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diff --git a/old/67775-h/67775-h.htm b/old/67775-h/67775-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 0bc6a9e..0000000 --- a/old/67775-h/67775-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7073 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Lone Swallows, by Henry Williamson—A Project Gutenberg eBook - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2,h3 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} -div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em;} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tb {width: 55%; margin-left: 22.5%; margin-right: 22.5%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } - - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} -h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} - - -table { - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; -} - -.tdr {text-align: right;} - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - font-variant: normal; -} - - - -.blockquot { - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; -} - -.gap {padding-left: 2em;} -.gap2 {padding-left: 15em;} -.bbox {border: 2px solid; padding: 2em;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} - -.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} -.ph2 {text-align: center; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: bold;} -.ph3 {text-align: left; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: bold;} - -.large {font-size: 125%;} - - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - page-break-inside: avoid; - max-width: 100%; -} - -.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} - -.footnote {margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} - -.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 75%; text-align: right;} - -.fnanchor { - vertical-align: super; - font-size: .8em; - text-decoration: - none; -} - -.poetry-container {text-align: center;} -.poetry {display: inline-block; text-align: left;} -.poetry .verse {text-indent: -2.5em; padding-left: 3em;} -.poetry .first {text-indent: 1.4em; padding-left: 0em;} -.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} -.poetry .indent {text-indent: 1.5em;} -.poetry .verseright { text-align: right;} -@media print { .poetry {display: block;} } -.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block;} - -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; - padding: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - - </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Lone Swallows, by Henry Williamson</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Lone Swallows</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Henry Williamson</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 4, 2022 [eBook #67775]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: David E. Brown and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LONE SWALLOWS ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<h1>THE LONE SWALLOWS</h1> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="ph1"><i>NEW NOVELS</i></p> - - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table"> - - -<tr><td>PENDER AMONG THE RESIDENTS</td><td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">FORREST REID</span></td></tr> - - -<tr><td>THE CROSS-CUT</td><td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">COURTNEY RYLEY COOPER</span></td></tr> - - -<tr><td>THE BEST GIFT OF ALL</td><td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">ROWAN GLEN</span></td></tr> - - -<tr><td>AS OTHERS SEE US</td><td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">MARMADUKE PICKTHALL</span></td></tr> - - -<tr><td>THE PIT-PROP SYNDICATE</td><td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS</span></td></tr> - - -<tr><td>ROSEANNE</td><td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">E. MARIA ALBANESI</span></td></tr> -</table> - -</div></div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="" /></div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<div class="titlepage"> -<p class="ph2">THE<br /> -LONE SWALLOWS</p> - -<p><i>by</i><br /> - -<span class="large">HENRY WILLIAMSON</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="first"><b>“The beautiful swallows, be tender to them, for<br /> -they symbol all that is best in nature and all that is<br /> -best in our hearts.”</b></div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verseright"><b><i>Richard Jefferies.</i></b></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p> </p> -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_titlelogo.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p>LONDON: 48 PALL MALL<br /> -<span class="large">W. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD.</span><br /> -GLASGOW <span class="gap"> MELBOURNE</span><span class="gap"> AUCKLAND</span></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center">Copyright, 1922</p> -</div> - - -<p class="center"><i>Manufactured in Great Britain</i></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">[v]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">COMPILER’S NOTE</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Most</span> of the papers in this volume are -published for the first time. A few have -appeared in <i>The Daily Express</i>, <i>The London -Evening News</i>, <i>The Field</i>, <i>The Saturday -Review</i>, <i>The Outlook</i>, <i>The English Review</i>, -and <i>The Wide World Magazine</i>. I am -indebted to the Editors of these publications -for permission to reprint them; and I am -personally grateful to Sir Theodore Cook, -of <i>The Field</i>, and to Mr. Austin Harrison -of <i>The English Review</i> for their encouragement -and kindness in criticising and printing -my earliest essays.</p> - -<p>“Winter’s Eve,” the first attempt to -describe the common sights and sounds -of the English countryside, I include for -reasons of sentiment. Nature writing, I -have been told by some authorities on art, -is regarded as a trivial thing—“nature,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vi">[vi]</span> -according to those people, is but a frail -base for art-creation. Those authorities, I -discovered, did not know the difference -between a linnet and a celandine. And -they did not want to be told. But I imagine -that, as children, they would have been -delighted to see a linnet’s woven nest, and -to be told that the celandine is the first of -the wild flowers to fashion after a dreary -winter a gold cup in the February meadows -and woods. My own belief is that association -with birds and flowers in childhood—when -the brain is plastic and the mind is -eager—tends to widen human sympathy -in an adult life. The hope of civilisation -(since we cannot remake the world’s history) -is in the fraternity of nations, or so it seems -to myself, whose adolescence was spent at -the war; the hope of amity and goodwill -of the nation is in the individual—in the -human heart, which yearns for the good -and the beautiful; and the individual is -a child first, eager to learn, but unwilling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[vii]</span> -to be taught. Therefore it would appear -that the hope of civilisation is really in the -child. Sometimes heredity may be too -great a handicap, but a sweet environment -is a gradual solvent of inherited vice; at -least it will prevent hardness, whence springs -un-understanding, and hate. It was on -a Sunday in May, 1920, in a tramcar at -Catford, a south-eastern suburb of London, -that the seed of this thought was sown by -the sight of children returning to the slums -after a day in the country. How eager -they were: and how their parents were -happy! Immediately afterwards, in a -visionary fervour, or, may be because I was -very young, I wrote “London Children -and Wild Flowers,” which Austin Harrison -published, with Walter de la Mare as god-parent.</p> - -<p class="right">H. W.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Skirr Cottage</span>,<br /> - <i>11th November, 1921</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[viii]</span></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">[ix]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table"> - -<tr><td class="tdr" colspan="2"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE LONE SWALLOWS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1"> 1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>LADY DAY IN DEVON</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_8"> 8</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE INCOMING OF SUMMER</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_14"> 14</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>HAUNT OF THE EVEJAR</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_30"> 30</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>A DESERTED QUARRY IN FEBRUARY</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_39"> 39</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>VIGNETTES OF NATURE (i)</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_41"> 41</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>VIGNETTES OF NATURE (ii)</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_43"> 43</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>HAWK NOTES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_46"> 46</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>PROPHET BIRDS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_50"> 50</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>A BIRD MYSTIC</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_53"> 53</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>SAMARITANS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_57"> 57</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>SPORTSMEN OF THE RUBBISH-HEAPS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_60"> 60</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>RUNAWAYS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_65"> 65</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>LONDON CHILDREN AND WILD FLOWERS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_68"> 68</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>MEADOW GRASSES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_82"> 82</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>TIGER’S TEETH</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_96"> 96</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE OUTLAW</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_116"> 116</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>PEREGRINES IN LOVE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_130"> 130</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>MIDSUMMER NIGHT</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_136"> 136</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>A FEATHERED WASTER</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_145"> 145</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>INVOCATION</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_150"> 150</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">[x]</span></td></tr> - -<tr><td>COCKNEY BIRD TRIPPERS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_154"> 154</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>“FULLNESS AFTER DEARTH”</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_157"> 157</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>CUCKOO NOTES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_160"> 160</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>DAYS OF AUTUMN</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_166"> 166</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>SWALLOW BROW: <i>A FANTASY</i></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_182"> 182</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>WINTER’S EVE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_196"> 196</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>ERNIE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_204"> 204</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>A SEED IN WASTE PLACES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_212"> 212</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>THE CHANGE: <i>A FANTASY</i></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_217"> 217</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>PROSERPINE’S MESSAGE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_236"> 236</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td>STRIX FLAMMEA</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_243"> 243</a></td></tr> -</table> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">THE LONE SWALLOWS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Along</span> the trackless and uncharted airlines -from the southern sun they came, a lone -pair of swallows, arriving with weakly and -uncertain flight from over the wastes of the -sea. They rested on a gorse bush, their -blue backs beautiful against the store of -golden blossom guarded by the jade spikes. -The last day of March had just blown with -the wind into eternity. Symbols of summer -and of loveliness, they came with young -April, while yet the celandines were unbleached, -while the wild white strawberry -and ragged-robin were opening with the -dog violet. On the headland the flowers -struggle for both life and livelihood, the -sward is cropped close by generations of -sheep, and the sea-wind is damp and cold. -Perhaps the swallows hoped to nest, as -their ancestors had done centuries since, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span> -the cave under the precipice at the headland’s -snout, or that love for its protection -after the wearying journey was new-born -in their hearts. One cannot say; but the -pair remained there.</p> - -<p>Days of yellow sunshine and skies blue -as their wings greeted them. Over the -wave crests and the foamed troughs they -sped, singing and twittering as they flew. -Kestrel hawks with earth-red pinions hung -over the slopes of the cliffs, searching with -keen eyes for mouse or finch, but the swallows -heeded not. Wheatears passed all day -among the rabbit burrows and the curled -cast feathers of the gulls, chiffchaffs iterated -their little joy in singsong melody, shags -squatted on the rocks below, preening metal-green -plumage and ejecting plentiful fish-bones. -The wanderer on the sheep-track, -passing every day, joyed in the effortless -thrust of those dark wings, the chestnut -stain on the throat, the delicate fork of the -tail. Winter was ended, and the blackthorn<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> -blossoming—there would be no more snow -or ice after the white flowers, fragile as -vapour thralled by frost, had come upon -their ebon wilderness of spines. The heart -could now look forward, not backwards -to other fled springtimes. The first swallows -had come from distant lands, and three -weeks before the winged hosts were due! -One of the greatest of nature-writers wrote, -“The beautiful swallows, be tender to -them.” In fancy Richard Jefferies, too, -was wandering on the headland, and watching -the early vagrants, breathing the -fragrance of the wild thyme that came like -an old memory with the wind. Always -dearly loved are the singing birds of passage, -returning with such feeble wings to the -land that means love and life to them, and -love and life and beauty to us. Each one -is dear; all the swallows returned are a -sign and a token of loveliness being made -manifest before our eyes.</p> - -<p>The early April days passed, like the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span> -clouds in the sky, softly and in sunlight, -merging into the nights when Venus lighted -the western seas, and belted Orion plunged -into the ocean. In the sheltered places -the arums grew, some with hastate leaves -purple-spotted, and showing the crimson -<i>spadix</i> like the tip of a club. Brighter grew -the gorselands, till from the far sands they -looked like swarming bees gold-dusty from -the pollen of the sun. The stonechat with -white-ringed neck and dark cap fluttered -into the azure, jerked his song in mid-air, -then dived in rapture to his mate perched -upon a withered bramble. In a tuft the -titlark was building her nest, while the -yellowhammer trilled upon a rusted plough-share -in the oatfield.</p> - -<p>Sometimes the swallows flew to a village -a mile inland, and twittered about an -ancient barn with grass-grown thatch, -haunted by white owls, and hiding in -dimness a cider press that had not creaked -in turning for half a century. Once they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span> -were seen wheeling above the mill pond, -and by the mossy waterwheel, hovering -along its cool gushings and arch of sun-stealing -drops thrown fanwise from the -mouldered rim. Everywhere the villagers -hailed them with delight, and spoke in the -inn at nights of their early adventuring. -Such a thing had been unknown for many -years; the oldest granfer had heard tell of -it, but had never actually seen it before. -The old man took a poet’s delight in the -news, and peered with rheumy and faded -blue eyes, hoping to see them when tapping -along the lane to his “tater-patch.” It -became a regular thing for the wanderer -upon the headland to report their presence -when he returned from the high solitude -and the drone of the tide, and the yelping -cries of gulls floating white in the sunshine -above a sea of woad-blue.</p> - -<p>Gulls selected nesting sites, and the sea-thrift -raised pink buddings from its matted -clumps. The ravens rolled in the wind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> -uprushing from the rocks, and took sticks -in black beaks to the ledge where they -had nested throughout the years. The -male bird watched upon a spar while his -mate with throaty chucklings built anew -the old mass of rubbish where her eggs -would be laid. Sometimes he fed her with -carrion filched from a pearly gull by the -flashing and sunpointed foam, and she -gabbled with pleasure. Ever and anon -the fleeing specks of the swallows passed -near, winding in and out, floating and -diving, “garrulous as in Cæsar’s time.” -Like kittens in distress the buzzards wailed, -spreading vast brown canvas that enabled -them to sail high among those silver and -phantom galleons, the clouds. Steamers -passing to the Severn basin left smoke trails -on the horizon; the life of the sea and land, -wild and civilised, went on; but no other -swallows arrived. Light of heart the -wanderer watched, and waited. Any day, -new-born and blessed by Aurora, would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> -see the arrival, any day now—two dark -arrowheads fell with mighty swoop from -heaven, arrowheads that did not miss their -mark. There was a frail flutter of feathers -in the sunshine, a red drop on the ancient -sward, a scuttle of terrified rabbits, a faint -scream trembling and dying in the blue. -Then only the murmur of the sea far below -and the humming of the single telegraph -wire near the pathway. The peregrine -falcons had taken the lone and beloved -swallows.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">LADY DAY IN DEVON</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> rooks are now busy in the elms of the -churchyard, and drifting thwartwise the -wind with sticks for their nests. Sometimes -a young male bird comes with food for his -mate as she pleaches the twigs with claw -and beak; she flutters her wings like a -fledgeling, gapes widely, and squawks with -satisfaction. Daws come to the trees, -perching head to the south-west breeze, -ejaculating sharply. Periodical visitants are -the starlings, their songs of mimicry swelling -with sudden rush and wheezing. One bird -has learnt the chattering cry of a kestrel, -the mating call, and deceives the rooks into -thinking that one of the brown mouse-hawks -is near. That rooks are thieves among -themselves is well known, stealing sticks -from their neighbours. To-day I watched -one taking material that a young and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> -enthusiastic sister brought with difficulty -every five minutes or so from the distant -beech clump. The thief was an artist, she -was subtle, and cunning. A quick hop took -her to the young bird’s pile, she seized a -stick, and drifted upwards into the wind, -swung round in a half circle and brought it -to her own nest in the same tree with a soft -<i>caa-caa</i>, as though implying relief at reaching -home again. Her mate, judging by his -white face, is an ancient bird; he is wise; -he does no work; he fetches no food for his -toiling wife; but perches near the nest, -approving her method of labour, and guarding -its results. He is the nearest approach -to a bird “fence” that it would be possible -to find.</p> - -<p>A lane of red mud leads through the -beech-clump. Life here is hard, but the -celandines show their spoke-rays to the -sun and wind-washed heaven, braving the -half-gales that come across the Atlantic -and twirl the fallen numbers of autumn’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> -leaves among their yellow flowers. A -tawny owl lives in a pollard hornbeam in this -clump; he comes regularly at dusk to my -cottage and hoots with mournful insistence -to the barn owls that roost under the thatch. -Rabbits’ bones and fur, finches’ feathers, -and the fragile skulls of mice hang in the -crevices of the tree, hundreds of them, -some fresh and white, others hidden under -the brown dust of decay that trickles from -the old tree’s dead heart. Tap his home, -and he flaps out, pursued by any small -birds searching for spiders or grubs in the -spinney. The trees are dwarfed, bent by -the salt winds; a few larches grew here, -but never more the sap will rise and burst -in emerald foam on their wispy branches. -Constant buffeting with the winds of the -ocean has killed them. A magpie is prospecting -the mazed brittleness of one of -them for a nesting site; she appears nearly -every morning.</p> - -<p>Beyond the clump is a combe, or valley,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> -where every year a pair of carrion crows -nest. They fly away as soon as they see -me, four hundred yards below—they are -crafty, and leave nothing to chance. In -the stone hedges the celandines, flowers -much bigger than those around London, -shine like spilled meteor fragments against -their leaves. Primroses grow with them, -and the white blossom of the wild strawberry, -and in places the stitchwort is in -bloom. A flock of linnets sings in a -hawthorn, a silver twittering of song -coming as the wind rests; with a rustling -of wings the flock leaves for the -bloom of the gorse which everywhere is -scenting the air. The apple trees in the -orchard close below are beginning to bud, -already goldfinches haunt their lichened -branches, now fighting with gold-barred -wings aflutter, now pausing to pipe sweet -whispers of coming vernal glory, when the -blossoms shall spill in showers of loveliness. -Afar are the Burrows, and over their sogged<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> -wastes the green plovers wheel and fall, -uttering wild calls to the wind, while their -mates stand below, diving with broad pinions -to earth as though they would die for love. -High above a buzzard is sailing. To the -right a great horse draws a plough against -the skyline, and a dozen gulls follow in its -wake; behind them trip and whistle four -dishwashers, or wagtails. They say in the -village that three pairs of ravens are nesting -on the headland this year; I have seen but -one. In this district a raven has only once -been known to kill or “eye-pick” lambs, -but that was many years ago, and then their -breeding ledge was robbed in revenge. -The raven has come near to extermination, -like the peregrine falcon; but here both of -these mighty fliers rarely molest the belongings -of man; the one feeds on offal and -dead rabbits that the stoats have left, and -the other takes stock-doves, oystercatchers, -wild duck, snipe, and ring-plover. In the -early spring they stoop at gulls and diving<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> -birds just for exuberance of spirit. Certainly -every tide leaves its dead among the seaweed -and the beach-wrack: gulls and auks with -their backs torn and ripped by the swift -blue-hawks.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">THE INCOMING OF SUMMER</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Where</span> by the stream the towers of the -wild hyacinth bore their clustered bells, -sought by that gold-vestured hunchback -the wild bee, the willow wren sang his -little melody, pausing awhile to watch the -running water. The early purple orchids -grew with the bluebells, their spurs upraised, -their green leaves mottled with purple. -Already the blackthorn had put forth its -blossoms, a sign of frostless nights and -warm days; already the blackbird had -planted its nest in the alder bush. Now -the year would advance till the grain was -bronzed and the red arms of the reaper-and-binder -whirled among its baked stems. -Following the green and silver windings of -the water the blue swallows hovered and -fell, but the cuckoo’s voice had not yet -called from the pheasant coverts. Any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> -dawn would be welcomed by his mellow -note, for over the sea and the land the -winged hosts were passing, urged by the -love they bore the thicket or the hedgerow -that had weaned them, and for which in -parched lands they had pined. From the -time of the early sweet violet the migrants -had been returning, and their journeyings -would continue till the time of the first -poppy.</p> - -<p>The willow birds perched on the wands -of the sallows, and the swallows twittered -as they glided. Two singing notes, oft -repeated, came from an ash tree where an -olivine chiffchaff was piping his simple -music. Throughout the gusty winds of -March dust-laden and with only the -celandines to tell of hope, he had been -piping by the brook, a wanderer whose -notes would be heard till the blackberries -of October. The allotted span of -the celandines was over, their rayed spokes -of yellow were bleached—the wheatears<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> -were flitting upon the swarded downlands. -The flowers had gathered to themselves -all the light that the sun of early spring had -flung between swift clouds, the seeds were -formed, their hopes fulfilled. In their place -came wild strawberries and herb robert, -the dog-violet and the speedwell.</p> - -<p>The meadow grasses were not yet tall -enough to sigh at the wind’s soft passing, -but a red admiral had been joying in the -sunlight for many days. Down by the -streamlet the moor-hen had woven her -rushy nest, bending an arch of withered -sedges over her labour to hide the speckled -eggs. In the mud of the pebbled shallows -her webbed feet left a track as she sought -for beetles. Small spoors, the imprint of -little claws, showed where a vole had made -quick passage across a mud-bank. In the -turfy bank its retreats were tunnelled, -leading to a domed hollow lined with -grasses—here her young would shortly nestle. -From the stream and the shallow the rushes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span> -were rising, green spearpoints scarce sturdy -enough to conceal the nest of the wild duck. -Now they were thin and over-sharpened, -as though exhausted by the effort of -straining upwards to the light to which -the sacrificial flowers would be offered in -June; then they would be “thick and -sappy,” annealed; in winter the cattle would -tread their dried stems upon the beaten -floors of the shippen.</p> - -<p>Over pebbles, wine-stained, gray, rusted -and brown, the stream tumbled, around -mossy boulders and under branches, swaying -dreamily the drowned poa grasses. Brook-trout -lurked for the gnats that sometimes -brushed the surface with trailing legs. -Where the wind was stayed by arch of -hazel and willow the midges danced their -nuptials, in ghostèd assembly rising and -falling. The time of the mayflies was not -yet, their brief pageant would be heralded -by the myriad trumpets of summer’s -insects; summer was still shyly virginal. No<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -sunbeam had yet touched the buttercup, -unblazoned was the shield of the meadow -by <i>gules</i> of poppy, <i>azure</i> of cornflower, or -<i>argent</i> of feverfew. Fragile were the -greeneries of the hedge above the brooklet, -sweet the primroses under the stubbed roots -of the ash trees. Loveliest is the year when -“sumer is icumen in,” when the willow -wren, slim as he perches on an amber wand, -sings all the love in his heart.</p> - -<p>Something is moving in the nettles which -the bullocks have not trampled. Their -hooves have impressed cloven hollows at -the marge, but the nettles are unspoiled. -A tangled song comes from the middle -of the patch, incoherent and unceasing. -The pointed leaves quiver as the motion -continues. Presently a little bird with a -fawn breast jerks into the air, flutters -a moment, and then disappears. It is a -whitethroat, and till now his presence in -the countryside was unknown. Ecstasy, -uncontrolled and rising from his heart like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span> -the spring in the hillside, has all his being -enthralled. The trembling of the nettles -and the husky voice continue, and a brown -bird passes over the nettled sanctuary. It -is a wren carrying a leaf to the house -that after two days’ labour is nearly built. -Swiftly he pushes the oak leaf into place, -then mounts a dry bramble jutting above -the pleached ash and hazel branches, and -from his pine-spindle of a beak pours a -ringing melody. The fervour of the -crackey’s song is so intense that in comparison -with his size and minute cocked -tail it appears an impossibility—he is a -Swinburnian singer. His vernal feelings -are so strong that in the interval of vocal -exclamation he fashions many spare nests, -most of them loosely and carelessly made. -The shanty in the dead ivy around the oak -is constructed of withered leaves that -harmonise with its surroundings; he has -another in a hayrick near, formed of dried -grasses; a third in a green bush composed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -wholly of moss fetched from a bank in the -sunken lane.</p> - -<p>The whitethroat and his mate have jerked -away, the willow bird slipped upstream, the -cock-wren with cocked tail is stuttering -an alarm. Down by the water’s edge a -reddish animal nibbles a shoot held in its -paws. Perceiving that it has no hostile -bearing, the wren is silent. At the slightest -movement the vole will dive with a musical -and hollow plop into the water and swim -to concealment. Quietly it finishes the -sappy stalk, then creeps under a thick stem -of cow-parsley, the florets of which are -budding. Finches pass over, calling to -each other, and a silver chirruping announces -a wagtail. He alights on a smooth gray -boulder, slender in outline and poised on -fragile legs, flaunting a breast of daffodil. -The hen-bird follows, and they perch -together. Their long tails move as though -to maintain an earthly balance, so faery-frail -are they. She leaves him, flitting in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> -wavy flight to another boulder. He follows, -but she is restless. Downstream they pass, -stopping for a moment on a jutting fragment -of rock in the stone hedge, peering into a -cavity. Throughout the summer the gray -wagtails will haunt the brook, for within -the cave foundations of their nest are already -laid, fibres sought inside the pollard willows.