The steady beat of its rhythmic murmur told of
heavy ears, and where the stalks stood waist-high on the rise, the last
flush of saffron in the northwest was flung back in a dull bronze
gleam. The rest swayed athwart the shadowy hollow, dusky indigo and
green, but that flash of gold and red told that harvest was nigh again.
Winston had seen no crop to compare with it during the eight years he
had spent in the dominion. There had been neither drought nor hail
that year, and now, when the warm western breezes kept sweet and
wholesome the splendid ears they fanned, there was removed from him the
terror of the harvest frost, which not infrequently blights the fairest
prospects in one bitter night. Fate, which had tried him hardly
hitherto, denying the seed its due share of fertilizing rain, sweeping
his stock from existence with icy blizzard, and mowing down the tall
green corn with devastating hail, was now showering favors on him when
it was too late. Still, though he felt the irony of it, he was glad,
for others had followed his lead, and while the lean years had left a
lamentable scarcity of dollars at Silverdale, wealth would now pour in
to every man who had had the faith to sow.
He dismounted beside the oats which he would harvest first, and
listened with a curious stirring of his pulses to their musical patter.
It was not the full-toned song of the wheat, but there was that in the
quicker beat of it which told that each graceful tassel would redeem
its promise.
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