THE COUNTRY LIFE. 261 



but in spite of my face that is my experience 

 I remain an optimist. Time with an un- 

 steady hand has etched thin crooked lines, and, 

 deepening the hollows, has cast the original 

 expression into shadow. Pain and sorrow 

 flow over us with little ceasing, as the sea- 

 hoofs beat on the beach. Let us not look at 

 ourselves but onwards, and take strength from 

 the leaf and the signs of the field. He is in- 

 deed despicable who cannot look onwards to 

 the ideal life of man. Not to do so is to deny 

 our birthright of mind. . . . 



" It is the patient humble-bee that goes 

 down into the forest of the mowing-grass. If 

 entangled, the humble-bee climbs up a sorrel 

 stem and takes wing, without any sign of 

 annoyance. His broad back with tawny bar 

 buoyantly glides over the golden buttercups. 

 He hums to himself as he goes, so happy is he. 

 He knows no skep, no cunning work in glass 

 receives his labour, no artificial saccharine aids 

 him when the beams of the sun are cold, there 

 is no step to his house that he may alight in 

 comfort ; the way is not made clear for him 

 that he may start straight for the flowers, nor 



