the fields lie cheek-by-jowl with the station, and a group of high elms, in which dwells a colony of rooks, throws its ample shade over the "down" platform.

from the cornfield that marches side by side with the station there comes the cheerful music of the reaper and the sound of the voices of the harvesters, old men, some women and more children—for half of the field has been reaped and is being gathered and gleaned. they are so near that the engine-driver of the "local" train exchanges gossip with them in the intervals of oiling his engine. they talk of the crops and the bad weather there has been and the change that has come with september, and the news of boys who are fighting or have fallen....

a dozen youths march, two by two, on to the "up" platform. they are in civilian dress, but behind them walks a sergeant who ejaculates "left—left—left" like the flick of a whip. they are the latest trickle from this countryside to the great whirlpool, most of them mere boys. they have the self-consciousness of obscure country youths who have suddenly been thrust into the public eye and are aware that all glances are turned critically upon their awkward movements. they shamble along with a grotesque caricature of a dare-devil swagger, and laugh loud and vacantly to show how much they are at ease with themselves and the world. it is hollow gaiety and suggests the animation of a trout with a hook in its throat.

the booking-clerk, lounging at the door of the booking-office, passes a half-contemptuous remark upon them to a companion.

"wait till they come for you, jimmy," says the other. "you won't find it so funny then."

jimmy's face falls at the reminder, for he is nearly ripe for the great harvest, and the reaper will soon come his way....

a few people drift in from outside as the time for the departure of the london train approaches. among them, a young woman, hot and flushed and carrying a country basket, is greeted by an acquaintance with surprise.

"what are you doing here?"

"i'm going to london—just as i am—-a telegram from tom—he's got leave from the front—isn't it glorious—and all so unexpected—couldn't change, or even drop my basket—the messenger met me in the street—hadn't a moment to lose to catch the train." ...

a little group brushes by her with far other emotions. a stalwart soldier, a bronzed, good-looking fellow, with three stripes, who has evidently seen much service, is returning from leave. his wife, neatly dressed and with head down, wheels a perambulator beside him. inside the perambulator is a child of three years or so. two other children, of perhaps five and six, walk with the soldier, each clasping a hand. the little procession passes in silence to the end of the platform, full of that misery which seeks to be alone with itself....

over the wooden bridge that connects the two platforms comes a solitary soldier, laden with his belongings. he has come in from some other village by the local train. he flings himself down on the form and stares gloomily at the elms and the cornfield and the sunshine. a comfortable-looking, elderly man, who has a copy of the london corn circular in his hand, turns to him with that amiable desire to be friendly which elderly people have in the presence of soldiers.

"and how long have you been out at the war, sonny?" he asks, much as he might ask how long holiday he had had.

"i'm sick of the bloody war," says the soldier, without even turning his head.

the comfortable, elderly man collapses into silence and the corn circular....

a young officer who has been driven up in a dog-cart comes on to the platform accompanied by a dog with tongue lolling from its mouth and with the large, brown, affectionate eyes of the airedale.

the train thunders in, and the officer opens a carriage door. the dog tries to enter with his master.

"no, no, old chap," says the latter, gently patting him and pulling him back. "go home. they don't want you where i'm going."

the dog stands for a moment on the platform, panting and gazing at his master as if hoping that he will relent. then he turns and trots away, throwing occasional glances back on the off-chance of a whistle of recall....

the moment has come for the separation of the little family at the end of the platform. the soldier leans from the carriage window and his wife clings about his neck. the two children stand by the perambulator. they are brave little girls and remember that they have not to cry. the train begins to move and the woman unclasps herself, leaving her husband at the window, smiling his hardest and throwing kisses to the children. the train gathers speed and takes a curve and the soldier has vanished. the mother turns to the perambulator and seeks to hide her face as she hurries with her little charges along the platform and through the gate. the two little girls stifle their sobs in their aprons, but the child in the carriage knows nothing of public behaviour. he knows in that dim way that is the affliction of childhood that something terrible is happening, and as the forlorn little group hurries by to escape into the lane hard by where grief can have its fill he rends the air with his sobs and cries of "poor dada, poor dada!"

poor little mite, he is beginning his apprenticeship to this rough, insane world betimes....

and now the platform is empty, and the only sound of life is the whirr of the reaping machine and the voices from the harvest field. through the meadow that leads to the village the dog is slowly trotting home, still casting occasional glances backwards on the chance....