WOODLANDS. 11 



flying at full speed. There are no bees, for there are 

 no flowers. There are no butterflies. The black flies 

 are not numerous, and rarely require a fanning from 

 the ash spray carried to drive them off. 



Two large dragon-flies rush up and down, and 

 cross the lane, and rising suddenly almost to the 

 tops of the oaks swoop down again in bold sweeping 

 curves. The broad, deep ditch between the lane and 

 the mound of the wood is dry, but there are no short 

 rustling sounds of mice. 



The only sound is the continuous singing of the 

 grasshoppers, and the peculiar snapping noise they 

 make as they spring, leaping along the sward. The 

 fierce sun of the ripe wheat pours down a fiery glow 

 scarcely to be borne except under the boughs; the 

 hazel leaves already have lost their green, the tips of 

 the rushes are shrivelling, the grass becoming brown ; 

 it is a scorched and parched desert of wood. 



The finches have gone forth in troops to the stubble 

 where the wheat has been cut, and where they can 

 revel on the seeds of the weeds now ripe. Thrushes 

 and blackbirds have gone to the streams, to splash 

 and bathe, and to the mown meadows, where in the 

 short aftermath they can find their food. There they 

 will look out on the shady side of the hedge as the 

 sun declines, six or eight perhaps of them along the 

 same hedge, but all in the shadow, where the dew 

 forms first as the evening falls, where the grass feels 

 cool and moist, while still on the sunny side it is 

 warm and dry. 



The bees are busy on the heaths and along the hill- 

 tops, where there are still flowers and honey, and the 



