Country life; London (England) -- Description and travel; Natural history -- Outdoor books
I used to stand by the mower and follow the scythe sweeping down
thousands of the broad-flowered daisies, the knotted knapweeds, the
blue scabious, the yellow rattles, sweeping so close and true that
nothing escaped; and, yet although I had seen so many hundreds of each,
although I had lifted armfuls day after day, still they were fresh.
They never lost their newness, and even now each time I gather a wild
flower it feels a new thing. The greenfinches came to the fallen swathe
so near to us they seemed to have no fear; but I remember the
yellowhammers most, whose colour, like that of the wild flowers and the
sky, has never faded from my memory. The greenfinches sank into the
fallen swathe, the loose grass gave under their weight and let them
bathe in flowers.
One yellowhammer sat on a branch of ash the livelong morning, still
singing in the sun; his bright head, his clean bright yellow, gaudy as
Spain, was drawn like a brush charged heavily with colour across the
retina, painting it deeply, for there on the eye's memory it endures,
though that was boyhood and this is manhood, still unchanged. The
field--Stewart's Mash--the very tree, young ash timber, the branch
projecting over the sward, I could make a map of them. Sometimes I
think sun-painted colours are brighter to me than to many, and more
strongly affect the nerves of the eye. Straw going by the road on a
dusky winter's day seems so pleasantly golden, the sheaves lying aslant
at the top, and these bundles of yellow tubes thrown up against the
dark ivy on the opposite wall. Tiles, red burned, or orange coated, the
sea sometimes cleanly definite, the shadows of trees in a thin wood
where there is room for shadows to form and fall; some such shadows are
sharper than light, and have a faint blue tint. Not only in summer but
in cold winter, and not only romantic things but plain matter-of-fact
things, as a waggon freshly painted red beside the wright's shop, stand
out as if wet with colour and delicately pencilled at the edges. It
must be out of doors; nothing indoors looks like this.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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