At the far end I saw a little girl and a little boy,
their arms filled with yellow spoil. Ah, thought I, an unwonted
benevolence burgeoning, what a delight to me is their delight! It is
sweet that children should pick poppies in my field. All summer
shall they pick poppies in my field. But they must be little
children, I added as an afterthought, and they must pick from the
lower end--this last prompted by a glance at the great golden fellows
nodding in the wheat beneath my window. Then the razor descended.
Shaving was always an absorbing task, and I did not glance out of the
window again until the operation was completed. And then I was
bewildered. Surely this was not my poppy field. No--and yes, for
there were the tall pines clustering austerely together on one side,
the magnolia tree burdened with bloom, and the Japanese quinces
splashing the driveway hedge with blood. Yes, it was the field, but
no wave of poppy-flame spilled down it, nor did the great golden
fellows nod in the wheat beneath my window.
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