byRichardJefferies
　　I。
　　GREENrushes，longandthick，standingupabovetheedgeoftheditch，toldthehouroftheyearasdistinctlyastheshadowonthedialthehouroftheday。Greenandthickandsappytothetouch，theyfeltlikesummer，softandelastic，asiffulloflife，mererushesthoughtheywere。Onthefingerstheyleftagreenscent；
　　rusheshaveaseparatescentofgreen，so，too，haveferns，verydifferentfromthatofgrassorleaves。Risingfrombrownsheaths，thetallstemsenlargedalittleinthemiddle，likeclassicalcolumns，andheavywiththeirsapandfreshness，leanedagainstthehawthornsprays。Fromtheearththeyhaddrawnitsmoisture，andmadetheditchdry；someofthesweetnessoftheairhadenteredintotheirfibres，andtherushes—thecommonrushes—werefullofbeautifulsummer。Thewhitepollenofearlygrassesgrowingontheedgewasdustedfromthemeachtimethehawthornboughswereshakenbyathrush。Theselowersprayscamedowninamongthegrass，andleavesandgrass—bladestouched。Smoothroundstemsofangelica，bigasagun—barrel，hollowandstrong，stoodontheslopeofthemound，theirtiersofwell—balancedbranchesrisinglikethoseofatree。Suchasturdygrowthpushedbacktheranksofhedgeparsleyinfullwhiteflower，whichblockedeveryavenueandwindingbird’s—pathofthebank。Butthe"gix，"orwildparsnip，reachedalreadyhighaboveboth，andwouldrearitsflutedstalk，jointonjoint，tillitcouldfaceaman。Treestheyweretothelesserbirds，notevenbendingifperchedon；butthoughsostout，thebirdsdidnotplacetheirnestsonoragainstthem。
　　Somethingintheodouroftheseumbelliferousplants，perhaps，isnotquiteliked；ifbrushedorbruisedtheygiveoutabittergreenishscent。Undertheircover，wellshadedandhidden，birdsbuild，butnotagainstoronthestems，thoughtheywillaffixtheirneststomuchlesscertainsupports。Withthegrassesthatoverhungtheedge，withtherushesintheditchitself，andthesegreatplantsonthemound，thewholehedgewaswrappedandthickened。Nocunningofglancecouldseethroughit；itwouldhaveneededaladdertohelpanyonelookover。
　　ItwasbetweenthemayandtheJuneroses。Themaybloomhadfallen，andamongthehawthornboughswerethelittlegreenbunchesthatwouldfeedthered—wingsinautumn。Highupthebriarshadclimbed，straightandtoweringwhiletherewasathornoranashsapling，orayellow—greenwillow，toupholdthem，andthencurvingovertowardsthemeadow。Thebudswereonthem，butnotyetopen；
　　itwasbetweenthemayandtherose。
　　Asthewind，wanderingoverthesea，takesfromeachwaveaninvisibleportion，andbringstothoseonshoretheetherealessenceofocean，sotheairlingeringamongthewoodandhedges—
　　greenwavesandbillows—becamefulloffineatomsofsummer。
　　Sweptfromnotchedhawthornleaves，broad—toppedoak—leaves，narrowashspraysandovalwillows；fromvastelmcliffsandsharp—talonedbramblesunder；brushedfromthewavinggrassesandstiffeningcorn，thedustofthesunshinewasbornealongandbreathed。
　　Steepedinflowerandpollentothemusicofbeesandbirds，thestreamoftheatmospherebecamealivingthing。Itwaslifetobreatheit，fortheairitselfwaslife。Thestrengthoftheearthwentupthroughtheleavesintothewind。FedthusonthefoodoftheImmortals，theheartopenedtothewidthanddepthofthesummer—tothebroadhorizonafar，downtotheminutestcreatureinthegrass，uptothehighestswallow。WintershowsusMatterinitsdeadform，likethePrimaryrocks，likegraniteandbasalt—
　　clearbutcoldandfrozencrystal。SummershowsusMatterchangingintolife，saprisingfromtheearththroughamilliontubes，thealchemicpoweroflightenteringthesolidoak；andsee！itburstsforthincountlessleaves。Livingthingsleapinthegrass，livingthingsdriftupontheair，livingthingsarecomingforthtobreatheineveryhawthornbush。NolongerdoestheimmenseweightofMatter—thedead，thecrystallized—pressponderouslyonthethinkingmind。ThewholeofficeofMatteristofeedlife—tofeedthegreenrushes，andtherosesthatareabouttobe；tofeedtheswallowsabove，andusthatwanderbeneaththem。SomuchgreateristhisgreenandcommonrushthanalltheAlps。
