68 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



himself over seven leagues of grass-blades. Yonder 

 a line of men and women file across the field, seen for 

 a moment as they pass a gateway, and the hay changes 

 from hay-colour to green behind them as they turn 

 the under but still sappy side upwards. They are 

 working hard, but it looks easy, slow, and sunny. 

 Finches fly out from the hedgerow to the overturned 

 hay. Another butterfly, a brown one, floats along the 

 dusty road — the only traveller yet. The white clouds 

 are slowly passing behind the oaks, large puffed clouds, 

 like deliberate loads of hay, leaving little wisps and 

 flecks behind them caught in the sky. How pleasant 

 it would be to read in the shadow ! There is a broad 

 shadow on the sward by the strawberries cast by 

 a tall and flne-grown American crab tree. The very 

 place for a book ; and although I know it is useless, 

 yet I go and fetch one and dispose myself on the grass. 

 I can never read in summer out-of-doors. Though 

 in shadow the briojht light fills it, summer shadows are 

 broadest daylight. The page is so white and hard, the 

 letters so very black, the meaning and drift not quite 

 intelligible, because neither eye nor mind will dwell 

 upon it. Human thoughts and imaginings written 

 down are pale and feeble in bright summer light. The 

 eye wanders away, and rests more lovingly on green- 

 sward and green lime leaves. The mind wanders yet 

 deeper and farther into the dreamy mystery of the azure 

 sky. Once now and then, determined to write down 

 that mystery and delicious sense while actually in it, I 

 have brought out table and ink and paper, and sat there 

 in the midst of the summer day. Three words, and 

 where is the thought ? Gone. The paper is so obviously 



