A COUNTRY LANE 



drop of water on its lips. The Brambles had long 

 rows of drops on them, all shining like jewels, until a 

 yellow-hammer perched on one of the arched sprays 

 and shook all the raindrops off in a fluster of bright 

 light 



Behind me, and in front, trailing Black Bryony 

 twisted its arms round Traveller's Joy, Honeysuckle 

 and Wild Roses. Here and there, pink and white Bind- 

 weed hung, clinging to the hedge. By me, on the 

 bank, Monkshood, Our Lady's Cushion, and Butterfly 

 Orchis grew, all shining with the rain, and the Silver- 

 weed shone better than them all. 



Presently came two great cart horses, their trappings 

 jingling, down my lane, and on the back of one, riding 

 sideways, a small boy, swaying as he rode. His face 

 was a perfect country poem, blue eyes, shaded by a 

 battered hat of felt, into the band of which a Dog Rose 

 was stuck. His hair, like Corn, shone in the sun, and 

 his face, red and freckled, a blue shirt, faded by many 

 washings and sun-bleached to a fine colour, thick 

 boots, a hard horny young fist, and in his mouth a 

 long stem of feathery grass. He looked as much part 

 of Nature as the flowers themselves. There was some 

 sort of greeting as he passed. I can see the group 

 now ; the slow patient horses, the boy, the yellow 

 canvas coat slung to, dry across the horse's neck, a 

 straw basket, from which a bottle neck protruded, 

 hitched on the horse's collar. They passed the bend 

 in the lane and the boy began to whistle an aimless 

 tune, but very good to hear. And it was England, 

 every bit of it, the kind of thing one hungers for when 

 a southern sun is beating pitilessly on one's head, or 

 when the rains in the tropics bring out overpowering 

 scents, heavy and stifling. 



So I might have dreamed on about this garden lane 



21 