　　Fanningsoswiftly，thewasp’swingsarebutjustvisibleashepasses；didhepause，thelightwouldbeapparentthroughtheirtexture。Onthewingsofthedragon—flyashehoversaninstantbeforehedartsthereisaprismaticgleam。Thesewingtexturesareevenmoredelicatethantheminutefilamentsonaswallow’squill，moredelicatethanthepollenofaflower。Theyareformedofmatterindeed，buthowexquisitelyitisresolvedintothemeansandorgansoflife！Thoughnotoftenconsciouslyrecognized，perhapsthisisthegreatpleasureofsummer，towatchtheearth，thedeadparticles，resolvingthemselvesintothelivingcaseoflife，toseetheseed—leafpushasidetheclodandbecomebydegreestheperfumedflower。Fromthetinymottledeggcomethewingsthatby—and—byshallpasstheimmensesea。Itisinthismarvelloustransformationofclodsandcoldmatterintolivingthingsthatthejoyandthehopeofsummerreside。Everybladeofgrass，eachleaf，eachseparatefloretandpetal，isaninscriptionspeakingofhope。Considerthegrassesandtheoaks，theswallows，thesweetbluebutterfly—theyareoneandallasignandtokenshowingbeforeoureyesearthmadeintolife。Sothatmyhopebecomesasbroadasthehorizonafar，reiteratedbyeveryleaf，sungoneverybough，reflectedinthegleamofeveryflower。Thereissomuchforusyettocome，somuchtobegathered，andenjoyed。
　　Notforyouorme，now，butforourrace，whowillultimatelyusethismagicalsecretfortheirhappiness。EarthholdssecretsenoughtogivethemthelifeofthefabledImmortals。Myheartisfixedfirmandstableinthebeliefthatultimatelythesunshineandthesummer，theflowersandtheazuresky，shallbecome，asitwere，interwovenintoman’sexistence。Heshalltakefromalltheirbeautyandenjoytheirglory。Henceitisthatafloweristomesomuchmorethanstalkandpetals。WhenIlookintheglassIseethateverylineinmyfacemeanspessimism；butinspiteofmyface—thatismyexperience—Iremainanoptimist。Timewithanunsteadyhandhasetchedthincrookedlines，and，deepeningthehollows，hascasttheoriginalexpressionintoshadow。Painandsorrowflowoveruswithlittleceasing，asthesea—hoofsbeatonthebeach。Letusnotlookatourselvesbutonwards，andtakestrengthfromtheleafandthesignsofthefield。Heisindeeddespicablewhocannotlookonwardstotheideallifeofman。Nottodosoistodenyourbirthrightofmind。
　　Thelonggrassflowingtowardsthehedgehasrearedinawaveagainstit。Alongthehedgeitishigherandgreener，andrustlesintotheverybushes。Thereisamarkonlynowwherethefootpathwas；itpassedclosetothehedge，butitsplaceistraceableonlyasagrooveinthesorrelandseed—tops。Thoughithasquitefilledthepath，thegrasstherecannotsenditstopssohigh；ithasleftawindingcrease。Bythehedgeherestandsamoss—grownwillow，anditsslenderbranchesextendoverthesward。Beyonditisanoak，justapartfromthebushes；thenthegroundgentlyrises，andanancientpollardash，hollowandblackinside，guardsanopengatewaylikealowtower。Thedifferenttoneofgreenshowsthatthehedgeisthereofnut—trees；butonegreathawthornspreadsoutinasemicircle，roofingthegrasswhichisyetmoreverdantinthestillpool（asitwere）underit。Nextacorner，moreoaks，andachestnutinbloom。Returningtothisspotanoldappletreestandsrightoutinthemeadowlikeanisland。Thereseemedjustnowthetiniesttwinkleofmovementbytherushes，butitwaslostamongthehedgeparsley。Amongthegreyleavesofthewillowthereisanotherflitofmotion；andvisiblenowagainsttheskythereisalittlebrownbird，nottobedistinguishedatthemomentfromthemanyotherlittlebrownbirdsthatareknowntobeabout。Hegotupintothewillowfromthehedgeparsleysomehow，withoutbeingseentoclimborfly。Suddenlyhecrossestothetopsofthehawthornandimmediatelyflingshimselfupintotheairayardortwo，hiswingsandruffledcrestmakingaraggedoutline；
　　jerk，jerk，jerk，asifitwerewiththeutmostdifficultyhecouldkeepevenatthatheight。Hescolds，andtwitters，andchirps，andallatoncesinkslikeastoneintothehedgeandoutofsightasastoneintoapond。Itisawhitethroat；hisnestisdeepintheparsleyandnettles。Presentlyhewillgoouttotheislandappletreeandbackagaininaminuteortwo；thepairofthemaresofondofeachother’saffectionatecompany，theycannotremainapart。
　　Watchingthelineofthehedge，abouteverytwominutes，eithernearathandoryonderabirddartsoutjustatthelevelofthegrass，hoversasecondwithlabouringwings，andreturnsasswiftlytothecover。Sometimesitisaflycatcher，sometimesagreenfinch，orchaffinch，nowandthenarobin，inoneplaceashrike，perhapsanotherisared—start。Theyareflyfishingallofthem，seizinginsectsfromthesorreltipsandgrass，asthekingfishertakesaroachfromthewater。Ablackbirdslipsupintotheoakandadovedescendsinthecornerbythechestnuttree。
　　Butthesearenotvisibletogether，onlyoneatatimeandwithintervals。Thelargerpartofthelifeofthehedgeisoutofsight。Allthethrush—fledglings，theyoungblackbirds，andfinchesarehidden，mostofthemonthemoundamongtheivy，andparsley，androughgrasses，protected，too，byaroofofbrambles。
