Field and Hedgerow

Field and Hedgerow

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Jefferies #4 in our series by Richard Jefferies
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Title: Field and Hedgerow
Author: Richard Jefferies
Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7030] [Yes, we are more than
one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on February 25,
2003]
Edition: 10

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FIELD AND HEDGEROW
BEING
THE LAST ESSAYS
OF
RICHARD JEFFERIES
COLLECTED BY HIS WIDOW

PREFACE.

For permission to reprint my husband's latest Essays my sincere thanks
are due to the Editors of the following publications:-
_The Fortnightly Review._ _Manchester Guardian._ Pall Mall Gazette.
_Standard._ _English Illustrated Magazine._ _Longman's Magazine._
_St. James's Gazette._. _Art Journal._ _Chambers's Journal._
_Magazine of Art._ _Century Illustrated Magazine._
J.J.

CONTENTS.

HOURS OF SPRING
NATURE AND BOOKS
THE JULY GRASS
WINDS OF HEAVEN
THE COUNTRY SUNDAY

THE COUNTRY-SIDE: SUSSEX
SWALLOW-TIME
BUCKHURST PARK
HOUSE-MARTINS
AMONG THE NUTS
WALKS IN THE WHEAT-FIELDS
JUST BEFORE WINTER
LOCALITY AND NATURE
COUNTRY PLACES
FIELD WORDS AND WAYS
COTTAGE IDEAS
APRIL GOSSIP
SOME APRIL INSECTS
THE TIME OF YEAR
MIXED DAYS OF MAY AND DECEMBER
THE MAKERS OF SUMMER
STEAM ON COUNTRY ROADS
FIELD SPORTS IN ART: THE MAMMOTH HUNTER
BIRDS' NESTS
NATURE IN THE LOUVRE
SUMMER IN SOMERSET
AN ENGLISH DEER-PARK
MY OLD VILLAGE
MY CHAFFINCH

HOURS OF SPRING.

It is sweet on awaking in the early morn to listen to the small bird
singing on the tree. No sound of voice or flute is like to the bird's song;
there is something in it distinct and separate from all other notes. The
throat of woman gives forth a more perfect music, and the organ is the
glory of man's soul. The bird upon the tree utters the meaning of the
wind--a voice of the grass and wild flower, words of the green leaf;
they speak through that slender tone. Sweetness of dew and rifts of
sunshine, the dark hawthorn touched with breadths of open bud, the
odour of the air, the colour of the daffodil--all that is delicious and
beloved of spring-time are expressed in his song. Genius is nature, and

his lay, like the sap in the bough from which he sings, rises without
thought. Nor is it necessary that it should be a song; a few short notes
in the sharp spring morning are sufficient to stir the heart. But
yesterday the least of them all came to a bough by my window, and in
his call I heard the sweet-briar wind rushing over the young grass.
Refulgent fall the golden rays of the sun; a minute only, the clouds
cover him and the hedge is dark. The bloom of the gorse is shut like a
book; but it is there--a few hours of warmth and the covers will fall
open. The meadow is bare, but in a little while the heart-shaped
celandine leaves will come in their accustomed place. On the pollard
willows the long wands are yellow-ruddy in the passing gleam of
sunshine, the first colour of spring appears in their bark. The delicious
wind rushes among them and they bow and rise; it touches the top of
the dark pine that looks in the sun the same now as in summer; it lifts
and swings the arching trail of bramble; it dries and crumbles the earth
in its fingers; the hedge-sparrow's feathers are fluttered as he sings on
the bush.
I wonder to myself how they can all get on without me--how they
manage, bird and flower, without me to keep the calendar for them. For
I noted it so carefully and lovingly, day by day, the seed-leaves on the
mounds in the sheltered places that come so early, the pushing up of the
young grass, the succulent dandelion, the