cover acres and square miles if reckoned edge to edge - are drawing
their strength from the atmosphere. Exceedingly minute as these
vibrations must be, their numbers perhaps may give them a volume
almost reaching in the aggregate to the power of the ear. Besides
the quivering leaf, the swinging grass, the fluttering bird's wing,
and the thousand oval membranes which innumerable insects whirl
about, a faint resonance seems to come from the very earth itself.
The fervour of the sunbeams descending in a tidal flood rings on
the strung harp of earth. It is this exquisite undertone, heard
and yet unheard, which brings the mind into sweet accordance with
the wonderful instrument of nature.

By the apple tree there is a low bank, where the grass is less tall
and admits the heat direct to the ground; here there are blue
flowers - bluer than the wings of my favourite butterflies - with
white centres - the lovely bird's-eyes, or veronica. The violet
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