for that small harvest.  Yet I could understand and even appreciate their work, although it is probable that the glow I experienced was in part reflected.  Perhaps my mental attitude, when standing in that sheltered place, and when getting on to the windy wall I looked down on the workers and their work, was merely benevolent.  I had pleasure in their pleasure, and a vague desire for a better understanding, a closer alliance and harmony.  It was the desire that we might all see nature—­the globe with all it contains—­as one harmonious whole, not as groups of things, or phenomena, unrelated, cast there by chance or by careless or contemptuous gods.  This dust of past ages, dug out of a wheat-field, with its fragments of men’s work—­its pottery and tiles and stones—­this is a part, too, even as the small birds, with their little motives and passions, so like man’s, are a part.  I thought with self shame of my own sins in this connection; then, considering the lesser faults on the other side, I wished that Mr. St. John Hope would experience a like softening mood and regret that he had abused the ivy.  It grieves me to hear it called a “noxious weed.”  That perished people, whose remains in this land so deeply interest him, were the mightiest “builders of ruins” the world has known; but who except the archaeologist would wish to see these piled stones in their naked harshness, striking the mind with dismay at the thought of Time and its perpetual desolations!  I like better the old Spanish poet who says, “What of Rome; its world-conquering power, and majesty and glory—­what has it come to?” The ivy on the wall, the yellow wallflower, tell it.  A “deadly parasite” quotha!  Is it not well that this plant, this evergreen tapestry of innumerable leaves, should cover and partly hide and partly reveal the “strange defeatures” the centuries have set on man’s greatest works?  I would have no ruin nor no old and noble building without it; for not only does it beautify decay, but from long association it has come to be in the mind a very part of such scenes and so interwoven with the human tragedy, that, like the churchyard yew, it seems the most human of green things.

Here in September great masses of the plant are already showing a greenish cream-colour of the opening blossoms, which will be at their perfection in October.  Then, when the sun shines, there will be no lingering red admiral, nor blue fly or fly of any colour, nor yellow wasp, nor any honey-eating or late honey-gathering insect that will not be here to feed on the ivy’s sweetness.  And behind the blossoming curtain, alive with the minute, multitudinous, swift-moving, glittering forms, some nobler form will be hidden in a hole or fissure in the wall.  Here on many a night I have listened to the sibilant screech of the white owl and the brown owl’s clear, long-drawn, quavering lamentation: 

“Good Ivy, what byrdys hast thou?”
“Non but the Howlet, that How!  How!”