THE WHITE LIGHT 17 



on such a day, and the wayfarer moves through an 

 immediate environment of minor facts. There is a 

 sturdy honesty about this hour that extends from the 

 breezes to the searching character of the illumination. 

 It is a day that bids one look to the thing nearest at 

 hand and leave the greater earth alone. 



Detail seems the obvious direction of the mind 

 rather than a wide and general survey ; there comes 

 a call from the purple leaves of the briar still hanging ; 

 from the snake-like evolutions of its trailing stems, 

 set out here to the last curved thorn ; from the entire 

 tangled texture of the hedgerows and underwoods 

 that seem to be enlarged in every minute particular as 

 though viewed through a microscope. Less than 

 usual is left to the imagination; each twist of the wood- 

 bine, each stalk of the dead bracken, each withered, 

 ghostly stem of the vanished umbel-bearers, each spray 

 of ivy, battered coral of iris, veil of moss, shining 

 hart's-tongue, sprouting spore of fern, scarlet cup of 

 peziza sprung from a dead twig all, to the sodden 

 carpet of the leaves, and the skeleton wings of the 

 sycamore seeds, and the acorns already sprouting 

 where they lie scattered, are shown sharply, clearly, 

 nakedly forth. And if these manifold creatures 

 living and dead can be declared to have personal 

 colours, dependent on no freak of light and shadow, 

 answering to no chance reflection, moon-gleam or 

 sun-gleam, then it is the white light that gives them 

 their due, and tells the grey, or brown, or livid 

 truth about them. 



