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  char-
lock, 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  stonechats.
The  lone  barn  shut  oft'  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.
58  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  FIELDS.
