It was near this copse that in early spring I stayed to gather some
white sweet violets, for the true wild violet is very nearly white. I
stood close to a hedger and ditcher, who, standing on a board, was
cleaning out the mud that the water might run freely. He went on with
his work, taking not the least notice of an idler, but intent upon his
labour, as a good and true man should be. But when I spoke to him he
answered me in clear, well-chosen language, well pronounced, "in good
set terms."

No slurring of consonants and broadening of vowels, no involved and
backward construction depending on the listener's previous knowledge for
comprehension, no half sentences indicating rather than explaining, but
correct sentences. With his shoes almost covered by the muddy water, his
hands black and grimy, his brown face splashed with mud, leaning on his
shovel he stood and talked from the deep ditch, not much more than head
and shoulders visible above it. It seemed a voice from the very earth,
speaking of education, change, and possibilities.

The copse is now filling up with undergrowth; the brambles are
spreading, the briars extending, masses of nettles, and thistles like
saplings in size and height, crowding the spaces between the ash-stoles.
By the banks great cow-parsnips or "gix" have opened their broad heads
of white flowers; teazles have lifted themselves into view, every
opening is occupied. There is a scent of elder flowers, the meadow-sweet
is pushing up, and will soon be out, and an odour of new-mown hay floats
on the breeze.

From the oak green caterpillars slide down threads of their own making
to the bushes below, but they are running terrible risk. For a pair of
white-throats or "nettle-creepers" are on the watch, and seize the green
creeping things crossways in their beaks. Then they perch on a branch
three or four yards only from where I stand, silent and motionless, and
glance first at me and next at a bush of bramble which projects out to
the edge of the footpath. So long as my eyes are turned aside, or half
closed, the bird perches on the branch, gaining confidence every moment.
The instant I open my eyes, or move them, or glance towards him, without
either movement of head, hand, or foot, he is off to the oak.

His tiny eyes are intent on mine; the moment he catches my glance he
retires. But in half a minute affection brings him back, still with the
caterpillar in his beak, to the same branch. Whilst