　　Theneststhatstillhaveeggsarenot，likethenestsoftheearlydaysofApril，easilyfound；theyaredeepdowninthetangledherbagebytheshoreoftheditch，orfarinsidethethornythicketswhichthenlookedmerebushes，andarenowsobroad。
　　Landrailsarerunninginthegrassconcealedasamanwouldbeinawood；theyhavenestsandeggsonthegroundforwhichyoumaysearchinvaintillthemowerscome。
　　Upinthecornerafragmentofwhitefurandmarksofscratchingshowwhereadoehasbeenpreparingforalitter。Somewell—
　　troddenrunsleadfrommoundtomound；theyaresandynearthehedgewheretheparticleshavebeencarriedoutadheringtotherabbits’feetandfur。Acrowriseslazilyfromtheupperendofthefield，andperchesinthechestnut。Hispresence，too，wasunsuspected。Heistherebyfartoofrequently。Atthisseasonthecrowsarealwaysinthemowing—grass，searchingabout，stalkinginwindingtracksfromfurrowtofurrow，pickingupanegghereandafoolishfledglingthathaswanderedfromthemoundyonder。Verylikelytheremaybeamoorhenortwoslippingaboutundercoverofthelonggrass；thushidden，theycanleavetheshelteroftheflagsandwanderadistancefromthebrook。Sothatbeneaththesurfaceofthegrassandunderthescreenoftheleavestherearetentimesmorebirdsthanareseen。
　　Besidesthesingingandcalling，thereisapeculiarsoundwhichisonlyheardinsummer。Waitingquietlytodiscoverwhatbirdsareabout，Ibecomeawareofasoundintheveryair。Itisnotthemidsummerhumwhichwillsoonbeheardovertheheatedhayinthevalleyandoverthecoolerhillsalike。Itisnotenoughtobecalledahum，anddoesbutjusttrembleattheextremeedgeofhearing。Ifthebrancheswaveandrustletheyoverbearit；thebuzzofapassingbeeissomuchlouder，itovercomesallofitthatisinthewholefield。Icannotdefineit，exceptbycallingthehoursofwintertomind—theyaresilent；youhearabranchcrackorcreakasitrubsanotherinthewood，youhearthehoarfrostcrunchonthegrassbeneathyourfeet，buttheairiswithoutsoundinitself。Thesoundofsummeriseverywhere—inthepassingbreeze，inthehedge，inthebroad—branchingtrees，inthegrassasitswings；allthemyriadparticlesthattogethermakethesummerareinmotion。Thesapmovesinthetrees，thepollenispushedoutfromgrassandflower，andyetagaintheseacresandacresofleavesandsquaremilesofgrassblades—fortheywouldcoveracresandsquaremilesifreckonededgetoedge—aredrawingtheirstrengthfromtheatmosphere。Exceedinglyminuteasthesevibrationsmustbe，theirnumbersperhapsmaygivethemavolumealmostreachingintheaggregatetothepoweroftheear。Besidesthequiveringleaf，theswinginggrass，theflutteringbird’swing，andthethousandovalmembraneswhichinnumerableinsectswhirlabout，afaintresonanceseemstocomefromtheveryearthitself。
　　Thefervourofthesunbeamsdescendinginatidalfloodringsonthestrungharpofearth。Itisthisexquisiteundertone，heardandyetunheard，whichbringsthemindintosweetaccordancewiththewonderfulinstrumentofnature。
　　Bytheappletreethereisalowbank，wherethegrassislesstallandadmitstheheatdirecttotheground；herethereareblueflowers—bluerthanthewingsofmyfavouritebutterflies—withwhitecentres—thelovelybird’s—eyes，orveronica。Thevioletandcowslip，bluebellandrose，areknowntothousands；theveronicaisoverlooked。Theploughboysknowit，andthewaysidechildren，themowerandthosewholingerinfields，butfewelse。
　　Brightlyblueandsurroundedbygreenestgrass，imbeddedinandallthemorebluefortheshadowofthegrass，thesegrowingbutterflies’wingsdrawtothemselvesthesun。FromthisislandI
　　lookdownintothedepthofthegrasses。Redsorrelspires—deepdrinkersofreddestsunwine—standtheboldest，andintheirnumbersthreatenthebuttercups。Totheseinthedistancetheygivethegipsy—goldtint—thereflectionoffireonplatesofthepreciousmetal。Itwillshowevenonaringbyfirelight；bloodinthegold，theysay。Gathertheopenmargueritedaisies，andtheyseemlarge—sowideadisc，suchfingersofrays；butinthegrasstheirsizeistonedbysomuchgreen。Cloverheadsofhoneylurkinthebunchesandbythehiddenfootpath。LikeclubsfromPolynesiathetipsofthegrassesarevariedinshape:sometendtoapoint—thefoxtails—somearehardandcylindrical；others，avoidingtheclubshape，putforththeslenderestbrancheswithfruitofseedattheends，whichtrembleastheairgoesby。Theirstalksareripeningandbecomingofthecolourofhaywhileyetthelongbladesremaingreen。
