THE RIBES. 



delay. The place chosen, and the men set to 

 work, my leisure time was devoted to collecting. 



The snow still lingered in large patches about 

 the hollows and sheltered spots. Save a modest 

 violet or humble rock-blossom, no flower had 

 ventured to open its petals, except the brilliant 

 pink Ribes, or flowering currant, common in 

 every English cottage-garden. 



Approaching a large cluster of these gay-look- 

 ing bushes, my ears were greeted with a sharp 

 thrum a sound I knew well from the wings of 

 a hummingbird, as it darted past me. The name 

 by which these birds are commonly known has 

 arisen from the noise produced by the wings 

 (very like the sound of a driving-belt used in 

 machinery, although of course not nearly so loud), 

 whilst the little creature, poised over a flower, 

 darts its slender beak deep amidst the corolla not 

 to sip nectar, in my humble opinion, but to 

 capture drowsy insect revellers, that assemble in 

 these attractive drinking-shops, and grow tipsy 

 on the sweets gratuitously provided for them. 

 Soon a second whizzed by me, and others followed 

 in rapid succession ; and, when near enough to 

 see distinctly, the bushes seemed literally to 

 gleam with the flashing colours of swarms (I 



