Think globally, act loco

   Hello,

            [cid:53D40CE1.F627A89B.53D40CE1.F627A89B_csseditor]
                             upadukadel[dot]com
                                    ----

    It was that time of the year, the turning-point of summer, when the
   crops of the present year are a certainty, when one begins to think of
    the sowing for next year, and the mowing is at hand; when the rye is
     all in ear, though its ears are still light, not yet full, and it
     waves in gray-green billows in the wind; when the green oats, with
       tufts of yellow grass scattered here and there among it, droop
     irregularly over the late-sown fields; when the early buckwheat is
   already out and hiding the ground; when the fallow lands, trodden hard
      as stone by the cattle, are half ploughed over, with paths left
   untouched by the plough; when from the dry dung-heaps carted onto the
         fields there comes at sunset a smell of manure mixed with
    meadow-sweet, and on the low-lying lands the riverside meadows are a
   thick sea of grass waiting for the mowing, with blackened heaps of the
    stalks of sorrel among it. It was the time when there comes a brief
   pause in the toil of the fields before the beginning of the labors of
   harvest--every year recurring, every year straining every nerve of the
   peasants. The crop was a splendid one, and bright, hot summer days had
   set in with short, dewy nights. The brothers had to drive through the
                        woods to reach the meadows.

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