TllE PAGEAXT OF SUMMER. 57 



the grass is shorter, and orchis succeeds to orchis. As 

 I write them, so these things come not set in grada- 

 tion, but like the broadcast flowers in the mowing- 

 grass. 



Now follows the gorse, and the pink rest-harrow, 

 and the sweet lady's-bedstraw, set as it were in the 

 midst of a little thorn-bush. The broad repetition of 

 the yellow clover is not to be written ; acre upon acre, 

 and not one spot of green, as if all the green had been 

 planed away, leaving only the flowers to which the 

 bees come by the thousand from far and near. But 

 one white campion stands in the midst of the lake of 

 yellow. The field is scented as though a hundred 

 hives of honey had been emptied on it Along the 

 mound by it the bluebells are seeding, the hedge has 

 been cut and the ground is strewn with twigs. Among 

 those seeding bluebells and dry twigs and mosses I 

 think a titlark has his nest, as he stays all day there 

 and in the oak over. The pale clear yellow of char- 

 lock, sharp and clear, promises the finches bushels of 

 seed for their young. Under the scarlet of the poppies 

 the larks run, and then for change of colour soar into 

 the blue. Creamy honeysuckle on the hedge around 

 the cornfield, buds of wild rose everywhere, but no 

 sweet petal yet. Yonder, where the wheat can climlt 

 no higher up the slope, are the purple heath-bells, 

 thyme and flitting stonechats. 



The lone barn shut off by acres of bailey is noisy 

 with sparrows. It is their city, and there is a nest in 

 every crevice, almost under every tile. Sometimes the 

 partridges run between the ricks, and when the bats 

 come out of the roof, leverets play in the waggon-track. 



