I heard a cuckoo yesterday, booming its woodwind diphone call from the darkening copse on the hill. And I remembered a ditty from my country childhood:
Cuckoo, cuckoo…
What do you do?
In April, I open my bill.
In May, I sing night and day.
In June, I change my tune.
In July, far, far, I fly.
In August, away! I must…
When a cuckoo sings evensong, fair weather follows the next day. The bird did not deceive. The sun is now glossing the backs of the cattle as they amble down for their 3 pm gather at the water-bowser, much as human office workers congregate around the water cooler at this time.
Actually, it must be after 3 pm. The scarlet pimpernel at my feet has closed its heads; of the components of the floral dial, Anagallis arvensis is almost Swissly reliable. But not yet 5 pm, as the dandelions are still—just—sunning their faces. (The Victorian parson-naturalist Rev James Neil has a complete English wildflower clock in Rays from the Realms of Nature.)
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة May 27, 2020 من Country Life UK.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة May 27, 2020 من Country Life UK.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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