Flower-de-Luce. 101 



Only the insects are astir : bees that are busy in 

 the clover blooms, butterflies that lightly float from 

 flower to flower, burnet moths in black and crimson 

 that flutter lazily along, and flies innumerable, that 

 follow everywhere with hateful hum. 



Welcome to-day is the murmur of the stream ; cool 

 the plash of water down the dripping weir; pleasant 

 the pathway that through bright, scented meadows 

 follows the windings of the river. 



No rigid lines define these level fields. Their 

 outlines, traced by wandering rivulets, follow lightly 

 every careless curve, now broad, now narrow, and 

 with many a shady nook and sunny corner, loved of 

 birds and bright with flowers. Along the margin of 

 the meadow, dark belts of alder stand, their sober green 

 relieved with fringe of willow herb and marestail, and 

 brightened with broad leaves of iris, that mark with 

 lamps of gold the hidden streams. 



Troops of cattle, weary of the blaze of noon, stand 

 knee-deep in the river, and just lift their heads a 

 moment as you pass, to peer with lazy eyes through 

 the cool covert of the trees. 



Little colour is there now among this summer 

 green. The glory of the hawthorn is long since 

 scattered on the grass ; fallen are the white flowers 

 of the wayfaring tree, nor touched as yet its berries by 

 the wizard sun, who, with his lamp of magic, turns 

 their summer greenness into autumn flame. 



But the bryony twines shining wreaths among the 



