262 THE EULOGY OF RICHARD JEFFERIES. 



are any sown for him. He has no shelter if 

 the storm descends suddenly ; he has no dome 

 of twisted straw well thatched and tiled to 

 retreat to. The butcher-bird, with a beak like 

 a crooked iron nail, drives him to the ground, 

 and leaves him pierced with a thorn ; but no 

 hail of shot revenges his tortures. The grass 

 stiffens at nightfall (in autumn) and he must 

 creep where he may, if possibly he may escape 

 the frost. No one cares for the humble-bee. 

 But down to the flowering nettle in the mossy- 

 sided ditch, up into the tall elm, winding in 

 and out and round the branched buttercups, 

 along the banks of the brook, far inside 

 the deepest wood, away he wanders and 

 despises nothing. His nest is under the rough 

 grasses and the mosses of the mound, a mere 

 tunnel beneath the fibres and matted surface. 

 The hawthorn overhangs it, the fern grows by, 

 red mice rustle past. . . . 



" All the procession of living and growing 

 things passes. The grass stands up taller and 

 still taller, the sheaths open, and the stalk 

 arises, the pollen clings till the breeze sweeps 

 it. The bees rush past, and the resolute 



