152 Idylls of the Field, 



The lane opens on a long slope of hill, crowned by 

 grey limestone crags. Broad sheets of sunburnt 

 bracken are outlined by belts of withered grass. 



Bright among these sombre tones are the patches 

 of the golden furze. A gracious flower it is for all its 

 armoured stems. Is it not true that 



' Kissing is never out of season, when the gorse is in bloom ' ? 



The heather has lost already the splendour of its 

 prime. 



But a few flowers still linger on the broad hillside. 

 There is the mountain meadow-sweet, and a late St. 

 John's Wort or two ; perhaps a few spikes of sweet 

 ladies' tresses, breathing still their sweet perfume. 



High above the slope a kestrel is hovering. The 

 sun is bright upon his chestnut feathers, as on quiver- 

 ing wings he hangs poised upon the air. He pays no 

 heed to a troop of swallows fluttering round him, but 

 scans with keen eyes all the hill, all the spaces among 

 the gorse or ling. Now he swoops nearly touching 

 the ground, but recovers himself, and hovers again. 

 Now, sudden and swift, he falls, and is lost behind 

 the shoulder of the hill. 



It is growing late. The rocky brow above, darken- 

 ing against the saffron west, flings its shadow far down 

 on the bracken at our feet. 



A party of bats that have left their shelter, ere yet 

 the sun is down, flutter on dark wings across the 

 glowing sky. From the elms below a woodpecker is 



