(September, 1921.)
WHERE 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.
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 something has returned 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.
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 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.
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.
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.