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Miss Frances M. Molera

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HOURS IN MY GARDEN

MY GARDEN SUMMER-SEAT.

HOURS IN MY GARDEN

AND OTHER NATURE-SKETCHES.

BY

ALEXANDER H. JAPP, LL.D., F.R.S.E.

AUTHOR OF "LIFE OF DE QUINCEY," ETC. ETC.

WITH 138 ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. H. J. BOOT,
A. W. COOPER, AND OTHER ARTISTS.

NEW YORK
MACMILLAN AND CO

1893

*IOLO«?
U»tAtT

B/'o

/,'*£,

CONTENTS.

PAGE

PREFACE . . . . . . . r . vii

I. MY GARDEN SUMMER-SEAT . . .1 • ' 9

II. MY POND . .... . - . . . -49

III. MY WOOD . . . . . -74

IV. THE DELIGHTS OF HEDGEROWS . . . .96
V. UP IN THE MORNING EARLY ... . .109

VI. WITH THE NIGHTINGALES AT THE VICARAGE . 135

vii. "THROUGH THE WHEAT" ... . . . 147

VIII. MY FAVOURITE SUMMER-HOUSES . ..'.". l6o

IX. THE VILLAGE WELL . . . . . * 1 86

X. RUSHES . "... . . . .190

XL BEES AND BEE-KEEPING ... . . . 195

XII. STILL WATER . . ~~~~ . ' . . . . 205

XIII. A SCOTTISH TROUT STREAM 2IO

XIV. AN ENGLISH STREAM . . . . . .238

XV. WILD DUCKS, WATER-BIRDS, AND SEA-FOWL . 252

XVI. ASHESTIEL AND SIR WALTER SCOTT . . .272

XVII. IN DURHAM AND NEAR IT . .' " . ^ . .277

XVIII. IN COQUETDALE . . . . . .289

XIX. ABOUT WOOLER . . . . . . . 307

APPENDIX.

I. IMITATIVE BIRDS AND THE NIGHTINGALE'S SONG 319
II. ..THE VOLES . . 328

in. THE WOODPECKER'S TONGUE , . . 330

IV. THE ROOKS 332

V. FEET OF THE DIPPER AND COOT . . . . 334

INDEX . ';;"'- . 335

M505441

PREFACE.

THE following pages aim at presenting some personal
impressions and observations, as well as the results of
some reading. The author hopes that he has duly
signified his indebtedness to others where this was
necessary. He trusts that his essays may not be
found other than pleasant reading, and that young
folks here and there may derive some stimulus to
more systematic study of nature than he was for-
tunate enough to have the chance of making while
still young.

ALEXANDER H. JAPP.

HOURS IN MY GARDEN.

ERRATUM.

Page 181, line 13 from bottom, for "with its church tower"
read " with its old church, and peal of bells so strangely placed,
and nunnery with its little tower."

by winds, so gentle as to be imperceptible to the
senses, or by the movements of the life around me,
which never pauses. In this corner I allow no garden
flowers proper, but only wildings of field and wood and
hedgerow. It is also a kind of asylum and sanctuary
for some of the outlaws of the garden, who here, I con-
fess, do their best to atone for the sins of their kindred
in forbidden ground.

I have thus around me the delightful record of many
pleasant wanderings — a kind of index or memory-map

HOURS IN MY GARDEN.

MY GARDEN SUMMER-SEAT.

HAVE erected in my garden a
little summer-seat, in a spot of
my own choice — the remotest
corner of all. There, in the
sunny afternoons, sheltered
by the foliage (for it is placed
against a thick beech hedge,

which just at that point has been allowed to grow
high, so as to afford a canopy of greenery overhead),
I sit and read or muse and observe by turns as my
fancy inclines. Even on the calmest days there is a
faint stir and movement, I know not whether caused
by winds, so gentle as to be imperceptible to the
senses, or by the movements of the life around me,
which never pauses. In this corner I allow no garden
flowers proper, but only wildings of field and wood and
hedgerow. It is also a kind of asylum and sanctuary
for some of the outlaws of the garden, who here, I con-
fess, do their best to atone for the sins of their kindred
in forbidden ground.

I have thus around me the delightful record of many
pleasant wanderings— a kind of index or memory-map

io My Garden Summer-Seat.

of all the loveliest spots
in the neighbourhood ; the
spirit or essence of the
beauty of the place I have
treasured here ; and I have
my reward in a succession
of the most lovely and
dainty effects imaginable.
Primroses in their tufts
firmly rooted have spread
under a favourite lilac
tree, till the little bed in the
spring is a thick carpet of
green and gold. Stately
foxgloves (folks'-gloves,
remember; gloves of the
folk, the fairy-folk, of
which fox here is a mean-
ingless degradation) have
found a fitting and con-
genial home in the old
mould at the foot of the
hedgerow, and nod and

FOXGLOVES.

An Omen. i i

wave in the later spring and summer — the loveliest
colour against the green of the hedge itself. Surely
I am lucky in such an omen, and the fairies may visit
my garden for their own purposes under the moon-
light, for they are not all dead yet. Little common
daisies ope their golden eyes, and sometimes, I think,
wink and beckon, as if they had some secret to tell.
And this I feel the more as the daisy, as an everlast-
ing, knows no seasons and has its secrets accordingly.

" The rose is but a summer flower,
The daisy never dies."

Honeysuckle struggles upwards, and the white con-
volvulus puts forth its fairy trumpets, those flowers of
a day, as the French call them, that are born at morn,
fall off at eve, but are so soon succeeded by others that
we do not notice their loss ; and they mix deliciously
with the red thorn with which here and there breaks
in the hedge have been filled up. Ferns of many kinds
wave in a rough rockery built up in the corner, which
erstwhile was a rubbish heap ; and wild violets peep
through with their gentle eyes, and wild hyacinths,
blue and even white, and anemones have condescended
to blossom, and to impart a touch of lady-like delicacy,
grace, and purity, that my corner might not fail of the
most exquisite variety. If fortune favours me, I shall
try to settle some droseras in a shallow wooden box
on the rockery slope, and conduct a little jet of water to
flow and spread above them, and then my little corner
will, to my mind, be finished. But, alas ! here as in
other things, the final touch is the hardest to succeed
in, and there remains the necessity of constant effort.
Well, perhaps, that it is so, for else one would fall to
drowse in a dull content. A botanist might, perhaps

12

My Garden Summer-Seat.

urge that there is an air of irony in my finishing touch,
since the droseras would prove the enemies of many
minute insects which I profess to have a sneaking
regard for; and certainly there is some truth in this,
which just shows that in this style of gardening, as

___^_ ^n art) to° &reat

an aim at com-
pleteness may
lead to the in-
trusion of
elements that
are more or less
destructive of the
first fresh ideal.
But then there is
still a good deal
of doubt about
some points in the
manner in which
the droseras pro-
pagate them-
selves ; and thus
scientific curiosity,
even in my small
way, I must own,
comes into con-
flict with the
simple idea of
nature and life.
Alas, nature is
like Chronos of old, and apt to eat up her own chil-
dren by the aid of her other children, and thus the
sweet idyllic element will not long remain intact,
however much we may strive to maintain it.

SUNDEW (Drosera roh/ndifolia}.

Persistency of Dandelion. 13

To keep order in some degree, and yet not to make
my corner too orderly, is the problem. A touch of
rustic carelessness is necessary to the effect I desire,
but difficult to attain with due regard to the interests
of the other parts of the garden ; for dandelions will
intrude in too strong force, and rag-weed and plantain
and groundsel will find a refuge when ruthlessly driven
out elsewhere. However, I have an idea that such a
corner as this is a fine safety-valve, so to speak — a
free lung and breathing space for certain outcasts of
gardeners, which yet are very beautiful in their way,
and sometimes very useful too.

The dandelion is indeed a very persistent plant,
armed as it were by nature with almost magical
powers to secure its continuance. With its many
edible and medicinal virtues it would seem to contest
the common saying that good things either are scarce
or are tied up in little bundles. Were its virtues only
fully appreciated, it would be much more in use than
it is. The rabbits know its virtues, and use it largely,
and anybody who keeps tame ones will do wrong not
to let them taste it now and then. And man, proud
man, drest in a little brief authority, despises the
lesson he might learn from the animals; and, instead
of enjoying dandelion in coffee or salad, waits till he
is compelled to take it in pills and potions. Even as
greens the stalks are good : no salad is perfect without
them. Were it only scarce it would be eagerly sought
after. Dandelion coffee may be bought, but on the
word- 'of a good authority, it is but a poor make-shift
for the dandelion coffee that may be grown and made
by anybody. Yet few dream of making it, simple as
it is. The bitter in it is the valuable element, and the
preparation is easy. The roots only require to be

14 My Garden Summer-Scat.

carefully dried and ground up, and then infused like
coffee, to supply the best medicine for the liver pro-
curable.

Ha ! as I sit here musing, dandelion puts itself en
evidence. There come sailing towards me little soft
downy parachutes, dappled or patterned with minute
pearly stars, that float and waver, though there is no
wind that I can perceive. These are the seeds with
their tipped wings ready to take hold of any likely
bit of soil that will welcome them. How well they
illustrate nature's economy, and even fine art, in ways
and means, and in adapting means to ends. But by
what secret impulse are they moved in this direction,
like little fairy ships or balloons steering through the
still air ? Of them it cannot surely be said as Coleridge
said of his phantom ship in the " Ancient Mariner":—

" The air is cut away before
And closes from behind."

I know not what propels them, only I know that
this is a very ancient observation, and that some of
the old botanists built a belief or fancy on it — a point
of weather lore. They said that if the down of the
dandelion or thistle flies away when there is no wind,
this is a sure sign of rain. I confess I have not been
able satisfactorily to verify this, any more than that
other assertion of theirs, that the stalks which support
the down of the dandelion huddle together in moist
weather under their fluffy umbrella, as if they, too,
dreaded the effects of a drenching; and yet I fancy
I have seen them shrink together — a mere fancy
perhaps.

The plantain — that outlaw of lawn and border — takes
root here, and in little open spaces shoots its stalks up

Way-bread. 1 5

to a height of nigh a foot. The persistent efforts of
the gardener to exterminate it in the little lawn over
there, which had long lain in neglect and got overrun
prior to our coming to the place, brought out some
evidence that would almost suggest conscious con-
trivance. As he plied the lawn-mower systematically,
the plants more and more shortened the stalks, and
grew flatter and flatter under the leaf, contriving in
some sort to seed so without showing the flower or
seed-pod. There was nothing for it in the third
season but to settle matters by taking up each in-
dividual root with the daisy-grubber, for it was clear
that they would have contrived to live and to spread,
though in limited measure, however mowed, if the
roots were left, as they also propagate by root as well
as by seed. Such is their power of adaptation, which
almost makes me believe in some form of conscious
adaptation to circumstances. Dr. Taylor's "Sagacity
and Morality of Plants " had thus a wonderful experi-
ence in its favour in observation of the ways of the
plantain on that lawn ; and out of respect for its sheer
persistency and its wise adaptiveness, I gladly yield
it a little corner in my rustic reserve.

Way-bread, corrupted from waybred, it is called by
the people here because of its being bred on the way,
and its marvellous tendency to follow in the footsteps
of men, as if attached to the white faces, particularly to
the British. They say, it has followed our colonists to
every part of the world, so that it has been named by
the natives of some of our settlements, " The English-
man's foot." Can it be that there are in it hidden
elements of healing and purification not yet discovered,
which Providence means the white man to recog-
nise and take advantage of? The balance of nature,

1 6 My Garden S^lmmer-Seat.

indeed, is wonderful, but so are the wise adaptations of
nature to men's wants ; and mysterious and inscrutable
are the potent agents of man's relief still stored up in
plant and tree. Bruised plantain leaves, in old days,
were esteemed among the rustics an excellent remedy
for cuts and bruises, and also for the bites of stinging
insects, and in Scotland an ointment is made from them
that is sometimes very efficacious. Its mucilaginous
properties are remarkable. And what if the uses dis-
covered in it are but prophecies of some still more
efficient element in specific disease ? Perhaps, then,
way-bread is not a corruption after all, and originates
in some early conception of edible properties in the
plant due to the mucilaginous element in it.

I even allow a nettle or two in my preserve, and
have put in a plea for some of the common field nettles
to be allowed to struggle through my hedge. This I
do, because of my sense of their beauty of leaf and
flower, and because certain of the butterflies are fond
of hovering over them. But though I have heard
much of the excellence of nettles for edible purposes in
various forms, I do not affect a utilitarian interest here.
In the parish of Dreepdaily, I know they " forced
nettles for early springkail." Nettle-tea, I am told, is
much liked by some people, and nettles dressed like
spinach make tasty greens ; but love of these was one
of the likings I did not carry away from my native
country, and if I have ever enjoyed them they were
"disguised." Nevertheless, I believe, they may be of
great value in this way, for dried in hay, the cattle are
fond of them. One of my countrymen, Campbell by
name, complained bitterly of the neglect of these escu-
lents in England, just as the late worthy Dr. Eisdale
complained of the neglect of mushrooms in Scotland

Poppies. 1 7

(to which esculent, I confess, I have however been
fully converted in the South), and he said, " In Scot-
land I have eaten nettles, slept on nettle-sheets, and
dined off a nettle table-cloth." The fibre is, however,
much more difficult to prepare for weaving than that
of the flax, otherwise it might have found much more
favour as a fabric. But the more one looks into
matters, the more one is convinced that in nature there
are no " neer-do-weels," as, alas ! there are in the
human family.

And I also allow a thistle or two. I have, alas ! none
of the true Scottish thistle, which, when Burns found
" Spreading wide, among the bearded bear,
He turned the weeding clips aside
And spared the symbol dear,"

but only a few of the milk thistle, which is, however,
very beautiful, with its streaks of white on the leaves
from which it takes its name. I have -*®^^
also a few poppies, flaunting red in their ' -^li :"
season, and later displaying their semi-
globular seed-head, which gently rattles
when shaken, like a toy-drum, the very
type and symbol of gay society — the
last of a race which it took long to ex-
tirpate from the garden, and which are
now, like the Iberians of Spain, pushed
into the remotest corner, and tolerated POPPY.

and ruthlessly kept down even there. But he were a
very churl of propriety and utilitarianism, who would
not allow a representative of the wondrous sleep-
inducing papavers in such a plot, to remind him of
so much of Homer and the poets, and one secret of
mysterious might in the modern pharmacopoeia, and
also of the wreck of many geniuses in later days —

B

1 8 My Garden Summer- Seat.

Coleridge, Hartley Coleridge, Edgar Allan Poe, De
Quincey, and probably Byron and Shelley, and how
many more ? Always comes the question of use and
abuse of God's good things.

And among them without any regularity are set
some sun-flowers, on which certain bees so love to
pasture at certain seasons, that I have
found them in the evening quite tipsy,
as is the case also with the passion-
flower, from some element in the
nectar, and unable to take care of
themselves and go home like respect-
able hive citizens. This proves that
there is virtue in the sun-flower, which
is said to be good as an eatable in
many ways. " The fresh flowers, just
before full bloom," says Mr. James
Long, a good practical authority,
" furnish a dish scarcely inferior to the artichoke. The
seeds ground into flour make very good cakes, and, if
roasted, furnish a drink not much inferior to cocoa.
The leaf is often used as tobacco, the seed pods are
made into blotting-paper, and the plants, if grown in
damp places, for they will grow anywhere, are a pro-
tection against intermittent fever."

But I am afraid I only thus provide a preserve for
certain birds who find tid-bits among my wildings, and
am, in fact, only placing temptation in their way. I
can see them eye me sideways, with that remarkable
air of rightful superiority which birds, even small birds,
can sometimes show, commingled with an indescribable
element of disappointment and chagrin, when they are
making for my corner of the garden, and catch sight of
me there before them.

Sparrows. 1 9

As I sit here and read and muse, or give myself up
to no end of pleasant fancies, I see at the outskirts
lime trees in their delicate, semi-transparent green,
outlined against the blue sky — the lower leaves, how-
ever, taking a darker tinge, while the loftier preserve
something of earlier green — and among their leaves
sparrows, wrens, robins, tomtits, linnets, and other
finches delight to flutter and sport and preen and hide
themselves. Between are fruit trees of many kinds,
laden with their various fruits, still green and shiny.
And, higher than all the rest, and close to the lime trees,
is a copper-beech — dark, rich, and effective, drooping
in the lower branches almost like a weeping-willow.

I noted a peculiar circumstance about this tree in
the spring of 1889. The buds came out soft and
green, and — the weather having been unusually favour-
able— it burst into leaf and became copper-dark almost
in one night.

Over a screen of ivy I command a view of a high
chimney of the house, in which, during the past season,
a couple of pairs of house-martins have had their
nests. Often have I sat and watched their steady
coming and going with the favourite food for their
young ones, admiring their wonderful adaptation to
their life and environment. And now my attention is
particularly attracted to them by a peculiar circum-
stance. A number of sparrows have clustered on a
branch of a high sycamore tree almost overhanging
the chimney, and there they flutter and twitter in a
most. 'busybody style, as though they had some very
important business on their minds. They have evi-
dently something extraordinary on hand. Now I
notice that whenever the swallows wish to enter into
their nests the sparrows try to bar the way. I watch,

2O

My Garden Summer- Seat.

interested and curious. Yes, there is no doubt about
it, the sparrows wish to possess themselves of the
swallows' nests, and to drive them away. Most
pugnacious and interfering of birds are the sparrows,

with no notion of losing any chance, however small,
of furthering their own interests ; and, if I am not
mistaken, they know the secret of union, if they
have never read ^Esop's fable of the Bundle of Sticks.
At last, after some time, and many ineffectual and

A Siege. 21

scattered forays, there is a concerted attack, and a great
noise and fluttering. So interested am I, as several
of the swallows have disappeared, that I rise to go
into the house. I find two of the martins have been
thrown down the chimney, and, on my appearance,
dash themselves against the windows in what has been
for some time a disused kitchen to which the chimney
belongs in which the nests are. I catch first one and
then the other, and let them free, when they dash
right away from the house to the westward. Pretty
little things : more than ever, as I handled them, did
I realise the perfection of their form for their purpose.
In the best sense they are clipper-built, and their
wings are wonderful at once for strength and lightness
— nerve and muscle are there in their finest quality.
When I touched them they gave out a peculiar hissing
sound, probably involuntarily.

On going back to my point of observation the
sparrows are in possession, and every now and then
one or another comes out and sits on the ledge, like
a kind of sentinel, to give quick hint, I suppose, if
the erewhile possessors, now the intruders, make any
show of returning. What a little parable of wars and
sieges I have witnessed there this morning. Now, I
can believe almost anything of the sparrows. It is
the middle of August. I have paid some attention
to their proceedings during the spring and summer.
They built under the eaves of stables, outhouses,
and elsewhere, in covered situations, in February and
March, and reared broods there. Then, in May and
June, they betook themselves to the trees, more par-
ticularly the lime trees in front of the house, being
high, carrying off from the nests in the eaves straws
and other light bits of material, and also, when it

22 My Garden Summer-Seat.

served their purpose, making very free with the thatch
on some of the outhouses for the same end. A second
brood was hatched in the end of June or beginning of
July. Now, is it possible that Mr. Sparrow wants a
ready-made nest for a third brood, feeling that he does
not have time to build one for himself in a situation
that would be sufficiently protected in the cold nights
and mornings of later August and September, and
deems that he may safely make the swallows victim,
as all is fair in love and war ? — that is the only infer-
ence I can draw from what I have seen to-day from
my garden-seat. No wonder the sparrows increase
in spite of all the efforts to keep them down ; no
wonder that in the United States of America they
have had to declare war against them by special enact-
ment, branding that man as an enemy of his country
who will feed or harbour them in any way. They are
most pugnacious when anything arises affecting their
rights or self-interests on the part of other birds, and
understand thoroughly the principle of trades unions,
and work it out practically. I have seen two sparrows
on my lawn attack a blackbird who had just managed
to get out of the hard earth a considerable worm, and
so systematically pursue the attack that the blackbird
was routed, and had to leave his prize to be carried
off and enjoyed by others. They are the " streeties "
or gamins of the bird world, these sparrows, with
little time or care for sentiment or song beyond a few
notes of call, sweet in their way, and all bent on the
practical demands of life.

I have heard no end of tales of temporarily disused
chimneys in country houses having been utilised by
the swallows and the sparrows till the aperture for the
ascent of the smoke was quite closed up, and then,

" Birds and Birds"

25

when the fire was lit, there was a fine to-do. " Smoked
out " threatened to be the result till some one ventured
upon the roof to clear the chimney ; and the excitement
caused by the affair would set a whole village astir.

" There are birds and birds/' says a reliable writer.
" Of rooks and sparrows we have a surplus, and the
latter promise to exterminate the useful, insect-eating
martins by burglariously entering their nests and ap-
propriating them for their own breeding purposes — a
most objectionable proceeding, which I am under the
impression has only taken place within the last twelve
or fifteen years."

I have many neighbours who belong to the robin
and wren families, who, indeed, are so familiar that
they have both, for
some years past,
built in the hedge
here, quite near to
this seat. The wren
is at some trouble
to disguise the nest
with leaves, the same
as those on the
hedge; and, besides
his artistic power in
making a beautiful,
soft, feathery interior, has indeed quite a wonderful
art in varying the outward effect according to circum-
stances. In an old tree the nest is made to look
exactly like a handful of dry leaves fixed there by the
wind ; in the ivy the nest has an ivy cover ; while
near to thatch it looks exactly like dry grass. The
wren lays seven or eight eggs, and frequently rears a
second brood in the season — a most nimble, hearty,

WREN.

26 My Garden Summer-Seat.

and sweet- voiced little fellow. His song is at once
spontaneous and musical, gushing, tender, hurried in
parts, but very clear, penetrating, full of trills and
surprises, if you listen well.

The robins are less particular, and do not trouble
themselves, beyond, sometimes, a loose screen of
leaves ; perhaps they know that they enjoy a grand
immunity in the superstitious fear of destroying their
nests or eggs, which is so widespread. And they
well reward the immunity they enjoy. Just when

ROBIN BUILDING.

most other birds get silent in the twilight, the robin
pours forth his finest ditty, rapid here and there, as
if he feared he would not have time to sing all he
wanted, and finish off properly, then, recovering, he
melts into the mellowest tones, and again becomes
bright, clear, and piercing.

But most attractive of all to me for appearance is
the beautiful blue-tit, which has established a family
here, and often passes me like a winged bit of sky.

The Blue Tit. 27

He is a most innocent and careful bird, doing not a
little service in picking the minute insects off the buds
and leaves of certain fruit trees. And if he has a
wonderful tongue for something else than singing, what
an eye he must have, also, to be sure ?

The blue-tit is very fond of fat ; and if a lump of
suet or talJow, or a greasy bone, is hung from the
branch of a tree not far off, you will be surprised at
the quickness with which the blue-tits will find it out ;
and you will be forced to admire the nimbleness with
which these birds will fix upon it, swing round with
it, and speedily eat off the bulk of what is in their
view tasty viands, all the time performing the most
graceful evolutions for your delight. Any one who has
not witnessed this sight cannot be said to have seen
the blue-tit in his glory. Another peculiar habit of
the blue-tit is, that, like the woodpeckers, it either
finds, or by great industry, excavates a hole in a tree,
and is most methodic and careful in carrying away
any chips that may have been produced and dropped
to the ground, so that this hint, at any rate, to the
position of the nest might not be given to any ill-
disposed bird or person. Cunning little tomtit !

Now and then a bullfinch pays me a visit. See,
there he goes — I must be careful not to startle him —
with his fair fawn breast and his dark velvety back,
and his occasional sweet note, which he is somewhat
careful not to indulge just now, whether from fear of
attracting notice or for other reasons. He is so much
hunted as an eater of fruit-buds in the spring that
every man's hand is against him here, and he is very
seldom to be seen. He is specially fond of the plum
and cherry, and when these are in bud, Mr. Bullfinch
won't taste the buds of their wild congeners in the

28

My Garden Summer-Seat.

hedgerow. And yet he is so fond of insects, of which
he is in search at present in that apple tree, that I
am not sure if he does not present an illustration
of a degenerate taste. Primarily, no doubt, he took
only those buds which were already doomed by the
presence of a minute grub ; but gradually, as food in
some seasons was scarce, he came to form a liking
for the bud itself (are not all artificial tastes, indeed,
formed in this very way ?), and so has gone on ever
since, and has become the victim of a depraved appe-
tite. He is so pretty, and bright, and sweet in voice,
though by no means a rich or connected singer, if with
a latent gift for mimicry that may be highly developed
(the beauty, par excellence, for me among the finches),
that I really would not like to believe all I hear of him,
any more than of my next-door neighbour.

The shy, retiring, hawthorn-loving hawfinch, too,

I sometimes see,
and now and then
a greenfinch will
visit me for some of
my wilding seeds,
and, occasionally, the
now, alas ! too rare
and beautiful gold-
finch steals in fur-
tively to taste, and
flutter afterwards in
the thistles.

With thrushes and blackbirds my garden is literally
overrun ; they build in the ivy and in the taller trees,
and, as they are not frightened off, come from a dis-
tance ; and, bold and destructive though they are, I do
not have the heart to destroy them : only they cost

GREEN LINNET.

Blackbird and Starling.

29

v-

BLACKBIRD.

me annually nearly the worth of my finer fruit, for
netting and wire to keep them off. But I can buy fruit or
beg it from my more
practical- minded
neighbours ; but no
money could buy
that mellow, mellow
song, as if blown
through fine golden
tubes, which indeed
it is, that the black-
bird gives me from
a branch of that tall
tree in the gloaming.

Starlings, too, of a very bold build, constantly look
in on me. See ! there one goes, dodging through
between those cab-
bages; he may find
a slug or two, but
that was not all that
he came here for,
I'm pretty certain.
The idea that star-
lings do not eat
fruit is disproved
by my cherry trees.
How smooth and
shiny his coat is,
and how beautifully marked with gayest colours, and
with what a quick eye he detects the presence of any-
thing that is to his taste.

Over yonder is a pyramid Mayduke cherry tree,
rising, as you can see, above the graceful feathery
plumes of the asparagus, on which already the delicate

STARLING.

30 My Garden Summer-Seat.

scarlet berries begin to appear, to make a brave show
in later September and October ; and to that is linked
an anecdote, which makes the fruit ravages of the star-
lings more present to me than would otherwise be the
case, and which at the same time throws some light at
once on the stolidity and the lazy observant curiosity
of a certain class of youthful rustic. At that time I
employed a youth of thirteen or fourteen to do odd
jobs in the garden, &c.; and one day, on coming out
and going up to him, as he stood gazing and gaping at
something or other across the lawn, and asking the
reason of his expression and attitude, I got this very
characteristic reply: — "Well, maister, I was just a-
lookin' at the starlin' on that ere cherry tree, he do be
a picken' off they cherries somethin' wonderful " — the
wonderfulness of the starling's, power to pick off the
cherries having so impressed the lout that he was dis-
inclined to take the trouble to drive it off. I at once
went and did this myself, and had the tree netted, as it
was small, though a splendid fruiter. But this did not
prevent the starlings returning and making many efforts
to pick the fruit through the netting, and one of the
birds was caught by the feet in the net and suffered
the penalties of his audacity. I have not since shortly
after that event had any boys in my garden, believing,
with one of my old, shrewd, experienced, observant,
farmer friends, that " one boy is a third a man, two
boys a sixth a man, and three boys no man at all."

But, notwithstanding all this, the starling is one of
the most delightful of birds. It is animated, clever,
full of resource, and is capable of being domesticated
and taught no end of things. Some of the class have
been found able to say certain words more or less dis-
tinctly; and on this fact Dr. Norman Macleod founded

The Starlings Suit. 31

his tale of " The Starling." The bird of that tale was
able to say, "I'm Charlie's bairn;" and as he would
do so on the Sawbath day, and thus attract the atten-
tion of the youngsters on their way to church, Mr.
Porteous, the minister, severe with all the severity of
the Scotch Calvinism of half a century ago, insisted on
the poor sergeant putting away the bird. This the
sergeant would not do, because the starling was asso-
ciated in his memory with a dead child, and the manner
in which Mr. Porteous was brought round and even
reconciled both to the starling and to the sergeant is
very touching, and well shows the strength of Dr.
Macleod as a story-teller of the simple, mixed humorous,
and pathetic kind. Mr. Robert Buchanan, too, has used
the starling in a very effective poem, in which a little
drunken, swearing tailor has a chorus in his only friend,
a starling. Sterne's starling everyone remembers.

The cleverness of the starling, together with a touch
of diablerie in some of its looks and expressions, make
it very susceptible of treatment in this way. It is a
most striking bird in appearance, too, when you see it
in freedom. You would fancy it is black, with, at
certain seasons, a touch of buff on the wings, and other
markings here and there ; but it really is predominantly
a mixture of very dark green and purple and steel-
blue, as you would realise if you had ever seen a
starling go smartly over a hedge to escape from you in
the sunlight. There then is a flash of indescribable
dark colour, like the hidden hues of a black opal, which
the strong light only reveals. It is best seen on the
bird when flying between you and the light.

It has been well said that, in the fields at a distance,
the starling looks as if he dressed in the blackbird's
old clothes ; but the writer goes on to add that this is a

32 My Garden Summer-Seat.

false impression, " for not distance but nearness lends
enchantment to a view of the starling. Even as he
stands for a moment in the sunshine on the chimney,
you can mark much of the brilliancy of his dress as
the beautiful metallic green of his dark plumage gleams
in the sun and flashes purple every now and then as
it catches the light from a different angle. He is too
far off for us to notice the harmony of his spot-mark-
ings ; they cannot be seen to any effect at a distance,
but nearer they greatly enhance his beauty. Add to
his other points the brown wing feathers with shiny
black margins, and his bill, at this season (the breeding
season) a bright lemon yellow, like that of a cock
blackbird, and you have altogether a singularly hand-
some bird."

It has often been said that the more virtuous the
birds the less beautiful they are. Those that mate
year by year, and are, under some rule of "natural
selection," led to assume bright colours to attract the
females, thus gain their gay appearance as a lady-killer
affects fine dress ; but the starling mates for life, and
yet he is beautiful and most beautiful during the
breeding season, as though, so far as he could, he
would form an exception to the rule, and prove that
nature sometimes gives a touch of loveliness to the
well-behaved and true and faithful.

The author of the article on the starling in the
" Encyclopaedia Britannica" says, " The worst that
can be said of it (the starling) is, that it occasionally
pilfers fruit, and as it flocks to roost in autumn and
winter among reed- beds, does considerable damage by
breaking down the stems." Yarrell, in his " British
Birds," speaks precisely to the same effect.

The truth is, with a very large number of birds, one

Seed- Eaters and Flesh-Eaters. 33

can see how they have been corrupted from insect-
feeders or seed-eaters to fruit-eaters. This process
proceeds along one or other of two lines, (i.) Either
they have been led to taste fruit from finding the in-
sects in it or upon it, and having once tasted it, they
become fond of it, form, in fact, an artificial taste, as
we have found in the case of the bullfinch. (2.) As
eaters of the seeds of natural plants, say, the wild
strawberry, which has practically no pulp, birds per-
formed in earlier days, before extended cultivation, a
great service in the dissemination of the seeds they
had eaten and passed through them, carrying them
away and re-sowing them in places very distant. But
when man's skill develops the pulp — which, in the wild
state, is merely enough to protect the seeds — to such
an extent that the fruit is practically all pulp and no
seeds, then the birds follow his lead, and form a love
for the pulp, which nature by itself never would, and
never could, have provided for them. Thus it may
be said that the process of fruit development is the
corruption of the birds from insect-feeders, or mere
seed-eaters, to devourers of soft pulp ; and the trans-
formation proceeds in such a way that you are hardly
ever safe to say that a bird has not in some degree
formed this depraved artificial taste by which he at
once, as far as he can, apes man and robs him. Human
conduct, enterprise, and example are thus responsible
for effects far beyond the merely human circle — beyond
even the circle which he influences by domestication and
direct application. Analogous cases of artificial tastes
formed by changes of habit on animals under man's in-
fluence are hundredfold. Here is one: "The baboons
at the Cape of Good Hope have always devoured
scorpions, but they have lately taken to killing and

34 My Garden Slimmer -Seat.

eating young lambs ; in the commencement they killed
the lambs for the sake of the milk in their stomachs,
but they appear now to have acquired a taste for meat,
and devour the flesh of their victims." *

A more extraordinary case still is that of the New
Zealand lory or kea, which from a strict vegetarian has
become a voracious flesh-eater, and this entirely since
the colonists appeared in New Zealand. Prior to this
the kea, like the cuckatoos and macaws, was a mild-
mannered, fruit-eating, or honey-sucking bird. But
" as soon as sheep-stations were established in the
island, these degenerate parrots began to acquire a
distinct taste for raw mutton. At first, to be sure,
they ate only the sheeps' heads and offal that were
thrown out from the slaughter-houses, picking the
bones as clean of meat as a dog or a jackal. But in
process of time, as the taste for blood grew upon them,
a still viler idea entered into their wicked heads. The
first step on the downward path suggested the second.
If dead sheep are good to eat, why not also living ones ?
The kea, pondering deeply on this abstruse problem,
solved it at once with an emphatic affirmative. And
he straightway proceeded to act upon his convictions,
and invent a really hideous mode of procedure. Perch-
ing on the backs of the living sheep, he has now learnt
the exact spot where the kidneys are to be found ; and
he tears open the flesh to get at these dainty morsels,
which he pulls out and devours, leaving the unhappy
animal to die in miserable agony. As many as two
hundred ewes have thus been killed in a night at a
single station. I need hardly add that the sheep-
farmer naturally resents this irregular proceeding, so
opposed to all ideals of good grazing, and that the days

* A. W. Buckland's "Anthropology," p. 42.

Eyes of Birds. 35

of the kea are now numbered in New Zealand. But
from the purely ps3'chological point of view the case is
an interesting one, as being the best recorded instance
of the growth of a new and complex instinct actually
under the eyes of human observers."

So fruit-eating, in the sense I mean here, is entirely
an acquired taste, and more and more the birds learn
it. The sparrow and the bullfinch, no doubt at first
cleared the gooseberry bushes from small grubs or
insects in the spring, but they could not help now and
then getting a taste of the eye-buds as they picked the
insects out, and came to form a taste for the buds
themselves, which now they so ravenously devour, that
in some parts covering the bushes with black threads,
crossed from point to point, is the only protection.
The birds do not see these till they dash against them
and are frightened. So I believe that the starlings
have become corrupted, or are in gradual process of
being so.

In a later page we shall see how the rook bears the
blame of grain-eating when he only picks out, at a
certain stage, the grains which have become the dwell-
ing-places of the intrusive wire- worm; but it is possible
enough that if insect-food became very scarce through
one reason or another, the rook might resort to grain-
eating alone.

And this suggests a word or two about the eyes of
birds, which are indeed wonderful in their adaptation
to be used alternately as a telescope and a microscope.
We speak of a birds-eye view, and that is expressive
enough, but it hints only at one-half the wonder. The
birds can see far, but they can also see near. In some
cases the focal distance is remarkably short, being no
more than the length of the bird's bill, whereas in the

My Garden Summer- Seat.

normal human eye it is about seven or eight inches. To
the birds in some cases objects are magnified in com-
parison to the human eye as much as 2000 times.
The tits are in this respect the most noticeable of our

birds, and the beautiful
artistic nest - building
long-tailed or bottle tit the
most remarkable of all.
To realise his microscopic
power of eye, we must
regard every object that
comes fully within his
field of vision as appear-
ing to him about 20OO
times the size that it is
to the normal human
eye. The blue tits and
LONGTAILEU TIT. cole-tits come next, and

then the wrens and wry-
necks, and then, at a considerable interval, the wood-
peckers. In consequence of this wonderful magnifying
power, an insect a quarter of an inch long will appear
as large to the eye of the longtailed tit as the common
mouse does to the eye of man, when held as near as it
can be seen.

We need not therefore wonder at the ability of the
little birds to clear off almost microscopic insect larvae,
and to peck up crumbs that are to our vision scarcely
more than dust. What a peculiar subject it would be
to represent the various objects as they appear to a
long-tailed tit's eye ! Think of man how, when close
to the bird, he must stride a colossus in very truth ;
and how ominous an aspect a dog or cat must bear —
the latter a seeming tiger to the little bird. And the

Wood-Pigeons. 3 7

facility with which birds can change the eye from
microscopic to telescopic is proved by the fact that,
while the tit is feeding on the eggs of flies on this tree
(which eggs must appear as large to him as musket
bullets do to us), he feels no difficulty in seeing that
whinbush at the distance of more than two hundred
yards.

A few wood-pigeons will sometimes pay me a visit
in the early morning, tempted by some choice straw-
berries, of which, like other congeners of theirs, they
are very fond. There, they are off, with a whirr up-
wards high, and glance of light from their rapid wings,
a slight movement of mine having scared them. They
are far more timid than blackbirds, and thrushes or
starlings, whose boldness and impudence are equal to
their cleverness and ingenuity. The wood-pigeon
depends more on his shyness, and swiftness, and
caution, than on his boldness, or impudence, or in-
genuity. He is a beautiful bird, and his shyness is
seen in the fact that he chooses the darkest corner of
the wood he can find for his nest, and then is so
impatient, or so incapable a nest-builder, that in the
gloom his white eggs, exposed through twigs carelessly
criss-crossed, will betray him. I have sometimes seen
as many as five here shortly after daylight in search of
gooseberries (for which, too, they have a passionate
liking), cherries, peas, or lettuce, of which they will
take an occasional refresher. But they may take a
taste of some of my weedy wildings too, for they are
very fond of wild mustard and ragweed, and often do
good service to the farmer in clearing them from his
fields, when he believes that they are only eating his
corn, or wheat, or turnips. But they prefer the weeds
to them any day, else from their wonderful voracity

My Garden Summer- Seat.

they would rank as most dangerous enemies of the
agriculturist. They are keen, however, at certain
seasons for some kinds of turnip-tops and also of turnips,
which, if holes have already been made through the
rough outside skin by rabbit or hare, they will almost
entirely scoop out. The thought of this rouses the
farmer's ire, which is not easily allayed.

They are fond of beech-nuts, and will go long

SENTINEL WOODPIGEON.

distances to get them, and some observers say that,
like rooks and pheasants, they will gorge themselves
with acorns, and that the art they show, soft-billed
though they are, in detaching the nut from the cup,
and splitting the core, is astonishing. They will set
the acorn in position, and strike it with their bills with
the utmost precision.

It seems to me that they show traces of a conscience,

Odd Places for Building. 39

whether generated simply by fear and former experi-
ence (as the Evolutionists would say) I cannot pretend
to know. When feeding in flocks in the fields among
the grain or roots, they never forget to post a sentinel
or two, and a settled, regulated method of interchange
of position, which I had observed in my early morning
walks before I had been fortunate enough to alight on
this most faithful observation in the fascinating pages
of the late Charles St. John.

" It is amusing to watch a large flock of these birds
while searching the ground for grain. They walk in a
compact body, and in order that all may fare alike, the
hindmost rank every now and then fly over the heads
of their companions to the front, where they keep the
best place for a minute or two, till those now in the
rear take their place in the same manner. They keep
up this kind of fair-play during the whole time of
feeding."

In feeding on acorns in the woods they seem to
proceed less regularly, and are to be found more in
pairs.

It is very odd, considering ^the shyness and cunning
and caution of birds, the whimsical and exposed places
in which sometimes they will build. It would seem as
though in some instances they studiously left room in
their choice and style of building for after-ingenuity
and resource. A wren last year was actually guilty
of the innocent enormity of putting her nest in a cab-
bage plant left for seed right over in that corner. Not-
withstanding the presence of this seat, which, as I am
often here, one would have fancied would have scared
off the birds, there are many nests quite close to it.
At my right hand, almost overhead, in the ivy over-
hanging the old wall, there is a nest of blue tits, and

My Garden Summer- Seat.

BLUE TIT.

oh ! the whispering and signalling that goes on if I give
any sign of consciously watching their performances.

They are now quite
at their ease, unless
I stand on tiptoe
in the endeavour
to look into their
nest, and then
the whispers and
chatter begin. But
how cunning they
are ! Being thus
often observed, and
desirous of hiding
their nest as much as they may, they have constructed
or placed it so that they can enter it both from above
and below ; and when I am watching, how they dodge
and dip and enter it either way.

A chaffinch last year built in the corner of a disused
frame, which had become a receptacle for empty flower-
pots,^., and reared
a brood in spite of
the gardener's con-
stant going about
the frame. The
chaffinch is not al-
ways so easily sat-
isfied. Do you see
that old apple tree
there just beyond
that cherry tree
and next to the

plum ? Well, just in the little hole where the branches
part from the bole a chaffinch has had its nest for three

The Chaffinch.

years past. It is so low that by standing on tiptoe
you could almost put your hand into it ; but they have
so wonderfully lichened it over to an exact resemblance
with the bark of the tree that it would be a very quick
eye indeed that would notice it, unless it followed the
bird returning — a beautiful illustration of what is now
called the protective instinct which nature has so
strongly bestowed on many of her children. The
chaffinch is in some ways a very noticeable bird ; it
is indeed almost the only one of the small birds which
pairs for life, and it has been said that it learns its
song anew each spring. If this is so, the chaffinch soon
regains his mastery. He is in many ways a meister-
singer among birds. He is never failing. He begins
with a lovely lilt, as it were ; a passage of old song,
blithe and debonnair, passes into the softest warble,
and after some mixed flourishes, with the finest sense
of contrast in them, closes with a sudden abrupt kind
of clash of notes. Mr. Waterton wrote thus well of
the chaffinch, and expresses the thought of many a
bird lover : —

"Next to poor cock robin, the chaffinch is my
favourite bird. I see him almost at every step. He
is in the fruit and forest trees and in the lowly haw-
thorn; he is on the house-top and on the ground
close to your feet. You may observe him on the
stack-bar and on the dunghill, on the king's highway,
in the fallow field, in the meadow, in the pasture, and
by the margin of the stream. His nest is a paragon of
perfection. He attaches lichen to the outside of it
by mean,s of the spider's slender web. In the year
1805, when I was on a plantation in Guiana, I saw
the humming bird making use of the spider's web in its
nidification, and then the thought struck me that our

My Garden Summer- Seat.

chaffinch might probably make use of it too. On my
return to Europe I watched a chaffinch busy at its
nest. It left it, and flew to an old wall and took a
cobweb from it, then conveyed it to its nest, and inter-
wove it with the lichen on the outside of it."

The little busy goldcrest, very unlike the wren
family, to which he is related, in personal appearance,

goes about his
business in a care-
ful cheerful man-
ner, and at the hot
hours of noon in
summer days
sends out soft
bursts of song,
when else silence
would almost reign
in garden or wood.
His tiny nest is
hung on the end

of the high branch of that cedar tree on the lawn, and
so neatly that, looking from below, you could hardly
see it, the feathery ends of the needles falling round it.
What a delight the bees have found in these fox-
gloves, which seem as if nature constructed them to
show what she could do in building a perfect floral
pyramid, or perhaps more properly, floral obelisk, and
to afford a ceaseless series of newly unfolded flowers
through a whole season. Unlike the grand builders of
the Nile, she does not aim at hard permanence here ; but
she combines what they did not and could not do, per-
fection of line and curve, and ceaseless change in sweet
gradation. They are now losing the lower flowers
that pale off and shrink away, while those at the

GOLDCREST.

Opposing Instincts. 43

top are spreading out into a lovely crown of pinky
purple. The arrangement is one of the most exquisite
in nature, illustrating beauty long drawn out. First,
we have a true obelisk, the upper tiers yet immature,
and small and darker in colour altogether, without that
transparency and luminousness which marked those
below, but lending a wonderful grace, poise, and charm
to the flower and its movements. Then tier by tier in
series, step by step, the colour and charm are taken up
from those below, till at last all that remains is a kind
of glory-crown, over ranges of seeds : lovely foxgloves

" In whose drooping bells the bee makes her sweet music."

Almost behind me as I sit a mass of firewood has
been built stack-shape in view of winter. There a
discontented barn-door fowl has wandered from the
others and from her proper nest in the hen-house, and
has found a hole in this stack into which she has
managed to crawl, and has made a nest there, and
is now busy in laying her complement of eggs; but
with the inconsistency of her kind, in which apparently
opposite instincts maintain themselves in full force, she
has no sooner laid her egg than she exultantly informs
all the world of her feat, which she purposed to keep a
great secret. Her cluck, cluck, cluck, iack ! is shrill
and penetrating, no effort spared. What purpose can
that cackling serve, save to betray the hidden nest ?
Is the secretive instinct a faint survival even from
far-off ancestors, and the cackle a sort of vain, self-
conscious something, developed under domestication
and intercourse with man — as it is certain now that
the bark of the dog is ? Wild gallinaceous fowls
do not cackle as does the domestic hen. The two
instincts seem totally opposed to each other, and are

44 My Garden Summer- Seat.

mutually destructive. But then it is very easy to con-
demn the poor egg-layer. What worse is she than the
human weakling who has a great secret and shows that
he has it, forgetting that very wise warning Goethe
makes Wilhelm Meister give his boy, that to keep a
secret you must be careful to hide that you have one.

Bees of all kinds daily visit me. The common
humble-bee and sometimes the moss or carder-bee,
the " foggy-toddler " of Scottish boys, and a peculiarly
long, thin, black bee, with the faintest tip of red on
its tail, and at times clouds of my neighbour's hive
bees mix with my own — giving evidence that there
are some Ligurians imported. Last year they accom-
plished an odd feat. I had brought some beans of
a very fine kind from Belgium. The beans are pure
white and in long pods which run up poles as high as
hops or even higher; not far off were some scarlet
runners, of both of which the bees were very fond.
One half of the plants grown from my pure white
Belgian seed yielded a cross — not pure white, but
speckled as if with the colour of the scarlet-runner
bean — and the pods were not nearly so long and flat
as in the Belgian bean. It was at all events quite
a new variety, never before seen in the district. The
wild-flowers near my garden-seat particularly attract
them. By what secret magnetism is it that they know
when any new species is in bloom, and come simul-
taneously to it, as it were, from the four winds of
heaven ? But, in spite of little contretemps of this
kind, I can heartily say, with that sweet American
poetess, Miss Celia Thaxter, whose eye for nature
is as keen as her love for it is passionate, when in
her beautiful poem titled " Guests," she celebrates, as I
do, her —

The Sycamore, 45

" Quaint little wilderness of flowers, straggling hither and

thither,
Morning glories tangled about the larkspur run to seed ;"

and proceeds to express her welcome thus :

" Welcome, a thousand times welcome, ye dear and delicate

neighbours,

Bird and bee and butterfly, and redbreast fairy fine !
Proud am I to offer you a field for your graceful labours ;
All the honey and all the seeds are yours in this garden of

mine !
I sit on the doorstep and watch you. Beyond lies the infinite

ocean,

Sparkling, shimmering, whispering, rocking itself to rest,
And the world is full of perfume and colour and beautiful

motion,
And each sweet hour of this new day the happiest seems and

best."

I spoke of the high branch of the sycamore tree, but
it has points of interest beyond its being beautiful and
affording a good resort for many birds. If it does not
quite match the chestnut — the " gummy chestnut buds "
of Lord Tennyson * — in the thickness of the gum which

* The verse in " The Miller's Daughter " originally stood thus : —

" Remember you that pleasant day,

When, after roving in the woods

('Twas April then), I came and lay

Beneath those gummy chestnut-buds? "

The critic of the Quarterly Review, who noticed the whole volume in
a fine strain of mockery and sarcasm, was especially funny and quizzical
over the "gummy chestnut-buds," and so the nice observation had to
give place to more fanciful and amplified and less effective phrases in
the later editions : —

" But, Alice, what an hour was that,

When, after roving in the woods

('Twas April then), I came and sat

Below the chestnuts, when their buds
Were glistening to the breezy blue"

which, by the way, any bud with dew or moisture after rain would
do. Such are the fine ministries of ignorant, cynical, self-conceited
"crickets," as Artemus Ward named them !

My Garden Summer-Seat.

it extrudes over the little buds formed in later autumn,
in preparation for the next spring, which dries and
hardens, and is a most efficient protection for them
against the frosts and snows, often glittering like amber
between you and the sunset, it has a kind of honey
in which it encases them very effectively, through all
the cold and frost ; and when the sun once more begins
to look forth with a certain heat, this melts away and
drops to the ground in the most minute globules like
dew when the tree is stirred. Hence the truth of the
line —

" The sycamore drops honey when 'tis stirred."

But the seed of the tree is even more curious and wonder-
ful than the bud. As I have sat here in later September

and October, I have
seen them part from
the tree and come with
a peculiar wavering
kind of flight on the
wind. These seeds
are called samaras, be-
cause they are really
winged, or perhaps
because the seed in
its envelope has a soft
furry, silky lining,
either from simarre,
a woman's dress or
scarf, or simarre, a
bishop's upper robe.

SYCAMORE TREE. r .

The wings of the

samara are beautifully adapted to float a heavy body,
which they do, as any one may see, at the right season,

The Sycamore Samara. 47

when favourable winds are stirring. They dry into a
very light-veined brown skeleton wing, and may be
seen in certain spots in thousands in the later autumn
and early winter. The late Laureate, in the " In
Memoriam," wonders why it is that

" Often out of fifty seeds
Great Nature brings but one to bear."

Multitudes of these seeds of sycamore perish ; many
are eaten by cattle ; many are trodden and destroyed.
Doubtless, thousands on thousands perish for one that
grows in spite of nature's wonderful device to spread
them. And yet the sycamore asserts how well nature
can cherish her children. Wherever there is a syca-
more, sycamore seedlings will spring up in profusion
within a wide area, if any spaces whatever are left to
nature ; it intrudes into all manner of hedges and takes
root, particularly liking the gravel. Nature's economy
and care of the type is hardly in anything better illus-
trated than in the sycamore samara.

