WOODLANDS 



motion in the hedge, however, conveys an impres- 

 sion of something living everywhere within. 



There are birds in the oaks overhead whose 

 voice is audible though they are themselves unseen. 

 From out of the mowing-grass finches rise. and fly 

 to the hedge ; from the hedge again others fly out, 

 and descending into the grass, are concealed as in 

 a forest. A thrush travelling along the hedgerow 

 just outside goes by the gateway within a yard. 

 Bees come upon the light wind, gliding with it, 

 but with their bodies aslant across the line of 

 current. Butterflies flutter over the mowing-grass, 

 hardly clearing the bennets. Many-coloured insects 

 creep up the sorrel stems and take wing from the 

 summit. 



Everything gives forth a sound of life. The 

 twittering of swallows from above, the song of 

 greenfinches in the trees, the rustle of hawthorn 

 sprays moving under the weight of tiny creatures, 

 the buzz upon the breeze ; the very flutter of the 

 butterflies' wings, noiseless as it is, and the wavy 

 movement of the heated air across the field cause 

 a sense of motion and of music. 



The leaves are enlarging, and the sap rising, and 

 the hard trunks of the trees swelling with its flow ; 

 the grass blades pushing upwards ; the seeds com- 

 pleting their shape ; the tinted petals uncurling. 

 Dreamily listening, leaning on the gate, all these 



