THE PUCKERIDGE 



THE sun has ridden through the heavens trium- 

 phantly, sending the birds into the thickets for the 

 midday siesta as they have not been sent before 

 this summer. It has been a day for the insects and 

 the lizards, and this night shall be one through which 

 the adder hunts the field-mouse with a zest increased 

 by a ten hours' bask in baking sun. As the first cool 

 shadow descends on the hot leaves of the wood, and 

 the cold lamps of the glow-worm are beginning to 

 peep in the bank under the hazels, the crooning rattle 

 of the night-jar trembles. Trembles where ? It is not 

 in the thicket of guelder-rose and spindle wood ; not 

 in the larch spinney ; not in the mo\ving-field ; nor in 

 the shrubbery, the orchard, the warren, or the chestnut 

 avenue. It is everywhere. It is the air that rattles, 

 the night, the universe that resounds like a piano when 

 the bird chooses to spin its song tuned to the echo of 

 everything. 



It comes pouring down as if from the larch spinney, 

 but sounding like a late mowing-machine at work 

 several miles away in that direction. It comes down 

 on to another gear and reels on and on till surely the 

 bird's lungs must collapse for want of breath. Then 

 it breaks suddenly as the singer's mate dashes by and 

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