76 A PHILOSOPHER WITH NATURE 



enemy that will never more disturb the slumber 

 of their degenerate lives. Faint brushing sounds 

 come through the grass ; shadowy forms which the 

 eye does not catch seem to move before ; a hollow, 

 sepulchral double knock comes from the depths of 

 the hedge : it is only the angry, warning stamp of 

 the rabbits that have been disturbed feeding. 



As the road goes north the scene changes. These 

 rolling chalk downs, with the deep combes nestling 

 at intervals between, have given trouble to the 

 ancient road-makers : now the track mounts 

 suddenly and steeply, and in an instant descends 

 again almost precipitously. Here the hills have 

 closed round again, the breeze is no longer felt in 

 the valley, and the shadows seem to come closer. 

 The long, lush grass, almost ripe for cutting, still 

 stands by the road, and the green wheat, already 

 in the ear, makes a sombre gloom on the southern 

 slopes under the hazel copses. Crake-crake, crake- 

 crake ! far and wide the sound echoes through the 

 still air. It is not a stone's throw off now, and it 

 comes from the thick cover by the roadside, harsh, 

 loud, and strident, drowning all other noises of the 

 night. It is only the love-note of the land-rail, one 

 of the most familiar of all the night sounds in this 

 strange wanton honeymoon of our Northern year, 

 when for a few short weeks all nature stirs and glows 

 and seeks to utter herself of a life that passeth 

 understanding. Thus still for a little does the male 

 bird cheer the female as she sits on the eggs. Yet 

 a few weeks more, and he will be no longer heard ; 

 for he will change and relapse into silence and other 

 moods when the young are hatched out. The sound 

 ceases suddenly now, only to render audible a 