</p> - -<p>Those galleons the clouds have sailed -into the north-eastern main, and no canvas -or furled rigging are visible. For weeks -no treasure of rain has been brought for -the earth to spend with lavish abandon on -verdant raiment, no largesse of shower has -been thrown to the humble chickweed or -vagrant sorrel. But on the surface of the -land green things are stained with sap and -charged with alchemising sunbeams. The -secret of the philosopher’s stone, anciently -sought to change baser metals to gold, -has remained undiscovered through the ages, -nor has the countryman ever found the -crock of spade guineas at the rainbow’s end.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -These would bring luck; even now we -strive to find their counterpart. In the -cities, perhaps: youth storing the gold -that one day will mean happiness: towards -the evening of life, maybe, with sight -dulled to a flower and the song of the -swallow never heard. Sunlight is all to -the flowers. It distils for them their scents -and sweet nectars, it fashions their petals -and ambrosial pollen. The sun loads the -galleons of the airy fullness with the rain -drawn from the ocean, unlading its cargoes -upon the million wharves of the earth.</p> - -<p>Peeping from ivy-bowered seclusion for -sight of flashing hawk, a robin slips like a -copper oak leaf from its nest. Inside the -lined cup of bent and horsehair five naked -fledgelings lie sleeping. By the pale cuckoo -flowers the mother searches, capturing with -swift movements insects that toil among -the rootlets. She returns with a beakful, but -her children will not rouse from slumber. -A chirping comes from the hedge above,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> -where a drab hedge-sparrow has her brood. -She inspects with grave demeanour their -orange gapes and divides the food among -them. They gulp, then plead vainly with -hoarse squeaks for more. Over the hedge -she drops, joining the host of wrens, whitethroats, -blackbirds, thrushes, and red mice, -all looking for food.</p> - -<p>The rising club of the wild arum is -purple within its sheath; soon the “lords-and-ladies” -will attract the children to -their “river.” The stream is singing a -mazed melody of soft sounds; by listening -intently each can be distinguished. Different -notes arise from the shattering of a crystal -bubble upon the stones, the hollow dripple -of a pebble rolled over the shallows, the -foamy swirling past willow trunks moss-covered, -the splashing into dwarfed trout-pools. -Where a sunbeam loads the ripples -a gold network drifts over the sand, holding -a twig in its eddy; or the wind stirs the -leaves, and a million sunpoints are thrown<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -upwards like a silvery flight of starlings. -From the mud precious doubloons have -been raised by the root-divers of the kingcups, -and are cast thickly by the bank.</p> - -<p>Behind the hedge the gorse grows, -stretching up the hill in spiky profusion -of rusted jade and orange. Under the -roots a colony of rabbits has been founded, -and the does are scratching fur from hind -legs to line the dug-outs where their little -ones will be yeaned. A long-tailed titmouse -spies a furry fragment, seizes it, and carries -it to her nest in a distant bramble. With -faint rustling of wings a linnet alights -upon a bush, and sings to the mate who is -weaving her cradle. Among the apple -blossoms below, soft cadences are borne -in the sunshine—the goldfinches cannot -cease the telling of their happiness. A -greenfinch answers with wistful, long-drawn -note, and a corn bunting repeats his -song again and again. Primroses, daisies, -and the scentless violet grow on the turf<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> -under the spinney, where the larches have -concealed their brittleness with emerald buds. -A high twitter comes from one, and almost -immediately a bird smaller than a wren -flits moth-like to the ground. Its crest is -a pencil-mark of fire. At the extreme end -of a branch a ball of moss and lichen -moulded with spider webs and caterpillar -cocoons is suspended. Here the Golden-crowned -Knight and his lady love will -flitter throughout the days of summer, -leading their children from the swinging -castle as the voice of the cuckoo falters in -June. Flocks of these birds roamed the -pine forest during leafless days, when their -shrill needle-lances of sound scarce pierced -the wind’s moaning. Now in coppices -and spinneys they seek the unchivalrous -spider and the insects that crawl upon the -sprays. Here under the trees is shade and -solitude. I will stay and dream. But I -want more beauty, and am restless; to me -floats the voice of the stream for ever<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> -calling; I must return to the sunlit waters -and the bended sedges.</p> - -<p>All the loveliness of fled summers returns -to the mind. The spread disk of the -dandelion, so richly hued, is more beautiful -now, bearing in its colour so many hopes -of the past. A common flower, a despised -weed, yet a symbol of that pulsing golden -happiness that is the heritage unclaimed -of so many. The bees and the birds need -no philosopher’s stone, they have something -better in the sweet air, they live every -moment happily. In careless childhood -the dandelions were beheaded with a stick; -they are now a token of joy, these common -weeds, taking shallow root wherever the -wind flings their seeds. Summer to me -would be incomplete without the dandelions. -For what they symbol, would that there -were more in the drifted dust of the cities. -The music of the brook has risen from a -murmur to a dull thunder, and a humming -sounds under the maples. The miller has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> -lifted the weedy hatch, and the ponderous -stone wheels are crushing the grain. In -the pond the tench lie unseen, but the light -flames upon the scarlet fins of the roach -as they pass. Silently the flume slides -forward, then gushes into the troughs of -the great elm waterwheel. Jets of water -spurt from its old mossy planking, and a -rain of drops is flung from the trundling -rim. Inside the miller feeds the hoppers, -and upon a beam perch two swallows, -unheedful of the shake and the thunder. -A dust floats in the millhouse, hazing the -glass windows and giving to the cobwebs -a snowy purity—embroidering the robes -of the corn-spirit. For centuries the wheat -has been ground between the fixed bed-stone -and the runner, for centuries the -stream has worked for mankind, its splashing -imprisoning the light of the southern -sun falling athwart the wheel. I thought of -the men that in the past had laboured for -the wheat, of the times the millpeck had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -grooved the stones, and the millstaff proven -their setting. The millwheel is very old -and will soon turn no more, but still the -human sorrow and the hunger goes on.</p> - -<p>Across the way stand dark yew trees -beneath whose stillness the grave-stones, -patched with gray and orange lichens, throw -their shadows upon the grass. The suns -of summer have bleached them, autumnal -rains washed them, wintry frosts worked -graven patterns upon the ancient letterings. -The stream flowed then as now, many -times had the swallows returned to their -mortared houses under the rafters and up -the broad chimneys—think of all the beauty -repeated. Centuries of apple blossom, -scented beanfields and floating thistledown; -all the happiness of harvest garnered; all -the hunger and the misery of man, ever -striving with his neighbour. Can you not -see what the dandelion tells? The swallows -on the beam know no passage of time—they -look forward to no happiness—they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> -have no illusions—all is for them now. -The calendar is not for them. Joyous they -are, and wild; their hopes are not for -to-morrow—the to-morrow of the mounded -earth—but for to-day.</p> - -<p>Summer comes in with their return, -though the calendar shall deny. Summer: -the very name brings to the heart a feeling -of joy. There is so much for all, so much -beauty of thought stored in the raggedest -dandelion. Sunshine, the swallow, and the -celandine: to know these in childhood is -to take to the heart the glory of summer -for ever.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">HAUNT OF THE EVEJAR</h2> -</div> - - -<h3><i>i</i></h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> the first white flake falls from the -hawthorn the immigrant birds of passage -all have come to the countryside. Almost -the last to arrive this year on the south-western -coast of England were the mysterious -nightjars, birds ever surrounded by romance -on account of their weird song and phantom -habits; and for me, after the experience -I had in the late spring, birds of wonder -and having a special claim to my affections.</p> - -<p>It was night, and on the broad smooth -sands, whence the tide had ebbed, shone a -curved moon. As I passed by the ocean’s -edge its outline shook in the sandy pools, -blackened and tarnished by seaweed and -still foam-bubbles. No clouds drifted in -heaven, there was no wind, the stars were -pale in the luminous sky. Somewhere<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> -in front of me a curlew, disturbed at his -nocturnal feeding, whistled plaintively. A -mile away lay Baggy like a badger asleep.</p> - -<p>High above this promontory is an established -air-line, or hereditary route for -immigrant birds. Along this track travel -the chiffchaffs and wheatears in March, the -martins, warblers, and all the singing hosts -in April. Sometimes the night wind bears -a million feeble cries as the tired travellers -pass over. It is a place of enthralling -wonder in the youth of the year—and of -sadness when autumnal days bring a weary -return.</p> - -<p>The night was quiet, the wavelets broke -on the sand, a great sigh filled the air. -From a sighing it swelled to a rushing of -wind, it grew in volume like a drift of -leaves in wintry blasts. Then soft thuds -overbore the strange noise. I stood still. -From afar and near came little croakings, -as though of exhaustion and pain. Dark -bunches lay on the sands. I picked one up;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> -it was warm and feathery, its wings fluttered -feebly. The nightjars, called of olden time -goatsuckers, on account of a wide gape -and owl-like eyes, had returned to the land -for their yearly nuptials.</p> - -<p>There were hundreds of them on the -shore. All were too weak to move. I was -filled with a great tenderness for them; -they showed no fear; I liked to think they -knew I would not harm them. The night -went on; an owl bayed on the gorse slopes -behind. Soon they left, with flapping flight, -sometimes hopping. Towards dawn the -valley and the hills were filled with their -notes rising and falling like the whirring -of a spinning wheel, the love song of the -evejar.</p> - -<p>The bee-swallow, as the nightjar is also -called, pairs for life. It is a faithful idealist, -like the owl, the falcon, and the long-tailed -titmouse. It feeds on moths and -chafer-beetles; and lays two eggs among -the bracken.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>Next morning the sun burned in an azure -sky. The gulls wheeled over the surf, -seeking poor soddened bundles of feathers -that only a little while since had been filled -with hope and spurred by love to cross the -ocean, but had fallen into the water and -been drowned.</p> - - -<h3><i>ii</i></h3> - -<p>Returning from inland fields, three gulls -with tranquil evening flight passed over -the hill towards the headland. A sheep path -wound irregularly over the hill, amongst -the heather and the uncurling brakeferns. -From here the western ocean was seen -afar, until it met the clouded heaven. A -subdued roar, a growling under-current of -sound, floated up the hillside, although -the sea was calm. Night and day, for -thousands of years, the same ceaseless mutter -of the shifting tides upon the sands, the -same pounding of the headland as the tons<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> -of gray-green water slid over the rocks -and into its hidden caverns.</p> - -<p>A small wind moved the heather, and -shook a dog-violet with its face turned to -the westering sun. It was the tail of the -sea-breeze. The air over the fields was -cold, and soon it would move down to the -sands to explore the darkling sea still warm -with the fervour of the sunbeams. A late -bee droned among the birds-foot trefoil -on the pathway, eager to gather more -honey for the winter. The yellow flowers -grew low down, and some were stained -with deep, tawny orange, as though Antares, -the dull red star of summer, had joined -its blessing of colour with the greatest gift -of beauty and life bestowed by the sun. -Near them grew the germander speedwell, -also lowly (for the salt winds that sweep -the hill care nothing for the humble things -of the earth) their sweet blue eyes turned -in wonder to the great flower of the sky. -A lark with crest upraised waited upon a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> -hummock of mould thrown up by a rabbit—her -nest was somewhere near, hidden in -a tangle of burnet-rose. The bee left the -trefoil, and droned away down the hill. -A blackbird sang in the valley below, where -gorse, blackthorn, bramble, and stunted -holly choked an ancient waterbourne -between the steep hills. It was evening, -and he chanted to the departing splendour. -Alone sang the sable artist, serene on a -twig of blackthorn, having no illusions -about life, fretted by no unnecessary labour -or research, for ever happy in the sunshine -or sleeping restfully as the stars burned -above the lonely valley.</p> - -<p>Over the sea a golden beam of light -trailed from a cloud and lit the gray waters. -The massed vapours opened and other -beams cast their gilt on the waves. A full -rigged sailing ship, vague in the distance, -entered the sacred gleam and became a -barque of glory passing into the unknown. -Nearer the shore, where the white lines of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -surf crept up the sands, a silver glitter -danced and threw a million silver points -for the mind to dream upon—as though -an Immortal had flung the Golden Fleece -for mortal eyes to see. Slowly the sun -sank seawards; the beams were dulled; -the ship became once more a drab wanderer -on its human mission; a wild mew came -down from heaven. With dark wings -motionless, a buzzard sailed circlewise, -although the hour of hunting was over. -Higher and higher the great bird soared, -controlling the winds of evening. In his -mastery of the air he joyed, as though -desiring to outsoar the stars that soon would -glimmer over a quiet world. Below on the -flats a flock of ring-plover ran to their -feeding; their nests were among the pebbles -and bleached seaweed near the dunes -of the Burrows. Although unseen, their -presence was known by the sweetness of -their call-notes.</p> - -<p>Like a cannon-ball heated to a crimson<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> -glow was the sun behind the vapours where -a fume of vague light appeared over the -hills to eastward. More sinister grew the -outline of the headland, a beast replete -and resting its shaggy head on sunken paws. -No gulls drifted to their nocturnal roosting; -the buzzard had plunged into the hidden -pinewood to his eyrie. Here a vast collection -of sticks, rabbits’ bones, rats’ tails, -beetle skins and skulls of voles, carried there -during a score of years, and resting in a fir, -supported his brooding mate and her three -blotched eggs.</p> - -<p>When the moon was up an evejar rose from -the patch of swaled gorse; the creamy marks -on its wings and tail were visible in the -confluence of light from the gates of heaven—the -flood of the moon’s white fires and -the lingering afterglow over the Atlantic. -In anguish at the violation of its hymeneal -sanctities the skep-swallow returned and -wheeled, beating its wings together. No -sound disturbed the silence, no movement<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span> -stirred the bracken; only a mouse rustled -in the dried brambles, only a chafer beetle, -booming through the dusk, sought a dew-drop -on a leaf of foxglove. The birds, -wedded for all time, returned together and -settled on the ground. Then the male -bird mounted a stump of gorse, crouched -low, and poured forth a reeling song. Like -the risp of a grasshopper it came, like a -shaken matchbox, like a crowstarver’s -clappers heard afar. Against the moon the -evejar sang his song, whispering huskily of -his ecstacies during the pause. Sometimes -he waited for the shy answer of his love—she -who had journeyed over foreign wastes with -him to the remembered valleyside of heather. -Soft was her rapturous murmur in the summer night, -a gentle reassurance of faith and -hope, while the stars shone in the sky above -them. Like spun and argent coins the -moths went down to the dew-sweetened -flowers. Only a reverent watcher and the -pure face of the moon saw their espousal.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A DESERTED QUARRY IN -FEBRUARY</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Many</span> celandines are now showing a yellow -cup to the sun; a dearly loved flower the -celandine, braving the frosts and the loneliness, -with only the windrifted leaves of -a dead year for company. But its courage -makes it beautiful—one of the first of the -players in the country orchestra of scent -and colour and loveliness to take its seat in -the amphitheatre of spring.</p> - -<p>On the railway embankment the coltsfoot -flowers are rising. How can one be sad -when Proserpine will shortly float over -the meadows and the woodlands? Now -we must lift our hearts above earthly unhappiness, -and, with Nature, be joyous.</p> - -<p>What matter the fallings of so many -leaves in the past when to-day the wild -and happy humble bees are passing in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> -sunshine, dusty from the pollen of the -willow-palm? That the symphony of -summer must die in autumn’s cadences is -inevitable, but now the grass is rising on -the crumbled brick rim of the deserted -limekiln, and on the pile of chalk a wagtail -calls to his mate.</p> - -<p>There are the sweet notes of the finches -who are fluttering round the weeds of the -wasteland, and the distant caw of rooks. -A great cloud rushes in the sky; the light -is checked. It is cold once more. But -every day the sun swings in a higher curve; -over the sea the call has gone, and even now -the migrants in Africa and Egypt are restless.</p> - -<p>Very soon the chiffchaff will pipe his -monotonous tune by the lake, and the -wheatears will be back on the sward of the -downlands. A few weeks and the cuckoo -will call in the forest and the swallows glide -around the barns and the ricks—“all the -living staircase of the spring, step by step, -upwards to the great gallery of the summer.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">VIGNETTES OF NATURE</h2> -</div> - - -<h3><i>i</i></h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">From</span> their tussocks upon the sward the -pink flowers of the sea-thrift are rising. -In one clump a pippit has its nest. The -male bird rises high in the air, then falls -suddenly, singing his little sweet song; he -regains height by mad flutterings, sing-sing-singing -all the time. In the matted turf -the leaves of the wild thyme give a faint -fragrance to the hands. Near by is the -skull of a finch, whitened by the sun and -the rains. Perhaps the falcons left it there, -or one of the buzzards; or a herring gull -chased and killed the bird, for gulls are -prepared for any villainy. But it is still of -use to something. A small spider lurks -within its shadowed emptiness.</p> - -<p>Reclining by the precipice edge one -morning in May I was made curious by a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> -sudden sweeping of gulls from the cliff-face -(where they nest) to the sea. Two or three -hundred, white in the sunshine, flapped -and glided in a narrow circle by the rocks -far below.</p> - -<p>I looked carefully, but could see nothing. -The spiral of tumbling whiteness and wild -noise continued. Something in the green -water was causing intense excitement. -From all directions other sea-birds swept -up; only the black shags squatted indifferently -on their favourite rock. Then I saw -a smooth, dark form swirling in the water, -and heard a hoarse bark; the next moment -it had dived. It was a seal. Presently the -glistening animal rolled on the surface with -a huge dogfish held in his jaws. The gulls -screamed; a shrill clamouring broke out -as the seal, having bitten the fish in two, -threw one part into the air, caught it endways, -and swallowed it. Round the Point -he swam, while the birds fought over the -remains. Presently he appeared with a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span> -writhing conger-eel, which with the greatest -ease he bit up into little pieces.</p> - -<p>An old fisherman, known as The Tiger, -told me that the seal had been there for the -last twenty years, and that so far as was -known it had no mate. It showed no fear -of a boat, and often came up alongside one, -inspected it with filmy eyes, and quietly -disappeared.</p> - - -<h3><i>ii</i></h3> - -<p>In spring the gulls throng to their colony -upon the headland. When disturbed, they -cry wildly, and circle in the air. Once as -I lay in the sun listening to the sea-fret -a sharp chattering overbore the wailing of -the gulls, and a pair of peregrine falcons -swept by.</p> - -<p>In but a moment, it seemed, they were -half a mile high, flying with incredible -swiftness, the male chasing the larger -female. From the direction of Lundy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> -Island a pair of stock-doves came across the -sea, no mean fliers. They saw the wheeling -falcons, and fear doubled their wing-beats.</p> - -<p>I watched the hawks in their mad love -chase, and then the tiercel saw the doves, -closed his pinions, and fell from a thousand -feet to the terrified doves in a few seconds. I -have seen scout machines diving in France, -but the peregrines, one behind the other -in echelon, seemed to stoop with greater -speed than the fastest of them.</p> - -<p>In fear the gulls fled to their crannies in -the cliff-face. There was a flurry of feathers -as the male hawk struck the leading pigeon; -he dropped it, swerved, and struck the -other, while his mate clawed his first kill. -Upwards, with the dove suspended in her -talons, she climbed. A heavy black raven -flapped to the dove whose blood was -staining the green sea as it lifted in the -swell.</p> - -<p>The peregrine screamed—<i>check, -check, check</i>—and dropped on the heavier pirate,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -who, as the hawk came above him, rolled -over and held up his javelin beak. The -hawk slipped, regained height, stooped -again, was met with the great beak, and -then flashed away chattering towards the -mainland, followed by his mate.</p> - -<p>The next moment a crowd of gulls -splashed and quarrelled over the dead pigeon, -the raven a sombre fellow amid their whiteness; -the rabbits crept from their burrows; -and in the sunshine the tiny pippits jerked -towards heaven in weak flight, then fell, -singing and trilling. And life in the springtime -went on.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">HAWK NOTES</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">A cloud</span> from the sea dragged over the -mountain so that the buzzards wheeling -in the upper air were hidden, and only -their mewling cries came down. I suppose -they outsoared the cold autumnal vapours; -they often sail in the heavenly freeness a -mile and more above the earth, broad wings -for ever lifted by the winds.</p> - -<p>These big hawks are quite common in -the West Country; I have seen as many as -ten pairs on the wing at once. They are -clumsy in the lower air, flapping heavily -and beating over the slopes of heather and -gorse very much like an owl. But when -they attain to high solitude they are transformed. -Sometimes as they turn the sun -throws a golden lustre on their pinions.</p> - -<p>All the British hawks that I have seen—kestrel, -sparrowhawk, merlin, peregrine<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -falcon, buzzard, and marsh harrier—hover -to find their prey. Their hovering may -be prolonged, or for an instant only. The -kestrel leans on the wind, the sparrowhawk -(I am referring to those that hunt in the -open) dashes down wind, swings up, poises, -then dashes down at his prey. The peregrine -falcon hangs high above the cliff -slope or the inland fields. He and his mate, -hunting together, are like two black anchor-heads. -Even in a considerable wind they -are not disturbed. They remain fixed till -something is seen, and then they fall, head -first, swifter and swifter, plunging at an -enormous rate. If they are within three -hundred yards, and the day is still, you may -hear the hissing of the stoop. They strike -their victim and smash it, or miss altogether, -abandoning after three failed stoops. The -male usually follows the female should she -miss.</p> - -<p>Buzzards—spanning nearly four feet—are -the most graceful hoverers. They hang,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -with wings arched back, a few yards over -the rabbit runs through the gorse and -the bracken. A fairly steady breeze is -needed to keep them stable. I have watched -for more than a minute a buzzard hanging -thus, moving only its tail. The secret of -its poising is that it <i>falls</i> continually on the -wind, pressing its breast into the flow to -counteract the lifting impulse of its wings.</p> - -<p>Once I saw a buzzard glide down a hill -at about eight miles an hour, a yard from -the ground, its feet hanging below, ready -to grasp something. Its slow slip downwards -(“glide” would convey too rapid -a motion) amazed me—it might have been -sliding on a wire. Eventually it alighted, -and rose with a lashing snake. The reptile -was too much for it; the buzzard rushed -about in middle air, turning and screaming. -Eventually the snake fell to the ground.</p> - -<p>I know an eyrie in a pinewood composed -of nearly two hundredweight of sticks. -It is about seven feet across, and quite as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> -deep. For half a century and more it has -been repaired every spring. Years ago I -took the three eggs and lay for a long time -in the nest, trembling with joy. The old -birds were frightened to come near. I still -have those eggs.</p> - -<p>The buzzards nested there this year, but -I could not climb up. The nest was at a -terrible height. Underneath were hundreds -of rabbits’ skulls, rats’ tails, beetle skins, -and the feathers of small birds. Perhaps -in the years to come when I go there I -shall be terrified to see an eager face looking -over the nest, and a shrill, triumphant voice -exclaiming, “I say, father, I’ve got three -eggs. What a bit of luck!”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">PROPHET BIRDS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">One</span> September morning there wheeled a -great concourse of gulls over the headland. -Through the mist their cries came wild -and plaintive. Old men in the village -said that it meant a big storm.</p> - -<p>I did not believe that birds could prophesy. -Having studied the phenomena of nature -for many years, I have come to know -that everything happens by chance. For -instance, during the autumn of 1920 severe -wintry weather was forecasted because the -hawthorn peggles were plentiful, and the -granaries of squirrels were more numerous -than usual. Quite a number of journals and -periodicals stated these “portents” quite -seriously. What illusions! The spring -of that year was mild, the hawthorn blossom -beautiful, and unravaged by frost. Hence -the peggles. As for the squirrels, they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -found a goodly fall of beechen mast, and -promptly stored it!</p> - -<p>But to return to the gulls over Baggy -Point. There must have been two or three -thousand of them, floating and wailing. “A -master storm be cumin’,” said the granfers.</p> - -<p>All that day, sunlessness and quiet seas. -I told the granfers that they were wrong (I -am young and self-confident). I explained -that their knowledge of nature was not great—had -one not told me that swallows sleep -in the mud of the river Taw during winter?</p> - -<p>But that night clouds came up and hid -the stars, the owls called mournfully, the -wind shook the elms in the churchyard. -A moan under the door, a rattling of the -window; the spaniels on my bed whined -uneasily. Something was astir—a great -silence hollow and foreboding. The chimney -tun hummed a little song of rue in the -dark; I was instantly awake, and waiting.</p> - -<p>A faint roar overbore the near sounds. -It was the sea on the rocks two miles away.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> -Suddenly the rain came, like goose-shot -against the window, on the trees: the blast -tore at the thatch. All through the night -it continued until a gray dawn showed low -clouds going over like the canvas of ancient -galleons, windburst and tattered.</p> - -<p>The next morning tons of seaweed—deep-sea -plant, too—heaved and shuddered -in the rockpools, while a belt of oil -fuel lay on the sand with spars and planks. -Had there been a wreck somewhere? No -one knew. Certainly it looked as though a -cargo had gone overboard, for from the headland -one could see another black belt where -the walls of gray-green water toppled in foam.</p> - -<p>But the gulls? They had gone inland, -right up the wide sandy estuary of the river. -How did they know, so many hours before, -that the storm was coming?</p> - -<p>The more one thinks one knows of nature -the more open should be the mind of the -naturalist. I am learning, or should I say, -unlearning?</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A BIRD MYSTIC</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Every</span> year the ragtailed swallows are -fewer, for many are destroyed as the hosts -sweep southward in autumn, killed by -electric wires on the Continent “for food” -(I have seen them, with thrushes and -blackbirds, laid out, pitifully small and -gentle, in the Italian shop-windows—Nero -in hell must be awfully pleased with -this sure sign of degeneracy among the -descendants of that race of which he -declared himself to be “a genius.”)</p> - -<p>In all the tallats<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> of my Devon village -there were but four swallows’ nests during -the summer of 1921. There are over fifty -tallats. Under the rafters are the ruins of -nearly two hundred mud mansions—belonging -to past summers. Some, indeed, are -intact, others utilised by flycatchers, others<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span> -have been selected by wrens for foundations -of their domed nests. But only four are -being used this year.