Do you wonder that I love to sit and read and muse
and brood and dream and observe in this sheltered
garden-seat, with my wild-flowers close around me, a
screen of cultivated garden further off, and all manner
of birds and insects continuously sounding soft accom-
paniment ? Yes, even in days when I feel it chilly. I
am surprised to see the bees bumming away at their
work, and the birds singing! The peculiar manner
in which, at certain times, all the various sounds blend
into a sort of harmony in the warm summer afternoons
has often surprised me, till I doubted whether it was
not possible .that, after all, the harmony was not an
illusion that dwelt in my own sense and soul alone. Any
way, the effect is the same ; and if the soul is so attuned

48 My Garden Summer-Seat.

that it thus makes harmony for itself, then it is only a
further witness for the harmony of the world, since
through the soul alone can it be apprehended, as through
God the soul, we believe that it was made. In a green
field philosophy is somewhat out of place ; and so it is
in such a corner as this. I will leave the subject, with
a devout hope that all who desire the kind of sweet
solitude and society I enjoy here at one and the same
moment will soon succeed in realising their wish. For
this kind of enjoyment is the most remote from selfish,
and feels that to share is doubly to enjoy. Therefore

" Blame me not, laborious band,

For the common flowers I brought ;
Every blossom in my hand
Comes back laden with a thought."

II.

MY POND.

FIND a world of delight and sweet
ompanionship at all seasons here by
the borders of this pond. Its position is
just what that of a pond should be to
'take most advantage of the sunlight and the sunset, of
moonlight and stars. It lies open along almost the
whole breadth of its eastern end, with a soft level
grassy platform there, as if nature had intended, and
art — pleasant helpmate — had done its best to reinforce
the intention, that you should advantageously and easily
see how she can distribute her tree-forms and varied
tints to the best advantage, as well as cast in a hook
with comfort, if you are inclined to try for roach or
golden tench, which abound in it, and which at certain
hours find a favourite resort and feeding-place in the
freshet ; for it is, in truth, a miniature lake, with true
inlet and outlet, the banks rising at both sides, and
showing that the pond is natural — the enlargement
of a very old watercourse. As you stand there, rod in
hand, the falling water behind you, that had passed
through a grating and bricked channel under your feet
for a space of six yards or more, falls into a miniature

D

49

My Pond.

basin, self-formed, with a lulling slumbrous sound ;
and then, after short pause and eddy, works its way,
glittering in the sunshine, through grass and rushes
and waving watercresses of giant size, over the
centre of what was once the bottom of a second and
lower pond, now dried up and reclaimed for pasturage.
Very fond the cows are, if they can find the chance, of
sheltering here, knee-deep in water, in 'the hot days of

MY POND.

summer under the shade of the old elder tree, which
had once looked on its image in the sheet of glassy
water below it.

Round both sides of my pond run trees and shrubs
of many kinds, most of them old, and probably self-
sown : grey-green willows, spreading branches over
the water and lightly dipping in, hollies, blackthorns,
beeches, ashes, and alders, more retiring, and one or

Effect at Sunset. 5 r

two black bullace trees, which are more forward to
keep in line with the willows, and which occasionally
bear fruit in their season, and attract many birds ;
while on the upper or western end it is almost closed
in by three giant forms of oaks, and one magnificent
blackthorn, in later spring hoary and heavy with
blossoms. A picnic might be held in the branches
of that lordly old oak in the middle of the greeny
crescent, and indeed has been ; for if you walk round
there you may see still the remnants of the circle of
seats placed just above where the branches spring
from the bole, and would accommodate a tolerable tea-
party were they restored and a tea-table set in the
centre, as it well might be.

The effect at sunset is sometimes very fine. Often
have I stood, rod in hand, in dreamy admiration of the
wondrous mixture of gold and green that inevitably
suggested thoughts — not all irreverent — of a burning-
bush, and, momentarily oblivious of the bobbings of
my float, have had to mourn the loss of what seemed
finer and heavier fish than I ever landed there, and to
reproach or congratulate myself accordingly. But it is
a weakness of fishermen thus unconsciously to moralise
life by a parable of the contrast between wishes and
realities. The fish that were lost ever excelled the fish
that were caught. But the glory of the sight scarce
admitted such reflections then. In quivering bars the
foliage seemed turned to gold, and burned as it danced
in the brilliance, if a faint wind were stirring ; while
beneath the trees lay soft fair shadows of themselves,
yet clear and bcld in outline, with all the glory of eve
about them, and suggesting a wondrous depth ; and in
the middle space, nearer to me, the golden rays that
stole through the higher leaves flickered and fell, and

My Pond.

dappled the water, as it were, with golden rain that
seemed to flit and waver and return in wondrous
rhythmic regularity, like breathing, or the notes of a
musical scale heard at a distance. As the sun sinks,
the brilliant colours die away into a kind of salmon
colour on the sky in long soft bars, tremulous if not
palpitating, growing fainter and fainter at the extremes ;
the shadows deepen ; but the twilight is pleasant, and I
often linger till the darkness falls, and I can listen to
the owl's cry heard not far off. Indeed, on one or
two occasions, these wonderful winged cats, so intent
in search of their prey, have flown so close past my
ear as to give me a surprise and shock, till I assured

myself, as the eye
caught a glimpse of
the soft white figure
gliding on, that it
was only an owl.
The farmers now like
to encourage these
settlers, knowingtheir
value as mousers and
destroyers of other
vermin, and the army
has been reinforced
quite recently. The
barn-owl, when she
has young, is said to
bring to her nest a
mouse every twelve
minutes, and as both
male and female hunt,
the lowest computation is forty mice a day. That is
something surely !

BARN OWL.

Water- Hens.

53

The intrusion of the owl intimates to me that I must
not farther dilate on nature's inanimate shows at morn
or eventide (for that would occupy many pages) ; I
must speak of the living creatures that morning, noon,
and night bring to my pond an attraction of their
own. A small community of water-hens have found
homes here, one couple in the black bullace tree
yonder, which spreads its branches over the water,
forming a tent-like screen ; and as sometimes I sit,
half hidden in foliage, on the north side of the pond
(for the fish, at certain times and seasons, will quit the
freshet and seek coolness and rest in the shadows there),
they will lead their broods along the margin with their
peculiar, measured,
careful tread, and
with their peculiar
cry — a kind of quick-
ened and sharpened
cluck, cluck of the
ordinary farm - yard
fowl, suggesting
vaguely possibilities
of domestication and
tameness, which,
however, are some-
what rudely dispelled when any cause of fear or alarm
arises. The warning or call-note then given is of a
very wild, harsh, and grating half-saw-like character —
a call which cannot, however, be called a very cunning
one, for it would inevitably draw even a tyro's atten-
tion to the exact whereabouts of the bird. On the
slightest hint of strange intrusion into their domain,
they utter this harsh and grating cry, and speedily
retreat, marching their youngsters home again to their

WATER-HEN.

54

My Pond.

greeny shelters, under the sweeping branches of bullace,
blackthorn, or willow.

The young are very pretty — little balls of soft black
down, with a wedge of greeny yellow for a beak. If you
look closely at them as they move along the margin,
their feet go twinkle, twinkle as they run, with a kind
of darting movement, extremely pretty and interesting.
They are active from the moment they leave the egg,
and if frightened when the parents are absent, will
take to the water and swim even on the second day,
should the nest be near to the surface ; but the moor-
hen sometimes builds high, or, as we shall see, occa-
sionally raises her nest higher after she has built it,
and then the mother carries the little things down to
the water to give them their first outing, and will care-
fully carry them back again to the nest.

Those who have witnessed it declare it to be one

of the prettiest sights
to see the young ones
lifted by the parents
from the nest to the
water. The coots
practise the same art,
though the young of
the coots can hardly
be said to be so pretty
and original looking
as these little balls
of black fluffy down.
They are good and careful parents, if sometimes
they seem to be rather domineering in manner. But
this may be, in some degree, due to the fact that they
have so many enemies that not a few of the young
never reach maturity. Herons (which occasionally

COOT.

Dr. Stanley s Observations. 55

pay the pond a visit), owls, weasels, rats, and even
large eels are only a few of those ever ready to prey
upon them ; so that perhaps the eager surveillance and
domineering drill-sergeant air of the water-hen towards
its young is not to be wondered at, more especially
when we consider the open places it often homes in.
Certainly there is no lack of fertility on the part of the
water-hen ; she lays seven or eight eggs, and has two
or three broods a year. Dr. Stanley, Bishop of Norwich
(venerated father of the late Dean Stanley, and a minute
and careful observer), says that they produce several
broods a year, and that when all the broods survive, a
second nest is built. This was last year the case with
a pair on this very pond, which added much to the
parental care and responsibility ; and the business of
giving warning-calls to the elder brood without leaving
the second nest was sometimes so earnest and urgent
as to be quite touching. They are decidedly clever
birds in their own way, though, as often happens with
nature's nurslings, they are unaccountably stupid in
other and apparently simpler matters, as some of their
calls is enough to show. Dr. Stanley observed that
when a water-hen had noticed a pheasant leap on the
board of the feeding-boxes the keepers place for them,
and they by its weight opened the lid, she at once tried
the same thing ; but finding she was not heavy enough,
she went for a friend, and the combined weight of the
two sufficed to secure them a good feed, as reward for
their astuteness. In favourable circumstances, too, the
water-hens show some eye for beauty, and, like the
bower birds, will decorate their nests. If near gar-
dens, they will sometimes pilfer flowers of bright
colours — particularly scarlet, for which they have a
great fancy — wreaths of scarlet anemones having been

56 My Pond.

carried off by them for this purpose. A friend of mine
is certain that in the early spring mornings they have
even made efforts at carrying oft' japonica blossoms
from a wall in his garden, whjch lies not far from their
quarters. They always cover the eggs before leaving
the nest, either for concealment or for warmth.

And what is perhaps more extraordinary still, as we
have said, is that these water-hens will, in the event of
flooding or the rise of the water, raise up the nest —
which is formed of the leaves of flags deftly interwoven
—to a considerable extent, probably by supporting it on
their backs and fixing it pro tern, to the most available
branch or spray, till they have reached a perfectly safe
elevation. Most frequently the nest is supported on a
branch or branches just a little above the water, so that
it is secure from certain egg-eating neighbours, like
rats or hedgehogs, who pursue their callings, in most
cases not far distant from the water-hen's nest.

There can be no doubt about the water-hen's power
in raising the nest in floods. Here is a passage from
the description of a reliable observer : —

"The nest was placed a few inches above the water,
and about seven feet from the river-bank. When we
first observed it, it contained eggs. These were soon
hatched, and great was the delight of the children to
watch the old birds scuffle away from the nest and
then to peep in and mark the progress of the brood.
One sad day heavy rain fell, a high flood followed, and
great was the children's grief over the little birds, which
they thought must be drowned and their nest swept
away. Our first excursion on the subsiding of the
flood was to the river-side nursery. What were the
delight and astonishment of the young folks at behold-
ing the nest firmly fixed to some of the reeds and

Water- Voles. 5 7

waving in the air fully five feet above the surface of
the water ! As we watched, we saw the mother-bird
travel down an inclined plane made of bent rushes,
which led direct from the nest to the river-bank. Her
brood followed her, and soon all dropped into the water
and were hidden among the reeds. Within an hour
we saw them all return to the nest up the inclined
plane, and so things went on for several days till they
forsook their home. On examination it was clear to
us that as the water rose the old birds must have
placed themselves under the nest and gradually lifted
it on their backs some five feet. But it was not in
their power to make it descend, so they fastened it
securely to the reeds, and constructed the roadway to
the shore for the egress and ingress of their brood — a
beautiful instance of parental care and of the instinct
God bestows upon His creatures for their preservation
and that of their brood."

Here the water-hens have laid their eggs and reared
their broods for many seasons — for seven now to my
own knowledge and observation — not much frightened,
apparently, by the horses that come down here to
drink, and sometimes in the hot days will indulge
themselves in a good bath and swim, much to the
chagrin of the men, who loudly cry and scream and
whistle at them, not liking the extra work of rubbing
dry thereby entailed on them, or the dogs that come
there from the farm-house to swim and enjoy them-
selves every day.

And not far from the moor-hens is a settlement of
water-voles, who very quietly and unobtrusively carry
on their daily life and work. Beautiful little creatures,
with that gentle look and soft retiring shyness in their
every action which so appeals to the lover of animals

My Pond.

and awakens his curiosity and affection. Many a time
have I had my train of meditation suddenly interrupted
by the plop of one of them from the bank — a sound
they invariably made when descending into the water
thus, and almost the only sound they do make — though
in swimming they will come towards you till they are
within a few yards, and then their brown-grey heads
will softly, suddenly disappear, leaving you doubtful

THE WATER-VOLE.

if you have not been dreaming, till, if you are watchful,
the fact is attested by just one little silvery bubble that
will rise at their point of disappearance. Long have I
sometimes watched for their reappearance at distant
points of the pond to be disappointed, till I learned
that it is the habit of the creature in these circum-
stances to enter its nest from under the water, having
at least two openings to it, which leads the family,

Vegetable Feeders? 59

when it increases, to do a good deal of harm to the
banks by burrowing, though generally they choose an
old tree stump, and by preference burrow round about
it. Their powers in this way are very remarkable.
Man, when he makes a tunnel, needs no end of levels
and instruments and calculations, the vole, in the dark,
like the mole, can strike his line and burrow along it,
and come out at the precise point he wanted. We call
this instinct, but when you think of it, it is a wonderful
thing. The vole, from his teeth and structure of head
is more a beaver than anything else, and indeed he
was once so classed scientifically with the beavers, but
now forms a leading item in another class of rodents.
Unlike the rat he has very short rounded ears, and a
short tail by comparison, and his teeth differ in certain
important respects. His teeth are yellow teeth like
the beaver, owing to the enamel facing they have, and
they are precisely of the chisel character. Were it
not so they would not be efficient for the work it has
to do.

There has been a good deal of discussion about the
habits of these pretty little animals as regards food,
some saying that they are purely vegetable feeders,
and others that they are occasionally carnivorous or
fish-eating, and that they will eat the young of the
water-hens, &c. &c. We have good reason to believe
that they are strict vegetarians, having frequently set
morsels of meat of various kinds in their way, which
never tempted them that we could see, and were often
passed by them with indifference ; but these same
morsels, were sometimes carried off by brown rats that
had their holes in the dry ditches near by, an animal
for whose depredations our water-vole is doubtless
often blamed.

6o My Pond.

As for the water-hens, they live, so far as I can see,
in the most perfect amity with the voles, leading out
their young broods fearlessly while the rodents are
swimming about, which could hardly be the case, did
the voles intrude into the water-hens' nests in search of
eggs, or really have serious designs upon their young
ones. This, at least, is no matter of doubt, for at cer-
tain seasons of the year we have witnessed it almost
daily. The voles rejoice to browse on the flags, irises,
rushes, and green herbage that surround the pond,
and are particularly fond of the leaves of the iris, and
will sit on their hind legs like a squirrel and nibble
contentedly at one spot for a long time. Their mode
of eating is similar to that of the squirrel. They sit
on their haunches and hold the food in their front
paws, and nibble, nibble at it in the prettiest way.
They do not properly hybernate, but are partially dor-
mant during winter, and lay up a store of food in a
shelf or corner, specially prepared. Mr. Groom Napier
found in one of these, when he had dug out a water-
vole's tunnelled abode, a large quantity of fragments of
carrots and potatoes, sufficient to fill a peck measure.

I have certainly never seen them seeking for worms
or insects, or eating them. As for their eating fish-
spawn, they cannot do much depredation in that way,
for this pool, which has been always well-fished, in-
creases to such an extent in tench and in roach, that in
the evening, when the gnats come out, and disport
themselves in their thousands on the surface of the
water, you can see the roach in shoals when the sun-
shine falls at certain favourite spots near the surface,
towards the inlet, really making, when you look low
along the water, a kind of faint dark-blue or purple
patches, from the midst of which every few seconds

" Summer Snipes!' 6r

one will leap, showing head and shoulders, and some-
times the whole body, and sending a circle of dancing
ripples over the place, with an indescribably lustrous
and beautiful effect. For these reasons I do not be-
lieve that the water -voles are, in any respect, car-
nivorous.* Four years ago, indeed, the moor-hens — in
spite of all their enemies — had increased to such an
extent that my friend, the resident in the place, tells me
he had most unwillingly to shoot a number of them.
They made a favourite feeding-ground in a field at the
side of the pond, and did much damage there — one
corner of it being eaten bare.

Occasionally as I have stood fishing there in July or
August, a pair, or perhaps three of what are called
locally " summer snipe," not the common sandpiper,
however, would suddenly dash over the pond, and, if
I could only keep still enough, or creep silently under
cover of near foliage, would settle on the margin, and
make sundry observations, no doubt in search of some
particular tid-bit, which they do not just then find so
easily elsewhere. Very beautiful are they with their
whitish throats and breasts, and dark velvety back, and
red or chestnut-tipped wings — a somewhat swallow-
like appearance at first glance, though they are much
bigger and long-billed. Their flight is very quick,
and their cry is a sharp short whistle. The last
memorable occasion on which I saw them, and when,
unfortunately in one respect I was not alone, was on
Saturday, August 27, 1887, when my good friend, the
resident on the place, was at my side. He regretted

* Since this was written, a friend has pointed out to me an article in
Science Gosszp'(\SS6,rpp. 155-158),'^ which Mr. G. T. Rope says that
even the common bank-vole is a purely vegetable feeder. He has
kept these creatures in confinement for longTperiods.

62 My Pond.

(which I confess I did not, though his wish was
prompted by the most generous feelings towards me)
that he had not his gun that he might have got a brace.
But they were scared by our presence, and winged
their flight to other scenes — " fresh woods and pastures
new " — doubtless disappointed in securing the object of
their visit. Speaking of their occasional appearance,
my friend said that their visits there were invariably
preliminary to heavy rains (it was clear and bright
when they came that day), a matter which he had
often verified, and which I had not previously done.
But, certainly, on this occasion he was right. Rain
fell heavily there on the Saturday night, and on the
Sunday morning so heavily as to cause very thin
church attendances, and again fell heavily on the
Monday morning; and the weather the whole week
following was broken and wet. It would be interesting
to know if the same facts, as bearing on meteorological
lore, have been observed in other localities. No doubt
the minute observations of the movements of birds, if
carried on systematically over the whole country, wrould
be of great use as regards weather forecasting; and,
at one time, when Dr. Smiles' hero, Thomas Edwards,
the Scottish naturalist, was still alive, there was a
proposal to institute such a system by securing the
regular aid of such local observers as he to report
to headquarters — a kind of wing (or wings) to the
Meteorological Survey. But I am not aware that it
has ever been carried out.

While I stand fishing on the stump of an old elder
which had been cut down some years ago, and is now
again burgeoning into beauty, framed like a portrait
with greenery round me, a furze-chat pursues its
business of attending to its young"uquite close to me.

Perseverance of Birds. 63

I can hear it flying out and in to its nest ; and on the
slightest noise or movement on the part of the dog I
have sometimes with me, it will utter its short hoarse
cry of warning or alarm. This I seldom hear from it
when the dog is not with me, which proves, I think,
that the little bird has some idea that I am too pre-
occupied with my own task to interfere with it ; though
it does not quite trust the dog in the same way, as,
indeed, it is quite right in not doing : they are so
cunning.

In the summer of 1889 a thrush built a nest in the
fork of a small tree right behind where I stand, and
sat on her eggs and nursed her brood within a few
yards of me. When I withdrew a little to re-bait, I
was within a yard and a half of her nest. Yet still
she sat ; and by raising my head a little as I stood I
could see her and she could see me — the dark, honest,
bead-like eye with not a touch of fear in it met mine
with a kind of confidence which was not unrewarded ;
for I carefully kept the secret, in response to her trust,
till she herself revealed her whereabouts to my friend
the proprietor, when he had come round to talk to me,
by flying off her young — little yellow-mouthed, broad-
beaked things, with wide throats — and I could not save
them, for he at once condemned them as prospective
eaters of his fruit. And I was sorry, though I could
not fully say so.

The perseverance of birds, too, is really wonderful,
and on this spot I have seen many remarkable instances
of it.-* In the spring, when nest-building is going on,
the devices adopted to transport certain materials to a
high branch on a neighbouring tree are hardly credible,
any more than is the manner in which the birds are
inclined at a stretch to help each other. A couple of

64 My Pond.

wrens who built last year in the hedge just behind
where I now stand, afforded me no little amusement
and interest, they were so assiduous, and so fond of
stealing a moment to pour forth a few notes of song.
Some feathers they had no end of trouble in transport-
ing to their nest from right opposite the pond, which
they did not try to cross, but flew round. The wind
was against them, and was very apt, if the feather was
left for an instant for rest or relief, to blow it back
again. Finally, they doubtless sought and procured
the help of another pair, and the four managed by
their combined efforts to get it into the hedge properly.
I looked at that nest afterwards, and was surprised to
see how neatly the wren had covered it with leaves of
the beech hedge in which it was built, so that one
would have fancied it was a mere tuft of leaves gathered
there — a specimen of the protective instinct in nest-
building, which is most noticeable in those birds whose
eggs are of a colour which would be most easily
noticed.

From this point of vantage, too, I have seen the
little robin redbreast on the walk that skirts the pond
perform wonders in carrying off to its young brood big
worms, which it took care to beat well with its beak —
devoting to this end some five or six minutes, and
then boldly carrying off the long heavy prize on its
bill.

In the dozing heat of the summer afternoons a small
variety of the green dragon-fly will sometimes be found
in considerable numbers about the pond. Often they
fix themselves on the top of the float, and will stick
there until the float is moved with some decision.
I have often wondered what of attraction there
could be for those insects in the float, and would be

Lesser Denizens. 65

giad if any one would tell me. Of course, every one
knows that they find their food in the small micro-
scopical creatures which infest ponds, that they lay their
eggs in the water, and in it their nymphs emerge from
the pupa and develop their wings, and that, unlike
most creatures, they breathe through their tail, which,
though long and large, is not therefore a useless
appendage. But all this throws no light on their love
of a float, which cannot be appetising; and, as the
libellula are all so greedy, it is the more to be won-
dered at that they can choose to spend their time in
this apparently profitless way. How apt and clear
and exact is Lord Tennyson's picture in "The Two
Voices " :—

" To-day I saw the dragon-fly
Come from the wells where he did lie.

An inner impulse rent the veil
Of his old husk ; from head to tail
Came out clear plates of shining mail.
He dried his wings ; like gauze they grew,
Through croft and pasture, wet with dew :
A living flash of light he flew."

The lesser denizens of the pond are equally active.
You may see the water boatman swimming on his back
— pleasant pastime mixed with business in his case, for
this is the law of nature ; if they do not take their
pleasures sadly, business is never quite neglected.
There he goes swimming on his back, making faint
triangular ripples behind him, as he propels himself
swiftly by the long cilia or hairs on each side of him
— natural oarlets, which far surpass the finest feather-
ings yet made by man. And that little blue-black
bloodthirsty " whirligig " is here too, who, but half the
size of the boatman, will descend upon and capture

E

66 My Pond.

him, spinning round and round in circles like a tiny
dervish of the waters ; only there is no sacredness in
his devices, but only a disguise that he may dart the
better, and the more surely secure his prey. Crowds
of water-bugs are also at times to be seen, and water-
measurers with their most dainty aquatic appurtenances.
With what delicacy nature has furnished and armed
some apparently unworthy creatures ! Of course, my
pond has its due share of the more common visitors,
such as water- wagtails and swallows — the latter some-
times dipping into the water and causing a sudden
bright flash in the sunshine. Water-beetles, large and
small, reveal themselves at as many points as you look.

Angling in such positions may well be called the
"contemplative man's recreation." It is, at all events,
a good introduction to nature in some of her phases,
for it would seem as though to take a rod in hand and
to appear completely absorbed in your pursuit was a
magical way to put all the denizens of the place quite
at their ease. They are indeed either very penetrating
or very cunning. It has been well said that —

" In some instinctive way these wild creatures learn
to distinguish when one is or is not intent upon them
in a spirit of enmity ; and if very near it is always the
eye they watch. So long as you observe them, as it
were, from the corner of the eyeball, sideways, or look
over their heads at something beyond, it is well. Turn
your glance full upon them to get a better view, and
they are gone."

To sit perfectly still, as Thoreau said, is a good means
to get all the wild things of wood and field to come and
show themselves to you in turn ; but I believe fishing,
which does not demand such unchanging cramping
positions, is a yet better one. A very good essay

Charles St. John. 67

might well be written, and I am not aware that it has
yet been exhaustively written, though Izaak Walton
and many of his disciples have glanced at it, on angling
as an aid to the study of nature and natural history in
certain of their aspects. It ensures that you shall not
defeat your own object, even by too actively and hotly
pursuing it, as too often happens, at all events to the
tyro or amateur. Nothing, indeed, is more difficult to
acquire than that patience and willingness to reserve
action for the sake of observing new traits of character
and unexpected actions. This is the test of real cul-
ture in the sportsman, this capability to forego sport,
when any exceptional trait will reward observation;
and nothing in the Badminton book on " shooting,"
has so much delighted me as the many evidences of
this quality, which has made the work a happy treasury
of natural history, and wise incitement to scientific
observation, as well as a most excellent and practical
guide to sportsmen, and especially young sportsmen.
This it was which gave colour and character to all the
writings of the late Mr. Charles St. John. Without
this, indeed, they would have had but half their value.
Charles Waterton's instinct in this regard rose to
genius. This, too, it is which gives charm to Charles
Kingsley's open air chapters, his "chalk-stream studies,"
and so on, and often communicates a delicate fresh-
ness and gracious felicity to the pages of the Rev. G. M.
Watkins. Without its presence, indeed, to a greater
or lesser degree, all writings on sport are simply so
many incitements to cold-blooded butchery, in which
jealousy,, vanity, and greed of personal success and
superiority are the chief constituents.

Sir Edward Hamley, in his little essay on "Our
Poor Relations," notes this quaintly, and with sly

68 My Pond.

serio-comic touch sketches the sportsman of the con-
trary type, in his education and his tendencies.

" We will now, after the manner of great moralists,
such as he who depicted the careers of the Industrious
and Idle Apprentices, give the reverse of the picture,
in the horrible imp of empty head and stony heart,
who has been trained to regard the creatures around
him as the mere ministers of his pleasure and his pride,
and who, in fact, represents in its worst form the in-
different or cruel state of feeling towards animals.
Provided almost in his cradle by his unnatural parents
with puppies and kittens whereon to wreak his evil
propensities, he treats them, to the best of his ability,
as the infant Hercules treated the serpents, and when
provoked to retaliate with tooth and claw, they are
ordered, with his full concurrence, to immediate execu-
tion. A little later he hails the periodical pregnancies
of the ill-used family as so many opportunities in store
for drowning the progeny. All defenceless animals
falling into his power are subject to martyrdom by
lapidation. Show him a shy bird of rare beauty on
moor or heath, in wood or valley, and the soulless
goblin immediately shies a stone at it. Stray tabbies
are the certain victims of his bull-terrier, and the terrier
itself, when it refuses to sit up and smoke a pipe, or to
go into the river after a water-rat, is beaten and kicked
without mercy. He goes with a relish to see the
keeper shoot old Ponto, who was whelped ten years
ago in the kennel,, and comes in to give his sisters
(who don't care) appreciative details of the execution.
As a sportsman, he is a tyrant to his dogs, a butcher
to his horse ; and sitting on that blown and drooping
steed, he looks with a disgusting satisfaction when the
fox is broken up. Throughout life he regards all his

The Barn Owl. 69

animated possessions (including his unhappy wife)
simply as matters of a certain money value, to be made
to pay or to be got rid of. Not to pursue his revolting
career through all its stages, we will merely hint that
he probably ends by committing a double parricide,
and being righteously condemned to the gallows, and is
reprieved only by the appropriate tenderness of the
Home Secretary."

There is more meaning and practical suggestion
under this light, half-bantering vein, than in many a
severe treatise on humanity.

Mr. St. John, in closing the fourteenth chapter of
his " Wild Sports and Natural History of the High-
lands," has this confession : " Though naturally all
men are carnivorous, and therefore animals of prey,
and inclined by nature to hunt and destroy other
creatures, and although I share in this natural instinct
to a great extent, I have far more pleasure in seeing
these different animals enjoying themselves about me,
and in observing their different habits, than I have in
hunting down and destroying them," which is the very
spirit of the true naturalist and sportsman.

I have spoken of the surprise of the barn owl as I
stood by the pond musing in the moonlight, but there
are other nightly visitors and passers-by. The truth
is, nature has no sleeping time; when one set of busy
workers leaves off, another comes on, and she knows
well how to provide for them all. If there are abun-
dant supplies of flowers, bright-coloured, and even
garish, to front the sun and close their eyes with the
falling shadows of eventide, she has also some fav-
ourites which open their sweets to the night and deny
them to the day, and show their charms only in the
darkness, that the night-fliers may also have their work

70 My Pond.

and pleasure. When the butterflies disappear, forth
come the moths ; when the day-beetles retire, they
have successors in as brilliant a company, the glow-
worm among them ; when the lark and linnet, the
thrush and the blackbird, the robin and the wren,
retire to rest, and are silent, then come forth the
night-jar, that queer compound of swallow and hawk,
and the owls and the bats are busy. When the squirrels
and the voles have curled themselves up to sleep — the
one in his airy swinging cradle at the top of the tree,
the other in his nest among its kindly protecting rootage
down below — the hedgehog comes warily forth ; and
often have I seen him, with his quick, scuttling, old
womanish walk, making his way about the hedges
and the dry ditches round the pond, intently seeking
for his food. An assiduous slug, snail, and insect
hunter, he has a great deal to bear from the country
folks, who blame him for sucking the cows' teats, and
for taking the eggs of the partridges and pheasants,
and even capturing and devouring chickens now and
then. An unrelenting war is waged against him by
those who should be his best friends — the farmers.
I do not believe that he is guilty of some of the crimes
of which he is accused ; though, of course, in domesti-
cation, he is very fond of milk. He may take an egg
now and then, but then he renders good service for it.
There is such a meek, self-depreciating look about him
— such a reluctant sort of assent to yielding, even to
his own necessities, that were I inclined to believe in
transmigration of souls, I would say that the hedge-
hogs are tenanted by those who regard every act as an
atonement for injuries done to others.

All nature's workers are thus, in a sense, only half-
timers after all. How often in the moonlight have I

A Mirror of Life.

stood on this bank and watched and listened, rapt with
the magic beauty of the scene, the moonlight silvering
the tips of the trees, and the pond reflecting a softer
and more poetic image of all the leafy world around it.
Ah ! the moonlight is a wonderful painter ! and with
some effects outrivals the sun, as Rembrandt, with his
deep shadows, got more powerful expression very often
than Rubens with all his high lights.

And the varying tints and tones on the water by
day, so ceaselessly changing, are like images of
changeful human life. Not the slightest cloud passes
but, in the sunshine, mirrors itself here, sometimes
soft, fleecy, smitten with golden fire, or gray and
quiet and one-coloured, gliding slowly on ; then, again,
on a dark day, the water is dull, sombre, greenish, and
obscure ; and when again a breeze ripples it, all seems
to move in secret rhythmic harmony, water, foliage, and
wind making a music so subtle that it is impossible to
discriminate and to attribute to each element the effects
due properly to it.

We have some
pretty visitors in
the shape of but-
terflies, who find
dainty bits on the
growths round the
pond, the red ad-
miral, the swallow-
-tail, sometimes a
peacorkor clouded
yellow, and the giant cabbage butterfly among the rest.

One or two moths sometimes come this way, and
will frequently bump against your head in the even-
ings if you are quiet enough, and then suddenly recover

BUTTERFLY.

72 My Pond.

themselves and go off with wonderful speed — a sort of
lightning flash in the dark. I have not seen any of
the stately and beautiful Sphingidce, humming-birds of
our islands, but there is a small red underwing, and a
lovely little eggar. Why is it that nature has endowed
a whole race of creatures with such wondrous beauty,
such elfin lightness of flight, such silence and velocity,
like shooting stars, and practically hidden it all from
the eyes of men ? How few know the night-moths
(only some species fly by day, and they are not
the most brilliant). They far outshine even the
butterflies in their lovely colouring, the harmony
and grace of their hues, and they surpass them in
the delicate fairy-like prettiness of their forms. And
then that silken silence of flight — their wings how
exquisitely perfect in balance, how delicate their move-
ment. No invention of man's can compare with it.
The common idea of moths has adhering to it some
unlucky association of the hated and destructive clothes-
moth — something that suggests dust and musty offen-
sive odours, or only a degree better, the irritating per-
sistence of some smaller species round the candle or
lamp in the evening. The moths are, indeed, the
jewels of the night — more brilliant than the butterflies,
who are, in fact, the moths of day, as the moths are
the butterflies of night. The French, indeed, call
them the papillons-de-nuit, which is truly a poem
in a name. Practically there is no difference in the
development of the two creatures, either as caterpillar,
chrysalis, or perfect insect. The moth is, in fact, a
butterfly which has developed too beautiful and har-
monious an aspect to escape in the daylight the attacks
of men and larger animals ; and prudent nature has
bred in them the protective instinct, so that only under

The Fairy Moths. 73

the shadow of twilight or night do they come out to look
for their favourite food. And the protective instinct
is further seen in the fact that the upper wings are
usually a dull colour, that of the tree on which they
rest by day. Over in one of the cottage gardens not
far off, there are gay clusters of evening primroses,
that nod and waver in the wind as I pass. It may
be that our beautiful red underwings and eggars
are making their way there to give and take after
nature's higher law of exchange. The moths retire
at dawn, when nature is just preparing to bring on
her army of day-workers, and, like too many invalids,
they fall into a profound slumber by three o'clock in
the middle of summer, and remain through all the
hours of sunlight as completely invisible as though
they were not. Lovely moths !

Thus my fishing for roach and tench has led me to
love this pond, where I am often to be found ; and my
love for the pond has gotten me many delightful friends
and acquaintances (who are not, like too many worldly
ones, prone to leave one just when they are most
needed), and these delightful friends and acquaint-
ances have done not a little to widen my sympathies,
if they have not helped to quicken my observation, so
that you are not surprised — as I, at least, hope you are
not — that I have even deemed it worthy of record alike
from pen and pencil.

III.

MY WOOD.

[Y wood is at no great distance from
my favourite pond, which I have just
described. A walk of five minutes or so
by a meadow, and then down a lane,
with high untrimmed hedges on either
side, the banks at proper season bright
with primroses and violets and dog-
roses, and later in the year clusters of the wild hop
hanging out luxuriously above, the large convolvulus
blowing its trumpets sweetly to the wind ; and again
through a meadow, by the side of the stream which
flows from the pond, brings you to the entrance, where
you cross a rustic bridge ; for just here the little stream
flows into a larger one, which skirts the one side of the
wood throughout its entire length. This larger stream
flows on with a babbling murmur, as though it were
ever singing to itself a quiet tune, as Coleridge has it
in "The Ancient Mariner," whether it is the leafy
month of June or not. There you see, as you look
down, it turns and twists and glimmers, as though
it returned your smile, making all look greener, and,
where it is not almost overspanned by the overhanging
branches, mirroring and mocking sky and cloud in the
most unexpected and fantastic fashion.

As you walk into the wood it seems as though the

Signs of Life.

75

music of the brook went with you to inform the silence.
Silent indeed it is at the present mid-day hour, with
only the suggestion of an underhum, whether of newly
awakened insects or some faint wind stirring in the
tops of the beeches, birches, pines and elms and oaks,
it would be hard to say. But you do not go far till
you are assured of signs of life. There a tiny rabbit,
with that significant white tuft of a tail,* scurries into

THE RUSTIC BRIDGE.

its hole ; anon a wood-pigeon, disturbed by unwonted
footsteps, flies high up overhead with a whirr, and
startles the pheasants not far off. Your entrance,

* The reason why the point of the rabbit's tail always remains white
is the same as the reason why the point of the tail in some other animals,
such as th6 ermine (which changes its coat) always remains black. It is to
enable the young one to see its parents on a surface the same colour as
their fur, though no doubt other eyes than those of the young ones some-
times see it too, and make profit by it.

7 6 My Wood.

indeed, much to your chagrin, if you are a true lover
of nature's quiet and shy recesses, is a signal of danger,
your footsteps are awakeners of fear, your advances
heralds of alarm, telegraphed, as it would seem, from
point to point before you. Nowhere hardly could one
feel more oppressed, as it were, in realising the truth
of Robert Burns's sympathetic words : —

" I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion

That makes them startle
At me, their poor earth-born companion

And fellow mortal."

The wood lies along a kind of slope, broken up here
and there in its lower sweeps (probably by mould
or turf having been dug out in old days) into rough
irregular terraces, or crescents more correctly, and in
the protecting shelter of the higher ridges so formed
there are to be found colonies of the delicate white
hyacinth, clustering together, like a group of shy girls,
as if they. eschewed more common haunts or coarser

neighbours,
and preferred
their own soci-

* *A ** ety ; virginal,

pure, the most
ideal of wild
flowers. Truly,
the white hyacinth is the lady of the woods, if there
ever was one, with all the airy purity and soft shy
graceful retiring mien of maidenhood. One could
almost imagine, as one muses over their chaste and
inexpressible beauty, their pure and ideal outlines,
that nature had made them to show how plastic and

Natures Tints. 77

sculpturesque she could be ; and how, if she were so
minded, she could make simple purity and transparency
do the work of colour. A faint light, as of sunshine
left there, as if caught by some affinity with itself, like
some pleasing memory on a maiden's face, shines
through them ; the white is, after all, only a medium ;
and when you look carefully you find suggestions of
some faint indescribable colour, just as traces of veins
will be found under the fairest skin, and the bluer
under the fairer skin, as we all know from the phrase
" blue blood." Look closely into the purest, whitest-
seeming, and ethereal of snowdrops, and you will
perceive the most delicate tint of pink along the tips of
the leaves of the flower, as though some subtler kind of
blood were coursing there, and came the nearer to an
indescribably faint blush as you looked into it. Nature
does not do much in positive tones, but mingles and
combines them with the most artistic perception, if one
may say so, and delights in unexpected half-tones and
middle tints.

In this lower part of my wood, intruding into the
middle distance, are thickly dotted clumps of wild
hazels, their tassels and buds shining greenly where
they are caught by the rays of the sun that steal
through the higher branches ; and in the opener spaces
wild anemones are thick as a carpet, with their soft
starlike flowers nodding over the green of their leaves ;
they are in reality of a pinkish shade, but look white
at a distance. Higher still, upon the smoother slope,
the blue hyacinths, as being abler to fight their own
battle, have possession, and are so thick that as you
look upon them from the lower ground, it might seem
as though a bit of sky had fallen on the earth and
remained there, the more that a kind of indescribable

78 My Wood.

thin mist seems to hover over the belt. To what this
is due is a problem. The day is clear, the sun shining,
and the dew of the morning is mostly gone; though
here, truth to tell, from the overspreading branches of
the loftier trees which let in the sun's rays only in
breaks and glimpses, there is always a sense as of
something dewy, moist, and sweet, to which the sense
of misty atmosphere above this carpet of blue may be
owing. But I cannot be quite certain of anything but
the effect.

I am quite aware, of course, of the fact that this effect
is attributed to shadows cast by certain leaves ; but
this leaves the problem exactly where it was, since it
is hard to see why certain shades of green in leaves
should cast blue shadows. The most exhaustive state-
ment of the law would not in any way lessen the sur-
prise and mystery of the effect when seen again after
a lapse of years.

Scarce anything could be at once more fascinating
and pleasing to the eye. The fancy reinforces the
sentiment that sky and earth are married here under
some indescribable and mysterious ritual. But as we
approach and examine more closely, we find that some-
thing of the effect is due to subtle variations of shade,
which are, however, much more marked than might
be believed. The general effect, looking from a dis-
tance, is that of sky ; but, as in all nature's finer efforts,
this is due to the presence of mingling shades, gra-
duating through the finest chords, and all in perfect
harmony. The bells, at their first unfolding, are like
purple spikes, that seem to delight in shade (and give
to or borrow from it — one can scarce say which — an
indefinite kind of atmosphere), up to the palest blue in
the more perfect flowers ; and the lush green of the

Blue and Gold! 79

grass, like the finest of backgrounds, may only empha-
sise the effect of unity and harmony. We all know
what effects are secured by painters through laying
their semi-transparent colours over darker and more
opaque ones. Nature clearly has forestalled the artist
here, and does the same in many of her finest arrange-
ments and harmonies.

In plots in the more shaded parts, and often nestling
close to the roots of certain trees, grow primroses in
thick tufts and clusters ; for it is, above all, a grega-
rious flower, and the wild violets seem everywhere to
sidle up to the primroses ; and just, as sometimes it
appears, as though beauties in society pair so as to set
off each other's charms to the best advantage, so one
might fancy that some such idea determines the asso-
ciation of primroses and wild violets. And even
among the primroses — though to not a few even of
those who live in the country, Wordsworth's lines on
Peter Bell would apply —

" A primrose by the river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more ; "-

Even among the primroses, we say, if you look well,
you will find a gentle variation of depth of tint such
as will perhaps surprise you. They vary from the
palest yellow or straw colour up almost to the yellow
of sulphur, and the sense of unity and satisfaction to
the eye in the mass may, to some extent, be due to this.
Blue and gold ! The colours of the stars and the
sky ! Well might the poet sing of the flowers as the
stars of earth — if he had only more emphatically cele-
brated the sky of earth, which the violets and the
hyacinths are !

8o My Wood.

In the middle of my wood is a piece of water, fed by
numerous tiny rillets, with willows, wild bullaces, and
an ash or two, surrounding and hemming it in so
closely that, save in the very centre, and when the sun
is high, the water is dark and cold looking. But the
smaller water-lily grows in it, and irises — lovely in
their season — shoot up and supply provision for the
water-voles which have their homes here. The frog-
bit and the water-crowfoot in season gather and spread
there in drifts of snow, and the yellow ranunculus con-
tests with them the place of honour, looking forth with
its golden eye set as if in its very heart. The spot is
utterly lonely, seldom does a footstep pass that way ;
so lonely is it, indeed, that one might fancy it was just
such another spot as that in which Thurtell and Weare
threw their victim.

A broken, ragged bit of hedge runs along^ the higher
side of this lonely pond, and the speedwell spreads
along it, and the white starwort looks forth pure, but
as if with inquiry, and the forget-me-not follows, and
white marguerites, and corn-flowers and poppies bloom
in their season with the richest effect, for it lies on the
side nearest to the corn-fields beyond, and draws some-
thing from them.

If you ascend to the top of the slope here you catch
a glimpse of the distant church tower of Frating,
rising so nicely amidst its trees on the height — very
picturesque and beautiful.

The tiny water-shrews, which you have to wait and
lie very silently even to see, are always active here-
about, whether you see them or not. Though gay and
playful, they are so cautious and shy, that, unless you
are very watchful indeed, you may never notice them,
even though looking on the banks or in the water

Water- Shrews.

81

where they are. Yet their mode of propulsion in the
water is peculiar, depending mostly on the hind legs,
the feet of which, unlike those of the voles, have the
nicest arrangement in the way of a fringe of strong
hairs to help them, and a similar fringe is found on the
lower surface of the tail. But they go with a kind of
irregular swaying motion, as they use the hind feet
alternately in pushing themselves along, and, when
closely seen, have a somewhat peculiar shape in the

WATER-SHREW.

water, owing to the skin of the flanks widening and
flattening out. The water-shrew's fur is sleek and
soft, of a warm brownish colour, with occasional
silver hairs and a silvery belly, which give it a very
bright glistening appearance when it conies fresh from
the water. They are easily recognised by their long
snout arid a peculiarly musty odour.

Unlike the voles, again, they are carnivorous, and eat
almost anything, but are very partial to small water

F

82 My Wood.

insects, and are apt at turning over little stones, &c.,
to find the tiny crustaceans underneath. Some say they
do this nimbly under the water at the bottom, and
assert that they have seen them do so, a privilege, I
must confess, that I have not enjoyed, though I quite
believe it to be accurate. Very possibly the water-voles
are often blamed for their depredations on the eggs of
fish. The superstitions about the shrews, both land
and water-shrews, are very numerous : one of them
was that if a cow had been touched or run over by a
shrew it was sure to die, and the only means to pre-
vent this was to bury a living shrew in a hole in the
ash-tree, and then a twig from that tree, or even a few
leaves from it, was held to work a cure.

The water-shrews are perhaps the most playful of
all our small animals. Old and young in the warm
afternoons turn out, and describe the funniest circles,
chasing each other, turning over each other, and in-
dulging in half-a-hundred of the maddest pranks.
The young ones are not by any means the foremost in
these romps. They seem thoroughly to believe in the
maxim that " all work and no play makes Jack a dull
boy." They are certainly not dull. They even carry
their gambols into the water, and will sometimes have
the nicest races, or it may be games of "touch," when
the young ones will suddenly duck and disappear, only
to be followed by the pursuers, and when they come
to the surface again the game is renewed — only those
who had been pursued in the former bout are now the
pursuers. But if ever you are privileged to witness
this unique and pretty sight, be sure you do not stir,
or even raise a hand, or in an instant all will have dis-
appeared in the twinkling of an eye, as though the
earth had literally swallowed them up ; for, as has been

Hedgehogs. 83

said already, the water-shrews are perhaps the shyest
and most easily frightened of all our small fauna, and
they have the greatest dislike to any unusual sound, and
are a long time before they recover from any fright.

And if you will only muster up courage and come
back here at the twilight hour, you will see life indeed,
and know that nature pauses not, but has her constant
relays of workers, and that her machinery neither rests
nor rusts, nor knows any Sabbath day. The hedge-
hogs are numberless, notwithstanding the war waged
against them — the wary, silent, secretive ways of the
creature, as well as its natural armour, protecting il
from many of its enemies. Oft have I, when walking
here or near by, with the proprietor or gamekeeper in
the evening, seen them ruthlessly slaughtered, when
scented by the dogs and surprised, as they ventured
out on their evening quest along hedgerow, or down
their walks in the wood. Having coiled themselves
up, poor things, the dogs were generally at a dis-
advantage, and would bark and whine in a way that
told only too well what excited them ; and it was a
point with my friend to proceed to the place, and
despatch the creatures by forcibly treading on them
with his heavy foot, producing in me, I confess, a
squeamishness I could hardly venture to acknowledge ;
as, by doing so, I would probably have risked losing
any little character for manliness and sportsmanlike
instinct that I had, for the poor hedgehogs are credited
with no end of sins and crimes — whether with truth or
not, ,-1 cannot say — amongst others, with destroying
eggs of pheasants and partridges, which is, of course,
an unpardonable offence, and also with stealing into
hen coops and eating chickens, and sometimes even
biting and injuring hens.

84 My Wood.

A few late lingering daffodils may still be seen near
this bit of water, and waver and gleam in the light
of the sun, bending and beckoning, though no wind
seems to touch them. Do they really move, or is it an
illusion of the eye or of the mind ? Anyway, that
discovery of Darwin, that every part of every plant is
constantly making little circles in the air, moving many
times in every minute, comes to the mind, and seems
to find evidence here. Here and there, a tree that has
been cut down burgeons afresh, and the green twigs
that spring round it in beautiful circle shine as if with
some reflected light, which you cannot rightly trace to
its source; for it would seem as though they were
completely overshaded. The hazels that have been
coppiced put on their airy green, and whenever you
come to the border of a moister spot (for water trickles
down the wood in wet weather in many indefinite
courses), there are a few oziers, which, as you attempt
to pass through them and push them apart, by their
swinging afterwards to and fro for a short while,
recall Mrs. Barrett Browning's fine image in " Lady
Geraldine's Courtship " : —

" The book lay open, and my thought flew from it, taking from it
A vibration and impulsion to an end beyond its own,
As the branch of a green osier, when a child would overcome it,
Springs up freely from its claspings, and goes swinging in the
sun."

Along these watercourses always, except in long
periods of dry weather, more or less moist, are alders,
sallows, and here and there a willow. It is almost
incredible the rapid growth of some of these. The
hazel-stubs, dotted in here and there, have their own
story to tell of progress, marked to the eye by the
difference of bark in the yearling shoots — some of

Coppices. 85

them six feet or so in length, straight and beautifully
regular, tapering, like a fine fishing-rod top, with a
grey greenish dusty lustre upon them, which they
lose when they develop branches in their second year.
It is these yearling hazel twigs, taken just where they
fork with each other, which are used for divining
purposes ; and my friend to whom this wood belongs,
though a very practical man, is inclined to believe
there is something in it. Held in a horizontal position
by the skilled operator, they tremble and vibrate, and
dip downward when right over springs, however deep.*
The hazel stems or twigs lose their sensitiveness and
power in indicating the presence of springs when they
have grown older, but are profitable for thatching and
other purposes. There are many groups of stubs of
ash and alder much in request in the making of
hurdles and such purposes. My friend tells me that
in well-arranged and well-kept woods, with partially
open spaces, free or comparatively free from larger
trees, where these can be grown successfully, the yield
is more profitable than that of arable land, amounting
to something like £j or even £8 an acre, so that
woods are not only ornamental but profitable ; here,
as in so many other things, beauty and use going
hand-in-hand together. Here and there we see,

* This, too, it may be remarked, is one of the few points on which
De Quincey was not quite accurate. In his note on " Rhabdomaney,"
to "Opium Confessions," p. 291 (Masson's edition), he writes: "The
remedy is to call in a set of local rhabdomantists [to divine for water].
These men traverse the adjacent ground, holding the willow rod
horizontally. Wherever that dips or inclines itself spontaneously to
the ground, there will be found water ; " and the same thing is repeated
in "Modern Superstition." The willow may be used, but the hazel is
the usual, and is accepted as the more powerful medium. De Quincey,
like my friend, though on definite Baconian principles, was inclined to
believe there "was something in it."

86 My Wood.

through the network of branches, the bole of an oak
which looks white and hoary, as though it had been
dusted with whitish powder. This is the sign of age,
and a suggestion to the woodman to operate ; for oaks,
like men, do turn grey with age.

There is a birch, queen of the woods in very truth,
beginning to put forth the first tender tresses, to grow
luxuriantly in the summer; and the bark seems to
brighten and shine responsive, with a flicker in a
wavering silvery lustre, lightly dappled with gold, as
the rays of the sun steal in and fall, now and then,
in patches full upon it. The proprietor has shown
his taste and skill in dotting in here and there these
lovely trees ; but like a delicate family, they are apt
to succumb to rough treatment, and here and there
you see that they have been blown down. Sometimes,
even in the prone condition, the tree will continue to
draw from the portion of the root still in earth sus-
tenance sufficient to sustain its leaves, a parable of
life in some of its most touching aspects, of the dis-
appointed, the fallen, the degraded, who still draw
as much of strength from their native soil as to put
forth green leaves of hope and cheer, though so sadly
down in the world and deserted.

