LVII

To-day was oppressively hot, brooding, airless; or rather, not so much without air, as that the air was thick and viscous like honey, without the thin, fine quality.  One drank rather than breathed it.  Yet nature revelled and rejoiced in it with an almost shameless intoxication; the trees unfolded their leaves and shook themselves out, crumpled by the belated and chilly spring.  The air was full of clouds of hurrying, dizzy insects, speeding at a furious rate, on no particular errand, but merely stung with the fierce joy of life and motion.  In the road crawled stout bronze-green beetles, in blind and clumsy haste, pushing through grass-blades, tumbling over stones, waving feeble legs as they lay helpless on their backs, with the air of an elderly clergyman knocked down by an omnibus—­and, on recovering their equilibrium, struggling breathlessly on.  The birds gobbled fiercely in all directions, or sang loud and sweet upon the hedges.  I saw half-a-dozen cuckoos, gliding silvery grey and beating the hedges for nests.  Everything was making the most of life, in a prodigious hurry to live.

Indeed, I was very well content with the world myself as I sauntered through the lanes.  I found a favourite place, an old clunch-quarry, on the side of a hill, where the white road comes sleepily up out of the fen.  It is a pretty place, the quarry; it is all grass-grown now, and is full of small dingles covered with hawthorns.  It is a great place for tramps to camp in, and half the dingles have little grey circles in them where the camping fires have been lit.  I did not mind that evidence of life, but I did not like the cast-off clothing, draggled hats, coats, skirts, and boots that lay about.  I never can fathom the mystery of tramps’ wardrobes.  They are never well-dressed exactly, but wherever they encamp they appear to discard clothing enough for two or three persons, clothing which, though I should not personally like to make use of it, still appears to be serviceable enough.  I suppose it is a part of the haphazard life of the open air, and that if a tramp gets an old coat given him which is better than his own, he just leaves the old one behind him at the next halting-place.

The chalk-pit to-day was full of cowslips and daisies, the former in quite incredible profusion.  I suppose it is a cowslip year.  The common plants seem to have cycles, and almost each year has a succession of characteristic flowers, which have found, I suppose, the particular arrangements of the season suit them; or rather, I suppose that an outburst of a particular flower in a particular year shows that the previous year was a good seeding-time.  This year has been remarkable for two plants so far, a sort of varnished green ground-weed, with a small white flower, and a dull crimson dead-nettle; both of them have covered the ground in places in huge patches.  This is both strange and pleasant, I think.