pageant of summer-第3节

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banks　of　the　brook；　far　inside　the　deepest　wood；　away　he　wanders　

and　despises　nothing。　　His　nest　is　under　the　rough　grasses　and　the　

mosses　of　the　mound；　a　mere　tunnel　beneath　the　fibres　and　matted　

surface。　　The　hawthorn　overhangs　it；　the　fern　grows　by；　red　mice　

rustle　past。



It　thunders；　and　the　great　oak　trembles；　the　heavy　rain　drops　

through　the　treble　roof　of　oak　and　hawthorn　and　fern。　　Under　the　

arched　branches　the　lightning　plays　along；　swiftly　to　and　fro；　or　

seems　to；　like　the　swish　of　a　whip；　a　yellowish…red　against　the　

green；　a　boom！　a　crackle　as　if　a　tree　fell　from　the　sky。　　The　thick　

grasses　are　bowed；　the　white　florets　of　the　wild　parsley　are　beaten　

down；　the　rain　hurls　itself；　and　suddenly　a　fierce　blast　tears　the　

green　oak　leaves　and　whirls　them　out　into　the　fields；　but　the　

humble…bee's　home；　under　moss　and　matted　fibres；　remains　uninjured。　　

His　house　at　the　root　of　the　king　of　trees；　like　a　cave　in　the　

rock；　is　safe。　　The　storm　passes　and　the　sun　comes　out；　the　air　is　

the　sweeter　and　the　richer　for　the　rain；　like　verses　with　a　rhyme；　

there　will　be　more　honey　in　the　flowers。　　Humble　he　is；　but　wild；　

always　in　the　field；　the　wood；　always　by　the　banks　and　thickets；　

always　wild　and　humming　to　his　flowers。　　Therefore　I　like　the　

humble…bee；　being；　at　heart　at　least；　for　ever　roaming　among　the　

woodlands　and　the　hills　and　by　the　brooks。　　In　such　quick　summer　

storms　the　lightning　gives　the　impression　of　being　far　more　

dangerous　than　the　zigzag　paths　traced　on　the　autumn　sky。　　The　

electric　cloud　seems　almost　level　with　the　ground；　and　the　livid　

flame　to　rush　to　and　fro　beneath　the　boughs　as　the　little　bats　do　

in　the　evening。



Caught　by　such　a　cloud；　I　have　stayed　under　thick　larches　at　the　

edge　of　plantations。　　They　are　no　shelter；　but　conceal　one　

perfectly。　　The　wood　pigeons　come　home　to　their　nest　trees；　in　

larches　they　seem　to　have　permanent　nests；　almost　like　rooks。　　

Kestrels；　too；　come　home　to　the　wood。　　Pheasants　crow；　but　not　from　

fear　…　from　defiance；　in　fear　they　scream。　　The　boom　startles　them；　

and　they　instantly　defy　the　sky。　　The　rabbits　quietly　feed　on　out　

in　the　field　between　the　thistles　and　rushes　that　so　often　grow　in　

woodside　pastures；　quietly　hopping　to　their　favourite　places；　

utterly　heedless　how　heavy　the　echoes　may　be　in　the　hollows　of　the　

wooded　hills。　　Till　the　rain　comes　they　take　no　heed　whatever；　but　

then　make　for　shelter。　　Blackbirds　often　make　a　good　deal　of　noise；　

but　the　soft　turtle…doves　coo　gently；　let　the　lightning　be　as　

savage　as　it　will。　　Nothing　has　the　least　fear。　　Man　alone；　more　

senseless　than　a　pigeon；　put　a　god　in　vapour；　and　to　this　day；　

though　the　printing　press　has　set　a　foot　on　every　threshold；　

numbers　bow　the　knee　when　they　hear　the　roar　the　timid　dove　does　

not　heed。　　So　trustful　are　the　doves；　the　squirrels；　the　birds　of　

the　branches；　and　the　creatures　of　the　field。　　Under　their　tuition　

