THE LITTLE LION 



THE jungle of the mowing-grass might hold anything, 

 from the young foxes that we know are not far off, to 

 a wolf or a tiger or a snake far larger than the grass- 

 snakes that alone have the right to chase frogs in it. 

 On the other hand, it presents a convincing picture 

 of brilliant, scented peace, from the blue shadow 

 under the beech tree where we sit, to the mid- field 

 in the sun, gay with marguerites, ragged-robin, plumed 

 sorrel and crimson vetch over which the butterflies 

 hang and play in companylwith the ascending vapours 

 of a hot day. 



A tiny trout stream, tumbling down the hill on our 

 left, seems to have spurred the jungle into a supreme 

 effort. The horse-mint has sprung up so as to hide the 

 little tributary from the ragged -robin bog, hemp-agri- 

 mony is four feet high towards the great reeds that will 

 bear flowers of crushed strawberry for the red admirals 

 in August, bishop's-weed has shot up its hollow sturdi- 

 ness, from column to column of which the convolvulus 

 weaves its airy loops. A blue bugle standing in a 

 phalanx on the other side of the stream nods a little 

 more strongly than it should under the mere pressure 

 of a humble-bee, and, a few seconds later, a small quad- 

 ruped puts its fore-feet upon the rail that spans the 

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