</p> - -<p>Although the swallows are becoming -extinct the swifts are increasing. I have -met many people who do not know one -bird from the other. Yet it is easy to tell.</p> - -<p>The swift is the mystic among birds. He -is aloof from other birds—apart from life. -He is never seen to perch unless it be on the -rigging of a ship during migration. The -swift is black, he screams shrilly as he darts -through the air, his wings are curved like -a boomerang. During June I have seen -and heard them long after midnight, whole -cohorts of them wheeling in the sky, their -cries sounding like the thin jingle of a frail -chain. I verily believe that some remain -on the wing (not the brooding females, of -course) from dawn till dawn. They pass -my cottage door a foot away from my head, -their wings hissing. Under the ancient -thatch they nest, plunging, it seems, straight<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> -into the holes. This is necessary, because -a swift clings with difficulty; for some -reason all its four toes are in front of the foot. -Through the dark holes they creep, to reach -the nests of saliva, cobwebs, and straw-speck -laid like a mouldered saucer on the lath -and plaster.</p> - -<p>One midsummer eve a great commotion -brought me to my doorway. I looked out -and saw about half a hundred swifts pursuing -a great barn owl, white and slow-fanning, -holding in one dropped foot a -limp rat. The owls are nesting on the lath -and plaster of my cottage, but they do not -interfere with the swifts.</p> - -<p>When the wheat is nearly ready for the -reaping, the swifts begin to think of the -journey to Africa. They are among the -last birds to arrive here in the spring, but -the first to depart (excepting the cuckoo). -When the Voice speaks in the night they -mount many miles, flying up to the stars, -and rush to the south. It is a sad time for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> -some birds, as the instinct for migration is -so intense that if any young are unable to -fly they are left. What caused this remorseless -migration in the first place, and why -does it happen? Nobody knows. It is -one of the problems insoluble by research -or reasoning; insoluble as the mystery of -life itself.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">SAMARITANS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Towards</span> the end of August a pair of house-martins -(or eave-swallows—I prefer the -name given them by Richard Jefferies) came -to my cottage wall, and clung, two slim, -black-and-white fairies, to the rough cob -surface. Excited twitterings and peckings -for a minute, then they flew away. Almost -immediately one returned with a beakful -of mud, taken from the verge of a ruddle-red -pool in the roadway. This was tacked -to the wall, close under the ragged fringe -of thatch, and away sped the bird as her -mate came with his burden. All day they -worked, seeming never to feed.</p> - -<p>But the nest grew slowly. Perhaps their -other muddied cup had been knocked down -by boys, or sparrows had seized it; by their -intense eagerness it appeared to me that -their first brood had failed altogether; there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> -was something of the frenzy of April in -their labour.</p> - -<p>In the evening I was amazed by what I -saw. The toiling pair had been joined by -about a dozen other martins, all bearing -beakfuls of mud and grass to the precipitous -site. In regular order came mud, quickly -moulded and kneaded into place, then came -a broken straw, a rootlet, or a twitch of grass. -There was just time to place this in position -before another bird would arrive. A sweet -soft trickle of eagerness fell continually from -just above my window. The next morning -succour was still availing, and quickly the -nest grew. We discussed this in the village, -but even the oldest granfer had never heard -tell of such a thing before. Toilers in the -harvest fields (the “unimaginative labourers”) -paused and regarded. They were interested, -and many pondered the problem with me.</p> - -<p>“League o’ Nations,” grinned one. -“There is much friendship among birds,” -I said. “Aiy, aiy!” agreed another, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -told me in the soft melodious burr of the -west country how, in his garden that spring, -a robin had fed a nest of hedge-sparrows.</p> - -<p>The nest was finished in three days. The -lining of feathers was a speedy business, -for I scattered a handful on the ground -beneath, wishing to give my small aid. I -am sure the pair were grateful, for on the -fourth day, when I inspected from a ladder, -the first egg was laid and the mother was not -alarmed by my intrusion.</p> - -<p>This intensive construction is not usual. -It is not instinctive. It is the result of -reason and decency of life in their colonies. -Rooks, being amoral, would not help one -another. Martins live together in trust and -decency. Who, hearing their song (jumbled -though it may be), can doubt this.</p> - -<p>“League of Nations,” a simple man had -said to me. I wondered if the hopes of -Richard Jefferies will ever be fulfilled. -Are not the eave-swallows wiser than us? -Sometimes I think so.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">SPORTSMEN OF THE -RUBBISH-HEAPS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">An</span> old, faded notice board, bearing the -legend that trespassers will be prosecuted, -leans at a low angle in the hedge; newer -and larger boards announce that the land -is “admirable for building purposes” and -for sale. A gate guards a gap in the hedge, -over which bold boys swarm on Saturdays -and Sundays when no policeman is in sight.</p> - -<p>This preserve, as the crow flies, is about -eight miles from London Bridge in a south-easterly -direction. It is known to dustmen, -who dump their loads upon its once-green -fields, and it is also known to certain -cockney sportsmen.</p> - -<p>Trams and omnibuses pass near its violated -woodlands (soon to fall), and yet its -possibilities are immense. One Sunday after -the war I walked there. Four shooting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> -parties, complete with dogs, were out after -its game. Now, it is not lawful to pursue -game on Sundays; nor is it lawful to carry -a gun without a licence. But the sportsmen -do not mind that. Their guns have sawn-off -barrels, and take apart in less than ten -seconds. An inside pocket conceals both. -As for their dogs—well, although I am a -dog-lover and like rough shooting, I would -not care to be seen in my own village with -such dogs. Every man I met would grin -and wink—long, swift dogs they are, a -mixture of greyhound and bulldog, chiefly, -with various other strains, in order to make -them that rare breed—the true lurcher. -They never bark. They look slyly at -you. Often they grin in dog-fashion, -suspiciously, almost a leer.</p> - -<p>The sportsmen shoot anything. The last -hare has been gone for years, even a rabbit -is an unusual sight, almost as rare as a partridge. -Generations ago gravel was taken -from this estate, leaving shallow pits that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> -in winter are filled with water. Snipe -haunt the pools even now, but they fly up -so quickly and then zigzag that it is impossible -to hit them.</p> - -<p>When a shot is fired guns are hidden, and -heads look round for policemen. Sparrows -are common game, thrushes and blackbirds -are considered the equivalent of pheasants, -and the large missel-thrush causes as much -excitement and admiration as a first woodcock. -A pigeon is as rare as a golden -plover, and talked of for weeks.</p> - -<p>Sport is not confined to turning-up birds -and snap-shooting. The superior ones -carry guns; the lowlier fraternity hunt the -humble rat, who loves the rubbish-heaps. -Their holes are everywhere, by broken -umbrellas, decrepit straw hats, burst boots, -papers, straw, tins, novels, bottles, and old -torn shirts. Little terriers quiver with -excitement as their masters from Deptford -and Shoreditch dig with the crowbars—great -excitement this.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>Of course the boys must have their -shooting parties. Some of them are very -skilful with the catapult, and when bored -with life they are quite equal to shooting at -their elders. Others frequent the pools, -wading after efts and sticklebacks. Once I -saw a systematic dragging of the ponds -with the aid of an old army blanket.</p> - -<p>At another end of the preserve bird-catchers -are busy with clap-nets and call-birds. -Perhaps, if you go near, surly looks -will greet you, and you may hear the sound -of frail wings ceaselessly fluttering against -the bars of tragically overcrowded and small -cages. Sometimes goldfinches flit over, their -sweet sipping notes rising and falling as -they pass to the thistle-heads of last autumn; -and wistfully comes the answer from the -cages as beaks covered with blood are -thrust again and again through the bars.</p> - -<p>I knew this place years ago, when it was -the country. The land is for sale; they are -going to build; and the house-squares of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -civilisation will be better than the green -fields so foully ravaged. But it is nothing -to do with me. The happy, happy days -of boyhood are gone for ever, with their -hopes and their friendships: I shall never -go there again, nor shall I hear the wood-larks -singing there on a morning of May, -nor watch the kingfisher as he draws a -sapphire line to the pit where every spring -we found his nest. All these are dead: let -the houses and the streets obliterate the -place for ever.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">RUNAWAYS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Many</span> pet birds escape from captivity every -year, and their distressed owners wonder -how they fare. For it is generally understood -that the wild creatures resent one -who has had long association with man, -and usually do their best to kill it. But -this, I think, is merely a fiction. It is said -that should a canary join a flock of goldfinches, -they will taboo it, and even fall -upon it and eventually kill it with their -beaks. Cases that I have known prove -exactly the reverse. I know that a canary -among sparrows meets with kindly treatment, -perhaps because its appearance is so much -more striking than their own dull plumage -that like primitive savages seeing a white -man for the first time, they are inclined to -fall down and worship it.</p> - -<p>In Hyde Park one summer I saw a little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span> -green love-bird feeding on seeds of the -grass. Now lovebirds are often born in -captivity, and their wings are feeble. But -in this case the bird had the full power of -its wings, and when a boy tried to capture -it, it flew away with the speed and agility -of a mothflitsie, or jack-snipe.</p> - -<p>Even such a bird as the parrot can -support itself. There is a rookery in the -Lewisham Infirmary Gardens, and for -some years past a gray and red African -parrot has been flying about with rooks, -who seem to welcome its presence.</p> - -<p>In flight it resembles a pigeon and a hawk, -and its presence among them is all the more -mystifying, because the antipathy of rooks -to a hawk is well known; they mob one -and drive it away whenever seen. The -Lewisham parrot escaped before the war, -and survived many winters, for I saw it -feeding with them in the Recreation -Grounds during 1919.</p> - -<p>Its curved beak prevents it from digging<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> -in the ground, and in the spring and summer -seasons there are few seeds for it to feed on, -especially in a crowded suburb like Lewisham. -I have watched to see if the rooks -feed it, but have never been able to discover.</p> - -<p>It would be interesting to know how the -spirit of fraternity is born between birds -of such widely divergent characteristics. -The parrot, however, cannot change its -plumage, although it squawks like a young -rook and caws like an old one. This may -be the explanation of the phenomenon—it -can speak the language like a native!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">LONDON CHILDREN AND WILD -FLOWERS</h2> - - -<p class="center">(<i>To W. de la M.</i>)</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> sphere-blooms of the dandelion have -left their anchorage and are floating away -in the warm wind. That same wind bears -with it a vague scent, for the wild flowers -are open to the sun, while the white -buds of the may-tree and the lilac-blossom -of the keeper’s cottage yonder have come -before their time. The yellow celandine -petals have gone from the meadow, already -their little heart-shaped leaves are tinged -at the edge with the rust of decay; the -brighter buttercups drink deeply of the -poured sun-wine, and the red sorrel and -pale cuckoo flowers move as the wind -comes more strongly. No form of flower -life remains for long. When I came here -but a few weeks since the celandine was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> -everywhere; a brave flower, for it rises so -early, and is one of the first signs of life -stirring again in the cold earth. Then the -wood-anemones shone like stars among the -brown leaves under the hazel wands and -ashpoles of the covert, and on the raised -bank near the vermin tree where the -marauder stoats and pirate crows hang, -the sweet violets drooped their heads, shy -in their loveliness. I passed by that bank -to-day, but the sweet violets have gone, -even as the wood-anemones are withering. -Nothing remains for long. But the first -swift screams high in the azure, his black -curved wings bearing him in fast circles, -less graceful than the swallow, who floats -on the bosom of the wind, then falls and -turns sharply rather than sweeps through -the air with the effortless thrusts of the -swift. So in the place of the violet’s scent -I have the scream of the swift, and the -cuckoo calls above the dying wind-flowers.</p> - -<p>I leant against a wooden fence, placed to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> -keep the cattle in the meadow from straying -into the covert behind, and to guard -them from the brook that ran at the edge -of the hazels. High nettles hid the lower -rails of the fence, growing straight and -green, and giving off a heavy odour from -their flowers. From afar a cuckoo was -calling, but near me the only sounds were -the burring of the dusky humble bees at -the nettle flowers, and the soft voice of the -brook. A great cloud shadow came rushing -over the meadow, the wind lost its warmth, -and a few drops pattered on the hawthorn. -Immediately a blackbird sang on the topmost -bough of an oak tree in the wood, -and a wren trilled from some hidden bush. -Gently the rain fell, plashing on the veined -leaves of the hazels; a yellow-green wave -of light descended the distant hills and -followed the black shadow over cornfield, -meadow, and webbed pattern of hop field, -washing the red oast-houses with instant -colour. The swift sunlight swept down to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span> -the meadow, the shadow passed onwards, -and again the sun gave its vitalising rays -to the grass and the wild flowers.</p> - -<p>The blackbird left the oak tree and -dropped down to continue his search among -the moist leaf-mould; the wren was silent. -Just behind, and dividing the field from -the pheasant wood, the brook, its waters -swelling with light, brimmed smoothly -round a curve. A sweet little whispering -call, oft repeated and so gentle that it might -have been the voice of the brook, came -from the ashpoles beyond. A long-tailed -tit was gathering the down from the hazel -catkins, calling, or rather murmuring, in -shy ecstatic love to her mate as she did so. -The sunlight—rendered whiter and purer -by the wind from the far hills—streamed -down through the nut trees and the opening -buds of ash; as the leaves rustled they -caught the sunbeams, and were turned a -lucent green. Mingling with the tender -notes of my little bottle-bird gathering her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> -material was the voice of the brook, almost -inaudible, but lifting the heart with sudden -joy for its poem.</p> - -<p>I watched the two birds, so happy with -each other, and heedless of anything but -the immediate joyful moment, carry the -down to a quick-set hedge, snowy with -blossom, dividing the meadow from the -wheatfield. They disappeared for a moment -among its greeneries and spiky thorns, and -then flew back to the covert, still murmuring -to each other in their wheezy, subdued -tones. In the hedge the house was nearly -completed, and had been fashioned with -wondrous skill. Outside the birds had -woven gray lichen from the apple trees -with the green moss found under the oaks, -and gradually a long, bottle-shaped nest -had grown among the thorns. Several -hundreds of feathers had been borne from -the farmyard—distant over a mile—each -journey made with the feeble jerky flight. -Think of the infinite labour and searching<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> -before the cradle is ready for the dozen -minute eggs that will nestle in its soft cup! -The little chap and his adoring wife were -not alarmed at my presence: I stood within -two yards of their nest, but they flew into -the hedge and out again without fear or -distress.</p> - -<p>A wild bee hummed among the nettles, -content and self-sufficient; a crow slanted -overhead, veering as he saw me, for crows -and gamekeepers hate each other equally; -a dead leaf fluttered into the water and was -carried in a foam-capped whirlpool under -the roots of the hawthorn. Three willow-wrens -came to the tree, and sought the -insects that walked over the broad platform -of the leaves; one flew to the surface of -the brook and seized a horse-fly struggling -in the water. The stream sang and sang, -carrying the leaf that had left the tree -for ever; the sunlight flashed a burnished -ripple, was gone again, and the bees brushed -against the nettles, wondering if they should<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> -stay there or gather their harvest from the -bluebells, lit by the shuffling shadow mazes, -whose honey lay ready for loading. All -the morning the bells on the green towers -of stalk had been pealing their chimes of -fragrance to the bees; the busy harvesters -went heavily past, drawing their song-inspiration -from the infinite flame of the -sun, passing from bell to bell with an eagerness -that must cause the wild hyacinths -to rejoice—for would they not shortly -vanish like the celandines and the wind-flowers? -Nothing remains for long. A -brief life, and they have gone whither all -things that draw upon the earth-energy -must go. Though the blackbird sing so -leisurely, the flowers stand gently timorous -in their fragility, the veined leaf stain -itself with the sunbeams, and I am exalted -in the “light and fire of summer,” yet for -all there is only so little of time. Therefore, -it seemed to me, by the brimming water, -so pitiable that millions were confined in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> -factory and office, breathing the air fouled -by exhaust of petrol engine and chimney, -while the brook rippled so sweetly, and the -living air formed a passionate stream with -the energy of the sunbeams.</p> - -<p>Dreaming by the brook, I thought of -other woods nearer London, which are so -dear because of old association with the -friend of my boyhood. There still the -nightingale returns, the jay lurks, and -the mysterious nightjar wheels when the -chafer-beetles flit against the oak leaves -at twilight. And yet, less than half a mile -away, is a busy tram terminus. The -wild things in freedom love their haunts -and are not easily driven away, but in -the higher wood—beautiful in spring with -apple blossom, uncurling brakefern, silver -birch and sheen of bluebell—no birds sang -as alone I walked among its violated sanctities. -It was the hour of solitude, when the -sun almost was quenched and the moon had -not yet come above the dim hills. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span> -paths were beaten into mire by the passing -and re-passing of a thousand feet, acres -of bluebells had been uprooted and taken -away, many trampled and crushed, or -gathered and cast carelessly on the paths. -The apple blossom was stripped from the -trees. In his instinctive effort to possess -beauty, man invariably destroys it—for is -not all beauty ever elusive? It is the subconscious, -or deeper than subconscious, -realisation of this elusiveness of beauty that -causes the sadness of its contemplation—the -blossoms were gone, a whole spring-life -of them, carried away by the people -who had come from Walworth, Shoreditch, -and Woolwich. Branches of those graceful -trees, the silver birches, had been torn and -wrenched off; not content with decimating -the flowers, grasping hands had broken -the smaller trees. A week ago, before the -fatal beauty of the apple bloom had -drawn the hordes from their strongholds, -I found dozens of thrushes’ and blackbirds’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> -nests—some with eggs, others with -fledgelings—all these disappeared on that -Sunday. No beauty remains inviolate for -long.</p> - -<p>I walked slowly to the tram terminus, -where the crowded cars waited to bear the -many people back to London, thinking -that soon the woods would be down, and -houses with their inevitable laurel and -rhododendron bushes crowd together in -regular patches; the sooner, perhaps, the -better. Memory of former days was only -too poignantly present.</p> - -<p>In the cars sat the women and the men, -each one clasping a flower or a fragment of -blossom—of hawthorn, apple, or chestnut -tree; the little children wriggled and -chattered, holding in their arms great -bunches of bluebells with their sappy stalks -gleaming white where the sun had not stained -them; boys with purple-dusty grass bennets -and girls with lilac-coloured cuckoo flowers -and drooping buttercups. A phantom<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> -carillon still chimed from the wild hyacinths, -though their towers were fallen and the -belfries wrecked. I looked at the transfigured -faces of the children—old or young, -they were all children—who breathed in -the smoke and worked in the shadow, and -saw that the beauty of the wild flowers had -passed into their eyes; although the woods -were ravaged, the spoiling and pillaging -had not been in vain. For two or three -days wilting flowers and stolen blossom -would remind them of the sunlight and -the fresh air, of the cloud shadow that swept -up and the warmth that followed when the -beams of light lacquered the branches of -the trees.</p> - -<p>I was filled with an ecstasy; the car, -ordinarily so drab with its burden of artisans -and factory workers, seemed illumined and -vitalised with yellow, the colour of happiness; -a radiance hovered about the children, -as though the buttercups had dislustred -their gold upon the air. I wanted to shout my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span> -joy aloud. Here was a manifestation of my -hopes for mankind, the thoughts ever with -me; at night when only the stars are in the -sky, or when the moon is old and like a -scarred shield nailed under the rafters of -heaven; at dawn, when the light flows -over the eastern bar of the world till it -drains into the western sunset. One thought -by night and one thought by day—my hope -is for the happiness of mankind. Could -words of mine but tell you of the dream -that lurks by the brook in summer, or with -the clouds floating with snowy sails in -cerulean waters! There the Immortals are -waiting. See the joy and happiness that -is with every swallow flying low over a -lake, his liquid image gliding under him. -What is all the philosophy in the world to -the joy of the beautiful swallow? Civilisations -have risen and crumbled, faded into -nothingness, like footprints in the desert -obliterated by sand. The sweet little -whispering call of my long-tailed titmice<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span> -fashioning their bottle nest, so happy in -the sunshine, is a wiser and more profound -utterance than all the philosophy collected -from the books of the world....</p> - -<p>The tram drew nearer London with its -ragged children; had I doubted it before, -no longer was the ideal of the artist obscured -from me—you must hear it. It must be -the ideal of man to beautify the lives of -those who pass nearly all their days in the -places whence the wild birds and the flowers -have gone for evermore.</p> - -<p>I thought of these things as the voice of -the brook mingled with the love-whisper -of my little bottle-birds, and the bees -droned their anthem to the pealing chimes -of the bluebells. For every year the -flowers come, the migrants travel across -the great dim sea, the wheat sways and -bends as the wind rushes over, and the -silver-burning sun swings across the sky; -but never enough of these do the little ones -in the city see; life does not remain for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span> -long. And I saw the children of the trams -reflected in the light-burthened brook, and -was glad, even though the buttercups had -gone from the meadow, and the wandering -bees sought in vain in those other woods -for the loveliness of the stained apple blossom.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">MEADOW GRASSES</h2> - - -<p class="center">(<i>To B. E. H. T.</i>)</p> -</div> - -<h3><i>i</i></h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">A brimstone</span> butterfly drifted with the -wind over the waving grasses, and settled -on the shallow cup of a tall flower, John-go-to-bed-at-noon. -The bright flowers -were closing, for the sun was high. It -paused for an instant only, and then fluttered -over the hedge and was gone. Came -a common white butterfly—a weed of the -air, hated by the countrymen: yet part of -summer’s heart as it flickered like a strayed -snowflake in the sunshine, passing the -whorled spires of red-green sorrel and glazed -petals of buttercup, living its brief hour -among the scents and colours of summer. -Vibrating their sun-crisped wings with shrill -hum, the hover-flies shot past: the wild<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> -humble bees sang to themselves as in a -frenzy of labour for their ideal they took -the pollen from the roses in the hedge; -the cuckoos sent call after call of melody -from the distant hazel coppice. The sound -of summer was everywhere, the earth filled -with swelling ecstasy—everything so green -and alive, the waving grasses and the hawthorns; -the green kingdom charged and -surcharged with energy, from the wild -strawberry to the mighty, sap-surfeited bole -of the oak. Although so still, the vast -earth was humming and vibrating, the -crescendo of passion reached gradually while -the sun swept nearer, day by day, the -zenith of its curve.</p> - -<p>In one corner of the meadow was a small -pond, half hidden by rushes, bearing a -golden blazon of flower—in autumn the -countrypeople would grind the roasted -seeds of the iris to make their “poor man’s -coffee.” With them grew the bog asphodel, -crowned by a tapering spike of starlike<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span> -flowers, also yellow, the colour of happiness: -in old time this plant was supposed to -soften the bones of cattle, hence the Latin -name, <i>ossifragum</i>. Hidden securely among -the rushes, the moor-hen had her nest of -dried water-weed, a platform on which at -night rested her children, little black balls -of fluff with a red beak. A faint chirruping -came from the flags, a splash, and silence: -the mother had heard my slow approach -and called to her young to remain still. -Something with a thin, stick-like body, -enamelled blue and fanned by a whirling -crystal of light, alighted on the open white -petals of a crowsfoot—the water-buttercup; -the dragonfly folded its gauzy wings and contemplated -the still deeps from which, a few -hours before, it had crept—a summer thing -that would fulfil its destiny so quickly, and die. -Like the civilised bees that leave the security -of skep and stored caves of honey to the new -race, so all the wild things live but to secure -the future of their species. Everything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span> -strives for the beautiful, the ideal, without -conscious effort, maybe, but the ideal is -there—all for the species. The nightingale -that silvers the dusk with song has finer -notes than his ancestor of olden time; he -has learnt so much during the centuries; -through generations of faithful loyalty to -an ideal his tiny soul-flame has become -brighter, and his voice speaks with sweeter -poetry. On the may trees in the hedge, -already shaking their blossoms into the -wind, the wild roses were open to the sky; -it was now their brief hour of sunshine. -Simple petals stained with roseal hue, -they waited for the wild bee to bring the -pollen that would change the beauty into -life.</p> - -<p>High sang the larks over the meadow, -striving with fluttering wings to reach the -blue vision of heaven. Their voices trailed -to the earth and filled the heart with hope -and joy. Afar, the noisy rooks fed their -young in the colony in the elm-tops; at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> -hand, on the ground, golden buttercup and -white moon-daisy, lemon-coloured hawk-weed -and obstinate charlock, beloved of -the visiting bee for its great dowry of -honey. The sunbeams had flooded the -cold earth during the springtide of the -year, and now the earth had sent its flowers -and its grasses with their faces turned above, -whence came the light that was life, the -light that was truth to the birds and the -bees, the flowers and the grasses. For -years I pondered the higher meaning of -life, studying in a city, amid the smoke and -clattering hum of traffic; the wild ones -have never needed to seek—they have been -happy by the brook with its lanced sunpoints -and swallowy song of summer over -the pebbles and the mossy boulders; they -have had no illusions. Nor have they -needed philosophies or discarnate paradises.</p> - -<p>Everything loved the mowing meadow. -By the stream the blackbirds sought for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span> -food, the finches came to sip, the hover-flies -fanned above the kingcups. Scarlet -soldier flies and little plain moths clung to -bennet-bloom and spray-like awn, the wind -sighed in the grasses as it shook the dust-pollen -from the heads. The meadow grasses -were timorous of the breeze, and trembled -at its coming, like the heart of a maiden -reluctant yet yearning: whispering to the -wind to bear the seeds, for the mowers -would come shortly. Over the water-meadow -the lapwings wheeled and spun—the -lapwing holds the secret of the swamps -and boglands, and you hear it in his wild -voice as his wings sough above. In the -early spring he makes over the dull furrows -his plaintive music, climbing high and -diving to the ground as though it were -sweet ecstasy to fall, wing-crumpled and -broken-hearted, before his mate. Something -in the call of the peewit fills me with -sadness, like the memory of those passed -springs that were in boyhood so glamorous.