52 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



and fern. Under the arched branches the lightning 

 plays along, swiftly to and fro, or seems to, like the 

 swish of a whip, a yellowish-red against the green ; 

 a boom ! a crackle as if a tree fell from the sky. The 

 thick grasses are bowed, the white florets of the wild 

 parsley are beaten down, the rain hurls itself, and 

 suddenly a fierce blast tears the green oak leaves and 

 whirls them out into the fields ; but the humble-bee's 

 home, under moss and matted fibres, remains uninjured. 

 His house at the root of the king of trees, like a cave 

 in the rock, is safe. The storm passes and the sun 

 comes out, the air is the sweeter and the richer for the 

 rain, like verses with a rhyme; there will be more 

 honey in the flowers. Humble he is, but wild ; always 

 in the field, the wood; always by the banks and 

 thickets; always wild and humming to his flowers. 

 Therefore I like the humble-bee, being, at heart at 

 least, for ever roaming among the woodlands and the 

 hills and by the brooks. In such quick summer 

 storms the lightning gives the impression of being far 

 more dangerous than the zigzag paths traced on tho 

 autumn sky. The electric cloud seems almost level 

 with the ground and the livid flame to rush to and 

 fro beneath the boughs as the little bats do in tho 

 evening. 



Caught by such a cloud, I have stayed under thick 

 larches at the edge of plantations. They are no shelter, 

 but conceal one perfectly. The wood pigeons come 

 home to their nest trees ; in larches they seem to have 

 permanent nests, almost like rooks. Kestrels, too> 

 come home to the wood. Pheasants crow, but not 

 from fear from defiance ; in fear they scream. Tho 



