32 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 



amidst dry grey ploughland; and from the foxy-red 

 summits of the trees, in the most genial hot day, their 

 cawings are loud and mellow and warm as if they were 

 the earth's own voice; and all the while the dew is sliding 

 along the branches, dropping into other drops or to the 

 ground as the birds flutter at their nests, and from time 

 to time one triple drop catches the sun and throbs where 

 it hangs like Hesperus among the small stars. 



And every tender eve is the blackbird's. He sings out 

 at the end of the long bare ash bough. Beneath him the 

 gloomy crystal water stirs the bronze cresses, and on the 

 banks the white anemones float above the dark misty 

 earth and under the hazel leaves yet drooping in their 

 infancy. The dark hollies catch the last light and shine 

 like water. Behind all, the Downs are clear and so near 

 that I feel as well as see the carving on their smooth and 

 already green flanks. The blackbird gathers up all the 

 low-lit beauty into one carol. 



The flowers also have days to themselves, as the minute 

 green moschatel when it is first found among the hedge- 

 row roots, or the violets when, white and pale purple, 

 they are smelt and then seen bowed with dew in the 

 weedy sainfoin field which the chain harrow passed over 

 but a few days before. Another notable day is when the 

 junipers are perfectly coloured by their sloe-blue, or palest 

 green, but chiefly grey, small berries. Another, a very 

 great day, belongs to the willows, when their crowded 

 fragrant catkins are yellow against the burning blue and 

 all murmurous with bees. And the briers have their day 

 when their green is a vivid flame in a gloomy air, against 

 a dark immense wood and sepia sky. There is, too, a 



