perhaps they do not shake the world can drive to despair him whom they encounter—can even perchance annihilate him. The spiritual sowing hath also its hailstorms, which splinter the beautiful, hopeful stalks, batter down what was destined to life, and so crush it, that what awakened in us hopeful delight is now but a source of pity and astonishment.
