Out of Doors in February 



more pleasant days of summer, for then the growth 

 of aquatic grasses checks the flow and stills it, whilst 

 in February every stone, or flint, or lump of chalk 

 divides the current and causes a vibration. With 

 this murmur of water, and mild time, the rooks caw 

 incessantly, and the birds at large essay to utter their 

 welcome of the sun. The wet furrows reflect the 

 rays so that the dark earth gleams, and in the slight 

 mist that stays farther away the light pauses and fills 

 the vapour with radiance. Through this luminous 

 mist the larks race after each other twittering, and 

 as they turn aside, swerving in their swift flight, 

 their white breasts appear for a moment. As while 

 standing by a pool the fishes came into sight, emerging 

 as they swim round from the shadow of the deeper 

 water, so the larks dart over the low edge, and through 

 the mist, and pass before you, and are gone again. 

 All at once one checks his pursuit, forgets the imme- 

 diate object, and rises, singing as he soars. The 

 notes fall from the air over the dark wet earth, over 

 the dank grass, and broken withered fern of the hedge, 

 and listening to them it seems for a moment spring. 

 There is sunshine in the song; the lark and the light 

 are one. He gives us a few minutes of summer in 

 February days. In May he rises before as yet the 

 dawn is come, and the sunrise flows down to us under 

 through his notes. On his breast, high above the 

 earth, the first rays fall as the rim of the sun edges up 

 at the eastward hill. The lark and the light are as 

 one, and wherever he glides over the wet furrows the 

 glint of the sun goes with him. Anon alighting he 

 runs between the lines of the green corn. In hot 

 summer, when the open hillside is burned with bright 

 light, the larks are then singing and soaring. Step- 

 ping up the hill laboriously, suddenly a lark starts 



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