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