Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

June was hot and dry, following upon a wet winter and a showery spring, and in the Long Meadow and in Rushy Bottom and the Gore, Furze had never seen a heavier crop of all these spearing grasses, the Ryes, Fescues, Poas, Sweet Vernals, Foxtails, with white clover to give bottom and richness. They were a wonderful sight these hay fields, especially when the evening sun shone among the grasses, and the silver of their ripeness became gold and the wild sorrel was turned to flame. Or when a wind blew and the whole field seemed to flow. Each evening, after the heat of the day, Furze would wander down into these fields and look at the ripening flower- spikes. Never had he seen a year so proud of its growth; the foxgloves in Gore Wood stood seven feet high. And the good weather looked like holding.

"We'll cut to-morrow, Will."