222 THE OPEN AIR. 



the wave of rain passes over and leaves a hollow 

 between the waters, that which has gone and that 

 to come, the ploughed lands on either side are seen 

 to be equally bare. In furrows full of water, a hare 

 would not sit, nor partridge run; the larks, the 

 patient larks which endure almost everything, even 

 they have gone. Furrow on furrow with flints dotted 

 on their slopes, and chalk lumps, that is all. The 

 cold earth gives no sweet petal of flower, nor can 

 any bud of thought or bloom of imagination start 

 forth in the mind. But step by step, forcing a way 

 through the rain and over the ridge, I find a small 

 and stunted copse down in the next hollow. It is 

 rather a wide hedge than a copse, and stands by the 

 road in the corner of a field. The boughs are bare ; 

 still they break the storm, and it is a relief to wait 

 a while there and rest. After a minute or so the eye 

 gets accustomed to the branches and finds a line of 

 eight through the narrow end of the copse. Within 

 twenty yards just outside the copse there are a 

 number of lapwings, dispersed about the furrows. 

 One runs a few feet forward and picks something 

 from the ground ; another runs in the same manner 

 to one side ; a third rushes in still a third direction. 

 Their crests, their green-tinted wings, and white 

 breasts are not disarranged by the torrent. Some- 

 thing in the style of the birds recalls the wagtail, 

 though they are so much larger. Beyond these 

 are half a dozen more, and in a straggling line 

 others extend out into the field. They have found 

 some slight shelter here from the sweeping of the 

 rain and wind, and are not obliged to face it as in 