The ashes are often spoken of as though they were
slow to display their charms, and we cannot help re-
calling Lord Tennyson's beautiful sentiment in that,
perhaps, loveliest of his songs in " The Princess " : —

" Why llngereth she to clothe her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash delays,
To clothe herself when all the woods are green."

But the ash has been declared in mild seasons here
to be in full flower early in April ; and it is certainly not

Ask and Oak. 87

always tender in popular legend and folk-lore. The
irregularity of its blossoming has found record in
popular rhyme, which bases on it a weather forecast.

" If the oak's before the ash

Then we're sure to have a splash ;
If the ash comes 'fore the oak,
Then we're sure to have a soak."

It is pre-eminently the tree of weird fear and charm.
It is a lightning-tree very often to be avoided. It is
to be conciliated only by certain dues.

" Beware the ash,
It counts the flash,"

is an ancient saw, in which the old idea of the lightning
tree survives. Then it surrenders its charm. Amid
the tree-myths, we find that some of the early men
traced descent from it, and used it as their totem ; so
it is a tree to be reverenced as well as feared. Dr.
George MacDonald, in that fine romance " Phantastes,"
where, without learned pretension, he plays fancifully
with a great many such ideas, has this, among many
other things, about the ash, put into the mouth of the
fairy mother :—

" Trust the Oak," said she, " trust the Oak and the
Elm and the great Beech. Take care of the Birch,
for though she is honest, she is too young not to be
changeable. But shun the Ash and the Alder; for the
Ash is an ogre. You will know him by his thick
fingers ; and the Alder will smother you with her web
of hair, if you let her near you at night."

The whole romance is in this spirit, and the fairy
needs to give the hero a charm against the ash :—

" But now I must tie some of my hair about you,
and then the Ash will not touch you."

88 My Wood.

This charm compelled the ash to be not only friendly,
but to surrender its charm for protection and aid.

The fateful powers of trees, too, more particularly
the ashes, are fabled to be more active by night than
by day ; and in a wood at night, when not only the
" tranced senators of mighty woods," but the smallest
plant and bush, seem to whisper mysteriously, there
is no room to wonder at this, though, perhaps, it was
only an old-world way of signifying that nature in
none of her phases of activity ever sleeps.

And nature truly knows no death. See how the ivy
has made a pillar of the stump of that old pollarded
willow, that shows something of grace even in its
lopped and desolate condition, with something like a
ring of rubies round the outer edge of the stump — the
first signs of the new shoots that by-and-by will adorn
it. Nature's secret is to transform all decay and dis-
location into new beauty ; and, as she runs through
the cycle of the year, to cover up, soften, smooth
down, and to weave a glory round all disorder and
dismemberment and death. At the foot of certain of
the trees later on will grow the loveliest of fungi, that
sometimes contest their right with ground ivy and
wood sorrel — fungi of the most beautiful colours : pearl-
coloured, fawn, purply-pink, and flesh-coloured. Not
edible ; ah ! no : they are rankly poisonous mostly,
these agaric children of the woods, and their radiant
colours are only put on to warn.

Often as I have moved along here at different
seasons I have noticed on a branch a little patch of
glimmering pearl-like lustre, just as though some one
had set a jewel there, which had been made by a
very skilful artist, some fourteen or fifteen spiral rows
running from the centre outwards. You go and touch

Wonderful Little Artists. 89

them, and find that they feel like a part of the tree.
Is it some wonderful exudation, then, as resin from the
fir ? No ; these are the eggs of the lackey moth,
which shows its skill in arrangement, and its wonderful
farsightedness. It attaches these pseudo-pearls one by
one to the twig, as it produces them by means of a
powerful gum it secretes ; and when it has finished its
work it runs this same gum in between the rows, so
that they are at once safe against the frosts of winter
and the efforts of enemies. You try to pull them off.
Well, no ; you cannot do it. The name often given to
them by country folk is " bracelets." Wonderful little
artist the lackey moth ! And the vapourer moth does
the same, though not so artistically.

And yet this is no more wonderful than the craft of
some other moths in covering their eggs with down or
hair stripped from their own bodies. Some, before
they lay their eggs, make thus a fine felting of hair on
which to lay them, and then they construct the neatest
little thatch roof of hairs to cover them. And notice
this, that in laying the felt which is to be under the
eggs, they turn about the hairs anyhow, but for the
roof the hairs are arranged exactly like straw in a
thatch, so that all water may run off. And all this we
slump under the name of instinct !

Squirrels work their way across my wood, and dodge
and show their acuteness in finding the trees where the
bark is most of a colour with their fur. If you follow
them too persistently for their liking, they will at last
look down and squeak defiance at you in the shrillest
key, like,that of a magnified mouse-squeak. Moles are
active at parts too, and amid the tufted grass in the
opener spaces, one sometimes almost stumbles over
their heaps. How is it that the mole, whatever the

My Wood.

soil he works in, always manages to turn up such
deliciously soft powdery earth ?

My wood is not always so silent as it has been
to-day. Alas, no ! It is a great harbour for rabbits,
which find the rich undergrowth a protection. Periodi-

SQU1RRELS.

cally there are rabbitings here, which usually yield a
good result. Then all the normal life of the wood
seems to be disturbed, paralysed. Not only the hunted
rabbits, but the birds are scared, and go flying wildly
in all directions ; and the squirrels go bounding off
from tree to tree to the furthest corner ; the jays

Man's Superiority. 91

scream, and the crows left at home to guard the nests
and the young go off caw-cawing and protesting, as I
take it. The wood is properly marked off, and each
party takes its own portion. Ferrets are put into the
holes, and the dogs are active, and packs of boys
gather from the district round, and shout and halloo
and add to the uproar. In some places where paraffine
or kerosine has been run into the rabbit-holes — a
famous device for making short work in some places
now-a-days — there is great slaughter. Occasionally a
ferret will "lay-up," as they say down here, and have
to be dug out, and spades and forks are called into
requisition. One can only turn away, lamenting the
necessity that forces men periodically to spoil the
idyllic repose of such a lovely spot, and to leave the
most impressive tokens of their presence in holes, long
runs, and heaps of earth, which, in such a place — so
seldom trodden of human foot— it takes a long time to
get worn down and effaced. About equally exciting
are the forays against the poor wood-pigeons in the
early spring and autumn.

And, as if permanently to emphasise the fact of
man's superiority, and also his, perhaps, pardonable
rapacity (for nature sometimes needs help in adjusting
her balance so to keep down destructive predominancy,
all too corroborative of the survival of the least worthy,
if not of the fittest, as respects beauty, whatever may
be said of use), here and there one comes on little huts
roughly formed of the fallen and lopped branches of
trees — not so closely put together as to shut out the
light, yet closely enough to afford complete concealment
and shelter to gamekeeper and sportsman, either when
watching poachers by night or intent on securing some
specimens of very shy and retiring creatures. In the

92

My Wood.

midst of life here, too, we are in death, or, at any
rate, amidst the means of it. Often have I lain in
one of these huts, later in the season, stretched com-
fortably on a soft carpet of dried moss, and leaves and
grass, and — far from murderous thoughts intent — have
watched, unseen, the ordinary goings-on of life around
me in this sylvan paradise.

One deprivation this kind of pleasant ordeal has
however, it is that no tobacco must be indulged in.

WOODED SCENE WITH HUT.

You light your pipe, and instantly the charm is gone.
These wild creatures are not only quick but suspicious
— the slightest fading curl of smoke, the least strange
scent on the air, and you are left to regret the lack of
good company. Even in a walk through a wood, or
by a hedgerow, the pipe in your mouth is an additional
warning which the wild things not only note, but are
smart to telegraph onwards before you. " No tobacco
smoking allowed " must be the motto.

So cool, so shaded is the hut, with such a sense of

Wood-Pigeons.

93

RING DOVE OR WOOD-PIGEON.

soft retirement and secrecy, that one could not help
falling into a Robinson-Crusoe mood — a kind of middle
mood between primitive ease and restful indifferency,
and the curiosity bred of civilisation and science, which
could not be set aside. The wood-doves would some-
times descend and sit-
on the hut close above
me, and talk to each
other in that confiding
full-hearted goo-goo-
gooing language of
theirs, and shed a soft
feather or two that
would cling to the dry
wood for days; the
jays would intrude —
the mischief-makers
that they are — chattering and scolding near by, as if,
like interfering gossips and scandal-loving neighbours,
they could not let a little love-affair pass without an
unseemly interruption and rude comment on it, and
many derogatory remarks ; the rooks busy in their
nests would startle the silence with a caw-caw to a
companion, intimating something still to be attended
to ; and a solitary bee, attracted by one knows not
what, would come boldly bumming into the shadowy
shelter and settle, apparently seeking for something,
one could not guess what, and show no hurry to go
away either. Slouching, black, beady-eyed rats have
sometimes peered in, but with that quickness of sense
characteristic of them, soon smelt the presence of some-
thing unusual, and were off; and the weasel, too, with
its twining gliding walk (as though it had a snake for
a spinal cord, which, perhaps, it has), and with pink

94

My Wood.

eyes, peering, hungry, remorseless, has sometimes
entered — perhaps with an eye to Mr. Rat — and startled
me; and then with the sharpest thinnest cry on earth
— something between a squeak and a hiss — has quietly
turned and disappeared, when I stirred to warn it off.
The silence and restfulness of my wood is only em-
phasised by all this gentle language and movement
common and normal to it.

Yes; moments of complete silence supervene now
and then on these various voices. " Waiting for the
next thing " is then the feeling that abides with me.
Hush ! hark ! there comes a something worth waiting for
— the sweetest note— soft, rich, mellow; now piercing
clear, now falling sweet as the subdued murmur of
falling water. Is that the nightingale ? one might
question, for it is a very common error to suppose that

the nightingale
does not sing by
day. But no, it
is not. It is the
beautiful, shy,
little garden-
warbler discours-
ing his sweet
music from the
top of the tree
he loves. He is
a migrant and
comes late, with

his wealth of sweet music to add to nature's choir.
What is it Tennyson sings ? " All precious things
discovered late ; " for discovered read " arriving," and
it applies to the garden-warbler. A shy bird, yet he
haunts the abodes of men, and is often driven from

GARDEN WARBLEK.

The Garden Warbler. 95

them by intrusive companions, and retreats to the
deepest recesses of the woods, as he has done now, to
enjoy himself in quietude. Perhaps his partner is near
by, building a soft little nest in place of the deserted
one, where the eggs have been handled — four or five
greenish-white eggs, spotted brown or yellow. Though
he loves to sit high when singing, he builds low in a
little bush, or even amid rank herbage not far from a
tree's foot. The nest is rough-made of tough grasses,
interwoven with wool, hair, and fine fibres loosely
shaken-in forming the lining. The garden-warbler is
a fine grub and insect-killer, only when the fruit is
ripe indulging himself a little ; and, on the whole,
deserving entertainment and that little indulgence for
the earlier service he does. But he is being hunted
off the face of the earth ; at all events he is becoming
scarcer, save in a very few favoured localities. He
deserves this good word for the sweet song he has
sung to me, and I must not spoil it now by dwelling
on any other. But I must not move, else he will be
off, and I may yet have another sweet little shower of
song. I will wait quietly and see and hear.

IV.
THE DELIGHTS OF HEDGEROWS.

HAT a delight and how rich a sub-
ject of investigation is the smallest
bit of hedgerow ! To my joy, at
the bottom of my garden, separat-
ing it from the nearest wheat-field, is a beech hedge,
instead of any more effective enclosure in the shape of
fence or wall. I really would miss much in the interest
I have in this corner of mine were there a high wall
here in place of this hedge. The hedge, however thick,
is still but an airy screen or veil which half hides and
half reveals the life without and stimulates curiosity.
It is all living, breathing, constantly changing, if you
look well, and sounds like a wind-harp to the wind.
It refines the view beyond, and does not really inter-
rupt or close it ; and you can feel the pulse of life, as
it were, stirring in it. Birds pass through it almost
as free as the wind, weave their nests in it, and near-by
sit and discourse the sweetest music, morning, noon,
and eve. It does not shut off, but kindly encloses;
giving free let to all the sweeter winds, even refining
and scenting them, while it tames down and breaks the
force of the fiercer and colder winds, and takes the
sting from the frosts of winter.

A volume might be written on hedgerows cultivated

96

Natural Trellises. 97

and uncultivated ; beech, privet, blackthorn, redthorn,
ivy, sycamore, holly, laurel, and the rest, for each has
not only its own characteristics from a practical or
agricultural point of view, but its specific interest from
a picturesque or natural history point of view. As for
an evergreen hedge, what better symbol of homely
protection could you have ? As it grows and grows, it
weaves, as it were, an outer nest round a dwelling, close,
kindly, familiar, and compact as a wall, with a whole
world of breathing consciousness about it. What
were England without its hedgerows that give an
individuality and distinctive countenance to every field,
which they at once beautify and shelter from the frosty
winds of winter, and from the fierce burning heats of
summer? They present to the careful observer in a kind
of epitome, the life of the district in which he may be.
He cannot be far out for study if he is near a bit
of hedgerow. They are natural trellises for wonderful
climbers and creepers as beautiful as the vines of Italian
climes, and they gather the fairest of our wild flowers
to shelter under them. As for the former, think of the
convolvulus, white and pink, and of the honeysuckle,
and of the sweetbriar or eglantine! How the May in
its season spreads its blooming clusters, as has been
said, like a bride's train, and how the redthorn blushes !
How the bryony creeps arid peeps, and, as other
beauties fade and pass, still wreathes its festoons
and puts out its brilliant berries ! How the elder
spreads its creamy flowers and shows its dark berries,
and the wild hop hangs its clusters to the wind !

Then - for the wild flowers — what an array in con-
stant succession ! In the spring, a grand advance wing,
come the violet, the primrose, the speedwell, the celan-
dine, herb-robert, and the sweet anemone, drooping

G

The Delights of Hedgerows.

bashfully its white head, or nodding to its later-come
neighbours, the blue and white hyacinths not far

off; later on,
follow the cam-
pions and hare-
bells, the for-
get - me - nots,
the stately fox-
glove, with its
pyramids of
purply pink
bells; and the
succession is
quite as full,
and their array
of flowers is
quite as large all through the summer and autumn.

" By ashen roots the violets blow,"

sings the late Laureate, but the violet loves other than
ashen roots ; it is very fond also of hazel and birch —
a fact which Sir Walter Scott was clear on when he
wrote —

" The violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs and hazels mingle."

Hedgerows have thus managed to assert the charac-
teristic element of English landscape and life, and are
rich in associations. Did not Mr. Robert Browning
miss the hedgerows of his native land amid the glorious
sunshine of Italy ; and has he not recorded this feeling
as with a lightning-flash of inspiration ? And no wonder,
when my small morsel is of such importance to me !
He sings his song under the title, " Home Thoughts
from Abroad " —

The Wise Thrush." 99

i.

" Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there ;
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England — now !

II.

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows :

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field, and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent-spray's edge —
That's the wise thrush : he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture.
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children dower,
Far brighter than this gaudy melon flower ! "

What an exquisite sense of English bird-song there
is in these lines ; not to speak of the " wise thrush "
singing his song twice over, " lest you think he never
could recapture the first fine careless rapture/' is that
reminiscence of the chaffinch not exquisite, "on the
orchard bough/' and of the whitethroat in May, with his
keen varied song — rick, rick, chew, rick, a-rue, rick,
rick-chew-chew-ke-rick-a-rew-rew?

And with what exquisite grace the trees in the
hedgerow do sometimes lean from them and dip, and
look over into the meadow or field beyond !

Within my vision, too, I can catch a glimpse of some-
thing leaning to the field, in the words of Browning,

ioo The Delights of Hedgerows.

whereby hangs a tale or a curious fact or two. At
the extreme corner there of my hedge is a holly tree
of some height, which has been for long years left to
itself, undipped, untrimmed, and hangs at one side
right over into the field. Even that unwieldy holly
seems to stoop down to meet the grass and clover and
buttercups beneath ; and there is one other still more
peculiar circumstance to note. At a certain height it
ceases to have spines on the leaves, and preserves
them more highly by a foot or two on the side that
is towards the field than on the other towards the
house. Can the plant really know (from experience of
years) the side on which it is most exposed to cattle,
and so guards itself most resolutely at the right point ?
Certainly it is an economist and a soldier in its own
way — a combination, after all, not so common. It
reserves all its points of defence for the parts where
they are really needed, and does not waste its powers.
I learn that Southey alone among poets has noticed
this fact, and set it in rhyme : —

" Below a circling fence of leaves is seen,

Wrinkled and keen,
No grazing cattle through their prickly round

Can reach to wound,

But as they grow where nothing is to fear
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear."

Hedgerow timber, how much the landscape owes to
it! How gracefully the oaks and beeches rise from
the deepened ridge where the road dips, their roots
sometimes showing bare in gnarled twisted clusters
towards the roadway, such as Dore often represents
and Millais magnifies ! I have in my mind an avenue,
where in summer, even in the hottest sun, there is
from this cause always coolness and a kind of soothing

Hollies. 101

repose, like that which is found in a southern cathedral
in July, when the light, the dim religious light,
comes through coloured glass, old and mellow. How
often have I, because of my admiration of the place
and the effect, lowered myself in the eyes of the
peasants, who declaim against those trees as "a-shuttin'
in the place so as 'tis never rightly light, and but
seldom dry, and allus as 'twere a-droppin' o' suthin' or
other — damp leaves, or rain, or dew, or what not —
such as is a'most terrifyin' to delicat' females as 'as to
be a-passin' of it, partikler in the dark ? "

Notwithstanding all such disadvantages, I would not
have my favourite hedgerow trees cut down. In some
places with which I am familiar, elms and sycamores
assert their own dignity, and occasionally a lime tree
glimmers in its lighter green. And in the more en-
closed and remote parts you will be sure to find due
share of nuts, especially the wild hazels, deliciously sweet,
and all the better for the rough cuttings the bushes
receive at the hedger's hands. Hollies are, as I have
already hinted, beyond praise, not so much the clipped
and trimmed specimens in the carefully attended to
shrubbery, but the holly of the common hedgerow.
How delightful in its permanency, preserving, like the
truly heroic nature, its chief charms for the period of
trial, when all else is stripped and bare, its red berries
shining in the dull light of winter, or throwing a faint
rosy tinge on the snow that feathers all the twigs
around, the little birds, in finding their dainty but
frugal Breakfast, having with their sweet breasts cleared
the snow from the bunches of fruit, from which they
have picked their morning supply.

Then we must not forget the elder, with its creamy
flowers in summer, and its bright berries in later

IO2 The Delights of Hedgerows.

autumn ; nor the sloe, with its clustering flowers and
its fruit, with that unapproachably delicate purply bloom
in autumn.

And this suggests another delightful centre of asso-
ciations— the harvest of the hedgerows. Did you ever,
dear reader, go a-blackberrying in the sweet days of
autumn, when the clouds are high, and there is a
delicious clearness in the air, and a sense as of wider
horizons, and soft expansiveness and ripeness and
warmth around, as if, to atone for the shortening days
and the more abundant joy of summer, nature had
resolved to concentrate all mildness and sweetness and
variety of tint into one sweet hour or two of light and
beauty ? Idyllic symplicity, the sense of close com-
munion with nature, is easily realised then ; and even
into the bucolic mind, little touched by sentimental
or aesthetic influences, a sense of poetry will often
steal, while, at the same time, a good practical end is
served; for nothing could be more wholesome than
the blackberry, which is indeed in many forms often
recommended to invalids, for which purpose it sells at
something like fourpence a quart. It makes delightful
puddings, still more delightful jam, and has the true
wild flavour eaten fresh from the hedgerow.

Some people are apt to speak of the rustic as utterly
without imagination or fancy ; but if this is unquali-
fiedly so, how about the folk-lore and legends which
are so common, which touch more or less closely almost
everything, and certainly have been as busy with the
natives of the hedgerow as with anything else ? For
example, in some places it is believed that when the
blackberries begin to hang limp and shrunken, the devil
spit upon them in his Michaelmas travels.

Then there is the barberry, not to be neglected,

The Nutting. 103

though sometimes it is held suspect as a propagator
of mildew ; and the elderberry, from which good wine
is made ; and the sloe, from which is drawn more deli-
cious wine still. After a long dusty journey, even those
who are in some things fastidious might enjoy a glass
of well-kept sloe wine, such as is to be found in many
a peasant's cottage. And then we must not forget the
wild strawberry nestling among the grass, and peeping
forth with its delicious miniature berries. At the proper
season old and young turn out in force for the work of
picking, and no more pleasant pictures of rustic life are
to be seen than then. Even the babies toddle about,
and, with lips purple from the juice of stray berries
handed to them, laugh and chuckle and dance and are
glad, as it befits childhood to be. The farmers are in
nothing more liberal than in their willingness to let
those who are known to them thus enjoy the harvest
of the hedgerow; but, naturally, they have a strong
objection to tramps and strangers, who are apt to
make such liberty an occasion to pick up unconsidered
trifles, and, if not so bad as that, to leave gates open
behind them and make inconvenient gaps in fences,
which sometimes leads to awkward results in cattle or
horses going astray.

And then the nutting; for nutting cannot well be
dissociated from the hedgerows, though the nut trees
scatter themselves about, like capricious beauties,
through strips of plantation and coppice ; but they,
too, Jove the hedgerow and flourish there, and you
cannot go a-nutting and fail to linger by the hedge-
rows. -Wordsworth knew that too, and has charac-
teristically noted it.

No student of natural history can afford to neglect
the hedgerow. He will never become familiar with

IO4 The Delights of Hedgerows.

some of the most attractive and at the same time most
beautiful and fascinating aspects of animal life. I do
not here refer to the birds, though the hedge-sparrow,
and the hedge-warbler, and the yellowhammer, and the
larger tits are habitues — not to speak of thrushes and
blackbirds, and the starlings and jays, who go flashing
over and over with a purply gleam wholly indescribable
on their black back and wings. But in the hedgerow
the hedgehog has his haunt, the delightful little shrews
find quarters there, and also the field voles in the bot-
toms of the dry ditches at their sides. They burrow,
and love the proximity of bush roots, though they will
also make their nest in the field.

Then the birds' nests, hidden in the most artistic
manner sometimes, or so protected by similarity of
colour to the surrounding foliage or bark. The wren
is one of the most delightful builders. Any one might
find in its nest a subject of study and admiration for
weeks.

And there is still another harvest of the hedgerows,
which we should not forget. What would become of
our resident birds — our sweet native songsters —

" That in the merry months of spring
Delighted us to hear them sing,"

were it not for the berries of the hedgerow, which too
glimmer bright through the frost and snow? And what
a pretty sight it is to see, as just said, the blackbird or
thrush, or even the little robin, by flutterings and pres-
sures of the breast, clear away the snow from the now
dark and trailing branches, and reveal the clusters of
red berries to match the breast of the latter. Yes, the
hollies and privets and hawthorns, and the brambles,
yews, and their brethren then hang out their banners

Farmers and Hedgers. 105

for beauty and their fruits for use ! A sad time it
often is for the birds in winter, when the snow is deep;
but if it is not actually pelting snow, you will see our
favourites there at work, reaping their harvest of the
hedgerow, so wondrously stored up for them ; and when
any of these winter food staples fail, through some
influence adverse to the insects that fertilise them — as
Mr. Darwin once so surprisingly forecasted — how mer-
ciful should all bird-lovers be in mindfully scattering
to the birds any crumbs or morsels that would else be
wasted. If their harvest of the hedgerow to any extent
fail, then death by starvation, added to cold, is the fate
of our sweet songsters by hundreds and thousands all
over the country.

Wild and unkempt as the ordinary hedgerows of
road and field may appear, they demand at proper
times a good deal of attention from the farmer and
the hedger under him. How a farmer keeps his
hedges and his ditches is an almost invariable mark
of how he keeps the rest. If the hedges are allowed
to grow after their own sweet will for years and years,
they will certainly at length spread into and close up
the ditches, and the farmer's fields and meadows and
roads in places will be flooded, to his loss as well as
to the landlord's. There is no more frequent subject
of quarrel among farmers and country residents than
hedges and ditches being left unattended to beyond
the proper period ; for, of course, in cases of flooding,
the surface water is sure to flow on some other one's
land than that of the man who is to blame for it. This,
however, is not the most idyllic aspect of the subject,
and we shall leave it ; but not till we have said a word
or two for the hedger, who certainly deserves more
credit than he gets. If you fancy there is no skill in

io6 The Delights of Hedgerows.

his craft, and that only strong muscle and thews and
sinews are needed, I would recommend you, the next
time you go to the country, to have a try at it and see
how you succeed. In hedging, the trained accuracy of
eye, which is noticed in the rustic, is especially seen.
However careful you might be, you would find that
you would leave the hedge in such breaks and notches
as would surprise you, and probably make you feel
ashamed of your conceit. But the hedger, without any
doubt or hesitation, stroke by stroke and without cessa-
tion, shaves off as many feet as leaves an exact line
along a whole length of field as level as a wall, and
without knobs or notches anywhere. If there are a
few fancy trees or elevations in the hedge he will, if
you give him due encouragement, cut them into the
oddest and most outre shapes.

Hedges cannot really be thought of without ditches ;
just as light is invariably accompanied by shadow, so
the ditch may be called the shadow of the hedge. In
old days, before scientific drainage of land was carried
to such an extent as now, naturally more importance
was attached to the keeping of them ; and so well were
they in many cases kept that large reaches were, save in
exceptional circumstances, dry; and these dry ditches
were very much favoured by tramps and paupers as
places of repose before the passing of that most philan-
thropic, if somewhat repressive, measure (over which
the inoffensive Thomas de Quincey mourned), making
it an offence to sleep in the open air. "To die in a
ditch " may not therefore quite carry all the degrading
associations apt to be conjured up by the phrase,
however much it may indicate that the person was
unfortunate, and fell from the high estate of the respect-
able citizen and taxpaying householder. In favourable

A Dry Ditch. 107

circumstances a dry ditch would not make the worst of
beds. Thousands in large cities every night sleep on
a far worse and unhealthier one ; the more that for
curtain there is the interwoven twigs or lightly rust-
ling greenery of the hedge above, and the sky and the
stars to weave a pattern in it.

The boy that has made himself thoroughly familiar
with a ditch and hedgerow is on the way to become a
fair naturalist ; he has laid the foundations of an educa-
tion on which, as one may say, it is possible to build
almost any superstructure.

As we are about to conclude and look round, pen in
hand, our eye lights once again on our own little hedge-
row at the bottom of the garden. This suggests a
practical paragraph to end with.

Mr. James Long, than whom we have not perhaps a
more practical director for any one who possesses a
small plot of ground, recommends that all gaps in
hedges on a small farm or garden should be mended
up with gooseberry bushes, where they will grow
admirably. The hint might be made to yield no end
of variety to the eye and profit to the pocket. They
can be trimmed down into the needful uniformity
season by season, and be only improved by it. Then,
recently, we saw that some enterprising nursery firm
were willing to supply at a cheap rate plants of a
very fine kind of blackberry, of American origin if we
remember rightly, which might be used in the same
way, producing in its season the most luscious fruit.
Here, even within the smallest demesne, the occupier
may with little outlay, and with very slight labour,
intermarry the wild and the cultivated in the .most
delightful style, have a tiny but wholly unique garden
in his hedgerow, with vari-coloured blossom and flower

io8 The Delights of Hedgerows.

in their season, and reap the ripe results in the most
delicious and refreshing of fruits. Thoreau spoke of
the delicate wines stored up in the wild fruits by the
wayside, and certainly this plan would have the result
at once of giving the trim clipped hedgerow a new
beauty, and of bringing a taste of the sweet wilderness
near to the doors of the house without 'any, or at any
rate many, countervailing disadvantages.

V.

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.

How few can say that they have
witnessed a summer sunrise? I do
not speak only of town-folk, but even of the more
leisured country people, who can afford to lie abed,
and have no calls of duty or business to attend to.
Of course, the toilers in the fields have to be up and
about at such an hour as will bring them pretty nearly
at certain seasons in spring and autumn face to face
with nature, when "o'er the eastern hills the sun's
broad eye first peeps." But this class are not ob-
servant, at all events of more recondite phenomena,
or, if they are, they do not make record. And even
they do not see the genuine summer sunrise, when,
in the latter end of June and in July, the sun is, as
he should be, an example to all the world in early
rising. By the invalid, sleepless and weary, the first

109

no Up in the Morning Early.

faint streak of daylight lacing the east is eagerly
looked for and anxiously watched as it expands and
kindles, and finally transfigures the sky, but, if at
last sleep comes not with benignant dawn, the fever,
the weakness, or excitement, keeps such an one from
true enjoyment of the sights and sounds which really
mean, if they are effective, invitations to go forth
and join in it. To be really seen, it must be actively
seen, in healthy spontaneous outflow of energy, though
with that " wise passiveness " which Wordsworth cele-
brated, and which the gypsy woman, of whom we have
heard, must have meant when she said that she did
not care for words as she looked on the glorious sights
of nature, but rather loved to "let it quietly soak in."
To " let it quietly soak in " is the one condition of true
enjoyment, and of true insight and observation too;
and, unless you observe the old rule " early to bed,"
you will certainly not gain either the profit or the
wisdom promised, however early you may get up,
because you will not rise refreshed and vigorous,
keenly observant and healthily sensitive to sight and
sound and movement, but you will be languid and
dull, or morbidly irritable and restless, unable even
to sit still — proofs of the effort your early rising has
cost you — and the sharp searching air of the morning
will penetrate you and trouble you, whether frankly
acknowledged or not, because even in summer just
before sunrise the air is at the keenest; and to be
uncomfortably conscious of this is simply to spoil the
finest of the feast. This is a very important point,
often — very often — overlooked, especially by city folks
when they are spending their holidays in the country.

For the world begins to wake very early on a summer
morning. Even by half-past two o'clock, or very shortly

Blackbird's Matin Song. 1 1 1

after it, you may hear the blackbird calling to his friends
from shrub or green, and getting his answer too after
a short interval. His matins are early sung, before
sunrise even. At certain seasons, that is, from the
middle of May to the beginning of June, in some dis-
tricts at all events, the cuckoo may claim the honour
of being the second of birds, and some may deem it a
reflection on nature altogether that this honour should
be held by so arrant a thief and trickster. Perhaps
he needs, in pursuit of his own objects, to steal a peep
in at some other birds' nests before they have awak-
ened. Certainly, he is like too many human beings
— engaged in stealing a march on the more innocent
and unsuspecting. But then, bad as he is, he does
not victimise his own species— at least, I have never
heard that he does; so that, after all, the cuckoos
may stand only as a kind of gypsies among birds,
constantly taking advantage of other people, if they
can, and intruding into other birds' nests ; and if not
stealing children to disfigure them, stealing service
in rearing theirs, to the injury and death of legitimate
offspring.

But while we have been reflecting, other birds are
becoming active. First the robins, and next the larks,
which rise from the dewy grass and mount upwards at
the outset with a short undecided flight, as if sorry to
leave the nest as yet. Then, as though they had been
wakened by the first notes of the lark — buoyant and
shrill, in spite of indecision — the sweet- voiced thrushes
send out hurried notes, in little broken whistles and
trills and quavers, soft but irregular, in recurrent but
not unpleasing softened discords, like an orchestra tun-
ing up their instruments in preparation for a concert.
They are yet but half awakened — Tennyson speaks of

ii2 Up in the Morning Early.

"the earliest pipe of half-awakened birds." But this
early piping does not occupy Mr. Thrush so closely that,
if you watch him well, you will fail to see him suddenly
bolt from his place on the tree-branch to the green,
and run with sharp darty turns and becks and halts,
neatly picking up slugs or worms, as it would seem,
at each turn or short stoppage : it looks as though,
while trilling his first glad welcome to the day (sweet-
throated utilitarian that he is !), he had been carefully
observing these slugs or worms, and calculated with
the nicest precision how many of them he could thus
dismember and gobble up in one run ; and having had
so good a start for the day's work, he re-perches, and
sends forth another stealthy bit of melody more sus-
tained and songlike than the last, but not yet of highest
and fullest tone. Perhaps this early morning succulent
feed may have something to do with his increasing-
richness of note. I do not know whether it would be
either right or proper to quote the concluding fine
lines from Mrs. Barrett Browning's well-known sonnet
here ; but certainly I must confess they have occurred
to me with some quaint questionings, as I have looked
on the procedure of Mr. Thrush very early in the
summer mornings, whether or not they could in any
light be applied to him :—

" And make the work
The better for the sweetness of the song ;"

and vice versd.

In this perhaps the blackbird, most greedy and
voracious of birds, would not agree. He does not like
Mr. Thrush, perhaps — as often happens with human
beings — because his faults lie so much in the same
direction, and he is a distant relative of the family.

Wanton Wagtails.

We forgive the blackbird much because of his sweet
song ; and truly he needs much forgiveness. He is
not only greedy and selfish, but more pugnacious and
revengeful than might be imagined. I have seen him
ruthlessly hunt the poor thrushes if they ventured on
what he deemed his feeding-ground, even thus early in
the morning, when there seemed plenty of worms and
grubs and snails for all of them. When angry or
disturbed his note is very sharp and discordant, and
far from mellow, as his song is.

Then the tits — particularly the blue tits — begin to
flash like light from tree to tree, with their tweenk,
tweenk, tweenk ;
one of the pretti-
est but most pug-
nacious of birds ;
and if you are
near water, the
wanton wagtails
are never long
out of it, with
their pert and
sidelong glance
and darty walk;
and they shake and preen and trim themselves, as
it were, into harmony with their surroundings, like
fashionable ladies at a tea-party. The wrens and
robins now turn out in full force in their fine clothing,
with a superfine sauciness and audacity, as if they
knew that they were still taken for —

" God Almighty's cock and hen ; "

and on that account no one would dare to injure them.
The sparrows, if you should chance not to be far

H

PIEL) WAGTAIL.

114 Up in the Morning Early.

from human habitations, will now probably surprise
you by the piercing, penetrating, steely vibration of
their little voices, as they welcome in the day ; and
would even seem to have been studying over night how
they could be most sharp and resonant in their notes
this morning. I have sometimes lain in bed and
listened to their chattering, so continuous and intense,
till a sort of painful smart shot through the brain, when
I would jump up and clothe myself and go outside to
escape its keen and unrelieved monotony. A row of
lime trees right in front of our house was a favourite
resort of theirs; and I confess we were so much of
bird lovers and so sentimental as to object to any
effort to take down their nests or drive them away,
till it became in the way just said, simply unbearable
by light sleepers and lovers of open windows like
ourselves, when we compromised the matter and had
their nests thinned out ; but this seemed to make no
perceptible difference to the ceaseless shrill of bird-
voices close by our windows early in the morning.

Our friendly protection of the birds in our small
domain was carried on with open eyes so far as the
amiable delusions of the Rev. J. G. Wood are con-
cerned. He really, in some cases, carried his senti-
ment too far. "I should report untruly if I said that
thrushes and blackbirds — shameless vagabonds that
they are, in spite of their sweet voices — will not
delectate themselves on your strawberries early in
the summer mornings if you do not have them well
netted or protected, or that several other birds won't
visit, and speedily thin out, your mayduke and bigar-
reau and white-heart cherries. The truth is, there
are certain things certain birds will have, and these
are always the finest, too ; and you must protect them

" We tola you so!' 115

if you mean to have any ; if you don't protect them,
depend upon it you won't have any, because the birds
do not understand equity, but only their own tastes
and appetites. (If they only took a fair share in
exchange for their killing of grubs and insects and
worms, I should be the last to grudge it to them ; but
while your fine fruit lasts they won't touch aught else !)
I have sat for hours and watched the efforts of birds to
remove nettings, and have seen blackbirds, thrushes,
and starlings all labour for half-hours at a time to clear
away or scrape off earth tunnel-wise, so that they might
enter beneath the net or wire fencing, and, having in
some cases succeeded, so exactly have they taken a
note of the hole they made, that when you tried to
catch them, they flew as direct for it, from the farthest
corner of the covered space to which they had enticed
you, as a bee-line, and were through as by magic, and
off, to your great chagrin. And all this before full
sunrise. I cannot, therefore, bird-lover as I am, give
quite the same report on this point as Mr. J. G. Wood,
because, being often " up in the morning early," I have
sat and watched their persevering application and their
ingenious devices to outwit you and to eat your choicest
fruit; and I have paid dearly for not listening to warnings
of gardeners and neighbours of a practical turn of mind
who have over and over again looked at my bare beds
and my cherry trees with bare stones that rattled on
each other gently in the wind, with a sardonic smile,
which meant " We told you so."

Go'ethe has a very fine parable in its way, based on
his experiences, when as a youngster he planted a
fruit tree, and from day to day watched its progress,
to be ever and anon depressed at the inroads of in-
sects, blight, birds, and what not, finally to congratulate

1 1 6 Up in the Morning Early.

himself that, after all, his tree yielded him as much fruit
as he wanted. But then Goethe did not have some
species of English birds to deal with, else we are
afraid his moral of toleration and contentment would
not have been so comfortable and comforting. And it
is in the early morning that the birds can do most
execution in this line — when they are not watched or
interrupted.

But we rather abruptly left the little sparrows in
their friendly scoldings (or is it their way of saying
" good morning " to each other, and repeating and
repeating it ceaselessly ?), though they have certainly
not left off their chattering. It still goes on with an
insistent monotony that would speedily become merely
oppressive were it not that soon it is mixed up with
other sounds.

The blue-tits and the robins are the only birds of
their size who can hold the sparrows at bay; and,
incredible as it may seem, the bold effrontery of the
sparrow will sometimes avail with it against much
larger birds. I have seen a blackbird at early morning
on my lawn, after a spell of dry weather, with much
work and effort secure a small worm or two for her
young brood, and have them daringly carried away by
the sparrows to theirs.

The trees in clumps at some parts seem literally alive
— the leaves stir and flutter as if there was a fitful wind,
which there is not, for it is perfectly calm ; with now
and then a sort of subdued susurration, like a dying
sigh, so soft and gentle that you are never perfectly
sure that it does not exist more in your own fancy,
bred of the hush of expectation, than of aught else.
It is not enough, at all events, to stir the leaves in
the trees as we see them stirred. That is due simply

Rooks and Crows. 1 1 7

to the ceaseless movements of the birds in the branches,
as they flirt and flutter and preen themselves and hop
from bough to bough. Very few observers, in the least
sensitive, not to say fanciful, would not be inclined at
such a moment to admit that there is something in
Wordsworth's lines :—

"The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure ;
But the least motion that they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure."

Overhead, there is the first flock of wood-pigeons
proceeding to my neighbour Farmer Nicholls' fields to
look at some very fine early peas he has sown by way
of experiment; and an experiment it is also for the
pigeons, who know that they are sweeter than usual.
And now they are feeding young broods, and make
good use of buds and tender pods, and can pack their
food for their young ones in some kind of second crop
which they have, and in due time they neatly disgorge
it, and feed the young ones with pea-pulp admirably
suited to their tastes and digestions.

Rooks, cawing in a subdued tone, or it may be that
the note seems soft because they are flying rather high,
are making their way from yonder elm trees to the
distant fields where the soil has just been upturned ;
and in some cases where feeding grounds are not far
off they make a slant downward line for them direct
and almost noiselessly, attesting the truth of the old
saw about the early bird and the worm.

They are the earliest on wing of our larger insect-
eating birds. They have to bear a good deal of the
opprobrium due by right to the crow — a distant relation,
who has gone on bad lines on two or three points.

1 1 8 Up in the Morning Early.

The crow is a dirty feeder ; the rook is by comparison
clean ; the crow is solitary — that is, it is seldom seen
save alone or in pairs; the rook is social, and loves
always to go in bands, to show that it is so, and when
high on wing, takes a course always as straight as an
arrow. Tennyson is right when he speaks of the old
fellow "that leads the clanging rookery home" — he
might have spoken of him as leading the clanging
rookery out almost at sunrise. An incessant hard-
working insect-destroyer, and a true farmer's help, the
rook too often comes in for a bad return ; for not only
is he shot and hunted down, but he is cruelly destroyed,
often by poison laid in the fields. A writer in an
authoritative paper, and the owner of a rookery, said
that one year, to satisfy himself, he now and then
shot a rook or two to examine their crops. He got
nothing but grubs and wire-worms, and now and then
a beetle, up to the 2Oth of April, when he found some
score of particles of oats in the husk ; but on carefully
examining them, he observed a small whitish streak
under the envelope of the husk, and he found imbedded
in the kernel a wire-worm. It was extended length-
wise, gorged with its milky substance, and in colour
exactly the same as the juice it was feeding on. This
was the food during the time the grain was in the state
of transition ; but, after the first week of May, it fed
entirely on wire-worms, now of full natural size and
colour, and from that date not a particle of grain was
found in the stomach of a single rook.*

* It is very surprising to find Mr. John Burroughs (" Fresh Fields,"
p. 267) writing of " the crows or rooks, as they are usually called," and
throughout the whole passage speaking of them alternately as crows
and rooks, when it is clear it was the latter he meant. He seemed to
fancy that the carrion crow was the only other crow.

The Corncrake. 1 1 9

As we pass along the edge of a cornfield we hear
the harsh creky crek of the corncrake, and from the
other side comes, mellowed with the wind, the con-
tinuous birring sibilant sound of the yellowhammer.
The corncrake has been called the King of the Quails,
and one of the most peculiar things about him, as
some say, is the ventriloquism of his voice. You might
fancy from the cries of one bird that there were a
dozen at different parts of the field — a device the bird
has to render it difficult to guess from his cry any true
hint of his exact whereabouts.* He is pre-eminently
the bird of ripening corn, and of the harvest-time —
one of the migrants which reach this country after much
more slight and tender birds — a fact which has been
explained in several ways, but not quite satisfactorily
to our idea. Just before us is a clump of high trees,
oaks, firs, elms, and beeches, as varied in their green,
and as beautifully blended as an artist could desire,
and in their foliage the wood-pigeons are cooing in a
perfect chorus. In the fields beyond the young lambs
are already active, the ewes intent on feeding in the
cool of the morning, and the horses in the little paddock
to the right, as though they felt themselves superior by
their closer contact with man, sniff about, and leisurely
whisk and ruminate as though they argued that time
was all in their favour, and that good meat would not
spoil by waiting.

There already, see, the swallows are on the wing,

* But it should be mentioned that on this point it is said in Yarrell
(vol. iii* p. 140), "This bird has been credited with ventriloquial
powers, but it may be doubted whether this is not in consequence of
the marvellous rapidity with which it sneaks, unperceived, from one
spot to another. The Editor has had ocular proof that notes which
were supposed to indicate ventriloquism were, in reality, the responsive
utterances of two individuals."

I2O Up in the Morning Early.

attesting that flies are about. As we pass a little bit
of road which has been cut through a sandy rise, we
see what is very uncommon in our district, a couple of
sand-martins — delicate and slender and silvery-dark —
who have contrived to find themselves a nest-hole in
the bank thus made, and are now busy feeding a young
brood. Nature, wise housekeeper, does not long leave

any ugliness due to man's adventuresomeness unim-
proved or unrelieved by some form of life.

We are not far enough from the great city not to be
aware that the bird-catcher comes this way. We have
met him over and over again. He has some of the
worst traits of the loafer ; but he is very clever in his
own way — he can imitate to a nicety the note of the
bird he wants — whether it be linnet or robin, chaffinch
or goldfinch, bullfinch or yellowhammer ; and though
he finds his " take " too plenteously for our liking,
still the shyer birds abound, while the tamer and more

The Cattle Awakening.

121

simple or trusting run the risk of being exterminated.
Many localities have already been almost cleared of
goldfinches and bullfinches, though just here happily
the former abound.

By the time the sun shows above the horizon —
suffusing the eastern clouds with glory, and running
streaks like long fiery fingers across the sky, and
repeating in every tree and shrub that lies between
him and you the veritable vision of the burning-bush,
rose and saffron hues melting softly into one flush all

over the eastern sky up to mid-heaven — the cattle in
•the meadows begin to move, and emerging from the
sheltered corners of the fields, in which, like dark
formless heaps, they had lain all night, begin to whisk
their tails about in an intermittent leisurely way, which
tells that already some not quite so beneficent insects
as bees are busy also, and are quite as industrious and
methodical, if not so lovable, as bees.

In some of the lower hollows the clouds of mist have
hovered close upon the ground ; you can almost see
them, as it were, fold in and in, and finally disappear
like smoke before the full-faced glance of the sun.

122 Up in the Morning Early.

There, look you, goes a great green dragon-fly, with
his myriad eyes — the first we have seen to-day — his
gauzy wings giving a kind of subdued sound, or are
our ears deceived between this and something else,
say, the first faint stirrings of the field cricket ? We
can hardly tell, for the humming in the air .increases
round us as we sit in this benignant little natural
arbour of ours, midway in our morning walk, and we
find more and more difficulty in reliably differentiating
separate sounds. The distant and the near, too, get
more and more mixed up in the sense. Now come
soft and faint on the new stirring wind the low lowings
of kine from distant fields ; the cockcrows in challenge
pass over to and from the neighbouring farms ; and is
it possible that that is the distant hooting of an owl
even in daylight from some woody recess into which
the early sun-rays do not penetrate ? And, listen, can
that really be the woodpecker at his work already, tap,
tap, tapping the old elm tree ? There goes a little dipper,
very rare here, with bright flash on his wing ; he is

making his way to
the main stream up
yonder, the rivulets
or branches having
waned to mere
threads in the recent
drought; and we
have now and then
the sibilous cry of
the willow-wren or
chiff-chaff, and the
delicious dropping
music of the chaffinches from hedge and orchard. Ha !
there goes a bullfinch, as if he had some pressing

BULLFINCH.

A Pleasant Seat.

123

business on hand, which indeed he has, and that is to
keep himself alive — the only one we have seen on our
morning journey — with his exquisitely coloured neck
and throat and velvety back. They are not tolerated
in our region, having such a bad repute for eating
fruit-buds, and in the early spring it moved me to see
little strings of them brought in by the young farmers
just to show what execution they had done, as I could

not help thinking of the floods of music prematurely
silenced — but that was not likely to weigh much with
them.

Here we are at a little fence on which I often sit as
I pass, just to watch the effect of the first kindling rays
of the sun on a bit of water. What a fair world is
mirrored there the moment the sun looks in ! The
little stagnant deep mirrors wondrous heaven with
softer sky, clouds already edged with fire, and fleecy

i 24 Up in the Morning Early.

bosoms white as wool, and the trees on the banks look
down on aerial images of themselves reversed in its
borders. And now, listen ! there is the croak of the

frogs as they signal
to each other, and
already the newts are
active, and display
themselves with their
strange eyes ; and you
may not sit long with-
FROG< out hearing the calls

of birds who have nests in the trees near by, telling
to their mates and their neighbours that you are
there, an intruder and a stranger, and to beware
of you.

Yonder, see a rabbit scuds home from a too long
sustained stay in a neighbouring turnip or wheat field ;
almost at our feet, a mole puts out his head, and
suddenly withdraws it again, though we have remained
almost as still as a statue, which proves that Mr. Mole
has quick eyes somewhere in his queer, sharp-pointed
little head. Yonder goes a weasel wriggling over a
turf fence, on the other side of which probably it has
its home, gorged, as one can imagine, with the brains
of silly rabbits and rabbitlings. He is a symbol of
the great blot on creation — the creatures that prey on
the weak and innocent, never engage in a fair fight,
and are careful to delectate themselves only with the
tit-bits. What a peculiar image nature is of human
nature in all its phases, lofty and low, pure and
selfish !

And now in front, look you, there comes towards us
a cat, with a look of intent resolution and business.
That cat is a poacher, and has been away at one of

Poaching Cats. \ 2 5

its haunts in yonder coppice, and is now making its
way home. It is so intent that it is within some thirty
yards of us, or it may be even less, before it observes
us — sharp as its eyes are; then, with a sudden sur-
prised look that might well bespeak a troubled con-
science, it turns and bolts and leaps over a hedge and
disappears, making the dew sparkle as it goes. The
expression of that cat going homewards in the dawn
—tail down, hind quarters low, and shoulders raised
— suggests the idea that but for man's constant pre-
sence and control, all would at once relapse into
wildness.

The late laureate caught this effect, as he had
caught so many others in nature, in the first stanza of
his song, " The Owl " :-

" When cats run home and light is come,

And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
Alone, and warming his five wits,
The white-owl in the belfry sits."

Look, as we walk home through the coppice, we
come on tuft after tuft of rabbits' down, and might
fancy at first that here was the scene of the weasel's
depredations. Not at all. There are burrows in that
hedgerow, and here one of the rabbit does has plucked
the down from her breast for the lining of the burrow
for her young ones ; and in the twilight of morning
in which she deemed it most safe and advisable to
perform this maternal self-denudation, was not so
careful as she might have been to remove all traces of
her loving labour and near abode. Master Weasel
may make some use of the information if he has
noticed this.

126 Up in the Morning Early.

pass on to a marshy

very

As we pass on we meet a shepherd driving his charges

out thus
early to pas-
ture, whist-
ling as he
goes, his
face shining
from hardly
yet effaced
ablut i ons ;
and, turning
round, we
deserted, the resort
of many ducks, the
sound of our steps
setting the inhabi-
tants to flight, with
a peculiar cry and
clangour as they dash
forth from their fav-
ourite resting-places.
As we pass on
we skirt the edge
of a slope of waste
land running down
towards the sea ; and
coming to us across
it are the plaintive
cries — pees- wee t,
pees-weet — of lap-
wings. As we ad-
vance, we see them
circling round certain
points as they monotonously repeat their Touching cry

MALLARD IN FLIGHT.

Lapwings and Curlews.

127

— the cry of all nature's voices, to our thinking, of

RESORT OF THE PEE-WIT.

so that though mournful,

.-rsN^

e5»^

waste and solitary places;
there is no harsh
sense of inharmoni-
ousness.* If, indeed,
as the poet says,
"in nature there is
nothing melancholy,"
it must be because
of these nice and
often unnoticed ad-
justments of sound
to circumstances, and
of circumstances to sound,
curlews in their V-
like order. We can
scarcely imagine lap-
wing or curlew mak- ._:^
ing home in the leafy
coppice or green wood,
not to speak of the
richly "cultivated park
or garden.

