按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
keep even at that height。 He scolds； and twitters； and chirps； and
all at once sinks like a stone into the hedge and out of sight as a
stone into a pond。 It is a whitethroat； his nest is deep in the
parsley and nettles。 Presently he will go out to the island apple
tree and back again in a minute or two； the pair of them are so
fond of each other's affectionate company； they cannot remain
apart。
Watching the line of the hedge； about every two minutes； either
near at hand or yonder a bird darts out just at the level of the
grass； hovers a second with labouring wings； and returns as swiftly
to the cover。 Sometimes it is a flycatcher； sometimes a
greenfinch； or chaffinch； now and then a robin； in one place a
shrike； perhaps another is a red…start。 They are flyfishing all of
them； seizing insects from the sorrel tips and grass； as the
kingfisher takes a roach from the water。 A blackbird slips up into
the oak and a dove descends in the corner by the chestnut tree。
But these are not visible together； only one at a time and with
intervals。 The larger part of the life of the hedge is out of
sight。 All the thrush…fledglings； the young blackbirds； and
finches are hidden； most of them on the mound among the ivy； and
parsley； and rough grasses； protected； too； by a roof of brambles。
The nests that still have eggs are not； like the nests of the early
days of April； easily found； they are deep down in the tangled
herbage by the shore of the ditch； or far inside the thorny
thickets which then looked mere bushes； and are now so broad。
Landrails are running in the grass concealed as a man would be in a
wood； they have nests and eggs on the ground for which you may
search in vain till the mowers come。
Up in the corner a fragment of white fur and marks of scratching
show where a doe has been preparing for a litter。 Some well…
trodden runs lead from mound to mound； they are sandy near the
hedge where the particles have been carried out adhering to the
rabbits' feet and fur。 A crow rises lazily from the upper end of
the field； and perches in the chestnut。 His presence； too； was
unsuspected。 He is there by far too frequently。 At this season
the crows are always in the mowing…grass； searching about； stalking
in winding tracks from furrow to furrow； picking up an egg here and
a foolish fledgling that has wandered from the mound yonder。 Very
likely there may be a moorhen or two slipping about under cover of
the long grass； thus hidden； they can leave the shelter of the
flags and wander a distance from the brook。 So that beneath the
surface of the grass and under the screen of the leaves there are
ten times more birds than are seen。
Besides the singing and calling； there is a peculiar sound which is
only heard in summer。 Waiting quietly to discover what birds are
about； I become aware of a sound in the very air。 It is not the
midsummer hum which will soon be heard over the heated hay in the
valley and over the cooler hills alike。 It is not enough to be
called a hum； and does but just tremble at the extreme edge of
hearing。 If the branches wave and rustle they overbear it； the
buzz of a passing bee is so much louder； it overcomes all of it
that is in the whole field。 I cannot define it； except by calling
the hours of winter to mind … they are silent； you hear a branch
crack or creak as it rubs another in the wood； you hear the hoar
frost crunch on the grass beneath your feet； but the air is without
sound in itself。 The sound of summer is everywhere … in the
passing breeze； in the hedge； in the broad…branching trees； in the
grass as it swings； all the myriad particles that together make the
summer are in motion。 The sap moves in the trees； the pollen is
pushed out from grass and flower； and yet again these acres and
acres of leaves and square miles of grass blades … for they would
cover acres and square miles if reckoned edge to edge … are drawing
their strength from the atmosphere。 Exceedingly minute as these
vibrations must be； their numbers perhaps may give them a volume
almost reaching in the aggregate to the power of the ear。 Besides
the quivering leaf； the swinging grass； the fluttering bird's wing；
and the thousand oval membranes which innumerable insects whirl
about； a faint resonance seems to come from the very earth itself。
The fervour of the sunbeams descending in a tidal flood rings on
the strung harp of earth。 It is this exquisite undertone； heard
and yet unheard； which brings the mind into sweet accordance with
the wonderful instrument of nature。
By the apple tree there is a low bank； where the grass is less tall
and admits the heat direct to the ground； here there are blue
flowers … bluer than the wings of my favourite butterflies … with
white centres … the lovely bird's…eyes； or veronica。 The violet
and cowslip； bluebell and rose； are known to thousands； the
veronica is overlooked。 The ploughboys know it； and the wayside
children； the mower and those who linger in fields； but few else。
Brightly blue and surrounded by greenest grass； imbedded in and all
the more blue for the shadow of the grass； these growing
butterflies' wings draw to themselves the sun。 From this island I
look down into the depth of the grasses。 Red sorrel spires … deep
drinkers of reddest sun wine … stand the boldest； and in their
numbers threaten the buttercups。 To these in the distance they
give the gipsy…gold tint … the reflection of fire on plates of the
precious metal。 It will show even on a ring by firelight； blood in
the gold； they say。 Gather the open marguerite daisies； and they
seem large … so wide a disc； such fingers of rays； but in the grass
their size is toned by so much green。 Clover heads of honey lurk
in the bunches and by the hidden footpath。 Like clubs from
Polynesia the tips of the grasses are varied in shape： some tend to
a point … the foxtails … some are hard and cylindrical； others；
avoiding the club shape； put forth the slenderest branches with
fruit of seed at the ends； which tremble as the air goes by。 Their
stalks are ripening and becoming of the colour of hay while yet the
long blades remain green。
Each kind is repeated a hundred times； the foxtails are succeeded
by foxtails； the narrow blades by narrow blades； but never become
monotonous； sorrel stands by sorrel； daisy flowers by daisy。 This
bed of veronica at the foot of the ancient apple has a whole
handful of flowers； and yet they do not weary the eye。 Oak follows
oak and elm ranks with elm； but the woodlands are pleasant； however
many times reduplicated； their beauty only increases。 So； too； the
summer days； the sun rises on the same grasses and green hedges；
there is the same blue sky； but did we ever have enough of them？
No； not in a hundred years！ There seems always a depth； somewhere；
unexplored； a thicket that has not been seen through； a corner full
of ferns； a quaint old hollow tree； which may give us something。
Bees go by me as I stand under the apple； but they pass on for the
most part bound on a long journey； across to the clover fields or
up to the thyme lands； only a few go down into the mowing…grass。
The hive bees are the most impatient of insects； they cannot bear
to entangle their wings beating against grasses or boughs。 Not one
will enter a hedge。 They like an open and level surface； places
cropped by sheep； the sward by the roadside； fields of clover；
where the flower is not deep under grass。
II。
IT is the patient humble…bee that goes down into the forest of the
mowing…grass。 If entangled； the humble…bee climbs up a sorrel stem
and takes wing； without any sign of annoyance。 His broad back with
tawny bar buoyantly glides over the golden buttercups。 He hums to
himself as he goes； so happy is he。 He knows no skep； no cunning
work in glass receives his labour； no artificial saccharine aids
him when the beams of the sun are cold； there is no step to his
house that he may alight in comfort； the way is not made clear for
him that he may start straight for the flowers； nor are any sown
for him。 He has no shelter if the storm descends suddenly； he has
no dome of twisted straw well thatched and tiled to retreat to。
The butcher…bird； with a beak like a crooked iron nail； drives him
to the ground； and leaves him pierced with a thorn but no hail of
shot revenges his tortures。 The grass stiffens at nightfall （in
autumn）； and he must creep where he may； if possibly he may escape
the frost。 No one cares for the humble…bee。 But down to the
flowering nettle in the mossy…sided ditch； up into the tall elm；
winding in and out and round the branched buttercups； along the
banks of the brook； far inside the deepest wood； away he wanders
and despises nothing。 His nest is unde