106 Idylls of the Field. 



meadowsweet and marestail, the broad blades of the 

 iris and the graceful leafage of the rue. 



A passage through the thickets, hardly seen, a green 

 lane among leaves of bog-bean and tall, tufted grass 

 leads to a little open space in the very heart of the 

 swamp. 



Here in the summer evenings drones the night-jar. 

 Here pheasants crow in the twilight, and woodcock 

 find safe cover in the autumn. Here, too, by the im- 

 print of her slender feet, you may track the moor-hen 

 to her haunt. 



The ground is carpeted with flowers. Spikes of 

 purple orchis, dwarf tufts of broom, and tall red 

 thistles brighten all the grass. The air is heavy with 

 the breath of fragrant marsh plants, crushed beneath 

 your tread. 



At every step, too, moths, and butterflies, and 

 delicate insects, with blue lace-like wings, rise from the 

 green tangle underfoot. 



As you put aside with careful touch the stems of 

 sedge that cut like knife-blades the incautious hand, 

 you see below pale lavender pimpernels and bright 

 flowers of the moneywort that scatters on the ground 

 its lavish gold. Vetches, too, clamber up out of the 

 green wilderness, and lay hold of friendly stems that 

 help them to the light. 



And filling all the open spaces in the thickets, now 

 brightening the dim shadows of the bushes, now 



