40 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



weary march across the downs, for the lane, now 

 bramble-grown and full of ruts, was then a Roman 

 road. There were villas, and baths, and fortifications; 

 these things you may read about in books. They are 

 lost now in the hedges, under the flowering grass, in 

 the ash copses, all forgotten in the lane, and along 

 the footpath where the June roses will bloom after 

 the apple blossom has dropped. But just where the 

 ancient military way crosses the brook there grow the 

 finest, the largest, the bluest, and most lovely forget- 

 me-nots that ever lover gathered for his lady. 



The old man, seeing my interest in the fragments of 

 pottery, wished to show me something of a different 

 kind lately discovered. He led me to a spot where 

 the brook was deep, and had somewhat undermined 

 the edge. A horse trying to drink there had pushed 

 a quantity of earth into the stream, and exposed a 

 human skeleton lying within a few inches of the 

 water. Then I looked up the stream and remembered 

 the buttercups and tall grasses, the flowers that 

 crowded down to the edge ; I remembered the nests, 

 and the dove cooing; the girls that came down to 

 dip, the children that cast their flowers to float away. 

 The wind blew the loose apple bloom and it fell in 

 showers of painted snow. Sweetly the greenfinches 

 were calling in the trees : afar the voice of the cuckoo 

 came over the oaks. By the side of the living water, 

 the water that all things rejoiced in, near to its gentle 

 sound, and the sparkle of sunshine on it, had lain this 

 sorrowful thing. 



