The Open Air 



the place lies low, and level with the waters in the 

 ponds and streamlets. A mist hangs about it in the 

 evening, and even when there is none, there is a 

 distinct difference in the atmosphere while passing 

 it. From their hereditary home the lapwings cannot 

 be entirely driven away. Out of the mist comes their 

 plaintive cry; they are hidden, and their exact 

 locality is not to be discovered. Where winter rules 

 most ruthlessly, where darkness is deepest in day- 

 light, there the slender plovers stay undaunted. 



II SPRING 



A soft sound of water moving among thousands 

 of grass-blades to the hearing it is as the sweetness 

 of spring air to the scent. It is so faint and so 

 diffused that the exact spot whence it issues cannot 

 be discerned, yet it is distinct, and my footsteps are 

 slower as I listen. Yonder, in the corners of the 

 mead, the atmosphere is full of some ethereal vapour. 

 The sunshine stays in the air there, as if the green 

 hedges held the wind from brushing it away. Low 

 and plaintive come the notes of a lapwing; the same 

 notes, but tender with love. 



On this side, by the hedge, the ground is a little 

 higher and dry, hung over with the lengthy boughs 

 of an oak, which give some shade. I always feel a 

 sense of regret when I see a seedling oak in the 

 grass. The two green leaves the little stem so 

 upright and confident, and, though but a few inches 

 high, already so completely a tree are in them- 

 selves beautiful. Power, endurance, grandeur are 

 there; you can grasp all with your hand, and take 

 a ship between the finger and thumb. Time, that 



214 



