THE YELLOW-HAMMER'S 

 LANE 



THE Lane I write of is "a little winding 

 road that leads to the hill and back again," 

 a lane which sees but few people and which 

 is full of a lonely charm. In spring it is 

 rich with wild flowers; the blue anchusa 

 climbs up its banks and the best foxgloves 

 of the season fill the deep spaces beneath 

 the dyke, whilst a passing shower of rain 

 lets loose the fragrance of the sweetbrier. 

 The yellow bedstraw and cow wheat 

 form a partial carpet, and in early spring 

 there is that wonderful vanilla scent from 

 the gorse, or as it is called in Scotland, 

 whin. 



It was Linnaeus who on coming across the 

 flowering gorse wrote in his journal " I saw 

 God in His glory passing near me, and 

 bowed my head in worship." 



It is of the bird life of the lane that I 

 write, and the chief feature thereof is the 



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