350 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 bes, 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 
