48 



of his homy wings, having invented the diving hell ages hefore 

 ever mankind dreamed of such a thing. 



The finest fir tree in this ueighhourhood stands near the bridge 

 at Old Eead Mill, and growing out of the walls of this picturesque 

 old bridge may be seen some fair-sized specimens of the sycamore, 

 elm, mountain ash, dog rose, elder, and ivy, all of which spring 

 from the crevices in the masonry, where their seeds have been 

 blown by the wind or carried by birds, Leaning over the bridge 

 and looking down into the fork of the elder tree 1 observe half a 

 dozen yellow-edged mouths gaping up at me and calling lustily 

 for food. I put my hand down towards them when the instinct of 

 fear sends them flying in all directions, probably their first venture 

 on the wing. The parent birds are evidently away foraging, or 

 there would be a pretty clatter, for I know of no bird that so 

 strongly resents interference with her domestic arrangements as 

 does the female blackbird. A pair of them have been known to 

 compel a prowling cat to beat an ignominious retreat. 



In the ivied gable of an old barn I count fourteen birds' nests, 

 most of them starlings, judging by the straws hanging out. I 

 throw a stone and sixteen birds fly out at short intervals. 



Tempted by the beauty of numerous great clumps of ferns on 

 &, background of bluebells, I make a small detour into Black Hill 

 Woods, and come very near treading on a poor song thrush, 

 which by some means has lost one of its legs and become too 

 exhausted to fly. 



Emerging from these woods, in which I observe both pheasants 

 and wood pigeons, and at their outskirts numerous coveys of 

 partridges, I arrive at Sabden Top, from whence, standing just 

 below the quarry, I have a splendid view in the direction of 

 Burnley, a foreground of yellow gorse, than which nothing can 

 be more effective, against blue hazy distances such as are seen 

 at sundown only. The gorse, or whin, as it is sometimes called, 

 grows best on a sandy soil; probably " Whin " Hill at the bottom 

 of " Sandy" Gate owes its title to this charming shrub, and was 

 once lighted up with its golden glory. Even I, who am not yet 

 the oldest inhabitant, can well remember the blossoms of the 

 apple, the pear, the lilac and laburnum growing in the gardens, 

 or orchard as it was then called, at the foot of this same "Whin" 

 Hill, and tall fir trees, and a jungle of long grass in the street 

 now called " Crow Nest." 



The next date I find recorded in my diary is the 21st of June, 

 the day set apart for celebrating the fiftieth year of her Majesty's 

 reign. How can one celebrate it better than by an afternoon's 

 ramble in the green fields, and how can this be done more 

 readily and charmingly than by wandering along the banks of 



