WILD FLOWERS. 37 



there is nothing escapes, down to the little white 

 chickweed of the path and the moss of the wall. 

 I put my hand on the bridge across the brook to lean 

 over and look down into the water. Are there any 

 fish ? The bricks of the pier are covered with green, 

 like a wall-painting to the surface of the stream, 

 mosses along the lines of the mortar, and among the 

 moss little plants — what are these ? In the dry sun- 

 lit lane I look up to the top of the great wall about 

 some domain, where the green figs look over upright 

 on their stalks ; there are drv plants on the coping — 

 what are.these ? Some growing thus, high in the air, 

 on stone, and in the chinks of the tower, suspended 

 in dry air and sunshine ; some low down under the 

 arch of the bridge over the brook, out of sight utterly, 

 unless you stoop by the brink of the water and project 

 yourself forward to examine under. The kingfisher 

 sees them as he shoots through the barrel of the 

 culvert. There the sun direct never shines upon 

 them, but the sunlight thrown up by the ripples runs 

 all day in bright bars along the vault of the arch, 

 playing on them. The stream arranges the sand in 

 the shallow in bars, minute fixed undulations; the 

 stream arranges the sunshine in successive flashes, 

 undulating as if the sun, drowsy in the heat, were 

 idly closing and unclosing his eyelids for sleep. 

 Plants everywhere, hiding behind every tree, under 

 the leaves, in the shady places, beside the dry furrows 

 of the field; they are only just behind something, 

 hidden openly. The instant you look for them they 

 multiply a hundredfold ; if you sit on the beach and 

 begin to count the pebbles by you, their number 



