'The ploughman has finished his work, but the crows are still flapping about it.

I wonder if they are the same crows! That is the clump of weeds by which she sat; it was as red as flame then, but now it is colourless as the cinders of a fire that is gone out.' His words were like straws, showing the current of his thoughts.
Just then in the west the cloud masses in the horizon, being moved by the winds, rent asunder, exposing the land to the yellow blaze of the setting sun.

The distant hills stood out against the glow in richer blue, and far and near the fields took brighter hues--warm brown of earth ready to yield the next harvest, yellow of stubble lands at rest, bright green of slopes that fed the moving cows.

There were luminous shadows, too, that gathered instantly in the copses, as if they were the forms of dryads who could sport unseen in the murk daylight, but must fly under each shrub for refuge in the sudden sunshine.

Close at his feet lay the patch of cabbages--purple cabbages they were, throwing back from each glossy leaf and stalk infinite gradations of crimson light.
Parts of the leaves were not glossy but were covered with opaque bloom of tender blue, and here and there a leaf had been broken, disclosing scarlet veins.