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span> -The peewit’s song is wild, he knows that all -things pass, that the leaves and the flowers -will die and nothing remain.</p> - -<p>Now, as he saw me, his voice was harsher, -more husky; somewhere among the tufts of -spiked grass his young were crouching, -depending on their plumage in harmony -with the ground to remain unseen. <i>See-oo-sweet, -see-oo-sweet, woo</i>, cried the mother: -her curled crest was visible against the sky -as she turned on broad pinions.</p> - - -<h3><i>ii</i></h3> - -<p>One morning, when the cuckoo was -silent and the young partridges were -following their parents through the culms -of the meadow-forest, two labourers arrived -with the mowing machine, drawn by a -pair of chestnut horses. The overture to -the midsummer hum was beginning to be -heard in the fields: wild and tame bees -ceased not from their labours; the wolf<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> -spiders were everywhere in the long grass, -searching for fly or insect in their blood -lust. Another kind of spider had erected -a net-like web between the stalks, with a -round silky tunnel in the middle, in which -he crouched among the skins of beetles, -glowing a dull bronzy green in the sun; -the torn wings of a red admiral butterfly -never again to pass with colour-dusty sails -above the blue scabious flowers; all the -tragic remainder of his catch scattered like -jetsam at the sea’s marge. The larks still -sang into the sunshine. It was the time of -year, just past the fullness of young summer, -when the song of visitant birds was over -and the insect hum had begun its shimmering -undertone.</p> - -<p>The mowing machine, drawn by the -glossy-coated horses, moved down one side -of the field. One of the mowers sat on the -iron seat and drove the pair; his mate -walked alongside and scooped the cut -grasses from the knives with a rake. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span> -horses tossed their manes and swished their -tails, drawing along with magnificent power -the light machine, and leaving behind a -swathe of broken grasses and coloured -flowers whose fragrance and hue availed -no longer—in an instant the life was gone—whither? -Rhythmically they moved in -straight line, the clattering of the machine -mingling with the cries of the driver: like -a sea-green wave overcurled and spent in -foam the flowery grasses lay in the sun. -Cat’s-tail grass, foxtail grass, meadow soft -grass, pale red in tint and sometimes called -Yorkshire fog; couch grass—the <i>agropyron</i> -of ancient Greece—the wild kin of the -wheat; the sweet-smelling Vernal grass -without whose presence one of the fleeting -scents of summer were denied us. Steadily -the mowing machine was drawn round the -field, fresh wallow lay where but a moment -before the meadow-forest bowed and returned -to the wind, and the dandelion wrought its -goldened disk in the image of the sun.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> -With the lilac flower of the scabious lay -the incarnadine head of the poppy—tokening -sleep that now had claimed its -own. Meadow crane’s-bill, which had overtopped -the grasses with the wine-dark sorrel -and prickly thistle, the vetch, and the blue -speedwell—from the highest to the lowest—all -brought low by the skirring knives.</p> - -<p>Years ago in an old village the mowers -went down into the meadow with their -curved scythes, and throughout the long -summer day they swung their ancient -implements. Every now and then they -paused to whet the sap-blurred blades with -a stone carried in their belts. <i>Tu-whet, -tu-whaat</i>—holding the symbol of olden times -near the point: it was the extreme edge -of the curve that required such constant -sharpening. Their hats were bleached by -the showers and the sunshine—I do not -recollect seeing a new one—but it may -have been a faulty impression of childhood. -It was thirsty work wielding the scythe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> -on its long handle, and required much -skill to prevent the point from digging -into the ground. Great wooden “bottles,” -or firkins, of ale were brought out in the -early morning and hidden in the nettle -ditch, well down in the cool and shade; -and often a gallon of small ale was drunken -by each labourer before the Goatsbeard -closed its flowers at noon.</p> - -<p>The sun bronzed their arms and dried -the wallows; colour soon faded. The -scarlet poppy shrivelled to a purple brown, -the gold of the dandelion became dulled, -the grasses wilted as they fell. It was -great fun to follow the workers, to gather -whole armfuls of flowers, and to pull their -petals apart. They were but flowers to me -then, pretty things, their colours delighting -the eye, so many of them: the boy was -natural and thought little, knowing nothing -of life. I have not been there for years, -but even now, when so many stacks have -grown and dwindled near the barn, I am<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span> -wandering in those fields. No other meadows -can be the same, the flowers there were -fairer, the sunlight brighter as it followed the -clouds. With so many summers burnt -out in autumnal fires there is a dearer -thought for every flower of blue chicory: -and each germander speedwell, so common -in the hedgerow, has in its little petals -something of the mystery of the sky. The -breath of all the springtimes, the light and -shade of summery months, the colour and -song of the fields stored, layer upon layer, -in the boy’s mind, return a hundredfold, -and with them a desire, never ceasing, for -others to share in this secret of happiness—the -thoughts given by nature.</p> - -<p>In the evening the village girls came -into the field to turn the hay when the -grass was fully dried by the sun, and -nothing remained of luscious clover or disk -of corn feverfew. The young larks or -corncrakes, caught perchance by the -rasping sweep of scythe, had been dead<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -many days. They raked the harvest of -the meadow into mound-like wakes, while -the master haymaker, ever watching the -clouds and the wind, urged them to greater -endeavour, for rain meant instant loss. We -tossed wisps of hay at one another, and -formed ourselves into rival parties, each -with its castle, and defied our enemies with -shrill cries. The lumbering wain came -back from the stack, a host of flies pestering -the horse, who stamped and kicked in vain -when a gadfly fastened to his side and drew -his blood. If the weather were fine, and -no danger of rain impending, the carter -would, as a great treat, let us ride on the -broad back of the horse, who appreciated -the fan of wych-elm twigs that was whisked -about his ears and eyes.</p> - -<p>They were happy days—gone now with -the wielders of the scythes in their faded -hats and their wooden ale-bottles. Now -the knives of the mowing machine shear -the field in half a day; the happy girls no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> -longer turn the swathes in the evening. -The old spirit of the country is dying, and -the factory and town calls to its children—there -is more life there, and more money -to be made. The “big house” is sold, and a -new squire has arrived, once a merchant -and now a rich man; the sons of the old -squire lie somewhere in the deep sea near -Jutland, so why retain the estate, heavily -taxed and scarce self-supporting, when it -will eventually pass away into other hands?</p> - -<p>I have come to know other meadows now, -but they can never be quite the same. I lie -in the flowery fields, seeing the quaking-grass -against the sky, and a wild bee swinging -on a blue columbine, while a lark rains joy -from on high. These return, these are -eternal; and with them a voice that is silent, -a colour that is faded.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">TIGER’S TEETH</h2> - - -<p class="center">(<i>To J. S. of Croyde</i>)</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> story of the Tiger’s great climb is still -told in the village, although it happened a -dozen or more years ago.</p> - -<p>The headland runs out into the Atlantic -for nearly two miles, and is a mile wide across -its base. They grow oats there, for the -ground is starved. Some of it, indeed, is -so poor that the plough never furrows -it, and only sheep stray upon the sward. -Gorse grows plentifully, hiding many rabbits’ -holes, and in summer near the cliff-edge -at the Point the curled cast feathers of the -gulls tremble in the wind.</p> - -<p>At the Point the cliff drops almost sheer -to the rocks three hundred and ten feet -below, forming an indentation in the headland -known as the Hole. Gulls dwell in -colonies upon the ledges and in the crannies,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span> -and like drifting snowflakes a swirl of birds -floats on the air, uprising from the sea and -uttering gabbling cries of alarm when an -intruder passes near the lip of the Hole.</p> - -<p>The village historian told me the story -one rainy night in the Nightcrow Inn. -He was a great friend of mine, and -universally known as “Muggy”; he had -been in most places on the earth, returning -eventually to his remembered village, happy -in the open air with his simple livelihood. -The returned wanderer did all kinds of -jobs in the hamlets round about, gathered -and sold watercress and mushrooms in their -seasons, arranged for the purchase of patent -manures by the farmers, representing many -firms, and was also—“I be nothing if I be -not up to date, zur, do ee see?”—an agent -for fire insurance in the big town eight miles -away. For generations his family had lived -in the village; his grandfather had bought -the wreckage of <i>H.M.S. Weasel</i>, that went -on the rocks of the Hole over a century<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> -ago, all but one man being drowned. He -had the newspaper cuttings of the wreck, and -sure enough, his ancestor was mentioned. -He cherished that cutting.</p> - -<p>One night we had finished our game of -whist with the frayed cards, and were talking. -The Inn has a low ceiling of black oak -beams, roughly shaped, and is lit by a -paraffin lamp having a permanent black -fringe to its orange flame. In a momentary -silence we heard the sharp patter of rain -flung against the window by a rapidly -rising wind.</p> - -<p>“It would be dangerous at the Point -to-night,” I murmured, shivering.</p> - -<p>Amid a chorus of assent my friend Muggy -remembered the epic story of the climb of -Raven Rock. Had I heard tell of it? No, -I hadn’t, and I settled my elbows more comfortably -on the oak table, and prepared for -the yarn. More beer first, of course. -Muggy would not have any; he drank but -a pint every night, he said.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>The pots were brought back, foaming -with home-brew, the landlord adjusted the -milled screw of the lamp so that less dark -soot-shadows slipped against the whitewashed -guard above, and we listened in -silence while the wind drove hard against -the western face of the house, bringing the -rain-clouds straight from over the wild -wastes of the Atlantic.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>They had tried to get the robbers in -many ways, but rarely were they seen. -Evidence of their visitations was much -against them. Dead lambs had been found -in their pens—little gray bundles lying still -while their mothers bleated above them. -One morning Voley, the shepherd, came -to the yeaning field and found that a ewe -itself had been attacked, and had lost an -eye. After that he carried the great ten-bore -flighting gun that was usually brought -out in the frosty winter when wildfowl -haunted the great lonely wastes by the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span> -estuary formed of the confluence of two -rivers. The robbers were too cunning, -however, perceived him from invisibility, -and never came near.</p> - -<p>Muggy had a job at the time trapping -rabbits for the bailiff of a gentleman’s -farm. He was paid by results, being given -so much a head for perfect rabbits; and -rabbits did not pass as perfect to the -dealer at the market town when half their -heads had been battered as though by the -blows of some mighty instrument. The -curious thing was that he did not know -for a long while what caused the damage. -He thought of a fox, but a fox would not -have mauled rabbits like that; he would -have carried them away. The idea of a -badger being the aggressor came to him, -but he could find no spoor of a badger’s -pad, which, once seen, is never forgotten. -And still the mysterious depredations went -on. Farmer Smith of Crowberry, later on -in the year, lost seven chicks one morning,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span> -with no sign of how they had gone. He -thought of hawks, and waited all that -afternoon with a gun, but nothing came. -He knew that had it been a kestrel the -bird would have returned for more. Another -morning he lost seventeen. Nine of them -had been left—mutilated lumps of stained -feathers. They looked as though a spike -had been driven through their bodies. He -knew that it was no ordinary thing that -caused the destruction.</p> - -<p>Mortality among the lambs continued. -And then, one night in the Nightcrow Inn, -light came to them. They slapped their -thighs, and rattled their pint mugs; of -course, it could only be “thay” ravens! Till -closing time that night it was the only -subject talked about.</p> - -<p>The Tiger was there and his brother -Aaron—two men who belonged to a family -that has been famous for cliff scaling in the -district for many generations. They had -immense arms, being blacksmiths.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>The following day a boat pulled round -the headland, and the stronghold of the -robbers was detected, though no sign of -them could be seen. Aaron was in the -boat, and he fixed the place by a peculiar -formation of the edge of the cliff. This -done, he grunted, and a long pull back to -the sands began.</p> - -<p>The waning moon of dawn had floated -above the Exmoor hills when the next -morning three men left the village and set -off along the road to the base of the headland. -They carried ropes, hauling blocks, -a great crowbar, and a sledge-hammer. -John Smith of Crowberry was one, and his -companions were the blacksmith brothers.</p> - -<p>They were going to rob the robbers.</p> - -<p>Now ravens are rare birds, having been -persecuted during the centuries almost to -extinction. The reasons for that persecution -are easily understandable. There was -no compensation for the dead lambs, no -money paid out for the slaughtered chicks,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span> -and many farmers, especially in the remote -districts, found it hard enough to live, without -being preyed upon by ravens. Still, -the ravens were now heavily protected by -law; in the village it was reckoned that -any one who took their eggs or shot the -parent birds would be imprisoned for at -least a month. By reason of their rarity, a -certain visiting bird-fancier from the town -had mentioned that he would give ten -shillings a bird for any fledgelings brought -to him. It was a grand price, they agreed -at the Nightcrow Inn; not knowing, of -course, that the dealer would make a huge -and assured profit by sending them to -London.</p> - -<p>Along one of the sheep-wrought paths, -among the springing brakeferns and blackthorns, -sea-bleached holly-bushes and gorse -clusters, just beginning to respond to the -sunbeams, the three men went that spring -morning. Already the larks were singing -high in an azure sky, the kestrels hanging<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> -in the light wind, the buzzard wheeling in -lone circles far above them. They did not -pause to watch, however, for there was a -dangerous job on hand, and it was three -miles to the Point.</p> - -<p>The three hunters kept a sharp look-out -for the ravens, but saw nothing, even when -they neared the lip of the Hole.</p> - -<p>Aaron dropped his bar, the tackle was -flung on the sward, and coats were stripped -off. Work began in earnest. The first -few powerful twangs of the sledge-hammer -on the bar woke echoes in the Hole, and a -thousand gulls spread pearly wings tipped -with jet and slipped into the air. An -uproar of hoarse voices came upwards, and, -mounting high, a great seabird, spanning -near six feet, dived at them with a soughing -of vast wings and passed a bare -two feet over their heads. But the men -took no notice. Time was precious, and -they feared that the policeman might discover -them; the terrifying thought of prison<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> -was ever behind the thought of golden -sovereigns in their pockets. Deep into the -sward Aaron drove the bar, until it remained -rigid, leaning backwards from the line of -the cliff-face. Under his arms Tiger passed -the hempen rope and the thinner guide-rope, -while John Smith of Crowberry -adjusted the hauling blocks.</p> - -<p>“Thaat be aa-right, reckons.”</p> - -<p>“Aiy aiy!”</p> - -<p>Aaron and John Smith of Crowberry -took a strain on the rope and began to pay -out hand over hand. The Tiger leaned -outwards over the Hole and slowly disappeared -over the edge.</p> - -<p>Two tugs on the guide-rope, and the men -remained still. Next came three tugs, and -Aaron whispered to Farmer John that Tiger -was near the ledge. They held on tight.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Tiger was spinning slowly -on the rope. He started to swing, backwards -and forwards, aiming for the ledge -whereon was the mass of twigs and sticks<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span> -comprising the ravens’ nest. He was about -two hundred feet above the rocks, and -looking down he noticed how the waves -slid smoothly over them, churning and -boiling white with foam afterwards. Sometimes -a gull passed near him, showing its -yellow beak with the reddish blotch at the -end. Now he was swinging nearer the -ledge—in and out, in and out. Once or -twice he looked upwards and wondered -what he should do if the old ravens came -for him. He had no stick, and their beaks -could easily pierce a lamb’s skull. But -not so much as a croak was to be heard. -He decided—as he heaved to and fro—that -with his share of the money he would -buy a purse-net for shore-fishing. Nearer -and nearer he swung to the nest, and at last -he could touch it with his foot. But the -time was not yet, so he pushed hard away -with his feet, and a loose fragment of -stone, dislodged from above, hissed past him, -and grew smaller as it dropped towards the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> -sea. Once more he pushed away from the -ledge, which was about two feet wide, -swung towards it, grasped a projecting -stone, clung hard with his left hand, and -gave one tug on the guide-rope. Up above -they lowered him one foot, and he clambered -to the ledge, panting.</p> - -<p>In the centre of the cradle of sticks, a -yard across, gaped three fledgeling ravens. -At sight of Tiger they opened their big -black beaks in fear and croaked dolefully. -He put his hand over and one pecked at it; -he struck it a sharp blow and it croaked the -more, deep, rasping, and hoarse.</p> - -<p>Tiger knew he would have to hurry. -He seized one of the three birds by the leg -and dragged it from the fouled nest, to which -it clung gawkily. But at last it was free, its -legs tied with the twine already looped to -his belt, and thrust into his basket. Quickly -he seized the other two and tied them, -noticing while he did so that pieces of dead -gulls, rabbits, chickens, lamb’s wool, fish,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> -frogs, and broken ducks’ eggs lay about -on the twigs. At last he had secured them, -and left the ledge. The old birds, if they -were near, made no sign. For a while -Tiger swung idly, satisfied, looking lazily -at the tide below. A few stones hurtled -down, and one hit his wrist, numbing it; -the fledgelings kicked and struggled, squawking. -Three minutes, and his swinging was -much lessened; he gave five tugs for the -hauling signal.</p> - -<p>There was no response, for just before -John Smith and Aaron had realised with -fear that the crowbar had worked loose in -the sward. Unthinkingly they had relaxed -the strain, and the loose stratum had yielded.</p> - -<p>The Tiger tugged away, but there was no -answering lift. Five times he tugged, slowly. -He hung still over the rocks, whence the -tide was now ebbing, leaving them gaunt -and gray.</p> - -<p>Up above the two men held tight. They -dared not move, for fear of the bar coming<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> -right out of the ground. If there had been -one more man it would have been possible -to haul Tiger up, bit by bit. As it was, -they could only remain still. The weight -on the rope was heavy, but they could stop -so for hours if need be; till help came, at -any rate.</p> - -<p>Presently Tiger realised what had -happened, and grunted in disgust. He -started to climb, using his arms only, for -he was frightened lest he should hurt the -birds and so lessen their value. Dimly -he realised that if he tired and dropped, the -rope would jerk the other two over the -cliff-edge, and all three, with the birds, -would crash to their death. He climbed -twenty feet, feeling no fatigue. There was -another hundred feet to go, easy work, -before the cliff bulged slightly. Slabs of -dislodged rock hurtled past him, and one -cut his brow. The blood poured into his -eye, and he spat angrily.</p> - -<p>When the first ache came to his damaged<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> -wrist he wound the rope round his right -leg and stood upon it. He cared no longer -about the birds. But he knew that to rest -thus was no rest at all, so upwards he went -again—a terrible laboured climbing, slowly -and with a strained wrist, blood running -from broken knuckles, and the sweat pouring -from his body. He began to feel -the weight of the dragging loop of rope -below him, but still he struggled upwards. -A shower of dust spat into his face, and he -wondered if he were blinded. His arms -shook, his muscles burned, and his palms, -in spite of their coating of horn, were -beginning to tear. He could hardly see -for the blood and sweat in his eyes, and as -he breathed he snored heavily, with great -shuddering gasps.</p> - -<p>The jutting-out cliff was just above him -now. Here the rope lay flat and taut against -the loose rubble, but he dug each hand -alternately into the shale and literally -dragged himself up, fist over fist. Then it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -was possible to press his toes into the slight -slope, and rest.</p> - -<p>For a minute he lay thus, in agony. But -he knew that to rest much was fatal; reaction -would set in. He wound his left leg round -the rope, seized the guide-rope (which ran -through another loose belt) and patiently -pulled its lower end through so that there -should be no slack between him and the -two men above. After an eternity of patient -hauling the line lay straight between him -and the lip of the Hole. Then he wound -it twice round his thick neck, and bit on it -firmly with his teeth. This done, he gave -five tugs on it, and saw it tighten. Crushing -his jaws together, he took the mighty strain, -and was drawn up a foot. Arching his back, -and leaning out nearly at right angles to the -face of the cliff, he put one foot above the -other. All the weight of his ascent was -borne by his teeth; they were his last hope. -Tiger’s teeth were yellow like old ivory, and -the best in the village. Many a time he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -taken a hundredweight sack in them and -moved about with it; many a time he had -swung from a beam by them, holding a rope -in his jaws. Now they were to save his life. -Both the haulers and himself were well-nigh -exhausted when his beard covered -with blood-stained froth appeared over the -lip of the cliff, and they dragged him -sobbing and cursing on the matted grass.</p> - -<p>Ten minutes later they had coiled up -their ropes, taken up the bar, and were -walking quickly to the village. The three -ravens were alive and well, quite unhurt -by Tiger’s struggles. The men spoke -seldom as they walked; their fear was that -the policeman would see them.</p> - -<p>They reached Tiger’s cottage in safety -and closed the door behind them. His wife -had a two-gallon jar of small ale for them, -and Tiger drank a gallon, only pausing -to fill his basin. Then he licked his moustache, -and sat down on a chair. The other -two men had thrown the tackle on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> -table, and were taking deep draughts of -the beer. They had finished the two gallons -when a succession of heavy blows came on -the door; these ceased, and there was a -great thudding on the roof.</p> - -<p>At first they thought it was the policeman. -Rural folk are usually terrified at -the idea of the law; they have the simple -imagination of children.</p> - -<p>“Come in, zur,” quavered Mrs. Tiger.</p> - -<p>Aaron, who was a devout chapel-goer, -began to tremble.</p> - -<p>“It be a ghostie!” he whispered.</p> - -<p>“Git out!” scoffed Mrs. Tiger, for she -had seen two large black shapes that she -recognised pass across the little window.</p> - -<p>Sure enough, the old ravens had discovered -their young. The curious thing, -Muggy emphasised, was that there had been -no sign of them either during Tiger’s climb -or afterwards, while the three men were -tramping the three miles to his cottage, -nor had they heard any croaking.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>Meanwhile, the people in the cottage -were fearful that the policeman would -come their way and discover everything. -The old birds kept banging away at the -thatch, tearing out great mouthfuls of it in -an endeavour to get at the fledgelings. -Tiger did not dare to use his gun; the -situation frightened him; so he opened the -door. Immediately the cat pounced at a -young bird, but one of the old birds -swooped down and gave the cat a tap on -the head that sent it spinning away, to -drop dead with a hole in its skull that -Tiger could put two fingers in. The -youngsters, with nobody to stop them, got -right away, half flying and half hopping.</p> - -<p>“And since that day, zur,” Muggy said -solemnly, “no raven has been known to -touch a lamb. That’s as true as I’m sitting -here.”</p> - -<p>The ravens have nested on the headland -again this year, using their old breeding -ledge; and I am glad that at least one pair<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> -of these rare birds haunts the solitudes by -the sea. No one interferes with them, -except the peregrines, but the raven is too -much for that fierce swift raider, turning -on his back in mid-air and holding his -beak upwards like a javelin as the falcon is -about to strike. A quick eye the raven -needs, for the hawk plunges at about -two hundred miles an hour. But they -never harm one another, and I know for a -fact, having seen it myself, that the ravens -practise their turning movement. They -love to float in an uprushing wind just -below the cliff-edge, and roll over like a -twirled distaff, sideways, and then back -again. And I think that if any stranger -tried to shoot one, the Nightcrow Inn -would rise in anger against him. The -ravens have earned their sanctuary.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">THE OUTLAW:</h2> - - -<p class="center"><i>Being the indisputable (journalese) truth about the peregrine -falcon that came to St. Paul’s Cathedral in 1920.</i></p> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> beechwood was ten miles from London. -One morning in late September a strange -visitor came to it, and perched upon a -low branch. A blackbird, feeding below -among the dried moss and brown leaves, -shrilled a sudden alarm. The blackbird -had never seen such an apparition before, -but he recognised the family.</p> - -<p>The newcomer remained still. He was -tired and exhausted after a long journey. -Since dawn he had flown high up, his -pinions urged on and on by a fierce despair. -For his mate had been shot upon Lundy -Island, and he had flown straight into the -sun’s face as though to find her spirit taken -back into its flame that gave all the wild -ones life. Swift had he flown, never pausing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -till he came to the beechwood; seeing it -below, and wrapping his wings around -him, he had fallen like a great iron arrowhead -into its solitude.</p> - -<p>The pigeons who roosted were in the -stubble: the starlings haunted the water-meadows: -the jackdaws flocked with the -rocks about the furrows. The beechwood -was still, for the blackbird had slipped -away.</p> - -<p>The stranger flapped his long thin wings, -and looked around him.</p> - -<p>He was about eighteen inches long, and -bluish-ash in colour. His throat and upper -breast were white, tinged with yellow, and -marked with a few dark streaks. But the -most noticeable thing was the eyes. They -were large, and keen, dusky; ringed with -yellow eyelids. Fierce and remorseless was -their expression, aided by the short, hooked -bill.</p> - -<p>The falcon suddenly stiffened. From the -lake below the sloping forest had come a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> -faint trumpet-like call. He knew the call -well, for many times had he and his mate -preyed upon the wild duck in the Devon -estuary opposite Lundy Island.</p> - -<p>The next moment he had gone through -the trees, a swift shadow. A little vole -splitting a beechmast on the ground below -crouched in terror. For everything preyed -upon its kind. The weasel came by day, -and in summer the grass snake; if it left -the wood and went to the meadow there -was the poised kestrel hawk; in the furrows -a fox sometimes ran, snapping at the tiny -mice; in the dark night came the great -wood owl, and that white devil, the barn -owl.</p> - -<p>The mouse crouched in terror, but he -passed on, a swift shadow: he was a noble -bird, and did not take rodents.</p> - -<p>Seven duck had flighted, and were going -towards the reaches of the Thames. They -flew fast and steadily, at fifty miles an -hour. The passing narrow shadow became<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span> -a relentless and swift whirling speck above -them, ever climbing.</p> - -<p>Then one of the duck was falling, the -flight was scattered; the falling one clutched -and borne to the beechwood, where the -hooked beak tore and ripped.</p> - -<p>Thenceforward the wood became a place -of terror. One morning the keeper discovered -a cock pheasant lying dead on the leaves. A -small part of its breast had been eaten. At -first he thought that it was the work of a -fox—but he was puzzled; he knew that -the fox usually ate more of a longtail than -a small part of its breast, and always buried -his half-eaten victim for consumption on -another occasion. And on turning it over, -he was still more puzzled. The back was -ripped as though a knife had slashed and -turned the skin right back.