Flaunts of the Lapwing 



they have gone. Furrow on furrow with flints dotted 

 on their slopes, and chalk lumps, that is all. The 

 cold earth gives no sweet petal of flower, nor can 

 any bud of thought or bloom of imagination start 

 forth in the mind. But step by step, forcing a way 

 through the rain and over the ridge, I find a small 

 and stunted copse down in the next hollow. It is 

 rather a wide hedge than a copse, and stands by the 

 road in the corner of a field, The boughs are bare; 

 still they break the storm, and it is a relief to wait 

 a while there and rest. After a minute or so the eye 

 gets accustomed to the branches and finds a line of 

 sight through the narrow end of the copse. Within 

 twenty yards just outside the copse there are a 

 number of lapwings, dispersed about the furrows. 

 One runs a few feet forward and picks something 

 from the ground; another runs in the same manner 

 to one side; a third rushes in still a third direction. 

 Their crests, their green-tinted wings, and white 

 breasts are not disarranged by the torrent. Some- 

 thing in the style of the birds recalls the wagtail, 

 though they are so much larger. Beyond these 

 are half a dozen more, and in a straggling line others 

 extend out into the field. They have found some 

 slight shelter here from the sweeping of the rain and 

 wind, and are not obliged to face it as in the open. 

 Minutely searching every clod they gather their food 

 in imperceptible items from the surface. 



Sodden leaves lie in the furrows along the side 

 of the copse; broken and decaying burdocks still 

 uphold their jagged stems, but will be soaked away 

 by degrees; dank grasses droop outwards! the red 

 seed of a dock is all that remains of the berries and 

 fruit, the seeds and grain of autumn. Like the hedge, 

 the copse is vacant. Nothing moves within, watch 



