Harvest In Cornwall,-where the .Dorn either won't grow at all
or shoots up straw of a length to startle English fields, the harvest has been even later than at home. In that country of smallish fields with their close-fitting dry-walled banks mantled in bush and brier, bracken and fern, turf and wild flower, it was a curiosity to see in places the cumbrous paraphernalia of Jurassic monster-machines at work. By the gate of one of these fields with its usual granite monolith to act as staple for the gate-hinge, stood the local postman gazing on the mailed saurians heaving, clattering and snorting about. " It looks very imposing,". he said, " but the love has gone out of it." This same postman turned up one day at the farm where I was installed in an archaic macintosh, all shreds and patches, the kind of garment Autolycus might have worn when business was far from brisk. Apologizing for this scarecrow affair in his gentle ingratiat- ing fashion, he remarked, " You see, it knows its.way about me."
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