Pageant of Summer | Page 7

shorter, and
orchis succeeds to orchis. As I write them, so these things come--not
set in gradation, but like the broadcast flowers in the mowing-grass.
Now follows the gorse, and the pink rest-harrow, and the sweet lady's
bedstraw, set as it were in the midst of a little thorn-bush. The broad

repetition of the yellow clover is not to be written; acre upon acre, and
not one spot of green, as if all the green had been planed away, leaving
only the flowers to which the bees come by the thousand from far and
near. But one white campion stands in the midst of the lake of yellow.
The field is scented as though a hundred hives of honey had been
emptied on it. Along the mound by it the bluebells are seeding, the
hedge has been cut and the ground is strewn with twigs. Among those
seeding bluebells and dry twigs and mosses I think a titlark has his nest,
as he stays all day there and in the oak over. The pale clear yellow of
charlock, sharp and clear, promises the finches bushels of seed for their
young. Under the scarlet of the poppies the larks run, and then for
change of colour soar into the blue. Creamy honeysuckle on the hedge
around the cornfield, buds of wild rose everywhere, but no sweet petal
yet. Yonder, where the wheat can climb no higher up the slope, are the
purple heath-bells, thyme and flitting stone-chats.
The lone barn shut off by acres of barley is noisy with sparrows. It is
their city, and there is a nest in every crevice, almost under every tile.
Sometimes the partridges run between the ricks, and when the bats
come out of the roof, leverets play in the waggon-track. At even a fern-
owl beats by, passing close to the eaves whence the moths issue. On the
narrow waggon-track which descends along a coombe and is worn in
chalk, the heat pours down by day as if an invisible lens in the
atmosphere focussed the sun's rays. Strong woody knapweed endures it,
so does toadflax and pale blue scabious, and wild mignonette. The very
sun of Spain burns and burns and ripens the wheat on the edge of the
coombe, and will only let the spring moisten a yard or two around it;
but there a few rushes have sprung, and in the water itself brooklime
with blue flowers grows so thickly that nothing but a bird could find
space to drink. So down again from this sun of Spain to woody coverts
where the wild hops are blocking every avenue, and green-flowered
bryony would fain climb to the trees; where grey-flecked ivy winds
spirally about the red rugged bark of pines, where burdocks fight for
the footpath, and teazle-heads look over the low hedges. Brake-fern
rises five feet high; in some way woodpeckers are associated with
brake, and there seem more of them where it flourishes. If you count
the depth and strength of its roots in the loamy sand, add the thickness

of its flattened stem, and the width of its branching fronds, you may say
that it comes near to be a little tree. Beneath where the ponds are bushy
mare's-tails grow, and on the moist banks jointed pewterwort; some of
the broad bronze leaves of water-weeds seem to try and conquer the
pond and cover it so firmly that a wagtail may run on them. A white
butterfly follows along the waggon-road, the pheasants slip away as
quietly as the butterfly flies, but a jay screeches loudly and flutters in
high rage to see us. Under an ancient garden wall among matted bines
of trumpet convolvulus, there is a hedge- sparrow's nest overhung with
ivy on which even now the last black berries cling.
There are minute white flowers on the top of the wall, out of reach, and
lichen grows against it dried by the sun till it looks ready to crumble.
By the gateway grows a thick bunch of meadow geranium, soon to
flower; over the gate is the dusty highway road, quiet but dusty, dotted
with the innumerable foot-marks of a flock of sheep that has passed.
The sound of their bleating still comes back, and the bees driven up by
their feet have hardly had time to settle again on the white clover
beginning to flower on the short roadside sward. All the hawthorn
leaves and briar and bramble, the honeysuckle, too, is gritty with the
dust that has been scattered upon it. But see--can it be? Stretch a hand
high, quick, and reach it down; the first, the sweetest, the dearest rose
of June. Not yet expected, for the time is between the may and the roses,
least of all here in the hot and dusty