I suppose we shall have to call this our Indian summer — warm, soft still air and the sun obscured by mist and cloud and haze. A terror hangs over us that the heat will break into thunder rain. Every morning we scan the meteorological notes in our daily paper. There are hints of thunder, details of depressions, anti-cyclones, secondary disturbances, etc., all alas, likely to cause rain.
“I know those stooks should all be thrown down to dry the butts,” says the master, “but it is sure to come rain on them and we want to get something in while it is fair.”
Fortunately the two girls love to go out and have a change of work. It spits rain at intervals all day but the carts go on until dark. The harvest moon shone in vain for us poor Northerners.