In an Essex Farm Garden – June 1922

I am writing this in an Essex farm garden and I am not likely to forget that I am in a southern county for the ardour of the sun, the quality of the atmosphere, the character of the crops, the deep green of the wheat fields and the more slatey tone of the acres of peas — with wide umbrageousness of the trees and the whole aspect of the autumn land scape remind me that this is hundreds of miles from the bare northern land of my birth.

Many of the birds are unfamiliar to me although I see only a flash of them through the dense foliage. I hear their warblings and note several songs that are not present in the northern bird choral. The thrush is now silent but the black bird is very persistent and the cuckooo has still not yet changed his tune. If this great heat lasts, soon all will be mute.

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