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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