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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 under the rough grasses and the
mosses of the mound； a mere tunnel beneath the fibres and matted
surface。 The hawthorn overhangs it； the fern grows by； red mice
rustle past。
It thunders； and the great oak trembles； the heavy rain drops
through the treble roof of oak and hawthorn and fern。 Under the
arched branches the lightning plays along； swiftly to and fro； or
seems to； like the swish of a whip； a yellowish…red against the
green； a boom！ a crackle as if a tree fell from the sky。 The thick
grasses are bowed； the white florets of the wild parsley are beaten
down； the rain hurls itself； and suddenly a fierce blast tears the
green oak leaves and whirls them out into the fields； but the
humble…bee's home； under moss and matted fibres； remains uninjured。
His house at the root of the king of trees； like a cave in the
rock； is safe。 The storm passes and the sun comes out； the air is
the sweeter and the richer for the rain； like verses with a rhyme；
there will be more honey in the flowers。 Humble he is； but wild；
always in the field； the wood； always by the banks and thickets；
always wild and humming to his flowers。 Therefore I like the
humble…bee； being； at heart at least； for ever roaming among the
woodlands and the hills and by the brooks。 In such quick summer
storms the lightning gives the impression of being far more
dangerous than the zigzag paths traced on the autumn sky。 The
electric cloud seems almost level with the ground； and the livid
flame to rush to and fro beneath the boughs as the little bats do
in the evening。
Caught by such a cloud； I have stayed under thick larches at the
edge of plantations。 They are no shelter； but conceal one
perfectly。 The wood pigeons come home to their nest trees； in
larches they seem to have permanent nests； almost like rooks。
Kestrels； too； come home to the wood。 Pheasants crow； but not from
fear … from defiance； in fear they scream。 The boom startles them；
and they instantly defy the sky。 The rabbits quietly feed on out
in the field between the thistles and rushes that so often grow in
woodside pastures； quietly hopping to their favourite places；
utterly heedless how heavy the echoes may be in the hollows of the
wooded hills。 Till the rain comes they take no heed whatever； but
then make for shelter。 Blackbirds often make a good deal of noise；
but the soft turtle…doves coo gently； let the lightning be as
savage as it will。 Nothing has the least fear。 Man alone； more
senseless than a pigeon； put a god in vapour； and to this day；
though the printing press has set a foot on every threshold；
numbers bow the knee when they hear the roar the timid dove does
not heed。 So trustful are the doves； the squirrels； the birds of
the branches； and the creatures of the field。 Under their tuition
let us rid ourselves of mental terrors； and face death itself as
calmly as they do the livid lightn