56 A LANE IN THE COTSWOLDS 



the daisy it is the pink-tipped petals^ huddUng 

 together that make this chilly symbol a contrast 

 to the happy star that sunshine shows. 



Near the top of the hill is a bare pasture covered 

 with cowslips, all pointing their pretty heads one 

 way. At first it seemed that they were simply 

 yielding to the fresh wind, but on picking them it 

 was made clear that they bent their stalks wilfully, 

 not on compulsion. On the whole it seemed 

 that they were nodding towards the brighter 

 light, but I could not perceive that the quarter 

 to which they turned had any advantage in 

 luminosity. 



Close to the top of the hill is a little wood of 

 nut-trees, and I looked down into it over the hedge 

 with a shock of pleasure at the chequer-work of 

 white and blue, a conspiracy of wild garlick and 

 blue-bells. In this land I have not seen the blue 

 haze covering acres of cleared woodland such as we 

 have in Kent. But this colour-dance of the two 

 plants is beautiful in its own way. Now we have 

 reached the rim of the valley, and look over into a 

 new country, with many red patches of ploughed 

 land, and sheep in the treeless fields instead of 

 cattle. Here the skylark sings, who is something 

 of a stranger to us dwellers in the valley. The 

 same is true of the yellow-hammer, whose hot and 

 dusty voice is less familiar there. To one inland 

 bred the seagulls feeding in the ploughed lands are 

 a delight. They seem an echo from the salt sea, or 

 a variation (in a musical sense) on the far away silver 



* strictly speaking — florets. 



