He leans on his prong, facing to windward, and gazing straight into the teeth of the light breeze, as he has done these forty and odd summers past.  Like the captain of a sailing ship, the eye of the master haymaker must be always watching the horizon to windward.  He depends on the sky, like the mariner, and spreads his canvas and shapes his course by the clouds.  He must note their varying form and drift; the height and thickness and hue; whether there is a dew in the evenings; whether the distant hills are clearly defined or misty; and what the sunset portends.  From the signs of the sunset he learns, like the antique Roman husbandman—­

     ’When the south projects a stormy day,
      And when the clearing north will puff the clouds away.’

According as the interpretation of the signs be favourable, adverse, or doubtful, so he gives his orders.

This afternoon, as he stands leaning on the prong, he marks the soft air which seems itself to be heated, and renders the shade, if you seek it for coolness, as sultry as the open field.  The flies are numerous and busy—­the horses can barely stand still, and nod their heads to shake them off.  The hills seem near, and the trees on the summit are distinctly visible.  Such noises as are heard seem exaggerated and hollow.  There is but little cloud, mere thin flecks; but the horizon has a brassy look, and the blue of the sky is hard and opaque.  Farmer George recollects that the barometer he tapped before coming out showed a falling mercury; he does not like these appearances, more especially the heated breeze.  There is a large quantity of hay in the meadow, much of it quite ready for carting, indeed, the waggons are picking it up as fast as they can, and the rest, if left spread about through next day—­Sunday—­would be fit on Monday.

On Sunday there are no wages to pay to the labourers; but the sun, if it shines, works as hard and effectually as ever.  It is always a temptation to the haymaker to leave his half-made hay spread about for Sunday, so that on Monday morning he may find it made.  Another reason why he hesitates is because he knows he will have trouble with the labourers, who will want to be off early as it is Saturday.  They are not so ready to work an hour or two overtime as when he was a boy.  On the other hand, he recollects that the weather cablegrams from America foretell the arrival of a depression.  What would his grandfather have thought of adjusting the work in an English meadow to the tenour of news from the other side of the Atlantic?

Suddenly, while he ponders, there arises a shout from the labourers.  The hay in one spot, as if seized by an invisible force, lifts itself up and revolves round and round, rising higher every turn.  A miniature cyclone is whirling it up—­a column of hay twisting in a circle and rising above the trees.  Then the force of the whirlwind spends itself; some of the hay falls on the oaks, and some drifts with the breeze across the field before it sinks.