XXVIII

THE DAY is warm and the skies genial, but I have a notion that a fog bank lies just off the coast and that we shall hear from it before the long afternoon has darkened to its close. The wind which moves across this earth of fluttering and innumerable leaves is the wind which stirs when fog is near, a restless, fidgety wind which is never still in the trees, and in the sky combs out the clouds like hair. And I know the meaning of that pale and milky bank of coastal haze which lies to seaward above our country scenes of woods and fields. As soon as the earth, losing its noonday heat, grows cool with the sun descending, the fog will be upon us, taking over these blue summer skies just inland from the sea.

Even as I write, the vapor begins its slow and almost tidal advance from the horizon. The milky haze darkens and becomes a mystery of fog grey, and presently sailing fragments of the vapor are to be discovered drifting inland. The wind has not yet changed on the surface of the earth, it is still the restless southwest which is at play among the leaves and in the fruiting grass. But the southeasterly turn is coming, a breath of grey vapor, coolness, and the sea are coming towards us across the pond, coming not as a force, perhaps, but as a first physical sensation. The flying vapor is high, for the warm earth has still something to say and is lifting the wraiths into the higher air.

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More arrive, and they now float between us and the earth’s own cloud forms in the higher blue. Presently it is more than the vanguard which is on the move; the whole sky of the eastern horizon is following after, advancing with the vast motion of the sea across some coastal plain of sand. Yet it is not a sky which is all one mass and substance of coolness and sea-grey; it has its lower fragments, its broken vapors, and its heavy, inexorable solemnities. Already the light is changing. The east has grown grey-dark, though the earth warmth and the late afternoon sun rule tranquilly in the open west above the wall of pines.

Farmerwise, we worry about our neighbor’s hay. It lies in windrows on the carpet of the shorn field, windrow upon windrow lying mounded and parallel like waves reaching the shore. The field is darkening under the darkening sky, the light upon it streaming level from the west. The neighbors, too, are apprehensive, for such an incoming of fog can mean a rainy day to follow. But help is at hand, for across our own wide field I can see the tanned figures of Carroll and his sons-in-law, Freddy and Rupert, filling the big truck: indeed, I think I see both Willa and Elaine pitching up great forkfuls beside their men. It is done; I hear the engine start, and a first fine load is on its way to the barn.

Meanwhile, it is growing greyer and more cold. The incoming fog, moreover, is sinking as the earth chills, and I can now see a wisp of vapor between me and the pines across the road. The light grows silvery; the vapor has reached the western heavens, and is dimming and veiling over the great shield of the sun. A kind of hush seems to follow. The North Atlantic has the coast.

FARM DIARY

Hot spell ends with a turn of the wind to the N. W., and haying begins in earnest. The fine field which lies to the south of us and just beyond our line is being mowed, and the fragrance of the hay drifts towards us through the sunshine. / Fourth of July with its parades, fire crackers, and crowds over and done with. We spend the afternoon at Miss Anna Glidden’s party and have a very pleasant time as always. / Wonderful visit from Ray and Hope Nash and their three youngsters, Grigg, Jon, and Holly, and a blessed evening of the best talk about the world of the human spirit. Elizabeth is Jon’s godmother and I am Holly’s godfather. / Many small boats on the pond, and neighbors and visitors quietly fishing in the early evening. / “Progressive” strawberries living up to their name, and yielding a good crop. / Light rain in the night, not good for the hay, but just the thing for the gardens. / Drama in the early morning: a red cow and a black cow who have strayed from their anchorage visit the farm at breakfast time. The black cow suffers herself to be recaptured easily, but the red cow, her tail flung up in a banner of rebellion, runs wildly off through the long grass of the hay slopes like a creature of the pampas. Carroll and his two sons-in-law, all quick-footed men, organize a pursuit, and finally close in upon her; she suffers her chain to be seized, and is led peaceably away.

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One of the greater mischiefs which confront us today is the growing debasement of the language. Our speech is a mere shadow of its incomparable richness, having on the one hand become vulgarized and on the other corrupted with a particularly odious academic jargon. Now this is dangerous. A civilization which loses its power over its own language has lost its power over the instrument by which it thinks. Without some power over language there is neither greatness nor accuracy of thought. I am sure that this wasting disease of our English speech is one of the causes of today’s bewilderment.