FULL-BLOWN SUMMER 199 



the boil of a rising trout seems to be executed in 

 treacle. 



In the upper fields, however, summer has smothered 

 all trace of autumn. The may, for which we have 

 waited through almost the whole of its name-month, 

 is now everywhere, creaming the hedges and the tall 

 trees, beneath which rabbits skip, and breaking out 

 in all sorts of unexpected places on solid wall-like 

 stumps, where shoots of verdure are nibbled as soon 

 as they appear. The air is full of the scent of the 

 may and full of the hum of its myriad patrons. A 

 pheasant comes flying down to the grass, and as 

 soon as he alights is swallowed in its innumerable 

 blue shadows. It is a miserably poor year of grass, 

 but these hill meadowsseem perfect revels of luxuriance. 

 Under the upstriving fescue and foxtail, all manner 

 of flowers in bloom make the senses reel with their 

 variety and their beauty. The pink clover is coming 

 out ; showers of little golden cogs proclaim the hop 

 trefoil ; moneywort has trailed yards of tangle along 

 the hollows, and is now punctuating them with double 

 golden goblets. Bird's-foot is preparing great masses 

 of orange and crimson ; yellow archangel lights 

 unexpected candles ; purple orchids, cool and solid, 

 stand contemptuously in the midst of striving grass. 

 Red rattle has on its cap of liberty ; purple vetches 

 rise on invisible wires ; veronica looks up blue as 

 Mediterranean skies. 



There are three flowers in the mowing-grass, all 

 thoroughly in blossom now, that are the special pride 

 and love of the humble-bees. It is undoubtedly they 

 that have produced them in their present perfection, 

 and it is to them that they belong, and them that they 