　　Eachkindisrepeatedahundredtimes，thefoxtailsaresucceededbyfoxtails，thenarrowbladesbynarrowblades，butneverbecomemonotonous；sorrelstandsbysorrel，daisyflowersbydaisy。Thisbedofveronicaatthefootoftheancientapplehasawholehandfulofflowers，andyettheydonotwearytheeye。Oakfollowsoakandelmrankswithelm，butthewoodlandsarepleasant；howevermanytimesreduplicated，theirbeautyonlyincreases。So，too，thesummerdays；thesunrisesonthesamegrassesandgreenhedges，thereisthesamebluesky，butdidweeverhaveenoughofthem？
　　No，notinahundredyears！Thereseemsalwaysadepth，somewhere，unexplored，athicketthathasnotbeenseenthrough，acornerfullofferns，aquaintoldhollowtree，whichmaygiveussomething。
　　BeesgobymeasIstandundertheapple，buttheypassonforthemostpartboundonalongjourney，acrosstothecloverfieldsoruptothethymelands；onlyafewgodownintothemowing—grass。
　　Thehivebeesarethemostimpatientofinsects；theycannotbeartoentangletheirwingsbeatingagainstgrassesorboughs。Notonewillenterahedge。Theylikeanopenandlevelsurface，placescroppedbysheep，theswardbytheroadside，fieldsofclover，wheretheflowerisnotdeepundergrass。
　　II。
　　ITisthepatienthumble—beethatgoesdownintotheforestofthemowing—grass。Ifentangled，thehumble—beeclimbsupasorrelstemandtakeswing，withoutanysignofannoyance。Hisbroadbackwithtawnybarbuoyantlyglidesoverthegoldenbuttercups。Hehumstohimselfashegoes，sohappyishe。Heknowsnoskep，nocunningworkinglassreceiveshislabour，noartificialsaccharineaidshimwhenthebeamsofthesunarecold，thereisnosteptohishousethathemayalightincomfort；thewayisnotmadeclearforhimthathemaystartstraightfortheflowers，norareanysownforhim。Hehasnoshelterifthestormdescendssuddenly；hehasnodomeoftwistedstrawwellthatchedandtiledtoretreatto。
　　Thebutcher—bird，withabeaklikeacrookedironnail，driveshimtotheground，andleaveshimpiercedwithathornbutnohailofshotrevengeshistortures。Thegrassstiffensatnightfall（inautumn），andhemustcreepwherehemay，ifpossiblyhemayescapethefrost。Noonecaresforthehumble—bee。Butdowntothefloweringnettleinthemossy—sidedditch，upintothetallelm，windinginandoutandroundthebranchedbuttercups，alongthebanksofthebrook，farinsidethedeepestwood，awayhewandersanddespisesnothing。Hisnestisundertheroughgrassesandthemossesofthemound，ameretunnelbeneaththefibresandmattedsurface。Thehawthornoverhangsit，theferngrowsby，redmicerustlepast。
　　Itthunders，andthegreatoaktrembles；theheavyraindropsthroughthetrebleroofofoakandhawthornandfern。Underthearchedbranchesthelightningplaysalong，swiftlytoandfro，orseemsto，liketheswishofawhip，ayellowish—redagainstthegreen；aboom！acrackleasifatreefellfromthesky。Thethickgrassesarebowed，thewhitefloretsofthewildparsleyarebeatendown，therainhurlsitself，andsuddenlyafierceblasttearsthegreenoakleavesandwhirlsthemoutintothefields；butthehumble—bee’shome，undermossandmattedfibres，remainsuninjured。
　　Hishouseattherootofthekingoftrees，likeacaveintherock，issafe。Thestormpassesandthesuncomesout，theairisthesweeterandthericherfortherain，likeverseswitharhyme；
　　therewillbemorehoneyintheflowers。Humbleheis，butwild；
　　alwaysinthefield，thewood；alwaysbythebanksandthickets；
　　alwayswildandhummingtohisflowers。ThereforeIlikethehumble—bee，being，atheartatleast，foreverroamingamongthewoodlandsandthehillsandbythebrooks。Insuchquicksummerstormsthelightninggivestheimpressionofbeingfarmoredangerousthanthezigzagpathstracedontheautumnsky。Theelectriccloudseemsalmostlevelwiththeground，andthelividflametorushtoandfrobeneaththeboughsasthelittlebatsdointheevening。
　　Caughtbysuchacloud，Ihavestayedunderthicklarchesattheedgeofplantations。Theyarenoshelter，butconcealoneperfectly。Thewoodpigeonscomehometotheirnesttrees；inlarchestheyseemtohavepermanentnests，almostlikerooks。
　　Kestrels，too，comehometothewood。Pheasantscrow，butnotfromfear—fromdefiance；infeartheyscream。Theboomstartlesthem，andtheyinstantlydefythesky。Therabbitsquietlyfeedonoutinthefieldbetweenthethistlesandrushesthatsooftengrowinwoodsidepastures，quietlyhoppingtotheirfavouriteplaces，utterlyheedlesshowheavytheechoesmaybeinthehollowsofthewoodedhills。Tilltheraincomestheytakenoheedwhatever，butthenmakeforshelter。Blackbirdsoftenmakeagooddealofnoise；