let　us　rid　ourselves　of　mental　terrors；　and　face　death　itself　as　

calmly　as　they　do　the　livid　lightning；　so　trustful　and　so　content　

with　their　fate；　resting　in　themselves　and　unappalled。　　If　but　by　

reason　and　will　I　could　reach　the　godlike　calm　and　courage　of　what　

we　so　thoughtlessly　call　the　timid　turtle…dove；　I　should　lead　a　

nearly　perfect　life。



The　bark　of　the　ancient　apple　tree　under　which　I　have　been　standing　

is　shrunken　like　iron　which　has　been　heated　and　let　cool　round　the　

rim　of　a　wheel。　　For　a　hundred　years　the　horses　have　rubbed　against　

it　while　feeding　in　the　aftermath。　　The　scales　of　the　bark　are　gone　

or　smoothed　down　and　level；　so　that　insects　have　no　hiding…place。　　

There　are　no　crevices　for　them；　the　horsehairs　that　were　caught　

anywhere　have　been　carried　away　by　birds　for　their　nests。　　The　

trunk　is　smooth　and　columnar；　hard　as　iron。　　A　hundred　times　the　

mowing…grass　has　grown　up　around　it；　the　birds　have　built　their　

nests；　the　butterflies　fluttered　by；　and　the　acorns　dropped　from　

the　oaks。　　It　is　a　long；　long　time；　counted　by　artificial　hours　or　

by　the　seasons；　but　it　is　longer　still　in　another　way。　　The　

greenfinch　in　the　hawthorn　yonder　has　been　there　since　I　came　out；　

and　all　the　time　has　been　happily　talking　to　his　love。　　He　has　left　

the　hawthorn　indeed；　but　only　for　a　minute　or　two；　to　fetch　a　few　

seeds；　and　comes　back　each　time　more　full　of　song…talk　than　ever。　　

He　notes　no　slow　movement　of　the　oak's　shadow　on　the　grass；　it　is　

nothing　to　him　and　his　lady　dear　that　the　sun；　as　seen　from　his　

nest；　is　crossing　from　one　great　bough　of　the　oak　to　another。　　The　

dew　even　in　the　deepest　and　most　tangled　grass　has　long　since　been　

dried；　and　some　of　the　flowers　that　close　at　noon　will　shortly　fold　

their　petals。　　The　morning　airs；　which　breathe　so　sweetly；　come　

less　and　less　frequently　as　the　heat　increases。　　Vanishing　from　the　

sky；　the　last　fragments　of　cloud　have　left　an　untarnished　azure。　　

Many　times　the　bees　have　returned　to　their　hives；　and　thus　the　

index　of　the　day　advances。　　It　is　nothing　to　the　greenfinches；　all　

their　thoughts　are　in　their　song…talk。　　The　sunny　moment　is　to　them　

all　in　all。　　So　deeply　are　they　rapt　in　it　that　they　do　not　know　

whether　it　is　a　moment　or　a　year。　　There　is　no　clock　for　feeling；　

for　joy；　for　love。



And　with　all　their　motions　and　stepping　from　bough　to　bough；　they　

are　not　restless；　they　have　so　much　time；　you　see。　　So；　too；　the　

whitethroat　in　the　wild　parsley；　so；　too；　the　thrush　that　just　now　

peered　out　and　partly　fluttered　his　wings　as　he　stood　to　look。　　A　

butterfly　comes　and　stays　on　a　leaf　…　a　leaf　much　warmed　by　the　sun　

…　and　shuts　his　wings。　　In　a　minute　he　opens　them；　shuts　them　

again；　half　wheels　round；　and　by…and…by　…　just　when　he　chooses；　and　

not　before　…　floats　away。　　The　flowers　open；　and　remain　open　for　

hours；　to　the　sun。　　Hastelessness　is　the　only　word　one　can　make　up　

to　describe　it；　there　is　much　rest；　but　no　haste。　　Each　moment；　as　

