The Life of the Fields | Page 4

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