76 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



Between the wheat and the grassy mound the path 

 was almost closed, burdocks and brambles thrust 

 the adventurer outward to brush against the wheat- 

 oars. Upwards till suddenly it turned, and led by 

 steep notches in the bank, as it seemed down to the 

 roots of the elm trees. The clump of elms grew right 

 over a deep and rugged hollow; their branches reached 

 out across it, roofing in the cave. 



Here was the spring, at the foot of a perpendicular 

 rock, moss-grown low down, and overrun with creeping 

 ivy higher. Green thorn bushes filled the chinks and 

 made a wall to the well, and the long narrow hart's- 

 tongue streaked the face of the cliff. Behind the thick 

 thorns hid the course of the streamlet, in front rose the 

 solid rock, upon the right hand the sward came to the 

 edge it shook every now and then as the horses in 

 the shade of the elms stamped their feet on the left 

 hand the cars of wheat peered over the verge. A rocky 

 cell in concentrated silence of green things. Now and 

 again a finch, a starling, or a sparrow would come 

 meaning to drink athirst from the meadow or the corn- 

 field and start and almost entangle their wings in the 

 bushes, so completely astonished that any one should 

 be there. The spring rises in a hollow under the rock 

 imperceptibly, and without bubble or sound. The 

 fine sand of the shallow basin is undisturbed no tiny 

 water-volcano pushes up a dome of particles. Nor is 

 there any crevice in the stone, but the basin is always 

 full and always running over. As it slips from the 

 brim a gleam of sunshine falls through the boughs and 

 meets it. To this cell I used to come once now and 

 then on a summer's day, tempted, perhaps, like the 



