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OUT OF DOORS

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Written by Hunter   
Wednesday, 08 October 2008 00:41

St. Guido [Footnote: Saint Guido was a fanciful name given to the little
boy because his shock of golden curls looked like the nimbus around a
saint's head.] ran out at the garden gate into a sandy lane, and down
the lane till he came to a grassy bank. He caught hold of the bunches of
grass and so pulled himself up. There was a footpath on the top which
went straight in between fir-trees, and as he ran along they stood on
each side of him like green walls. They were very near together, and
even at the top the space between them was so narrow that the sky seemed
to come down, and the clouds to be sailing but just over them, as if
they would catch and tear in the fir-trees. The path was so little used
that it had grown green, and as he ran he knocked dead branches out of
his way. Just as he was getting tired of running he reached the end of
the path, and came out into a wheat-field. The wheat did not grow very
closely, and the spaces were filled with azure corn-flowers. St. Guido
thought he was safe away now, so he stopped to look.

There were the fir-trees behind him--a thick wall of green--hedges on
the right and left, and the wheat sloped down towards an ash-copse in
the hollow. No one was in the field, only the fir-trees, the green
hedges, the yellow, wheat, and the sun overhead. Guido kept quite still,
because he expected that in a minute the magic would begin, and
something would speak to him. His cheeks, which had been flushed with
running, grew less hot, but I cannot tell you the exact color they were;
for his skin was so white and clear, it would not tan under the sun, yet
being always out of doors it had taken the faintest tint of golden brown
mixed with rosiness. His blue eyes which had been wide open, as they
always were when full of mischief, became softer, and his long eyelashes
drooped over them. But as the magic did not begin, Guido walked on
slowly into the wheat, which rose nearly to his head, though it was not
yet so tall as it would be before the reapers came. He did not break any
of the stalks, or bend them down and step on them; he passed between
them, and they yielded on either side. The wheat-ears were pale gold,
having only just left off their green, and they surrounded him on all
sides as if he were bathing.

A butterfly painted a velvety red with white spots came floating along
the surface of the corn, [Footnote: Corn. In England corn means wheat,
or sometimes rye or barley or oats. What we call corn the English call
maize.] and played round his cap, which was a little higher, and was so
tinted by the sun that the butterfly was inclined to settle on it. Guido
put up his hand to catch the butterfly, forgetting his secret in his
desire to touch it. The butterfly was too quick--with a snap of his
wings, disdainfully mocking the idea of catching him, away he went.
Guido nearly stepped on a humble-bee--buzz-zz! the bee was so alarmed he
actually crept up Guido's knickers to the knee, and even then knocked
himself against a wheat-ear when he started to fly. Guido kept quite
still while the humble-bee was on his knee, knowing that he should not
be stung if he did not move. He knew, too, that humble-bees have stings
though people often say they have not, and the reason people think they
do not possess them is because humble-bees are so good-natured and never
sting unless they are very much provoked.

Another bumble-bee went over along the tips of the wheat--burr-rr--as he
passed; then a scarlet fly, and next a bright yellow wasp who was
telling a friend flying behind him that he knew where there was such a
capital piece of wood to bite up into tiny pieces and make into paper
for the nest in the thatch, but his friend wanted to go to the house
because there was a pear quite ripe there on the wall. Next came a moth,
and after the moth a golden fly, and three gnats, and a mouse ran along
the dry ground with a curious sniffing rustle close to Guido. A shrill
cry came down out of the air, and looking up he saw two swifts
[Footnote: Swifts: swallows.] turning circles, and as they passed each
other they shrieked--their voices were so shrill they shrieked. They
were only saying that in a month their little swifts in the slates would
be able to fly. While he sat so quiet on the ground and hidden by the
wheat, he heard a cuckoo such a long way off it sounded like a watch
when it is covered up. "Cuckoo" did not come full and distinct--it was
such a tiny little "cuckoo" caught in the hollow of Guido's ear. The
cuckoo must have been a mile away.

Suddenly he thought something went over, and yet he did not see
it--perhaps it was the shadow--and he looked up and saw a large bird not
very far up, not farther than he could fling, or shoot his arrows, and
the bird was fluttering his wings, but did not move away farther, as if
he had been tied in the air. Guido knew it was a hawk, and the hawk was
staying there to see if there was a mouse or a little bird in the wheat.
After a minute the hawk stopped fluttering and lifted his wings together
as a butterfly does when he shuts his, and down the hawk came, straight
into the corn. "Go away!" shouted Guido jumping up, and flinging his
cap, and the hawk, dreadfully frightened and terribly cross, checked
himself and rose again with an angry rush. So the mouse escaped, but
Guido could not find his cap for some time. Then he went on, and still
the ground sloping sent him down the hill till he came close to the
copse.

Some sparrows came out from the copse, [Footnote: Copse: a wood of small
trees.] and he stopped and saw one of them perch on a stalk of wheat,
with one foot above the other sideways, so that he could pick at the ear
and get the corn. Guido watched the sparrow clear the ear, then he
moved, and the sparrows flew back to the copse, where they chattered at
him for disturbing them. There was a ditch between the corn and the
copse, and a streamlet; he picked up a stone and threw it in, and the
splash frightened a rabbit, who slipped over the bank and into a hole.
The boughs of an oak reached out across to the corn, and made so
pleasant a shade that Guido, who was very hot from walking in the sun,
sat down on the bank of the streamlet with his feet dangling over it,
and watched the floating grass sway slowly as the water ran. Gently he
leaned back till his back rested on the sloping ground--he raised one
knee, and left the other foot over the verge where the tip of the
tallest rushes touched it. Before he had been there a minute he
remembered the secret which a fern had taught him.

First, if he wanted to know anything, or to hear a story, or what the
grass was saying, or the oak-leaves singing, he must be careful not to
interfere as he had done just now with the butterfly by trying to catch
him. Fortunately, that butterfly was a nice butterfly, and very
kindhearted, but sometimes, if you interfered with one thing, it would
tell another thing, and they would all know in a moment, and stop
talking, and never say a word. Once, while they were all talking
pleasantly, Guido caught a fly in his hand; he felt his hand tickle as
the fly stepped on it, and he shut up his little fist so quickly he
caught the fly in the hollow between the palm and his fingers. The fly
went buzz, and rushed to get out, but Guido laughed, so the fly buzzed
again, and just told the grass, and the grass told the bushes, and
everything knew in a moment, and Guido never heard another word all that
day. Yet sometimes now they all knew something about him; they would go
on talking. You see, they all rather petted and spoiled him. Next, if
Guido did not hear them conversing, the fern said he must touch a little
piece of grass and put it against his cheek, or a leaf, and kiss it, and
say, "Leaf, leaf, tell them I am here."

Now, while he was lying down, and the tip of the rushes touched his
foot, he remembered this, so he moved the rush with his foot and said,
"Rush, rush, tell them I am here." Immediately there came a little wind,
and the wheat swung to and fro, the oak-leaves rustled, the rushes
bowed, and the shadows slipped forwards and back again. Then it was
still.

--RICHARD JEFFERIES (adapted).

[Footnote: Whore do you imagine this scene is laid? What things in the
text suggest this? Do you get a single picture, or a rapid succession of
pictures? Which is the author really giving you: nature as it is, or as
it seems to the boy? Has any of it ever seemed so to you? Note the
appeal to sight, hearing, and touch; note the use of color. Does the
author show a love for, and knowledge of, nature? Select the passages in
which the sympathy between the boy and all nature is dwelt on.]
Last Updated on Wednesday, 08 October 2008 12:21
 
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