256 THE EULOGY OF RICHARD JEFFERIES. 



tality," and like them they fill the heart with 

 tenderness and the eyes with tears. It is pub- 

 lished in the last but one of his books, " The 

 Life of the Fields," which everybody should 

 make haste to possess, if only for this one 

 paper. It opens quietly with the rushes : 



" Green rushes, long and thick, standing up 

 above the edge of the ditch, told the hour of 

 the year as distinctly as the shadow on the 

 dial the hour of the day. Green and thick 

 and sappy to the touch, they felt like summer, 

 'soft and elastic, as if full of life, mere rushes 

 though they were. On the fingers they left a 

 green scent ; rushes have a separate scent of 

 green, so, too, have ferns, very different to that 

 of grass or leaves. Eising from brown sheaths, 

 the tall stems enlarged a little in the middle, 

 like classical columns, and heavy with their 

 sap and freshness, leaned against the hawthorn 

 sprays. From the earth they had drawn its 

 moisture, and made the ditch dry ; some of 

 the sweetness of the air had entered into their 

 fibres, and the rushes the common rushes 

 were full of beautiful summer. The white 