Nothing will better
bring before you than

* The French naively name them dix-hnit (dees-weet), from their cry.

LAPWING.

And there go bands of

128 Up in the Morning Early.

a morning walk like this, the fact of feres natures in
large numbers sustaining themselves in the close vicinity
of man, shyly busy at work, but seldom seen. Here,
close by a farmhouse, we skirt an unusually large pond
with clear inlet and outlet and with high banks around
it, particularly on one side. In it are perch, tench, and
roach, with a fair store of eels. There runs a moor-hen
with her brood along the sedgy edge, undisturbed at
our presence, for we often walk that way. She has
her home in that little island-looking space over yonder,
where the willow spreads a soft screen or shelter for
her nest. Wild ducks in colder seasons come this
way too, and so do the lapwings in hard weather, and
sometimes in summer or autumn a squirrel or two will
steal over from yonder wood just to look how the trees
are for nuts, and will scream down at you from the
higher branches when you stand and closely watch
them, as if you had no right to be there, and they were
privileged. Mr. Squirrel is very nice as a pet, but he
is a little exclusive and overbearing in his manners as
we find him here. Perhaps, however, something is due
to the narrowing of the area of woodland year by year ;
and he now sees too much of men and their ways for
his comfort and peace.

Ha ! There goes a brown rat — a very different kind
of customer, who, because he can take the water well,
and, perhaps, does a bit of fishing on his own account,
is often confounded with the vole, who suffers sadly
from the ignorant on this account, though really very
unlike him in almost every respect. Greed, self-
assertion, and low cunning are marked on the water-
rat. His quick furtive eyes are as characteristic as
the pink eyes of the weasel are of him. He is no
vegetarian if he can help it, and after fishing in the

A Limping Hare. 129

afternoon at this very pond side, I have often in the
twilight let my fish lie in a kind of dry ditch, to watch
as I lay in perfect quiet Mr. Brown Rat steal down
to carry off a specimen or two, in which, despite my
presence, he more than once succeeded, always, as
far as I could see, seizing the fish by one or other
extremity — a good precaution, as there was a fair
growth of overhanging shrubbery through which he
had to make his way with his prize to his hole.

But hark, what piteous sound is that in the coppice
we are now skirting — a sharp wail of pain and fear, or
rather of terror ? We soon discover it — a rabbit in a
trap — in torture, palpitating, torn, and bleeding, eyes
strained and starting ; making a last effort at a bound
as we approach, and then dropping helpless, exhausted.
It may be there thus for hours, till the trapper's con-
venience suits. We turn away half sick, our pure
pleasure of the morning's sights and sounds somewhat
shadowed.

Only a little farther on, in a run we find a snare
with a rabbit in it — dead ; the poacher is merciful from
mere self-interest. He does not like traps, because
the animals cry so long and piteously and tell their
whereabouts.

Ah ! There, as we steal along this hedgeside, goes
a hare down the furrow, which attracts us by its
peculiar limp. We fix our eyes and see that it has
been shot — one of its hind legs shattered, dragging
behind, as one sometimes sees a doll's leg which has
broken by rough usage, and now only held on by
the outside cloth. It is not what sportsmen kill that
constitutes the cruelty of sport, it is what they maim
and send away to die in holes and corners, torn, tor-
tured, and bleeding. And that is one reason why only

I

130 Up in the Morning Early.

sportsmen should have sport. But nowadays my yeoman
neighbours tell me they are becoming more and more
rare ; and that lawyers and corndealers, et hoc genus
omne, who try to hunt and go out shooting, should for
most part be prosecuted by the Society for the Pre-
vention of Cruelty to Animals. The former are even
cruel to their horses, which they cannot manage ; the

latter seldom hit, and when they do, they generally
only maim. Very little humanity would suggest a
more merciful mode — the cry of a hare in its extremity
is exactly like the cry of a child.

The early morning's walk was not to end entirely with-
out incident. Just after I had stepped over a gate going
into a field not far from my house, to my surprise I

An Incident. 131

saw a bull with tail in the air making straight towards
me. He was a new-comer, and a stranger to me;
indeed, I was not aware of ever having before seen a
fellow of this sort just hereabout. He made for me
with such a wild dash that all I could do was to
retreat, and make my way over the gate again. But
he was of a mind to pursue the attack, and I was
afraid might dash over the very inefficient fence after
me. So I clutched at one of the posts, luckily not
so firmly fixed in the earth as it might have been,
and with it swinging above my head I waited for the
attack. On he came, his mouth foaming, his eyes
aflame ; but before he could make the leap, down came
the heavy post on his head, and he turned as though
stunned, if not blinded, and I made my way home.
One of the few risks of such a walk as this is the
presence of such animals in a lone field ; but in this
case it only imparted the element of adventure and
danger, needed to make my early morning walk more
and more a true image of human life.

But we must not quit the subject in the sombre
strain this incident would suggest. As we regain a
view of our house roofs through the screen of encircling
lime trees, we see that the pigeons — fantails, pouters,
and tumblers, as well as common ones — are already in
session on the roofs, waiting for the early advent of
those who feed and tend them. In the meantime,
they are cooing and doing their devoirs to each other
gaily ; and, between whiles, doing also a little damage
to the roofs by applying their beaks to pick out
morsels of lime from between the slates. As Lord
Tennyson says of them in the afternoon sun, they are
even now, early in the morning, " bowing at their own
deserts " — self-pleased, self-admiring, proud, pretty

132 Up in the Morning Early.

little things : perhaps, indeed, the most self-conscious
and sympathetic of all birds, outside certain very sensi-
tive chamber birds. As we enter our little gate, we
hear the hum of innumerable bees in the immemorial
limes, in the honeysuckle, in the hedges, and in the
wild roses and clematis. Butterflies soon follow, some
of them of the most lovely colours, giving full assur-
ance of the summer. And so we close our morning
ramble of fully two hours — not having met or seen a
human being.

The sun is now advancing up his skyey path, and
we are concerned only with sunrise. We have seen
what delights both ear and eye, but also something
to give pain, and pause, and to promote reflection —
the tragedy of nature, and the manner in which man
so often selfishly or thoughtlessly adds to it.

But before we end our account of our ramble we
should like to add a few lines about one point respect-
ing Mr. Cuckoo and

fe-jfcft <•"£ J *S&

tv

his family which is
wrapped in doubt.
Do the young birds,
when they are
fledged, learn the
call-note of the
foster-parents or
of their real parents,
deserting absolutely
the former at this
stage, after having
got their earlier upbringing out of them ? This query
is suggested by the fact that, on this early morning-
walk of mine, I heard no fewer than four distinctly
different cuckoo calls, (i) The ordinary cuckoo call;

CUCKOO.

Cuckoo- Ca Us 133

(2) this call, in a hurried, startled, sharpened tone, as
if of fear or warning; (3) a distinct and prolonged
second koo — cuck-koo-koo-oo ; and (4) a low, tentative
cuck-a-cuck-koo ', the koo being faint and indefinite, and
more of the broader a sound. In addition to the calls
being different, the notes sounded varied. I had never
personally observed this before, and speaking to a
yeoman friend, who has spent all his life in the
country, and has been out at all hours, and as a
sportsman has observed a good deal, he did not
receive these statements of miife with surprise or as
suggesting anything novel, but gave it as his theory
that the young early broods of the cuckoo in June
are fledged, and join older cuckoos, whether their
true parents or not he would not say ; that the low
hesitating cucka-cnck-koo} with the koo very indistinct,
is the note of the young birds, and that the prolonged
second koo is the note of the old birds, as trainers,
now emphasising that note to develop it fully in the
young. This is, at all events, ingenious : it could
only be verified by evidence as to whether this
prolonged second koo is definitely heard at periods so
early as to make it impossible that it could be due
to the circumstances to which he attributes it. He
quoted an old saw which lingers in some parts of the
country, and is common in our district : —

" April cuckoo come,
May he sounds his drum,
June he changes tune ;
July he may fly,
August he must."

My friend averred that, so far as his broad observa-
tion went, these old saws generally had a basis in fact.
Whatever may be doubtful about the cuckoo, there is

134 Up in the Morning Early.

no doubt of this, that the young of the cuckoo are armed,
as if by special provision of nature in their structure, to
throw out the young of their foster-parents from the
nest. Their wings at the upper edges are strong and
high, and there is a hollow in the back such as is found
in the young of no other birds. Their wings and back
form, as it were, a shovel by which they may lift and
throw out everything else beside them. From the very
minute description which Mrs. Blackburn has given of
facts observed by her and many of her friends, the
young cuckoo works and works till he gets under what-
ever is in the nest, then he straddles up with his feet
fixed in the sides of the nest till high enough, and
throws one of his shoulders above the other, and so
pitches his fellow-nestling out, and this while he is
still almost featherless and totally blind ! This only
adds to the mystery and the horror which cannot but
be felt in studying many of the ways of this bird.

VI.

WITH THE NIGHTINGALES AT THE
VICARAGE.

THE parish in which I
reside is not one that
presents much striking
variety of scenery,
though it is rich here
and there in by-ways,
in umbrageous greeny
nooks, and its hedge-
rows are delightful.
Not a right-of-way

through the smallest farm but you come on " nestling
places green, for poets made," as Leigh Hunt has it,
in little strips of coppice or woodland, that run like
a rich trimming round a plain solid dress of fairest
colours.

One little dell I have in my eye, where all is so
nicely bright, yet shaded, that you might fancy naiads
or sylphs at play among the lush leafage ; where, while
the ear is charmed with the soft ripple of water, hardly
distinguishable from the whispering of the leaves, you
can look through the sheltering screen at the distant
water-mill, and beyond it the little church-tower —

the only things that suggest human activity within

135

136 With the Nightingales at the Vicarage.

eye-range, and by contrast seems to add to the sense of
repose, serenity and retirement.

On the boundaries
of our parish, to the
east and to the west,
there are low swel-
ling hills, crested with
trees nicely dotted
in ; and along the
slopes of one of these
lies a wood in which
it is my delight to
stroll, or to lie and
realise at mid-day the
sense of that Pan-like

silence which the ancients fabled to haunt the noon-day
woods when Pan was abroad.

In the centre of our district the ground is flat, but
fertile ; and the meadows are lush, and, in the season,
bright with buttercups and cowslips.

So far as respects tree-planting, the Vicarage is, as
perhaps it ought to be, the bright spot of the parish.
Art and nature have combined to beautify it. In
former days some of the incumbents were great arbori-
culturists— one of them, indeed, went to the East with
the idea, solely or mainly, of adding to the store of
choice exotics, and in one or two cases he succeeded.
The present vicar rejoices in their labours, and has
added worthily his own quota to theirs. You might
wander a good way before you came on grounds where,
in the words of good old George Herbert, you would
find more riches in little room.

The house, somewhat low and angular, lies as it
were in the corner of a miniature park; trellised

A Sylvan Sanctum. 137

creepers, climbing roses, japonicas, with their faint-red
flowers in early spring, and, most notable of all, a
lovely magnolia-tree, and a greeny double pomegranate,
with scarlet blossom in its season, cover the walls and
relieve the harshness of outline seen from whatever
point of view; and it gathers its little lawns and
rosaries and flower-beds close about it, half-way round
it, with shrubberies skirting the outline of these, bright
with soft, pink, feathery sumachs, ornamental pines of
many kinds — the Glaucus pine among them, with its
greeny-frosty fringes, peculiarly beautiful — the Judas
tree, the Glastonbury thorn, so rich and rare, or some-
thing very closely allied to it, with spikes on the
branches an inch and a quarter long, and hedges of
varicoloured rhododendrons.

This forms a kind of inner enclosure or sylvan
sanctum, through which the farther ground opens up to
you in delightful vistas as you look or go from point to
point ; and from this inner sanctum, at any part, you
step at once into the little park of which I have spoken.

On the other side of the road, quite separated from
this, lies the main vegetable and fruit garden, with
lofty hedges and stone walls for wall-fruit all round it,
save, indeed, on the far side, where it gives into 'a
paddock more useful and less ornamental than the
park, with which we are more particularly concerned,
though it too has some fine trees around it, and one or
two within it, on the strong branches of which swings
can "be placed for the children at merry-making or
school-treat; and in one corner there is a pond, ex-
quisitely closed in with chestnuts and other trees, in
which a duck will be seen now and then delectating itself.

Round the extreme limit of the park are stately trees
of many kinds : beeches, smooth and velvety of bole,

138 With the Nightingales at the Vicarage.

running straight up, "like the mast of some great
ammiral ; " oaks of great antiquity ; chestnuts in the
early summer, with their creamy pyramids of blossom ;
a horn-beam or two — rare in this quarter — common
willows, waving high, cedars of Lebanon sighing to-
wards their East, and some splendid elms, mixed with
lilacs, and " laburnums, dropping wells of fire " in their

season ; hop-elms, a cedar or two, and a few lime-trees,
with no end of lower shrubbery wood — red-thorns,
black-thorns, white-thorns, &c. &c.

At the lower point of the little park, that is, at the
end farthest from the house, the trees in the outside
circle so arrange themselves in relation to several trees
planted in the grass close to the boundary-walk, that
the branches actually interlace and form arches. This

The "Cathedral" 139

the good vicar calls his " cathedral," and the beaming
delight with which he will take a stranger to the proper
point from which to see this truly Gothic aisle-like
effect on a moonlit night, speaks fully for his sense of
the picturesque, and his love of the poetry of nature.
And indeed, so seen, his cathedral is right well worthy
of the name he has given it, for the branches when
looked at thus, give the idea of groinings in beautiful
fret-work, enriched with the sense as of some divine
tracery, flowing in delicious lines and losing themselves
in a maze of others like a mist, all due to the moon-
light stealing through ; so that you really have some-
thing suggestive of the effect of light through richly
stained glass — " the dim religious light " in very truth.
This, however, only if the moonlight be bright enough,
and at the season when the trees are in full foliage, and
in that richest tint of green which has the indescribable
and almost mysterious effect of throwing some faint
suggestion of blue into the shadows they cast. And,
indeed, from the sweeping of the pendulous branches
over the little walk all the way from the lower gate
entering to the park from the road, you have nothing
short of leafy cloisters ; so that the vicar has through-
out the summer and early autumn a truly cloisteral
approach from this point to his cathedral.

Dotted into the park itself, with the most artistic
regard to points of view, are copper-beeches, pollard
oaks, with sweeping branches, tent-like, broad, umbra-
geous, walnut trees, birches — graceful ladies-of-the-
wood,, and a few mountain ashes — "Oh, rowan tree;
oh, rowan tree, thou'lt aye be dear to me ! " There
are the rich-looking medlar, •fully clad, the graceful
spruce, and the weeping willow. And from whatever
part of this boundary you may look, you cannot but

1 40 With the Nightingales at the Vicarage.

admire the art shown in so disposing the trees that the
limits of the little park on the other side seem to be
indefinite and distant.

This park abounds with birds, for the vicar is a great
bird lover as well as tree lover, and has even been
heard to say, when practical-minded persons have told
him of the fruit the birds would eat or destroy, that he
would rather be without the fruit (as that can be
bought), than lose the music of the birds, which make
him delightful concert the livelong day, and have even
relieved and sweetened to him weary hours of night.

It would seem as though the birds knew it, for they
build in the most exposed places here, where one can
stand and look on the callow young ones in the nest,
raising and opening little beaks as you " tweet, tweet "
to them and put the finger near, or into the deep, dark,
liquid eyes of the mother-bird, as she sits brooding-
over eggs or young ones.

Indeed, the vicar has heard of the practice pursued
in some parts of America, and pursued too by the
famous Walerton, and in order to attract into his pre-
serves some of the rarer birds, has erected in secluded
corners of his grounds box-nests like that represented
in the engraving, and has in this wonderfully succeeded.

On one occasion a boy had intruded, found out, and
carried off one of the nests from a tree in the hedge.
The vicar's daughter, passing that way, saw the mother-
bird sitting disconsolately on the tree from which the
nest had gone. The culprit was speedily found (for
all things are soon known here, and nothing can long
be hid), followed, and compelled to bring back the nest
with its little family, and put it exactly where it was
before in the branch ; and the disconsolate mother was
comforted, and reared that brood there to maturity.

Box-Nests.

141

The robins, in the early spring, will sit and sing their
sweet snatches of song almost within arm's length of

Our vicar's delight in his
flowers, trees, arid birds, as in-
dicating a freshness of feeling
and capability of youth-
ful joyance, in spite of
sad turns of ill-health, is
beautiful to see.
The park is a
haunt of night-
ingales, which
discourse the
sweetest music
all through the
summer night ;
and this is an
additional de-
light and source
of pride to our
vicar, who in no
way wishes to
keep all his good
things to him-
self.

One evening
in the end of : 1

May, a year or
two ago, we
went, full of

expectation, to listen to the nightingales. A crescent
moon hung in the silver-blue sky, and shed a soft
silvery lustre around, strong enough to make a pleasant

142 With the Nightingales at the Vicarage.

light, yet not strong enough to cast shadows too deep
to be eerie. In a little arbour we sat waiting, and
what is waited for is invariably long in coming. But
also it is true, and how delightful 'tis that 'tis also true,
in the words of the French proverb, that " all things
come to him who can wait."

We waited, beguiling the time in talk of many things
— literature, art, and music ; and at length the music of

ROBIN SINGING.

the nightingale at once crowned and silenced our talk.
The shadows of the trees, like finer ghosts of them-
selves, lay lengthened on the grass. The leaves of
the lime and the poplar gently fluttered, even when
there seemed no breeze to stir them, and an almost
inaudible murmur appeared to steal across the thick
long grass, here and there cluster-starred with mar-
guerites, that faintly wavered in the moonlight, in the
pauses of that song.

Nightingales Notes.

H3

The pauses grew shorter and shorter as we sat and
listened. At first, despite the notion of a challenge,
there was more of a complaining plaintive air, varied
only now and then with trills, gurgles, penetrating rolls,

and half-whistles (we cannot describe that indescrib-
able music, though its subtlely pertinacious, penetrat-
ing sweetness is found in no whistle). Gradually the
tones grew deeper, fuller, richer, as though the mere

144 With the Nightingales at the Vicarage.

act of singing had brought its own comfort, nay, its
own delight — the triumphant, mellow, full tones pre-
dominated ; the shower of song fell on our ears like
sweet rain on the wastes of the desert.

We at length arose and proceeded down the crescent
path that bounds the park, till we stood close to the
tree from which the music came, actually touching its
leaves. Still, the bird was so rapt in its song that it
did not perceive us, or, perceiving us, was so rapt in
its delight that human presences were indifferent to it
— or, it may be (who knows ?) were even stimulating,
as the sense of a sympathetic audience to a great
prima donna.

And doubtless not far off " the music of the moon
slept in the plain eggs of the nightingale," as the poet
sings; and that was inspiration too; for the song we
have is ever but the herald of songs to come, and an
aid to the brooding love that is active to make them
come. With the nightingale, as with the human heart,
it sings when it labours to prepare and to perfect the
life which shall enjoy the love that it feels within,
throbbing and prophetic.

Still, the music flowed, gathered, swelled ; now
piercing clear ; now lowly plaintive ; again, as if calling
some loved one who lingered afar; again, as though
that loved one were near — were near. Those pipings,
trills, and jug-jug-jugs, how impossible it is to repro-
duce them, however clearly recalled, and it seemed
that, instead of satiating, they grew ever more sweet
and intense to ear and heart. We stood — none of us
knew how long — close to that sweet heart of minstrelsy ;
fearless, unseen of us, yet doubtless seeing us ; and as
we were moved more and more, so more and more
the music seemed to grow, and swell and quiveringly

Sultan Solyman. 145

vibrate, and deepen and flood all the moonlit fields and
meadows round about. How the other birds can sleep
soundly in their nests is indeed a wonder !

The thought of this recalls to us that exquisite legend
of the great Sultan Solyman — Solyman the Magnificent
— of whom it is told (for he was a great bird lover)
that all the birds came by deputation to implore Soly-
man to stop the song of the nightingale, because his
piercing notes spoiled their sleep, and by consequence
took from the freshness and the fulness of their song

NIGHTINGALE.

by day. But Sultan Solyman, after hearing all that
the birds had to say, and also the defence set forth by
the nightingale (which was mainly to the effect that, if
he ceased to sing and tell his tale of longing to the
rose, that flower itself might cease to grow, or to shed
any longer its sweet scents abroad), gave answer that
he was deeply sorry he could not interfere to secure
what the birds prayed for. If the nightingale did
indeed rob them of their sleep, he could not in the end
injure their song — that could be due only to their own
fault — nay, he could but improve it ; for they would

K

146 With the Nightingales at the Vicarage.

show themselves very stupid indeed if they did not
draw something of sweetness and depth from these
longing, plaintive, but triumphant notes of the nightin-
gale. And so the birds had to go away disappointed.

When at last we turned and bade our friends good
night, it seemed that the nightingale's music followed
us for a mile or more through the scented sweetness
of the night ; and that, as at last it grew faint, the notes
of other nightingales also came faintly on the ear from
far, and more distinctly nearer to us, as though nightin-
gales were sheltered in familiar spots close to our own
abode, where before we had never guessed them to be.
Or is it that the delighted ear is the only truly prepared
ear for kindred harmonies ?

VII.
"THROUGH THE WHEAT."

OFTEN sit at a little latticed
window at the back of my
house in the country, and look
over a wide expanse of land-
scape. Just beyond the hedge,
of which I have given a description in a former
chapter, there is, as I mentioned there, a wheat field.
I say wheat field, because that is the crop that best
I like to see upon it; but, of course, it must pass
through the regular rotation of crops, to which farmers,
by a most antiquated and short-sighted system, are
still bound in lease or even agreement ; so that all free
action that would enable them, by foresight and prud-
ence, to take advantage of a market suddenly opened,
or likely to be suddenly opened, is hindered. The
present depressed condition of agriculture may be. due
to many causes, some of them preventible, some of
them not ; this is one of the causes that could easily
be removed, and ought to be, so that a man might be
enabled to make the best use of his acreage that he
could.

Beyond this wheat field lie greeny meadows, often
with the most delicious effects of light and shade upon

M7

148 " Through the Wheat:'

them, and, seen from this point, look as though closed
in by trees, though here, as in many other cases,
distance lends enchantment to the view; and as you
advance, you find that the effect is due to mere clusters
here and there coming more and more into line with
each other as you retire further and gain this fine
effect. Beyond these, again, the ground sinks and
passes into the valley in which lies the stream I have
spoken of as skirting " my wood." It covers the
rising slope ; and behind, still higher, is the gentle
hill of Frating, with its church tower rising from amid
a screen of trees — like a picture — the very scene which
from time immemorial painters have delighted to paint,
as if in this they found the highest imaginative hint of
rustic and village life in England, the spire or church
tower pointing the mind to another and higher life,
while below all the squalor and the grimy struggle and
want is hidden there behind the trees. Art is said to
be the revealer, not seldom it is the concealer too, as I
have more than once thought, and looked at Frating
from my window, where skilful tree-planting round
the vicarage and the church has done much to gain
picturesque effect by concealing so much lying below
and behind them.

As I withdraw my eyes, they rest on the wheat-field
more immediately before me, now crowned with its
golden glory. What a wealth there is all through the
season, and has been here both for ear and eye ! In
the spring and early summer the larks made a per-
petual concert, the sweet strains growing at once more
piercing, keen, and full as the spiral ascent led higher,
higher, and the bird, at last lost to the eye in the sun-
light, was still clearly heard, recalling Shelley's raptu-
rous lines, so kindled with the music of the bird. And

Skylark.

149

SKYLARK.

In the winter the larks

it is very noticeable that this inspiring singer is the bird
of solitude ; and he is notably unsocial all through the
spring and summer,
each one keeping to
his own nest and
ground, a thing in
which the young ones
even follow the par-
ental example, giving
the old ones much
trouble to find and
feed the little things
in places apart from
each other. Yet they do it.
go in coveys, which makes it more easy for the bird-
catchers to find them in many cases.

Corncrakes now fill the pauses with their harsh mono-
tonous cry — crek, crek, crek, or something like it ;
butterflies hover over
the blooming wheat,
and now and then
alight, and the wood-
doves range round
the field at certain
times. The rabbits
dart about, and go
with their hirpling
kind of walk down the
intervals between the
"stetches,," and now CORNCRAKE.

and then a mole is seen. The rooks come and make
observations in the pauses of their work in the green-
cropped fields beyond. A most curious and forecasting
bird is the rook ; little indeed escapes his attention.

150 "Through the Wheat"

Often have I been drawn out to walk down that
winding footpath — a right of way through the wheat
— when I should have applied myself to other tasks,
unable to resist these magical calls. The walk has
thus become very familiar to me. I do not believe
that human beings ever entirely escape the liking for
hidling corners, which are one of the many delights of
infancy. It must be something of this that leads me
to seek out enclosed corners where one can listen to
the sweet sounds utterly secluded from human sound
or companionship, and where one may repose unseen.
There are many such corners round this field. Even
the walk through it affords half a hidling-place. You
walk, as it were, with a solid wall of grain on either
side of you, high as your shoulder, and look along a
kind of level moving tableland. Mrs. Browning, in
" Lady Geraldine's Courtship," says that the heroine's
way at a particular point in the story lay through such

a field :—

" Her path lay through the wheat,"

and a more delicious or more suggestive background
you could hardly have. And the concert you now
listened to could not be spoiled, like some concerts,
even if you indulged a little sympathetic talk with a
companion, if you could allow one, for here the singers
will not be put out, nor the chorus break down for
your impertinence or interruptions, nor will you spoil
it for any other listener, however much you may talk.
The eye is as much delighted as the ear — soothed,
consoled, as it were, by the variety all in such a
wondrous unison. An ever-moving billowy sea with
rhythmic waves stirs on either hand. No more
delightful impression, I believe, could be produced
than by the effect sometimes of the billowy movement,

Pathetic Suggestion. 151

as the wind sweeps over the ripening grain, mingling,
as it were, sunshine and shadow in the most delicious
interchange as they seem to chase each other unceas-
ingly, while the grain gracefully bends and bows before
the gale, and recovers itself to be anew swayed and
tossed in a sort of cadenced refrain, continually begin-
ning and being arrested, arrested and beginning again.
The late laureate no doubt means this effect when in
" In Memoriam " he speaks of—

" The thousand waves of wheat
That ripple round the lonely grange."

There is truly something of pathetic suggestion in
this rhythmic wave and swell, associated as it is with
a low surruration, a pensive music, indescribable, and
nowhere else to be heard of precisely the same pitch
and quality. The waves on the sea-shore kissing the
sand, and sighing as they retreat, only to return again,
may have something akin, as may also the gurgling
lisping wash of waves round the pebbles by the river
side, when vessels are passing onwards ; but in both
cases the agents concerned are felt to be somewhat
more tangible — the effect, the music, is more the result
of causes realised to be efficient ; but the sea of air,
with its unseen waves, when they play upon the fine
resistant yet yielding harpstrings of the wheat, has an
intensity and penetrating charm of its own, felt to be
at once mysterious and natural. I have even fancied
sometimes, as I stood and looked at the

" Reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley,"

that the awns or beards occasionally imparted an
additional keen subtle sibilant sweetness ; but this may
have been a mere fancy of mine. But any way, whether

152 " Through the Wheat"

near oats or wheat or barley, lay your ear close to the
ground and listen when the wind comes up once more,
and it will seem to you as though thousands of soft
human sobbings, not all of sorrow, but not all of joy
either, had merged, mingled together, and taken sweet-
ness and soul and penetrating individuality from their
union. You may hear wondrously weird tones when
"wind, the grand old harper, strikes his thunder-
harp of pines ; " but it is generally too high-set, the
resistance is too great, the strings are too far apart for
the notes or sobbings softly to intermingle ; you hear
in a greater degree and in a degree too definite for the
fullest effect, each individual voice, so to speak ; and the
wonder and pathetic effect are lessened, though under
special circumstances it may be that fear or horror
might be more powerfully awakened. But the blend-
ing and harmony in the other case are complete, and
this it is which affects, delights, moves, and, it may be,
overcomes you. The wheat especially is a harp, but
not a thunder-harp : it is the eternal ^Eolian harp of
nature. In all such sounds heard in solitude, and in a
mood of responsive sympathy, there is the strangest
suggestion of human voices, far, inarticulate, im-
prisoned, or diffused, as you may choose to have it;
and it is because of this that there are such poetry and
pathos in these sights and sounds of nature.

Lord Tennyson has applied the word "happy" to
the autumn fields in the first verse of that unique song
in " The Princess " :—

" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depths of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather in the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more."

"Dora" 153

But " happy " in any sense, save in the idea of ener-
getic rustic effort, the profitable results of toil, and the
prospects of a hearty harvest-home, we confess we
cannot regard the autumn fields. It may be in this
sense that the late poet-laureate regarded it, though
that is hardly a very imaginative or poetic sense. They
suggest no distinct horizon of hope and promise, like
the fields of spring and summer. All the purpose of
what from one point of view may be picturesque in
human effort has vanished, or is on the point of
vanishing, and what is suggested for nature is bare-
ness, bleak winds, the earth robbed of one of her
sweetest burdens of music and message to man. It is
as bread that man now too exclusively looks on the
produce of the fields, and true it is, for poetry as lor
faith, that man lives not by bread alone.

Lord Tennyson himself in " Dora " makes the heroine
take this view of it. She fancies that the gladness of
the old farmer's heart in the full harvest will make
him tender towards poor William's child. This hope
has a kind of pathos in it; but Dora's idea of asso-
ciating the possibility of tenderness with the joy of
success has also its truth.

" Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat
And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came, and said,
* I have obeyed my uncle until now,
And I have sinned, for it was all through me
This evil came on William at the first.
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
And for this orphan, I am come to you ;
You know there has not been for these five years
So full a harvest. Let me take the boy ;

Through the Wheat."

And I iv ill set him in my uncles eye

Among the wheat, that, when his heart is glad

Of the full harvest^ he may see the boy^

And bless him for the sake of him thafs gone?"

And as human feelings, at base, remain much unmodi-
fied, whatever the effect of outward custom and obser-
vance, it may be presumed that
the same sentiment inspired
Naomi and Ruth as regards the
latter going to glean in the fields
of Boaz.

And all this suggests a ques-
tion : Why is infancy in itself
more poetic than adolescence, and
adolescence than middle age,
and middle age than senility ?
Is there not something inde-
finably expressive to the
imagination, in possibility, in
growth, in the promise of
indefinite expansion.? It is
not only the purity and inno-
cency of childhood that en-
chant ; it is the spring-like
promise, with its uncon-
sciousness, and also its
That it is passing is one of
the elements that appeals to the heart. In the grown
man, with every line fixed and settled, with habits
formed, and the countenance become the very index of
these habits, what room is there for the brooding fore-
cast blended of hope and fear, which in some circum-
stances makes the commonest heart thrill to poetry ?
Childhood is the springtime, adolescence is the early

WILD OAT.

pomp of passing beauty.

Wheat and the Poets. 155

summer, middle age the later summer, and age is the
autumn and near winter of human life. Only Words-
worth, with his exceeding reserve and keenness to
recover interest by a pathetic colouring, has made old
age poetical in the ordinary
sense ; but even he generally
effects this by subtle
presentations of con-
trast— theyoungchild
by the side of age —
his great and uncon-
scious art lies in subtle
contrast, and making
the one tell by almost in-
sensible touches on the
other, and thus interpret
and enforce the treatment
of both.

Wheat is the greatest
favourite with the poets,
though why it should be so
is not easy to discover, un-
less, indeed, it may be that
wheat is the tallest, most powerful,
and uniformly regular in aspect,
looked at from the level. But oats
and barley, particularly long-awned
barley, have their points of supe-
riority too, viewed merely as

, ,„ . r~. CULTIVATED OAT.

picturesque and affecting. The

words corn and cornfields, it is true, would perhaps be
found to occupy even a greater space in concordances
than wheat and wheat-fields, not to speak of barley and
barley-fields ; but in a great many instances " corn " is

156 "Through the Wheat"

used generically for any cereal, and not unfrequently,
indeed, for wheat and barley, as for instance in Lord
Tennyson's fine line in " Aylmer's Field "-

" Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn,"

whereas only wheat-harvest and barley-harvest are
spoken of in the Book of Ruth. But we must turn
from poetry to fact, and try to find in fact a sort of
hidden poetry.

Take a single stalk of wheat in your hand, and
bring your finger down to feel how shiny and smooth it
is, and then try to break it sharp off; you will be sur-
prised at the resistance — it will crack and split and
still hold together unless you are very violent indeed.
Nature has built it in the most scientific way for
strength, and for the resistance that comes from
buoyant yielding. It is a hollow tube, built exactly on
the plan of the strongest bones in the human body,
and of the great hollow piers for wide river bridges, as
seen on several in the Thames. It is perfectly round,
and so smooth and shining that any force would be
likely to slip from the centre to the sides and past
them at whatever point directed. Farmers tell me that
strong-strawed wheat, such as the " Suffolk Stand-up,"
will resist almost any force of direct wind ; it is only
when the wind circles and changes and " beats round,"
as they say, accompanied generally by rain, that it
goes down. Could God have built better a small stem
for resistance first, and also for the power of uprising
again afterwards ? Beaten down as it may be, the grain
continues to grow, so that despite the evil prognostica-
tions from laid grain general throughout the country
in 1890, the farmers were pleasantly disappointed in a
crop which, alike for weight and quality, was far above

Varieties of Cereals. 157

the average, so that more than once I was tempted to
say to them : " You must have your grumble, but no
amount of wet can do the harm a month's drought will
do; so you may be thankful for the rain — 'twas a
blessing in disguise." Yes, the wheat stalks are built
on the very principle that some of the strongest of
animal bones are built, and witness to the same prin-
ciple in constructing for strength and resistance.

Never before did I observe, as I now did, the great
varieties of every form of cereal. To most people not
farmers, as I confess it had hitherto done to me, every
field of wheat, or of oats, or of barley looked exactly
alike. But it is far from being so. Some cereals are
short strawed, some long, some more slender, some
rounder and more robust, and to such an extent as
makes a great difference to the feeling of the scythe-
man when he comes to cut it. Some produce an ear
longer and more tapered, some rounder, fuller, and less
refined to the eye ; the grain of some is long, some
round, and, to the experienced eye, a very little atten-
tion will tell of what particular variety of grain the
field is. Some wheats have the seeds standing more
straight out from the stem ; others more slanting up-
wards, and very closely packed together; and I am
told that these latter are powerful against lodging rain,
and are not nearly so likely to sprout. Some are by
their very type large, some small ; and it does not
always follow that the farmer should be guided by
what would be expected to produce the heaviest head.
He must have regard to many things — the quality
of the soil, the amount of average rain-fall, and many
other things. What will do well and yield abund-
antly in some soils and situations will do but poorly
in others. •

158 "Through the

Several wheats, indeed, are between four and five feet
high ; and some of these suffer very much in the case
of wind and rain coming together, and are more apt to
get laid than others, which, though equally tall, are
more powerfully built, so to speak, and are capable of
recovering themselves though exposed to great force of
wind and rain.

Farming by rule of thumb may do under certain
circumstances; hardly can it do when the holding is
extensive, and where the soil may vary through a
considerable range. Then the mere sowing in of seed
according to a hard-and-fast rule of rotation need not
be expected to pay. The scientific farmer must be
continually on the outlook for new and suitable stocks ;
and I learn that even a change of stock is often ad-
visable on the mere rule that planting over and over
again the same corn in the same land has a tendency,
clear and unmistakable, to operate disadvantageously.
Farmers in different districts thus very often inter-
change seed stocks, and, within a certain range of
suitability, generally to advantage. But high farming,
as it is now called, demands not only much knowledge,
but great foresight, calculation, power to enter on ex-
periment, and scientific skill enough to read alike what
a certain grain takes in greater excess than another
from the soil, and the best manure or chemical elements
to supply again to the soil that which was in excess
taken from it. This is all quite over and above the
consideration due to general effects of atmosphere, soil,
rain, &c. &c. Thus it will appear that farming is by
no means an unintelligent or mechanical calling in these
days. A skilled farmer is indeed a man not only of
much energy and resource and capital, but in a certain
degree at all events a chemist and skilled meteorologist.

A Long List.

I do not know exactly how many varieties of cereals,
pure and hybrid, there may be — a very long list cer-
tainly, as seedsmen and nurserymen, as well as large
farmers, are continually producing new varieties, many
of which are only known locally; but I venture to
subjoin here some notes from the pen of one of the
leading agriculturists of our district (the north-eastern
part of Essex lying towards Suffolk), in which he
notes the characteristics of the various cereals most in
favour throughout our bounds. I give it precisely as
he handed it to me : —

WHITE WHEATS.

Roughchaffed. — The real heavy-
land wheat ; a great favourite with
millers ; very prolific in fine sea-
sons.

Talavera. — Very early ; a fine
quality wheat coming from Spain, as
its name implies ; not so hardy.

Hardcastle and Lemy 's white. —
Suitable for lighter soils.

In addition to these many new
kinds have been raised by our prin-
cipal seedsmen. At present they are
not so general in use, but are for the
most part admitted to possess a stiffer
straw than the older varieties.

RED WHEATS.

First and foremost comes golden-
drop. — A great favourite on all soils ;
very prolific and hardy, and not liable
to sprout.

Old Kent Red. — A good wheat on
light and mixed soils, and considered
by millers to be nearly equal to best
white in quality.

Nursery. — The finest quality of all
reds ; must have rich deep soils.

Square headed, both redchaff and
white, are' good wheats on hollow
bottomed soils, rarely going down.
Of new crossbred wheats Webb's
Hybrid King takes first place in our
opinion.

Rivets or " Clog" wheat is getting

more into favour, as it does not lodge
or deteriorate through wet harvest.

BARLEYS.

Chevallier. — First raised by Dr.
Chevallier of Aspal, Suffolk ; is con-
sidered to grow the finest skin, but
almost equally good are Golden
Melon, Page's Prolific, Webb's
Golden Grain. Messrs. Webb's
Strain of Chevallier has taken
many prizes of late years — an excel-
lent barley for all soils.

Long- Eared Nottingham is a heavy
yielding kind, scarcely so good in
quality as the other kinds mentioned,
but does well on poor soils.

OATS

chiefly consist of three kinds. The
earliest are Winters, and generally
come to harvest second or third week
in July. These are the heaviest and
hardiest out suitable for all soils,

SPRING OATS.

Tartary (white and black] are
perhaps more grown than any other
variety, but many prefer a white
oat, such as Suffolk Triples Potato,
the latter usually coming to more
weight than any other spring variety,
but wanting rich soil. Tartary oats
in the Fens often produce twelve
quarters per acre.

VIII.
MY FAVOURITE SUMMER-HOUSES.

THIS little picture carries me in memory to days of
boyhood. In the school vacation how sweet it was
to escape from tasks that were sometimes irksome to
all the delights of freedom, when to range through the
long day by the stream side was to catch a vision of
some paradise that always retreated as you advanced,
but rewarded you with new hopes of finding at the next
advance; when to escape into the firwood, with its sweet,
resiny, healthful scents, and that wonderful blue haze, to
gather fir cones, was indeed a second heaven. There
were the pools with the tadpoles too ; and the wonder
that dawned upon us when we found that these nonde-
scripts of nature were only in a transition state, that

they gradually threw out limbs, and developed lungs

1 60

Sticklebacks. \ 6 1

instead of gills, and from something like fishes, became
veritable frogs ! And then the fishing for sticklebacks,
when the sport would be arrested by observing the
wonderful playfulness or the surprising fighting-powers
of these little rascals of the tiny pools — these finny
spiny nest-builders of the miniature lakes that are to
be found in almost every bit of our British Isles.

It would have added greatly to our interest had we
known more of the life-history of these wonderful little
fishes, as we know now. We saw them in their nests ;
we several times saw one of them hunting off and
fighting with others, but we had no one to tell us of
the reason that lay behind all this in their economy
and habit and style of life. We should then have found
a veritable fairy-tale. Our readers may perhaps be
pleased if we give them the benefit of what we then
lacked. The different .species of sticklebacks are all
grouped scientifically under the strange-sounding name
of Gasterosteus. This Greek word literally means "bone-
bellied," and is thus finely descriptive. The bodies of
the sticklebacks are not furnished with scales, but,
instead, are defended by little spines or spikes rising
here and there (different numbers of them in different
species) from bands of bony matter. The male attends
very strictly to his domestic duties, as he sees them,
though he is certainly not content with one wife, or
with two even ; and his plurality of wives has much to
do with ensuring the stability and increase of the race.

The Very important work of building a nest is asso-
ciated in the male with the assuming of brighter colours,
which make him look more and more different from
the females as days go on, till finally he is a very gay
and smart little fellow indeed. He begins his task by
finding any loose fibrous substances he can about the

L

1 62 My Favourite Summer -Houses.

stream, very often the soft roots of the willow, and he
works these round the stem of a bush or any pro-
tuberance he can find handy and firmly fixed enough.
This is the foundation of his house ; and in laying it, as
in after-operations, he is greatly helped by some kind

STICKLEBACK'S NEST.

of slime or gummy substance which he exudes from
his body; and hence, at first particularly, his odd
rubbings of his little body against the bits of fibre
which he brings, and against the little tree-stem or
protuberance. So he works till his house rises; but
before it is finished he has to fight for it. There are

Sticklebacks Nest. 163

other sticklebacks, many who would fain have a house
without all the trouble he has taken of laying a founda-
tion from the very start, and are fain to steal his. He
has to give them a touch of his quality, which he does,
and drives them off, with no doubt some little quiver-
ings of pain from his spines well applied; as he dashes
furiously against them at the unprotected parts.

The nest itself, when finished, is somewhat of barrel-
shape, open at both ends however, and will hardly do
more than half cover the bride for whom it is intended,
the head and tail being clearly exposed, and only the
middle of the body in the nest. Well, the next thing,
of course, is to bring the bride home to her well-pre-
pared chamber. She is found, brought there, and enters
in. The male is very attentive to her for a time, and
keeps careful watch over her ; but he has no notion of
supporting her any longer than he needs her. The
moment she has done the work of depositing her eggs
he turns her out, and goes in search of another mate,
and with her repeats the same process, and again the
same process with a third, and it may even be with
a fourth. He has made up his mind that he must have
a certain number of eggs, and this is the way he takes
to get them.

He then closes up the ends of the nest, and keeps
strict watch over it, never going away from it further
than a foot or two. And he has need to be strict and
careful, for not only are there stranger enemies ready
to undo his work, but the discarded wives, whether
moved by envy or jealousy no one knows, would fain
tear the nest to pieces, and eat the eggs, or set them
free to be destroyed or eaten of other fishes. For
about a month Mr. Stickleback is thus on the closest
watch till the eggs are hatched. Even then his hard

164 My Favourite Summer- Houses.

work is by no means over, for he has to fight for his
young as before for his eggs. The old belief of our
Scandinavian ancestors was that the strength of the
vanquished passed into the conqueror. This seems to
be the case with Mr. Stickleback : the more he fights,
the more brilliantly coloured he becomes, while the
beaten lose all their colours, and subside into mere
sober browns and greys. No artist could paint the
bright tints that glow and shift and gleam on his sides.
When at last the young ones — mere specks of jelly with
a dark dot for an eye, by which they may be recog-
nised— are able to move about freely, the father stickle-
back has still a busy time of it. They are always
wanting to wander beyond the bounds he has assigned
for their exercises — a foot or two round the nest. Woe
betide any little item that strays beyond ; he is seized
by the parent, dragged back, and pitched into the nest
in great hurry and wrath, as it would seem, or has
dust blown into his eyes. They gain their liberty bit
by bit, as is best for other youngsters as well as stickle-
backs. But at last the young ones are able to shift for
themselves, and with the close of this duty the glory
of the parent stickleback dies out of him — his bright
hues fade away, and will not be resumed until another
spring comes round.*

Well, we in our young days saw enough in the
stickleback to make us wonder at him and to admire

* There are three varieties of sticklebacks. The three-spined is G.
aculeatus, and is either salt or fresh-water : the fifteen-spined is G.
spinachia vulgaris, and is common on the northern coasts of Europe,
and is entirely marine — it is larger than the others, measuring from
five to seven inches, and is sometimes caught in large numbers on
account of its oil, which has commercial value ; and finally, the nine
or ten spined (G. pungitius], which is confined entirely to fresh water,
and is the species with which we have been concerned.

A Long Journey. 165

him, and our knowledge of him grew gradually, till
we have come to feel that there is a good deal in his
life that dimly images the life of we human beings.
Yes, these things were veritable revelations then — all
was wonderful — every day brought its new surprise,
its fresh knowledge, its inspiration, its new hopes.
Well may the poet say, " Beautiful is youth, for every-
thing is allowed to it."

Never shall I forget a long journey we took from
this low, thatch-roofed cottage, with its sluggish stream
in front of it, over the hills that lay behind. As we
went, it seemed as though life stirred up at every
footstep. The place was little frequented ; there was
no regular footpath. There were long reaches of
heathy common, broken up by patches of fir and birch
— that lady among trees truly — and here and there
clumps of gorse, with flowers golden in the sunlight.
The rabbits ran here and there, disturbed in their
feeding or in their play; the curlews called, and ran
circling round us, and then flew off away from their
nests with the most mournful cries and calls; the
omnipresent rook seemed to follow us, and the wild
pigeons cried to us from the belts of fir that straggled
along irregularly.

The humble bees were busy, bumming on their way
or settling on the flowers ; on the furze bushes the
webs of the spider still hung dewy and glistening in
the s.un rays; linnets and goldfinches were busy on
the thistles that grew thickly here and there. Our
object Was to reach the highest belt where the pines
were thick, as we wished to gather cones. How
delicious were the scents of this plantation when we
reached it, and what gatherings of birds and insects
there were. The wood appeared literally to be alive,

1 66 My Favourite Summer- Houses.

GOLDFINCH.

and our presence seemed to create a panic of disorder
and dismay among its denizens. Butterflies and beetles

vied with each other
in brilliancy of colour
up in that solitude,
and lovely birds were
there, and even the
water- wagtail by the
tiny stream seemed
lovely. The wood
was literally carpeted
with fir-needles, and
with cones of former
seasons now dry and

sapless, and ever at the foot of trees we came on fungi
that showed like gems and pearls.

We gathered and gathered fir-cones till the sun fell,
and then returned in the soft twilight, when the mantle
of grey was falling over all, and the glow-worms were
hanging out their lamps on the hill-
sides. We were healthily tired,
but we had our prize of cones
wherewith to make our much-
wished for ornaments, and we went
to bed and dreamed of that wood, with its shy and lovely
ever-active denizens — dreamt that we roved by still
more unfrequented and erratic ways than we had that
day traversed, lost our bearings, and ourselves were
lost, and went hopelessly from point to point, leaping
over tiny streams flowing through miles of fir and pine
in endless avenues and glades, till at last we sank
exhausted on a bed of fern and dreamt — a dream
within a dream — of a hill- top, with fairies in circles
on it, like circles of light, into which we were led, and

GLOW-WORM.

On the Surrey Hills.

in the midst of the crowning brightness, and face to
face with the most lovely forms, awakened to find that
we had a touch of cramp from over-walking ourselves,
and wished and wished we could fall asleep and just
begin that dream within a dream again, exactly where
we had left off. " Beautiful indeed is youth, for every-
thing is allowed to it."

Into what a different region, with what different

associations does this second house take one ! Sweetly
embowered in greenery, for elms, limes, pines, birches,
and poplars deliciously intermingle with lilacs, labur-
nums, and hollies, and even a rowan-tree (mountain
ash) or two, and close it in on all sides, save the front
entrance, which you see. It is delightfully situated on
a little shelf on the side of one of the Surrey hills, and
looks like a nest with the bird sitting on it. Seen
from below as you advance to it, it appears literally to

1 68 My Favourite Summer- Houses.

hang on the face of the hill, and with the sunshine blink-
ing on its whitened side walls seems in a kindly way to
beckon you to advance. How many and how pleasant
are tlie excursions we have made from these doors !
Hovr sweet the memories that dwell with us still of
those rambles through wood and moorland, over heath
and holt ! Looking from the gate we could see over
an immense area ; in the middle distance right in front
one of the most beautiful villages in England gathered
round its green so neatly, with its drinking fountain in
the centre, the gift of one who long lived and worked
there, and with the big house of the squire on a gentle
wooded height looking down on it graciously. And
though this village was a mile or two distant, in some
states of the atmosphere it looked quite near, as though
close below, while looking from that village again to-
wards our house it seemed as though a step or two
would bring you to the foot of our hill. You had to
learn by experience that the idea of distance in these
hilly regions was very deceptive indeed.

Coldharbour — that picturesque little settlement, red-
roofed and warm amidst its greeny shelter, one half of
it clustering by the church, as though half nestling in
a cup's-side — was not very far off, and often we found
our way there by Mosse's wood ; and sometimes on
our way back we would stay thereabout till the twilight
fell, and watch and listen to the sound — the eerie sound
— made by that strange bird, half hawk, half swallow,
the nightjar, which wheels round the tops of the trees,
more especially the fir trees, after the moths and beetles
and the night flyers, which form its food — thence the
name which it has in some parts of the wheel-bird.
We had often been surprised at the strange and un-
expected sound it makes when anything startles or

The Nightjar.

169

frightens it : it strikes its wings together over its
back somehow, and from this circumstance came to be
regarded with superstitious fears by the rustics.

It has a peculiar owl-like aspect seen in certain
positions, and hence it has been called the fern owl,
which is more justified than another name it sometimes
gets — the night hawk. But more appropriate is the

NIGHTJAR OR EVE-CHURR.

eve-churr, from the chur-r-r of its note, a little like the
chir of electric wires. It has a peculiar habit of never
perching across, but only along a branch — a habit
supposed to be due to the peculiar form of its toes,
the middle toe having a long flange or comblike exten-
sion, about the use of which naturalists are much
divided. It has another great peculiarity: from the

My Favourite Slimmer- Houses.

upper part of the beak there hang down over the lower
part quill-like points — really undeveloped feathers.
The purpose of this is more evident. It catches its

prey in flight,
with its mouth
wide agape, and
this remarkable
development aids
it in retaining
them in its mouth
as it flies — the
more that these
quills are said to
be touched with
a peculiar kind of
gum it secretes
for this purpose,
and to which the

insects stick till the bird can swallow them or feed its
young with them.

