Everything spoke to him that morning, but the Harvester was silent.

It had been his habit to talk constantly to Belshazzar, Ajax, his work, even the winds and perfumes; it had been his method of dissipating solitude, but to-day he had no words, even for these dear friends.

He only opened his soul to beauty, and steadily climbed the hill to the crest, and then down the other side to the rich, half-shaded, half-open spaces, where big, rough mushrooms sprang in a night similar to the one just passed.
He could see them awaiting him from afar.

He began work with rapid fingers, being careful to break off the heads, but not to pull up the roots.

When four heaping baskets were filled he cut heavily leaved branches to spread over them, and started to Onabasha.