THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



Caught by such a cloud, I have stayed 

 under thick larches at the edge of planta- 

 tions. They are no shelter, but conceal 

 one perfectly. The wood pigeons come 

 home to their nest-trees; in larches they 

 seem to have permanent nests, almost 

 like rooks. Kestrels, too, come home to 

 the wood. Pheasants crow, but not from 

 fear from defiance; in fear they scream. 

 The boom startles them, and they instant- 

 ly defy the sky. The rabbits quietly feed 

 on out in the field between the thistles and 

 rushes that so often grow in woodside 

 pastures, quietly hopping to their favour- 

 ite places, utterly heedless how heavy 

 the echoes may be in the hollows of the 

 wooded hills. Till the rain comes they 

 take no heed whatever, but then make for 

 shelter. Blackbirds often make a good 

 deal of noise; but the soft turtle-doves 

 coo gently, let the lightning be as savage 

 as it will. Nothing has the least fear. 

 Man alone, more senseless than a pigeon, 

 put a god in vapour; and to this day, 



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