　　butthesoftturtle—dovescoogently，letthelightningbeassavageasitwill。Nothinghastheleastfear。Manalone，moresenselessthanapigeon，putagodinvapour；andtothisday，thoughtheprintingpresshassetafootoneverythreshold，numbersbowthekneewhentheyheartheroarthetimiddovedoesnotheed。Sotrustfularethedoves，thesquirrels，thebirdsofthebranches，andthecreaturesofthefield。Undertheirtuitionletusridourselvesofmentalterrors，andfacedeathitselfascalmlyastheydothelividlightning；sotrustfulandsocontentwiththeirfate，restinginthemselvesandunappalled。IfbutbyreasonandwillIcouldreachthegodlikecalmandcourageofwhatwesothoughtlesslycallthetimidturtle—dove，Ishouldleadanearlyperfectlife。
　　ThebarkoftheancientappletreeunderwhichIhavebeenstandingisshrunkenlikeironwhichhasbeenheatedandletcoolroundtherimofawheel。Forahundredyearsthehorseshaverubbedagainstitwhilefeedingintheaftermath。Thescalesofthebarkaregoneorsmootheddownandlevel，sothatinsectshavenohiding—place。
　　Therearenocrevicesforthem，thehorsehairsthatwerecaughtanywherehavebeencarriedawaybybirdsfortheirnests。Thetrunkissmoothandcolumnar，hardasiron。Ahundredtimesthemowing—grasshasgrownuparoundit，thebirdshavebuilttheirnests，thebutterfliesflutteredby，andtheacornsdroppedfromtheoaks。Itisalong，longtime，countedbyartificialhoursorbytheseasons，butitislongerstillinanotherway。ThegreenfinchinthehawthornyonderhasbeentheresinceIcameout，andallthetimehasbeenhappilytalkingtohislove。Hehasleftthehawthornindeed，butonlyforaminuteortwo，tofetchafewseeds，andcomesbackeachtimemorefullofsong—talkthanever。
　　Henotesnoslowmovementoftheoak’sshadowonthegrass；itisnothingtohimandhisladydearthatthesun，asseenfromhisnest，iscrossingfromonegreatboughoftheoaktoanother。Thedeweveninthedeepestandmosttangledgrasshaslongsincebeendried，andsomeoftheflowersthatcloseatnoonwillshortlyfoldtheirpetals。Themorningairs，whichbreathesosweetly，comelessandlessfrequentlyastheheatincreases。Vanishingfromthesky，thelastfragmentsofcloudhaveleftanuntarnishedazure。
　　Manytimesthebeeshavereturnedtotheirhives，andthustheindexofthedayadvances。Itisnothingtothegreenfinches；alltheirthoughtsareintheirsong—talk。Thesunnymomentistothemallinall。Sodeeplyaretheyraptinitthattheydonotknowwhetheritisamomentorayear。Thereisnoclockforfeeling，forjoy，forlove。
　　Andwithalltheirmotionsandsteppingfromboughtobough，theyarenotrestless；theyhavesomuchtime，yousee。So，too，thewhitethroatinthewildparsley；so，too，thethrushthatjustnowpeeredoutandpartlyflutteredhiswingsashestoodtolook。A
　　butterflycomesandstaysonaleaf—aleafmuchwarmedbythesun—andshutshiswings。Inaminuteheopensthem，shutsthemagain，halfwheelsround，andby—and—by—justwhenhechooses，andnotbefore—floatsaway。Theflowersopen，andremainopenforhours，tothesun。Hastelessnessistheonlywordonecanmakeuptodescribeit；thereismuchrest，butnohaste。Eachmoment，aswiththegreenfinches，issofulloflifethatitseemssolongandsosufficientinitself。Notonlythedays，butlifeitselflengthensinsummer。Iwouldspreadabroadmyarmsandgathermoreofittome，couldIdoso。
　　Alltheprocessionoflivingandgrowingthingspasses。Thegrassstandsuptallerandstilltaller，thesheathsopen，andthestalkarises，thepollenclingstillthebreezesweepsit。Thebeesrushpast，andtheresolutewasps；thehumble—bees，whoseweightswingsthemalong。Abouttheoaksandmaplesthebrownchafersswarm，andthefern—owlsatdusk，andtheblackbirdsandjaysbyday，cannotreducetheirlegionswhiletheylast。Yellowbutterflies，andwhite，broadredadmirals，andsweetblues；thinkofthekingdomofflowerswhichistheirs！Heavymothsburringattheedgeofthecopse；green，andred，andgoldflies:gnats，likesmoke，aroundthetree—tops；midgessothickoverthebrook，asifyoucouldhaulanetful；tinyleapingcreaturesinthegrass；bronzebeetlesacrossthepath；bluedragonfliesponderingoncoolleavesofwater—plantain。Bluejaysflitting，amagpiedroopingacrossfromelmtoelm；youngrooksthathaveescapedthehostileshotblunderingupintothebranches；misselthrushesleadingtheirfledglings，alreadystrongonthewing，fromfieldtofield。Anegghereontheswarddroppedbyastarling；aredladybirdcreeping，tortoise—like，upagreenfernfrond。Finchesundulatingthroughtheair，shootingthemselveswithclosedwings，andlinnetshappywiththeiryoung。
