224 FROM SPRING TO FALL. 



is closely nearing May. The rain has ceased for 

 some time, and. the sun, now getting low, has dried 

 the drops from the trees and herbage. From one 

 orchard, well stocked with fine old fruit-trees, the 

 wryneck shouts out his cry of peet, peet ; he puts 

 on full power now, as he hunts for his supper on the 

 moss-covered trunks and branches of the fruit-trees. 

 From some of the elms near the house a couple 

 of blackbirds flute out their evening song. Light 

 vapours rise from the hollow and creep up the hill- 

 side. A few tinkles from the sheep-bells fall on the 

 ear ; the click and clank of the handle of the well- 

 winch as the bucket — the moss-covered bucket — 

 goes down, getting slower and slower, as the palm 

 of the hand is pressed under the uncoiling well-rope. 

 The final splash of the bucket, and the rattle of the 

 chain as it sinks and fills ; then the slow cle-unk, cle- 

 unk, clunk ! as the bucket is wound up, the landing of 

 it on the well-curb, the rattle of the chain once more, 

 and the dull splash from some of the tossing water 

 in the well again. The scraping of the heavy boots 

 on the rustic scraper, and the final touches in wip- 

 ing them on the huge broom without a handle, 

 close to the door. All these sounds tell what is 



