The
little stream winding down the bottom turns and doubles on itself; a
dead leaf falls into it, is arrested by a twig, and lies there content.
JUNE
It is a quiet, warm day in June. The wind is westerly, but there is
only just enough of it to waft now and then a sound from the far-off
town, or the dull, subdued thunder of cannon-firing from ships or forts
distant some forty miles or more. Massive, white-bordered clouds, grey
underneath, sail overhead; there was heavy rain last night, and they are
lifting and breaking a little. Softly and slowly they go, and one of
them, darker than the rest, has descended in a mist of rain, blotting
out the ships. The surface of the water is paved curiously in green and
violet, and where the light lies on it scintillates like millions of
stars. The grass is not yet cut, and the showers have brought it up
knee-deep. Its gentle whisper is plainly heard, the most delicate of
all the voices in the world, and the meadow bends into billows, grey,
silvery, and green, when a breeze of sufficient strength sweeps across
it.
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