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第3章

pageant of summer-第3章

小说: pageant of summer 字数: 每页4000字

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No; not in a hundred years!  There seems always a depth; somewhere; 

unexplored; a thicket that has not been seen through; a corner full 

of ferns; a quaint old hollow tree; which may give us something。  

Bees go by me as I stand under the apple; but they pass on for the 

most part bound on a long journey; across to the clover fields or 

up to the thyme lands; only a few go down into the mowing…grass。  

The hive bees are the most impatient of insects; they cannot bear 

to entangle their wings beating against grasses or boughs。  Not one 

will enter a hedge。  They like an open and level surface; places 

cropped by sheep; the sward by the roadside; fields of clover; 

where the flower is not deep under grass。









II。





IT is the patient humble…bee that goes down into the forest of the 

mowing…grass。  If entangled; the humble…bee climbs up a sorrel stem 

and takes wing; without any sign of annoyance。  His broad back with 

tawny bar buoyantly glides over the golden buttercups。  He hums to 

himself as he goes; so happy is he。  He knows no skep; no cunning 

work in glass receives his labour; no artificial saccharine aids 

him when the beams of the sun are cold; there is no step to his 

house that he may alight in comfort; the way is not made clear for 

him that he may start straight for the flowers; nor are any sown 

for him。  He has no shelter if the storm descends suddenly; he has 

no dome of twisted straw well thatched and tiled to retreat to。  

The butcher…bird; with a beak like a crooked iron nail; drives him 

to the ground; and leaves him pierced with a thorn but no hail of 

shot revenges his tortures。  The grass stiffens at nightfall (in 

autumn); and he must creep where he may; if possibly he may escape 

the frost。  No one cares for the humble…bee。  But down to the 

flowering nettle in the mossy…sided ditch; up into the tall elm; 

winding in and out and round the branched buttercups; along the 

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 th

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