S3 2 



THE WYCH ELM. 



The year is a month older, and the Elms are loaded with 

 blossom. The crumbling soil lies level under the harrow, and the 

 sower, with even stride, casts his seed. Now the lark takes up its 

 joyous song once more : the leaves of " lords and ladies," like green 

 arrow-heads, show in the hedges, and the Elm bears golden buds. 



The year creeps on ; there are primroses on the bank, a black- 

 bird is building in the hedge, the note of the fieldfare is heard. 

 On the plough-land, no longer brown and bare, a tint of blue-green 

 proclaims the young wheat. A fresh green covers the Elm : the 

 year has crept on to Spring. The soft early rains now do their 

 part : the wheat lifts its slender blade, and the Elm twigs are hidden 

 under a rich green mantle. The scent of the Rowan and the 

 Hawthorns is in the air, and the birds sing day and night. The 

 line of the hedgerow is marked out by the white fennel ; from the 

 meadow beyond it comes the pleasant burr of the mowing machine, 

 and soon the overhanging Elm-branches will catch up stray wisps of 

 hay from the loaded wains as they go creaking along the lane. 

 It is full summer at last, and the wheat is golden in the shimmer 

 of broad sunlight. How grateful now is the deep shadow of the 

 Elm-tree foliage ! A woman with her baby at her breast lies beneath 

 it through the long day, while her good-man is reaping in the 

 cornfield hard by. 



A partridge calls from the stubble. A shower of golden leaves 

 flutter down from the Elm : once again the land lies ready for the 

 plough. Another year is ended. 



