62 TEE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



and fern. Under the arched branches the lightning 



plays along, swiftly to and fro, or seems to, like the 



swish of a whip, a yellowish-red against the green ; 



a boom ! a crackle as if a tree fell from the sky. The 



thick grasses are bowed, the white florets of the wild 



parsley are beaten down, the rain hurls itself, and 



suddenly a fierce blast tears the green oak leaves and 



whirls them out into the fields ; but the humble-bee's 



home, under moss and matted fibres, remains uninjured. 



His house at the root of the king of trees, like a cave 



in the rock, is safe. The storm passes and the sun 



comes out, the air is the sweeter and the richer for the 



rain, like verses with a rhyme ; there will be more 



honey in the flowers. Humble he is, but wild ; always 



in the field, the wood; always by the banks and 



thickets ; always wild and humming to his flowers. 



Therefore I like the humble-bee, being, at heart at 



least, for ever roaming among the woodlands and the 



hills and by the brooks. In such quick summer 



storms the lightning gives the impression of being far 



more dangerous than the zigzag paths traced on the 



autumn sky. The electric cloud seems almost level 



with the ground and the livid flame to rush to and 



fro beneath the boughs as the little bats do in the 



evening. 



Caught by such a cloud, I have stayed under thick 

 larches at the edge of plantations. 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 



