hammer, or the strong blackbird who says what is in him under all circumstances, or the thrush, closing the day with more or less of song, there is nothing to be heard of the birds in July. In the meadows there is the lark sometimes, and in the marshes there is plenty of noise among the water-fowl; but the woods are still at noon as human dwellings at midnight.
The storm travels fast over the open country—now wrapping a village or a farmstead in a mist of rain, and then leaving it behind; so that we are soon inquiring whether the splash around us is mere drip from the trees or the skirts of the shower. Presently we are off on dry saddles, leaving the children rich in coppers and in pride at having had a ride under the tree. We shall be at N in twenty minutes; and our steeds will be well looked to there. Fast as our pace is, we watch the storm; and the last we see of it is the bank of black cloud obscuring the horizon line, and making the church spire at L stand out white instead of dark against the sky. A burst of red light from the heart of the blackness shows that the electric element is not yet expended. While watching it from the high road we come in view of a group of people, backed by a barouche and a cart. It is not a carriage accident. A large elm has been shivered to the root by the lightning, and its fragments lie round like the spokes of a wheel, showing that it was struck perpendicularly at the summit. As we return in the evening, my wife remarks on the extent to which the corn has been laid since she passed in the morning; but there is time for it to rise again; and beyond this we know of no harm done till we learn from the squire that three sheep of his, and two horses of a neighbour, have been laid low on the hills by one tremendous flash.
The Show meantime is as gay and glorious as if no shadow of gloom had passed over the great tent (or line of tents) in which it is spread out. This is the place to learn what is the fruition of July. The roses seem to be the spoil of the whole county; yet we scarcely passed a house which was not covered with them from the door-step to the eaves. What banks of blossom against either wall of the tent! What tablets of rich colour in the middle! In the other range, what prodigious vegetables coming out of small cottage gardens! and what weighty and noble fruits grown by humble hands! In this department we meet Harry, proud of carrying the largest gooseberry but two on the ground. It has not got the prize; but Nanny is smiling too. A cabbage of her husband’s and a favourite pink have been successful, and Nanny goes home a proud wife.
We take our farewell of roses and carnations for this year, as we did of the bulbous flowers a fortnight since. Our porch and everybody’s garden will have roses, more or less, through the month; but this is the last show of them; and the summer is thus sighing as it passes away over our heads.
We see this lapse of summer as we ride home by the road, which is no longer dusty. The oats, which have escaped the weight of the storm, or which have already been lifted again by the hot sun, flicker in the evening light almost like spangles. They are fully in ear. The scarlet poppy and blue cornflower dot the wheat and barley fields with colour. The thistles are in their beauty; and very beautiful they are, in my opinion. As we pass the village pound at Highcross we hear a bovine voice of complaint, and see that three cows are restlessly moving about, and getting into one another’s way. As usual at this season, they have been irritated by the heat and the flies, and have discovered and made use of the weak points in fences to get into shady gardens, and eat juicy vegetables, and drink from private ponds. We spread the news as we go, that the poor creatures may get home, and their scolding over before night. Such incidents should make old-fashioned people attend more to the arguments for stall-feeding than they do. Even the cows that we see standing knee-deep in the stream by the roadside are sorely teased by the flies. Every movement shows it: and, however the sketching tourist may miss their presence under the slanting trees, and amidst the mirror of the water, it is better for themselves that they should be under a roof in an airy stable where flies are not tolerated. As my wife pours out the rich cream over the strawberries at tea, after our day’s exertions, she tells us that there is a manifest superiority in the milk of cows which lead a cool tranquil life in their airy stalls over that of cows which break fences and run restlessly about, lashing at the flies, only to find themselves in the pound at last.
In two days I must begin my rounds—weather permitting. The two lads are to be my companions on the first occasion, and I hope we may have as prosperous a trip as their sisters and I had last year. The object is to see how the upland farmers get on, and how they are managing the new machines and unheard-of manures introduced among them by the Lords Paramount of their district. It is a charming circuit of forty miles, over the moors and among the hills. Last year there was the stamp of drought over the whole region. We rode in the night more than in the day—the heat was so extreme. It was strange, in the morning twilight, to come upon a group of women in a hollow, or beside a dry cistern in the hedge, some knitting, some chatting, some dozing with sleeping babies in their arms, and every one with a pitcher beside her. Night after night these women sat there to watch the springs. Wherever there was hope of a dribble of water, however small, some anxious housewife crept to the spot when neighbours might be supposed asleep; and there was always somebody there, or sure to follow presently. It was like “prospecting “ in the diggings in gold countries, except that the water was more precious than any gold.
This year the grass will be green in the intervals of the gorse and heather, and there will not be the danger of moorland fires which haunts the inhabitants in very dry seasons. There is no keeping lucifer matches out of the hands of children; there is no teaching packmen to be careful about the ashes of their pipes, or gipsies about disposing of their wood and peat ashes; and the consequence is that the sky is now and then red at midnight, and the breeze hot with fires of a mile broad, and hundreds of acres of young plantations are destroyed. Sportsmen