　　Goldendandeliondiscs—goldandorange—ofahuemorebeautiful，Ithink，thanthehigherandmorevisiblebuttercup。Ablackbird，gleaming，soblackishe，splashingintherunletofwateracrossthegateway。Aruddyking—fisherswiftlydrawinghimself，asyoumightdrawastrokewithapencil，overthesurfaceoftheyellowbuttercups，andawayabovethehedge。Hart’s—tonguefern，thickwithgreen，sogreenastobethickwithitscolour，deepintheditchundertheshadyhazelboughs。Whitemeadow—sweetliftingitstinyflorets，andblack—floweredsedges。Youmustpushthroughthereedgrasstofindthesword—flags；thestoutwillow—herbswillnotbetrampleddown，butresistthefootlikeunderwood。Pinklychnisflowersbehindthewithystoles，andlittleblackmoorhensswimaway，asyougatherit，aftertheirmother，whohasdivedunderthewater—grass，andbrokenthesmoothsurfaceoftheduckweed。Yellowloosestrifeisrising，thickcomfreystandsattheveryedge；thesandpipersrunwheretheshoreisfreefrombushes。Backbytheunderwoodthepricklyandrepellentbrambleswillpresentlypresentuswithfruit。Forthesquirrelsthenutsareforming，greenbeechmastisthere—greenwedgesunderthespray；upintheoaksthesmallknots，likebarkrolledupinadot，willbeacorns。
　　Purplevetchesalongthemounds，yellowlotuswherethegrassisshorter，andorchissucceedstoorchis。AsIwritethem，sothesethingscome—notsetingradation，butlikethebroadcastflowersinthemowing—grass。
　　Nowfollowsthegorse，andthepinkrest—harrow，andthesweetlady’sbedstraw，setasitwereinthemidstofalittlethorn—
　　bush。Thebroadrepetitionoftheyellowcloverisnottobewritten；acreuponacre，andnotonespotofgreen，asifallthegreenhadbeenplanedaway，leavingonlytheflowerstowhichthebeescomebythethousandfromfarandnear。Butonewhitecampionstandsinthemidstofthelakeofyellow。Thefieldisscentedasthoughahundredhivesofhoneyhadbeenemptiedonit。Alongthemoundbyitthebluebellsareseeding，thehedgehasbeencutandthegroundisstrewnwithtwigs。Amongthoseseedingblue—bellsanddrytwigsandmossesIthinkatitlarkhashisnest，ashestaysalldaythereandintheoakover。Thepaleclearyellowofcharlock，sharpandclear，promisesthefinchesbushelsofseedfortheiryoung。Underthescarletofthepoppiesthelarksrun，andthenforchangeofcoloursoarintotheblue。Creamyhoneysuckleonthehedgearoundthecornfield，budsofwildroseeverywhere，butnosweetpetalyet。Yonder，wherethewheatcanclimbnohigheruptheslope，arethepurpleheath—bells，thymeandflittingstone—chats。
　　Thelonebarnshutoffbyacresofbarleyisnoisywithsparrows。
　　Itistheircity，andthereisanestineverycrevice，almostundereverytile。Sometimesthepartridgesrunbetweenthericks，andwhenthebatscomeoutoftheroof，leveretsplayinthewaggon—track。Atevenafern—owlbeatsby，passingclosetotheeaveswhencethemothsissue。Onthenarrowwaggon—trackwhichdescendsalongacoombeandisworninchalk，theheatpoursdownbydayasifaninvisiblelensintheatmospherefocussedthesun’srays。Strongwoodyknapweedenduresit，sodoestoadflaxandpalebluescabious，andwildmignonette。TheverysunofSpainburnsandburnsandripensthewheatontheedgeofthecoombe，andwillonlyletthespringmoistenayardortwoaroundit；butthereafewrusheshavesprung，andinthewateritselfbrooklimewithblueflowersgrowssothicklythatnothingbutabirdcouldfindspacetodrink。SodownagainfromthissunofSpaintowoodycovertswherethewildhopsareblockingeveryavenue，andgreen—floweredbryonywouldfainclimbtothetrees；wheregrey—fleckedivywindsspirallyabouttheredruggedbarkofpines，whereburdocksfightforthefootpath，andteazle—headslookoverthelowhedges。
　　Brake—fernrisesfivefeethigh；insomewaywoodpeckersareassociatedwithbrake，andthereseemmoreofthemwhereitflourishes。Ifyoucountthedepthandstrengthofitsrootsintheloamysand，addthethicknessofitsflattenedstem，andthewidthofitsbranchingfronds，youmaysaythatitcomesneartobealittletree。Beneathwherethepondsarebushymare’s—tailsgrow，andonthemoistbanksjointedpewterwort；someofthebroadbronzeleavesofwater—weedsseemtotryandconquerthepondandcoveritsofirmlythatawagtailmayrunonthem。Awhitebutterflyfollowsalongthewaggon—road，thepheasantsslipawayasquietlyasthebutterflyflies，butajayscreechesloudlyandfluttersinhighragetoseeus。Underanancientgardenwallamongmattedbinesoftrumpetconvolvulus，thereisahedge—
