JANUARY SUNSHINE
It is a quiet valley in which moist fields of meadow, mowing grass,
mangold, and stubble are bounded from one another by deep ditches and
good hedges of maple, thorn and hazel, with here and there an oak, or
by oak woods that rise above an undergrowth of grey ash. Every half
mile there is a tiled farmhouse with low-pitched roof and low, square
windows, their frames painted white, and between them rose trees
climbing; in the gardens of most, two plots of lawn are surrounded
by rich dark borders and divided by a path; and each has a careless
shrubbery of Portuguese laurel, lilac, syringa and elder, hardly cut
off from the orchard that grows as it will above grey rank grass, and
close by at least two ponds. One little stream winds through the valley
and gains at times much glory of speed and sound and foam from the rain
off the hillside. A few grey, smooth roads cross the valley.
It is January, and the predominant grass is green and shining in the
sun. The rusty oaks and the farmhouse roofs glow. The bare clean hedges
glitter with all their stems of olive hazel, silver oak and ash and
white thorn, and blackthorn ruddy where the cattle have rubbed. A lark
rises and sings. A flock of linnets scatters and drops little notes
like a rain of singing dew, and over all is a high blue sky, across
which the west wind sets a fleet of bright white clouds to sail; into
this blue sky the woods of the horizon drive their black teeth.
In the immense crystal spaces of fine windy air thus bounded by blue
sky, black woods and green grass, the jackdaws play. They soar,
they float, they dance, and they dive and carve sudden magnificent
precipices in the air, crying all the time with sharp joyous cries that
are in harmony with the great heights and dashing wind. The carter’s
boy raises his head from the furrow and shouts to them now and then,
while the brass furnishings of his horses gleam, their shoulders grow
proud and their black tails stream out above the blue furrow and the
silver plough.
Suddenly a pheasant is hurled out of a neighbouring copse; something
crosses the road; and out over a large and shining meadow goes a fox,
tall and red, going easily as if he sailed in the wind. He crosses that
meadow, then another, and he is half a mile away before a loud halloo
sounds in the third field, and a mile away before the first hound
crosses the road upon his scent.
Run hard hounds, and drown the jackdaws’ calling with your concerted
voices. It is good to see your long swift train across the meadow and
away, away; on such a day a man would give everything to run like
that. Run hard, fox, and may you escape, for it would not be well to
die on such a day, unless you could perchance first set your fair
teeth into the throats of the foolish ones who now break through the
hedge on great horses and pursue you--I know not why--ignorant of the
command that has gone forth from the heart of this high blue heaven, Be
beautiful and enjoy and live!