WOODLANDS. 7 



midsummer hum, now sinking, now sonorously in- 

 creasing over the oaks. An effulgence fills the 

 southern boughs, which the eye cannot sustain, but 

 which it knows is there. 



The sun at his meridian pours forth his light, for- 

 getting, in all the inspiration of his strength and 

 glory, that without an altar-screen of green his love 

 must scorch. Joy in life; joy in life. The ears 

 listen, and want more : the eyes are gratified with 

 gazing, and desire yet further ; the nostrils are filled 

 with the sweet odours of flower and sap. The touch, 

 too, has its pleasures, dallying with leaf and flower. 

 Can you not almost grasp the odour-laden air and 

 hold it in the hollow of the hand ? 



Leaving the spot at last, and turning again into 

 the lane, the shadows dance upon the white dust 

 under the feet, irregularly circular spots of light 

 surrounded with umbra shift with the shifting 

 branches. By the wayside lie rings of dandelion 

 stalks carelessly cast down by the child who made 

 them, and tufts of delicate grasses gathered for their 

 beauty but now sprinkled with dust. Wisps of hay 

 hang from the lower boughs of the oaks where they 

 brushed against the passing load. 



After a time, when the corn is ripening, the herb 

 betony flowers on the mounds under the oaks. Fol* 

 lowing the lane down the hill and across the small 

 furze common at the bottom, the marks of traffic fade 

 away, the dust ceases, and is succeeded by sward. 

 The hedgerows on either side are here higher than 

 ever, and are thickly fringed with bramble bushes, 

 which sometimes encroach on the waggon ruts in the 



