CHAPTER XV.

SCARLET PIMPERNEL CORN-FIELD SINGING DURING RURAL LABOUR-CLOSING OF PIMPERNEL-NATURAL

THESE words were addressed by the poet of nature to his golden favourite, the celandine, one of the earliest blooming flowers in the wreath of spring, and one too which is lavished plentifully over every part of our country.

They may with equal propriety be referred to the scarlet pimpernel (Anagállis arvénsis), which is no less prodigal of its beauty, or more limited in its haunts. Its seeds are scattered over hill and plain, and its brightly coloured little blossoms often appear in the gardens, gleaming especially from among the broad leaves which cover the strawberry beds.

But the scene of nature to which the pimpernel is the most constant is the corn-field, where it blooms, just as the wheat is getting ripe, until some weeks after it has been gathered in from the field. The old name of this flower was centunculus, from cento, a covering, because it spread itself in such quantity over cultivated fields; but that name is now given to a plant in some measure resembling it, the little rose-coloured chaffweed, the smallest wild plant which bears a distinct flower.

The scarlet pimpernel must be known to every one who notices wild flowers, for it is scarcely less common than the primrose; but perhaps it is not known by this designation, as in the

country it is more frequently called the shepherd's warning, or poor man's weather-glass; and children often know it by the name of bird's-eye.

It may however be recognised

simply by its bright scarlet colour, which is, among our wild blossoms, peculiar to itself and its companion in the wheat-field, the red poppy, though there are several flowers, which, like the pheasant's-eye, or Adonis, are of a deep crimson.

It would be almost impossible to wander along the pathway, bounded by waving corn, without seeing this flower to the right and left of our walk. And who that loves the country does not occasionally stray among the corn-fields? Who does not feel a pleasure in listening to the song of the reaper, as it floats upon the calm air of noon, mingling with the voices of the few birds which are vocal during the glowing noons of August, and with the low humming of unseen insects, filling the imagination with all those dreams of the happiness of a country life, which, though it may have been overdrawn by the poet,

is not quite so unenviable as the world may deem it. Now and then the sound of several voices may be heard together, as the band of rustics are singing among the sheaves. "Such," says Sir Walter Scott,

"Such have I heard in Scottish land,
Rise from the merry harvest band,
When falls before the mountaineer,
Or lowland plains the ripened ear;
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,
Now a wild chorus swells the song;
Oft have I listened and stood still,

As it came softened up the hill."

It is, however, more often that we hear the solitary than the united song of the peasant labourer, and even this, like the song of the Venetian gondolier, is gradually becoming more rare. A passage often quoted from St. Jerome says, that in his day, "you could not go into the country but you might hear the ploughman at his hallelujahs, the mower at his hymns, and the vine-dresser singing David's psalms." In Germany the song of the labourer may be still always heard, and one might as well expect to

wander in the country, and to find the birds all silent, as to hear no human voice in song, where the labours of the field are going forward.

The pretty little pimpernel is quite a village favourite, from its usefulness in foretelling the approach of rain. Its power of closing its petals in damp weather is known to many country people; and when clouds are passing over the blue sky, villagers often refer to it to ascertain whether they are likely to discharge their contents upon the earth. Darwin enumerates the

shutting up of the flower among the signs of rain:

"Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel,

In fiery red the sun doth rise,

Then wades through clouds to mount the skies;
"Twill surely rain, we see't with sorrow,

No working in the fields to-morrow."

When the rain continues however for many days together, the pimpernel loses its sensibility, and fails to give its signal to the husbandman. The closing of this, and other flowers similarly constituted in this respect, is among the