OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



green blades have sprung. Yonder a 

 steam-plough pants up the hill, groan- 

 ing with its own strength, yet all that 

 strength and might of wheels, and piston, 

 and chains, cannot drag from the earth 

 one single blade like these. Force can- 

 not make it; it must grow— an easy 

 word to speak or write, in fact full of 

 potency. 



It is this mystery of growth and life, 

 of beauty, and sweetness, and colour, 

 starting forth from the clods, that gives 

 the corn its power over me. Somehow I 

 identify myself with it ; I live again as I 

 see it. Year by year it is the same, and 

 when I see it I feel that I have once 

 more entered on a new life. And I think 

 the spring, with its green corn, its 

 violets, and hawthorn leaves, and in- 

 creasing song, grows yearly dearer and 

 more dear to this our ancient earth. So 

 many centuries have flown ! Now it is 

 the manner with all natural things to 

 b 17 



