i8 THE INCOMING OF SUMMER 

 sunbeam had yet touched the buttercup, 

 unblazoned was the shield of the meadow 

 by gules of poppy, azure of cornflower, or 

 argent of feverfew. Fragile were the 

 greeneries of the hedge above the brooklet, 

 sweet the primroses under the stubbed roots 

 of the ash-trees. Loveliest is the year when 

 " sumer is icumen in," when the willow 

 wren, slim as he perches on an amber wand, 

 sings all the love in his heart. 



Something is moving in the nettles which 

 the bullocks have not trampled. Their 

 hooves have impressed cloven hollows at 

 the marge, but the nettles are unspoiled. 

 A tangled song comes from the middle 

 of the patch, incoherent and unceasing. 

 The pointed leaves quiver as the motion 

 continues. Presently a little bird with a 

 fawn breast jerks into the air, flutters 

 a moment, and then disappears. It is a 

 whitethroat, and till now his presence in 

 the countryside was unknown. Ecstasy, 

 uncontrolled and rising from his heart like 



