The Irish standard., 1911-02-18
NATURAL CHARM
OF IRISH MEADOW
The Honey Suckle is There and tbe
Bee, the Goldfish and
the Lark.
The Farmer has his Troubles Worry.
ing About Sun and Rain and
Threatening Storms.
Prayers for Fine Weather are Said
Throughout the Country During
Haying Season.

A thousand have written about q
meadow to the one who has written
about a field, and even then it's prais'
es are sung in subdued numbers.
writes Father Fitzgerald in the Sid
ney Catholic Press.
1t is too commonplace and bare, and
too obviously practical, to suggest
flights Of fancy, and the one-horned
COW is too industriously occupied even
to pose for her picture. With mea
dow It's different AS soon as the
large-eyed long-haired worshipper in
natures temple turns a corner of the
road. and beholds a waving meadow
undulating before his eyes, he is
transformed forthwith out OF the sor
didness of his daily surroundings into
another sphere. Poor man. He had
just been pondering on how to make
out his board; perhaps he took
country walk to avoid being dunned
by too importunate petitioner. But
to the winds with such trivialities
when the magic charms of a meadow
give wings to his desponding soul and
tell him to soar into higher realms.
Indeed, without being poets at all.
let US confess that we all feel glad
dened at the sight Of a meadow yield
ing to the wfims Of the winds and.
moving and swaying with the change
fulness of the ocean. And, why not?
The only man who is unmoved in the
presence Of a meadow is an auction
eer, and, while his wife says, ooh,
dear, isn't 1t lovely" he sol1loquiscs,
"wait, I'll see!" and he pulls out
pencil and paper, and tots up the Pc
cuniary possibilities of the crop.
A meadow looks beautiful always
ESQ long as it isn't cut DOWN.; but
give me the meadow of the early sum-
mer morning for choice. A mystic
veil hangs over It here and there, a
veil of mist and fog, with Which the
spirits of night and fairy hosts have
swathcd it. 1t is saturated with gis-
tening dew, and exhales luscious frag-
RANGES from the wild flowers that
deck it's bosom in their varied splen-
dor. The honeysuckle is there, and,
of course, the bee, too busy to mind
anyone's business but his own. The
feathery, fluffy thistle lifts it's downy
head only to be danced on and picked
at by the cleaning goldf1nch, who OK
| presses his satisfaction between bites
by many ripping tWitter.
The Corncrake's Monontone.
Is not the meadow the home of the
corncrake and of all the sounds of
summer? Perhaps his rasping voice
is the dearest to the exile, as it re-
calls pensive hours of the past on
which memory loves to dwell. No
body minds the corncrake in the day
time, as there are so many distracting
sounds, and people are engaged in
work But when the horses are quiet
ly crunching in the stable, and the
sheep are lying down III the fields,
T, and the farm-boys are gone to the vii
| lage for d talk at the crossroads, and
stiffness, like a pail, rests on nature,
then the monotonous voice of the
corncrake is heard, and boyhood's
years come back when you heard him
first You can see most other birds
when they delight us by their vocal
efforts, but an atmosphere of mystery
surrounds the corncrake and makes 1t
an object of wonder to dawning child
hood.
The meadow, too, is the home OF
the lark that is, if he's sensible
lark, and we all know what Words
worth and others said as to the cred
table performances of the lark when
he's going higher and higher, I'LL he
becomes a dot in space. 1t certainly
is no mean feat to sing and ascend at
the same time. A young lady can't
sing unless a young man turns over
the music for her. But I beg to diff
|, fer with the poetic brotherhood re-
!. garding the lark. The lark sings at
time of year when all other birds
| sing for us. Have you ever heard 81
: or more robins answering each other
mouthful from his owner.