It builds no nest, but lays its two eggs- invariably
two, but no more — in a depression at the foot of a tree,
either among sand or stones or decaying fern and
leaves ; and the bird as it broods is so like the sand or
stones or fern, that naturalists find in this a good
instance of what is called protective colouring. Indeed
it knows so well what colour of bark best matches its
plumage that you can rarely see it unless it moves,
which it is not very keen to do, and will keep quite
still till you are about to touch it, or even tread upon
it; then it flies off, pretending that you have hurt
it, goes tumbling about as though wing or leg were
broken, all to tempt you to follow it and divert you
from its " nest " — cunning wee thing ! This instinct

Delightful Footpaths. 171

according to Thoreau and many other observers is
developed m the young ones trom the moment of
their emergence from the egg, and so wily are they

EGGS OF THE NIGHTJAR.

that, as the brightness of the eyes alone would betray
them, they close the eyes and look through the very
narrowest slit when any strange animal or person
comes near.

What a delight it was, too, to turn out into the
loftier parts of the hill, over large spaces of which
grew the whortleberries, locally called " hurts," and lie
and enjoy their delicious tonic flavour, and think of
Thoreau's celebrations of the wines that He stored up
in the wild fruits by the wayside ! And, after having
enjoyed this, to go on again dipping down into the
valley by the most delightful footpaths — all round you
seas of fern and heath — on to Tillingbourne, to watch
the fall, slipping down, white and foaming at foot, or
to wander refreshed by the stream-side, or to journey
by the almost Swiss-like Friday Street, with its lake
lying still below you as you suddenly emerge into view
of it from the wood, and so on and on by sweet paths
to Abinger, there to range over the wide furzy common
— truly a common — and see the pretty quaint old
church — restored some years ago — and the picturesque

172 My Favourite Summer -Houses.

little churchyard, and the old stocks by the main gate
as you enter or emerge.

" Arcadia found at last for our reward !

The village lies in swathes of sunshine sweet ;
Green grass is soothing for the weary feet,
Even though it be too luscious burial sward.

To maiden modesty what fit award !

The rose-trees year by year the tale repeat
Of young life ended pure, without defeat,

Of hopes long cherished or a heart grown hard.

And there what uncouth forms the glad eyes greet ?
Are these the stocks that once for penal pains
Familiar stood as warning to all swains

Inclined too lightly other's rights to treat ?
They moulder now in parody of time
When this fair village had its petty crime."

Then, if we will, we may pass by the Hammer —
sweet hamlet — on to Gomshall and home again. Who
can tell how much of the healthful effects of these
wanderings is due to the wonderful mixture of aromatic
scents — the resinous odour of the pines, the scents of
fern and whortleberry, of heath and beech, and oak
and elm ?

And then, how often have I taken visitors down past
Coldharbour to the Redlands Wood — that delightful pine
wood — with its clumps and clusters, its waving ferns
and giant firs — one indeed a veritable monster, a mark
for miles round, rising high above his fellows — head
and shoulders over all — a very Saul among pine trees.
Often, often have I, pointing at this great tree from a
little distance, asked my companions — new to the place
— what their notions of his girth was, and would get
the most contradictory replies ; and as we neared and
neared the trunk of that tree, it appeared literally to
grow as we looked and came closer, till, to the surprise

A Monster Pine. 173

of my friends, it was found that it would take three
persons with arms outstretched at full to go round its
mighty bole. Many giant oaks and beeches have I
seen in the New Forest, at Bushey, down in the rich
park lands of Suffolk, and have looked on great firs in
Scotland, but I never remember to have seen so great
a pine as this — " Fit to be the mast of some great
ammiral," to quote Milton. Why, the ship that could
take this pine for a mast would make of the Great
Eastern but a tiny dwarf.

And then there is the middle walk, with the pines so
regularly ranged in line on both sides, that the place
veritably looks what it has been called, The Cathedral
— the mighty branches interlocking overhead, and the
light, passing through them, taking that mysterious
blue tint and making the looker-on think of the " dim
religious light." It is not difficult to be in a certain
way poetic in such a place as this, and so I may be
excused quoting here what was indeed suggested on
this very spot :—

A sea of fern, far-sweeping, wave on wave,
With rhythmic answer to the wind that steals
Through pillared stems, and yonder arch reveals

Blue glory islanded like faery cave,

Withdrawn from touch of all rude winds that rave
Round men's abodes ; blue-dim the light that seals
The sense of worship, making mild appeals,

Like mellowed sunshine through Cathedral nave,

When low the organ notes swell out and die,

•* And rise again to flow in fuller strain :

The spirit of the woods is waiting there
To wed the mystery of tears and pain

In human life with solace soft and fair,
Still found in nature's holy constancy.

And then did I not once make a journey down there
in mid- winter, "after a heavy snowfall, just to see how

174 My Favourite Summer -Houses.

that pine wood looked in white ? Still and calm, like
a fairy world of silence and wonder, where no sound
may mar the witchery of effect. No, not quite so;
listen, what is that ? Is it the snow with crispy whis-
pering, or are the sounds ghostly, or are there spirits
abroad ? Hark ! don't you hear something go scratch,
scratch, with momentary pauses between ? Is it in the
tops of the trees, or down on the snow-covered ground ?
You listen hard and satisfy yourself it is borne to
your ear along the surface of the tell-tale snow. It is
the rabbits over yonder busy clearing the snow from
the mouth of their burrows, and trying to scrape off
enough of the mantle of white near bye, to let them get
a nibble at the green herbage below.

And as you listen intently, a soft sound of tap-tap-
tapping comes to you from the other side, where
beyond the firs there is a circle in which there are
some beeches, birches, and "immemorial elms." That
is the green woodpecker, who, despite the frost and
snow, pursues his calling without pause ; but just now
you might wait long enough to hear his strange laugh,
which has led him to get the name of " yaffle" in some
parts, for that cry or sound, pleu, pleu, pleu, he only
emits before rain, which has led him also to get in
some places the name of the " rainbird " or " rain-
fowl." His green body and red head present a fine
contrast to the bark of the trees on which he climbs
and taps ; but he is a shy and cautious fellow, and has
a clever knack of always retreating to the other side
of the tree on the slightest hint of his being observed.
It is very funny to see him working the trees — a
business he does quite systematically. He proceeds
up each tree from the foot, taking slant lines across
and across it again, till he has reached a considerable
height. When he has done with that one, he flies

Woodpeckers. 175

with a peculiarly undulating kind of flight — up and
down, up and down — to the foot of another tree, and
goes through the very same process with it, rising up
and up in slanting lines, ever tap-tapping as he goes.
Though he prefers the elm, he carefully works, as well
as builds, in other soft-wooded trees also, and may
be seen ascending the beech and poplar, even the pine
and fir. Some ornithologists have said, indeed, that
they prefer the woodpecker in the winter-time to any
other season : he is such a sprightly, merry, active
fellow, always making the best of it. And I am almost
fain to confess that so do I. The nest of the woodpecker
is a peculiar specimen. He builds it in a hole in a
decayed tree, and is ingenious enough, though seldom
seen. The woodpecker is a characteristic presence in
the winter woodland, and therefore we have felt justi-
fied in referring to it here, and doing it honour for its
persistency, cleverness, cheerfulness, and activity. It
has sometimes, indeed, to fight for its own, and then
it fights bravely — that is, when a thieving starling
wishes to oust it from the hole it has made for its
nest ; and as the woodpecker cares for nothing more
for nest-lining than a few chips of wood he has
dropped down to the bottom of the hole as he was
working, and Master Starling, it would seem, knows
this, and as a last resort, drops down sticks, straws,
and other nondescript articles — and then, much dis-
liking these, the poor woodpecker abandons the nest
to his enemy. It may happen, indeed, if there are
many starlings about, that the poor woodpecker is
thus " moved on," and " moved on " from nest to nest,
pitiable bird in very truth, till he is defeated in rearing
even one brood for a whole season. Its favourite trees
are the chestnut, sycamore, and silver fir.

176 My Favourite Summer- Houses.

The Duke of Argyll in Nature, May 29, 1890, gave
the following account of observations of the lesser
spotted woodpecker : —

" I have had an opportunity lately of observing
closely the habits of the lesser spotted woodpecker
(Picus minor), as regards the very peculiar sound
which it makes upon trees by the action of its bill.

" It is quite certain that this habit has nothing
whatever to do with the quest for food. The bird
selects one particular spot upon the trunk or bough of
a tree, which spot is naturally sonorous from the wood
being more or less hollowed by decay. The bird
returns to this precise spot continually during the day,
and produces the sound by striking the wood on the
spot with its bill, the stroke being repeated with a
rapidity which is really incomprehensible, for it quite
eludes the eye. It is effected by a vibratory motion
of the head; but the vibrations are so quick that the
action looks like a single stroke. After short pauses
this stroke is again and again renewed, sometimes for
several minutes together. During each interval the
woodpecker looks round it and below it with evident
delight, and with an apparent challenge of admiration.
The beautiful crimson crest is more or less erected.

"The whole performance evidently takes the place
of the vernal song in other birds ; and so far as I
know, it is the only case among the feathered tribes
in which vocal is replaced by instrumental music.
The nest does not appear to be in the same tree ; but
similar spots are selected on several trees in the neigh-
bourhood, and as the sound is very loud, and is heard
a long way off, the hen bird when sitting is serenaded
from different directions. I have not seen or heard
any attempt to vary the note produced by variations

The Cross-bill.

177

SPOTTED WOODPECKER.

either in the strength or in the rapidity of the stroke,
or by changing the point of percussion ; but I have
observed that the
note varies more or
less with the tree on
which it is produced.
During about six
weeks the perform-
ance has been fre-
quent every day, and
early in the morn-
ings during part of
this time it was al-
most constant. Of
late it has been discontinued. In all probability" this
is parallel to the well-know fact that singing birds
cease to sing after the eggs are hatched. This instru-
mental substitute for singing among the woodpeckers
is extremely curious."

And no sooner have you satisfied yourself about the
woodpecker, than your ear is attracted by a smart
snapping rasping kind of noise. You try to trace the
direction from which it comes, and can scarcely be-
lieve your eyes when you see a bird which looks more
like a miniature parrot than anything else — for it is
brilliantly coloured — a delicious mixture of brown or
bronze, red and green, and which seems now to be
hanging by the bill from a branch and swinging there,
clearly defined against the white background as it
moves. YOU can scarce believe your eyes, for you did
not believe that the winter woodland held so beautiful
a denizen. You try to approach the tree on which it
is, and you find it far less shy than the woodpecker,
for it remains in your view till you are within a yard

M

i 78 My Favourite Slimmer- Houses.

or two of it, and keeps on at its business all the while.
It seizes a fir-cone in one claw, while with the other it
clings to the branch, and with its bill, which you now
notice is very singularly shaped (the mandibles curved
and crossing each other), and which seems at first
sight so awkward, it dextrously breaks open the fir-
cone, extracting the seeds, which form its food. This
is the delightful cross-bill, rather rare, and so-called on
account of the crossing of its mandibles, which show
a remarkable instance of adaptation to mode of life.
Now this bird, through being hunted and killed, is
seldom seen. Its note, jip, jip, jip, frequently repeated,
is very characteristic.

" Tap, tap, tap " once more, but not quick and con-
tinuous like that of the woodpecker, and consisting only
of two or three taps delivered with far more force.

What is that ? you in-
quire. Well, it is only
the nuthatch, which is
to be found pretty well
wherever the wood-
pecker is ; for the nut-
hatch likes well to get
a home in a deserted
woodpecker's nest. But
the nuthatch being a
much smaller bird than
the other, plasters up
the hole till it will no
more than admit his tinier figure ; and he colours the
mud, or other material with which he does it, to a
fine likeness with the tree-bark where it is, and the
nest is usually formed of oak leaves. The clay which
the nuthatch uses for this purpose, it glues together

NUTHATCH.

The Nuthatch. 179

with a saliva-like fluid, so that it hardens to withstand
rain and sun. When roosting, they sleep, like the tits,
with the head and back downwards. The strong tap-
tap is the sound of his bill against a nut which he has
placed in exact position, wedgelike, in some crevice in
the tree. Swinging in a branch, with head downwards,
he dashes against it with full force of bill, body, and
wing, and soon breaks it to find his well-won prize.
And yet he is by comparison a very little fellow, only
about six inches in length, white throated, blue on
back and head, and bright orange-brown on sides and
thighs ; pretty, smart, active, always cheerful, and he
who does much to make the winter woodland gay
wherever there are nut-bearing trees. Hazel and beech-
nuts he particularly affects, but he will have recourse
to acorns sometimes if there is any scarcity in these.

And what is that which now passes over the white
like a cloud, disturbing our reflections ? It is the owl
that, now the snow no longer falls, is out to see if no
little mice, or other small deer, are stirring to get a
meal once more, that he may make a meal of them.
Soft, soft, and silky-downy is his flight; he consorts
well with the great, silence-giving ermine cloak in which
everything is wrapped. Mister Owl does sometimes,
in these circumstances, take a look out through the
day, when the light is not strong, and when his prey
is very scarce from such causes as this, though when
once the mice and birds begin to stir, he has the ad-
vantage of seeing them clear against the white ground.
The fir-cones not yet fallen slightly wave, though there
is no perceptible wind, and as we walk in the snow,
the weight of the foot now and then makes the opened
cones, fallen below, crackle as we walk, with much sur-
prise at first. Never did we witness a scene more

180 My Favourite Summer- Houses.

beautiful, impressive, and poetical, and fairy-like. Our
presence there seemed like an intrusion that only too

much broke the
spell, and some of
the glimpses from
the borders of the
wood showed the
commonplace trans-
formed to poetry of
landscape.

Do you wonder
at my so cherishing
the memory of these walks ? Then, if you do, you
have not roamed in these sweet regions as I have

done, at all seasons and all hours of the day, and some
hours even of the night, with friends, some of whom

Constable's Country. 181

are dead now, and some are scattered over the wide
earth — and before you blame me you must go there
and see !

This picture carries me to a very different kind of
scenery, to that prettiest part of Essex in my idea — the
region of the Stour — Constable's country — not flat
as is the prevailing character of the portion of Essex
near to London, of which the region of the Lea is
typical, but on both sides rising here and there into
rounded hills, prettily wooded. Dedham. indeed, lies at
the foot of a considerable hill, driving down which,
towards the little town, one of the sweetest views
possible bursts suddenly upon you through trees ; and
when you have put up your horse and trap at the inn,
passed through the town, and walked to the river,
you get a glimpse of Dedham Mill — immortalised by
Constable — with its swirling lade and deep backwater,
where big roach lie, fed on the floury morsels from the
mill, a scene which Constable has painted too, and
made familiar to many who have never seen it. And
over yonder on the Suffolk side is East Bergholt, with
its church tower on the very top of the hill rising from
amid its screen of trees, often painted too and no
wonder ! It is the very ideal of the scenery of its
kind. Along the meadows nearer to the river the full-
fed cattle lazily browse and ruminate, and whisk the
flies off with their tails, or stand knee-deep in the
shallower side pools left here and there. In the pic-
ture, the house we see is on the borders of one of the
tributaries further down, but while staj'ing there it was
our delight to work down the main stream, trolling for
pike, or, finding some favourite pool, would sit down
and enjoy the quieter more contemplative exercise of
ensnaring the more delicate-mouthed roach.

1 82 My Favo^^,r^te Summer -Houses.

The next picture takes us further afield still — to Suf-
folk. Oh, the delights of that little farm-house, with its
back to the water, in which we fished day by day, and saw
the sun set gloriously behind the gentle hills. The water,
here drawn off into a lade to work a little mill below,
kept up a slumbrous sound like a lullaby as it fell with
a fine dreamy effect, and would you believe it, imparted
some sense of coolness even in the warmest day, for it
always set some wind stirring with refreshing effect ?

fli/iff

Falling water ! Minnehaha — laughing water ! is that not
what the sound always suggests ? Yes, laughing water !
how it foamed and bubbled as it fell, lingered for a
moment, as it were, and then, gathering itself together,
went on, composed and steady, singing its undersong,
to do its work, to flow on the mill-wheel and grind the
corn, throwing off", as it did so, diamonds in millions,
forming and flashing as it went, rising, falling, falling,
rising, for ever " a thing of beauty and a joy for ever ; "
the green hues on the old wheel sending a reflected

An Old Rambling House. 183

colour through the diamonds sometimes in the sun,
more especially evening sun, like a magical circle or
world of circles, or rainbows within rainbows, and star-
lights intermingling.

That old rambling house, with its dovecote high up
in the gabled end, was an unceasing delight to us ; and
how these pigeons sat in session sunning themselves
on the roof, as if to challenge our admiration, pouting
and bowing, yet expecting nothing but silent admira-
tion from us strangers — vain things ! But they showed
a very different temper when their mistress, who fed
them, appeared. They looked, indeed, as though to
them she was the impersonation of Providence, as
truly she was, and would sometimes perch upon her
shoulders, head, and even her hands, coo-coo-cooing
out her praises.

And then the orchard of which we had the freedom.
To sit there in the warm afternoons in the cool shady
summer-house, and watch the shadows slowly moving
round the dial, every now and then to hear the ripened
fruit drop on the grass with a slight thud, and to see
the little mice come running out and make the faintest
rustling noise among the pea-straw, now stripped from
the stacks and laid on the ground.

A very favourite excursion we made then was to an
ancient abbey not far off, where in old days the monks
lived their life, and no doubt attended well to the wants
of the body, while they strove to save the souls of others
as well as their own. On almost every field on this
farm there were fish-ponds, some of which had been
artificially made. These ponds were still rich in tench
and roach and other fishes ; and one of the ponds was
really a moat round an island fed from a small stream
some distance off. There were little rustic bridges

184 My Favourite Summer -Houses.

across the moat to the island, on which were wealth of
trees, summer-seats, and "nestling places green ;" and
often have we sat and dreamed there, always welcome,
or in the golden afternoons have lain down and watched
the sullen pike, pleased and satisfied for once, resting
nigh the surface in the deeper parts when the sun was
warm. Nay, we have even tried to catch them in the
cunningest way, but with small success, owing to the
peculiar lie of the ground and the narrowness of this
moat, which, however, was very deep at parts compared
with its breadth. This brought us always too near in
view of the fish. This circumstance raised the question

how the monks in old days could have got out the fish
as they wanted them. To this the farmer replied :
"Well, I dunno: if they'd 'ad guns then, I should 'a
said as they shot they pike as I 'a done, times an'
times, just as they laid on top o' the water as they do
now; p'r'aps they were good archers, as I've 'eard say
monks and bishops could do a bit o' fightin' in them
days, and shot the pike so; but sartin sure am I as
they never got 'em out there wi' rod an' line, as the
cleverest chaps wi' the rod ha' cum here just for a try,
an' never a one on um did any better than you 'a done,
so you needn't be werry much ashamed on it."

Pleasant Sails.

One of the ponds, the biggest, ran close up to the
outhouses, and was a fair sheet of water ; there we
had better luck with rod and line, and many a pleasant
sail have we had in the boat that lay moored in the
remote corner among the rushes.

IX.

THE VILLAGE WELL.

UR village boasts of two special sources
of gossip. The shop — a general shop,
where everything is sold, from tin
tacks to red herrings, from tapes and
ribbons to ham and eggs, and from
needles and thread to boots and shoes, which scent all
the place, there being truly nothing like leather — is an
interesting centre, where you could do a good deal in
the study of character. There come tripping in the
wives and daughters of the small farmers round to sell
their produce — butter, eggs, and so on — or to exchange
them for various commodities they cannot themselves
produce and yet cannot do without. There, in front of
the shop and the inn next door to it in the evenings
the young men congregate after work is done, and
straggle in irregular little groups over to the village
green, a silent witness of the fact that the vicar and
the rest have failed to do what they might long ere
this have done — institute a reading-room, well warmed
and well lighted, and where a cup of tea or coffee
might be had. Parish councils may do something to
end this, though the lounging habit formed through
generations will be hard to root out. The other centre
is the village well, which is beautifully situated in a
bit of road that dips down at the west end of the

1 86

"Drawing Water!" 187

village, and is picturesquely overarched with trees,
causing a moisture almost always to be over that bit
of road. There come the women, as in the days of
patriarchs and prophets in the East, to " draw water; "
and if you were a curious visitor, intent on studying the
ways of the natives, you would soon discover that if
the pulse of the village is beating quick under any
love affair, scandal, poaching prosecution, or quarrel,
it soon makes itself felt at the village well. No sooner
does one woman, probably the leading gossip, in the
early forenoon make her appearance, than she is fol-
lowed by two or three more, who by some secret
instinct know that she has gone before them, and there
they stand, tongues going, their pails on the ground, and
arms akimbo, while she makes a very long business
indeed of working that handle to recover her pail,
which goes swinging and making a clatter midway as
she unsteadily goes winding and winding.

Then the same process is repeated by each in turn,
while all the others wait ; and then, each with her pail
of water, they come slowly along, holding their heads
as close together as they can, so that no sweet morsel
may be lost to any; and there is usually in these
cases a pausing at the door of each, before she enters
to resume her domestic work. The village well is the
housewives' parliament, where, if formal motions are
not made or passed, a common policy is often an-
nounced and adopted, alike as to how some farmer is
to be dealt with who has chastised Tommy Jones for
climbing over the walls of his orchard or trespassing
in his fields, or the gamekeeper who has pounced on
some of the menfolk laying snares in the wood, or the
policeman who has been too officious in taking notice
of some one's visits to some other one.

i88

The Village Well.

In the evening, too, it is funny to notice how the
young women home from work will be moved to help
mother by bringing water for her. Fanny Wilkins
will be seen tripping along with her pail, singing to
herself, as her left hand goes over her plenteous fair
hair, coiled up in a big cushion at the back of her
head, to make sure that it is all trim and tidy, and

looking as though she had no idea anybody else was
likely to be about there just then. Before she has
reached the well, Johnny Amos steals forth from some
hidling corner and joins her with " How be you,
Fanny ? " at which she pretends great surprise to
see him of all possible people ; and then they walk
on to the well, where Fanny takes long to get her
water up somehow, and finds it so hard and is so

Human Nature! 189

awkward at it that Johnny has to come and help
her, his right arm almost passing round her as he
takes her place and gently moves her away. Before
they have got their water-pail up and unhooked, another
pair are there, and as they move homewards they
meet another pair; and each young woman goes home
and tells that she saw So-and-so and So-and-so
walking out together, and that they will soon have a
marriage in the village, and the dance on the green
in honour of it. Under all disguise of circumstances
isn't human nature much the same all round ? The
village well is a sort of conservatory for these humble
folks, to which they retire to have a chat and quiet
fun. Verily, there is much human nature in man,
and in woman too.

X.

RUSHES.

. -

«_-.> HO that has read them can ever
forget Mr. Ruskin's wonderful
passages on the grasses. This
commonest of all plants, trode
upon with indifference, made commonplace by its wide
distribution and persistency, is shown by him to be
little short of a miracle. -Never was eloquence more
convincing, nor rhetoric more effectively directed. He
glanced at the more ornamental grasses rising in mimic
towers to beautify the most neglected corners, often
hanging out their seed-like pearls at the end of silken
threads to add a delicacy and grace to what else were
wildernesses. But his highest praise was reserved for
the common grass of the field, to which we owe, among
other things, that satisfaction to the eye in looking on
a wide landscape. The more it is crushed down, walked
over, rolled, nibbled of cattle and sheep, the more
robust it becomes at the root, and the more succulent
it grows in the young shoots it is ever sending up —
the more the true servant of man, the more it is laid
under contribution for the needs of man and beast.

Another series of very common and beautiful objects
much overlooked and maligned are the rushes. " Green
grow the rushes, O," but nowadays few care to attend
to the modest rushes that in marshy places, by the

sides of streams, and in ditches and corners of boggy

190

The Common Rusk.

191

bits of land, rise up, like wardens of the waste, and
in their season make a brightness of their own. How
straight, and clear, and shining they are, with their
fresh glancing green, that answers so nicely to wind and
sun, and, when their flowering time is come, they look
like soldiers carrying spoils, or better still, banners of
victory. In old days the common rush had a use.
The pith of it furnished the best wick that could be
found for the oil-lamp — in Scotland called a " crusie,"
diminutive of " cruse." It was a common thing for a
whole family to turn out for a day or two at certain
seasons to gather rushes by the burn and ditch sides.
From these in the evenings the pith would be extracted,
cut into lengths, tied up in bundles, and put away for
future use, stored in dry places with the greatest care.
Over wide districts no other light was known than
that derived from this rush-pith saturated with oil.
These were the days
when nolucifermatches
as yet existed, when
the only way to get
light was by the slow
and clumsy process of
striking a spark from
a flint with steel upon
tinder, and then light-
ing at this tinder a sul-
phur:tipped " spunk "
or match.

In our early days
away up in Glenesk,
beyond the village of
Edzell (to which we learn a railway is now being
constructed from Brechin, so as to join this old capital

192

Rushes.

of " the land of the Lindsays " with the big world and
full civilization), how often have we wandered by strips
of wood in the centre of great sweeps of boulder-dotted
heath land to gather the rushes ; and how often have
we lain in a sheltered corner — sheltered alike from
wind and sun by the tall rushes among which we
worked — and through the whole afternoon gathered
and patiently extracted piths, getting more and more
up to it by practice till the soft white rounded substance

would whirl, twisting from
the greeny case, like the
shavings from a plane or
a spokeshave, to return
proudly, our prize in our
hand,and receive praise and
commendation — more es-
teemed, perhaps, than any

praise or commendation we
have since received.

The only service played
by the pith of the rush now-
adays, so far as we know,
is in making the wick of
certain night-lights.
Most beautiful and imposing of all the rushes is,
perhaps, the bulrush, which has come in for a good
deal of notice from the poets. Few readers of poetry
but will remember Lord Tennyson's fine lines in the
" May Queen" : —

" When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light,
You'll never see me more in the long grey fields at night ;
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool
On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the
pool."

Water- Birds and Rushes.

193

In "The Dance of the Flowers in Welcome of the
Spring " we read : —

" The bulrush, safely guarded about
With full drawn sword, was the sentinel stout
That o'er the gathering kept close ward,
As the flowers danced merry upon the sward :
And the water-soldiers their adjutants were,
Who on their shoulders ball-epaulets wear."

The rushes are close associates of the flags and
sedges ; they are, in fact, the democracy of which these
are the aristo-
crats. Not a
bit of waste
water but the
rushes con-
trive to throw
some gleam of
colour and re-
lief over it ;
nor do they
seem wholly
out of place on the marshy borders of lonely mountain
tarns and lochs, where no such high-bred plant as the
wild iris would or could set its foot, having, despite
robustness, a certain delicacy of taste which the rush
affects not. The water-birds love the shelter of the
rushes, and are often found nestling among or under
them. . The wild-ducks, the coots, and the dabchicks
are their patrons, and are never felt to be out of place
in their vicinity ; and efts and newts and frogs, and all
their confreres, are easily kept in soft association with
the rushes. Even on streams of some little importance,
where trout of a considerable weight may be found by
the skilful fly-fisher, there are bights and little bays

N

194 Rushes.

where the water lingers, spreading out into delight-
ful tiny crescents, and where the rush contests the
right of place with some of its higher-born brethren,
and seldom fails in holding its own. If it does not,
like the daffodils of Wordsworth, flash upon that in-
ward eye which is the bliss of solitude, it is gratefully
remembered by many for sake of the useful service it
yielded in byegone da}^s.

And the rushes and sedges have, for most part, their
unfailing company of flowers : the water plantain, with
its broad leaves, the yellow iris, and the common high
flag-flower, resting amid its handsome greyish-green
leaves, so tender that it hardly bears being touched ; and
water forget-me-not, and loosestrife, and brooklime, and
crowfoot yield their welcome variety. The flowers
form a goodly fellowship, and in the most unlikely
places they grow and cluster and shed their wealth of
light and beauty.

XI.

BEES AND BEE-
KEEPING.

:HERE is in our village
one bond of good feel-
ing and amity which was
so unexpected to me that
I cannot but make special record of it. The same thing
may exist in other parochial communities, but it did
not come before me in any other place I visited in the
same definite and effective way as it has in our parish.
This is bee-keeping. The country round, owing to the
gradual enclosure of heaths and commons, is certainly
not so good for this purpose as it once was; but
gardens abound, and so conservative are the people in
following the habits of their forefathers, that there are
but few houses or cottages that do not have their
" skeps " of bees ; and the business of looking after
swarms, in which neighbour willingly helps neighbour,
forms one of the most pleasant elements in the life.

But you might live a long time without hearing much
of it, if you did not begin to keep bees yourself as I
did. Then you suddenly become the centre of a kind
of informal society, in which everything about the bees
is discussed — not only the quantities of honey obtained,
but also points relative to the habits of the bees, and

the best means of "strengthing" them through the

195

196 Bees and Bee- Keeping.

winter and guarding them ; for it is a fatal mistake on
the part of many people in towns to suppose that bees
simply hibernate the whole winter and never wake up.
On the contrary they are very wakeful, much more so
than the bee-master always wants, and in certain kinds
of weather will give him a good deal of trouble and
concern. In the occasional blinks of warmer sunny
weather we sometimes have in winter at mid-day,
certain of the bees will be apt to steal out, and to be-
come so intoxicated with the sweets of the ivy flowers,
that they will stay too long and get benumbed with
frost, and never manage to get back to the hive. I
have seen them just struggle to get on to the little
platform in front of the hive, and die there from frost.

The bee-master must prevent this by dint of various
attentions. A small tube slipped into the hole of the
hive with honey and sugar is a good one, and a very
peculiar thing may be noted with regard to the intelli-
gence of bees (of some bees, at all events) in this
matter. As soon as their tube is empty, instead of
flying out in the mid-day " blink," they will employ
themselves in hauling this tube right out of the hive to
the little platform in front, so that their condition or
want cannot be overlooked by the bee-master. At
first I fancied this was due to intermeddlers, and made
many inquiries of those about the house whether the
bee's tubes had been touched, but met with decided
"noes" at every point. Mentioning this to the man
from whom I had got my " swarms," he said, " 'Tis
queer, ain't it, but that's what my bees allus do ; and,
would you believe it o' them mites o' things ? I ha'
seen 'em with my own eyes a pullin' of the tube out,
just like a row of sailors a pullin' of a boat down the
beach to the water — so many one side, so many t'other

Stray Bees. i 97

side — one of the prettiest sights as you could ever
see."

I could not credit this myself, but my friend went
just then and took a look at my tube. " Oh," he said,
" I am summat afeard as 'tis too wide for the bees to
do the work so neatly as I have seen 'em a doin' of it.
You make a tube a little bit smaller, sir, just so much
as will let the bees have room to move at each side,
no more, and then, if I ain't mestaken, you will see
what I war a tellin' you on, if you come to them hives
about mid-day the third day after." I did so, and
'twas just as he had said, and certainly 'twas a very
pretty sight.

Then this same bee-master told me that he had
often observed stray bees that had swarmed from a
hive go back, from some cause, to the parent hive.
They were never tolerated there, but quickly turned
out ; and not only so, but for most part killed, and not
only that, but the bees proper to the hive would drag
them over the little platform in front of the hive, and
then fly down, work away till they had made a small
hole, and roll little pellets of sod over the bodies, and
thus bury them. He had seen this done not once but
scores of times, for he was an indefatigable watcher and
a thorough friend of the bees. This does not quite
agree with some observations of Sir John Lubbock,
but that may pass.

Then sometimes a vagrant wasp would intrude into
the hive, and the bees had a very short method with
him. They directed their whole power of attack on
one point — to tearing off one of the wings of the wasp,
which they were not long in effecting ; then Mr. Wasp
was helpless, could only buzz and pitifully gyrate, and,
thus maimed, he was bundled out of the hive and

198 Bees and Bee- Keeping.

thrown on the ground, but the bees did not do the
wasp the honour of burial.

But the bees have sometimes more gigantic intruders,
with whom we should suppose it would be much more
difficult for them to deal ; yet they surmount the diffi-
culty in the most ingenious and safest manner, as the
following passage from a good authority will show : —

" There are some actions of bees which we hesitate,
for want of confidence, whether to ascribe to an innate
instinct or to a more reasonable faculty of their minds.
If, as will often happen, a snail steals into the hive, he
is at once attacked and stung to death. But the bees
are not sufficiently strong to remove such .a leviathan ;
and yet, if he remains, his putrefying carcase will be
enough to breed a pestilence in the city. When the
Lilliputians wished to kill Gulliver, they were deterred
by the selfsame fear. But the bees contrive to rid
themselves of their Gulliver in a very ingenious manner.
They cannot remove him, it is true ; but they can, and
do, embalm him. They cover him all over with that
glutinous substance called 'propolis/ and this keeps
out the air, and prevents the body from decomposition.
If, however, the snail be one that wears a shell on his
back, the bees merely cover over the door of the shell,
and leave the captive to the fate which is inevitable.
These processes, though seeming to go beyond what
one conceives to be the beaten track of instinct, are,
however, so universally adopted, that one is almost
driven to the conclusion that instinct is, after all, the
motive force under which they are performed. There
is, however, a class of cases which it is evident that the
bees are accustomed to encounter, and which would,
we may suppose, be differently treated in different
hives."

A Curious Contest. 199

The very able observer, F. Miiller, states an observa-
tion of his own, which must be considered as alone
sufficient to prove that bees are able to communicate
information to one another : —

" Once " (he says, " Letter to Mr. Darwin," published
in Nature, vol. x. p. 102), " I assisted at a curious
contest which took place between the queen and the
other bees in one of my hives, which throws some
light on the intellectual faculties of these animals.
A set of forty-seven cells have been filled, eight on
a newly completed comb, thirty-five on the following,
and four around the first cell of a new comb. When
the queen had laid eggs in all the cells of the two older
combs, she went several times round their circumference
(as she always does, in order to ascertain whether she
has not forgotten any cell), and then prepared to retreat
into the lower part of the breeding-room. But as she
had overlooked the four cells of the new comb, the
workers ran impatiently from this part to the queen,
pushing her in an odd manner with their heads, as
they did also other workers they met with. In con-
sequence, the queen began again to go round on the
two older combs, but as she did not find any cell
wanting an egg, she tried to descend, but everywhere
she was pushed back by the workers. This contest
lasted for a rather long while, till the queen escaped
without having completed her work. Thus the workers
knew how to advise the queen that something was as
yet to be done, but they knew not how to show her
where it had to be done."*

Mr. John Burroughs has some very exquisite obser-
vations of bees. Here are two : —

" When a bee brings pollen into the hive, he advances
* Romanes' "Animal Intelligence," p. 157.

2oo Bees and Bee- Keeping.

to the cell in which it is to be deposited, and kicks it
off as one might his overalls or rubber boots, making
one foot help the other ; then he walks off without ever
looking behind him. Another bee, one of the indoor
hands, comes along and rams it down with his head and
packs it into the cell, as the dairymaid packs butter into
a firkin."*

And again :

" I have a theory that when bees leave the hive,
unless there is some special attraction in some other
direction, they generally go against the wind. They
would thus have the wind with them when they
returned home heavily laden, and with those little
navigators the difference is an important one. With
a full cargo, a stiff headwind is a great hindrance.
But fresh and empty-handed, they can face it with
more ease."*)-

The acquaintances and friends the bees have been
the medium of bringing me are many; and from the
many conversations I have had writh them — conversa-
tions as pleasant and obliging and neighbourly as they
were informing — I have been led to form far higher
ideas of the English peasant's power of observing and
of reasoning than I had done before. They greatly err
who fancy the agricultural labourer, in our part of the
country at all events, is a mere clod, without power of
observation, perception, sensitiveness, or delicacy. In
some things, the truth is, he puts his town-brother to
shame, only to strangers is he shy, and is little apt at
expressing himself in such a style as they could under-
stand. The bees with us, at all events, are a good bond
of union, doing not a little to break down some of the
prejudices of caste and class, a service for which I am not
* " Locusts and Wild Honey." t Pepacton, p. 104.

Sir John Lubbock. 201

aware that they have hitherto been duly or sufficiently
celebrated.

Sir John Lubbock, so far as his experiments have
gone, has not found the bees nearly so clever and
intelligent as the ants ; but I am sure he would hardly
subscribe to the statement that the bees are as lazy as
loafers, and work at the most only three months out of
the twelve, considering the many and the long journeys
he has faithfully traced day by day. At the same time,
I am certain that he would not pronounce the bees to be
free from faults either. There is one vice, as already
hinted, to which they are sometimes inclined. Like
many other animals (and men too !) who bear a high
character for industry and respectability, they are only
too apt, many of them, to go on the " spree," or to have
a " bouse." It is notorious that they will sometimes get
tipsy ; and if flowers of certain plants are within reach,
will indulge themselves by imbibing intoxicants or
narcotics with so great avidity, that stray ones now
and then will be unable to fly from the source of their
ill, and are to be found hanging there quite stupid after
sunset, and no doubt perish from cold. Bumble bees
often, and hive bees sometimes, have been found in
this tipsy condition on the flowers of certain species
of the willow.

In the Gardener's Chronicle ', so far back as 1841,
this extract will be found : —

" We regret extremely to announce that some honest
humble bees of our acquaintance have taken to drink-
ing, and' to such an extent that they are daily found
reeling and tumbling about the doors of their places
of call — the blossoms of the passion-flower, which
flow over with intoxicating beverage — and there, not
content with drinking like decent bees, they plunge

2O2 Bees and Bee- Keeping.

their great hairy heads into the beautiful goblet that
nature has provided for them, formed in such plants,
thrusting each other aside, or climbing over each other's
shoulders, till the flowers bend beneath their weight.
After a time they become so stupid that it is vain to
pull them by the skirts and advise them to go home,
instead of wasting their time in tippling. They are,
however, so good-natured in their cups, and show no
resentment at being disturbed ; on the contrary, they
cling to their wine goblet, and crawl back to it as fast
as they are pulled away, unless, indeed, they fairly lose
their legs and tumble down, in which case they lie
sprawling on the ground, quite unable to get up again."
This was held to be quite in contrast with the tem-
perate habits of hive bees by Mr. Wailes, who wrote
in the Entomological Magazine (i. 525) that hive-bees,
after their visits to his passion-flowers, hurried back to
their hive as soon as they had imbibed their supply of
nectar. This is not quite our own experience, either
in respect to the passion-flower or to the sunflower,
both of which, at certain times, contain in their nectar
some element which acts as a narcotic, or, at all events,
soporific ; for we have found both kinds of bees dull,
stupid, and more than half asleep on these flowers
after sundown, apparently unable to better themselves
and go home, emulating only too faithfully the unfor-
tunate human beings who will lay themselves asleep
by a beer-house door till they are trundled off by a
policeman. We have lifted them off the flowers of
both plants repeatedly, and held them in our hands
and put them on the flowers again, the insect having
no more energy than just to cling to the bed of the
sweet poison, and certainly not likely to go home that
night, but rather to stay there till they fell off, chilled

Bees not Lazy. 203

and stricken, only too like many other topers who are
apt to sing, "We won't go home till morning," and,
alas ! only too often don't go home even then.

With regard to the laziness of the bee, it has to be
said that in certain circumstances it may chance that
the bees are in too favourable a position, have too
much of what they want quite close at hand, to keep
them up to the mark for activity and industry, and,
like human beings, get corrupt and lazy. But facts
attest that the bee will work very hard. It is on
record that a famous bee-master kept a line of hives
on the roof of his place in the Strand ; that the bees,
not content with what they could procure in the Temple
gardens and other gardens near at hand, travelled at
certain seasons miles daily to get at the heath-bells,
for the flavour of heath was found in the honey
gathered from the hives on the top of the house in
the Strand ; and, besides, the bees were watched, and
there could be no doubt about it. Were the bees so
lazy as has been asserted, it is hardly possible that the
keeping of bees would be so profitable as it is.

The old straw or thatch hives, such as we have put
for initial, were very picturesque and all that, but
now-a-days no bee-master would be content with them.
He must have a hive the top of which is removable.
It is not necessary that great expense should be gone
into to procure this improved form of hive, which
enables the bee-master to remove honey from the
" skep " at certain times, since Mr. Hunter, the well-
known writer on bees, has given directions of such
simple character that any one can follow how to frame
very cheaply, out of stray boards and odds and ends
of wood, a hive of the most improved pattern ; and his
pamphlet can be had, I think, for a penny.

204 Bees and Bee- Keeping.

In America there are at the proper places immense
bee-farms, where there are perhaps ten thousand hives,
and where everything is reduced to a science, and the
whole treatment of bees for profitable honey-making
followed as a study, and made the one business of life
for scores of men and women.

It will probably surprise many readers to hear it
suggested that the main end of the bee's sting is not
stinging. This notion, however, has its support in
several circumstances ; one of them is that the work-
ing bees alone have stings — the others are stingless.
On this point a well-known naturalist has recently
written to the following effect : —

" It will be a surprise to many to learn that, after all,
the most important function of the bee's sting is not
its stinging. I have long been convinced that the bees
put the finishing touches on their artistic cell-work by
the dexterous use of their stings ; and during this final
finishing stage of the process of honey-making, the bees
inject a minute portion of formic acid into the honey.
This is in reality the poison of their sting. This formic
acid gives to the honey its peculiar flavour, and also
imparts to it its keeping qualities. The sting is really
an exquisitely contrived little trowel, with which the
bee finishes off and caps the cells when they are filled
brimful with honey. While doing this the formic acid
passes from the poison bag, exudes, drop by drop,
from the point of the sting, and the beautiful work is
finished."

XII.
STILL WATER.

STILL water is a very different thing from stagnant
water. We know this by the fact of the very different
kind of growths that are encouraged, and the different
kinds of life that they favour. After floods there is
always a certain amount of water left behind in depres-
sions in the lower parts of valley bottoms, but generally
it does not remain long; it is absorbed, and passes
away under the action of many agencies. All the
devices of scientific draining are averse to the stay of
this water. Generally it is still water, and any claim
such a sheet may have to picturesqueness is due to the
character of the surroundings. If the hills have wealth
of vegetation, or are bare and rocky, but with coatings
here and there of lichen or moss, how beautifully all
this is mirrored in the still sheet below ! If you sail
over it in a boat, you can see the green grass at the
bottom giving a kind of tint to the water ; and if there
are any structures on it due to the hand of man, were
it only a bit of paling or a fence-gate, you see the
upper part of it still left unhidden, mirrored in the
glassy mass. Such a bit does our first little engraving
portray.

In some of our great inland lakes, where the spurs of
the hills, set forward like an advancing foot, seem to

break the regularity of line, we see the fine effects

205

206 Still Water.

of shadow on still water. And in some cases where
little lines of low reefs of earth or stone rise up to
break the monotony of the expanse, with a fringe of
dark against the light, it only adds to the beauty ; and
though it may not be pleasing in itself, yet commends
itself to the eye from the mere desire and craving for
variety and relief in a level which is inherent in the
mind of man.

What gives the sense of weariness and oppression
in looking on a vast desert, or on expanses of still
water, is due simply to lack of relief. This is not felt

at sea, for example, nearly so much as it would be on
a still lake. The ceaseless movement of the ocean
is itself a relief; the endless variety of the swelling-
curves in its lazy wavelets and ripples, even on the
calmest day, is a delight alike to eye and brain ; while,
our pleasure on looking on such a sheet of still water
as is presented in our next engraving, is derived from
our sense of its contact with the land, and these spurs
that run into it, break it up, and impart some sense
of variety.

The pleasure which one has in looking at the lovely
wooded Ellen's Island in Loch Katrine, is largely due

Lack of Shade.

207

to this same principle. It breaks up the expanse, and
relieves the monotony that would be felt in looking
on an unrelieved level of still water. In our third
little illustration, the reader will perhaps more fully

feel the force of what has been said when he realises
the effect in this little picture of the small hut-like
islands, which are dotted over the level expanse of
lake, each casting its own shade behind it in the strong
sunlight. Here it is easily seen that anything which

breaks the smooth levelness of the middle distance is a
benefit, and helps the picturesque effect. If we allow
ourselves to analyse the impression to its roots, we
find that the secret of weariness and monotony in land-
scape is invariably the lack of shade. Perhaps some of

208 Still Water.

our readers have seen pictures of Lake Coruisk in the
Isle of Skye (a subject which, if we remember aright,
Mr. John MacWhirter painted a good many years ago).
This sheet of water would be very gloomy and un-
picturesque indeed, were it not for the peculiar form and
the deep purple colour (at all events at certain times) of
the flat-faced and almost pyramid-sided hills which
throw deep shadows on the darkish waters beneath
them, and thus by contrast a kind of inexpressible
relief is given to the scene. We know that in the
East the shadow of a great rock in a weary land is
given as the very ideal of shelter and protection. It
is as beneficial actually as it is refreshing and welcome
picturesquely. In the poems of the great German
poet, Heinrich Heine, there is a constantly recurrent
idea (which indeed crops up in his prose as well) of
the fir tree longing for the palm, and the palm tree
longing for the fir, which in a fanciful or imaginative
way admirably expresses this principle — the demand
for shade, for contrast; and as shade is only made
effective by the presence of sun affecting objects stand-
ing more or less in the midst of level spaces, the true
medium is the middle medium — not the palm alone
amid excess of sun, and single intense shadow in
centre of a quiver ingly hot expanse, nor the fir amid
the frost and snow, where the sun, even when it shines,
is so weak as scarcely to cast a shadow over the snow
or frost-whitened surface. No ; but in the something
between, which the poet indicates in the longing of
each for each, when he sings : —

" A fir tree stands all lonely

In the north, on a cold grey height ;
He slumbers, as round him ice and snow
Weave a mantle of spotless white.

Fir and Palm. 209

He dreams of a palm-tree towering

Afar in the eastern land,
Alone, and silently dreaming

'Mid rocks and burning sand.*

Thus, while the Hebrew Psalmist in one place
promises that the Lord shall lead His chosen " by
the still waters/' his companion yet more powerfully
indicates the shelter, and to them the soft benignance
of their God, by likening His tender and solicitous
kindness to the shadow of a great rock in a weary
land — an idea which is made fine use of in that
grandest hymn of Luther, " Ein feste Burg ist unser
Gott." Art, in interpreting for us the benignity of
nature as it affects our spirits, says almost the same.
In its selection — its necessary selection — of elements
that present a unity to the mind of the observer, it
must carefully balance the shadows and the lights, the
blacks and the whites, the sun and the shade ; so that,
though it may be sweet there also to walk by the
" still waters," yet sweeter at once in intenser pains
and in intenser pleasures, is it to rest under "the
shadow of a great rock in a weary land."

* This is from Heine — a free translation — and here is the original : —

" Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam,

Im Norden auf kahler Hoh,
Ihn schlafert mit weisser Decke

Umhiillen ihn Eis und Schnee.
Er traumt von einer Palme

Die fern im Morgenland,
Einsam und schweigend trauert

Auf brennender Felsenwand."

XIII.
A SCOTTISH TROUT STREAM.

HAT a delightful thing
it is to wander, as we
have often done, alike
in Perthshire and In-
verness, on Deeside
and Tweedside, and
in Rachan Valley,
about the hills that line Loch
Long, by the borders of Gare-
loch and Roseneath Hill, and
far up in the famed Glenesk,
and follow the course of a tiny
stream leaping down the hill side,
now heady and impetuous, now dropping into little
pools or basins, boulder-walled, all the waterside
waving with ferns and wild flowers, and bright with
mosses, not a nook but has its greenery, spray re-
freshed, hawthorns, the mossy birches, and firs and
mountain ashes and elders, hanging on the sides of
the little chasm, nodding to each other, their branches
in many places meeting overhead; and everywhere
the songs of birds making chord with the sweet
tinklings and lullabies of that little thread of water;
wild pigeons, mountain-pipits, and water-ousels com-
ing to the pools to drink. This last is truly a pretty

A Delightful Afternoon. 2 1 1

bird, white-breasted, short-tailed, and with a happy
faculty for mingling business and pleasure, or so it
seems to me. He comes here to drink perhaps, but
he does more before he leaves. He will perch on a
stone and sit quite still for a while ; then he will dive,
and, speedily coming up again, will return to the stone
and perhaps drop a few notes of very sweet and cheer-
ful music, all his own, and liquid as the streams he
haunts. There is a kind of legend that he can walk
in water at the bottom, seeking his food, but I have not
been fortunate enough to observe it so long under
water as to suggest this, which, however, I can well
believe. The Duke of Argyll has told how the young
dippers will take to the water on being frightened, and
will at once show the same diving power as their elders.
"The stream has innumerable lesser tributaries, too —
tiny rain-courses, or little more, some of them, pouring
themselves through rough rocky channels, to join and
to enlarge the streamlet as it goes, and making all the
music they may ere they pass and are lost.

We remember one delightful afternoon spent near to
where a little stream of this kind bickers and sings on
its way to join the Tummel — most delightful and most
varied of streams, sweetest mixture of idyllic and of
cunningly dangerous among all the rivers that we
know. " Tummel Falls indeed are tricksy, Tummel
Falls are rare," but do not attempt, as some have done,
to slide-, and glide, and get behind that white curtain,
half of cloudy mist, and half of more prosaic element,
as you may regret it. You may slip, plunge, and
be carried away ; or, if not quite that, receive such
a douche that you are not likely to forget it, or ever
after fail to speak with due respect, not to say enthu-
siasm, of bonnie Tummel.

212

A Scottish Trout Stream.

But Scottish streams show a different character in
many cases. Here is a bit that might pass for a
brawling shallow in the Tweed, or in the North Esk,
or in the Spey, or in the Ness, or the Ithen. How
sweetly refreshing it is to look on such a bit as this !
The brown water sails along with a kind of smooth
even demeanour, till it meets with opposition from the
big boulders, green and slippery, and then it " puts up its

back,"to use a colloquialism, and, since it cannot overleap
the obstacle, it will dash and throw itself in foam against
it, so protesting. But very different it is when the river
is in spate. Then the water overtops the boulders, and
goes dashing along with defiance in its face. No ob-
stacle can resist it then. Majesty crowns the " drumlie
flood," and all goes down before it. Siller Tweed, broad-
breasted Spey, soft Southesk, and leaping Northesk,
with its Kelpie's pools, and lovely Dee, and sweet Tay

Floods. 2 1 3

gleaming, are all alike then, and have no shallows; a dull
uniformity of dark umber depths then prevails, and wipes
out the more attractive marks ; all are robbed of their
more distinguishing beauties and characteristic traits.

