COUNTRY LIFE
I AM reluctant to go for a walk during these weeks while the tall corn is standing, because the Corgi who always accompanies me takes an idiot's delight in breaking through the hedges into the wheat, and losing himself there in a heaven of smells. I stand for what seem like hours at field gates whistling and calling, while the zany in the corn moves round in circles, trying to find his way back to me. No harm is done, for he leaves no track of trodden stalks behind him. Indeed, he is so near the soil that the wheat ears above him are hardly disparted as he moles his way at ground level. All that I see is a current of green or gold, a visible sound-wave, in mad parabolas, until he breaks out to the hedgerow and can follow down to tne gate, to greet me with a half-scared grin and six inches of, tongue.
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