The long grass flowing towards the hedge has reared in a wave
against it. Along the hedge it is higher and greener, and rustles
into the very bushes. There is a mark only now where the footpath
was; it passed close to the hedge, but its place is traceable only
as a groove in the sorrel and seed-tops. Though it has quite
filled the path, the grass there cannot send its tops so high; it
has left a winding crease. By the hedge here stands a moss-grown
willow, and its slender branches extend over the sward. Beyond it
is an oak, just apart from the bushes; then the ground gently
rises, and an ancient pollard ash, hollow and black inside, guards
an open gateway like a low tower. The different tone of green
shows that the hedge is there of nut-trees; but one great hawthorn
spreads out in a semicircle, roofing the grass which is yet more
verdant in the still pool (as it were) under it. Next a corner,
more oaks, and a chestnut in bloom. Returning to this spot an old
apple tree stands right out in the meadow like an island. There
seemed just now the tiniest twinkle of movement by the rushes, but
it was lost among the hedge parsley. Among the grey leaves of the
willow there is another flit of motion; and visible now against the
sky there is a little brown bird, not to be distinguished at the
moment from the many other little brown birds that are known to be
about. He got up into the willow from the hedge parsley somehow,
without being seen to climb or fly. Suddenly he crosses to the
tops of the hawthorn and immediately flings himself up into the air
a yard or two, his wings and ruffled crest making a ragged outline;
jerk, jerk, jerk, as if it were with the utmost difficulty he could
keep even at that height. He scolds, and twitters, and chirps, and
all at once sinks like a stone into the hedge and out of sight as a
stone into a pond. It is a whitethroat; his nest is deep in the
parsley and nettles. Presently he will go out to the island apple