with　the　greenfinches；　is　so　full　of　life　that　it　seems　so　long　and　

so　sufficient　in　itself。　　Not　only　the　days；　but　life　itself　

lengthens　in　summer。　　I　would　spread　abroad　my　arms　and　gather　more　

of　it　to　me；　could　I　do　so。



All　the　procession　of　living　and　growing　things　passes。　　The　grass　

stands　up　taller　and　still　taller；　the　sheaths　open；　and　the　stalk　

arises；　the　pollen　clings　till　the　breeze　sweeps　it。　　The　bees　rush　

past；　and　the　resolute　wasps；　the　humble…bees；　whose　weight　swings　

them　along。　　About　the　oaks　and　maples　the　brown　chafers　swarm；　and　

the　fern…owls　at　dusk；　and　the　blackbirds　and　jays　by　day；　cannot　

reduce　their　legions　while　they　last。　　Yellow　butterflies；　and　

white；　broad　red　admirals；　and　sweet　blues；　think　of　the　kingdom　of　

flowers　which　is　theirs！　　Heavy　moths　burring　at　the　edge　of　the　

copse；　green；　and　red；　and　gold　flies：　gnats；　like　smoke；　around　

the　tree…tops；　midges　so　thick　over　the　brook；　as　if　you　could　haul　

a　netful；　tiny　leaping　creatures　in　the　grass；　bronze　beetles　

across　the　path；　blue　dragonflies　pondering　on　cool　leaves　of　

water…plantain。　　Blue　jays　flitting；　a　magpie　drooping　across　from　

elm　to　elm；　young　rooks　that　have　escaped　the　hostile　shot　

blundering　up　into　the　branches；　missel　thrushes　leading　their　

fledglings；　already　strong　on　the　wing；　from　field　to　field。　　An　

egg　here　on　the　sward　dropped　by　a　starling；　a　red　ladybird　

creeping；　tortoise…like；　up　a　green　fern　frond。　　Finches　undulating　

through　the　air；　shooting　themselves　with　closed　wings；　and　linnets　

happy　with　their　young。



Golden　dandelion　discs　…　gold　and　orange　…　of　a　hue　more　beautiful；　

I　think；　than　the　higher　and　more　visible　buttercup。　　A　blackbird；　

gleaming；　so　black　is　he；　splashing　in　the　runlet　of　water　across　

the　gateway。　　A　ruddy　king…fisher　swiftly　drawing　himself；　as　you　

might　draw　a　stroke　with　a　pencil；　over　the　surface　of　the　yellow　

buttercups；　and　away　above　the　hedge。　　Hart's…tongue　fern；　thick　

with　green；　so　green　as　to　be　thick　with　its　colour；　deep　in　the　

ditch　under　the　shady　hazel　boughs。　　White　meadow…sweet　lifting　its　

tiny　florets；　and　black…flowered　sedges。　　You　must　push　through　the　

reed　grass　to　find　the　sword…flags；　the　stout　willow…herbs　will　not　

be　trampled　down；　but　resist　the　foot　like　underwood。　　Pink　lychnis　

flowers　behind　the　withy　stoles；　and　little　black　moorhens　swim　

away；　as　you　gather　it；　after　their　mother；　who　has　dived　under　the　

water…grass；　and　broken　the　smooth　surface　of　the　duckweed。　　Yellow　

loosestrife　is　rising；　thick　comfrey　stands　at　the　very　edge；　the　

sandpipers　run　where　the　shore　is　free　from　bushes。　　Back　by　the　

underwood　the　prickly　and　repellent　brambles　will　presently　present　

us　with　fruit。　　For　the　squirrels　the　nuts　are　forming；　green　

beechmast　is　there　…　green　wedges　under　the　spray；　up　in　the　oaks　

the　small　knots；　like　bark　rolled　up　in　a　dot；　will　be　acorns。　　

Purple　vetches　along　the　mounds；　yell