150 
NATURE NOTES 
shakes each blade and leaf and flower in that field, and each one 
lets fall a drop of water. These drops are crowded together, 
and pushing their way through the forest of stems make grooves 
for themselves which are gradually deepened as the drops in 
front are pressed on by their constantly reinforced brethren 
behind. The grooves run into one another, growing larger as 
they descend the hill. Increasing in size, they diminish in num- 
ber until, turned aside at the lower end of the field, several 
furrows discharge their water to unite in one little stream. And 
this little stream finds its way to the brink of the red clay 
precipice down the channel in the side of the bank into the 
bramble-screened basin. Raindrops can do much, and much 
depends upon them. 
I am nearly at the top of the hill when my lane ends abruptly 
and I come to a standstill under the shadow of the wood that 
clothes its summit. Behind me larches whisper and pine-trees 
sigh : over my head a gull sails quietly, rocking on his wide 
white wings : on either side meadows, with golden buttercups 
and blushing daisies trembling in the grass, stretch down to the 
valley where sheep-bells ring’ under the orchard bloom. In front 
of me, though far below, the blue plain of the sea sweeps away 
to blend with a misty horizon. Yes, it is blue only when it 
washes the feet of the frowming cliffs : they throw their shadows 
upon it ; and, when the clouds pause in their lazy passage to 
look down at their reflections, the sea rolls purple beneath their 
gaze. To my right and to my left hills scramble away to meet 
the sky, some bare and brown, except where a patch of gorse or 
a sheen of bluebells light them up : some, where the incline is 
less steep, have lent themselves to man, and their sides present 
vivid contrasts in colour — young corn against the dull green of 
the pasture field, red earth newly ploughed beside a clover 
meadow’. One hill rises high over its brethren, and its brow’ is 
darkened with the shadow’ of a cloud. It is a great wide- 
spreading cloud : it comes on swiftly, and all the hill grows black 
beneath it, while the trees behind me shake ominously, and the 
birds are silent. Suddenly, as though torn by an invisible hand, 
a jagged rent opens in the lowering skies, and the sun looks 
through. Only for an instant, but in that instant he shows me a 
perfect picture — an orchard all dappled pink and white, the light 
filtering through grey trunks to touch the ruddy-coated kine — 
a little white house. The peep-hole is closed, and the sun’s face 
is hidden as the ragged lips meet: the cloud rushes on while the 
birds pipe merrily. It sweeps across a violet sea and melts from 
my sight, leaving all the earth bathed in light. But would I 
could have painted that fleeting picture of prosperity standing 
in Nature’s frame ! God created everything w’ith a loving hand. 
Look up to the great hills, look down to the little flowers, look 
aw’ay to the wide, w’ide sea ; look ! the w’orld is beautiful. 
Madge Blundell. 
