AUGUST 



' Yonder in the heather there 's a bed for sleeping, 

 Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat ; 

 Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, 

 And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet 



Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, 

 (Ah ! the springy moss upon a northern moor !) 



Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, 

 Homeless in the City, poor among the poor ! 



Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, 

 Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells ! 



Oh, my eye's an ache to see the brown burns flowing 

 Through the peaty soil and tinkling heatherbells.' 



Ada Smith, In City Streets. 



'The red grouse is scattering 



Dews from his golden wing 

 Gemm'd with the radiance that heralds the day ; 



Peace in our Highland vales, 



Health on our mountain gales — 

 Who would not hie to the Moorlands away ! 



Far from the haunts of man 



Mark the gray Ptarmigan, 

 Seek the lone Moorcock, the pride of our dells, 



Birds of the wilderness ! 



Here is their resting-place, 

 'Mid the brown heath where the mountain-roe dwells. 



J. W. C, British Sport Past and Present. 



