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