by RICHARD JEFFERIES london CHATTO & WINDUS 1914...

Green rushes, long and thick, standing up above the edge of the ditch, told the hour of the year as distinctly as the shadow on the dial the hour of the day.  Green and thick and sappy to the touch, they felt like summer, soft and elastic, as if full of life, mere rushes though they were.  On the fingers they left a green scent; rushes have a separate scent of green, so, too, have ferns, very different from that of grass or leaves.  Rising from brown sheaths, the tall stems enlarged a little in

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