66 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



is SO utterly oblivious of man's thought and man's 

 heart. The oaks stand — quiet, still — so still that the 

 lichen loves them. At their feet the grass grows, and 

 heeds nothing. Among it the squirrels leap, and their 

 little hearts are as far away from you or I as the very 

 wood of the oaks. The sunshine settles itself in the 

 valley by the brook, and abides there whether we 

 come or not. Glance through the gap in the hedge by 

 the oak, and see how concentrated it is — all of it, 

 every blade of grass, and leaf, and flower, and living 

 creature, finch or squirrel. It is mesmerised upon 

 itself Then I used to feel that it really was seventy- 

 nine miles to London, and not an hour or two only by 

 rail, really all those miles. A great, broad province of 

 green furrow and ploughed furrow between the old 

 house and the city of the world. Such solace and 

 solitude seventy-nine miles thick cannot be painted ; 

 the trees cannot be placed far enough away in per- 

 spective. It is necessary to stay in it like the oaks to 

 know it. 



Lime-tree branches overhung the corner of the 

 garden-wall, whence a view was easy of the silent and 

 dusty road, till overarching oaks concealed it. The 

 white dust heated by the sunshine, the green hedges, 

 and the heavily massed trees, white d^ouds rolled 

 together in the sky, a footpath opposite lost in the 

 fields, as you might thrust a stick into the grass, tender 

 lime leaves caressing the cheek, and silence. That is, 

 the silence of the fields. If a breeze rustled the 

 boughs, if a greenfinch called, if the cart-mare in 

 the meadow shook herself, making the earth and air 

 tremble by her with the convulsion of her mighty 



