the ground is strewn with twigs. Among those seeding blue-bells
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.