Nevertheless some of our painters have painted
splended pictures of rivers in spate when the greeny
ordered beauty of the bank or margin was lost in
a roaring brown sea, and when all resources of
the pencil had to be applied to render the whirl and
wild gurgling dash of brown water, leaping, passing
here and there into foam-covered swirling eddies.
One picture we remember of Mr. Peter Graham,
masterly in the general effect as in details, and another,
if we remember rightly, from the easel of Mr. J. R.
Macdonald, R.S.A., and still another from that of
Mr. W. Mactaggart, R.S.A.

And floods have left their mark in . literature too.
The great flood on the Spey, which wrecked a valley,
and was almost as memorable for wonderful and rom-
antic escapes as for the lives lost, has received
worthy commemoration. Few that have read it will
ever forget Sir Thomas Dick Lander's thrilling and
faithful pictures, or the yet more wonderful effects
which Dr. George Macdonald gains from his highly
poetical and dramatic presentation of the phenomena
in his novel of " Sir Gibbie," which would have a
permanent value were it for this feature alone.

It is this great change, sometimes very sudden,
which was in the mind of the writer of that famous
song, "The Flowers of the Forest," when this fine
verse was penned —

" I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning,
And the red storm roaring before the parting day ;
I've seen Tweed's siller streams, glistening on the sunny beams,
Grow drumlie and dark as they rolled on their way."

214

A Scottish Trout Stream.

Yes, truly, "drumlie and dark," as we have said;
and what more finely expressive or symbolic of the
sudden change, sudden as the flash of shining swords
in dewy light, under which the flowers o' the forest
are a' wede away !

But such a storm, with the results that naturally
follow, brings the angler's opportunity. Most fre-
quently it is just after such a spate as this has

somewhat subsided, when the waters lessen, but are
not yet wholly clear, that the fisherman finds his harvest.
The big fish are all astir then, eager to feed, and the
angler not seldom exults in the heavy "take."

Then even small streams are swollen to rivers, and
the fall, which after a drought dwindles and dwindles
to little more than a white thread, becomes once again
a waterfall — voice of hungry, hissing, rushing torrent,
which carries down with it no end of driftwood,

Tweed.

217

drowned sheep, and hay or corn that may have lain
on the flooded lands near to it far, far up above.

The Tweed is undoubtedly the queen of Scottish
rivers, not alone because of its length and the variety
of the scenery it passes through, and its clearer pebbly
strand than any other Scottish river enjoys, or the
number and varied character of the tributaries it re-
ceives, but because of its associations — the aromas of

SPROUSTON DUB.

song and ballad that linger about it, the histories of
hero* 'and of poet that are enlinked with it, the human
spell that is upon it adding to it, and seeming to in-
terpret its varied beauty. True it is, as the poet
sings—

" Thy lot it is, fair stream, to flow amid
A varied vale : not mountain height alone,
Nor mere outspreading flat is dully thine,

218 A Scottish Trout Stream.

But wavy lines of hills, high, massive, broad,

That rise and fall, and flowing softly fine

In haughs of grassy sward, a deep-hued green." *

And truly what a contrast there is between the
brawling foaming torrent below Yair and the sunny
repose of such sheets as we give of Hare Craig Pool,
below Dryburgh, and the famous Sprouston Dub,
beloved of anglers ! But it is true also that there is a
varied music of human hearts, of dim-hued memories,
and high ambitions foiled and overthrown, and pas-
sions and disappointed hopes that keep time to its music
as it flows for ever, inalienable, beautiful, glad and
undying : —

" Great nature mocks us if the heart can take
No tribute of high memory to invest
Her beauty with the sense of love and good."

In some respects the tributaries of such a river as
the Tweed will be found as interesting, or even more
interesting, than the river itself. Some of them have
been finely celebrated in Professor Veitch's poem,
"The Tweed." Not to speak of the Lyne and the
Manor, which flow into it from north and south above
Peebles ; the latter, with its rushing water, leaping,
laughing, and rolling through steep and lofty moun-
tains, and high up in whose solitary valley abode David
Ritchie, the original of Scott's "Black Dwarf;" or of
the Leithen, lower down, which, after sweeping through
a greeny vale, throws its ample stream into the more
level region of the river, where the gently rising banks
are richly wooded, only in the pass beyond Yair to
narrow and rush on, foaming, impetuous, as Sir Walter
Scott has painted it : —

* " The Tweed and other Poems," by Professor John Veitch, LL.D.

The Eden. 219

" From Yair, which hills so closely bind,
Scarce can the Tweed his passage find,
Though much he fret and chafe and toil,
Till all his eddying currents boil."

or of the famous Ettrick, oft-besung, or the romance-
shaded dreamy Yarrow; or of long-flowing, legend-
laden Teviot ; or of Gala Water — " Draw, braw lads on
Gala Water ; " or of the ominously named Whiteadder
and Blackadder, yet lower down. After all these
there are still three tributaries of the Tweed, which,
on their separate and contrasted accounts, may claim
from us a little more attention. These are the Eden,
and the Till, and the Quair. The former is in places
a very narrow stream, gathering into bouldery- spread
pools, with steep banks on either side, so steep indeed
that not seldom the fisher must wade either up or
down ; and it has very considerable falls here and
there, the most notable of which is the Newton Don Fall
(often called Stitchell Linn), where the water gathers
into a comparatively wide basin, for the volume of the
stream above, and throws itself foaming, and divided, as
it were, into different streams, down a series of stairlike
shelves, parted from each other again to form a wide
basin below, where the water, after slowly eddying
round, seems to pause restfully, recovering from the
effects of its turmoil before proceeding on again. This
fall is, in every respect, beautiful and striking, being
something over sixty feet in height. This is a height
far beyond the power of salmon to ascend; and it
forms a barrier also to the passing and repassing of
some kinds of trout, and hence the character of the
trout above differs in several points from those found
below.

Though sixty feet is far beyond the power of salmon

220 A Scottish Trout Stream.

to ascend, it is very wonderful the heights that they will
leap. I have stood by the side of a northern stream
at the right season, close by what are called "the salmon
loups," where the falls are certainly more than ten feet
in height, and have seen the salmon in crowds leaping
up, their bodies seen for several seconds clear out of
the water — glancing, silvery purple, luminous, beauti-

STITCHELL LINN.

ful. Most of them, of course, fell back to try again,
but every now and then one would succeed and pass
upward.

It is near to such spots as this that the otter delights
to make his home, to prey on the larger fishes. The
general idea is that he is a very particular feeder,
eating only the more delicate portions for the most
part, and leaving the bulk of the fish on the banks,
to lead skilful eyes to know of his whereabouts. The

Otters. 221

facility with which otters can be tamed and trained
and domesticated has led to no end of stories of otters
becoming the cunning and helpful mates of poachers,;
and it is said that in old days not seldom the residents
near a stream where an otter worked winked at his
depredations, and hid the fact of his existence, because
they knew where they could always find a good meal
by going and taking the portions of the salmon which
he had rejected and left on the banks.

SALMON LOUPS.

Later reports — the result of what claims to be closer
observation— go to give the poor otter a somewhat
better character. A writer in the Fishing Gazette in
the.-beginning of the year (1893) stood up for him,
declaring that he was more the angler's friend than
many would credit. " Whilst we write," he says, "we
have in our mind a little river in our own neighbour-
hood, than which for its size there is not a better in
the kingdom as a trout stream; and yet this river,
figuratively speaking, actually swarms with otters. . . ,

222 A Scottish Trout Stream.

Fish forms only a part of the otter's daily meals. The
young of water-hens, coots, and other birds breeding
by the water-side, and at times rabbits, and even large
worms, are common changes in an otter's diet ; while
frogs, eels, and the crustaceous crayfish are probably
thought as great a dainty as the brightest of silvery
salmon. These facts are proved by an examination of
the animal's ' foil,' while we have over and over again
had demonstration of the avidity with which vegetable
food is consumed." And the theory of this writer is
that the otter chiefly preys on weak or diseased fish,
unable to evade his pursuit, as healthier fish almost
invariably do, and that he is thus really a scavenger of
the streams. We honestly confess to a sneaking re-
gard for the otter, because he has been so ruthlessly
persecuted and destroyed, and has shown so much
bravery and persistence ; and if the facts are as given
above, then the habits and character of the otter should
plead for him and prevent the wanton and cruel de-
struction of this beautiful and clever animal which has
so long and ruthlessly been carried on. But certainly
the " Son of the Marshes " is not wholly at one with
this idea, for he says the otter eats only the belly and
shoulders of pike, and leaves good bits of eel on the
banks. " Less refined creatures," he adds, " can dine
on what he leaves on the banks." .

Nowadays, in many streams, the proprietors or con-
servators of the water, to aid the fish in their struggles
to ascend these falls or "loups" to the most favoured
spawning grounds, have erected what are called salmon
ladders or steps — a kind of artificial aid, which, if we
mistake not, the late Frank Buckland did much to im-
prove and to commend. In old days, when the legis-
lature with regard to protection of fish, and a " close

Leistering. 223

time" for them, was not so strict as it now is, and
when men were more regardless of law, and salmon
poaching was largely practised, it was common for the
poachers to do a good stroke at the pools at the foot of
these falls. A number of men went out at night with
torches in their hands, and others with leisters or three
and four pronged fork-like implements, with which on
seeing a fish near them, they settled it by driving the
leister into it, fixing it to the bottom and then seizing
it — a most cruel and wasteful process, with which the
law now deals very severely, for the fish thus killed
were of course on their way up to spawn, and in
course of time the rivers by this system were greatly
depopulated.

On this point Sir Thomas Dick Lauder well says —
" Like many other things that are very nefarious in
practice, there is much in the most destructive of prac-
tices that is productive of romantic and picturesque
effect — the darkness of the night, the blaze of torches
upon the water, the flash of the foam from the bare
limbs of the men who are wading through the shallows,
with their long poles and many pointed and barbed
iron heads, or glancing from the prow of the boat,
moving slowly over the deeper water, with its strange
unearthly figures in it." *

The Till beats the Eden both for depth and for
rapidity. Scott calls it " the sullen Till," but it can
rush .and sparkle too. It is not safe for the fisherman
to wade it. People attempting to cross it even at what
seemed 'the shallower parts have had to retrace their
steps.

" Tweed said to Till,
' What gars ye rin sae still ?'

* " Scottish Rivers," p. 45.

224

A Scottish Trout Stream.

Till said to Tweed,
' Though ye rin wi' speed,
And I rin slaw,

. Sae still as ye rin and fast as ye gae,
Yet where ye drown ae man
I drown twae.'"

The vale of the Till, here rocky and wild, there
ailing into gentler pools and forming little lakes, such
2S is represented in this cut by Twisel Mill, running

TWISEL MILL.

up into the English Northumberland, has its own
share of historical interest as well as its own individual
character. The Bridge of Twisel (not far from Twisel
Mill), afforded great aid to the army of Lord Surrey.
It was by it that the English were enabled to meet the
Scottish army at Flodden — a movement for ever memor-
able in history, and splendidly celebrated by Sir Walter
Scott in verses that breathe and burn : —

The Qutiir. 225

" From Flodden ridge

The Scots beheld the English host

Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post,

And heedful watch'd them as they cross'd
The Till by Twisel Bridge.

High sight it is, and haughty, while

They dive into the deep defile ;

Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall,

Beneath the castle's airy wall.
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,

Troop after troop are disappearing ;

Troop after troop their banners rearing,
Upon the eastern bank you see.
Still pouring down the rocky den,

Where flows the sullen Till,
And rising from the dim-wood glen,
Standards on standards, men on men,

In slow succession still,
And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,
And pressing on, in ceaseless march,

To gain the opposing hill.
That morn, to many a trumpet clang,
Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang ;
And many a chief of birth and rank,
Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank.
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly,
Had then from many an axe its doom,
To give the marching columns room."

As to Quair, it is surrounded by associations more
gently sad and sweet — touching, pathetic, and yet
pleasing. It is the symbol of love and wooing and
regretful memories of pure passion defeated or ele-
vated through disappointment and ill. Professor Veitch
has well apostrophised it : —

Come, gentle Quair, thou dear loved stream of song 1
Long consecrate to passion's bootless prayer ;
By thee Love's hope has dawned and dwined and died,
From 'mid the spring, when tender birken boughs

P

226 A Scottish Trout Stream.

Are growing green, and all the lover's heart
Throbs with upbraiding full and wild unrest
That nature is so kind, and fate so hard.*

And Principal Shairp in his beautiful ballad of the
" Bush aboon Traquair/' more than most, has thrown
a new light across the very spirit of the old Border
ballad :—

" What saw ye there,

At the Bush aboon Traquair ?
And what heard ye there that was worth your heed ?

I heard the cushies croon

Thro' the gowden afternoon,
And the Quair burn singin' doon to the Vale o' the Tweed.

And birks, saw I three or four,

Wi' grey moss, bearded ower,
The last that are left o' the birkenshaw,

Whar mony a simmer e'en,

Fond lovers did convene
Thae bonny, bonny gloamin's that are far a\\ a;.

They were best beyond compare,

When they held their trystin' there
Amang the greenest hills shone on by the sun ;

And there they wan a rest,

The lounest and the best,
I Traquair Kirkyard when a' was dune.

Now the birks to dust may rot,

Names o' lovers be forgot,
Nae lads and lasses there ony mair convene ;

But the blithe lilt o' yon air

Keeps the Bush aboon Traquair,
And the love that ance was there, aye fresh and green.

* " The Tweed " and other poems.

Dry burgh Abbey.

227

And then for old keeps and peel towers, and famous
ruins, and still more famous houses not ruins, on its
borders, what river can equal Tweed ? There is
Melrose Abbey — the prince of them all ; there is
Dryburgh Abbey, with its 'celebrated burial-place,

DKYBURGH ABBEY.

and Norham Castle lower down, on Northumberland
side, overhanging the steep, a fortress that figured
largely in stories of battles and sieges,* and makes

* In Mr. Hubert E. H. Jerningham's interesting volume, published
by Wm. Patterson of Edinburgh, will be found the fullest details

228

A Scottish Tro^lt Stream.

us think of Tweed as the poet thought of it when he
wrote : —

" The symbol thou, O Tweed, of those two lands,
The South and North, that long in conflict strove,
And from their striving found a greater life."

NORHAM CASTLE.

about Norham Caslle. He gives as frontispiece a drawing of Norham
as it was in the time of Pudsey (1151), a stately pile with strong en-
circling wall, running so low on the range of the mound that the whole
structure could be clearly seen from a distance ; also a sketch of the
castle in 1680, when the ruinous process had so far proceeded that all
the small square turrets had disappeared. All that now remains of the
historical pile is presented in our engraving.

Nor ham. 229

Sir Walter Scott, in the opening of " Marmion,"
has this fine description of Norham : —

" Day set on Norham's castled steep,
And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep,

And Cheviot's mountains lone :
The battled towers, the donjon keep,
The loophole grates, where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,

In yellow lustre shone.
The warriors on the turrets high,
Moving athwart the evening sky,

Seem'd forms of giant height :
Their armour, as it caught the rays,
Flash'd back again the western blaze,

In lines of dazzling light."

From the ramparts of nodding Neidpath Castle, the
dying girl bent down to hail the banished lover,
recalled, alas ! too late, by a sorrowing father. She
met the unrecognising glance raised to her changed
face, and stricken by the pang of pain, fell back dead,
while the lover was hurrying up the stair to greet her.
Elibank Tower, the rude home of Muckle-mou'ed Meg,
sung often in ballad, and idealised by Browning, over-
looks the Tweed, the Siller Tweed, which Scott pined
for by " the yellow Tiber and the green, becastled
Rhine."

And then there is Abbotsford, sacred to the memory
of the Magician of the North, and Ashestiel, his first
love 'on the classic stream (of which we speak else-
where), and Yair, the home of a branch of the power-
ful Pringles, and many another classic house and
home, each with its own history, its own traditions, its
legends and song lore.

A very different aspect does the Scottish river pre-
sent, when it glides down into something of a lake-like

230 A Scottish Trout Stream.

aspect, as it steals round its banks, fir-fringed/ with
many a bend and circuit, and staying its waters, as
though it were loath to leave behind it such a paradise.
It seems like a lover looking back at a loved one,
lingering and gazing still and beckoning farewell.
The more surely is this the case when the full moon
looks down' and makes a milder softer daylight, leaving
his trace upon the water in many a rippling curving

bend — faint images and prophecies of himself, when
he shall become but a crescent in the sky once
more. Such a scene as this might indeed tempt one
to exclaim —

" Beautiful moon, so soft, so bright,
Walking the pathways by the night.

Over the clouds like a ship you leap,
Leaving a track of pearl to keep

Loch Hourn.

A halo, and tell you have passed that way,
In spite of the clouds that eclipse your ray.

Beautiful moon, so soft, so bright,

Like a shepherd watching his flocks by night,

That wander away and wander far,

For your flock is planet and trembling star.

And they seek to serve you in many a guise,
And dote most fondly in your fair eyes ;
And circle you round in river and lake,
With a meek obeisance no winds can break.

If it blows too roughly, you only smile,
The better your followers to beguile ;
And you lift a look of sublime repose
When the calm of a tempest before it goes.

The Lightning shakes out its locks in vain ;
You walk serenely o'er cloudy plain ;
And you look so fair through the fir trees fine,
We wonder not men held you once divine."

All about these Scottish streams are little bits of
wild rocky barriers, as it were, where the water is
made to leap and toss and curvet, and then fall over
green slippery boulders into tiny pools beyond, where
the fish — and bigger fish than you would believe — are
often found to lie, waiting for the tit-bits brought down
by the stream, or lying half hid watching for their
favourite flies which often affect these stiller pools.
Here is one of these corners, such as is to be found
on .many a northern stream.

And often these streams pour themselves into lakes
which' lie surrounded by their mountains, open ever to
sun, moon, and stars. A typical lake in this respect is
Loch Hourn, with its rocky piers and buttresses and
shelving hills. What soft, tender, dewy lines of light
lie along such a sheet in the sunrise as we oft have

232

A Scottish Trout Stream.

seen them, and what golden glories flit across it in
the sunset, while the deepening shadows of the hills,

purple below, their summits touched with fire, repro-
duce themselves in these still depths. Some of the
most magnificent effects of light and shade we have

ever seen were beheld on some of these Scottish lakes,
when, too, the mists were creeping round the moun-
tains, and the wind began to blow its trumpets, an

Cloud and Mist. 235

the echoes of further hills to make regular reply, and
over the eastern sky hung gloomy, bastion-like fringes
of rain, while yet trembling bars of sunset glory
lingered in the west, pulsating with a redder, bloodier
gleam, suddenly to fade and pale and pass, and leave
behind a deeper darkness, lit up only by the lightning-
flash, and then round all the peaks and scars " rattled
the live thunder." But it would need the pen of a
Scott to do anything like justice to such scenes and
such sounds.

But one thing may be said, unclouded clearness of
sun and still air burdened with dry heat are not the
mediums through which to behold at their best the
beauties of Scottish, and more particularly of Highland
scenery : the mists that creep at earlier morning or in
storm, like mighty serpents, round the bases of the
mountains, and rise up and up till the peak alone is
hidden, mist-capped, and then gradually pass, to leave,
as it were, gems twinkling about it ; so that the
looker-on will sometimes wonder whether morning
stars do not linger still near the glancing summits of
some of our rocky bens. It is all very well to com-
plain of cloud and mist, of the dull, low-hanging curtains
of rain, and the uncomfortable, penetrating, drizzling
falls of wet ; these supply the elements that give colour,
life, and grandeur to our Scottish hills and lakes —
sunny, tearful, laughing, frowning, clear or misty, sun-
lit or darkly shadowed by sudden turns. Without
our clouds and mists and rains we should compare
but poorly with Southern France, with Italy, or with
the Austrian Tyrol.

Has not De Quincey essayed to prove indeed that
our literature — our higher imaginative literature — owes
much to mist and cloud, to the effects of sun and rain

236 A Scottish Trout Stream.

and sullen skies with leaden downlook ? He compares,
in this respect, the genius of Milton with that of Dante.
The latter he holds is the genius of exact, of powerful
description — every object he describes could be mea-
sured— you could draw it faithfully to scale if you had
but canvas enough ; he magnifies, but with definiteness
still ; while again Milton suggests to the imagination
what cannot be measured, great cloudy shapes, phan-
toms that move, misty, grand, sublime. He delights
in vague and measureless outlines and vast masses,
and thus gains grandeur and true sublimity which
Dante, after all, seldom or never does. And this De
Quincey ingeniously argues is attributable to the fact
that Milton had seen mists and fogs and cloud-capped
mountains, and had been deeply impressed by them ;
while Dante had seen natural objects always in clear
light, and had no conception of the misty and vague to
heighten, if indeed it is not essential to, the grandeur
of the sublime.

Mr. Grant Allen may be inclined to press an idea
too far when he wishes to prove the presence of a
Celtic strain in all our great artists, whether in paint-
ing, music, or poetry ; but there can be no doubt that
power is in the hills, and that .the power of the hills is
more or less on them, with their sense of shadow, depth,
and passing yet undying glory, which has done much
to give to the Celtic genius, nursed among the hills, its
inner sense of beauty, of sadness, and mournful change,
of lyric love and grief, regretful pathos, and of tragedy.

In a letter received the other day from an invalid
friend at Hyeres, this point was very effectively indi-
cated : —

" It is curious that these southern climes, so beautiful
in some of their atmospheric effects, have nothing of

Benefits of Angling. 237

the deep poetic effects of the lovely hills, glades, dells,
and rivers of England or Scotland. You require to
see everything in the far distance to get any fine effect
at all. The most beautiful bit of landscape turns into
a mud-heap of olive groves or a market-garden. If
we had but a rather better climate, I think there is no
place more purely poetically beautiful than the more
picturesque parts of our own country — so soft, so
dewy, and so deliciously changeful under changing
lights and shades, and yet restful too."

Full justification for the sport of fly-fishing on the
streams or on the lakes of our northern regions, were
there no other, might be found in this, that in scarce
any other manner could those indulging in it be so
unconsciously impressed and educated in the sense of
the truly imaginative picturesque. If as Izaak Walton
declared of angling that it was " the contemplative
man's recreation " northern fly-fishing may be regarded
as the sport above all others that leads to imaginative
reverie and to poetry.

Even the rattling, somewhat too boyish, high-spirited
" Christopher North " knew this, and acted on it, as is
to be seen not only in such essays as " Streams," but
in those delightful pathetic tales, " Lights and Shadows
of Scottish Life," which are, in great part no doubt,
the outcome of Christopher's wanderings by stream and
glen, by wood and mountain, and by moor, into which
he was led for most part by his keen love of the angle
and the fly and the landing-net.

XIV.
AN ENGLISH STREAM.

IT has been much the habit of poets 'and essayists to
moralise the stream by finding in it a symbol of human
life. Such poems as Miss Ingelow's " Divided " savour
of it; and Lord Tennyson's exquisite lyric in "The
Brook : an Idyl " brings the parabolic element into fine
prominence — a point which the famous "C. L. S.", the
late Mr. Calverley, very cleverly took advantage of and
fully brought out in his well-known parody of it. For
the stream has its quiet secluded infancy up in some
remote mountain cradle, where the winds fan it, and
the sunshine makes it radiant, as it goes laughing play-
ful through its sobbing grasses, waving sedges, or by
banks bright with starlike primroses, and ragweed and
ranunculus in their season, then on, like flushing youth,
as it broadens its breast to sun and moon, to receive

Wonder of the Water. 239

yet more fully of the light and shade, and to return
more readily its offering to the winds in tiny waves
and ripples, and swiftly interchanging sun and shadow,
exulting in happy " give and take." Onward and on-
ward, till over the gravel it goes dancing towards its
fullest, where it falls over a little ledge, bubbling and
singing to itself, figuring early manhood, with little
backward eddies, gusts of passion and desire, when
suddenly again it recovers itself, and sighing now and
then restfully as it laps the margins, passes on over
a slightly rocky fall into broader reaches, and then,
as if to mirror the absorbment of the man in the wider
and also the more intense and tender ties of life, it
pours itself into a bigger current, to find its way, not
lost but transfigured, amid many influences, towards
the great ocean.

" The wonder of the water is the song,

It sings for ever moving on its way ;
Now charm of dropping notelets in the play
Of sun and shadow ; now the chorus strong
As tumbling o'er the rocks it doth prolong
Its passion-sobs in eddies circling gay,
In fretted glory as the branches' sway,
And then with dreamy murmur sails along
To catch a beauty from an ampler day,
Broad-breasted under sun or milder moon/'

Let me take you for a walk by the borders of a sweet
English stream that I know well, where, often I have
roved alike at early morn and dewy eve, in the warm
noontides of the sweet summer-time, and in the golden
afternoons of autumn, when nature spreads her richest
tints around, and the stream is ready to reflect it all,
showing here and there the golden radiance finely
transfigured in its bosom, like a dream, bringing indeed

240 An English Stream.

a sense of dreamlike absorption and half trance, as
one stood and looked into the wondrous world reversed
and almost more beautiful below. Wordsworth, it is

true, speaks of

" that uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake."

But here very often there is little of uncertainty — the
more you gaze the less you realise that element. My
favourite walk from my house to this stream is over a
series of gentle swelling hills that rise and dip, and rise
again, and all along the course you come on little bits
of broken ragged hedgerow, where the furze bushes
rise and hang out their flowers like lamps along the
pathway, where if there is no legal right-of-way, there
is a kind of neighbourly allowance and indulgence that
makes the privilege the more appreciated, as the journey
is all the more quiet and solitary. And now and then the
eye is gladdened with a tuft of broom, and a few thistles
will rise beside them, and, oh ! the stir and chatter that
you are guilty of interrupting at certain seasons, when
the thistles are in seed, and the linnets and the gold-
finches are busy fluttering over it, and now and then
utter little shrill protests against the presence of so
many rivals just there.

" When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed "

sings the late laureate. Three! In a little patch no
bigger than the top of the table on which I write, I
have seen twenty, and now and then their motions
making the thistle down fly like a mist, and that
flutterings on my approach making the narrow space
seem alive, as they uttered their cries of alarm or
warning, and simply dropped down and disappeared

Delightful Stillness.

241

on the other side of the clump till I had passed, and
were back again before I was actually out of view.

What a delightful stillness, freshness," and repose
there is about the stream at the point where I join it.
When you come to the bank, your eye just catches the
twinkle of fins — the dart-away from you of some
denizen, much interrupted in his business by your
appearance. As you look, you discover that the water
is wonderfully clear ; you can see the bottom and all

that is in it, as you look through the pale brown water,
and on the opposite side, under a tuft of sedge, you can
see a stickleback's nest, with the tail of the little fellow's
wife just escaping from the opening of it.

I walk on a little way, and soon pass by slightly
more varied ground, the borders of the stream more
wooded, and the current a shade swifter. This is a
very nice bit of water for small trout, which are very
fond of lying in the deeper pools at the roots of the

O

242

An English Stream.

trees, at certain hours of the day, and are very active
in the purling runs at other times. Here I cross a
little wooden bridge, and proceeding downward on the
other side, I find my good friend, Will Hartley, with
his angle, fishing as is his wont. I bid him good day,
and ask him how he is getting on.

" Oh, pretty well, thank *ee" he cries, turning round ;

" can't expec' much — the water do be too clear 'ere-
abouts to-day,"we want some little bit o' rain to darken
it afore~we can hope for much o' sport. ' But I allus
say as the fisherman's constitutional is in patient
waitin', and so we mun just wait." I ask him how his
friend, Joe Timmins, the keeper is. " Well," he says,
" I hear from his goodwife this mornin', as he do feel a

" Poor' Joe!

243

bit better, easier like, but them troubles," he goes on
with a serious look, " wants a good share o' nursinV
Poor Joe had fallen from a tree he had ascended after
some young owls — the branch gave way, and he fell
from a considerable height, breaking his arm and hurt-
ing the spine, and owing to cold, erysipelas had set in,
and Joe's friends were very anxious about him. I
express my sympathy for Joe, and bid Will Hartley
good day and pass on.

Further on, how deliciously it winds, and ripples
and eddies, by little headlands, with their fortifications
in front "of them of sedges, rushes, and no end of water-
weeds, and in the stiller little bays and reaches even
bands of water-lilies, spreading out their round, broad,
dark green leaves, with the wonderful white cup,
magically astir in its season, in the centre of them.

244 ^n English Stream.

The ground rises slightly higher on the margins, and
gives the idea that [the water has had more work than
elsewhere in cutting a course for itself through this
part, and now exults in its reward ; for, not only is the
place most beautiful, but it abounds, more than we have
yet seen, in life of various kinds. The wild ducks are
fond of paying this part a visit at certain times, and the
heron, in the still of the evening, will come and stand
like a veritable wisp of foam in the swifter currents,
under the shade of fir tree or beech ; coots and dab-
chicks appear and disappear in the oddest and most
arbitrary manner, while we now get tokens in many
forms of the presence of voles, water-rats, and water-
shrews. Wherever you have sedges, flags, and irises,
there is a chance of finding water-voles, for they are
very fond of these, as we have said already; and
wherever there is such a margin as to afford at places
the kind of aquatic insects that lie half concealed under
little stones, you are almost sure to see signs of the
water-shrew if you look close enough. As for the
water-rat, he is everywhere, and cunningly takes advan-
tage of the presence of almost everything else, to make
himself fat and comfortable. And he is a rare swimmer
too. On this account he is often mistaken for the water
vole by those who do not watch long, though he swims
differently in various respects.

This character of scenery prevails for a considerable
distance — the streamside forming a most delightful
walk, so delightful that advantage has been taken to
lay out a rough sort of path, not seldom the resort of
lovers at the sweet eventide, when everything — earth
and air, sky and water — seems to be in harmony with
the whispers they use to impart to each other the
"open secrets," which poets are never tired of cele-

The Kingfisher. 245

brating in song and novelists in novels. We shall not
intrude on their province further than to say that
wherever they can they should set their lovers a walk
by just such a streamside as this, whose very course
may, as it were, musically mirror theirs, and their soft
sighings and whisperings find symbol in those of the
running water.

It is just about such parts of a stream as this, with
trees and bushes on the margin, and with little deeper
pools here and there, that you may see the kingfisher

still pursuing his work, proving that, despite all the
persecution of sportsmen and specimen-seekers, a few
still survive to show to the careful observer how lovely
the halcyons are. You can scarcely tell of what colour
he is, he is so full of bright shades, as though bur-
nished, 'bronze, chestnut, green and blue, and red and
purple, with no end of other colours. Even in the
distance you would know him with his long bill, his
lengthened wings, and his short, little, stumpy tail,
that is better seen as he flies than as he sits when the

246 An English Stream.

long wings go to hide it, or make it appear even less
prominent than it really is. Do you want a sight of
him ? Then be wary. Stand here silent, and look
through this low-hanging sycamore branch. See ! he
sits still as a bit of the branch on which he has perched,
and which overhangs the water. Look, look ! suddenly
he descends, as in arc of a circle, dives ; he has
found his prey — a small fish, and is off with it in his
beak to feed his young ones, which are very care-
fully sheltered in a hole in the bank there — the very

strangest of all our native birds' nests. It is formed
merely of the bones of the fishes which he has eaten,
and which he disgorges, lays them on a shelf he has
formed at the end of his hole, with a depression in
it, the larger bones below, the smaller bones, as of
minnows, above, and he contrives to glue these little
bones slightly together by some of the saliva or natural
cement which many birds, swallows and others, secrete
and use, and which finds its highest and fullest use,
as regards nest-building, at all events, in the case of

" Plea for the Birds" 247

those Chinese birds that build what are called edible
nests.

But the halcyon is not very particular in this respect ;
so loose and careless is he, indeed, that it is almost
impossible to carry off in anything like proper shape
a halcyon's nest ; and these curiosities have over and
over again been advertised for by collectors and for
museums, and I have even heard that as much as
£100 have been offered for a fairly perfect specimen.
But such a run there is on Old Halcyon — fly-fishers
will give anything almost for certain feathers of his
for their hooks — as well as on his nest, that it is to be
feared before very many years have elapsed he will be
utterly extinct, unless some more strict laws are laid
down for his protection. There is, or used to be,
a great prejudice against him among sportsmen and
fishermen, because it was believed that he was very
fond of, and devoured trout-spawn ; but that fine orni-
thologist and careful observer, the Rev. H. D. Rawnsley,
in his " Plea for the Birds," defends poor Halcyon, and
says that he seeks as much for slugs and watersnails
as he does for trout-spawn and minnows. He has
fought well for his existence, but now, when no part
of stream or wood is untraversed or unvisited by the
ruthless beauty-slayer, what hope is there for him ?
Poor and lovely halcyon !

" With his plumage shining fair,
On the bough he silent sits,
Then, with sudden circle low,
Downward to the water flits.

He has found his prey, and bears

A shining fish to yonder nest,
Where the callow young ones wait

For the shining of his breast.

248 An English Stream.

Welcome signal ! how they raise
Their open beaks for morsels new !

Then the good repast enjoyed,
He returns where late he flew.

Sits upon his perch again,

Like a figure in a dream,
Brilliant hues of sun and rain

Make a sunlight on the stream.

King of fishes, truly, thou,

Patient as was Izaak old,*
But have you ever in your heart

A tender pity all untold ?

The poetical idea of the kingfisher making " a sun-
light " or a rainbow on the water in a leaf-shaded
place has not perhaps an entirely poetical origin. We
read in a good authority —

" The kingfisher has frequently been observed hover-
ing on outstretched wings over the water, and some
writers believe that this is done with a view of attracting
the fish to the surface. Whether this is the case is
not yet ascertained, but it is well known that when a
light is thrown at night on the water, the inhabitants
of the ' finny deep ' flock in numbers to discover the
cause of the unwonted brilliancy."

And we have ourselves often sat in a shady spot by
the border of a brook thickly overhung with foliage,
and noticed that where a small ray of sunlight pene-
trated and struck the water, there the small fish rose
to bask in it. The kingfisher perhaps makes an
artificial sunlight which helps him.

In Wood's " Natural History " it is said that the
kingfisher is fond of music. On playing an organ in
a room facing a river, it was found that several of the

* Izaak Walton, author of "The Compleat Angler," born in London
1593, and died in 1683.

An Old-fashioned Bridge. 249

birds were attracted by the sounds. Slow and solemn
airs they enjoyed seemingly, but whenever anything
lighter or more lively was played they were off.

In a very little time we come to an old-fashioned
stone bridge rising high in the middle — a great resort
of anglers — a favourite starting-point indeed when pro-
ceeding to fish either up or down the stream. It is,
too, on certain afternoons a favourite resort for the
boys from a school near by, the younger ones running
about the greeny margins and searching for tiny eels,

and this and that, while the elders ply the rod and line
and return proud of a few small dace or minnows. In
the warm afternoons of summer they will occasionally,
in protected leafy corners near by, indulge themselves
in $ stealthy bathe, which is far more leisurely than
might be supposed possible in connection with any-
thing -stolen, for they run about the banks and play
games in the water.

Often have I stood by the side of the water here and
wondered at the fair reflection that this old bridge makes
in the afternoons when the sun is shining. The water

250

An English Stream.

just there is deep, and stiller than elsewhere, with
scarcely a perceptible ripple- or murmur, and is a fair
mirror for all that is in its borders. As I have stood
and looked, more especially in the evening time,
suddenly a trout would rise — a fellow of a couple of
pounds at least — after a midge or May-fly, and go
down again with a plump, sending a widening circle of

ripples over the glassy water, attesting that the deep
holes round about the old arches of this bridge have
their finny denizens — so cunning, I came to learn, that
no fisher, however skilled, or with tackle however fine,
had the slightest chance of killing these shrewd old
fellows.

Passing onward, we emerge by-and-by into a barer

A Mar sky Expanse.

251

region, where the stream, after recovering itself from a
passage over a shallower reach, in which the cattle love
to come and stand knee-deep in the summer, and thus
escape as best they can from the flies, gets enclosed in
a narrower channel, with many deep pools and rather
dark-looking, slow-eddying corners. It is here, they
tell us, that the big fish love to lie, and here that the
skilful angler with the worm, after a fall of rain, will
be likely to come and try for them.

A little further down, just before the stream loses
itself in the big water, our favourite walk is lost — the
current spreads itself over a half marshy expanse, with
no end of little pools ; and not far off is a row of fisher-
men's huts — houses they can hardly be named — and
their boats, or " cobbles," as they would call them in
Scotland and the North, lie there fastened to old oak
piles, unless in the season when they are busy at the
fishing. In the off-season you are sure to find them in
front of these huts making nets or doing other such
work, and they will be very willing to row you about
on the river, or take you to the best fishing grounds
for a comparatively small fee.

XV.

WILD-DUCKS, WATER-BIRDS, AND
SEA-FOWL.

IF you chance to know any quiet
bit of water, either in the shape
of small pond or enlargement of
a little stream, pretty well sur-
rounded by rushes, sedges, and
foliage, you are certain now and

then to find a wild-duck upon it, diving and dabbling
about in search of food. Some of them are very pretty
in plumage. The mallard is every way a fine bird,
with its lovely colours and tufted tail. When in full
plumage, his head is velvety green, and his body and
wings varied of the finest tints of grey and brown and
purple. But during the summer months, as if nature
had resorted to a device to save the species, or to
ensure the maintenance of numbers, the cock-mallard
is stripped of his beauty and reduced to a likeness to
his " womenkind." This is owing to a very severe
and unusual moult. All the primary wing feathers
come off at once, and he thus assumes sober colours
till he can fly again. Were it not for this arrange-
ment of subdued colouring, he would be too easily
recognised, and too easily hunted and shot. No doubt
this is a " protective" arrangement in great measure.
The mallard is fond of marshy lands, and in the winter,

Mallard and Teal.

253

MALLARD.

if the weather is severe, seeks the sea-shore, where it
is to be seen foraging industriously for small molluscs,
insects, and little fishes. The extension of draining,
and the taking in of wet heaths and waste lands, has
somewhat curtailed
its numbers, but in
some favourable dis-
tricts it is still quite
common. It is well
worth notice, were it
only for the fact that
it is the bird from
which all our common
domesticated ducks
are derived ; and
when we contrast it
with them, we see

once more how man, when he tames and subdues the
lower creatures to his own uses, at once improves and
injures. The mallard is perhaps the swiftest in flight
of all the ducks, making a peculiar whistling sound
with its strong wing
feathers as it goes,
and, if suddenly dis-
turbed, it rises up
into the air, recovers
itself suddenly, and
isaff.

The common teal
is one of the smallest
of the ducks, very

1 JT,,/Y1 j.

nimble and light in

the water, and also very pretty, though hardly so hand-
some as the pintail, but, unlike it, is very far from shy,

254 Wild Ducks, Water- Birds, Sea- Fowl.

PINTAIL.

and will occasionally allow you to come pretty near
to it. The widgeon only stays with us during the

winter, and appears
in vast flocks. It
gives grass and other
plants a much greater
prominence in its diet
than any of the other
wild ducks, and de-
lights in salt grasses.
Owing to the many
enemies with which
the young of the wild
duck would be sur-
rounded did the parents nest near to the water which
they frequent, it is the habit with many of the species
to build in the most unexpected parts. Some nests
may be found at a considerable distance from the water,
amid tussocks of dry grass and furze on the moors,
or even in heather and in low fir trees. Not the least
among these enemies is the intrusive cruel brown
rat, to which the young of other water-birds too often
fall a prey. The ducks are excellent parents, and are
on the watch constantly against the many enemies of
their young.

Beside the ducks there are, on or near any pond or
retired piece of water, sure to be representatives of
other species — coots as well as moor-hens — with many
varieties of snipe. The coot is a most nimble bird,
with great powers in swimming and in doing work under
water. One peculiarity the coot has : though its feet
are shorter than those of the water-hen, this dis-
advantage is made up to it by a slight fringe of
webbing, which is no doubt of the greatest benefit to

The Coot. 255

it in quickness of movement in the water. Dr. Stanley
tells how the coot differs from the waterhen in the
building of its nest. The coot prefers having it float-
ing on the surface, and not supported on stems of
rushes, &c., but that it may rise with the water, and
not be moved away from its position by stormy winds ;
it is, as it were, moored to stems of reeds or rushes,
by a kind of loose rings, so that it will rise exactly as
the water rises. Both coots and waterhens, as has
been already said, cover their eggs in the nests on
rising from and leaving them, and this they do, with
such an artistic eye to carelessness of effect, that you
might look on one of their nests and fancy it was a
deserted one. A thick foundation of rush leaves and
other matter is formed under the coot's nest proper, to
keep it from damp. This bird lays from six to nine
eggs, which are like those of the waterhen, but larger.
The poor coot has suffered much in late years, owing
to a belief, whether well or ill founded, that it eats the
spawn of fishes ; and when once an idea of this sort
gains ground among the sporting community, and is
taken up by the rustics, alack for the poor incriminated
bird. It matters not what good qualities it may have
otherwise, it is doomed, as water voles and owls were
for so long doomed by farmers and others.

The mallard and the teal are both largely night
feeders. They resort after twilight to favourite spots,
where their tit-bits grow and half play themselves on
the water, and sleep and rest through the day.

Th£ ducks are broadly divided into surface and diving
ducks ; the first class mostly confine themselves to fresh
water, and the latter are properly sea-fowl. In addition
to those which we have already named, there are the
shoveller and the sheldrake. The second class includes

256 Wild Ducks, Water- Birds, Sea-Fowl.

the tufted duck — a fine bird — the scaup, the smew, the
scoter, the surf-scoter, the velvet scoter, the pochard
with its red head, and the beautiful golden-eye, and the
interesting eider duck is frequently to be seen.

The scaup is but a winter visitor, and has not been
known to breed here; and of the pochard almost the
same may be said, only that it has been known in rare
cases to breed here. Of these, the most beautiful by
far is the last named. The golden-eye is remarkable
for its habit of nesting in holes in trees, sometimes a
good way distant from the water, and for transporting
its young from thence to the water, like the coots and
water-hens when building high, and it is said that the
young golden-eyes are held under the bill of the parent,
and supported by the neck.

The family of the mergansers, all divers, may next
be noticed here. The sawbill, or jacksaw, derives its
name from its bill being serrated on both sides, exactly
like two saws meeting. It is a very expert diver, and
will remain at the bottom walking along in search of
food for a couple of minutes or more. If its nest has
been placed at a distance from the river or lake, it
conveys the young ones in the bill or on the back to
the water. Macgillivray says that once he watched a
flock of red mergansers pursuing sand-eels. The birds
moved under the water with almost as much velocity as
in the air, and often rose to breathe at a distance 01
200 yards from the spot where they had dived. One or
these birds was caught in a net at a depth of thirty
fathoms. The swiftness of the divers in the water, and
the distances they traverse, are almost incredible. It has
been computed that a red-throated diver swims about
four and a half miles on the surface of the water, and
between six and seven beneath the surface, per hour.

The Loon or Crested Grebe. 257

On the larger sheets of water you are almost sure to
see some of the more noted divers — beautiful birds and
well worth watching. You are lucky if you see the loon,
which is very shy and very expert. John Burroughs,
the well-known American naturalist, says —

" Its wings are more than wings in the water. It
plunges into the denser air, and flies with incredible
speed. Its head and beak form a sharp point to its
tapering neck. Its wings are far in front, and its legs
equally far in the rear, and its course through the
crystal depths is like the speed of an arrow. In the
northern lakes it has been taken forty feet under water
upon hooks baited for the large lake trout. I had
never seen one till last fall, when one appeared on the
river in front of my house. I knew instantly it was
the loon. Who could not, tell a loon a half-mile or
more away, though he had never seen one before ?
The river was like glass, and every movement of the
bird as it sported about broke the surface into ripples,
that revealed it far and wide. Presently a boat shot
out from shore, and went ripping up the surface toward
the loon. The creature at once seemed to divine the
intentions of the boatman, and sided off obliquely,
keeping a sharp look-out as if to make sure it was
pursued. A steamer came down and passed between
them ; and when the way was again clear, the loon was
still swimming on the surface. Presently it disappeared
unde'r the water, and the boatman pulled sharp and
hard. Ln a few moments the bird reappeared some
rods further on, as if to make an observation. Seeing
it was being pursued, and no mistake, it dived quickly,
and when it came up again had gone many times as
far as the boat had in the same space of time. Then
it dived again, and distanced its pursuer so easily that

R

258 Wild Ducks, Water- Birds, Sea- Fowl.

he gave over the chase and rested upon his oars. But
the bird made a final plunge, and when it emerged
upon the surface again it was over a mile away. Its
course must have been, and doubtless was, an actual
flight under water, and half as fast as the crow flies in
the air. The loon would have delighted the old poets.
Its wild demoniac laughter awakens the echoes on the
solitary lakes, and its ferity and hardiness were kindred
to those robust spirits."

The loon, or crested grebe, is indeed a most interest-
ing bird. Whoever has seen him, as Mr. Burroughs
did, cannot but admire him. He pairs for life, and
both sexes are devotedly attached to the young. They
haunt the same nesting places year after year. They
lead out their young ones, and take them down with
them under their wings when they dive. The young
swim about quite freely as soon as they are hatched.
The nest is by no means artistic — a mere rough mass
of flags and rushes and grasses, like that of the coot,
partly sunk under the water and partly raised above it,

and contains three,
four, and sometimes
five, white or pale-
greenish white eggs.
And certainly not
the least among the
amenities of the sea-
side are the oppor-
tunities it affords for
the study of the gulls,
terns, sea-pies, the
KITTIWAKE. kittiwakes, black-

backed gulls, herring -gulls, skuas, and others, very
remarkable in their manner of life, their powers of

The Divers. 259

wing, their powers in the water, and so much else.
Who that has watched the sea-gull as it pauses in its
flight, and hangs suspended as if resting on air, abso-
lutely still, observing what is beneath it, and has not
wondered at the beauty of the bird ; or when voyaging
by ship, or rowing about near the shore, has seen
some of those birds sit on the waves as though on
some airy swinging nest, and has not admired their
grace and wonderful adaptation to their mode of life.
With the storm-petrel and its movements, most people
have thus become familiar. The sea-pie or pied oyster-
catcher affects localities where it can find oysters,
mussels, or limpets, and these it detaches and breaks
with its bright red bill, which is admirably adapted
to this work, being literally chisel-shaped. Although
for the greatest experts in the diving way you must
go further afield than the most attractive portions of
our coasts, and find the penguins, the puffins, or the
beautiful black-throated divers, which are fonder of
more northern temperatures, though the last-named
may be seen in some parts of the northern coasts of
Scotland. There is a penguin in the fish-house of the
Zoological Gardens at Regent's Park, whose powers
in diving the keeper exhibits so many times a day by
throwing small fishes for it into water in a glass- fronted
tank — the bird, for the nonce, becomes a fish, and the
small fry are soon snapped up : at the end of every line
of movement a fish is devoured, and all with such
decision and despatch as gives one a wholly new idea
of the powers of the diver birds. A shag also dives.

But with the gulls and the sea-ducks alone you will
find plenty to interest you if you watch them well;
and all round our shores, especially on high rocky
cliffs, where the seabirds delight to build, they fly in

260 Wild Ducks, Water- Birds, Sea- Fowl.

countless flocks. There is a very fine range of rocks
beyond Hastings which they much affect, and another
near Ramsgate, of which we give here a little drawing.
That lovely bird, the great northern diver, is to be
seen at many places on the coasts of Devon and

COAST SCENE, WITH SEA BIRDS.

Cornwall, and right well worthy he is of being seen.
Hardly less so the lovely, great, black-backed gull,
which is more common in the south. Here is an
admirable picture of it from the pen of one of our most
gifted early ornithologists: —

"The contrast between the dark purple tint of his
back and wings, and the snowy white of the rest of
his plumage, with the bright carmine-patched yellow
of his powerful bill, and the delicate pinkish hue of his
feet, render him an object at all times agreeable to the
sight. No sprinkling of dust, no spot of mud, ever
soils his downy clothing; his bill exhibits no tinge
derived from the subject of his last meal, bloody or
half putrid though it be ; and his feet, laved by the
clear brine, are beautifully pure. There he stands on
the sandy point, the guardian, as it were, of that flock

Wild Geese. 261

of not less cleanly and scarcely less lovely herring-
gulls and sea-mews. But, not giving us more credit
for our good intentions than we deserve, he spreads
out his large wings, stretches forth his long neck, runs
a few paces, and, uttering a loud and screaming cry,
springs into the air. Some gentle flaps of his vigorous
wings carry him to a safe distance, when he alights
on the smooth water, and is frequently joined by his
clamorous companions. Buoyantly they float, each
with his head to the wind, like a fleet of merchantmen
at anchor, secured from the attacks of pirates by the
presence of their convoy." *

The wild geese, in very severe seasons, are to be
found in considerable numbers among the birds at the
seashore. They may be known by the V-shaped order
in which they invariably fly (for they are social birds),
and by the peculiar cry of hank, hank, hank, which
they now and then utter as they go. There are three
main families of wild geese, the lag geese, the grey
geese, and the brent geese ; the former are day feeders,
and divide their time between the sea or the marshy
margins of the lake or the field. The brent geese, on
the contrary, are to a large extent night feeders, like
the mallard and the teal. They are fond of certain
grasses, and will go a considerable distance to feed on
the newly sprouting winter wheat ; and when they are
feeding in such circumstances, like the crows and the
woo'd-pigeons, they invariably post sentinels, and are
very cunning and cautious — difficult to get near to,
whether at the seaside, by margin of inland lake, or
while feeding in the fields. The man who has stalked
and shot a wild goose may consider himself a good
shot. The contrast between the wild geese and the
* Macgillivray's "Birds."

262 Wild Ducks, Water- Birds, Sea- Fowl.

GANNET.

domesticated variety is very striking in not a few
respects.

