18 FEESH FIELDS 



white, soft, high-piled thunderheads. Plenty of 

 pink blackberry blossoms along the road; herb 

 Robert in bloom, and a kind of Solomon' s-seal as 

 at home, and what appears to be a species of golden- 

 rod with a midsummery smell. The note of the 

 yellow-hammer and the wren here and there. Beech- 

 trees loaded with mast and humming with bumble- 

 bees, probably gathering honey-dew, which seems 

 to be more abundant here than with us. The land- 

 scape like a well-kept park dotted with great trees, 

 which make islands of shade in a sea of grass. 

 Droves of sheep grazing, and herds of cattle re- 

 posing in the succulent fields. Now the just felt 

 breeze brings me the rattle of a mowing-machine, a 

 rare sound here, as most of the grass is cut by hand. 

 The great motionless arms of a windmill rising here 

 and there above the horizon. A gentleman's turn- 

 out goes by with glittering wheels and spanking 

 team; the footman in livery behind, the gentleman 

 driving. I hear his brake scrape as he puts it on 

 down the gentle descent. Now a lark goes off. 

 Then the mellow horn of a cow or heifer is heard. 

 Then the bleat of sheep. The crows caw hoarsely. 

 Few houses by the roadside, but here and there 

 behind the trees in the distance. I hear the green- 

 finch, stronger and sharper than our goldfinch, but 

 less pleasing. The matured look of some fields of 

 grass alone suggests midsummer. Several sj)ecies of 

 mint by the roadside, also certain white umbeliifer- 

 ous plants. Everywhere that royal weed of Brit- 

 ain, the nettle. Shapely piles of road material and 



