30 Idylls of the Field. 



who will may read how life even then is stirring in the 

 leaves ; how the great heart of Nature never is at rest ; 

 how plain to feel, in all the stillness, is the beating 

 of her mighty pulse. For even when the few last 

 leaves are floating down through the chill December 

 air their very death is a fluttering of life. The faded 

 leaf is hurried to its fall by the swelling of the bud 

 that will broaden into beauty in the spring. 



Even when the days are shortest the willows tinge 

 their golden branches with a purple flush, and the 

 sprays of honeysuckle are studded with tufts of green. 

 And when once the days begin to lengthen and 

 February has begun, we find in lane and woodland 

 the light footprints of the spring. 



It is true they are but light. There is no denying 

 that there are evil days in store ; weeks of sullen skies 

 and bitter weather, months of searching, biting, cruel 

 wind. Returning winter may even cover all with 

 snow. 



But still with calm, unfaltering finger Nature writes 

 on bank and hedgerow, day by day in plainer letters, 

 the promise of the wakening of the world. 



Everywhere the arum thrusts through the brown 

 earth its folded green, and the ground ivy pushes out 

 its long red stems as if feeling for the light. On 

 upland fields, where the plough lies idle in the last 

 furrow of the stubborn soil, the coltsfoot scatters 

 broadcast its bright, leafless flowers. In sheltered 

 hollows, where the untrimmed hedgerows lean over 



