96 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



A big bumble-bee drones somewhat disconsolately 

 through our flowery kingdom, for it does not appeal 

 to her as a substitute for the sallow blooms that have 

 now fallen. As we lie prone against the trunk we can 

 watch the chiff-chaff at his eternal search of the twigs 

 overhead. No, not eternal, for he stops to utter his 

 knife-sharpening song that fits spring sunshine as no 

 other song does. Two swallows, ample assurance that 

 summer is here, circle high up in the blue ; the swing- 

 ing call of the cuckoo announces that industrious bell- 

 man to be quite near ; thrush and mavis are, as it 

 were, silenced by the low rattle of the nightingale 

 from such a thicket as the one through which we have 

 just passed. We must face that jungle again for the 

 sake of one glimpse of the shy red bird. 



There is a difference that seems almost specific 

 between the close-noded twigs of the grown oak and 

 the long-jointed, smooth, clear-skinned shoots from the 

 old roots that have lost their trunks. The difference 

 will be as marked when the great leaves come on the 

 latter, and it runs even to the galls, which are, never- 

 theless, caused by the same flies that have operated 

 for a hundred generations on the older trees. Here 

 stood a cherry tree two good feet in diameter. Forty 

 vigorous shoots are striving for the succession. Each 

 has opened its red young leaves as early as the other, 

 as though eager to get an all-important week's start 

 in this summer's race. An older tree standing near 

 can afford greater deliberation, and gives us, like a 

 delicious blow in the eye, sprays of white blossom that 

 obliterate every twig. 



Some instinct or some stroke of luck makes us very 

 silent in a certain clearing with a streak of heather 