　　sparrow’snestoverhungwithivyonwhichevennowthelastblackberriescling。
　　Thereareminutewhiteflowersonthetopofthewall，outofreach，andlichengrowsagainstitdriedbythesuntillitlooksreadytocrumble。Bythegatewaygrowsathickbunchofmeadowgeranium，soontoflower；overthegateisthedustyhighwayroad，quietbutdusty，dottedwiththeinnumerablefoot—marksofaflockofsheepthathaspassed。Thesoundoftheirbleatingstillcomesback，andthebeesdrivenupbytheirfeethavehardlyhadtimetosettleagainonthewhitecloverbeginningtoflowerontheshortroadsidesward。Allthehawthornleavesandbriarandbramble，thehoneysuckle，too，isgrittywiththedustthathasbeenscattereduponit。Butsee—canitbe？Stretchahandhigh，quick，andreachitdown；thefirst，thesweetest，thedearestroseofJune。
　　Notyetexpected，forthetimeisbetweenthemayandtheroses，leastofallhereinthehotanddustyhighway；butitisfound—
　　thefirstroseofJune。
　　Straightgothewhitepetalstotheheart；straightthemind’sglancegoesbacktohowmanyotherpageantsofsummerinoldtimes！
　　Whenperchancethesunnydayswereevenmoresunny；whenthestillyoakswerefullofmystery，lurkingliketheDruid’smistletoeinthemidstoftheirmightybranches。Aglamourintheheartcamebacktoitagainfromeveryflower；asthesunshinewasreflectedfromthem，sothefeelingintheheartreturnedtenfold。Tothedreamysummerhaze，lovegaveadeepenchantment，thecolourswerefairer，thebluemorelovelyinthelucidsky。Eachleaffiner，andthegrossearthenamelledbeneaththefeet。Asweetbreathontheair，asoftwarmhandinthetouchofthesunshine，aglanceinthegleamoftherippledwaters，awhisperinthedanceoftheshadows。Theetherealhazeliftedtheheavyoaksandtheywerebuoyantonthemead，theruggedbarkwaschastenedandnolongerrough，eachslenderflowerbeneaththemagainrefined。Therewasapresenceeverywhere，thoughunseen，ontheopenhills，andnotshutoutunderthedarkpines。DearweretheJunerosesthenbecauseforanothergathered。Yetevendearernowwithsomanyyearsasitwereuponthepetals；allthedaysthathavebeenbefore，alltheheart—throbs，allourhopeslieinthisopenedbud。Letnottheeyesgrowdim，looknotbackbutforward；thesoulmustupholditselflikethesun。Letuslabourtomaketheheartgrowlargeraswebecomeolder，asthespreadingoakgivesmoreshelter。Thatwecouldbuttaketothesoulsomeofthegreatnessandthebeautyofthesummer！
　　Stillthepageantmoves。Thesong—talkofthefinchesrisesandsinkslikethetinkleofawaterfall。Thegreen—fincheshavebeenbymeallthewhile。Abullfinchpipesnowandthenfurtherupthehedgewherethebramblesandthornsarethickest。Boldestofbirdstolookat，heisalwaysinhiding。Theshrilltoneofagoldfinchcamejustnowfromtheashbranches，buthehasgoneon。Everyfourorfiveminutesachaffinchsingscloseby，andanotherfillstheintervalnearthegateway。Therearelinnetssomewhere，butI
　　cannotfromtheoldappletreefixtheirexactplace。Thrusheshavesungandceased；theywillbeginagainintenminutes。Theblackbirdsdonotcease；thenoteutteredbyablackbirdintheoakyonderbeforeitcandropistakenupbyasecondnearthetopofthefield，andereitfallsiscaughtbyathirdontheleft—handside。Fromoneofthetopmostboughsofanelmtherefellthesongofawillowwarblerforawhile；oneoftheleastofbirds，heoftenseeksthehighestbranchesofthehighesttree。
　　Ayellowhammerhasjustflownfromabarebranchinthegateway，wherehehasbeenperchedandsingingafullhour。Presentlyhewillcommenceagain，andasthesundeclineswillsinghimtothehorizon，andthenagainsingtillnearlydusk。Theyellowhammerisalmostthelongestofallthesingers；hesitsandsitsandhasnoinclinationtomove。Inthespringhesings，inthesummerhesings，andhecontinueswhenthelastsheavesarebeingcarriedfromthewheatfield。Theredstartyonderhasgivenforthafewnotes，thewhitethroatflingshimselfintotheairatshortintervalsandchatters，theshrikecallssharpanddetermined，faintbutshrillcallsdescendfromtheswiftsintheair。Thesedescend，butthetwitteringnotesoftheswallowsdonotreachsofar—theyaretoohighto—day。Acuckoohascalledbythebrook，andnowfainterfromagreaterdistance。ThatthetitlarksaresingingIknow，butnotwithinhearingfromhere；adove，though，isaudible，andachiffchaffhastwicepassed。Afarbeyondtheoaksatthetopofthefielddarkspecksascendfromtimetotime，andaftermovinginwidecirclesforawhiledescendagaintothecorn。