</p> - -<p>A hundred yards away he found a carrion -crow. The back of the crow was also -smashed, although no attempt had been made -to eat any section of its body. In other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span> -parts of the wood the keeper found slain -pheasants, all badly broken; the remains -of a squirrel—one forepaw and a bushy -tail comprising the remains. Three dead -duck floated in the lake. Whatever new -and ghastly thing was causing the havoc, -he told his head man later, it seemed to -delight in destroying and killing for sport.</p> - -<p>Gradually the terror became the topic -of talk in the inns roundabout Bromley, -in Kent. Some of the bolder and more -imaginative declared that it was caused by -an Arctic owl—one even said that he had -seen it stooping at a dog in the twilight. -He was a well-known liar.</p> - -<p>No one in the district—which was outlying -to a large town just outside the suburban -area of south-east London—had ever heard -of the like.</p> - -<p>The mystery was solved in a sudden -manner. The keeper had been setting -baited traps—of the “gin” variety—tempting -the unknown with the entrails<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span> -of rabbits. But he caught nothing save a -mangy stoat, blind in one eye and the other -filming over with age. The gins were of -no avail.</p> - -<p>The keeper kept fowls in his garden. -One day he was sitting in the porch of his -cottage, smoking after the midday meal, -and ruminating on what the squire had said -about giving up the rearing of pheasants. -His fowls were strutting and scratching: -one had recently produced an egg and was -proclaiming the fact with unmelodious -insistency.</p> - -<p>There came a hissing as of something -falling: an alarmed curse from a hen. -The keeper jumped up, swearing at the -bluish tumbling of narrow wings that had -gone over the hedge.</p> - -<p>One of his fowls was kicking the air -spasmodically. There was blood on the -path. He picked the hen up—it was -headless.</p> - -<p>The keeper swore; he knew what had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> -caused the mischief among his longtails and -duck. It was a big hawk—of a kind never -seen before. So swiftly had it come that -the fowl was decapitated by those dagger -spikes on the hind claw of the raider’s -feet.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>One day a journalist was walking in a -meadow. The meadow was near to a copse -containing a dozen tall elm trees. In the -elms were nearly a hundred black patches—a -colony of rooks at their old nests. The -rookery had been deserted in June, when -old and young birds took to the fields and -made local migrations.</p> - -<p>That morning a mist had lain in the -meadow and the rooks had known that it -was time to return to the colony.</p> - -<p>As the journalist, happy in the October -sunshine, passed near the rookery, he was -surprised to see the whole flock—some -hundreds of birds—rise with harsh imperative -cries into the air. The beating of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span> -many jet wings caused a vast soughing, -and the leaves below the trees rose and -flitter-fluttered with the winnowing. As -suddenly as it had begun, the outcry ceased. -Yet still the birds climbed higher.</p> - -<p>Soon they were just specks against the -blue, wheeling like a ring of smoke in one -great circle. Then the agitated cries came -again. One segment of the circle broke into -falling and diving, zooming and slipping, -birds, as though a strong wind had scattered -them every way.</p> - -<p>The journalist was mystified. He sat -down to watch, and to discover the reason.</p> - -<p>Two of the rooks had left the circle, and -were diving to earth. As they came nearer -he saw that their wings hung limp. They -fell a hundred yards away, and he ran over -to them. They were dead.</p> - -<p>Picking one up, it was warm, the sunlight -gleaming on the hues of its wings, glinting -green and purple. Their backs were bare of -feathers, and gaping with a terrible wound.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span> -He was more mystified, then thought that -for some inexplicable reason the other rooks -had pecked them to death. But why? -He was more puzzled as he thought. He -was well known for his puzzles.</p> - -<p>Looking up, he saw that the circle had -swung higher than ever. Gradually it -drifted away, silent.</p> - -<p>The journalist, who had some knowledge -of natural history and ornithology, returned -to London the next day and wrote the -incident up as a “news story.” But he -could give no explanation. The editor was -sceptical; said that it was no good. He -laughed, and mentioning that it was “punk,” -promptly “spiked” it.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile something was about to happen -in London.</p> - -<p>It was half-past five on Saturday afternoon. -The journalist, who worked with a -newspaper that went to press on Saturday -night for publication on Sunday, was passing -St. Paul’s Cathedral. He stopped to look<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span> -at the pigeons strutting and searching for -crumbs upon the worn paving stones. -He found two months continuous work to be -most exhausting. He still was puzzled about -the dead rooks. He had been to every -paper in London with his “rook story,” -but no one would print it. He even got -laughed at as a “fake merchant”—a tribute -to imagination, but damning as a reputation.</p> - -<p>Like chaff before a blast of wind the pigeons -scattered. His paper was rumpled by the -agitated draught caused by their departure.</p> - -<p>Looking up to the dome he saw a flock -of about fifty pigeons wheeling in steady -flight near the cross at the top. A speck -fell with a suddenness that reminded him -of a shot aeroplane: like a plunging halbert-head -it was; there was a puff of feathers -dancing and fluttering—the flock scattered, -dived to earth, anywhere, anyhow, and the -dark halbert-head became outlined against -the sky, perched on the gilt cross that -glistened in the afternoon sun.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>Then he knew that it was a peregrine -falcon, and thrilling with the sight, took -a taxi-cab back to Fleet Street (he was -young and keen) and “wrote the story -up.”</p> - -<p>His editor “liked” the idea, but demanded -that it should be rendered in what the -journalist thought was the most illiterate -English. The journalist and the editor -sneered at each other about prose for some -time: and the editor won. The illiterate -account was penned, mauled over by a sub-editor, -and finally displayed prominently -on the front page of his paper. But the -editor only leered when the journalist asked -for his taxi-cab fare.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The falcon, leaving the woods near London -came once more. The woods were ten -miles from St. Paul’s, and it took him eight -minutes to fly to the dome.</p> - -<p>His end was an epic one, and becomes -such a noble spirit. From what the journalist<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> -dreamed, he was able to imagine the death, -and here it is.</p> - -<p>One morning by the lake side stood a -gray stump, a tall thing on two stalk-like -legs. The gray stump remained motionless, -as though watching his own dull image -in the water.</p> - -<p>It was a heron fishing.</p> - -<p>He remained still for many minutes. -Something passed in the water, a long neck -shot forward, and a gleaming fish, pierced -by the beak, drawn from the lake. The -heron, who had paid a visit every morning -from the heronry at Tonbridge, flew away; -a slow-flapping, unwieldy thing, over a -yard in length. His feet stretched out -behind him, his head was tucked in between -his shoulders.</p> - -<p>The falcon was about. He stooped at -the heron. Perhaps the spirit of ancestors, -who left the gauntletted wrists of falconers -to fly at the heron of olden times, was about -him: for how else should he have dared<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span> -that pointed beak? Rolling like a ship in -a gale, heavily and in distress, the heron -turned on his back, and held his beak -pointed at the stooping falcon.</p> - -<p>The hawk swerved; swept up again; -regained height, wrapped his wings about -him and plunged. Again the beak met -him, once more he swerved.</p> - -<p>So the combat went on. Nearer the -keeper’s cottage they drifted. Now the -heron was calling in distress, <i>Kaa-ack, -kaa-ack</i>. Fell the halbert-head, darted the -spear-beak, slipped the halbert-head. It was -to be a fight to the death, till one should -misjudge by the minutest error of time, -the plundering heron or the outlawed falcon. -The small birds hid themselves in the bushes—the -sound of a shot rang out, the heron -tumbled in alarm, recovered, flapped away; -an eddy of gray feathers swirled in the wind, -the echo of the report shivered back from -the woods—and the falcon fell on the grass, -its beak gaping, and panting for breath.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>The keeper picked up the wild one, -never more to swoop on “longtail” or -“bird,” never more to descend upon -terrorised tame pigeon in Barnstaple or the -great Dome of London. The proud eyes -misted, the noble head fell back—the keeper -was surprised to feel how light the bird -was; and while he was weighing it in his -hand the outlaw died.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>But perhaps the most extraordinary -thing about this falcon-raid was that nearly -every journalist in London saw the bird; but -I saw it first, therefore it is mine.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">PEREGRINES IN LOVE</h2> - - -<p class="center">(<i>To E. G. S.</i>)</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the salt winds of the Atlantic, and above -their ancient eyrie, the peregrine falcons -anchor their flight with easy mastery of the -gusty uptrends of the precipitous headland -face. When first the celandine came below -the hedges, the male hawk mounted high, -and stooped at his larger mate like a black -and shaftless arrowhead of iron, uttering -shrill love-notes the while. Now the dog -violets and the red campion flowers are -among the grasses; the pink sea-thrift -blooms in sheltered places; and still the -peregrines pursue each other and kiss with -swift fondness over the foamed waters.</p> - -<p>The kestrel is considered by some naturalists -to be the most scientific hoverer of our -British hawks. Certainly he uses with great -skill the winds of heaven for his livelihood.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> -He leans upon the moving air, sometimes -slipping sideways and losing height, but -reassuming poise by quick beats of his -chestnut pinions. Our largest hawk, the -buzzard, is common in this district by the -sea, and with large wings outspread he -sails circlewise till his prey is detected, -when a slow descent is made to the ground. -Often these birds have been observed to -hang low over the heather and gorse, -motionless, wings arched and bent backwards, -for nearly a minute at a time. But -the peregrines, so swift and ruthless in -flight and habit, out-hover both the kestrel -and the buzzard. The hovering of the -kestrel is weak, delicately balanced; that -of the buzzard clumsily weighty, and only -managed in a strong air-current; the -peregrine falcon cuts into the gusts, controlling -his flight with instant power, unheeding -the wind’s vagaries. He can remain still, -soar higher, or drift sideways with ease.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>The eyrie is a hundred feet down the -cliff-face, upon a narrow ledge. For years -their young have been taken by the Tiger, -a small, wiry man who, descends by a rope -attached to a driven crowbar, swings -inwards to the ledge, and is hauled to the -top with the young falcons in a basket. -Yet every year when the celandines come -the falcons’ courtship begins, ending only -when the scent of the wild thyme fades -and the sea-thrift rusts with autumn’s decay. -They hunt together, ranging afar. Their -stoop is terrible to behold, so swift and -shattering its ending. It may be at a -rabbit which ventures forth from the holes -of the swarded slopes, at a stock-dove beating -speedy flight from Lundy Island, or at an -immigrant swallow flying from alien wastes -to the shore and sanctuary. Nothing is -immune from ravage save the larger gulls -and the sombre ravens, who croak defiance -from their aerial soughing.</p> - -<p>The peregrines raid from their base upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> -the headland to the inland villages, watching -for the chance of taking a tame dove from -a cot; onwards to the lonely wastes of the -sandhills, crowned with spike-grass, where -the peewits wail throughout the springtime. -They dash up the wide estuary; the ring-plover -crouch low among the stones and -seaweed as they pass; they even visit Barnstaple -itself for the blue-gray pigeons that -wheel above its old shipyards. In the -skyey loftiness one moment are the hawks, -watching and soaring, the male usually -the higher; one will close pinions and dive -like a dark arrowhead through the air, -flattening as a bird is reached; there is a -burst of feathers, a triumphant chattering, -and the limp victim is borne to the solitudes -of the dunes. A week later upon the sand -a bleached skeleton will lie, surrounded by -a scattered ring of feathers, in company -with old bones of rabbits and bead-like -shells that tell of ended generations.</p> - -<p>The pair rarely separates. Maybe the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> -leading hawk will miss; its mate follows -instantly. Sometimes a third striking is -attempted. Usually, however, it is not -needed, although the course of the dive, -once begun, cannot be altered—either the -object is missed entirely or secured. In -the pools below the cliffs the sea boils, -tossing the spray afar. Shags haunt particular -rocks, content in the sunlight. The -falcons do not molest them, but they may -watch the loving couple high in heaven, -and so may the gulls that with yelping -plaints rise and fall and glide upon the air. -Swiftly and with quick wing-beats the -peregrines climb, almost vertically, it would -appear. Then a sudden speeding at eighty -or ninety miles an hour, a downward dash -at the rocks, beaks and wings touching; -they hiss past the gulls, swoop apart and -glide upwards, uttering their sweetly wild -mating cries. Nothing matters in the -ecstasies of spring. They may pass uncaring -within a few yards of a beholder, when he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span> -may see the neck and wings, slate-ash in -colour, the dark crown and nape, the hooked -beak and the barred tail. He may shout -and wave his arms in excitement, the ravens -croak, the gulls scream, the lone buzzard -wail as he circles, but the love-chase continues. -On the falcons rush, above the -crested waves and the marbled troughs of -the ocean, past the crannies and the ledges of -the precipice, among the summer cloudlets, -over the hills of heather and the slopes of -golden gorse, by the mounded sand-dunes -and the glistening mud-flats; all the heavenly -freeness is theirs to roam. Bold they are, -and observe no law, but they hunt openly -and in defiance—often cursed by the sporting -farmer; and yet all of us are proud of our -“pregun forlkns.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">MIDSUMMER NIGHT</h2> - - -<p class="center">(<i>To G. E. R.</i>)</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Against</span> the deep blue of the sky a little -money spider was taking a line from one -veined ash leaf to another. Although so -small, he was easily seen in the waning -light, a dark speck moving with great care. -It was evening time, and the vesper hymn -of warblers and thrushes, pippits and blackbirds, -was all but sung.</p> - -<p>Throughout the day the great vibrant -waves of sunlight were plangent on the -cornfields and rushing with golden swell -over the bee-visited hedgerows and green -meadows, vitalising the slender grasses and -red sorrel growing in beauty with branched -buttercups and incarnadine poppy flowers. -Slowly the day-tide of summer’s light and -glory ebbed, the sun swung down from -heaven and dipped its lower rim into the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span> -ocean. The fields and distant oakwood -were laved in yellow light, and like a -golden sand gleaming in the western sunlight -as the sea recedes, the ebbing tide of -sunlight left its pools among the woods -and the hedges. Far away some children -were singing as they went slowly homewards -through the closed buttercups and daisies, -and their careless cries were in harmony -with the evening.</p> - -<p>I sat on a gate and watched the rooks -flying over the elm trees in the village -below, where all was peace and quiet. The -wind sighed through the hedge: a dead -leaf moved listlessly, twirling as the wind -spun it. The tissues of the tree’s dead -lung had decayed and sunk into the earth; -the winter had been mild, and the invisible -hand, composing and decomposing, had -not yet touched the filigree web of its -brittle frame. On its parent ash tree it -hung and quivered, never more to respond -to the fire of summer.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>Gradually the children reached their -homes, and no more cries came from the -meadow. The little spider paused half-way -between the leaves, and hung quiescent. -Perhaps some flaw in his architectural scheme -was apparent to him, or he feared that the -wind of the summer night would destroy -his foundation threads. Born only a few -weeks before, without tuition or practice, -he knew the angles of his pillars, the proportions -of his stanchions, the symmetry and -balance of his walls. He had watched no -honey-coloured parent at work, yet within -his minute brain were the plans of a perfect -system to entangle the smallest flying insects, -feeble of wing, that would fall against his web.</p> - -<p>The pools of gold about the oaks slowly -drained away, and the sky above became -a more profound blue. Three swifts passed -above, wheeling in final flight before creeping -to their nests of straw-speck and saliva -under the tiles of the church. The songs of -the warblers and thrushes as the light drains<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span> -away, find an echo in the heart of the poet, -for they sing of the beauty of summer: the -swift’s cries belong to the spectral light of -the stars and the mystery of infinite space. -The swift is the mystic among birds.</p> - -<p>The spider moved on as the first star shone -in the sky. Maybe his problem was solved, -or that he had waited for the beauteous -whiteness of Lyra’s ray. Slowly he travelled -to the leaf he had chosen as a base, paused -awhile, and crept back across his life-line. -The rooks were settled in the elm-tops by -the church, and their <i>caa-caas</i> came less -often; the prospects of the next day’s -forage among the new potatoes had been -discussed thoroughly, and were known to -all—in satisfaction the colony had settled -down to sleep. Gradually the sun sank -into the sea, its fire spreading its broad -glow through the cloud strata over the far -horizon. One by one the stars crept into -their places, waiting for the queen-moon -to lift her head above the hills of Exmoor.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span> -Antares shone in the south; above were -Lyra, Aquila, Northern Crown, and all -the heavenly concourse: Mars glowed red, -with Spica Virginis swung low in adoration -and sending its wan green fires to the watcher. -Slowly the afterglow drenched in the gray -waters, an owl quavered in loneliness as it -fanned over the churchyard; a jackdaw -answered sharply, querulously, and night -had come to the earth.</p> - -<p>A pale golden vapour over the Exmoor -hills, and the moon rose, like the head of a -yellow moth creeping from its case. It swam -into view over the dark hills, and I looked -into its face, while it shrank into a silver disk. -The sky became lavender-coloured, the -moon dust falling with the dew and forming -a gauzy veil above. The boom of the waves -pounding the distant headland was borne on -the wind burthened with foam fragrance -and the scent of the sweet clover fields -beyond the village. It stirred the green -corn, came fitfully, then sighed to silence.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>The last labourer left the inn and the -village slept. The walls of the cottages -gleamed white under the dark thatch as -the moonlight fell directly upon them. I -was alone with the sapling wheat and all -was still.</p> - -<p>I was alone with the wheat that I loved. -Moving over the field my feet were drenched -in an instant by the dew. Lying at full -length on the earth, I pressed my face -among the sweet wistfulness of stalks, -stained and glowing as with some lambent -fire, pale, mysterious. On each pale flame-blade -depended a small white light, a dew-drop -in which the light of the moon was -imprisoned. Each flag of wheat held the -beauty of pure water, and within the -sappy blades glowed the spirit of the earth—in -the spectral silence a voice spoke of -its ancient lineage: of the slow horses that -had strained at the wooden plough through -the ages, scarring the glebe in long furrows -that must be sown with corn; race after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span> -race of slow horses moving in jangling -harness to the deep shouts of the heavy -men. Generation after generation of men, -bent with age and unceasing labour, plodding -the earth, sowing the yellow grains that -would produce a million million berries for -mankind. Spring after spring, each with its -glory of blue-winged swallows speeding, -wheeling, falling through the azure, the -cuckoo calling in the meadows, and the lark-song -shaking its silver earthchain as it strove -to be free. Through all the sowings and the -reapings for thousands of years the wheat -had known that it was grown for man, and -the soul of the wheat grew in the knowledge -of its service. Lying there on the cool -couch of the silver-flotten corn, with the -soft earth under me, sweet with its scent -of stored sunbeams, the beauty of the -phantom wheat carried me away in a passion -of sweet ecstasy. Faint as the sea-murmur -within the shell, the voice of the corn -came to the inward ear. Ever the same<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span> -was the earth that it knew, the east washed -with faint rosewater in the dayspring, the -lark-flight loosened upon the bosom of the -dawn wind, and the golden beams of the -sun breasting the hills of the morning. -It was but a moment since the wild men -had goaded the sullen oxen, and with rude -implements torn a living from the earth; -all the great power of the wheat rested -above the growing corn now, of kin to the -grains beaten by oxen, and later, by the -flails of the wretches who were ever hungry.</p> - -<p>The moon floated in the nightpool with -the Swan, the distant roar of the surf floated -from over the clover fields, and still I lay -there, one with the Maker of Life ... a -white mistiness flapped in front, beating -broad pinions as it hovered, it dropped to -the earth, and a shrill scream trembled into -the night. Fluttering like a moth, the -ghostly barn owl struggled with the rat, -held it in a remorseless clutch of powerful -talons. Into the wheatfield the rat had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> -come, urged by instinct to seek the means -of life, and it had found only death. -Dreamily the owl fanned the night with -his broad wings and then floated away -to his nest in the loft of the cottage near -the church. Saddened by the consciousness -of life’s tragedy—every form of life depending -for existence on the death of another -form—I walked towards the village, while -a landrail began his jarring <i>crake-crake</i> in -the corn, and little moths went down to -drink the honey of the night-opening -flowers, living their short life while the -moon, soon to die, was in its fullest beauty. -Antares was a dull red ember in the south: -the star of summer that Richard Jefferies -loved. My thought was with him—he -was near me, though the body had long -been lying in Broadwater. Had he spoken to -me in this mystic June night, I wondered; -and then a blackcap warbler sang in a thorn -bush; my thought was as old as its song, -and I doubted no longer.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A FEATHERED WASTER</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">No</span> bird-lovers can but desire the destruction -of the Little Owl (<i>Athene Noctua</i>), a -prolific bird introduced into England half -a century ago by Lord Lilford. It has no -redeeming trait. I have watched several -pairs, and my observations show without -doubt that he is not worth his salt, and -deserves not the slightest mercy.</p> - -<p>Old Bob, a keeper with whom I am very -friendly, showed me a pollard oak standing -at the side of a hazel covert, which he -suspected as the home of a pair of these -birds. I sat down in the dry ditch and -waited, while the humble bees swung -themselves among the flowering nettles. -This was in the early afternoon, and not -in the evening or the night; in the bright -sunlight, when all self-respecting owls are -dreaming in barn-loft or hollow tree. But<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span> -to the Little Owl time is obviously money, -for it was not long before a brown bird, -not unlike a large thrush, fluttered out of -the tree and flew to a may hedge running -at right angles to the covert. A large -white cabbage butterfly drifted past, and -was captured dexterously by the alien. -Now cabbage butterflies are a distinct pest, -so one good mark was registered to the -accused. Shortly he descended into the -sapling corn, probably to take a beetle or -mouse, and as these are not yet valuable -as human food he was given another good -mark.</p> - -<p>He flew away after this, and landed a -hundred yards down the hedge. Something -drew his attention, something that -was in the hedge itself. He dropped -to the ground, and through my glasses I -could see that he was climbing up the -branches. When he returned, it was with -something in his beak. I ran over the -field and found that he had been robbing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> -a chaffinch’s nest of its fledgling young. -A weasel will do this, or a rat, and often a -crow. But an owl! I was ashamed of my -own kin.</p> - -<p>I decided to advise the keeper to shoot -all Little Owls.</p> - -<p>Later in the day the little pirate seized -a thrush, nearly as big as himself, and -perching on it falcon-fashion, commenced -to tear at the breast. I love the thrushes, -for they do great good in the spring, -destroying snails and worms. Besides, they -voice with such ecstasy the joyful spirit of -spring returned to the cold earth; in the -winter they fill the heart with hope for the -future. Most certainly the Little Owl -would be outlawed.</p> - -<p>During succeeding days I watched the -pair eating worms; hunting, stoat-wise, in -the ditch for baby rabbits; hovering over -the meadow, like kestrel hawks, for mice -and rats. Once I saw them catch a frog. -And I knew that later on the partridge<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> -chicks would be taken. There was no -doubt in my own mind that he must be -shot and trapped whenever possible. I -would tell Old Bob to bring along his -twelve-bore.</p> - -<p>With this determination in my mind I -thought I would look at the nest. Now -most owls will fly out when disturbed and -leave the eggs or young to their fate. -Much to my surprise, this bird sat tight. -I broke a twig off and prodded her gently. -She refused to budge. I pushed a little -harder. With a mew like a distressed cat -she left her four eggs and ran quickly to a -hidden corner of the platform on which -they were laid (the eggs were just visible -as I looked down at them through a small -hole in the top of the tree).</p> - -<p>But she did not leave them uncovered -for long, for with another cry of pain she -crept over them again, covering them with -her body. Again I tapped her with the -stick, but she was obstinate. She was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> -evidently decided to risk death in the -protection of her unborn little ones.</p> - -<p>Later, over at the rearing field, I saw -Old Bob.</p> - -<p>“Well, sir, do ee reckon ’em to be proper -vermin?”</p> - -<p>“No, Bob,” I said casually, looking at -his weather-rutted hands. “No, they eat -mostly beetles and mice, I think, and an -occasional sparrow or so. I don’t think -they will hurt your chicks.”</p> - -<p>Mere sentiment, of course, but the mother -whined so wistfully, and her little body was -so soft when I, like a great bully, prodded -her with the stick. Besides, she was an -owl, and blood is thicker than water.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">INVOCATION</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Throughout</span> the long glaring days of July -pitiful cries quiver in the heat; the sheep -are dying of thirst. Even some of the -hill-springs are now mere trickles.</p> - -<p>This north coast of Devon is mocked by -the vision of the bluest of seas, calm and -shining under the summer sun. The fields -stretching down to the sands are parched -and brown, the grasses mere ghosts, dry -and sapless. Even the sea-breeze has little -of refreshment in its motion; it is merely -heated air.</p> - -<p>Many of the sheep are dead. Jackdaws, -gulls, carrion crows, and rooks are feasting -on the bloated carcases which remain; the -shimmering hum of flies innumerable gives -to our English midsummer a tropical -semblance. Nor are there any swallows -to decimate these pests. I have seen about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span> -four pairs this year—the first pair, which -arrived on the last day of March, was taken -by the peregrine falcons. Swifts and house-martins -are not scarce, but they keep to -the inland villages.</p> - -<p>The prolonged drought seems to have -brought to life several rare butterflies, but -even the interest that one may find in these -is small. Even the blue sky and the -blue sea produce an intolerable weariness. -Wherever I go there sound those pitiful -cries of the sheep; there is the slippery -grass, and the glare of the sun on the sward. -The wheat is yellow in the flag, dried and -rustling; the poppies are sickly, though -usually the fiercer the sun the more sultry -their bloom.</p> - -<p>A brook runs through sandhills on the -other side of the headland, and at one -place the red cattle stand in cool water to -their dewlaps, gazing tranquilly about them. -Here is the great meeting-place of the birds, -and at any time of the day, from dawn<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span> -to sunset, its pebbly shallow is thronged -with finches, pippits, doves, warblers, and -cuckoos. How the goldfinches love the -water! With sweet, reedy twitterings a -flock will come from orchard haunts and -bathe in the running water, the yellow-barred -wings aflutter and crimson faces -dipped again and again. Copper finches -follow, with perhaps those minute travellers -the Golden-Crowned Knights, as the country -folk so beautifully term the smallest British -bird.