38 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



hens made their nests. After the swallows had coursed 

 long miles over the meads to and fro, they rested on 

 the tops of the ashes and twittered sweetly. Like the 

 flowers and grass, the birds were drawn towards the 

 brook. They built by it, they came to it to drink ; in 

 the evening a grasshopper-lark trilled in a hawthorn 

 bush. By night crossing the footbridge a star some- 

 times shone in the water underfoot. At morn and 

 even the peasant girls came down to dip ; their path 

 was worn through the mowing-grass, and there was a 

 flat stone let into the bank as a step to stand on. 

 Though they were poorly habited, without one line of 

 form or tint of colour that could please the eye, there 

 is something in dipping water that is Greek — Homeric 

 — something that carries the mind home to primitive 

 times. Always the little children came with them ; 

 they too loved the brook like the grass and birds. 

 They wanted to see the fishes dart away and hide in 

 the green flags : they flung daisies and buttercups into 

 the stream to float and catch awhile at the flags, and 

 float again and pass away, like the friends of our boy- 

 hood, out of sight. Where there was pasture roan 

 cattle came to drink, and horses, restless horses, stood 

 for hours by the edge under the shade of ash trees. 

 With what joy the spaniel plunged in, straight from 

 the bank out among the flags — you could mark his 

 course by seeing their tips bend as he brushed them 

 swimming. All life loved the brook. 



Far down away from roads and hamlets there was 

 a small orchard on the very bank of the stream, and 

 just before the grass grew too high to walk through 

 I looked in the enclosure to speak to its owner. He 



