220 THE OPEN AIR. 



diffused that the exact spot whence it issues cannot 

 be discerned, yet it is distinct, and my footsteps are 

 slower as I listen. Yonder, in the corners of the 

 mead, the atmosphere is full of some ethereal vapour. 

 The sunshine stays in the air there, as if the green 

 hedges held the wind from brushing it away. Low 

 and plaintive come the notes of a lapwing ; the same 

 notes, but tender with love. 



On this side, by the hedge, the ground is a little 

 higher and dry, hung over with the lengthy boughs 

 of an oak, which give some shade. I always feel 

 a sense of regret when I see a seedling oak in the 

 grass. The two green leaves the little stem so 

 upright and confident, and, though but a few inches 

 high, already so completely a tree are in them- 

 selves beautiful. Power, endurance, grandeur are 

 there; you can grasp all with your hand, and take 

 a ship between the finger and thumb. Time, that 

 sweeps away everything, is for a while repelled ; the 

 oak will grow when the time we know is forgotten, 

 and when felled will be the mainstay and safety 

 of a generation in a future century. That the plant 

 should start among the grass, to be severed by the 

 scythe or crushed by cattle, is very pitiful ; I cannot 

 help wishing that it could be transplanted and pro- 

 tected. Of the countless acorns that drop in autumn 

 not one in a million is permitted to become a tree 

 a vast waste of strength and beauty. From the 

 bushes by the stile on the left hand, which I have 

 just passed, follows the long whistle of a nightingale. 

 His nest is near; he sings night and day. Had I 

 waited on the stile, in a few minutes, becoming used 



