HERBS 169 



the ponds, in the midst of trees, and near the river, 

 there is a little grass, however, left to itself, in which in 

 June there were some bird's-foot lotus, veronica, hawk- 

 weeds, ox-eye daisy, knapweed, and buttercups. Stand- 

 ing by these ponds, I heard a cuckoo call, and saw a 

 rook sail over them ; there was no other sound but 

 that of the birds and the merry laugh of children roll- 

 ing down the slopes. 



The midsummer hum was audible above ; the honey- 

 dew glistened on the leaves of the limes. There is a 

 sense of repose in the mere aspect of large trees in 

 groups and masses of quiet foliage. Their breadth of 

 form steadies the roving eye; the rounded slopes, the 

 wide sweeping outline of these hills of green boughs, 

 induce an inclination, like them, to rest. To recline 

 upon the grass and with half-closed eyes gaze upon them 

 is enough. 



The delicious silence is not the silence of night, of 

 lifelessness ; it is the lack of jarring, mechanical noise ; 

 it is not silence but the sound of leaf and grass gently 

 stroked by the soft and tender touch of the summer air. 

 It is the sound of happy finches, of the slow buzz of 

 humble-bees, of the occasional splash of a fish, or the 

 call of a moorhen. Invisible in the brilliant beams 

 above, vast legions of insects crowd the sky, but the 

 product of their restless motion is a slumberous hum. 



These sounds are the real silence.; just as a tiny ripple 

 of the water and the swinging of the shadows as the ' 

 boughs stoop are the real stillness. If they were absent, 

 if it was the soundlessness and stillness of stone, the 

 mind would crave for something. But these fill and 

 content it. Thus reclining, the storm and stress of 

 life dissolve there is no thought, no care, no desire. 

 Somewhat of the Nirvana of the earth beneath the 