</p> - -<p>Other creatures know of this avian -meeting-place. The weasel comes, and a -great sombre pair of ravens; and the -sparrowhawk dashes sometimes in the midst, -seizing one of the bathers. To me this is -a place of pilgrimage, where all things -come down to the life-giving waters. Even -here, however, there is heard in the heated -air those sad cries from the hills.</p> - -<p>A village girl showed me some verses -she had written on the drought. She was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span> -singing by the waterside, a little maid in -a print dress. With shy eyes she tendered -the poem. I remember the last verse:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse"><i>God of Pity, I beseech Thee,</i></div> -<div class="indent"><i>Send us rain in healing shower,</i></div> -<div class="verse"><i>For the fields I see around me</i></div> -<div class="indent"><i>Death and Ruin hold in power.</i></div> -</div></div> - -<p>But from the west comes no cloud; only -the fiery sun burns in a pitiless sky.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">COCKNEY BIRD TRIPPERS</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">My</span> work necessitated long hours in London, -and I used to bless the sparrows; I was -never tired of watching them. They lifted -my mind from dusty pavements and the -smell of motor traffic. A favourite place -to see them was a garden adjoining a -church in Gracechurch Street; another -was by the fountains of Trafalgar Square. -About the time of harvest in the country, -for which I pined, I used to notice an -absence of the winged urchins. Where -before a noisy, squabbling party congregated -in the park or near the pigeons -in Trafalgar Square, in August a solitary -couple or two hopped quietly. These, I -imagined, had not answered the call that -came to their dingy brethren, the same call -that came to the weary Londoner at that -period of the year.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>The sparrows go into the country. Where -the corn is cut and shocked you will see -them in vast flocks, searching in the stubble -or openly robbing the ripe ears. It is no -uncommon thing to observe a thousand -or more in one field. And perhaps as you -watch a swooping hawk will flash over the -hedgerow, the cloud will arise, chattering -in terror; one miserable victim will be -seized and carried swiftly away. Almost -before the last floating feather has drifted -to the ground the flock will be back, greedy -for the golden grains. Perhaps there is some -deep philosophy among the wild creatures, -for immediately the danger of death is -past they have forgotten it, and continue -to live every moment in complete happiness.</p> - -<p>Male chaffinches and other finches often -join the trippers. So ready are sparrows -to imitate, or perhaps to return to natural -conditions long since abandoned in the -city, that after a few pastoral days their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span> -chirps become sweeter, resembling the -silvery <i>spink spink</i> of their gay cousins.</p> - -<p>The sparrow has the power to produce -sweet notes, but in the rush of a big city he -has become careless regarding his personal -appearance, his song, and the construction -of nest.</p> - -<p>About the second week of September the -bird trippers come back, their voices clearer -and their feathers sprucer. After a while, -however, they return to their old habits, -quarrelsome and untidy as before.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">“FULLNESS AFTER DEARTH”</h2> - - -<p class="center">(<i>September, 1921.</i>)</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">Where</span> the fields were scorched and drab -during the drought the sweet green grass -is growing. Gone are those gaping fissures -in the slopes by the sea, those swarms of -flies about the dead sheep, and the crows -and jackdaws ever glutted with carrion. -Many summery flowers that should have -formed their seeds had no chance to bloom; -but now the rains have blessed them, and -everywhere their colours and scents have -been made from cold earth, sunshine, and -a dot of life.</p> - -<p>In mythology the goddess of spring -returned to the bleak woodlands and -barren fields, scattering life and song as she -wandered. Nowadays we do not believe in -pagan deities, but the idea survives, like -poetry, for ever. That <i>something</i> has returned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span> -to this wild and lovely land by the sea there -can be no doubt. In every dry ditch the -nettles are springing up, and the white -blossom already crests some of the clusters. -The spade-shaped leaves of the celandine—a -flower that usually comes in February -or March, and resembles a buttercup—are -among the grasses in the meadows, -the cuckoo-plants are rising, a lark has -two eggs in her nest, while her mate sings -with vernal ecstasy high above.</p> - -<p>The hedge-banks are refreshed with -young seedling plants, dandelions, hawk-weeds, -speedwell, thistles, lords-and-ladies, -and a score of others. I know a damp -patch by the roadway where every spring -giant docks grow. In July their immense -leaves, three feet long, turn crimson and -brown; in August tall spires of rusty -seeds are prepared, and the stalks stand -next spring. This year, however, the -seeds were dropped in June. Now the -plants are putting forth fresh leaves that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> -over-shadow the tiny efforts of their off-sprung -life. Those docks have been there a -generation, and are still unwearied—they -must have launched millions of seeds into -the light.</p> - -<p>The swallows are still singing, but the -chill nights are a sign to them. Yesterday -a young bird flew full-tilt into the wall of -a barn, and was picked up dead. It was -blind, and had been so since birth. How -had it existed till now? I am inclined to -think that it had lost its parents, who -hitherto must have been shepherding it.</p> - -<p>Or perhaps it had seen the goddess Proserpine -come back into the September days -of gold and royalest blue, and had paid the -penalty of vision. I burnt the tiny corpse -on a bramble-fire; its ashes went up in -smoke and spark towards the sun.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CUCKOO NOTES</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Most</span> people know that the “cuckoo lays -its eggs in another bird’s nest.”</p> - -<p>The few will say that the cuckoo does -nothing of the sort, that she will lay her -egg on the ground somewhere, and then -carry it either by beak or foot to the selected -nest, deposit it there, and fly away. They -will say (once I said the same thing) that -“it never actually lays in another nest.” -They are wrong, in one case, at any -rate.</p> - -<p>This spring a hedge-sparrow built its -nest in the rough edge of a pile of faggots. -In the course of time four pale blue eggs -appeared, and one morning very early a -large bird flew down to it. She must have -remained there for some time, for as I strolled -past when the sun was just rising above -the hills she flew off the nest. I knew by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span> -the flight that the bird was a cuckoo. Below -the pile of faggots, on the ground, lay the -scattered remains of the eggs, and the -cuckoo, before <i>laying</i> her solitary egg in -the nest, had apparently sucked all four -of them.</p> - -<p>I feared that the hedge-sparrows would -desert the nest, which now surely was but -an empty mock, with its one alien egg. In -the ordinary way one will find the cuckoo’s -egg amongst the others, in some cases exchanged -for one belonging to the nest. -When the young cuckoo is hatched, he -displays great irritation if anything touches -his back, and will not rest till the other -occupants of the nest, whether eggs or -fledgelings like himself, are cast out. The -parent birds show an indifference to these -unfortunates, and all their efforts are for -the intruder.</p> - -<p>Thus I was considerably surprised to -find that the female sparrow was sitting -on the strange egg. Had I, before the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> -tragedy, taken the four eggs away, and -placed instead an egg of a robin or a thrush, -it is practically certain that it would have -been ignored. Both parent birds were -near when the female cuckoo was laying -her egg, and kept flying round the nest, -accompanied by a robin who may have -been, like myself, a curious spectator in -this domestic affair.</p> - -<p>Five weeks afterwards the young cuckoo -was many times the size of his wretched -foster parents, and throughout the long -days of June they worked in the hedges, -seeking caterpillars, grubs, and spiders for -their querulous nestling.</p> - -<p>The migration of the young cuckoo in -August is helped by a most interesting -series of ingenious frauds. The old cuckoos -depart for the south in July, and the younger -birds making their way independently, day -by day, are directed only by instinct. But -the baby cannot feed itself (or probably -will not, being a born parasite), and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span> -poor little pair of birds who have slaved -for it will not follow him when the wanderlust -comes into his blood. The method of -cadging a meal is as extraordinary as it is -utterly callous.</p> - -<p>The cad will fly ten or twelve miles a -day in a southerly direction. At intervals -he cries in an infantile, screaming voice. -There is bound to be near a pair of birds -with young, and should they hear the cry, -they leave their own children and go and -feed the wide-mouthed impostor. No small -birds, <i>with fledgelings</i>, appear to be able -to resist the call. They go and feed him. -The fact that the young cuckoo bears a -resemblance to a kestrel hawk, both in -flight and colour, makes their charity all -the more mysterious. Down to the south -he wanders, his wings getting stronger -every day, until the time comes when the -sea shines in the distance, and his long -journey begins. And throughout the days -of his English stay, he lives on the foolish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span> -and charitable ones among the smaller, -insectivorous birds.</p> - -<p>Sometimes he is a positive blackguard. -One year (1914) I found a cuckoo’s egg -in a tiny nest of a common wren. When -hatched, and only after much difficulty, -he hoisted out all his companions, or -squashed them, until he broke the nest -(round like a ball, and with the hole about -an inch or so in diameter in the side) and -squatted insolently on top of it. The -wrens, with their upright, barred little tails -ever jerking with pride, fed him incessantly. -The female worked so hard, and the cuckoo -was so greedy, that eventually the top of -her head was devoid of all feathers, and -made quite raw by the beak of her wonder-child. -But she was very brave, and was -apparently quite indifferent to the risk she -ran of one day disappearing altogether. -I have often wondered if cuckoos have the -power of projecting into other birds the -maternal love, or instinct, that is so obviously<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> -deficient in themselves. This seems to be -the logical conclusion to draw, even if it -be incomprehensible to the man who in -human life thinks in terms of matter and -the individual, instead of the spirit and -the species.</p> - - -<p><span class="gap"> <i>1916.</i></span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">DAYS OF AUTUMN</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">One</span> morning in the hollows of the meadow -land below the wood lay a silver mist. The -sun sweeping upwards in its curve beat this -away towards noon, but it was a sign. The -fire of autumn was kindled: already the -little notched leaves of the hawthorn were -tinged with the rust of decay, already a -bramble leaf was turning red: soon the -flames would mount the mightier trees and -fan their pale heat among the willows and -ash trees round the lake, lick among the -drooping elms and the lacquered oaks, and -sweep in abandonment with yawning fire -of colour through the old beech forest.</p> - -<p>Years ago now, in the glamorous time -of childhood, this coming of the mist in -the morning with its fragrance arising from -the earth peculiar to summer’s end—the -fumous, clinging smell of a torch—filled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span> -me with great sadness. No birds sang in -the woods. By the mere, about this time, -hundreds of swallows would gather. Restlessly -they clung to the sedges and the -rushes, whose tips were beginning to brown -and make faint whisper in the wind; now -flinging themselves into the air, twittering, -mounting high, wheeling and slipping, now -descending like a shower of iron darts to -the border of the lake. Sometimes on my -way to school I went to watch them, being -caught occasionally as I crept in through -an unofficial entrance to the school, and -punishment ensued. What use to explain -the poignant feelings about autumn and -the departure of my beautiful swallows to -lands where I could not follow? More important -to the boy were his forced learnings -than his blundering and unconscious poetry; -and the sunlight came through the window, -making him miserable. In fancy he was -roaming the old hills, or dreaming by the -brook; and that was indolence—he would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span> -never fit himself for the conflict of a mature -life in London by idleness and dreaming. -So the little boy was often punished, and -frequently occupied the lowest seat of his -form.</p> - -<p>As the days went on the swallows were -more anxious. The cuckoos and the swifts -had long since departed. Here and there -in the fountain-shaped elms a yellow patch -of leaves showed like a spilled plash of -water imprisoning a sunbeam. The peggles -on the hawthorns were reddening; and -waving their pennants in the wind the dry -rustling of the sedges came across the -water with excited notes of the swallows. -As one swept by, low in flight, the deep -blue of his wings, their exquisite and soft -uplift, the delicacy of the forked tail, were -reflected on the surface; with a sighing -sound he would pass and his liquid image -glide on the mirrored surface below him.</p> - -<p>The mornings were chilly, but the -vagrants continued to hold their parliament<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> -in the rushes. Insect life was on the wane, -adventure stirred their little hearts to -excitement. Every passing of the wind -beckoned a forlorn following of leaves from -the trees, a spider seeking hibernation threw -a prospecting line of silk against the face. -With a tired sound the starred sycamore -leaves, each condemned by the black patch -of autumn, fluttered to the earth; by -listening closely it was possible to hear the -stalks break from the twigs. Flittering -like chafer-beetles in a dusky summer -night the vaned seeds risped and whirled -away from the parent trees. As yet the -conflagration had not caught the forest, -only isolated flames browned a beech tree, -scorched the branch of an ash with yellow -or made a buff haze in the distant oaks. It -seemed as though the funeral pyre of dead -summer would blaze in majesty only when -the swallows had left.</p> - -<p>One afternoon their shriller notes told -that the hour was approaching. So eager<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -were they among themselves that I was -permitted to approach within a yard of -them. I could see their frail claws, and -admire the slim outline of their bodies; -a melancholy admiration, like that of age -with a young heart for youth and beauty -that it yearns to share; the swallows -were much to me, but I was nothing to -them. Suddenly with a rush of wings -they swept up, soon to become a smudge -against the sky. But the wind was not -favourable, or the message anticipated had -not arrived, for they returned to the sedges -that never ceased to shiver of coming -dreariness. The autumnal air was tranquil -in its silence and solitude; the wings of -gnats dancing their mazy columns assumed -in the sunshine a fairy semblance. Over -the waters sped the swallows, taking the -last banquet, for once the long journey -were commenced no halt would be made -for food; the thousands of miles over sea -and land must be passed without falter,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> -urged and directed by the ancient instinct -developed long before Zoroaster came -from the plains of Iran with his Magian -worship.</p> - -<p>The next morning when I went to bid -them farewell the lake was deserted. My -friends had gone, and I had not said good-bye. -During the night a wind had risen, -and they had fled before it to the warm -south. I prayed that their strength did -not fail while the little things were over the -cold gray sea. I could do no more. But -my heart was heavy.</p> - -<p>When the migrants have departed the -fires of autumn throw their flames and -falling shadows rapidly over the countryside. -In the morning moisture drip-drips -from the trees, their tops are wraithed in -mist, and the jay screams as he lurks among -the acorns. Every day the sun describes -a lower curve and, red and small, looms -through the vapours. But above he is -spinning and carding the mist, warmth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span> -blows on the cheek as for a moment brightness -streams down, and so happiness comes -again. Once more the thoughts of desolation -are dispelled like the mist, and hope -rises anew to the heart. In the murmuring -green of spring, the radiant birdsong of -summer, it is indeed difficult to be sad. -Though all human efforts seem without -avail, the song and scent and colour -of summer fills the yearning heart and -assuages its broken hopes. But in autumn -and winter, at least for a long time, no -consolation was there anywhere. Underfoot -the old paths were beaten into mire -by the passing of feet; these were the leaves, -each so perfect and veined and shaped, -that had opened from buds to the croon of -wild cloves and the tap-tap of woodpeckers. -Nature seemed to care nothing for the -things that were created: the hand that -composed so lovingly decomposed as inevitably.</p> - -<p>To youth the world seemed bitterly cruel<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> -and uncaring, for every form of life—except -those idealists, the bees—survived by the -death of another form. The declining -days with their ebb of warmth killed the -million million insects and butterflies whose -hum had been so dim and happy in the -summer.</p> - -<p>By a dry mossy bank underneath a -hedge of bullace in whose unleafed raggedness -the sere and twisted chords of the -traveller’s joy had grown, the willow herb -flowers were still in bloom when October -had yielded most of its blackberries. Below -the pink flowers and on the same stem the -long pods were splitting and their seeds, -swung under down, drifting with the wind. -As I watched, a humble bee, numbed with -cold sought the sanctuary of a pink flower, -clung for a moment swaying, then fell to -the moss below and lay still on its side. -The hooked legs moved feebly, the wings -shivered; no warmth came from the weak -sunshine, and so it died.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>By night a mouse would consume its -body—beautiful with the bar of tawny -velvet on its duskiness. From the time of -early spring, when first the willow wren -had called by the stream, the bee had -climbed over the flowers, bartering the gold -grains of the pollen for the honey that it -desired so eagerly. In April it had gone to -the apple blossom in the orchard and heavy-odoured -nettles filling the ditches; invaded -the sanctities of all the flowers of summer’s -lavishing. Busy was my hunchback bee, -feeding on no other form of life, helping -the birth of the seeds to which the hue and -scent of the petals were servant, working -for the future of her race, utterly selfless; -humming a wander-song as the sun -strengthened its vanes, now fretted by toil -and labour.</p> - -<p>Then there was no hope anywhere, no -voice among the trees, nothing but the feeble -winnowing of the leaves as they sank to the -earth, and the dazed drone of a dying fly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>In the beechwood the split covers of the -mast crushed under the feet, the leaves -were crisped and curled. No cunning of -sculptor in copper could fashion such as -these. The beech tree is indeed the -aristocrat of the forest, for it is superb at -the fall. No leaves possess such a rich -colour or have the appearance of majesty -and preserved form. The elm leaves are -drab and lifeless, the oak leaves blotched -and frayed; from the horse chestnut the -big green splayed leaves are either withered -and rusted or drop when seemingly full of -sap. The elderberry and the ash loosen -their sprays at the first singe of autumn’s -fire. But gradually dyed a deep golden-brown, -and untouched by fungus or blight, -the leaves of the beech preserve their outline -and take on a silkiness and shining of surface. -Seen against the blue sky the veins and -arteries of each leaf are clear-cut and -distinct; no degeneration in the beech tree. -During the autumn the numerous summer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> -tenants of the wood have quitted. There -is silence in the cold air. Old and twisted, -the beech trees have yielded generations of -leaves uncurling from torch-like windings -when first the swallows come across the -sea; the rooks built in their massy summer -greeneries; woodpeckers hewn a nesting -place in the rotten boles, spreading a whiteness -of chips on the moss beneath; starlings -with wings of metallic gleaming stolen their -old trysts, and jackdaws nested where the -branches had decayed and gaped. Far -down across the fields yonder the rooks -are following the plough. The jackdaws -have joined them, and as light ebbs at -evening they will return in a long stream -to the rookeries.</p> - -<p>The starlings haunt the water-meadows, -the mocking cry of the green “gallypot” -is heard no more. Walking quietly through -the solitude of the wood the wanderer may -see a squirrel storing his granaries with -mast and acorns, working earnestly lest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span> -the frost come early and bind the earth till -the sun of March shall solve its graven -pattern.</p> - -<p>From the edge of the wood the field -slopes downwards to the longpond, now -covered with a haze in the sunshine. The -rushes fringing its edge are rusted and -bent like old Roman swords, the reeds -like the spears of ancient Britons, thrown -with Arthur’s sword, into the lake. By -the pebbled shore the water is pure and -clear and gloomy, the sunlight showing -the moist brown velvet of the leaves upon -its bed. Quietly feeding in the centre, a -dozen moor-hens send ripples to the side, -each wavelet bearing a shifting line of -light over the leaves as it travels forward. -Yonder the sallows have loosened their slips -of leaves and the sunshine throws up their -ruddy and yellow wands—broken segments -of a rainbow trembling by the marge. A -wren goes by, a fluttering moth of a bird, -silent; sipping and twittering in sweet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span> -cadences a flock of goldfinches passes over -towards the patch of thistledown in the -meadow. A chuckling, rattling sound; -the fieldfares and redwings have arrived -from Scandinavian forests.</p> - -<p>The path through the higher wood was -covered with leaves, and bordered by -bleached stalks of wild parsley and crumbling -sorrel spires. From the tall grasses the -sap went with summer, and like frail ghosts -they drooped over the pathway. The sun -was warm, as though it were celandine-time. -Upright and pallid under the trees, -and lit by the warm sunshine, the stalks -of the year’s bluebells bore their skull-like -caps filled with their black shining seeds. -Even as the wind stirred the branches of -the trees the old loved shadow lacings -slipped and shuffled on the ground. The -wind sounded as in summer, the loveliest -goldy-brown brimmed the hollows under -the oaks. The phantoms of summer were -with me as I leant against a sapling, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> -cast feather of a chaffinch swung on a -spider’s line encircling the trunk waved -a gentle farewell. Where the shafts of -sunlight lingered among the brambles their -leaves were fired a lucent green; autumn -is kind to the bramble, touching a leaf -here and there only with blood red -splash.</p> - -<p>I waited under the oak, unable to leave -the warmth and tranquillity. A cloud hid -the sun. I wanted to see the beauteous -light come again through the rifted clouds, -to see the staining of the bramble leaves. -Once more the sun gilded the bare -branches, colouring the red berries of the -holly that would feed the thrushes in -winter, and lacquering the beech trees till -they seemed like the tawny beards of -vikings.</p> - -<p>Somewhere in the wood was the ghost -of Proserpine returned to see how her -children were faring—under the leaves were -the seeds that would bring forth bloom<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span> -and beauty and fragrance in the spring; -deep in the earth lay the cocoons and -shells whence would arise the happy throng -of summery moths and butterflies. For -this is the purpose of autumn: rest and -quietude for those who have laboured -throughout the summer to ensure life for -their kind. So now in autumn my hope -is as firm as the oak. Every leaf that falls -is pushed from its hold by a bud awaiting -the mystic order to unfold itself in spring; -every flower lives but to form its seeds. -All through the centuries the spirits of the -flowers and the wild things have been -growing more beautiful in the knowledge -of their service.</p> - -<p>As I walked away a timid song sounded -on the air. Somewhere a robin was singing. -He was not made miserable by thought—he -was happy every moment. He did not -need to brood upon immortality—he lived -unconscious of time—every moment was -<i>lived</i>, the beauty of the earth and the sun,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> -and his mate, all accepted without question. -The robin lives like an immortal here, upon -the earth that is so beautiful: and all the -wisdom of the dead civilisations is nothing -to what the robin’s song tells, if you will -but listen.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">SWALLOW BROW: <i>A Fantasy</i></h2> - - -<p class="center">(<i>To P. T.</i>)</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">That</span> morning as she brushed her hair -little Jo felt a great joy in her heart, for the -sunlight was making bright the room. Her -real name was Mary, but they called her -Jo for short. She dropped her brush and -leaned out, while a blackbird with a yellow -bill flew to the top of one of the apple trees -in the garden and commenced to flute in -a rich, beautiful voice. Then a wild bee -crawled on the window-sill and began to -clean gauzy wings with his legs. Little -Jo watched him with the eager look that -some small children have when regarding -the lesser works of God, and thought that -his body was very velvety, with a sash -tied round the middle of it. A lark sang -over the cornfield behind the garden, and -she wanted to sing and shout, for everything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span> -was so lovely in the world. But it was -nearly time for breakfast, and mother -would be angry if she went downstairs -after her sisters and brothers had eaten -their porridge, so with her heart singing -like the gold-bill outside, she picked up -her brush and peered into the mirror.</p> - -<p>Her face stared back at her, with its -dark eyes and shyly smiling mouth. Then -a June rose seemed to hover in each cheek, -shedding their petals to give her beauty: -and her eyes shone.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you are pretty,” she thought, -touching the glass with her hand.</p> - -<p>She was soon dressed, and ran downstairs, -almost falling in her eagerness to -move, for the sunshine that came from -over the orchard was still spinning its thread -of happiness in her heart, as it was in the -heart of the lark who sang above the green -corn.</p> - -<p>All breakfast time she thought of the -face looking back at her from behind the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> -mirror, and hardly heard the talk about -the two visitors coming that day.</p> - -<p>After the meal, when Great-uncle Sufford -had gone into his study to read the paper -before going down to the meadow to paint, -Michael pulled her hair and said roughly, -for he was her eldest brother, “What were -you grinning at during brekker, eh, kid?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” replied Jo, wishing she had -a stick to bang his ankles.</p> - -<p>“Well, ugly-face, if you are contemplating -ragging my room, or sewing my pyjamas -up, or trying any nonsense, you look out,” -he said with the dignity of one whose -voice had broken six weeks and three days.</p> - -<p>“I’m not ugly-face!” she cried.</p> - -<p>“Ho, aren’t you! You’re worse!” He -pulled her hair again.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I hate you, Micky.”</p> - -<p>She ran out of the room, and upstairs in -her bedroom she stared mournfully at her -own image. It was true, she was an ugly-face, -as Michael had said! Oh, and she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> -wanted to be pretty, just to please other -people.</p> - -<p>Her mouth trembled, and a tear rolled -down her cheek. Another and another -fell, until she could not see anything, for -the mirror was all misty.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I want to be beautiful,” she sobbed. -“Dear God, make me nice-looking.”</p> - -<p>A butterfly drifted in at the open window -and flew towards her as though she were -a flower. Then, feeling that the gold-dust -that came from the great blue sky no longer -warmed the white and black bars of his -sails, he flickered out again.</p> - -<p>Little Jo brushed her eyes, and tripped -down the stairs, her misery gone. She -ran into the kitchen garden, down the -path, past the flowering beans and the -cabbages, and through the gate into the -cornfield. Soon she reached the brook -and flung herself down suddenly at its -edge.</p> - -<p>She watched the water rippling past, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span> -the green water-weed waving to her. A -school of roach went by, the light showing -their bright red fins. Little Jo wondered -if the fishes knew that they had lovely red -fins, and if it was nice to stir the water with -them. Behind her the corn seemed to sigh as -the wind swept over, as though it knew of -coming midsummer, with its hum over the -fields, for that meant that August would -follow, and the reapers come with the -horses and machines.</p> - -<p>Then she wondered if the sun loved the -brook, for it shook with silvery flashes, -and sang a sweet song where it ran into an -eddy just by her feet. She was always -wondering things. She turned on her back -and tried to see a lark in the sky. It was -so warm lying there in the sun, and the -bees from her Great-uncle Sufford’s hives -went over to the clover fields. So warm, -and the tiny brook-song so sweet, that -her eyes closed. Still the water murmuring -softly and the lovely summer sun<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> -kissing her. She wondered dreamily if you -felt like that when you were in heaven: -then remembered that she was ugly and -with a small sigh fell asleep.