On the Fence 61 



one serious defect : our agricultural holiday of 

 three or four months in the year does not end 

 until it is too late in the season to cut and plant 

 the thorn, but that is not my fault. 



Of all the hedges, give me gorse, the best for 

 shelter, while as good as any in most other ways, 

 and incomparably the most beautiful. I do my 

 writing in a garden cot, a hedge of gorse quite 

 close in view, between me and the east wind. 

 Its quiet green is always there, above the brown 

 heath on one side and the brown soil prepared for 

 springtime on the other. It is nearing Christmas 

 now. Before a month, the green above the brown 

 begins to be shot with its screen of golden yellow. 

 The arresting contrast will continue to enrich its 

 joy until relieved by rhododendrons next summer, 

 when the yellowhammer, gaily hooded like the 

 gorse, comes to sing his love song by my window 

 and the mother bird administers the home among 

 the perfume of the gleaming bush. I have had 

 memorable evenings alone with these two friends, 

 listening to the song of two soft notes, watching 

 the shadows lengthen on the lea, and wondering if 

 my countrymen could ever rise to claim the proper 

 place of Man in Nature. Brave little bird, he 

 takes his dangers for his joys ; my countryman his 

 fetters for their peace, and finds it but a war of 

 pain that kills the coward even before his birth. 

 So can we conquer winter's weary colours in the 

 Connaught waste of sloth and death, keep endless 

 summer in the eye and twelve square yards of think- 

 ing freedom Bounded round in " dangerous " books. 



