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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
83
My
walk
in
the
golden
hours
leads
me
to
a
great
horse-chestnut,
whose
root
offers
a
convenient
seat
in
the
shadow
of
its
foliage.
At
that
resting-place
I
have
no
wide
view
before
me,
but
what
I
see
is
enough--a
corner
of
waste
land,
over-flowered
with
poppies
and
charlock,
on
the
edge
of
a
field
of
corn.
The
brilliant
red
and
yellow
harmonize
with
the
glory
of
the
day.
Near
by,
too,
is
a
hedge
covered
with
great
white
blooms
of
the
bindweed.
My
eyes
do
not
soon
grow
weary.
A
little
plant
of
which
I
am
very
fond
is
the
rest-harrow.
When
the
sun
is
hot
upon
it,
the
flower
gives
forth
a
strangely
aromatic
scent,
very
delightful
to
me.
I
know
the
cause
of
this
peculiar
pleasure.
The
rest-
harrow
sometimes
grows
in
sandy
ground
above
the
seashore.
In
my
childhood
I
have
many
a
time
lain
in
such
a
spot
under
the
glowing
sky,
and,
though
I
scarce
thought
of
it,
perceived
the
odour
of
the
little
rose-pink
flower
when
it
touched
my
face.
Now
I
have
but
to
smell
it,
and
those
hours
come
back
again.
I
see
the
shore
of
Cumberland,
running
north
to
St.
Bee's
Head;
on
the
sea
horizon
a
faint
shape
which
is
the
Isle
of
Man;
inland,
the
mountains,
which
for
me
at
that
time
guarded
a
region
of
unknown
wonder.
Ah,
how
long
ago!
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