40 A DESERTED QUARRY 



sunshine, dusty from the pollen of the 

 willow-palm ? That the symphony of 

 summer must die in autumn's cadences is 

 inevitable, but now the grass is rising on 

 the crumbled brick rim of the deserted 

 limekiln, and on the pile of chalk a wagtail 

 calls to his mate. 



There are the sweet notes of the finches 

 who are fluttering round the weeds of the 

 wasteland, and the distant caw of rooks. 

 A great cloud rushes in the sky; the light 

 is checked. It is cold once more. But 

 every day the sun swings in a higher curve; 

 over the sea the call has gone, and even now 

 the migrants in Africa and Egypt are restless. 



Very soon the chiffchaff will pipe his 

 monotonous tune by the lake, and the 

 wheatears will be back on the sward of the 

 downlands. A few weeks and the cuckoo 

 will call in the forest and the swallows glide 

 around the barns and the ricks " all the 

 living staircase of the spring, step by step, 

 upwards to the great gallery of the summer." 



