194 BRAMBLES AND BAY LEAVES. 



miles with its red waxen cups. On the wayside, the red-poppy glares 

 in the sunshine ; and the Canterbury-bell is hung with its urnshaped 

 azure flowers ; while miles and miles of hawthorn and wild roses are 

 winding along the old brown highways, forming to the velvet mea- 

 dows snowy boundary walls, sprinkled all over with a crimson hue. 

 Now the streams are more beautiful than ever in their fringed em- 

 broidery of flowers. The golden marsh-flag throws its sunny shadows 

 upon the pools and streams, and hides with its broad waving leaves the 

 humble blossoms of the blue forget-me-not, — that gentle flower — 



Whose very name is Love's o-wn poetry, 

 Born of the heart, and of the eye begot, 

 Nursed amid smiles and sighs by Constancy, 

 And ever saying "Love, Forget-me-not." 



The white water-lily has for its companion the yellow water-lily, and 

 they rear their heads above the piled velvet of their leaves, and look 

 down into the clear water, to see images of their own beauty. And 

 above these tower the white flowers of the water arrowhead ; while 

 far out in the stream lie broad masses of green water-cresses, which 

 rock from side to side, like islands floating on the lazy tide. In the 

 still bays and inlets there are always multitudes of green leaves, 

 sprinkled all over as with snow flakes, for the white crou foot produces 

 such a profusion of its virgin blossoms, that they make the river 

 look like a green meadow covered with snow flakes. And among 

 all this thick herbage and luxuriance of blossom, the water fowl 

 glide merrily, and gather plentiful meals under the thick coverts and 

 greenwoods which lie in the deep waters. 



The very river itself seems possessed of sympathies and feelings of 

 association, for it always goes slowly along at these sweet spots, and 

 where there are golden uplands glittering with the blossoms of the 

 broom and the furze, it creeps unwillingly, as if it so loved the green 

 fields and flowery banks that it can be in no hurry to reach the sea, 

 and would fain linger to gaze upon the blossoms and be kissed once 

 more by some loving breeze, which has been sweeping over the 

 flowers, and which sings a merry tune as it goes on its mission of 

 fruitage, and to bear the good tidings of summer-time. 



But as high summer comes, the fields grow weak in song, and the 

 forest echoes sink into their seasonal repose. The nightingale, the 

 thrush and the blackbird, and the willow wren, and the hedge sparrov,-, 

 and the cuckoo, are all becoming silent, though the blackcap and the 



