WOODLANDS 



tops of the oaks, swoop down again in bold sweep- 

 ing curves. The broad, deep ditch between the 

 lane and the mound of the wood is dry, but there 

 are no short rustling sounds of mice. 



The only sound is the continuous singing of the 

 grasshoppers, and the peculiar snapping noise they 

 make as they spring, leaping along the sward. 

 The fierce sun of the ripe wheat pours down a 

 fiery glow scarcely to be borne except under the 

 boughs ; the hazel leaves already have lost their 

 green, the tips of the rushes are shrivelling, the 

 grass becoming brown ; it is a scorched and 

 parched desert of wood. 



The finches have gone forth in troops to the 

 stubble where the wheat has been cut, and where 

 they can revel on the seeds of the weeds now ripe. 

 Thrushes and blackbirds have gone to the streams, 

 to splash and bathe, and to the mown meadows, 

 where in the short aftermath they can find their 

 food. There they will look out on the shady side 

 of the hedge as the sun declines, six or eight 

 perhaps of them along the same hedge, but all in 

 the shadow, where the dew forms first as the 

 evening falls, where the grass feels cool and moist, 

 while still on the sunny side it is warm and dry. 



The bees are busy on the heaths and along the 

 hill-tops, where there are still flowers and honey, 

 and the butterflies are with them. So the woods 

 13 