</p> - -<p>A swallow flew low over the water, dipping -his chestnut breast in the stream. Immediately -Jo sat up and clapped her hands.</p> - -<p>“Swallow, swallow,” she cried, “how -little you are!”</p> - -<p>“Am I, my love?” twittered the bird, -circling over her head.</p> - -<p>“Your wings are so blue, little swallow.”</p> - -<p>The bird dived from above and perched -at the edge of the brook. Jo could see his -slim wings folded over his tail. He took -one dainty sip, and then sped, light as a -spider’s thread, into the air.</p> - -<p>“Come back, little swallow,” she called, -“come and perch on my finger. Unless -you are afraid,” she added wistfully.</p> - -<p>“I will come,” said the swallow. She -could feel the tiny claws just touching her -fingers.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>“We are not afraid of you, my love,” -he twittered, “we know that you would -not hurt us.”</p> - -<p>“Who told you?” she asked in wonder.</p> - -<p>“The blackbird who sings on the highest -branch of the apple tree by your window, -and the humble bees, and the goldfinch into -whose nest you peered without touching, -and the baby hare you stroked, and all the -wild folk.”</p> - -<p>“But do they know then how I love -them, little swallow?”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes,” the bird answered softly, -“all the wild things know when a man or -a child loves them. Do you not remember -the sparrows eating from the hand of an -old man in London when you went there -one day last year? And how they had no -fear of him, but when a lady approached -wearing what is called by some a beautiful -hat, they all flew away?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I remember, dear swallow.”</p> - -<p>“Well, my love, those despised sparrows<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> -knew that on that hat were the skins of -nineteen humming birds, and though they -knew that they themselves would not be -desired, or have to give up their lives for -the cause of beauty, yet they did not like -the woman.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I hate her, I hate her,” cried Jo.</p> - -<p>“Hush,” said the swallow. “When she -bought the hat she did not think of nineteen -of our tiny brothers killed for a hat. -She was really a kind woman, only she -never thought very much.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me,” said the child, very happy, -looking at his glorious wings, “Tell me, -why do you speak to me? Do you speak -to every one?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said the swallow sadly, “I want -to, but they will not listen. I know that -the meadow grasses want to as well, but -most of the people seem to be deaf. The -meadow grasses talk to the butterflies and -the coloured insects that dance among them, -for they come to listen to the music of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -the wind as it swings the little gray and -purple pollen-bells that you love to knock -off with your hand. And the sound you -hear is sometimes the love-whisper of the -stems as they tell one another that the -baby seeds are being born. For if the -seeds are born before the mowers come -they are very happy. It is always so among -the wild flowers, my love. All they live -for is the seeds.”</p> - -<p>“I am sad when I see the grasses cut,” -said Jo, “for often the little larks are killed -and the sorrel dies, and the golden buttercups, -and all the sweet flowers.”</p> - -<p>“Do not be sad, darling,” twittered the -swallow, “for all beauty must die. And -beauty gives itself willingly in death when -it loves. I remember when I was young -we passed over a strange land at dawn, -just as the light was coming to cheer us, -and below were still figures on the slopes -of the hill. We knew that they had given -their lives to save their beautiful land: we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span> -knew because the wind told us that he had -carried their spirits away at the moment -of death.”</p> - -<p>Little Jo began to sob again.</p> - -<p>“Hush, my love, for is not the sun -shining and the brook singing its wander-song? -We do not know death, for all we -think of is the lovely life we have now. -The swallows do not struggle as you wise -ones do, or kill one another, but each has -sufficient and no more. And oh, we are -so happy.”</p> - -<p>“I am not happy, little swallow, for I -am ugly.”</p> - -<p>“My love, you are beautiful, for your -heart is kind. We all love you so very -much. And one day, when you are older, -some one will come to you, some one to -whom I talk now as I talk to you, and he -will tell you that you are beautiful. He is -great friends with the owl, who calls to him at -night. But at present he is only a little boy.”</p> - -<p>“How lovely,” Jo cried, jumping up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span> -and dancing. “Will he be long in coming? -And will he have a horse, and a sword, and -a squire to take off his armour?”</p> - -<p>“One day he will have a sword, and he -will be brave although his heart may be -heavy. And when that is over, he will be -sad for a long time, but always brave. But -that is years to come. Sometimes even now -he is sad, for his mother is dead, and his -father thinks that he will grow up wild. -Yet he is often jolly and naughty, especially -with his friends in a wood. His name is -Willie, and he is nine years old.”</p> - -<p>“I must be beautiful when he sees me,” -said the child-woman, “or he will go away.”</p> - -<p>“He will only go away if you do not -want him,” twittered the swallow, preening -his feathers, “and one day he will need -you very badly.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I shall want my little boy,” -she said, “and when I meet him I will tell -him I’m his friend. But I am ugly,” and -her eyes filled with tears.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>“My love,” breathed the swallow, perching -on her shoulder, “I have a gift -for you, which I give gladly. It is all -I have, and soon the meadow grasses will -fall, and the roses on the hedges, and then -we will be told by the wind that we must -go again over the great sea into which so -many of us fall. I shall have to die soon, -so it does not matter,” he added to himself, -but Jo did not hear, for she was wondering -what the gift would be.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, dear,” whispered the swallow -presently, “and do not forget us when you -grow up. So many do.”</p> - -<p>“No, swallow, no, but come back soon, -and give my little boy a kiss for me, because -he hasn’t any mummy.”</p> - -<p>The swallow rose high in the air, and in -gay flight sped over the cornfield; a swift -brown bird dashed after him; a few light -feathers danced in the air; a tiny poppy -suddenly bloomed on a bended flag of -wheat.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>“O swallow,” wept the child. “O little, -little swallow.”</p> - -<p>Her heart still murmured with sadness -as she went down the path towards home, -past Great-uncle Sufford and a strange -man, both painting at their easels. Jo -wanted to look at his picture, but she -thought that he might think her rude. At -first he frightened her when he jumped -up and exclaimed, “Oh, let me sketch -your head, little lady. Beautiful, glorious!” -speaking rapidly to himself, “such an -angle, and glorious uplift!” But his eyes -looked kind, and already she liked him. -And Great-uncle Sufford was laughing.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be frightened,” he said, “but -just let Mr. Norman sketch your forehead. -My child, I have only just noticed it. You -have the most perfect brows I have ever -seen, blue-black like a swallow wing, and -such an angle! Norman, you must make -your picture worthy of Jo.”</p> - -<p>So she stood before him, smiling and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> -with shining eyes, and once more the spirit -of the wild rose was in her cheeks. The -strange painter-man liked her!</p> - -<p>Now, behind the hedge Michael, her -eldest brother, was crouching, having crept -sinuous and Indian-like, down to the hedge -to track the two artists. He watched with -disgust what was happening, and determined -to take it out of Mary later on. Michael -was already disgusted because another -stupid girl had arrived in the house a little -while ago, and was staying a week.</p> - -<p>“Now, I must thank you,” beamed the -bearded stranger, “for your beauty has -inspired me, you sweet fairy. Now we’ll -all go home, and you must meet my little -daughter Elsie.”</p> - -<p>He picked her up and kissed her lightly -and Jo kissed him back, although his face -tickled, for he was kind and had said that -she was a fairy.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">WINTER’S EVE</h2> - - -<p class="center">(<i>To T. H. H. T.</i>)</p> -</div> - -<p>“<i>Woo—oo—oo—.</i>”</p> - -<p>Long drawn out as though the note is -bubbling through water, it quavers from -the dark wood yonder, seen in the dim -light of the stars. From the other wood, -across the grass land, a plain hoot floats -back. <i>Woo-loo, woo-loo!</i> No sound of -wings beating—the flight of the wood owl -is silent, his broad wings, covered with the -softest down, fan the air as he proceeds -through the wood.</p> - -<p><i>Woo—oo! Woo—oo!</i> There is mystery -in the cry. All other creatures are silent, -except the field mice and voles running -over the ground. They cannot be seen -by the human eye, but I can hear their -squeaks. Again the faraway answer haunts -across the darkness over the grass. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> -leaves have fallen long ago, they lie black -and rotting on the ground. Those that -drifted down when summer died have -already merged into the earth whence will -come the bluebells in April. But a short -time since they were scurrying over the -grass and among the bramble bushes, all -crisp and brown. The wind caught them -up and whirled them in their thousands: -then came the time of wintry rains and -mists. Their brittleness went, they sank -into the earth.</p> - -<p>The owl is silent. He has fanned his -way from branch to branch, peering to -the ground. The slightest movement is -watched by his large eyes. A little dark -thing running quickly over the leaves, a -silent glide to the ground, wings fanning -the air, the clutch of a powerful foot, a -faint shriek as talons sink into the warm -body, and then to the trees again. The -mouse is swallowed whole. The faintest -of squeaks from behind, the owl’s head<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span> -turns and he peers down on the ground. -The eyes are fixed, but the head can be -turned completely round. Those large ears, -hidden by the tiny feathers—the ear-cavity -being twice the size of an eye—take in -every sound, even as the eyes can see in -the dark night. The faint squeak came -from a rat that runs swiftly on the trail of -another. The next moment his body is -seized in a grip of death—he, too, screams, -and is borne upward, limp and dead, to be -devoured at leisure. The owl’s beak opens -to a wide gape, and a deep contralto hoot, -bubbling and quavering, carries to his mate -who hunts in the distant copse.</p> - -<p>Heard thus in the loneliness of the winter -night, there seems infinite sadness in the -deep mellow cries of these night fliers. To -hear an owl hooting repeatedly around the -cottage at night is supposed, in the country, -to portend death. It is easy to imagine -how such a superstition arose. The species -of owl that hoots, sounding like the call of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> -a lost soul from the blur of the forest, -remains concealed during the day, perched -up against the bole of a fir tree, or in the -cavity of a hollow oak or elm. At night -they are seen occasionally and by chance, -as their broad wings beat against the sky. -Any such cries, lonesome and ghostly, -coming in the dark, can mean but one thing -to the countryman—death.</p> - -<p>What fantasies are called up on a night -like this, leaning up against the barred -gate, alone! Away in front, the dark, -level grass land—beyond, the forest. A -sky bright with stars gleaming and winking, -high up, unattainable. There is Sirius, -the largest star, flaming with sudden molten -crimson, then flashing a blue spearhead of -light. Possibly there is a mist around that -sun, so many millions of miles away, that -breaks up the light as the prism of glass -does the colours of the spectrum. Over -the thick blackness in front a figure is -moving-or am I imagining things? Just<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> -a faint feeling of fear, the nerves strung -up, caused perhaps by slumbering instinct. -Thousands of years ago a figure coming -stealthily nearer in the darkness might mean -an enemy. I glance over my shoulder; -there is a feeling that some one might leap -on to my back. But as he draws nearer -I can hear his footfalls in the frosty grass -and his laboured breath—it is one of the -farm hands going home from the inn. He -climbs over the gate, starts violently as he -sees me standing here, and bids me good-night. -I answer, adding that I have -been listening to the owls. He politely -tells me that there are a “good few on ’em -about,” but to himself says that I am mazed. -Then he passes on, his steps get fainter -and fainter, and I am alone.</p> - -<p><i>Yak wrik! Yak-yak-wrik!</i> low over my -head. A blood-curdling noise if ever there -was one. The latter part of the screech, -the <i>wrik</i>, is considerably higher in tone -than the former part. The barn owl passed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> -over the gate, just above my head and only -when he startled me with his cry—not long -and sobbing as the wood owl, but sharp and -high-pitched—did I know that he had gone. -A white mistiness in the night, wings beating -slower than those of his hooting brother, and -the white or barn owl had drifted over the -grass, hunting the mice and field vole.</p> - -<p>The barn owl is more common than the -wood or brown owl. The former is snow -white on its breast and under its wings. -The wings themselves, and the back, made -it one of our most beautiful birds. They -are of an amber-yellow colour, shaded with -ash gray, and streaked with small white -and brown markings. The pinion feathers -and the broad soft feathers of the tail are -yellowy-white, barred with light brown. -Most remarkable of all is the face, which -is heart-shaped, surrounded by a line of -gray and yellow featherlets standing out -like a ruffle. The eyes are black, a contrast -to the pure white of the down that surrounds<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> -them. In the summer evening he can be -seen beating up the hedges, pouncing as -he goes. When hungry, his capacity is -enormous—nine or ten mice. He swallows -the mice and small birds whole—the indigestible -part being cast up later in the -form of a grayish pellet. If a hollow tree, -where these birds are likely to sleep during -the day, be tapped fairly loudly, it will -often drive its tenant into the light. Its -exit will invariably be hailed by a chattering -chorus of tomtits or finches, who will pursue -it. In the bright sunlight the sight is -dazzled, but in dull weather it would be -able to see quite easily.</p> - -<p>A wind-blown copse crowns a hill a -mile away from the park, and one day -in summer I found the skeleton of a barn -owl flung among the thorns. Of the -dark eyes—each a wonderful instrument—nothing -was left, only a little dust collected -in the empty orbits. Ants and flies had -long completed their work. The white of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span> -the breast feathers was turned a dull gray -by the rain’s bedragglement; the muscles -of the shoulder had withered, though the -sinews were dry and silky. The feet were -clenched as though the bird had died in -agony after the shot had rung out and it -sunk to the ground. An owl rarely dies -immediately it is shot; it lies back, if badly -hit, resting lightly on its downy wings and -stares with a mournful anguish, as though -puzzled, and conscious that this is farewell -to its mate. Owls pair for life, and, like -most birds, their lives are ideal. It seemed -to me, regarding the skeleton, a sadness -that all that was left of a beautiful bird was -a wasted bundle of bones and feathers, -flung among the thorns.</p> - -<p><i>Woo-loo-woo-loo-woo-o-oo!</i> the brown owl -calls in the night. And while I am here on -earth, let me be in the fields where I can see -the bright stars, and dream as my birds of -mystery pass in silence and alone.</p> - - - -<p><span class="gap"><i>1914.</i></span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">ERNIE</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">My</span> Devon hermitage is only a sixteenth-century -cottage rented at four pounds a -year. There are two bedrooms, very small -and lime-washed, and a living room with a -stone floor and open hearth. A simple -place, built of cob, and thatched, with a -walled-in garden before it, and then the -village street. The churchyard with its -elm-rookery is on one side, a small brook -below the wall. Even in the hot summer the -water runs; I have made a pool of stones -where the swallows and martins can go for -the mud to build their homes. Beautiful it -is to see, in the shadow of the trees, these -birds alighting softly on a boulder, or by -the pool’s edge, and shovelling the red -mortar on their beaks. They are timid, -restless things, rising into the air at the -least noise. I have passed many hours in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> -watching them, noting the number of times -they came in a minute, and how they mix -fragments of dried grass and straw with -the mud before taking the material aloft. -All the while the water murmured, and the -birds answered with gentle song. They -soon came to know me, and minded not -my presence; and I kept away marauding -village cats—lean animals with pointed ears -and staring eyes; a race existing on rats.</p> - -<p>Sometimes a little boy comes and stands -by me, and watches them too. He is a -funny little fellow, about two and a half -years old, with yellow curls and solemn -brown eyes. His name is Ernie, and his -father is a labourer, a very kind man. He -used to spend all his money in the inn, but -suddenly took a wife, and drank no more. -When Ernie is a naughty boy, he threatens -to go “up to pub,” and Ernie wails immediately, -and is good again.</p> - -<p>“I got this one,” says Ernie, coming to -the cottage door, and holding out in a filthy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> -paw a piece of cake. “You ain’t got this -one, ave ee?”</p> - -<p>“Go away, Ernie, I’m writing.”</p> - -<p>“You ain’t got this one,” he replies, -munching the cake, “ave ee, Mis’r Wisson?”</p> - -<p>I feel more comfortable in the company -of children than with “grown-ups”; and to -discourage his talk I put my tongue out, -and make a hideous face.</p> - -<p>“Ah’ll cut ees tongue off, ah wull,” he -gravely warns, repeating what his mother -has said to him when he has done it to her—a -frequent happening, I fear; I taught -him to do it.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye,” I shout.</p> - -<p>Then he departs, and five minutes later -I hear a feeble “<i>’onk-’onk-’onk</i>” in my -garden. Ernie is driving his car, which -he has made from my wheelbarrow, a -cinder sifter, and an egg-shaped pair of -pram-wheels.</p> - -<p>“’Onk-’onk,” he cries to the sparrows, -“git out, ’onk-’onk.” Then on seeing me:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> -“I got this one. You ain’t got this one, -’ave ee?”</p> - -<p>“Noomye!” I exclaim, while Ernie goes -faster and faster.</p> - -<p>This motor-car is not the only toy. The -pram-wheels, or “wills,” as he calls them, -are a source of happiness. A broom tied -to the axle acts as a horse, and Ernie goes -driving in the road. Other small brats -come up, and a puppy dog or two, and -great fun they have, often ending up in -the stream.</p> - -<p>Ernie’s mother is always finding him in -the water. She cannot keep him away. -He goes out in a clean jersey, knickers, and -socks, and suddenly there is a cry for Ernie, -a rushing past the door, a curse from myself, -and a loud wail.</p> - -<p>“You come out of that water, my boy! -I told you not to go in that water. Little -devil, you,” cries the exasperated mother.</p> - -<p>“Ah’ll tull feyther,” shrieks Ernie, as -he is driven like a porker past the door.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span> -His sobs grow less, and a minute later he -comes back and stares at me.</p> - -<p>“I got some good water,” he informs -me. “You ain’t got no water, ’ave ee?” -And he toddles away for more.</p> - -<p>He delights in the filthiest old can or -bottle. He loves to kneel down and see -the water bubbling in. Sometimes it is a -“cup of tea” he has got, or a “glass of -beer.” And always he has “got this one.”</p> - -<p>He appears to be wandering about at all -hours of the day and night. The life of a -recluse in a cottage, remote from ordinary -life, has its moments of exaltation, especially -in the lovely months of spring and summer, -but when the wind sways the leafless trees -and whirls the cold rain, it is hard to prevent -melancholy. On these occasions I go and -have a chat with Ernie’s parents, my immediate -neighbours. Often I find Ernie -asleep at the table, with his curls in the -empty plate. The little imp has been all -day in the water, or on a long tour in his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span> -motor, and has fallen asleep from exhaustion. -He breathes quietly, his mouth -droops.</p> - -<p>“Poor lill chap, he’m be tired,” says -Ernie’s father; “dear lill boy, he’m be.”</p> - -<p>It is always the same tender remark. No -wonder Ernie loves his father. But this -does not prevent the most savage quarrelling -sometimes. Then through the wall I hear -him yelling,—</p> - -<p>“Dawbake!—dawbake!—dawbake!”</p> - -<p>And his father’s threat (it never materialises -into action), “Naughty boy, swearin’! -Ah’ll tell plicemun!”</p> - -<p>“Dawbake!—dawbake!—dawbake!” yells -Ernie.</p> - -<p>“Ee shouldn’t speak tew ees feyther like -that.”</p> - -<p>“Dawbake!” moans Ernie, and hides -his curly head at father’s knees.</p> - -<p>“Could never whip ee,” mutters the -parent, “ee be so little.”</p> - -<p>“Of course,” I agree, having decided<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> -notions about the relation of the big parent -to the tiny child.</p> - -<p>Every day it is the same. Ernie in the -water, Ernie covered with mud and jam. -Ernie holding out pails, bottles, cans, -kettles, and food for me to see.</p> - -<p>“You ain’t got this one, ’ave ee? I got -this one. Ah’ll tell plicemun of ee, Mis’r -Wisson, swearin’! I got my wills. You -ain’t got no wills. I got the wills.”</p> - -<p>“Go away, boy!” I shout, as once a -schoolmaster used to bellow at me.</p> - -<p>He departs, but returns with a cup of -muddy water.</p> - -<p>“I got a glass o’ beer. ’Tis mine, it is. -Yaas.”</p> - -<p>Dirty face, wet boots, disturbing voice, -everlasting questions, and possessive boastings—how -can I complete the various -volumes of <i>The Flax of Dream</i>, with Ernie -always pestering. I have told him again -and again that I wish he would go away to -another cottage. But if he were to, I should<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> -be miserable, and miss my long motor-rides -with Ernie among the cabbages, while -the driver wears an enormous pair of his -father’s boots. I should miss, too, the -accounts of how Ernie has killed rats and -rabbits with a stone and how he cut off -the policeman’s head with a knife because -the policeman used a swear word to Ernie.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">A SEED IN WASTE PLACES</h2> - - -<p class="center">(<i>To M. G. S.</i>)</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">To</span> and fro over the heated surface of -Fleet Street passed the red omnibuses, -a sickly pale vapour coming from the -engines. It was a Saturday afternoon in -August, and there were few people about. -For myself, I had to toil at my useless and -fretting work of getting material for one -of the big Sunday newspapers. Saturday -was the day when the paper became alive, -and the Editor more exacting and more -like an Egyptian slave-driver than ever. -This was from the point of view of the -wretched hack-writers who were privileged -to work from ten o’clock in the morning -till midnight the same day. Possibly the -Editor did not regard himself as one so -omnipotent, since he was the target for the -deadly arrows of the proprietor’s wrath<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> -on Tuesday morning, should any blemish -in the make-up of the paper be discovered, -or any important item of news be missed. -Nevertheless, we loathed the Editor on -Saturdays, especially at evening. His face -grew whiter, and his despairful leer at our -non-success in obtaining some facts from -a West End flunkey whose mistress had that -morning lost a pearl necklace, or a reputation, -was most exasperating for men with -tired feet and grit-filled eyes.</p> - -<p>That afternoon of August London was -more arid than ever. I looked with despair -for any sign of beauty, something that -could take my mind away from dinginess. -My mind was drouthy, and the roots of -calm thought were sapped. The blue sky -overhead made me miserable: I thought -of the waves lapping the sunlit sands of the -West Country that I knew so well. There -the gray stock-doves flew from the bushes -growing on the headland cliff sides, and -the lark’s song was ever in the air. Here<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span> -by the church of Mary-le-Strand all nature -was dead. True, there were pigeons, but -their wings were tinged with soot, and they -were alienated from the wild dove whose -nest was among the blackthorns. Even -the bark of the plane trees was unrefreshed, -and guarded by iron cages; my thought -was shut in too. My mind was never in -my drudge work, however much I tried to -force myself to think in terms of sensation -and factory-made phrases. Everything was -ugly, the competition, the smoke, the grimy -buildings.</p> - -<p>And then I saw, floating across the -shimmering roadway, a few downy seeds. -They came from the direction of the Thames. -They swung in the motion of the street-air, -and the light glistened on their filaments. -One drifted to the pavement at my feet, -and released a curved brown seed. By its -size I knew it to be that of the Yellow -Goatsbeard, or John-go-to-bed-at-noon. -Immediately the bus-rattle, the whirr of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span> -cab-wheels, and the burnt-oil smell sank -away. The seed bloomed in the palm of -my hand, and I saw its flowers of pure -yellow, and a whitethroat was slipping -through the nettles of the ditch. The -city was old, but the brown seed was older. -Men raised their buildings anew after the -great fire, hundreds of years ago; the -flower did not change. My mind reached -back before the time of the Romans with -their tiled baths and chariots; further still, -when the first wild settlers made their hut -circles by the marge of the wooded river. -All the while the dandelion had been blooming -so that the seed should be formed. No -haste, no strife, no misery: growing in the -sunlight. A lovely disk of gold, a summer -day, a wandering bee, and the mother-beauty -became the child-seed. And this -common speck, coming with the moving -air to my feet, was as old as the spirit that -manifests itself through dull matter in a -million million forms and ways.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>I dropped the seed and went away, no -longer stifled by the weary monotony of -my useless work. Then I thought that -I would like to keep it, and plant it in some -known corner in order to watch its increasing -joy as the plant grew in spring, and to take -to myself some of its happiness. I searched -on the pavement, but it was so small and -commonplace I could not see it. A passerby -asked if he might help me: had I lost -anything and was it of any value—a gold -ring, perhaps? I replied in my enthusiasm -that it was of more value than a gold ring, -hoping (as ever the dreamer has) that he -would share my wonder of this seed in -London. He was interested and puzzled, -so I told him it was the seed of a sort of -dandelion that I sought. He stared at me -as though I had said that God was in the -Strand, and had just spoken to me; and -then he turned away with a smile.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">THE CHANGE: <i>A Fantasy of Whitefoot -Lane</i></h2> - - -<p class="center">(<i>To J. R.</i>)</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="smcap">He</span> was standing at the edge of the strip of -wood, quite still, and looking towards the -east as though at something far away. -No wind was blowing.</p> - -<p>As I approached he did not move, -although my feet made a sighing in the -long grass. Abruptly he turned.</p> - -<p>“When I was last here, the field swept -away, open and free, for many miles. In -summer, the wheat grew yellow in the -sunshine. Now the houses are nearly to -the wood, and the little piece of land left -is turned into allotments. But even those -are deserted, for they are going to build -shortly.”</p> - -<p>Dreary patches of decaying cabbages, -their leaves sodden and drab, were between<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> -the edge of the wood and the fences protecting -the small back-gardens. Old broken -pails and bundles of bean-sticks littered -the allotments; sparrows chirped as they -searched the backyards for crumbs.</p> - -<p>“This was a field for poppies,” he -said softly. “Before the stems of wheat -stiffened, while the awns and flags whispered -softly in the air, the poppies were among -the green corn like blood-drops. What -untamed colours there were amongst the -civilised wheat! The yellow charlock grew -every year; we hated the wild mustard, -but still it grew. Everywhere the alien -creeps in, and hangs fiercely to life. Great -big thistles held their spears and purple -plumes higher than the grain with the -yellow ragwort in August. And the moon -daisies, sought by the moths at night. But -you think that I am talking foolishly. -Perhaps wild flowers are nothing to you.”</p> - -<p>He looked at me quickly, and in his face -was youth. Yet he had said that he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span> -remembered the field before it became part -of the suburb: that must have been many -years ago.</p> - -<p>“Sweetest of all things is wild-flower air,” -I quoted from old memory.</p> - -<p>“Ah! You have not forgotten!”</p> - -<p>With a wild poignancy he spoke.</p> - -<p>“I am remembering now.”</p> - -<p>He faced me so abruptly that the hair -flung over his forehead. Then he spoke -again, and my heart was heavy.