February 7th

1825

I always think that this month the prophet of spring brings many beautys to the landscape tho a earless observer woud laugh at me for saying so who believes that it brings nothing because he does not give himself the trouble to seek them—I always admire the kindling freshness that the bark of the different sorts of trees & underwood asume in the forest-the foulroyce twigs kindle into a vivid color at their tops as red as woodpiegons claws the ash with its grey bark & black swelling buds the Birch with it 'paper rind' & the darker mottled sorts of hazle & black alder with the greener hues of sallow willows & the bramble that still wears its leaves with the privet of a purple hue while the straggling wood briar shines in a brighter & more beautiful green even then leaves can boast at this season too odd forward branches in the new laid hedges of whitethorn begin to freshen into green before the arum dare peep out of its hood or the primrose & violet shoot up a new leaf thro the warm moss & ivy that shelters their spring dwellings the furze too on the common wear a fairer green & ere & there an odd branch is coverd with golden flowers & the ling or heath nestling among the long grass below (coverd with the witherd flowers of last year) is sprouting up into fresh hopes of spring the fairey rings on the pastures are getting deeper dyes & the water weeds with long silver green blades of grass are mantling the stagnant ponds in their summer liverys I find more beautys in this month then I can find room to talk about in a letter . . .

John Clare
(John Clare (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864) was an English poet, born the son of a farm labourer who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption.)


1825

You ask me wether I have resumed my botanizing & naturalizing excursions & you will laugh at my comencement for I have been seriously & busily employd this last 3 weeks hunting Pooty shells & if you are not above them I must get you to assist me in the arangement or classification of them I have been making some drawings of them but they are so miserable that I must send the shells with them
There is a pleasing association attachd to these things they remind me & I think every one of happy hours who has not been a gatherer of them in his schoolboy days—how anxious I usd to creep among the black thorn thickets & down the hedge sides on my hands & knees seeking them as soon as the sun lookd warm on the hedges & banks & wakend the daisey to open its golden eye & the arum to throw up its fine green leaves I cannot forget such times as these we usd to gather them to string on thread as birds eggs are strung & sometimes to play with them at what we calld 'cock fighting' by pressing the knibbs hard against each other till one broke—I think there is one shell peculiar to our neighbourhood & almost to one spot in it it is a large one of a yellow green color with a black rim round the base there is another yellow one very common which we calld when boys 'painted Ladys' but the one I imagine as a scarce one is very different from this—they are found in low places by brook sides the snail is of a blackish yellow & appears to feed on a species of brooklime—there is another not very common I have stiled it the yellow one banded the others are common the red one banded the red self & the red many banded & small many banded with a mottld sort calld badgers by schoolboys—there is many others but they all seem variations of the same kinds the large mozzld garden snail is well known but I found many of them in a spot where it woud puzzle reason to know how they got there.

John Clare
(John Clare (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864) was an English poet, born the son of a farm labourer who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption.)