Do not
imagine, however, that we are all in white, like a bride: there is
the pink hawthorn, and there are pink and white horse-chestnuts
laden with flowers, yellow laburnums hanging over whitewashed farm-
buildings, lilacs, and, most wonderful of all, the blaze of the
yellow gorse. There will be a thorn hedge struggling with and
conquering a grey stone wall; then a golden gorse bush struggling
with and conquering the thorn; seeking the sun, it knows no
restraints, and creeping through the barriers of green and white and
grey, it fairly hurls its yellow splendours in great blazing patches
along the wayside. In dazzling glory, in richness of colour, there
is nothing in nature that we can compare with this loveliest and
commonest of all wayside weeds. The gleaming wealth of the Klondike
would make a poor showing beside a single Irish hedgerow; one would
think that Mother Earth had stored in her bosom all the sunniest
gleams of bygone summers, and was now giving them back to the sun
king from whom she borrowed them.
It was at twilight when we first swam this fragrant, golden sea--
twilight, and the birds were singing in every bush; the thrushes and
blackbirds in the blossoming cherry and chestnut-trees were so many
and so tuneful that the chorus was sweet and strong beyond anything
I ever heard. There had been a shower or two, of course; showers
that looked like shimmering curtains of silver gauze, and whether
they lifted or fell the birds went on singing.
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