</p> - -<p>“In the early morning the birds sang -sweetly, and the air was pure. I used to -creep down the stairs, holding my boots -in my hand. The third step from the -bottom creaked and had to be avoided. -The cat asleep on its rug in the kitchen -stirred and stretched and yawned as I -opened the door, then curled and slept -again. It’s funny how I remember things -like that so vividly. When my boots were -laced, I used to tiptoe to the door, draw -the bolt and turn that creaking lock with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span> -its huge key, and then outside into the -morning. Sometimes I came to this very -place, listening to a nightingale, and his -song then was not yearning as it was at -night. I watched the warblers at their -work of weaving cradles among the brambles. -I had a friend in those days, a true friend, -to whom I told all the things in my heart. -Together we wandered and explored the -big woods in the country.”</p> - -<p>He sighed, while a little wind stirred a -leaf upon the oak tree above, a leaf alone -among the guarded buds of next spring -and the buff oak apples upon the twigs. -The leaf made a faint risping as it spun -and shook, and he looked up at it, and -never had I seen a face so sad.</p> - -<p>“Not so long ago that leaf was a bud, -opening timorously to the spring sunshine -and the lark-song far up into heaven. I -wonder if, in its own obscure way, it -wondered about the world, and wove a -little dream of happiness for ever, like the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> -dream of a child. The nightingale sings -no more when it is spring; he is gone like -the wheat and its silky wind-wave. Terry—that -was the name of my friend—came -to me one day and held out his hand, and -said shyly, ‘I say, shall we swear life-friendship?’ -He had been reading some -romantic book. After that we went everywhere -together. Ah, now you begin to -remember the round pond over by the -Seven Fields.”</p> - -<p>“Terry and I would go and fish there -at five in the morning. Yes, well may -you remember those lovely summer morns, -the sun staining the air and charging its -loveliness with light and life. We made -our own rods of hazel wands, and floats -from gray goose-quills and corks. The -eagerness with which we put ground bait -down the night before in the hope of -snaring one of the monster carp that lurked -in that little pond! I suppose really that -none were there at all, but all through<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span> -those springs and summers of boyhood -we fished, never catching anything bigger -than a small roach or dace. We used to -argue about the merits of different baits: -aniseed paste, small boiled potatoes, brandling -worms and broad beans. Do you -know what that pond is like now?” he -cried, tragic eyes looking into mine. “All -the people from the suburbs have cast their -unwanted cats and split boots into the -water. There are no fish in it now, not -even an eft remains to float to the surface, -turn over and show a stain of fire as he -swims to the bottom. Everything is dead, -dead! When the sun slants through the -trees at its edge, you can see the blur of rusting -tins and papers deep underneath. But -in those days it was beautiful and beloved -of a wandering kingfisher. By the shallow -drinking-place the cattle came down to -ponder, as with soft stare they stood in the -mud. Sometimes a bullfinch came, and a -turtle dove from the hawthorn: all the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> -birds loved to splash and ruffle in the water. -That little lake in the wood was a place of -glamour and romance, especially in later -years when I was deeply in love.”</p> - -<p>The sun came over the houses, the starlings -whistled and clucked among the smoke-burnt -and red chimney pots. Wives in -the houses were preparing breakfast for -their men who soon would walk quickly -down the pavements towards the station; -another day’s work in London was beginning.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I was deeply in love,” the pale -stranger continued, “with Louise. That -was her name to me, a name I gave her -because——”</p> - -<p>He faltered and ended. I looked away, -for pain had come into his eyes and his -voice. The heaped bean-sticks became -indistinct as I looked. Again he spoke,—</p> - -<p>“When I first saw her, I knew that I -would love her, and that she would love -me. The bluebells had drooped and faded, -their spirits gone to make the sky a deeper<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -hue, and somewhere in the wind pealed -the ghostly chimes of their fragrance. The -meadow was glorious with buttercups, and -the light reflected upwards from so thick a -cluster of golden rivets driven into the -grasses glowed on her face as she walked -slowly across the field. She wore a print -dress, and her brown hair was thick and -loosely coiled. But it was her eyes that -made her face so sweet—they were gentle -like those of a hare. I just stood and looked -at her. Then she was gone, and I hid -behind a hedge, but she did not look back. -Her father was an artist living in a cottage -by the farm, and she was his only daughter. -When we knew each other, I used to talk -a lot with him, and she would listen -with earnest eyes upon me, as I could see -without actually looking at her. When I -did glance at her, she would look on the -ground, and then we smiled, and in her -cheeks I saw the bramble blossom steal and -die. Her father sang the song of Julien<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> -in the opera <i>Louise</i>, and would think of his -dead wife as he sat at the piano. And I -would think of Louise as I first saw her, -in her simple dress, bareheaded in the -meadow, with a rich golden-brown light -on her cheeks like the lacquered ripples -of a stream hovering and gleaming under -a bridge.”</p> - -<p>“You are very sad,” I said.</p> - -<p>“A poet is always sad,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Then there should be no poets if that -is so. Happiness is greater than poetry.”</p> - -<p>“You are right,” he whispered presently, -“but let me tell you my tale before it is -too late, for shortly the wood will be down, -and on the place where we stand will be -houses. And when that happens the last -link will be broken.”</p> - -<p>“Terry and I and Louise became fast -friends, and so we grew up. I went away -to London in order to learn the tea trade. -Terry stopped here with his father, and, -instead of sitting on a stool in a dim office,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span> -helped with the sowing and the reaping. -One day in summer Louise and I were -walking over the Seven Fields, and by a -stile I put my arm round her, and she -said, ‘No, Julien, not yet,’ but said it so -softly and timidly that I knew she loved -me. And I held her, the little thing that -she was, in my arms, just to feel her making -a small struggle, and to watch her shy -eyes and tinted cheeks. But she would -not let me kiss her, so I pretended to say -farewell to her, but she pressed my hand -and told me to stay. And when I asked -her if she loved me, she would not answer.</p> - -<p>“‘Would you break my heart, Louise?’ -I said. ‘You know I love you.’</p> - -<p>“‘No, Julien,’ she answered very softly, -‘but I do not want you to break your -own.’</p> - -<p>“‘What do you mean, Louise?’</p> - -<p>“But she would not say immediately, -and when the time came for us to go back -to the cottage, she kissed me nervously on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> -the cheek and whispered that she might be -enough for me now, but not later on; that -she was only a silly girl. Of course I loved -her all the more, and thinking of her, -could not work much during the day at -the tea trade, but wrote books at night -feverishly in order to immortalise my love. -All that summer we walked among the -flowers, and one day I asked her to marry -me. She shook her head, and her eyes -were wet and sorrowful.</p> - -<p>“‘Not yet,’ she whispered.</p> - -<p>“‘I don’t want to marry you now,’ I -cried, the impetuous, eager fool that I was, -‘I only want to know if you love me enough -to marry me some day. I want to feel that -I possess you.’</p> - -<p>“She laughed a little shaky laugh, and -I took her close to kiss her; but she drew -back slightly, and immediately I felt that -I wasn’t wanted, and to cover my humiliation -I spoke coldly and brutally. Fool that I -was!” he cried bitterly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>The drone of a tramcar passing towards -Catford along the newly-made high road -a mile below the wood rose in pitch as it -went faster with its first burden of artisans -and factory hands. The stranger brooded, -thinking of that time before the field had -been built upon. And yet he was still a -youth, alone with me in the early hours of -the winter morning, standing in the long -grass at the eastern edge of the wood. -Almost immediately he went on: his voice -became wild with yearning.</p> - -<p>“Spring came again, with the larks -battling over the Seven Fields and the -wind anemones rising like wan-white stars -above the dead leaves. I fretted with -brooding why she withheld herself. I was -intensely poetical and equally egoistical. -The great artist rises above egoism, the -little one is killed by it, and becomes embittered—egoism -narrows the view and -ruins happiness. But I could not help it—I -was held in chains by the tyranny of my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span> -own immature thoughts. Ah, God, if I -had only known!”</p> - -<p>His thin hands covered the pale face, -his shoulders shook, and once again the -bean-sticks were a smudge.</p> - -<p>“One day I kissed her brutally and -suddenly—Louise, more fragile of spirit -than the tenderest windflower. One day -I crushed her lips with my mouth. She -struggled away, and the tenderest girl -became a spitfire. She reviled me for a -weakling. She said that I had no sense of -honour, that I was not worthy of being a -man—and then she seemed to shrink, her -expression of anger fled, and the tears -streaming down her face, she sobbed,—</p> - -<p>“‘Julien, Julien, won’t you make a -great effort to kill your egoism? Cannot -you see that your intolerance of all people -because they have not the same fervour -about poetry as yourself will eventually -cripple all your powers? You sneer at -Terry, who is one of the dearest boys,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> -because he doesn’t want to hear you quote -“The Hound of Heaven”; you sneer at -your own father because you say that he -doesn’t understand you. Oh, Julien, won’t -you try to alter things for your own sake?’</p> - -<p>“‘Not for yours?’ I sneered.</p> - -<p>“‘For your own, Julien,’ she replied -quietly.</p> - -<p>“‘You don’t love me?’</p> - -<p>“‘Not as you love me, Julien.’</p> - -<p>“‘No, of course not! You don’t know -what love is! I can eat my heart out for -you; dream, dream, dream in London all -the time, pine in the smoke, and no one -understands me. No one! The poet is -always the outcast, from Christ downwards. -The world smashes and destroys genius—the -genius that is always trying to make -others see the beauty in the world, and -make humanity happier.’</p> - -<p>“‘No, not an outcast, Julien: a beloved -friend who will rise above introspection, -and be happy. But if that man be caged<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> -by egoism, isn’t it best to try to undo the -door of that cage? Oh, Julien, if only -you would believe.’</p> - -<p>“She was distressed, and at the thought -of hurting her a devil in me rejoiced. She -had called Terry one of the dearest of boys. -I seized upon the remark.</p> - -<p>“‘No doubt you are in love with Terry, -who is blue-eyed and has such nice wavy -hair. Well, go and marry him. <i>I</i> shall -never ask you to marry me again. Good-bye, -Louise.’</p> - -<p>“I walked away, and after a while turned -to go back to her. We had been quarrelling, -at least I had made my pitiable remarks, -just where we are standing now. But -when I returned she had gone. An insane -conceit made me want to hurt her. I -wanted to break her spirit—to make her -believe in me first: then I would try to -alter my views. Already I could see the -truth of her remarks. I brooded, and my -vitality was sapped. My pride, or conceit,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span> -faltered. Then, when I determined to -crave her pity, I found she had gone away -to Devon with her father. I wrote a bitter -letter to her and left my home. I never -wrote again to Louise, nor did she write to -me. Not for a year. Then she wrote to -me. And I came back. I was already a -changed man. Her letter was short, and -in it she said that she wished and prayed -for my happiness. I came back humbly -to see her——”</p> - -<p>He put a shaky hand up to his forehead, -wet with moisture. His anguish was unbearable. -I looked away to the yellow -houses with their blue-gray roofs of slate; -another tram passed in the High Street.</p> - -<p>“She had died,” he muttered. “Little -sweet Louise had pined away and become -ill. One day she got wet through and -developed rapid consumption. She was -only eighteen—a child. They said it was -consumption, but I knew better. <i>I</i> killed -her. I, the self-flaunted idealist, my eyes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span> -brimming for humanity, had neglected -every one around me. I only realised it -then. She had known it all the while, -because love was a far holier and greater -thing to her than it was to me. I thought -because I had wanted to pour out my -heart’s blood at her feet that therefore -my love was not selfish, but real, divine! -Ah, what did I know about love! I -went to the churchyard and saw the -mounded grave with a simple stone at the -head, and it seemed to me that she was -near, wearing the print frock and standing -among the buttercups that reflected a gold -vapour about her, her eyes dark with a -shadow. The maiden eyes, the eyes soft -with love, and yet so sad, regarded me, -and so sharp was the impression of her -standing there that I could hear her pleading, -‘Julien, for my sake now, Julien!’ In -the churchyard I stood alone, looking at -her, while in an orchard near the blossom -was shaken by the fluttering of goldfinches.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span> -Spring was in the hearts of the wild birds -I loved, but my heart was dead. What -was there left? To recreate that love and -cruelty, and write out of my sorrow and -folly! Greater than all written art is life -and happiness: a simple living with a -beloved and the joy of children’s young -voices. By the grassy mound I stayed -with the shadows. My heart was broken, -the more irretrievably because I had broken -it myself. Remorse, remorse!”</p> - -<p>Memory ceased. Again the dry whisper -of the leaf overbore the wintry solitude -and song-silence in that little wood in -Whitefoot Lane, where the bark of the -trees was stripped, and all undergrowth -was trampled down. The green woodpeckers -would laugh no more in spring: -only a few poor wind-flowers and bluebells -would tell of past loveliness. The pale -visitant was gone, and with no sound of -footfall.</p> - -<p>The leaf spun insistently as the wind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span> -passed wearily onwards, and beside me the -long green grasses held their drops of light-laden -water, nor was there any mark as of -feet having pressed there, nor any trail -leading away.</p> - -<p>With a vague mournfulness I turned and -went along the miry path to the roadway, -where a tattered fence gaped forlornly. -The land would be sold, the trees cut down, -and useful houses erected. Perhaps the -spirit of the dead haunted that wilderness -of torn branches and charred fire-circles, -to find rest only where all was changed. -Never again would I go back among those -poor trees, where in the cruel days of youth -sweet hopes had been crushed like a wood-anemone -under careless and unknowing -feet.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">PROSERPINE’S MESSAGE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="center">(<i>Written during the spring-like days of October, 1921, when the -prolonged drought had been broken by the rains following the -equinoctial gales.</i>)</p> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Some</span> happy goldfinches flew twittering to -the loosened thistle-heads on the sward of -the promontory. Their wings fluttered as -they took the seeds; they were timorous of -alighting on the down, such a soft couch it -was, too; their lives were wild and restless. -Soon the flock rose and went to other -haunts. The brief visitation gave me time -to observe the crimson faces, the yellow -bars on the wings—they were gone, and I -was alone with the spirit of the apple blossom -and the blue sky. On the trees of the -inland orchards the ungathered apples were -ready to fall. Goldfinches always associate -themselves in my mind with the May month, -when their nests are in the apple trees, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> -it is only when summer is gone that the -wild beauty of spring—apple bloom time—is -yearned for. The goldfinches that now -flocked to the headland for the thistledown -brought with them a thought of blossom.</p> - -<p>For Proserpine has returned—with a -child-god in her arms. The nuts in the lane -are ready for gathering, the blackberries -are luscious, and the partridge coveys have -been broken up many weeks. On the -ledges of their precipice colony the gulls -are no more, the swallows have followed -the sun. Many times have I searched the -flawless bell-flower of the sky for these -ragtailed vagrants, but not even one is to -be seen. I cannot understand it; my heart -is heavy. Why have they gone so suddenly? -The sun shines, and insects are plentiful. -Usually the hosts foregather on the single -telegraph wire that never ceases to hum -between the sun-bleached posts in the -sunken lane. This autumn there were no -preparations for the great southerly flight.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> -One night, in the quiet starlight, they -disappeared, speeding down the silver stain -of the Milky Way towards the big lantern -star Fomalhaut. Did they flee the coming -of the spring goddess? Other things -have welcomed her. The lesser celandine -flowers are in the hedge-banks, the sorrel -is rising, the wild arum will shortly show -its purple club in the green sheath, pink -campion is blooming. Proserpine, the -goddess of spring, has returned to see how -her children are faring; and a little child-god -is in her arms. With her, too, is the -spirit of the apple blossom, symbolling -felicity, whispered to me by those fairy -heralds, the goldfinches; the loved swallows -have not waited to see her. Again I wonder -to myself if the penalty of meeting an -Immortal is death. Dear swallows, already -they brave much during their migrations—the -storms, the waves, and the electric wires -erected by a debased portion of humanity -along their airlines.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>The bracken upon the headland has -rusted, and the gorse is brown and sapless. -Never has there been such an untarnished -sky fused with the sea. Those stately -swans, the clouds, have sailed over the -marge of the earth, leaving not even a downy -feather to tell of their heavenly passage. -Somewhere in a brake of blackthorn a robin -sings frailly, while a red kestrel hangs -above for sight of vole or mouse. Croaking -deeply a raven wings towards a gully in -the mainland where the shepherd pitches -his dead sheep. The robin is quiet, and -there is no other sound except the croak -of the carrion raven: only the mellow sun -of autumn, and the grape-frosty air, and the -silence. But listen! that sweet birdsong -must surely be of the nightingale. There is -the low trill, the fluting cadence, the reedy -melody that sinks away into silence. But -the nightingale does not come to the West -Country; only in my mind do I listen to -the old and loved voice. The song of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span> -nightingale is so joyous, so essentially pure -spirit, that the listening heart feels an -emotion beyond that of earthly life. It is -passion more chaste than any Hellenic ideal—it -is the voice of the wind, the meaning of -the green leaf, the purpose of the seed, the -secret of the star. But now as I listen the -wistful song, only a little less perfect than -Philomel’s own, brings poignantly the present -before me. However I would dream, it is -now October; I can read <i>The Pageant of -Summer</i> during the dreariness of autumn’s -chill and winter’s murk; but it is not the -same. Change is bitter to me, whether of -falling leaf or friendship. Leaves must fall, -but friends can be steadfast; yet everywhere -is bitter change. For many days now the -voice has run through the grape-frosty -air; always the voice, but never sight of the -singer. For hours and days I have sought -to find the singing bird, but in vain, in vain. -There is genius in the song—a hymn to the -life-giving sun, to the light. Somewhere<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> -a rabbit screams in an iron gin; the bird -sings on.</p> - -<p>Gone is the evejar, that weird moth-taker -who pairs for life. By the Nile, with -the cuckoo, the nightingale, and the swift, -he flaps his mottled wings. The jackdaws -and the curlews are with me; there is the -seal four hundred feet below hunting the -conger-eel come back to the deep pools. -Of his summer diet of dogfish he must have -wearied by now. The orange hawkbits -are everywhere at my feet—common weeds, -perhaps, but very dear: each yields a -thought of beauty, each is a gold coin of -our true heritage of the earth. The metal -coin that they stamp with the die is false; -I would have all the children of the earth -spend the dandelions. Therein lies our -hope—in the wild-flower and the sunlight, -in what they symbol—let the children -spend these. The more they spend, the -richer they will be. They will never forget -the flowers: and to remember them is to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> -yearn towards goodness and beauty. Like -the migrants that return, so the impressions -of childhood come back to us. And like -the swallows that every year grow scarcer, -so every generation of man has more to -contend with in heredity. This is the -price we pay for our metal gold. Let us -spend the golden treasure of the dandelions, -now, on earth, while we may; so that those -to follow may enjoy a more sunlit life. -Sitting on the sward above the still blue -sea, listening to the sadly-sweet song of the -unknown, drinking the grape-frosty air, -thus I meditated; perhaps Proserpine had -paused in her wandering and whispered -to a lonely mortal.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">STRIX FLAMMEA</h2> -</div> - - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Where</span> man goes nature ends,” wrote -Richard Jefferies. But the wild creatures -cling to their ancient places with stubbornness, -especially in and around London.</p> - -<p>One day in summer, intolerably weary, -I left Fleet Street very late—or very early. -The morning star, Eosphoros the Light-bringer, -was sweeping above the eastern -line of buildings, the spectral dawn flooding -into the concave dusk above. Pausing by -the Temple Gardens near the Embankment -I became aware of glints of sound from -the lawns and under the trees, the cries -of questing mice. Then something indistinctly -white and with great winnowing -wings went over, fluttered vaguely to the -grass, rose again, and drifted away. Strix -Flammea was in London, hunting in the -very heart of its turmoil. My fatigue passed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span> -and hope came into my heart: I would be -as indifferent to my surroundings as my -barn owl was to them!</p> - -<p>There are owls in the city at night, but -never before had I known Strix Flammea -visiting. The quavering and mournful -plaint of the wood or brown owl has often -been heard in Hyde Park and St. James’s -Park during the darkness. Once, from the -top of a motor-bus, I saw one roosting in a -chimney cowl near Marble Arch. He -looked forlorn in such a neighbourhood. -Such a strange object naturally caused many -cockney sparrows to assemble for communal -vituperation.</p> - -<p>Unlike other birds, owls cannot exist -where there is noise. Most of their hunting -is done by sound, detected by the ultra-sensitive -and enormous cavities in the sides -of their head, much larger than their eyes.</p> - -<p>Maybe you will see Strix Flammea as he -floats, a great moth of a bird, round the -ancient wharves and docks of London Bridge.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span> -But it will be in the forsaken silence of the -morning, when the traffic of the streets is -stilled and few people are about, except the -human derelicts huddled by London’s river -and an occasional poet enraptured at life’s -beauty.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_245.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<p class="center">GLASGOW: W. COLLINS SONS AND CO. LTD.</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table"> - -<tr><td> -<span class="ph3">Messrs.<br /> - -COLLINS’<br /> - -Latest Novels</span> -</td><td><img src="images/i_logo.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> -</table> -</div> -<hr class="tb" /> -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="center"><i>Messrs. COLLINS will always be glad to send -their book lists regularly to readers who will -send name and address.</i></p> -</div> -<hr class="tb" /> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="ph1">PIRACY<br /> - -Michael Arlen</p> - -<p>This is the story of Ivor Pelham Marlay between the -ages of 18 and 32, and the period is London, 1910-1922. -It is the history of England, two loves, and an ideal. -Mr. Arlen deals with all the types of London Society, and -he likes to bring out the queer and unexpected sides of -his characters. No one who read Mr. Arlen’s first book, -<i>A London Venture</i>, or his delightful short stories, <i>A -Romantic Lady</i>, needs to be told that he writes wittily -and well.</p> - - -<p class="ph1">TYLER OF BARNET<br /> - -Bernard Gilbert</p> - -<p class="center">Author of <i>Old England</i></p> - -<p>This long, powerful novel shows the dilemma of a -middle-aged man with an invalid wife and grown-up -children, who falls passionately in love for the first time. -As he is a man of iron self-control he represses his passion -till it bursts all bounds, with a tragic result. No one -now writing knows so well or describes so vividly life in -the English countryside as does Bernard Gilbert.</p> - - -<p class="ph1">THE PIT-PROP SYNDICATE<br /> - -Freeman Wills Crofts</p> - -<p>Another brilliantly ingenious detective story by the -author of <i>The Ponson Case</i>. The mystery of the real -business of the syndicate utterly baffled the clever young -“amateurs” who tried to solve it, and it took all the -experience and perseverance of the “professionals” to -break up the dangerous and murderous gang.</p> - - -<p class="ph1">THE BEAUTIFUL AND DAMNED<br /> - -F. Scott Fitzgerald</p> - -<p>This book has caused an even greater sensation in -America than <i>This Side of Paradise</i>. It is a long, -searching, and absolutely convincing study of degeneration, -that degeneration which ruins so many of the rich, young, -idle people. The “smart set” of New York is hurled -into the limelight and mercilessly revealed. A witty, -pungent, and entirely original book.</p> - - -<p class="ph1">DANDELION DAYS<br /> - -Henry Williamson</p> - -<p>This is the tale of a boy’s last terms at a public school, -a very sensitive, unusual boy, and it is in a sense a sequel -to <i>The Beautiful Years</i>. It is the work of a very clever -young writer whose nature essays have attracted the -widest attention here and in America, and is utterly unlike -the usual “school story.” It is a subtle and beautifully -written study of character.</p> - - -<p class="ph1">BEANSTALK<br /> - -Mrs. Henry Dudeney</p> - -<p>A charmingly told novel of Sussex. The theme is -Motherhood, and all the emotional subtleties of the desire -for children.</p> - - -<p class="ph1">PENDER AMONG THE -RESIDENTS<br /> - -Forrest Reid</p> - -<p>This is an episode in the life of Rex Pender, who -inherited and came to live at Ballycastle. It is the story -of the curious spiritual experience which came to him -there. It is in a sense a “ghost story,” but it is told by -an artist and a stylist. “The Residents,” moreover, are -admirably contrasted, and in some cases deliciously -humorously drawn. A charming, enigmatic, “different” -book.</p> - - -<p class="ph1">THE DEAVES AFFAIR<br /> - -Hulbert Footner</p> - -<p>This is a story of Evan Weir’s wooing, and a very -strenuous and original pursuit it proved. In fact the -lady of his choice so far dissembled her love, as frequently -to threaten his further existence. At the time, Evan was -acting as secretary to old Simeon Deaves, famed as the -possessor of the “tightest wad” in New York.</p> - -<p>Now certain individuals had designs upon old Simeon -and his hoard, and amongst them was the forcible and -beautiful object of Evan’s affections.</p> - -<p>Like <i>The Owl Taxi</i>, it goes with a splendid snap, and is -packed with exciting and humorous incidents.</p> - - -<p class="ph1">ROSEANNE<br /> - -Madame Albanesi</p> - -<p>The author calls this an “old-fashioned story.” It -does not concern itself with sex or any other problems, -but is just a lively, well-told life of a very fascinating -heroine who has plenty of adventures sentimental and -otherwise.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph2">Collins’ ‘First Novel’ Library</p> - - -<p class="ph1"><span class="smcap">Autumn Titles</span></p> -</div> -<hr class="tb" /> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="ph1">EXPERIENCE<br /> - -Catherine Cotton</p> - -<p>This charming chronicle has no “plot.” It is an -attempt to present a happy, witty, simple-minded woman -who attracted love because she gave it out. This is a -very difficult type of book to write. The attention of -the reader must be aroused and held by the sheer merit -of the writing, and the publishers believe they have found -in Catherine Cotton a writer with just the right gifts of -wit, sympathy, and understanding.</p> - - -<p class="ph1">DOMENICO<br /> - -H. M. Anderson</p> - -<p>This is the story of a Cardinal of Rome, a member of -one of the great noble families. In his youth something had -happened which had thrown a shadow over his life. There -are three great crises in his life, one of them due to this -shadow, one to the contrast between his conscience and -his ambition, and the third when, an exile in England, he -falls in love. Miss Anderson shows much skill in drawing -the character of this great and tragic figure.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph1">FOOTNOTE:</p> - - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> The loft over a shippen, or open cattle-shed.</p> - -</div></div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - - - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> - -<p>The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is entered into the public domain.</p> -</div></div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LONE SWALLOWS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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