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CHAPTER XVI.

SUMMER DAYS ON THE COTSWOLDS

     “What more felicitie can fall to creature
      Than to enjoy delight with libertie,
      And to be lord of all the workes of Nature?”

      E. SPENSER.

The finest days, when the trees are greenest, the sky bluest, and the clouds most snowy white are the days that come in the midst of bad weather.  And just as there is no rest without toil, no peace without war, no true joy in life without grief, no enjoyment for the blase, so there can be no lovely summer days without previous storms and rain, no sunshine till the tearful mists have passed away.

There had been a week’s incessant rain; every wild flower and every blade of green grass was soaked with moisture, until it could no longer bear its load, and drooped to earth in sheer dismay.  But last night there came a change:  the sun went down beyond the purple hills like a ball of fire; eastwards the woods were painted with a reddish glow, and life and colour returned to everything that grows on the face of this beautiful earth.

                       “It seems a day

(I speak of one from many singled out),
One of those heavenly days which cannot die.” 

          
                                                        WORDSWORTH.

So it is pleasant to-day to wander over the fields; across the crisp stubbles, where the thistledown is crowding in the “stooks” of black oats; past stretches of uncut corn looking red and ripe under a burning sun.  White oxeye daisies in masses and groups, lilac-tinted thistles, and bright scarlet poppies grow in profusion among the tall wheat stalks.  A covey of partridges, about three parts grown, rise almost at our feet; for it is early August, and the deadly twelve-bore has not yet wrought havoc among the birds.  On the right is a field of green turnips, well grown after the recent rains, and promising plenty of “cover” for sportsmen in September.  In the hedgerow the lovely harebells have recovered from the soaking they endured, and their bell-shaped flowers of perfect blue peep out everywhere.  The sweetest flower that grows up the hedgeside is the blue geranium, or meadow crane’s-bill.  The humble yarrow, purple knapweed, field scabious, thistles with bright purple heads, and St. John’s wort with its clean-cut stars of burnished gold and its pellucid veins, form a natural border along the hedge, where wild clematis or traveller’s joy entwines its rough leaf stalks round the young hazel branches and among the pink roses of the bramble.

By the roadside, where the dust blew before the rain and covered every green leaf with a coating of rich lime, there grow small shrubs of mallow with large flowers of pale purple or mauve; here, too, yellow bedstraw and bird’s-foot lotus add their tinge of gold to the lush green grass, and the smaller bindweed, the lovely convolvulus, springs up on the barrenest spots, even creeping over the stone heaps that were left over from last winter’s road mending.