fern-owls at dusk, and the blackbirds and jays by day, cannot reduce their legions while they last.  Yellow butterflies, and white, broad red admirals, and sweet blues; think of the kingdom of flowers which is theirs!  Heavy moths burring at the edge of the copse; green, and red, and gold flies: gnats, like smoke, around the tree-tops; midges so thick over the brook, as if you could haul a netful; tiny leaping creatures in the grass; bronze beetles across the path; blue dragonflies pondering on cool leaves of water-plantain.  Blue jays flitting, a magpie drooping across from elm to elm; young rooks that have escaped the hostile shot blundering up into the branches; missel thrushes leading their fledglings, already strong on the wing, from field to field.  An egg here on the sward dropped by a starling; a red ladybird creeping, tortoise-like, up a green fern frond.  Finches undulating through the air, shooting themselves with closed wings, and linnets happy with their young.

Golden dandelion discs—gold and orange—of a hue more beautiful, I think, than the higher and more visible buttercup.  A blackbird, gleaming, so black is he, splashing in the runlet of water across the gateway.  A ruddy kingfisher swiftly drawing himself, as you might draw a stroke with a pencil, over the surface of the yellow buttercups, and away above the hedge.  Hart’s-tongue fern, thick with green, so green as to be thick with its colour, deep in the ditch under the shady hazel boughs.  White meadow-sweet lifting its tiny florets, and black-flowered sedges.  You must push through the reed grass to find the sword-flags; the stout willow-herbs will not be trampled down, but resist the foot like underwood.  Pink lychnis flowers behind the withy stoles, and little black moorhens swim away, as you gather it, after their mother, who has dived under the water-grass, and broken the smooth surface of the duckweed.  Yellow loosestrife is rising, thick comfrey stands at the very edge; the sandpipers run where the shore is free from bushes.  Back by the underwood the prickly and repellent brambles will presently present us with fruit.  For the squirrels the nuts are forming, green beechmast is there—green wedges under the spray; up in the oaks the small knots, like bark rolled up in a dot, will be acorns.  Purple vetches along the mounds, yellow lotus where the grass is shorter, and orchis succeeds to orchis.  As I write them, so these things come—not set in gradation, but like the broadcast flowers in the mowing-grass.

Now follows the gorse, and the pink rest-harrow, and the sweet lady’s bedstraw, set as it were in the midst of a little thorn-bush.  The broad repetition of the yellow clover is not to be written; acre upon acre, and not one spot of green, as if all the green had been planed away, leaving only the flowers to which the bees come by the thousand from far and near.  But one white campion stands in the midst of the lake of yellow.  The field is scented as though a hundred hives of honey had been emptied on it.  Along the mound by it the bluebells are seeding, the hedge has been cut and the ground is strewn with twigs.  Among those seeding bluebells 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