140 RAMBLES OF A NATURALIST. 



had shed a certain tone of quiet melancholy over the 

 face of the landscape. The thousand varied tints of 

 autumn had replaced the bright, but uniform verdure 

 of spring ; the oaks were scattering their dried and 

 yellow leaves before the wind, and the birds had 

 departed with the flowers of summer. Scarce a 

 blossom remained but the golden rods of the broom, 

 which, interspersed among the purple tufts of the 

 heather, gave to the distant hills a rich tinge of 

 ochre which was rendered still brighter beneath the 

 rays of the setting sun. 