Thesemustbelarks；buttheirnotesarenotpowerfulenoughtoreachme，thoughtheywouldwereitnotforthesonginthehedges，thehumofinnumerableinsects，andtheceaseless"crake，crake"oflandrails。Thereareatleasttwolandrailsinthemowing—grass；oneofthemjustnowseemedcomingstraighttowardstheappletree，andIexpectedinaminutetoseethegrassmove，whenthebirdturnedasideandenteredthetuftsandwildparsleybythehedge。Thencethecallhascomewithoutamoment’spause，"crake，crake，"tillthethickhedgeseemsfilledwithit。Titshavevisitedtheappletreeovermyhead，awrenhassunginthewillow，orratheronadeadbranchprojectinglowerdownthantheleafyboughs，andarobinacrossundertheelmsintheoppositehedge。Elmsareafavouritetreeofrobins—nottheupperbranches，butthosethatgrowdownthetrunk，andarethefirsttohaveleavesinspring。
　　Theyellowhammeristhemostpersistentindividually，butIthinktheblackbirdswhenlistenedtoarethemastersofthefields。
　　Beforeonecanfinish，anotherbegins，likethesummerripplessucceedingbehindeachother，sothatthemelodioussoundmerelychangesitsposition。Nowhere，nowinthecorner，thenacrossthefield，againinthedistantcopse，whereitseemsabouttosink，whenitrisesagainalmostathand。Likeagreathumanartist，theblackbirdmakesnoeffort，beingfullyconsciousthathisliquidtonecannotbematched。Heuttersafewdeliciousnotes，andcarelesslyquitsthegreenstageoftheoaktillitpleaseshimtosingagain。Withouttheblackbird，inwhosethroatthesweetnessofthegreenfieldsdwells，thedayswouldbeonlypartlysummer。
　　Withouttheviolet，allthebluebellsandcowslipscouldnotmakeaspring，andwithouttheblackbird，eventhenightingalewouldbebuthalfwelcome。Itisnotyetnoon，thesesongshavebeenceaselesssincedawn；thisevening，aftertheyellowhammerhassungthesundown，whenthemoonrisesandthefaintstarsappear，stillthecuckoowillcall，andthegrasshopperlark，thelandrail’s"crake，crake"willechofromthemound，awarblerorablackcapwillutterhisnotes，andevenatthedarkestofthesummernighttheswallowswillhardlysleepintheirnests。Asthemorningskygrowsblue，anhourbeforethesun，upwillrisethelarks，singingandaudiblenow，thecuckoowillrecommence，andtheswallowswillstartagainontheirtirelessjourney。Sothatthesongsofthesummerbirdsareasceaselessasthesoundofthewaterfallwhichplaysdayandnight。
　　Icannotleaveit；Imuststayundertheoldtreeinthemidstofthelonggrass，theluxuryoftheleaves，andthesongintheveryair。IseemasifIcouldfeelalltheglowinglifethesunshinegivesandthesouthwindcallstobeing。Theendlessgrass，theendlessleaves，theimmensestrengthoftheoakexpanding，theunalloyedjoyoffinchandblackbird；fromallofthemIreceivealittle。Eachgivesmesomethingofthepurejoytheygatherforthemselves。Intheblackbird’smelodyonenoteismine；inthedanceoftheleafshadowstheformedmazeisforme，thoughthemotionistheirs；theflowerswithathousandfaceshavecollectedthekissesofthemorning。Feelingwiththem，Ireceivesome，atleast，oftheirfulnessoflife。NevercouldIhaveenough；neverstaylongenough—whetherhereorwhetherlyingontheshorterswardunderthesweepingandgracefulbirches，oronthethyme—
　　scentedhills。Hourafterhour，andstillnotenough。Orwalkingthefootpathwasneverlongenough，ormystrengthsufficienttoenduretillthemindwasweary。Theexceedingbeautyoftheearth，inhersplendouroflife，yieldsanewthoughtwitheverypetal。
　　Thehourswhenthemindisabsorbedbybeautyaretheonlyhourswhenwereallylive，sothatthelongerwecanstayamongthesethingssomuchthemoreissnatchedfrominevitableTime。Lettheshadowadvanceuponthedial—Icanwatchitwithequanimitywhileitistheretobewatched。ItisonlywhentheshadowisNOT
　　there，whenthecloudsofwintercoverit，thatthedialisterrible。Theinvisibleshadowgoesonandstealsfromus。Butnow，whileIcanseetheshadowofthetreeandwatchitslowlyglidingalongthesurfaceofthegrass，itismine。Thesearetheonlyhoursthatarenotwasted—thesehoursthatabsorbthesoulandfillitwithbeauty。Thisisreallife，andallelseisillusion，ormereendurance。Doesthisreverieofflowersandwaterfallandsongformanideal，ahumanideal，inthemind？Itdoes；muchthesameidealthatPhidiassculpturedofmanandwomanfilledwithagodlikesenseofthevioletfieldsofGreece，beautifulbeyondthought，calmasmyturtle—dovebeforetheluridlightningoftheunknown。Tobebeautifulandtobecalm，withoutmentalfear，istheidealofnature。IfIcannotachieveit，atleastIcanthinkit。