THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



Along the mound by it the blue-bells are 

 seeding, the hedge has been cut and the 

 ground is strewn with twigs. Among 

 those seeding blue-bells and dry twigs 

 and mosses I think a titlark has his nest, 

 as he stays all day there and in the oak 

 over. The pale clear yellow of charlock, 

 sharp and clear, promises the finches 

 bushels of seed for their young. Under 

 the scarlet of the poppies the larks run, 

 and then for change of colour soar into 

 the blue. Creamy honeysuckle on the 

 hedge around the cornfield, buds of wild 

 rose everywhere, but no sweet petal yet. 

 Yonder, where the wheat can climb no 

 higher up the slope, are the purple heath 

 bells, thyme and flitting stone-chats. 



The lone barn shut off by acres of 

 barley is noisy with sparrows. It is their 

 city, and there is a nest in every crevice, 

 almost under every tile. Sometimes the 

 partridges run between the ricks, and 

 when the bats come out of the roof, 

 leverets play in the waggon-track. At 



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