THE TRIUMPHANT BLUEBELL 



THE rich haze of the bluebell blossom once more 

 covers the floor of the wood. It stands like azure 

 smoke, level at span-height, among the grey beech- 

 stems ; kindles to a gem-like lustre among the red 

 bracken of yesteryear; breaks as though in foam 

 where a sheaf of white stitch-wort leans against a 

 holly. In far vistas of the wood the bluebell mass 

 attains the consistency of water, a sea of blue and 

 purple brilliancy such as our climate very rarely 

 affords. 



The eye refuses to see the individual bluebells. 

 When it is at last compelled to concentrate on the 

 spike, it fails to find the stalk that supports it. 

 The curly head of the flower seems suspended on 

 wings. We almost expect to see it go tumbling up 

 skyward like the speckled wood-butterflies, rising 

 here and there in pairs, that gyrate so rapidly as to 

 cheat the eye into the belief that there are four 

 instead of two. But the bluebells await their bees in 

 their countless ranks, merely nodding as though in 

 amused tolerance of their too rough impatience for 

 the honey. 



Apology is certain to be expected by those 

 punctilious in such matters for calling our cherished 

 72 