Besides those already named, there are gannets or
solan geese, with their strange cry, and their fond-
ness for the herrings,
so great, indeed, that
in the season they
live entirely on her-
rings, and, it is said,
take for their share of
the shoals more than
does the whole fishing
fleet of Scotland. The
plan of the gannet in
catching its prey is
verypeculiar. It notes
where the fish are, and the depth at which they are
swimming, then flies up to what it considers the height
needed to give it impetus in diving to the exact point
in the water. It has been a subject of dispute whether
the bird was named from the Solent or gave the name
to the Solent.* The guillemots, too, who are so faith-
ful to their young that they will suffer themselves to
be seized rather than leave the nest. Cormorants, too,
may often be seen, dark and striking figures, among
the gulls. The cormorant is to this day, in China and
Japan, trained to catch fish. The custom is to pass a
leather band round the neck of the bird, so that it

* Though known also as solan geese, the gannets do not scientifically
belong to the anseres or goose family at all, but are grouped along with
the cormorants in a separate class, the Pelecanida, and the name of the
species is Sttla bassana. It is the more surprising, therefore, that Mr.
John Burroughs, in his excellent series of essays, ''Fresh Fields," should
write of the gannets and solan geese ; for solan here he must mean
lag geese, brent geese, or bean geese.

Cormorant- Fishing. 263

cannot swallow what it catches. A man on a raft has
two cormorant assistants — the one is resting while the
other is fishing — and the man uses a long pole, which
he stretches out to the point where the bird rises, and
aids it to come on the raft with its prize. This style of
fishing was practised in our own country up, at all
events, to the time of Charles the First ; for we find
from authoritative documents that the fishing birds were
procured from Norfolk, and that he had a Master of the
Cormorants. Gunpowder made an end of hawking.
We are not aware exactly what put an end to cor-
morant fishing in England : possibly it just passed out
of fashion. As in the case of catching fish with tamed
otters, where the animal every short time gets a fish to
encourage him to go on, so precisely do the cormorants.

As for the petrels, they are everywhere ; and the tiny
stormy petrel, though the smallest of all, as bold as
any, and perhaps most enduring. Petrels have been
observed 2000 miles from land. The giant frigate
bird, black and bold, has been seen 400 leagues from
land, and yet is said to return every night to its solitary
roost — which will suffice to give an idea of the power
of wing in these sea-birds. But the penguin, which
has but undeveloped wings, has transmuted them into
the most splendid oars or paddles. It moves through
the water at such a rate that few. fishes can surpass it ;
and it has been seen quietly paddling at no less a
distance than 1000 miles from land.

Certain other birds are very fond of periodically
paying the sea-shore a visit to swell the company and
give variety. The ring dotterel, that robin redbreast of
the sea-shore, which the natives in certain parts will
not shoot, is a pretty bird, gentle and trustful, and
pipes in a cheerful way as it moves along. The

264 Wild Ducks, Water- Birds, Sea- Fowl.

dab-chick, or little grebe, will sometimes pass down from

marshy lands to the sea-
shore, and do a little bit of
business in the shallower
pools left by the tide, moving
about them with a quick-
ness and buoyancy all its
own. From its smallness
and its darting swiftness
amid its bigger companions,
it has been likened to a
torpedo boat among other
and heavier craft. The
hooded crow with his grey
coat loves the sea-shore
too, and will sometimes be
seen quietly feeding near to
wild ducks, black-backed
gulls, and herring gulls.

One of the prettiest and most interesting denizens of
the sea-shore at certain seasons is the turnstone. It is
a very nimble bird, and has good right to the name it
bears. Some very interesting points have been noted
about the life and habits of the turnstone, which have
been very admirably summed up in that carefully
edited, well-written and beautifully illustrated work
on Shooting (one of the " Badminton Library " Series),
edited by Lord Walsingham and Sir Ralph Payne-
Gallwey, where we find the following passage : —

" The turnstone is a handsome bird, about as large
as a thrush, and having a black, chestnut, and white
appearance. It derives its name from its habit of
running about on the beach, and turning over stones
with its bill in order to obtain the small Crustacea that

The Turnstone.

265

TURNSTONE.

lie underneath. We have often seen one turnstone
run up and assist another in doing this, and have even
noticed three of them
at work raising one
stone, like quarrymen
with their crowbars.
They do not merely
lift a stone and reach
under it, but gradu-
ally hoist it up till
it balances upright,
then with a great
effort the stone is
pushed over, and all
is exposed underneath. If a strange turnstone appears
on the scene who did not assist in the work, there is
a great scrimmage, and the interloper is sent about his
business. We once watched two turnstones for a full
hour trying to turn over a dead fish, nearly a foot
long, without success. We longed to help them in
their struggles, but dared not come forward for fear of
frightening them away. Finally, with a strong heave
and a heave all together, over went the fish, to our very
great gratification. It was a pleasure to see through
a glass how the birds revelled in all manner of creep-
ing things, which their hard won success had exposed
to view."

One of the most striking passages in the life of
Thomas Edward, the Banff naturalist, tells precisely
the same story, how, seeing two of these birds on the
beach near Banff, he crept through the " bents," till he
got so near as to be able to watch them in their efforts
to turn over a big fish which had sunk an inch or two
in the sand, how they tunnelled under it and under it,

266 Wild Ducks, Water-Birds, Sea-Fowl.

till, at last, it fell over to yield them a rich reward for
patient perseverance and hard work.

Wonderful, too, is the adaptation in the eggs of some
of these birds. Many of them build what of a nest they
have on the almost flat ledges of these lofty rocks — it
may be midway between the base and the top — and as
they do not have the protection of the soft encircling
walls of nest that most other birds' eggs have, the egg
is in form large at the one end and small at the other.
Some lay only one egg, others more, and in this case,
when one or two of them are laid together, they will
not have so much the tendency to roll away. If you
try the difference between an ordinary egg and some-
thing the shape of the egg of the guillemot, you will
find how the eggs are in this respect protected. The
sea-bird's egg will much more decidedly roll round
within a small circle than will the other, and when you
set two or three objects of this form together, the small
end inside, as the birds lay them, they will hardly roll
away from each other, even though touched. When
you have put six or seven of them together in this way,
they seem veritably to act as wedges to each other.

It is quite a business at some parts to go in search of
the sea-birds' eggs or young, and many are the adven-
tures and the perilous positions in which the searchers
have found themselves. The plan, in many cases, is to
lower the searcher down by ropes and pulleys to the
exact ledge or ledges where the nests are, but so deter-
mined are the old birds, and such onslaughts have they
made sometimes on their assailant, both with beak and
wing, that they have compelled him to retreat unsuccess-
ful ; and there is even record of their having so driven
the man in defending himself against the stroke of their
wings, that he has lost his balance, and fallen down, to

Gulls in the Thames. 267

be picked up maimed and contused on the beach below,
or in the sea if the tide were high.

In the winter, when the weather is very severe,
flocks of these sea-birds will come up the rivers in
search of food. Very beautiful it is to see them pois-
ing themselves over the water of the river, and then
perhaps descending and diving. The Thames, during
the severe weather in January 1893, was invaded by
flocks of these birds, which sailed about and showed
so many exquisite manoeuvres that not a few stood to
watch and to admire them. There were, alas ! a few,
too, who were fain, with the perverted instinct of the
sportsman, merely to maim or kill them. A well-
known writer on natural history subjects gave an
account of his observations in one of the illustrated
weeklies. He told how these beautiful birds hung
suspended over those who held out food, and de-
scended almost to obtain it from the hand, and then
when it was dropped, seized it in mid-air with amazing
quickness and precision.

But not only are the sea-birds an element of beauty
and attraction about our coasts, they have their uses
too. They take their tribute of the sea, but they do
their service for man also. They are the great sca-
vengers of the shore, of the pools, bays, and eddies,
which but for them would often not be so pleasant.
"Any one," says Mr. H. D. Rawnsley in his "Plea
for the Birds," "who has watched them at work after
the herring boats have come in at Whitby, or at low
tide has seen what public service they do by the
Bristol quays, will realise that the ' ocean, at her task
of pure ablution' round our English shores, has in the
sea-gulls [and other sea-birds] a very competent and
assiduous band of helpers."

268 Wild Ducks, Water- Birds, Sea- Fowl.

In another way the sea-birds are man's helpers.
The fisherman has often to take his cue from them.
In 1867, the Tynwald Court of Keys in the Isle of
Man passed a bill to prevent the feather hunters from
destroying the wild-birds of their coast, and they urged
this on the ground, among others, that from good evi-
dence they considered the gulls of great importance to
the herring fishers, as indicators of the localities of the
" schools " or shoals of fish, and they added that they
were "of much use for sanitary purposes, by reason
that they remove the offal of fish from the harbours
and shores."

The sea-birds have been, and indeed continue to be,
favourite subjects with the poets. Their airy, graceful,
bold flight and powers of holding themselves suspended,
as it were, in the air for so much longer a time than
any other bird, unless it may be certain of the eagles,
their capability of floating on the waves, and their won-
derful powers of diving, have strongly appealed to the
tuneful brethren. And no wonder. Here is a verse
from one poem, which we much admire for its freedom,
swing, and fine sense of the sentiment of the subject : —

" Birds of the sea, they rejoice in storms ;
On the top of the wave you may see their forms ;
They run and dive, and they whirl and fly,
Where the glittering foam- spray breaks on high :
And against the face of the strongest gale,

. Like phantom ships, they soar and sail."

And here is another from a poem almost equally
good : —

" Oh, where doth the sea bird find a home,
When the loud winds lash the whitened foam,
And the rage of winter with booming swell
Is heard like the tones of a demon's yell ?

Poems to Sea- Birds. 269

Is it far in the depths of some inland bower,
Away from the scene's of destruction's power ?
Not there is the sea bird's home.

When the fire-winged lightning flashes by,
And the thunder rolls o'er the blackened sky,
When terror sits brooding o'er air and earth,
As if to hail a demon's birth,
Away, away, on the shrieking wind,
Leaving the thoughts of fear behind,
Doth the hardy sea bird roam.

Not on the topmost bough of the tree,
Away from the sound of his native sea,
But like a king on his craggy throne
He seateth him, and there alone
Watching the wrecks of grandeur made,
When the storm-fiend o'er the waters played,
Doth the sea bird find a rest."

Mr. Alexander Maclagan has these two fine stanzas
in his poem, " To a Wounded Sea Bird": —

" Alas for thee, poor bird ! no more
'Twill be a joy with them to soar

Through sunshine, calm, or storm ;
Nor on the shelly shore to land,
And sit like sunshine on the sand,

Pluming thy beauteous form.

Cold, nestled on the black sea rock,
I hear thy little feathered flock

In piteous accents mourn
For thee and food ; but all are gone,
And thou art drifting on and on,

And can no more return."

We might almost have included the stately heron
among the sea-birds, for at certain times it will make
its way to the sea-shore, and set itself to work in the

2 70 Wild Ducks, Water- Birds, Sea- Fowl.

pools and shallows, just as it would in the inland waters.

There it may be seen, standing, as it always does stand

when fishing, on one leg,
the other leg partially
drawn up, with its half-
foot long lance-like beak,
so nicely notched, all ready
— a beak which it drives
right through its prey
5t with the utmost precision.
This prey it tosses up and
then seizes in its mouth ;
but it has happened that
when a heron struck an
eel and lifted it thus to

HKKON.

swallow it, the eel was

quicker than it was, threw its tail round the bird's neck,
and so held till the heron died from want of breath—
the head of the eel having been half gorged, caused it
also to die, and both were found locked together. The
extensive draining of lands, and the clearing out of
marshy fens and commons, has perhaps had a tendency
in places not far from the sea-shore to drive the herons
there. In such districts they may often be seen proceed-
ing with swift, yet seeming lazy easy flight sea-wards
to find tit-bits in favourite feeding grounds.

The heron likes to nest in fir trees, and when he has
young ones he has a very busy time of it, and busiest
at the time when other birds get rest, for the young
herons get hungrier as night comes on ; and thus it is
that more especially in the spring-time the grey or
black and white heron, his white breast most exposed,
may be seen like a wisp of foam in the twilight in the
sheltered corner of pond or stream. He was once of

The Heron. 271

great account, for it was a lordly sport to hunt the
heron with the falcon, as Mary Queen of Scots knew
well ; and not seldom the hunted was the victor, for
the heron, with its instinct, would make a dart at the
falcon's eyes and blind it.

Like the crow, in always making at the eyes of an
enemy, the heron also resembles the crow in its keen
eye for a gun. It knows the difference between a stick
or anything else held in the hand and a breechloader.
The shine on the barrel from afar is enough, and the
heron is off before the sportsman can get aim. The
heron has some other claims to notice. He is at once
swimmer, wader, and percher. You may see him
taking his flight from the lonely pool and making
his way on that easy wing of his to the distant fir
trees, where, owing to the fine instinct and the great
knack he has in choosing his post, he will perch so
that, large though he be, you will hardly detect him as
he rests quietly after his long and patient labours at
pool or stream side.

XVI.
ASHESTIEL AND SIR WALTER SCOTT.

" Great nature mocks us if the heart can take
No tribute of high memory to invest
Her beauty with the sense of love and good :
I think of one who here did offering make

Of heart and hope — within whose gentle breast
Stirred thoughts for all that moved to higher mood."

THIS is precisely the feeling with which we look at
Ashestiel. It is not by any means the most romantic
and beautiful portion of the Tweed. The heights are
here too far removed from the river, and the banks,
though well wooded, do not rise to a sufficiently high
slope, as they do above Neidpath Castle, for instance,
or below Peebles. But it is full of association and
romantic interest, because it was here that Sir Walter
Scott for several years found a home, and spent a very
active and interesting portion of his life. The constant
journeyings from Lasswade, where he had had a cottage
on a picturesque bank of the Esk, to discharge the
duties of the Sheriffship of Selkirkshire, ran away with
too much of his time, and the good folks of Selkirkshire
too, not unnaturally, grudged so much of the " Shirra's"
presence to other parts, and so he resolved to find a
house within the sphere of his judicial duties.

On the 4th May 1804 we find him writing thus to
his friend Ellis : —

" I have been engaged in travelling backwards and

Ashestiel.

273

forwards to Selkirkshire upon little pieces of business,
just important enough to prevent my doing anything to
purpose. One great matter, however, I have achieved,
which is procuring myself a place of residence, which
will save me these teasing migrations in future, so that
though I part with my sweet little cottage on the banks
of the Esk, you will find me this summer in the very
centre of the ancient Reged, in a decent farm-house

E.E.

overhanging the Tweed, and situated in a wild pastoral
country."

Could a more desirable residence have been found
for -the Magician of the North ? Within sound of the
romantic Tweed, with its scores of ballads and legends ;
with its beautiful and suggestive associations, and its
health-giving air. The house in which Scott lived is
approached through an old-fashioned garden, with holly
hedges and broad green terraced walks. Close under
the windows, on the one side, is a deep ravine, well

S

'274 Ashestiel and Sir Walter Scott.

wooded, and down this tumbles a little brawling rivulet
to join the Tweed. All around are the green hills,
silent, reposeful, looking from the level like a billowy
sea. The hill heights behind are those that separate
the Yarrow from Tweed, the former stream being
within an easy ride of Ashestiel — a ride on which some
of the finest and most romantic mountain scenery is to
be seen.

It was here that Scott wrote " Waverley " and
" Marmion ; " here that he corrected the proofs of the
"Lay of the Last Minstrel;" here that " Rokeby "
was begun, and "Dryden" arid " Swift," in his Edition
of the Poets were prepared ; and here too that he fully
learned the difference between "long sheep" and
"short sheep" — on which distinction a fine joke is
founded, for on a native being asked what a "long
sheep" must measure in body beyond a " short sheep,"
was told, " Weel, it's no' that ava', ye ken', it's a' i' the
oo'," the contrast really being between the length of the
wool in the Cheviot and the native breed.

But Scott's life was never that of the literary recluse,
of the absorbed student or antiquary. The claims of
human nature were too strong. Lockhart tells us that
Camp — his favourite dog then, and the predecessor of
the more famous Maida — and the children had free
access to his study at all times ; that the " bairns "
would often intrude and interrupt him in the midst of a
sentence, and demand that he should tell them a story,
when he would invariably take them on his knees and
comply, always giving them more than they had asked;
and often, too, they would tempt him out to wander
with them in the garden or by the stream side, or even
further a-field, Camp bounding before or trotting dis-
creetly at their heels.

The "Flitting:' 275

At first Scott was fain to be his own coachman, and
to drive Mrs. Scott about the district ; but he was so
awkward in this bit of business, we learn, that more
than once he put his wife in jeopardy through the
threatened overturn of the little phaeton, and a coach-
man— a relative of Tom Purdie, his trusty servant —
was engaged. Often, no doubt, he walked or drove
over that bridge we see in the picture that lay, indeed,
on the direct way to his house from important points,
and delighted in the view from it up the water when
the sun shone bright upon it.

Here, James Hogg, rapidly rising into fame, visited
the " Shirra," and not a few other men of note.

His lease ran out in 1811, and then he was some-
what uncomfortable ; and as he was now in a position
to buy a house, we find him writing —

" I now sit a tenant at will, under a heavy rent, and
at all the inconvenience of one when in the house of
another ; I have, therefore, resolved to purchase a piece
of ground sufficient for a cottage and a few fields."

After looking at various places, he fixed on a small
estate at Abbotsford, where by-and-by the stately
mansion arose which is so associated with his name ;
but it was not so far distant from Ashestiel but that
the removal was accompanied with little pictures and
associations which must have been dear to the heart of
Scott, and often recalled by him and talked of by him
and* his.

The "flitting" from Ashestiel, we read, "though so
full of delight and pride to themselves, was a sad one
for the poorer neighbours they left behind them, for
they had been the kindest of friends to all whom
poverty or sickness reduced to need aid or counsel, Mrs.
Scott having even some knowledge of the treatment

2j6 Ashestiel and Sir Walter Scott.

required for ordinary ailments, so that she had been a
Lady Bountiful of the most useful kind ; and the sorrow
of the peasantry of the village was universal, though
to the younger portion of it, this was relieved by the
amusement caused by " the procession of the furniture
from the old to the new dwelling. Old swords, bows,
targets, and lances, made a very conspicuous show.
A family of turkeys was accommodated within the
helmet of some/m/.*- chevalier of ancient Border fame ;
and the caravan, attended by a dozen rosy peasant
children, carrying fishing-rods and spears, and leading
ponies, greyhounds, and spaniels, would, as it crossed
the Tweed, have formed no bad subject for the pencil,
and really reminded one of the gipsy groups of Callot
on their march."

Lockhart says that he retained to the end of his life
a certain tenderness of feeling towards Ashestiel, which
could not perhaps be better shadowed forth than in
Joanna Baillie's similitude : " Yourself and Mrs. Scott
and the children will feel sorry at leaving Ashestiel.
which will long have a consequence, and be the object
of kind feelings with many, from having once been the
place of your residence. If I should ever be happy
enough to be at Abbotsford, you must take me to see
Ashestiel too. I have a kind of tenderness for it, as
one has for a man's first wife when you hear that he
has married a second."

XVII.
IN DURHAM AND NEAR IT.

DURHAM city stands on the line between north and
south, and is, as it were, the key and entrance to the
debatable land. Even its present-day outward aspect
suggests the fact. It is a city of heights and valleys,
beautifully relieved by unconscious devices of old-world
architecture, in which quaint simplicity and suggestions
of refinement are oddly mingled. Its mixture of grey
stone houses, with here and there lath and plaster fronts
and wooden carvings below; its long closes, and its
strange winding vagaries of lanes and streets ; its
modern shop fronts and ornamented old pillars and
balustrades, is quaint and wholly striking to the tra-
veller, either from the south or the north. The beautiful
and picturesque river, with its sloping banks rising high
just where they should, to set off fully the Cathedral
and the Castle with the finest effect, adds exactly the
romantic effect that is demanded.

From whatever point you look, you have varied out-
lines, towers, or turrets rising high, and forming a kind
of crown to the whole. No doubt, like all old towns,
Durham has its share of dirty corners, but it is ill the
part of the stranger to go poking and nosing about for
them. We were in this but too like the ill-disposed
critic who, seeking for little faults or flaws, is sure to

find them, and, having found them, can then see nothing

277

278

In -Durham and near it.

else. No, we shall not here follow his example, but,
in the clear brightness of the spring morning, take our
reader by the hand and lead him along for a general
view of Durham city.

DURHAM CATHEDRAL.

As we pass from the railway station down by North
Road, &c., to the bridge, the city is just awakening.
A keen air blows through the winding streets, and a

Duri'iam CatJiedral. 279

faint morning light catches the highest towers of the
Cathedral, and runs a ribbon of white round the grey
rugged high lines of the Castle walls and turrets. We
pass on and on over the Bridge, and look up the river, to
hear it — yes, we can in the comparative silence almost
hear it — rushing over yonder weir by the mill, and
then come purling onward, as the trees by its borders
on the left faintly outline themselves in the water. Up
and up we then ascend the climbing street before us,
round by the Market Square, with its two quaint
statues, and round again we turn and make our way
to the Cathedral, and walk about it. None of the good
folks in the precincts are yet astir ; but a dog has found
its way out, and comes and sniffs suspiciously at us
strangers, and then goes off, surly and dissatisfied
and doubtful, to inform his master of our intrusion, for
he scrapes at one of the doors. Even the dogs in
Cathedral precincts take on a kind of stiff self-restraint
and official wariness. The rooks and jackdaws are
busy at their nest-buildings, and caw and chatter in
the oddest manner among the trees and shrubs about.

We walk from point to point, gathering quite a new
idea of the extent of this reverend old structure, with
its great central tower, and its unique twin-pair of
towers almost overhanging the river, and its tapering
turrets at the other end. We pause and admire their
admirable pose, so striking near at hand, so insignifi-
cant seen from afar, dwarfed entirely by their greater
brethren. Then we go and look, and are lost in admi-
ration of the fine Catherine or wheel-window. The
masons are at work at this side of the fabric, for there
is weathering in this fine pile, and stones are being cut
to replace those that are here hopelessly wasted.

We might tell much of the history of this old

280 Jn Durham and near it.

edifice : how Carileph founded it so early as 1093, but
did not finish more than one half of it, as we now see
it ; how the transepts, the greater part of the nave, the
Lady Chapel at the west end, and the Nine Altars at the
other, were the work of later days — how Flambard and
Pudsey laboured to extend and beautify ; how the choir
was vaulted by Prior Hoton (1283), and the aisles by
Prior Algar earlier still (1100-37), how the great west
doorway, with its medallions and grotesque devices,
was gifted by Bishop Rufus, and how the wonderful
Catherine window and the famous screen were added.
But these things can all be read in the guide-books,
especially in the cheap and handy guide-book of Mr.
J. H. Veitch in North Road, with full relay of facts
such as we need not dwell on, our business being
confined, as our space demands it should be, to giving
merely general impressions.

We therefore turn down the South Bailey, with its
many quaint but powerful reminders of olden times,
and find our way to the river banks. There modern
improvement has indeed made a garden. The slopes
are umbrageous with trees of many kinds ; the walks,
well laid out, are liberally supplied with seats where
the wanderer may rest and be thankful, and listen to
the birds sending forth as varied and sweet a concert
as could be heard in the deepest recesses of many
remote woods. The sense of quiet and retirement is
such as could not be realised in many cities. As you
sit and look up, you cannot but be struck by the
great height to which the Cathedral towers rise above
the level of the river; and, as the eye runs along,
following the lines of the castle heights, this is still
more impressed upon you; you feel that Durham is
in its own way unique. You may visit the University

Walks near Durham. 281

and rejoice in its wealth, the richness of the museum,
and the quiet of its halls ; you may admire this and
that in some of the city churches ; you may find much
that is quaint in the Grammar School and the Blue
Coat School and the Old Exchequer, and much to
interest you in the wealth of picture and carving in
the Town Hall and the Guild Hall, but your mind will
return to the first view you had of the Cathedral and
the Castle, and the impression you gathered on your
first walk on the leafy terraced slopes of the river banks
below them.

One building, for personal reasons more than aught
else, particularly attracted our attention. It is the
Durham Miners' Hall in North Road — a solid and
unpretending building, entered by a wide doorway
leading to a broad staircase. In front are impressive
white marble statues of two leaders of the Durham
miners, that of Alexander MacDonald, M.P., and
William Crawford.

On making inquiries, we were told that here and
there considerable portions of the old city wall still
remain ; and we lost no time in making our way to see
them. Our engraving gives a very good idea of one
of the most important portions which still remain to
show the solid masonry by which the city was at one
time surrounded.

There are three very delightful walks near Durham,
which the visitor on no account should miss. The first
is that to Brancepeth Castle, the second to Finchale
Priory, and the third to Sunderland Bridge. Of course
there are many more, as to Langley Old Hall, Butterby,
and Maiden Castle Scar ; but the three first named most
interested us, as we most enjoyed them. It is not only
what is found at the end of the journey, but what the

282

In Durham and near' it.

road itself supplies, that is here enchanting ! The road
to Brancepeth winds in the most delightful way; now
you are almost closed in by woods and gentle heights,
and again you emerge to enjoy the most exquisite
glimpses of distant hills with fringes of wood, and at

length when a view of the castle, which so finely com-
bines the old and the new, bursts full upon you, you
feel that it is a fitting finale to your ramble. Like a
true poem, the last lines crown the whole. It is finely
castellated with six great towers, two of which — those

Finchale Priory. 283

on the west and south side — are of ancient construc-
tion, the projecting buttresses gradually emerging and
impressing themselves on the eye, and breaking the
lines with fine effect. The restorations, carried out by
Mr. John Patterson of Edinburgh, and finished in 1818,
were in the fullest degree possible in the spirit of the
original portion ; and the whole is in the highest degree
imposing. Walls and turrets relieve each other along
each side, and enclose a spacious courtyard, which is
entered at the north-east angle by a Norman gateway
with a portcullis, and flanked by rounded towers. We
can well believe what is said, that it is superior to any
other battlemented edifice in the north of England. The
parts now inhabited lie on the south-west side, and rise
from a high rock. Inside the castle there is much to
interest the visitor, alike in the way of ancient armour
and splendid pictures, besides some fine remains of old
work in groined ceilings, and so forth ; and the stately
entrance hall is filled up with massive oaken seats with
strong arms which terminate in boars' heads, delight-
fully carved. And for the lover of antiquities, there is
much to attract, both within and without the castle, which
is surrounded by a splendid park and gardens, where
days might be spent both profitably and pleasantly.

To reach Finchale Priory, the best way is to go by
foot-road through Frankland and Brasside Moor. The
scenery, if not very romantic or striking, is varied and
interesting ; and the more distant views, in many cases,
are fine. It is with a sense of surprise that, after some
windings, a view of the Priory is suddenly gained lying
half-hidden in a lovely dell — the Wear here sweeping
boldly round and forming, as it were, a little peninsula
on which the Priory stands ; the high cliffs of Cocken
rising almost opposite, with no little grandeur, and giving

284 In Durham and near it.

effect and picturesqueness. The ruins are now in many
places ivy-grown, but are everywhere touched as with
the finger of romance and tradition, interesting, as Mr.
W. S. Gibson says, " to the architect no less than to the
antiquary, and the more so, because there is not another
building of decorated work worthy of note in the county
of Durham. Indeed, there are few specimens of it as
added to buildings of an earlier period in this part of
Old Northumbria, owing perhaps to the incessant wars
between England and Scotland, in the age when the
decorated style prevailed in this country, and to the
active part which the ecclesiastical princes palatine of
Durham, and their obedientaries and vassals, monastical
as well as lay, were obliged to take in these desolating
contests. Unpeopled and desecrated for three centuries,
time has spread over the chief portions of these grey
walls a mantle of venerable and luxuriant ivy, whose
roots entwine about the foundations, and whose branches
have penetrated the interstices of the masonry, rearing
their perennial foliage where all beside is crumbling to
ruin."

Once well clear of the town, the road to Sunderland
Bridle is delightful, quietly picturesque, with the sweet
relief of strips of wood here and there on the right,
running along its borders, with fine specimens of birch
and beech and fir interlacing their branches. At the
time we last journeyed o'er it (April, 1 893), the larks
in the fields on the left were rising, circling upwards,
making the air vocal with their sweet and unceasing
song ; the lapwings circled round, their crests just
beginning to be brightened with tufts of deeper colour,
and uttering their familiar cry, pees-weet, pees-weet ;
and blackbirds and thrushes were very busy near to
the more wooded and cultured policies that led up to

Sunderland Bridge. 287

the seats of the landed gentry. The hands of men, at
all events of all fruit-cultivating men, are against this
brotherhood; yet they survive, insist on being his neigh-
bours, and fain would conciliate him by the sweetest
of songs at mid-day, and at eventide, after most other
day songsters have ceased their song.

Sunderland Bridge is one of those old-fashioned
structures, with angular recesses at its sides, V-shaped ;
and when anything is going on, parties of anglers
starting up the stream for instance, each of these at
the sharp point will be found occupied by an interested
rural spectator, unwilling that anything should escape
him. And often there is a good deal going on here,
for it is a very favourite spot for parties of anglers
making a start for fishing on the Wear. And no
wonder. You have only to pause for a moment, like
the rustics, and lean over at the sharp point of one of
these angular recesses, and you will get assurance of
this. Just below the bridge the water passes foaming
over and between the breaks of a high strata of big
flat boulders, and then trots smartly down into a fine
pool where big fish must sometimes lie. Immediately
above the bridge is the spacious railway viaduct, with
many spans.

At the furthest end of the bridge on the height is
the village of Sunderland Bridge, with its church so
nicely and picturesquely set on the hill amid its screen
of trees, like a picture. We may note, in passing, that
the houses represented in our illustration are not in
Sunderland Bridge village at all, but are really in
Spitz Hall parish ; but that will not probably be of
much consequence or interest to the traveller, who will
be more concerned to know that Mrs. Mortimer at the
Inn, whose signboard you see in the print, can supply

288 In Durham and near it.

really sound refreshments, and is in every way a good
and honest hostess.

A little further on is Croxdale, where there is a
station on the Darlington and Durham Railway, and
by this the pilgrim, should he feel wearied or footsore,
can do, as we did, though not weary or footsore, but
only pressed for time on that last visit, take the train,
and either return to Durham or go to Darlington as he
may be inclined.

XVIII.
IN COQUETDALE.

THE Coquet has been so often celebrated alike for its
picturesque and varied scenery and its " wale o' trout/'
that it may seem somewhat late in the day to deal with
it as we now propose to do. But, after all, it is not
yet so well known to general readers, at all events
in the south, as it deserves to be, and the hope of
interesting them and sending some of them to see it
is our justification. Scenery in which the wild and
romantic is at parts mingled with the sweetly sylvan
and pastoral may be found in Coquetdale in almost as
striking a measure as on some of the favourite streams
of Scotland. Many who rush past it, and thus reduce
the time they have for enjoyment on the hills in the
open air, might pause, and find the Highlands nearer
home than in the north and west of Scotland. And
this we say though, as the reader % knows from what
we have already written, we are bound to Scotland by
the nearest and dearest ties. But many might comfort-
ably reach the Coquet and enjoy a few days there who
would not for the short time they have at their disposal
think of going so far afield as Deeside or Inverness or
Argyleshire.

Well, then, let us start on our journey. We might
spend a good while in tracing the Coquet from its rise
in the Cheviot Hills, clearing its way " through moors

290 In Coquet dale.

and mosses many," now spreading out into gentle pools,
and again leaping through narrow gorges, and in des-
canting on the beauties of the many tributaries that
come tumbling down the little glens and hillsides and
go to swell its current ; but beyond Rothbury there is
no railway, and the numbers who would adventure far
up are limited to the more leisured persons, fond of
novelty, and enthusiastic fishermen, and, it may be, an
artist or two in search of remote nooks and wild
romantic corners that will suggest striking pictures.
Rothbury lies on the side of a hill, just where the
Coquet makes one of his finest sweeps, and is in its own
way unique. It is the capital of Coquet-land, and is
indeed like one who lifts up his head proudly and looks
pleased over the fair and romantic lands he owns. It
is far from being a dull or stupid place. There is a
good deal of life in it. I learned that there were
several societies, though with regret I heard that a golf
club lately formed had not been a great success. The
church is a fine structure, and the hotels are good.
Personally we found the Queen's Head attractive, and
Mr. Lawson an admirable and hearty host. Many
delightful drives may be had within an easy distance,
the most exquisite of which is perhaps that to Simon-
side and Great To^son.

All the country round is rich in springs — some
of them chalybeate, some of them sulphur, and
others iron. All the country round Rothbury, too,
is rich in antiquarian remains — British dwellings,
Roman causeways, peel (or pil) towers, ruins of
camps and fortresses, telling how the waves of Border
invasion swept on and retreated and swept on again.
Mr. Dixon quotes a song composed by a Newcastle
gentleman well known in Coquetdale, as spirited as it

"Hot Trod." 291

is faithful to fact and the feelings of those into whose
mouth it is put :—

" Waes me I— God wot,

But the beggarlie Scot
Through the 'bateable land has prickit his way,

An' ravaged wi' fire

Peel, haudin', an' byre,

Our nowte, sheep, and galloways a' taen awae ;
But by hagbut an' sword, ere he's back owre the Border,
We'll be net on his trod, an' aye set him in order.

Nae bastles or peels

Are safe frae the deils,
Gin the collies be oot or the lairds awae ;

The bit bairnies an' wives

Gang i' dreed o' their lives,

For they scumfish them oot wi' the smoutherin' strae.
Then — spear up the lowe — ca' oor lads thegither,
An' we'll follow them hot trod owre the heather.

Weel graith'd, sair on metal,

Oor harness in fettle,
The reivers we sicht far ayont the wa',

Gin we bring them to bay,

Nae saufey we'll pay.

We'll fangit, syne bang it— we'se see them a' ;
Then on, lads, on— for the trod is hot,
As oot ower the heather we prod the Scot.

We'll harass them sairly,

Nae hoo gie for parley.
Noo the spurs i' the dish for their hungrie wames,

Do your slogans gie mouth,

An' we'll sune lead them south.

Grarnerce — gin we cross them, we'll crap their kames
Then— keep the lowe bleezin', lads— ca' to the fray,
Syne we're up wi' the lifters we'll gar them pay.

Fae to fae — steel to steel ;
Noo the donnert loons reel,
An' caitiffs cry ' Hoo ! ' but it's a' in vain :

292 In Coquet dale.

See a clatter o' thwacks

Fa's on sallets an' jacks.
Till we've lifted the lifters as weel as oor ain,
Then wi' fyce to the crupper they'll ride a gaie mile
To their dance frae the Wuddie at merrie Carlisle."

In the Jacobite risings of 1715 and 1745 Coquetdale
had its own part, and the distress and disturbance
experienced by the good folks there are commemorated
in these lines, often heard by Mr. Dixon on Coquet
Water — lines which wonderfully recall one of Mr.
Allingham's fine poems, if not indeed, the finest of his
shorter poems : —

"Up the craggy mountain,

An' doun the mossy glen,
We daurna gan' a-milkin'
For Charlie an' his men."

Rothbury contains between 800 and 900 inhabitants,
and is mainly limited to three streets — the Front or
High Street (the longest), and Bridge Street and Church
Street.

We learn from Mr. Tomlinson that the name of
Rothbury is supposed by some to be derived from the
Celtic word rhatli, meaning a cleared spot. If any
weight is to be laid on the old rhyme which we owe to
Mr. D. D. Dixon, it is clear that Rothbury in old times
largely put the wild heights about it, unfit for other
use, to the rearing of goats, as did many other places
in Northumberland :—

" Rothbury for goats' milk,

The Cheviots for mutton ;
Cheswick for its cheese and bread,
And Tynemouth for a glutton."

But our plan, having seen Rothbury and neighbour-

Rothbury.

293

hood, was to drive down the thirteen miles to Ack-
lington, there get on the train to Warkworth; and
spend a little time at Coquet mouth.

Nothing could be finer than the views that unfolded
themselves just as we turned out of Rothbury. Our
road lay as if on an upper shelf on a high rocky slope,
above us still rough heathery hills, and below the
glancing glistening river. Soon the rocks below

THRUM MILL.

seemed to close into a ravine, where the water nar-
rowed and deepened into a kind of gully, and forced
its way with foam and noise through barriers of rock.
This is what is called the Thrum, and the Thrum Mill
is close beside it, one of the most striking bits of
scenery on this part. A footpath leads along from
Rothbury to the Thrum Mill, a favourite resort of the
visitors who in summer come to Rothbury, and here

294 In Coqiietdale.

find welcome change. Mr. James Ferguson of Mor-
peth has given us the following about the Thrum :—

" About a mile below Rothbury, at the Thrum Mill,
the river yields a little snatch of bold and romantic
scenery. There, in earlier times, the pent-up waters
had to force their way through a barrier of sandstone ;
and the river is at the present time showing how it
was done, for at one point the entire body of water
forces its way in a serpentine course between rocks so
close that a steady brain and sure foot can step across,
but not without risk, which should not be lightly taken,
for it is evident that, beneath, the rocks must be scooped
and grooved out into huge tunnels and dark recesses
from which escape would be impossible. Here the
southern bank is an almost perpendicular face of
rugged rocks, festooned and wreathed with the foliage
of nature-planted bushes, and crowned with stately
trees."

In one of Wilson's " Tales of the Borders," Willie
Faa, the gipsy king, is represented as leaping across
the Thrum with the stolen heir of Clennel Castle, and
leaving his pursuers behind.

In old days it is said that much poaching was
practised here. Mr. D. D. Dixon, whose art it is to
combine business with pleasure, and delights to gather
up the folklore, old traditions, and local tales as he
goes his rounds, never failing to furnish us with new
and racy material, has some little records which abun-
dantly prove that the practice has not yet been discon-
tinued. And despite the custom so long carried on, it
is apparently profitable enough to entice men to the
adventure, even if the Coquet is not so rich in fish as
it once was, at all events, according to this report : —

"Talk o' fishin'," said an old Coquet angler, " there's

Halcyon Days. 295

no sic fishen' in Coquet now as when I was a lad. It
was nowte then but to fling in and pull out by tweeses
an' threeses if ye had sae mony heuks on, but now a
body may keep threshin' at the water a' day atween
Hallysteun an' Weldon an' hardly catch three dozen,
an' money a time no that. Aboot fifty years syne I
mind o' seein' trouts that thick i' the Thrum below
Rothbury that if ye had stucken the end o' yor gad
into the watter amang them it wud amaist hae studden
upreet."*

These halcyon days, if they ever existed, have
gone, never to return, but still poaching in Coquetdale
is not a lost art. Gangs of men work the torches
and the leisters, while those who like to be solitary
prefer to work the gaff or the cleek. Mr. Dixon, in
his account of salmon poaching, gives this incident : —

" One dark November night about eight o'clock, a
few years ago, I was returning home from the country,
when, walking along the highway, a few miles from
Rothbury, I heard, but could not see, that some one
was approaching ; suddenly, with a bang and a rattle,
something was thrown into the roadside ditch ; then I
saw a form looming through the darkness. According
to the fashion of us country folk, I shouted, ' It's a dark
night ; ' immediately the well-known voice of a country-
man (who lived close by) replied, ' Oh ! that's ye, Mr.
Dixon, aa' thought ye war somebody else : wait a bit,
or aa' git thor things oot the dykeside.' Thereupon,
after grappling about in the dark, he produced a lantern,
a salmon gaff, and a poke : shouldering these imple-
ments, we went chatting along the road together until
we came to a small burn — a tributary of the Coquet —
the spot where my poaching friend was ' gan te try for

* " Rambles in Northumberland,3' by .Stephen Oliver, the younger.

296 In Coquet dale.

a' fish ; ' here I left him, as I did not care to be mixed
up in a poaching expedition."

Mr. Dixon also tells that the gangs for leistering
were fond of adopting disguises to aid them against
the water-watchers, and he gives this little bit of char-
acter and humour in illustration :—

" Some had their faces blacked and their eyes white,
others these colours reversed, a third, with a yellow
face, had, perhaps, red eyes and a red chin, and so on.
All wore the oldest and the duddiest of clothes they
could procure : their head-dress was often a battered
long hat or a woman's straw-bonnet — the latter was
the favourite head-gear, as the protecting front of the
old-fashioned coal-scuttle bonnet shaded the eyes from
the flare of the tarry-rope lights. An amusing story
is told of an old weaver, who, from all accounts, did
not spend much time in the performance of his daily
toilet. There were going to be some fishers on the
water, and he was to be one of the party, so, on asking
his wife — 'Nanny, how shud aa' 'guise meesel the
night?' she replied, 'Aa'l tell ye what, John, just
wesh yor fyce, an' a'm sure nebody'll ken ye.'"

As we pass on, we look up on the left, and find that
the scene has changed, not that the mountains are less
lofty or less stern in their native character, but that
skill and culture have been applied. We are looking
on the rocks which the wise and liberal expenditure of
Lord Armstrong have converted into hanging gardens,
not perhaps so magnificent as those of ancient Babylon,
but certainly very beautiful and striking. He chose
in this region to fix his abode — has built a splendid
mansion, Cragside he has named it, and made the bare
hills all about it to blossom like the rose. He has
prudently planted only the kind of growths that would

Todsted Farm. 297

flourish on such ground and in such a situation : firs,
pines, rhododendrons, ferns, and so forth, and not only
has he his reward, but every passer-by has his share
in it. Such a man is a great benefactor, and every
visitor to Rothbury is indebted to him.

As we drove along beyond Cragside grounds a
strange sight met our eyes. On a field on the side of
one of the gentle slopes to our left, lying as it were
between two swelling heights, fit probably only for
grazing sheep, we saw what seemed to us two figures
in women's dress — the one at the plough, the other at
the harrow. The horses seemed under complete com-
mand, and the work was proceeding apace. In surprise
we turned to our intelligent driver, who said, in answer
to our queries : " Yes, they are women, and the people
round about here regard it only as an ordinary matter
to see them out at work. That is Todsted farm ; it is
held by a man who has four daughters, and up to quite
a recent date they themselves did the whole work of
the farm, ploughing, harrowing, sowing, reaping, and
attending to the stock. The bulk of the farm, which
is between 300 and 400 acres, is in sheep runs, but
certain things have led the father of late to turn a little
more into arable, and he has now got the assistance of
a young man, but the daughters still take a turn at
every kind of work, and very good hands they are
too." It was very odd to have gone to the wild and
picturesque neighbourhood of Rothbury to see some-
thing in this line so entirely new — to see something
more than a practical working out of the old saw which
it is so often said has now got antiquated—

" Man to the mow,
Wife to the cow,
Son to the plough,
Girl to the sow."

298 In Coquetdale.

We pass by the quaint little village of Pauperhaugh
or Pepperhaugh, as it is locally called, with its unique
post-office, and see on our right the remains of Brink-
burn Ironworks, where many thousand pounds were
sunk years ago (for coal and iron are to be found in the
valley) ; but it was a failure, and the works abandoned
— another proof that no such enterprise can prosper
unconnected with a railway, and this was before the
railway was brought so near as it is now-a-days.

As we proceed onward, the valley gradually opens
out, throwing its wooded heights further from the
stream; the river widens and winds, forming fine
sweeps and greeny reaches in the loops it makes. We
see, from the depth and colour of the water just after it
has passed over brawling shallows and forms pools,
that there the fisher will love, in a sweet west wind that
gently stirs it, to ply his " triple floating flies," or cast
his minnow in the early morning sun, or the mellower
afternoon light. So it flows on, murmuring and singing
to itself, till we reach the famous Brinkburn, with its
Priory set sweetly on one of the greeny loops we have
referred to, as though it had been prepared precisely
for just such a structure. Very beautiful is the whole
picture here presented — the Priory, with its gardens
and woods gathered round it, as though nestling there ;
and looking on the water where its outlines are faintly
reflected in the stream that here flows calm and clear.
Those who wish to know all the details about this
historical priory must go to the guide-books — to Mr.
W. W. Tomlinson's very admirable " Comprehensive
Guide to Northumberland," published by Mr. Walter
Scott, or to the everyway excellent little guides by Mr.
D. D. Dixon and Mr. James Ferguson of Morpeth.

Another very famous point on the river is Weldon
Bridge, where there is a quiet and homely inn much

Brinkburn.

299

patronised by fishermen in the season, and by bicyclists
and parties of men on walking tours. We have good
reason to speak of the cleanliness and order of this
inn, for we rested there and found ourselves in good

BRINKBUKN.

company, from which we did not seek to stand aloof.
True, indeed, is the old rhyme still : —

" At Weldon Bridge there's wale o' wine,

If ye hae coin in pocket ;
If ye can throw a heckle fine,
There's wale o' trout in Coquet"

300

In Coquetdale.

Here the river widens out, the banks becoming
flatter, and so continue for some distance with little
variation, till we approach the very beautiful village of
Felton, where again the banks rise, the river in some
degree narrows, and you have one of the finest effects
imaginable. Felton lies as if in a half cup-like hollow
on the left side in a series of irregular terraces, some

WELDON BRIDGE.

of the houses appearing almost to be hung nest-like
on the slope amid trees and delicious greenery, while
the main road, now high on the right bank of the river,
runs through another village higher up, and looking, as
it were, lovingly down across upon Felton. The scene
is indeed delicious. From the blue and red roofs, the
smoke, as we looked, rose straight into the blue, for
not much wind was then stirring. Had we the power

Warkworth. 30 1

of choosing the spot where we should spend the two
most charming months of the year, we are not sure but
we should say Felton, and would give it a fair trial, sin-
cerely hoping that it would not verify the truth of the
line, that "distance lends enchantment to the view."

There is not much more to make note of till we reach
Acklington, which is rather a cold-looking little village,
and here we leave the river to return to it when we
reach Warkworth. This is one of the quaintest of old
towns. Driven from the station, we find the road goes
right round the greater half of the town, and you enter
it by the further side, crossing the river, which almost
winds round the little town, by an old two-arched
bridge with many angles, and passing under an old
and picturesque gateway that directly recalls mediaeval
times. Going forward, you come to the main street,
and the Castle lies on the height right in front of you
on a flat greeny knoll. It is much more of a ruin than
might be fancied from the picture. The keep, built
on an artificial mound and thus overtopping the rest,
is the portion in best preservation, if we except the
great gateway on the opposite side from the town,
which is one of the oldest parts, if not the very oldest ;
and by its powerful build and fine machicolation tells
how in these days use and ornament went hand in
hand. The keep was built on the site of an earlier
one by the son of that Hotspur celebrated by Shake-
spe'are in " Henry IV.," between the years 1415 and
1454. Mr. Freeman says "it is a good study of the
process by which the purely military castle gradually
passed into the house fortified for any occasional
emergency." All round the Castle, in the olden days,
there ran a wall ramparted and with round towers at
certain points, but this wall has been in parts destroyed,

302

In Coquet dale.

or has mouldered away, so that the two parts of the
Castle, as seen in our illustration, seem to be almost
disconnected. The arms of the Percys, and many
other devices, are engraven on the walls here and there,
and we see many traces of draw-wells and dungeons,
deep pits and descents, in some of which, no doubt,
men were imprisoned, or it may be, shut from the light
of day and tortured.

WARKVVORTH CASTLE.

All round about Warkworth are the most delightful
walks, and bits on the river are simply charming. The
steep banks on the side opposite the church are laid
out in the most attractive pathways ; and, as we stood
there in the sunset admiring the effect, we heard the
big fish leap in the still pools with the big bouldery
margins beyond and nearer to us. Nor should the

Ckurc/i of St. Lawrence. 303

parish church, dedicated to St. Lawrence, be left with-
out some examination. It is a fine structure and well
worth attention, as specimens of all the various styles
of English architecture are to be seen in it. Mr. Tom-
linson (p. 408) gives these excellent hints regarding
the most interesting points in connection with it :—

" The features most worthy of special notice are, the
Norman windows of the nave, the original groining of
the chancel, and the Norman triplet filled with modern
stained glass at the east end, and the chancel arch with
its singular and perhaps unique fan ornamentation ; the
old staircase for the ringer of the sanctus bell at the
north-east angle of the nave ; the cross-legged effigy of a
knight in the south aisle ; and a curious window in the
vestry composed of three narrow slits, through which it
is believed an anchorite inhabiting this chamber com-
municated with persons outside. The porch on the
outside is well peppered with bullet marks. Within it
is laid the opening scene of Mr. Walter Besant's story,
' Let nothing you dismay ; ' the hero of the narrative
having to do penance in a white sheet before the con-
gregation entering the church."

In speaking to some of the more intelligent inhabi-
tants I met of the facility with which the castle might
be restored, after the manner in which the Earl of
Moray restored Doune Castle, I was somewhat sur-
prised to find that the suggestion met with no encou-
ragement from them. , They shrugged their shoulders ;
and said that it was better as it was. The Duke of
Northumberland had a splendid seat not very far off
— Alnwick Castle, namely — and they knew that were
Warkworth Castle restored, and the ducal family settled
even for a part of the year there, it would soon come
to be a heavy tax on the good folks of Warkworth, by a

304 In Cocjuctdale.

curtailment of their freedom in many ways — no doubt
a very sensible view to take, but certainly not savour-
ing much of feudal devotion, which just shows how far
and how fast we are now travelling from the romance
and sentiment of the feudal times.

Looking out from the ramparts of the castle seaward,
we could behold Coquet Island lying perhaps a mile
out, like a vast black-backed fish basking in the sun,
with the lighthouse, dwindled to a small point, like
a high whitish fin just behind the head. We made
inquiries about the best means of getting out to it,
but were told that unless when the boat goes out with
supplies for the lighthouse men there is no course but
specially to employ a fisherman or boatman to row one
out. But on asking whether Coquet Island Cell was
worth the journey, all to whom we spoke answered
decidedly no, that Coquet Island was, in their idea,
best looked at from a distance, that the only portion
of the famous cell that, remained was now a part of
the foundation of the lighthouse or keeper's house, and
that if it could be seen at all it was with difficulty, and
they dissuaded us from the enterprise. Wrecks, in old
days, were all too frequent on Coquet Island, so that
it was a cause of great rejoicing when on 1st October
1841 the first light was exhibited from the lighthouse.
In 1643, during the Civil Wars, the place was taken,
with all its garrison, by the Scots, and thus attained
for the time some importance.

Instead of rowing to Coquet Island, therefore, we
acted on the suggestion received and visited the Her-
mitage, which lies about a quarter of a mile up the
river from the castle in the centre of a wood, one of
the most remarkable places we have ever visited. As
we approached, and came within view of this interesting

The Hermitage. 305

structure, I could not help thinking of Coleridge's lines
in " The Ancient Mariner " :—

" The hermit good lives in the wood . . .
He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve —
He hath a cushion plump :
It is the moss that wholly hides
The rotten, old oak stump."

