A fine breezy morning and all free hands to the hayfield! About nine o’clock the sky began to look threatening, and a fog deepened over the south-western horizon, blotting out the sea — now only discernible in the black sail which glides, ghostly across the dim grey background.
But although the wind rose high, the rain held off. We gathered some gooseberries and raspberries to make jam. The red gooseberries are really not yet sufficiently ripe for our purpose but the birds are so busily greedy that we may not delay.
There never was such a garden as ours for a feeding-ground to the fowls of the air. They will allow nothing to ripen. We should require an immense net to separate it entirely from the heavens above.
There they are around us, the young thrushes and blackbirds, with the appetites of growing boys, in the heart of the berry bushes, under the leafy boughs of a pear tree, fluttering and cluckering in the thick beech hedges, waiting till the human intruders retire!
A good many windfalls are observed under the few apple trees that bear any fruit, but we pass them by, for the sweet-toothed males of our family make scornful remarks about our apple jelly, crab jelly, grape jelly and all those economical jellies whose only cost is the sugar.
Although the whirling dust rose in clouds as high as the house, the rain held off till seven in the evening and much hay has been secured. Then, just as the big crops came down, two gaily dressed cyclist acquaintances asked if they might shelter. They were going to a farm two miles or so further on.
I expressed regret for the danger to their Sunday bravery (they were attired for a week-end visit) and confessed that a succession of spoilt hats rather disgusted me with cycling.
They were too well-bred, however, to show solicitude about their clothes; it didn’t matter at all, they said about their frocks and hats, only it was unpleasant to get wet. And how wet a woman can get perched on a bicycle, only those know, who have had a few experiences.