The hermitage itself is cut out of the solid freestone
rock some twenty feet in height, and is approached by
a flight of some seventeen steps also cut in the rock.
It contains three apartments, the cell, the chapel, and
the dormitory. The first is about twenty feet in length,
and about seven and a half feet in height, and it is
certainly not to be matched elsewhere in our country.

Here and there are relics of sculptured effigies of
angels and cherubs, and crosses and other emblems.
The ceilings are beautifully groined, the arches spring-
ing from highly wrought pilasters. On an altar tomb,
to the right of the altar, just before a two-light win-
dow, is the recumbent figure of a lady, her hands
upraised. On the inner wall over the entrance is
inscribed, in old English characters, the Latin, Fuerunt
mihi lacrymce mece panes die ac nocte, " my tears have
been my meat day and night." Built up against the
side of the rock is a little chamber about eighteen
feet square, and in it is a wide fireplace. It is sup-
posed that this was the residence of a chantry-priest,
who lived here at a period subsequent to the original
date of the hermitage.

The solitude of the place, the sense of sanctity, re-
inforced by the wealth of foliage, the shrubs, mosses,
and ferns surrounding it, combine to awaken feelings
new and unique ; the mind is filled with emotions

U

306

In Coquetdale.

kindred to those which animated the men who sought
such a retreat in days long gone by, and desired to
make it mirror as far as might be the feelings of rever-
ence and worship that dwelt in them. Antiquarians
give the date of the structure as the middle of the
fourteenth century.

XIX.
ABOUT WOOLER.

WOOLER is the centre of a world of its own. It is, as
it were, the queen of its four streams which, so to
speak, knit themselves about it, and look on it from
near and far as their presiding and tutelary patron.
At its feet the Wooler Water, flowing gracefully on ;
further off, the Beaumont and the College streams that
wind down to meet and form The Glen, one of the
most delightfully wooded and most picturesque of
Northumbrian streams. I had come to Wooler from
Warkworth, and reached it rather late in the evening,
for some of the trains on that line are not only slow,
but apt to be rather behind time, and it was too dark
to see much that night. But as I took a turn, and
picked my way along at the risk of a fall, I could see
that the place was pretty, and had a character of its
own. But more than this was not possible then. I
put up at the delightful Tankerville Arms (locally called
" The Cottage Hotel "), which combines in very truth
the character of a cottage with that of a town hotel.
You are served in a hearty and homely way, for Mr.
and Mrs. Aitchison are the true old-fashioned host and
hostess ; and you soon find that the inn has many
memorials of famous fishermen who have made head-
quarters there, returning to it again and again, as
though it were to them a kind of second home. It

3°7

308

A bout Wooler.

is not much to look at — two long rows of building
meeting at right angles, and really forming half of a
square, with pretty bits of garden seen from some of
the windows. Our little cut gives a very fair idea of
it ; but the interior is much finer, and is full of character
in many respects.

I found in the list of visitors and in other records in
the public rooms much to interest and amuse me, and

THE COTTAGE HOTEL, WOOLEK.

retired to rest early, that I might be up in the morning
fresh and able to make the most of my time.

In the morning I strolled round the little town,
admiring what nature had done for it, and what uncon-
scious art had done also — so settling some houses here
and there in nooks and corners that no view of Wooler
can be got that will give more than a fragment of it.
It is hung on the slope of a gentle hill, its main street
along a kind of ridge, and the back gardens on the one

Churches. 309

side deliciously sloping down towards the Wooler
Water, which flows at its feet. This street is the only
long and straight thoroughfare in it, and at the upper
end it opens out into a kind of triangle, in the centre
of which stands the picturesque and beautifully orna-
mented fountain erected by public subscription to the
memory of William Wightman, Esq., who was a banker
in the town, and much loved and respected. Just round
from the corner of this triangle stands the parish church
— a slightly irregular and not very imposing structure.
Towards the other end is the handsome Roman Catholic
Church erected in 1855.

I was a little surprised at the presence of so many
churches and chapels in so small a town, which led me
to remark to a residenter, with whom I talked, that
the good folks of Wooler must either be very good or
very bad people, which caused him to put on a ques-
tioning look. By way of reply, I quoted, in a laughing
way, the lines of Defoe —

" Wherever God erects a house of prayer
The devil is sure to build a chapel there,"

and added, " the nearer the church the further from
grace."

" Well, yes," he said, " we have enow o' them ; and,
as you say, we should be good people if stone and lime
and the preachin' of the word could do it."

" Why," I said, " you must have a church or chapel
for every score of people in the place. How many
churches and chapels are there in this small town ?"

" Well," he said, " let one see : there mun be six at
least. There's the Parish Church there and the Roman
Catholic Church here. There's a Presbyterian (point-
ing with his finger), and down that entry is mother

310 About Wooler.

Presbyterian, and there's a third Presbyterian at the
other end of the town. And we have a Primitive
Methodist Chapel, and a hall where the Plymouth
Brethren meet. Yes, we should be 'good people,' if
stone and lime and preachin' the word could do it ; but
I'm afraid there's a good bit of the old Adam left still
hereabout in spite of all that."

And then he proceeded to tell me how it came about
that the keen Presbyterian spirit could not be content
with fewer than three churches — one had originally
belonged to the Established Church of Scotland, and
one had been a Burgher meeting-house, but both were
now connected with the Presbyterian Church of Eng-
land. The independence of the Border spirit thus
comes out very illustrative in the field of religion ; the
people are, or have been, keenly influenced by the
religious and theological differences that prevail in both
countries. The Roman Catholic church, he told me,
was built at a time when not a few of the landed gentry
in the region leaned that way ; but now many of them
had died out, and the numbers attending this spacious
church were so few, that when a much esteemed priest
died some years ago no new priest was settled in
Wooler, and they " begged or borrowed " a priest, as
he said, now and then from neighbouring churches.

As we talked, the beauty of the morning was, as it
were, blighted by two or three ragged, wretched-
looking, filthy creatures creeping along with that pecu-
liar huddling together of the figure that tells of too
scanty clothing for the keen morning air. Hands in
pockets, and nondescript caps drawn as far as might
be over their eyes, they crept on, ill-shod, as though
the sunlight were a burden ; and they were followed
by another couple with better bearing, much more

Tramps. 311

independent air, and cleanlier look — they had little
bundles in their hands. My eyes turned from them
to him with inquiry.

" Oh ! " he said, " these in front are tramps just
come from our workhouse over there behind the
church, and they are just on their way to the next
one. They go a regular round, and that makes up
their lives, poor devils — 'tis little better than a tread-
wheel, yet they don't commit suicide. The two behind,
if I judge right, are not tramps, but respectable working
men out of a job moving on to try and find one. They
look very different from the others, and may work into
better luck yet."

I looked again as those in front turned a corner, and
saw the last of them — one was just borrowing a rag
from another, probably all they had for a handkerchief
among the lot. In these days of accumulation and
care for the things of to-morrow, these men, at all
events, illustrate complete dependence on Providence,
laying up no treasure for themselves here below, nor
carrying scrip nor cloak — the saddest spectacle almost
to be seen in our Christian country, and strongly em-
phasised here by the freshness, greenness, and sparkle
of nature all around.

Before I parted from my good informant, a gentle-
man with an air of business came along, whom I was
informed was Mr. Brand of the " Atlas " Printing Works,
who could supply me with the " guide " I wanted. I
went with him to his place to get Mr. Hall's very
excellent " Guide to Glendale," which I found most
interesting and useful, simple, clear, and nicely illus-
trated.

This enabled me to choose my walks whilst at Wooler;
and of two of them I must make special mention. The

312 About Wooler.

first was to Haughhead, by a delightful road. You
turn round the upper side of the town down a deli-
cious descent to Wooler Bridge — another with many
angles — and then crossing it, enter a wide plain with a
steepish hill on one side near Wooler laid out in pretty
walks, and then you pass on to a region of gentle
swelling hills. The road winds, and the Wooler Water
spreads here and there over gravelly reaches, and
chatters and sings to itself, and then passes into deeper
pools, and, like deep things, is then silent. Haughhead
is a good place for picnic parties to go to if they wish
quiet/and they had need to picnic, for the inn there is not
now what it was in the olden coaching days. But what
gives its main interest to the place is the fact that here
the English army lay encamped for two days just be-
fore Flodden. It was from this place that the Earl of
Surrey sent that letter of 7th September, upbraiding
the Scottish king for breaking his promise to meet the
English forces, and offering to give him battle next day
on Milfield Plain.

The second was to Humbleton, to see what is called
" The Cup and Saucer Camp." It is an intrenchment
which is said to have been one of the strongholds
of the ancient Britons. Mr. Hall gives a very full
description of it: "It is 180 yards in circumference,
having a hollow in the centre of the area, and is
surrounded by a rampier of stone and earth, which is
yet in some parts three feet high." There is not a
little here to interest the lover of nature as well as
the antiquarian, for some of the views from this point
are fine, and the fact that numerous skeletons have been
dug up here exceedingly well preserved gives it a kind
of claim upon the regard of ethnologists.

A letter from Sir Walter Scott to his friend Clark,

Sir Walter Scott s Letter. 313

in 1791, when he paid a visit to Wooler and its neigh-
bourhood, is of value, were it for nothing else but
showing that in these days here, as in Coquetdale,
the keeping of goats for the sake of the milk, &c.,
was common, though now the hill farmer has turned
his attention to the more profitable occupation of sheep-
rearing, and the lowland farmer to the more scientific
cultivation of the soil, which has led to a great change
in the landscape in many ways. But we must give
ourselves the pleasure of quoting a part of Sir Walter's
most characteristic letter : —

"I am very snugly settled here in a farmer's house
about six miles from Wooler, in the very centre of the
Cheviot Hills, in one of the wildest and most romantic
situations which your imagination ever suggested. And
what the deuce are you doing there ? methinks I hear
you say. Why, sir, of all things in the world, drinking
goats' whey : not that I stand in the least need of it,
but my uncle having a slight cold, and being a little
tired of home, asked me last Sunday evening if I
would like to go with him to Wooler, and I, answering
in the affirmative, next morning's sun beheld us on
our journey through a pass in the Cheviots, upon the
backs of two special nags, and man Thomas behind
with a portmanteau and two fishing-rods fastened
across his back, much in the style of St. Andrew's
cross. Upon reaching Wooler we found the accom-
modation so bad that we were forced to use some
interest to get lodgings here, where we are most
delightfully appointed indeed. To add to my satis-
faction, we are among places renowned by the feats
of former days : each hill is crowned with a tower, or
camp, or cairn, and in no situation can you be nearer
more fields of battle — Flodden and Chevy Chase, Ford

314 About Wooler.

Castle, Chillingham Castle, Coupland Castle, and many
another scene of blood are within the compass of a
forenoon's ride. . . . All day we shoot, fish, walk, and
ride, dine and sup on fish straight from the stream,
and the most delicious heath-fed mutton, barn-door
fowls, poys (pies), milk-cheese, &c., all in perfection."

To those who are interested in cattle a visit to
Chillingham jto see the wild cattle there will be most
enjoyable. It is an easy matter from Wooler, being
only six and a half miles off. The poet has thus
enforced the attractions of such a visit in May :—

" The wild bull his covert in Chillingham wood

Has left, and now browses the daisy-strewed plain ;
The mayfly and swallow are skimming the flood,

And sweet in the hedge blooms the hawthorn again."

I left Wooler to proceed up the glen, beloved of
fishermen. It becomes more and more picturesque
and nicely wooded as you advance into it, the views
being here and there very varied and extensive. At
one point you look over ranges and ranges of hills rising
in wave-like forms, till you catch the high flat head of
Cheviot himself overlooking all, and, unless in the heat
of summer, you will see the streaks of snow still linger-
ing on his higher ridges. Very faithful and very
beautiful is the picture which Story, the shepherd-poet
of Lanton, has sketched of the hills as seen from his
abode on Lanton Hill : —

" ' These mountains wild,' began the maiden, ' claim
Each for itself a separate local name.
We stand on Lanton Hill. Not far behind,
The verdant Howsden woos the summer wind ;
That mountain with its three wild peaks before
Is styled by dwellers near it Newton Torr;

Yeavering Bell.

315

The oak-clad ridges there of Akeld swell,
And here the bolder slopes of Yeavering Bell,
While towering yonder, with his patch of snow,
And proudly overlooking all below,
Is CHEVIOT'S mighty self, his throne who fills,
The admitted monarch of Northumbrian hills.'"

Yeavering Bell can be seen very distinctly from the
railway, its upper part like a cone, with two wide-

COUPLAND CASTLE.

spreading shoulders, shining green and purple in the
sun.

Further on the valley widens, the river gliding under
gentle wooded slopes on the northern side, and, amid
the most exquisite of these woods, rises the beautiful
Coupland Castle, with its square towers and angles, fitly
placed if ever castle were. There is a dreamy grace

316 About Wooler.

about it, so different from many of the Northumbrian
Border castles, as though it should have been at all
times the refuge of refinement and peace. Mr. Tom-
linson tells us that " when the survey of Border towns
and castles was made in 1552, there was no fortress or
barmekyn at Coupland ; " and yet he goes on to add :
"The fact of such a stonghold being raised sixteen
years after the union of the two kingdoms is a remark-
able proof of the unsafe and unsettled state of the
Borderland at that time. The oldest portion of the
existing castle consists of two strong towers, contain-
ing eleven rooms and a remarkable stone corkscrew
staircase. The walls are in some places six and seven
feet thick. At the corners of the castle are ' pepper-
pot ' turrets, the only other examples south of the
Tweed being at Dilston and Duddo."

But our time in the glen is exhausted, though we are
loth to leave it, with its soft pencilled beauty here and
there, and its wilder breaks and ravines and distant
romantic glimpses. We must make for Kirknewton,
there to get the train to take us south again, for we
are already almost due in London town.

APPENDIX.

APPENDIX.

i.

IMITATIVE BIRDS AND THE NIGHTINGALE'S
SONG.

IT is well known that there are whole classes of birds which,
instead of keeping to a definite song of their own, are apt
to imitate the songs of other birds, and bring it in into their
own in the most arbitrary way. The mocking-bird is the
typical bird of this class. But some of our common birds,
such as the starling and blackbird and thrush on the one
hand, and the little wren and the bullfinch on the other,
are apt to surprise those who closely watch them by occa-
sional departure from the ordinary notes and the introduction
of something quite fresh. This was brought before my mind
in the oddest way. As told in chapter vi., I had gone one
summer evening, about ten o'clock, to the vicarage park,
about a mile from the little house where I live in the
country, to hear a concert of nightingales, a concert which
was indeed richly enjoyable, the birds coming out in the
fullest songs with their trills, warbles, gurgles, jug-jug-jugs
as though in honour of our presence. When we left to
return home, it was near midnight ; and, strange to our ears,
as we trudged along in the moonlight, it seemed as though
from many distinct points the faint echo of nightingales'
songs came on the low wind. We could not have believed
that there were so many nightingales about in that district.

We published an account (abridged, compared with what it

319

,2O Appendix.

is in this book) of our visit to the nightingales at the vicarage,
in the Argosy ; and that article brought us some correspon-
dence, a portion of which, as it certainly embodied original
observation, and was suggestive of new explanations of cer-
tain facts, may be welcomed — the more that it may lead to
further and fuller observation, comparison of experiences,
and definite results in what are at present doubtful questions.
At all events, some very interesting questions will be raised
about the nightingale's song and its effect upon other birds.
Some of the observations of my correspondent may do some-
thing to explain the very conflicting evidence we get about
the earliest or the latest dates at which nightingales have
been heard in a definite vicinity ; for, if other birds can, by
continuous effort, come to imitate the nightingale, perfecting
their imitation even after the nightingale has ceased, these
songs might well be mistaken in many cases for the song
of the nightingale itself. My correspondent not only speaks
for himself, but for others ; and it would be very valuable,
and help towards a settlement of the questions, if others
would give the result of their observations.

" NORTH AM, DEVON, December 8, 1890.

" DEAR SIR, — In your article on nightingales in Sep-
tember Argosy, which has just come under my notice, you
say, ' How the other birds can sleep soundly in their beds
is indeed a wonder.'

" The following facts may raise a doubt whether they do.
I have never seen observations of the kind in any Natural
History work, and therefore they may have an interest for
you and Mr. C. Wood, as naturalists.

" In '72, I went to live on Shooters Hill, Kent. The
nightingales were very numerous, and as many of them
were in the garden, and when singing were often on trees

Night Concerts of Birds. 3 2 1

within a few feet of my bedroom window, and as my duties
also kept me from retiring till late, I had good opportunities
for observing.

"I found frequently that when the song was long con-
tinued, and the nightingales numerous, other birds gave
evidence of unrest ; but, on many occasions, when the
nightingales' tones were prolonged till twelve or one o'clock,
especially on nights of great brilliancy, the moon being
near the full, all the songsters joined in, and a concert of
great power took place for about twenty minutes. In some
cases there must have been hundreds of birds over scores
of acres singing at the same time.

" About '83 I heard a similar night concert at Lee Woods,
opposite Clifton Downs. Contrary to usual idea, night-
ingales are not rare in some parts of Devon, and within the
last two years I have repeatedly heard their songs. I could
distinguish the singing of from five or seven to eight birds
end in one of these general night-concerts of various singing-
birds. One of these took place in '89; it began at 11.10,
and lasted,, with some intervals, three-quarters of an hour.
This is the earliest I have heard. The latest was about four
in the morning. I have never heard the singing-birds give
such concerted masses of sound by day. — Yours truly,

"T. MANN JONES, F.G.S."

In replying to this letter, I mentioned that the sentence
which Mr. Mann Jones has quoted was meant to lead up to
a reference to that legend of Sultan Solyman the Magnifi-
cent (supplied in the foregoing chapter), which represents
the b'irds as coming to him and claiming his aid on their
behalf against the nightingale for disturbing their slumbers
by his 'notes during night, so that they could not from
weariness sing so sweetly through the day as otherwise they
would do. Of course the Sultan's decision was that he
could not silence the nightingale to procure unbroken sleep
for the birds.

X

322 Appendix.

ii.

"NORTHAM, DEVON, ijth January 1891.

" DEAR SIR, — In reply to yours just received, you are
heartily welcome to use my letter of the 8th December in
the way you propose, and I shall have great pleasure in
receiving a copy of your intended paper.

"Your letter recalled the fact that the observations were
wider than I stated in my letter. I first noticed these
concerts in Sussex, and, mentioning the fact to my mother,
I found that she had observed the circumstance many
times, and for some years. The only other person I have
ever known who had observed them was a totally illiterate
but remarkably intelligent woman of great age, who had
never been out of Sussex. I have searched " nightingale
literature " in vain for any allusion to these night concerts.

"It is my conviction that the nightingale produces an
impression on the birds somewhat analogous to that pro-
duced on the mind of man rather than that referred to
in the legend you mention. As you are doubtless aware,
individuals among many of the songsters learn the songs of
other birds. So far as my observation goes, the nightingale's
song is the most frequently imitated.

" A blackbird sang outside my bedroom window last
summer, beginning about two hours after the nightingale
ceased. He made many attempts to imitate the night-
ingale's song, but for some time the success was very small,
though finally it was difficult to distinguish the imitation
from the original. His observation must have been very
close, as he only perfected the imitation some six weeks
to two months after the nightingales had left the neigh-
bourhood. For a considerable time after he continued to
sing, interrupting his own song at intervals to take up the
nightingale's. — I am, dear sir, yours very sincerely,

"T. MANN JONES."

Nightingales in Devonshire. 323

In one of a series of letters which appeared in the
Standard some time since on the question whether the
nightingale is heard in Devonshire, " H. B. F. " said —

" I have known Devonshire intimately for forty-two years,
during ten of which my people lived in the outskirts of Exeter,
but none of us were ever lucky enough to hear a night-
ingale ; in fact, the nearest point to Devonshire in which
I have heard it is the Somerset side of Exmoor, near
Minehead. In saying this I by no means intend to imply
the shadow of a doubt on what " R. C. " says, but I
welcome his fact as proving my own idea, which always
has been that the nightingale is to be heard in Devonshire.
It would be very interesting if observers are found who
have heard it in other parts of the country where it has
been considered unknown."

Mr. Mann Jones's evidence is precisely of the kind that
H. B. F. desiderates, and may be of some value — more
especially in leading others to observe and to tell the results
of their observations. But it is evident that the greatest
care is necessary in the start to distinguish between the
genuine and the imitated song, for, if other birds can recall
and reproduce the nightingale's song months after he has
ceased, then no end of mistakes are possible on mere first
impressions. And this may affect reports of other birds'
songs than that of the nightingale. The starling often imi-
tates the notes of the oyster-catcher and curlew with the
greatest accuracy, that of the sandpiper too ; and will often
so reproduce the cry of the corncrake or landrail as to de-
ceive sven careful observers. And not only so, but he will
do this in advance of the arrival of some of these birds, so
that the clever rascal must, just for the fun of the thing,
have been reproducing a note learned during the previous
year. So that, in all such matters as these, it is very needful
to be wary and make sure of your bird, just as in the case
of disguises assumed, the detective needs to make very sure
of his man.

324 Appendix.

The Rev. A. Rawson, who has paid close attention to the
nightingale and the nightingale's song, is inclined to limit
very specifically the portion of Devon in which the bird is
found. He says —

" Its partial distribution over England is exceedingly
curious and unaccountable. In the South, the western
limit of its migration would appear to be the valley of the
Exe, and even in this part of Devon it is extremely rare,
though of all counties this seems exceptionally suited to its
requirements. It is found in Glamorgan, is plentiful in the
valley of the Wye, but is unknown in the Channel Islands
and Ireland. Apparently its migration is due north and
south within defined limits, and outside these limits a few
stragglers only are found. Its habits are well known in
localities where it breeds, and the regularity of its return to
old haunts is remarkable. In my own garden in Kent,
where I spent forty years of my life, in a parish notorious
for the abundance as well as the quality of its nightingales,
the arrival of this bird was regularly recorded under most
favourable circumstances, and I find by my note-book that
ten days mark the extremes. It built always in my garden,
and the nest was usually in low underwood, near or on the
ground, but I found that a good mass of old peasticks was
also a favourite situation. The song lasts till the young are
hatched, but I noticed that when the nest had been taken
and a second brood hatched, the song was not nearly so
continuous ; it is at its best about the second week of
May. . . .

" The nightingale is becoming much scarcer in England
and in Europe generally, owing to the bird-catchers. In
this country it is now protected by the Wild Birds' Pre-
servation Acts, which were passed not a moment too soon.
It is a well-known fact that one year, between April i3th
and May 2nd, no fewer than 225 nightingales, all cocks ex-
cept six, were sent to a dealer by three bird-catchers. The
ease with which it is caught on its first arrival is remarkable,

"A Hunt for the Nightingale!" 325

for it cannot resist a meal-worm, but this is compensated in
some measure by the equal difficulty with which it is caught
a second time should it once escape. The knowledge of
this has led, in some localities, to a practice called ' spark-
ing,' i.e., capturing the birds and then releasing them. As
much as £$ has been paid by the residents in Epping
Forest in spring to a professional bird-catcher to ' spark' all
he could. They must have been plentiful enough in days
long past, as we read of a Roman emperor regaling himself
on a dish of nightingales' tongues ! Attempts have been
frequently but unsuccessfully made to introduce the bird
to localities where it is not found. Evidently some 'en-
vironment' is wanting to induce it to take up its abode
in any place in which food, climate, and surroundings are
not suitable."

" An East Kent vicar," writing to the Standard on
April 3, 1893, respecting "Early Flowers," adds: "Is
it quite certain that the nightingale has been heard at Tor-
quay ? It used to be an article of ornithological faith that
that sweetest of songsters never visited the counties of Devon
and Cornwall." But from the facts we have here presented,
it is almost certain either that stray nightingales do now
visit certain parts of Devon, or else that natural history
observation in these regions is more thorough and exact
than it used to be.

One of the most interesting and amusing natural history
sketches produced is that of Mr. John Burroughs, titled,
"A Hunt for the Nightingale," republished from the Century,
in the volume " Fresh Fields " (David Douglas). Though
Mr. Burroughs reached England in the middle of May, it
did not strike him to go in search of this minstrel till the
1 7th of June, by which time the full song is over. If it is
ever heard after that, it is in the case of a second nesting
and brooding, and the song in this case is invariably weaker,
more broken, and disconnected than the earlier song. It
is even very doubtful if that five minutes' song which Mr

326 Appen dix.

Burroughs did hear was, after all, the song of the nightingale,
seeing that the song by that time has so many imitators ;
and it does not appear that Mr. Burroughs saw the bird
which gave the short shower of notes he set down as those
of the nightingale. " Its start," he says, " is a vivid flash of
sound. On the whole a highbred, courtly, chivalrous song ;
a song for ladies to hear leaning from embowered windows
on moonlight nights ; a song for royal parks and groves,
and easeful but impassioned life. We [Americans] have no
bird-voice so piercing and loud, with such flexibility and
compass, such full-throated harmony and long-drawn ca-
dences, though we have songs of more melody, tenderness,
and plaintiveness. None but the nightingale could have
inspired Keats's ode — that longing for self-forgetfulness after
the oblivion of the world, to escape the fret and fever of life—

' And with thee fade into the forest dim.' "

One very common error about the nightingale, as observed
in the text, is that it sings only at night. But it is to be
heard through the day also — only, the chorus of other birds'
songs then make it less emphatic and noticeable. Another
error is that it is only to be heard in remote places, and in
the depth of woods and great gardens. Nothing could be
farther from the fact. The nightingale is often to be heard
by day singing in the most exposed places ; often by hedge-
rows, the edges of plantations and underwoods, by the very
sides of much frequented roads and pathways.

A writer in the Spectator of May 13, 1893, has thus
described the nest and eggs of the nightingale, though
he fails to note some of the places in which Mr. Rawson
and others have found the nest : —

" The eggs and nest of the nightingale are both so beauti-
ful and so unlike those of any other English bird, that it is
impossible to mistake them when once seen. The site is
nearly always chosen among the brown and dead oak or
Spanish chestnut leaves which lie on the ground among the

Nightingale s Nest. 327

bramble or wild rose roots, or have drifted into some hollow
of a bank. Sometimes, though rarely, the position is open
to every passer-by, with nothing to conceal it but the resem-
blance of the nest and sitting bird, with her russet back to
the surrounding colour. The outer circle of the nest is
built of dead oak leaves, so arranged that the rim of the
cup is broken by their projections, a mode of concealment
practised, so far as the writer knows, by the nightingale
alone of English birds, though a common device in the
nests of tropical species. The lining is made with the
skeleton leaves that have fallen in the previous winter, and
completed with a few strands of horse-hair, on which the
shining olive-brown eggs are laid. There are few prettier
sights than that of a nightingale on her nest. The elegance
of the bird, the exquisite shades of the russet and grey of its
plumage, set in the circle of oak leaves among the briars,
suggest a natural harmony and refinement in keeping with
the beauty of its unrivalled song."

II.

THE VOLES.

THERE are three varieties of British voles, to each of which
we have incidentally referred in the body of the book — the
water-vole (p. 52), the field-vole (p. 104), and the bank-
vole (p. 61).

They are all partially dormant in the winter, laying up in
their holes tiny stores of food against a temporary awakening.
They are all very shy and retiring, and till a comparatively
late period, were little known, and were vulgarly confused
with rats and mice. They belong to a wholly different
class, and as we have said, are really more miniature beavers
than rats or mice. They are all great tunnellers, and drive
their little runs with the utmost precision to the exact point
they desire. The two first are strictly vegetable feeders,
but some say that the third has learned to try an insect diet.

1. The water-vole (Arvicola amphibius] is the largest of
the three. He usually has his abode on the borders of a
pond or stream, and delights to browse on the herbage on
the banks. He is known widely as the "water-rat," and
often bears the blame of actions done by the brown rat,
which is a good swimmer, but cannot emulate the soft noise-
less motion of the vole. The vole's head is broader than
the head of the rat, and his tail is shorter.

2. The field-vole (Arvicola agrestis) is also abundant; he
likes to burrow in the banks of mossy meadows, and is
often found in orchards and gardens, as well as in cornfields.
He is light-brown in colour, and the under parts are pale

greyish. The fecundity of this species is astonishing, and

328

Red Bank Vole. 329

if they once get a footing it is difficult to clear them out.
In a wood they gnaw the tender shoots as soon as they
appear, and even eat off parts of the bark of grown trees,
and clear off any tree roots that may lie in the line of their
tunnels. When food is scarce they run up trees squirrel-
like to nibble at the tenderer bark above. The field vole's
winter stock is often partially composed of cherry stones,
which it gathers at the points where it finds out that thrushes
and blackbirds are apt to drop them, having eaten the fruit
they have carried.

3. The bank vole, or "red bank-vole (Arvicola glareolus)
is not so common as either of the above species. It is
redder in the colouring than the water vole or the field vole,
and it is longer tailed. It affects old hedge bottoms with
tangled undergrowth. It is said to be a slug, worm, and
moth eater, though its main staple is admitted to be vege-
tables ; and it is generally held to be more carnivorous than
either of its relations. It has delicately formed legs and
feet, with peculiarly bright eyes. It is not so fertile as the
field mole, producing only four or five young ones. But on
the point of its food we should not forget the opinion of
Mr. Rope, cited at p. 6 1 (note), that he, having kept this
species for long periods in confinement, found they too were
vegetable feeders.

III.

THE WOODPECKER'S TONGUE, &c.

THE green woodpecker has a tongue perhaps more remark-
able than that of any other bird. " The tongue bones are
so much prolonged that they pass right over the back of
the head, and are inserted in the skull just above the
right nostril ; these tongue bones, uniting in the lower jaw,
become consolidated into a round mass about the thick-
ness of a small straw; this pierces the true tongue sub-
stance, and ends in a horny tip, which is barbed on both
sides." By means of his powerful bill the woodpecker
hammers into the bark of the tree, and then by very rapid
and extensive protusions of the tongue, seizes the fugitive
insects. To render this horny tongue slimy, and to keep
the tip of it constantly moist, two large glands are placed
at the angles of the lower jaw, and these, through a special
duct, pour out a viscid and glutinous secretion. "This
remarkable structure," says the writer above quoted, " is
one that is easily displayed by a very simple dissection
with a penknife ; and the beautiful fittings and marvellous
elasticity of the parts can so well be seen in a fresh subject
that no one who sees can help admiring."

Another writer says —

" Nature has appointed the woodpeckers conservators
of the wood of old trees, furnished them admirably for
their office, and so formed their habits that an old tree is
an Eden to them, fraught with safety, and redolent of
plenty and fatness. So exquisitely are they fitted for their
office that the several woodpeckers vary in tint with the

330

Birds and Saliva. 331

general colours of the trees which they select. If it is an
alternation of green moss, yellow lichen, and ruby-tinted
cups, with here and there a spot of black, then the green
woodpecker comes in charge ; but if it is the black and
white lichens of the alpine forest, then we may look for the
spotted race upon the bark."

The glutinous secretion which we find in practical service
in so many birds deserves attention. The swallow uses it
in nest-building, the nightjar uses it to assist it to keep in
its mouth the moths or beetles it has caught in flight till
with them it can feed its young ; the woodpecker uses it
for the purpose we have just seen, and the nuthatch with
it gums the clay with which it reduces to true proportions
the entrance to its nest. The edible nests of China, which
are an article of commerce, are chiefly composed of this
glutinous secretion which the birds use to supply the lack
of other materials for their nests ; and evidently the king-
fisher uses something of the same kind to unite together,
however flimsily, the fish bones of which he forms his nest.
And is it not likely that the chaffinch uses something
of this in supplement to the spiders' webs, in so neatly
cementing the " lichen " over the outside of its nest ? Is
it not possible that before differentiation this was even a
more important element than it is now ?

IV.
THE ROOKS.

THE crusade against the poor rooks is carried on so syste-
matically, the farmers being apt to forget, during the few
weeks in spring after corn has been sown, the great services
these sable insect-foes render during the other eleven months
of the year, that we reproduce here from the Zoologist a
simple, practical, and inexpensive means of protecting the
newly sown seed, without destroying the birds, from the
pen of Mr. Henry Reeks, F.Z.S. : —

"In all light soils, where wire- worms (larvae of the genus
Elater) abound, also those of the Tipulae and Noctuae, it
would be almost impossible to grow crops of corn or roots
without the friendly assistance of the rook. In this imme-
diate neighbourhood, where the soil is cold, strong, and
heavy, and consequently very free from wire-worms, rooks
and rookeries are comparatively scarce ; but from my farm
at Thruxton, where the soil is light and chalky, I can stand
and see seven large rookeries within a radius of three miles.
Now, for at least nine months in the year, these hosts of
rooks are purely insectivorous, and they may be easily com-
pelled to be so for the remaining three months. When the
autumn and spring corn is being sowed, and until after the
spire or blade is well out of ground, it is absolutely neces-
sary in large fields to employ a man with a gun, and also
when the corn is in the sheaf, but not so when it is ripen-
ing ; then a very simple device will keep them off much
more effectually than any gun, unless always present. I buy

a pound of good strong crochet-cotton, which costs, I think,

332

Treatment for Rooks. 333

about four shillings ; this is wound off into balls rather larger
than a cricket-ball. I cut then a number of sticks about
half-an-inch in diameter and two feet long ; these are stuck
in the ground by the side of the corn, and about fifteen
yards apart. I then run down by this row of sticks, paying
the cotton out as I go, and tying it with a double knot at
each stick, and about a foot from the ground. No rooks
will ever pull ears of corn over or under this barrier. To
string a hundred and fifty acres of corn round in this
manner is only a summer's evening amusement for two
persons — one to carry and stick in the sticks, and the other
to follow and fasten on the cotton. Where this, or the
gun, has been neglected, I have known a large flock of
rooks to carry away and spoil five pounds' worth of corn in
a single day ! By adopting the simple means I advise,
rooks are driven to search behind the ploughs and in pas-
tures for their favourite and legitimate food. Although
perhaps the most useful of British birds, it was quite right
not to include it in the schedule of " wild birds " for pro-
tection ; we could scarcely have done away with our social
meeting once a year for rook-shooting, or the cold rook-pie
as an after-luxury. I have never known a rookery decrease
where the young rooks have been annually shot at, provided
the birds are not persecuted more than one evening."

A good authority says : " Rooks intermarry every year,
chiefly amongst the occupants of adjacent rookeries. If a
male should be so bold as to bring home to his rookery a
bride from a distance, the other rooks would not receive
her, and would force the pair to build some way off. In
the neighburhood of the big rookeries outlying nests of this
kind can always be found."

V.

FEET OF THE DIPPER AND COOT.

THE fact that the feet of the dipper are still like the feet of
the thrush, and that the feet of the coot have only web-like
expansions, as we have said, on the sides of the toes, gives
Mr. Lydekker (" Phases of Animal Life ") the suggestion
that the aquatic habits of these birds are of comparatively
recent acquisition, and have not yet induced any strongly
marked structural peculiarity.

334

INDEX.

ABBOTSFORD, 229, 275.
Abinger, 171-172.
Acklington, 293, 301.
Alder-trees, 50.
Allen, Mr. Grant, 236.
Anemones, wild, 77, 97.
Argyll, Duke of (quoted), 211.
Armstrong, Lord, 296.
Ash, the, 86-88 ; mountain, 139.
Ashestiel, 272.

BABOONS killing lambs, 33-34.
Barley, 151.
Beaumont, the, 307.
Beech, the copper, 19, 139.
Beeches, 97, 119, 137, 179.
Bees, 44, 47, 132, 165, 1 94-1 97-
Bee-sting not only for stinging,

204.
Beetles, 166, 168.

water, 66.

Besant, Mr. Walter, 303.
Birch, the, 86, 87, 139.
Bird-catchers, 120.
Birds,'perseverance of, 63.
Blackbird, the, 29, 37, in, 112,

115-116, 284.

Blue-tit, the, 26, 27, 113, 116.
Boatman, the water, 65.
Box-nests, 141.
"Bracelets" — Lackey moth's eggs,

89.
Brambles, 105.

I Brancepeth Castle, 281.

Brinkbtirn Priory, 299.
j Browning, Robert (quoted), 99.

Mrs. Barrett (quoted), 84,

150.

Buchanan, Robert, and the star-
ling, Si-

Buckland, Frank, 222.

Bull, an infuriated, 130.

Bullace-trees, 51, 80.

Bullfinch, the, 27, 35, 120-121,

122.

Bulrush, the, 191, 192.

Burns, Robert (quoted), 17, 76.

Burroughs, John (quoted), 118,

199, 200, 257.
Buttercups, 136.
Butterflies, 71, 132, 165.

CATTLE awakening, 121.
Cats, poaching, 124-125.
Cedar, the, 42, 138.
Celandine, 97.
Cereals, varieties of, 157.
Chaffinch, the, 40-42, 122.
Chestnut, the, 138.
Chestnut-buds, gummy, 45.
Cheswick, 292.
Cheviot Hills, 289-303.
Chevy Chase, 314.
Chillingham cattle, 314.
Churches in Wooler, 309.
Cloisters, leafy, 139.

335

336

Index.

Cloud and mist, 235, 237.

Coldharbour, 168.

Coleridge (quoted), 18, 74, 305.

College, the, 307.

Constable's country, 181.

Coot, the, 54, 193, 254-255 ; feet

of, 334-

Copper-beech, the, 19, 139.
Coquetdale, 289.
Coquet Island, 304.
Cormorants, 259, 262-263.
Corncrake, the, 119, 149.
Coupland Castle, 315.
Cowslips, 136.
Cragside, 296, 297.
Cross-bill, the, 177.
Crows, 117-118.
Croxdale, 288.
Cuckoo, the, III, 132.
Curlew, the, 127, 165,

DABCHICKS, 193, 264.

Daffodils, 84, 194.

Dandelion, persistency of, 13, 14.

Dante's literality, 236.

Darwin, discovery of, 84 ; Darwin

(quoted), 105.
Dedham, 181.
Dee, the, 212.
Defoe (quoted), 309.
Dell, a little, 135.
Devon, nightingales in, 321.
Dipper, the, 122 ; feet of, 334.
Ditch, a dry, 107.
Dixon, Mr. D. D., 290, 292, 294,

295, 296.
"Dora," 153.
Dragon-flies, 64-65, 122.
" Drawing water," 187.
Drosera rotundifolia, II, 12.
Dryburgh Abbey, 227.
Dry ditch, a, 107.
Ducks, wild, 193.
Durham city, 277 ; Cathedral,

278-279, 281.

EAST Bergholt, 181.
Eden, the, 219-222.
Edwards, Thomas, of Banff, 62,

265-266.

Eggs, sea-birds', 266.
Eggs of nightjar, 171.
Eisdale, Dr., and mushrooms, 16.
Elder, 101.
Elibank Tower, 229.
Ellen's Isle, Loch Katrine, 206.
Elms, 119, 174.
Emerson (quoted), 48.
Ettrick, 219.
Eyes of birds, 35-36.

FAA, story of Willie, 294.
Farming, scientific, 157 ; by rule

of thumb, 158.
Felton, 300.

Ferguson, Mr. J., of Morpeth, 294.
Fern?, 1 1 .

Finchale Priory, 283-284.
Firs, 119.
Fishponds, 183.
Flags, the, 193, 244.
Flodden, 224-225, 313.
Forget-me-nots, 98.
Foxgloves, 10, 42, 43, 98.
Friday Street, the Swiss-like, 171.
Frog, the, 124.

Fruit-eaters and seed-eaters, 33.
Furze, the, 165.

GANNET, the, 262.

"Gardener's Chronicle" (quoted),

201.

Garden warbler, the, 94-95.
Gareloch, the, 210.
Geese, wild, 261.
Gibson, W. S. (quoted), 284.
Glastonbury Thorn, 137.
Glaucus pine, the, 137.
Glenesk, 191.
Glow-worm, 166.
Goethe's parable, 115, 116.

Index.

337

Goldcrest, the, 42.

Goldfinch, the, 28, 120-121, 165.

Golden-eye, the, 256.

Gomshall, 172.

Graham, Mr. Peter, R.A., 213.

Grasses, 190.

Great Tosson, 290.

Grebe, the little, or dabchick, 264

Grebe, the loon, or crested, 257.

Guillemots, the, 262.

Gull, black -backed, 260.

Gulls, 258-260.

HAMLEY, Sir Edward, and " Out-
Poor Relations" (quoted), 67,
68.

Hare, a limping, 129 ; cry of
hare, 130.

Hartley, Will, 242-243.

Harvest of the hedgerows, 102-
104.

Hall's " Guide to Glendale," 311.

Haughhead, 312.

Hawfinch, the, 28.

Hawthorn, 105.

Hazels, 77, 84, 85, 179.

I ledgers, their art, 105-106.

Hedgehogs, 70, 83.

Hedgerow timber, 100.

Hedgerows, harvest of the, 102-
104.

Heine, Heinrich (quoted), 208.

Hens, opposing instincts in, 43.

Herbert, George (quoted), 136.

Herb-robert, 97.

Hermitage, the Warkworth, 304-

305.

Heron, the7, 269, 270, 271.
Hogg, James, 275.
Holly, the, 99 ; a peculiarity, 100,
101, 167.

hedges, 97.

Honeysuckle, II, 132.
Hornbeam, the, 138.
"Hot Trod," a ballad, 291.

Hourn, Loch, 231.
Housewives' parliament, 187.
Human nature in man, 189.
Hunt, Leigh (quoted), 135.
Hyacinths, blue, 77-79.
white, 76.

IMITATIVE birds and nightingale,

319.

Infancy, why poetic and sugges-
tive, I54-I5S.

Ingelow, Jean (quoted), 238.
Instincts in hens, opposing, 43.
Iris, the, 60, 224.
Ivy, 19, 88.

JACKDAW, the, 256.

Japonica, 56, 137.

Jones, Mr. T. Mann, 320-323.

KEA or lory of New Zealand, 34.
Kingfisher, the, 245-247.
Kingsley, Charles, 67.

LABURNUMS, 138, 167.
Lackey-moth's eggs — " brace-
lets," 89.

Lakes, inland, 205.
Lambs, baboons killing, 33-34.
1 anton Hill, 314.
Lapwing, the, 126-127, 284.
Lark, the, in, 149.
Lauder, Sir Thomas Dick, 213.
Laurel, 97.
Leistering, 223, 296.
Lilac, the, 10, 138, 167.
Lime-trees, 21, 101.
Linnets, 19, 165.
Lockhart, J. G. (quoted), 276.
Long, Mr. James (quoted), 18, 107.
Loon, the, or crested grebe, 257.
Lory or kea, New Zealand, 34.
Lubbock, Sir John (quoted), 201.
Luther (quoted), 209.
Lyne, the, 2 1 8.

Y

338

Index.

MACDONALD, Dr. George, 213.
Macgillivray (quoted), 256, 261.
Maclagan, Alexander (quoted),

269.
Macleod, Dr. .Norman, and the

starling, 31.

MacTaggart, W., R.S.A., 213.
MacWhirter, John, R.A., 208.
Magnolia-tree, 137.
Mallard, the, 253-255.
Mallard in flight, 126.
Man, Isle of, and the sea-birds, 268.
Manor, the, 218.
Medlar-tree, 139.
Melrose Abbey, 227.
Mergansers, the, 256.
Milton (quoted), 173. 236.
Minnehaha, 182.
Moles, 89, 124, 149.
Moonlight on the pond, 70-71.
Mosse's Wood, 168.
Moths, the night-, 72, 168.
Mountain-ash (rowan-tree), 139.
Muckle-mou'ed Meg, 229.
Miiller, F. (quoted), 199.

NAPIER, Mr. Groome, 60.
Neidpath Castle, 229.
Nest-building, odd places for, 39.
Nest of wren, 25.
Nettles, 16.

Nightingales at the Vicarage, 135.
Nightingale, A Hunt for the, 325.
Nightingale's nest, 327.
Nightjar, the, 169 ; eggs of, 171.
Norham, 227-228, 229.
"North, Christopher," 237.
Northesk, the, 212.
Northumberland, Duke of, 303.
Nuthatch, the, 178, 179.
Nutting, 103.

OAK-TREES, 51, 87, 119, 138, 139.
Ockley, 168.
Orchard, the, 183.

Otters, 221.

Owl, the, 125, 179.

Owl, the barn-, 52, 69.

PAUPERHAUGH, or Pepperhaugh,

298.

Peel towers, 290.
Penguins, 259, 263.
Petrels, the, 263.
Pike-shooting, 184.
Pintail, the, 252.
Plane-tree or sycamore, 45-46 :

the Samarras, 47-48. : -. .
Plantain, 14.
Poachers, why they don't like

traps, 129.

Poaching cats, 124-125.
Poaching, salmon, 295.
Pomegranate, 137.
Pond, my, 49 ; sunset effect on

it, Si-
Primroses, 1C, 79, 97.

— evening, 73.
Privet hedge?, 97, 105.

QUAIR, the, 225.
Quincey, Thomas de, 85 (note],
106, 235.

RAWNSLEY, Mr. H. D. (quoted),

267.

Rabbiting, 90-91.
Rabbits, 124, 129, 165.
Rabbits' tails, why white, 75.
Rachan Valley, 210.
Rats, 93, 128, 129.
Rawson, Rev. A., 324.
Red lands Wood, 172.
Reek?, Mr. Henry, 332.
Rhabdomancy (note), 851.
Ring dotterel, the, 263.
Roach, the, 181.
Robins and wrens, 25 ; Robin

(building), 26, 64, in, 113,

116, 141, 142.

Index.

339

Romanes, J. G. (quoted), 199.
Rooks, 117-118, 149, 332-333.
Rope, Mr. G. T. (quoted), 6 1 not .
Rothbury, 290, 292, 293, 297.
Rosenenth Hill. 210.
Rushes, 190.

ST. JOHN, Charles, 67, 69.
Salmon loups, 221.
Samarras of the sycamore, 47-48.
Sand-martins, 120.
Sawbill, the, 256.
Scaup, the, 256.
Scott, Sir Water, 272, 312-313.
Seabirds' eggs, 266.
Sea-pie, the, 259.
Sedges, 193, 194, 2.44.
Seed-eaters and fruit-eaters, 33.
Siege, a, 21.

Shag, the (cormorant), 259.
Shairp, Principal (quoted), 226.
Sheldrake, the, 255.
Shepherd at eariy morn, 126.
Shoveller, the, 255.
Shrews (water), 80-8 1.
Smiles, Dr. S., 62.
Smith, Alexander (quoted), 152.
" Smoked-out," 22, 23.
" Smoking allowed, No," 92.
Snails in beehive, 197.
"Snipe, summer," 61 ; rain indi-
cators, 62.
Solan geese, 262.
"Son of the Marshes" (quoted),

222.

Soutlie'sk, the, 212.

Southey, Robert (quoted), 100.

Sparrows, '19, 21, 113, 114, 116.

Spate on Scottish stream, a, 214.

Speedwell, the, 97.

Spey, the, 212, 213.

Spiders' webs, 165, used by birds

in nest-building, 41, 331.
Spruce, the, 139.
Squirrels, 70, 89, 128.

Stanley, Dr., Bishop of Norwich,

55-

Starling, the, 29, 30, 31, 32.
Sterne's starling, 31.
Sticklebacks, 161, 162 ; their

nests, 163, 241.
Still water, 205.

Sting of bee really a trowel, 264.
Story, Shepherd-poet, 314.
Stour, the, 181.
Suffolk stand-up wheat, 156.
Sultan Solyman, 145, 321.
Sunderland Bridge, 284.
Sunrise in summer, 109-110.
Sunset on my pond, 51.
Surrey Hills, the, 167.
Swallows, 19, 21, 119.
Sycamore or plane-tree, 45-46, 97,

101 ; the Samarra5, 47-48.

TANKERVILLE ARMS, Wooler,

307.

Tay, the, 212.

Taylor, Dr. J. E. (quoted), 15.
Teal, the, 253, 255.
Tennyson, Lord (quoted), 45, 47.

65,86, 151, 152, 153, 156, 238,

240.

Thaxter, Celia (quoted), 44.
Thistles, 17.
Thoreau, 171.
Thorn-trees, n, 138.

hedges, 97.

Thrum Mill, the, 293.

Thrush, fearlessness of, when

brooding, 63.
"Thrush, the wise," 99, ill, 112,

113, 115, 284.
Till, the, 223-225.
Tit, the blue, 26, 27, 40, 113, 116.
Todsted Farm, 297.
Tomlinson, Mr. W. W., 292, 303,

316.

Tongue of woodpecker, 330-331.
Tosson, great, 290.

340

Index.

Tramps, 311.

Traps, why poachers don't like, 1 29.
Traquair, the bush aboon, 226.
Tufted duck, the, 256.
.Tummel Falls, 211.
Turnstone, the, 264-266.
Tweed, the, 219-224.
Twisel, Bridge of, 224.
Tynemouth, 292.

VEITCH, Prof, (quoted), 218.
Vicar, our, 141-144.
Violets, wild, 79, 97.
Voles, the, 329.

WAGTAIL, the pied, 113.
Wailes, Mr. (quoted), 202.
Warkworth, 293, 301-304.

Hermitage, 304-305.

Wasps in beehive, 197.
Waterhens, 53 ; their young, 54 ;

raising their nest in flood, 56,

254-255-

Water-lily, the, 80, 243.
Water-rats, 59, 254-255.
Water-shrews, 80-8 1, 244.
Waterton, Charles, 41, 67, 140.
Water-voles, 57-58; great tunnel-

lers» 59 5 vegetable feeders, 59-

61, 244, 329.

Watkins, Rev. G. M., 67.

Waybread or plantain, 15.

Weasels, 93, 124, 125, 128.

Weldon Bridge, 299.

Well, the village, 187.

Wheat-fields, 147-151 ; and the
poets, 155.

Whitethroat, the, 99.

Wild-ducks, 193.

Widgeon, the, 254.

Wild geese, 261.

Willows, 50, 80, 85, 138; weep-
ing, 139-

Wood, Rev. J. G., and the birds,
114, 115.

Woodpecker, 174-176.

Woodpecker's tongue, 330, 331.

Wood-pigeon, 37, 38, 39, 93, 117,
261.

Wooler, 307-314.

Wordsworth (quoted), 79, 117,
194, 240.

Wren and robin?, 25, in, 113,
116.

YAIR, 229.
Yarrow, 219.
Yeavering bell, 315.
Yellowhammer, 120.
Yew-trees, 105.

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