74 ON THE MOORLANDS 
‘But where is the wren’s nest ?’ 
‘Another mile, and we'll be there.’ And 
so we talked and pursued our way. 
A pretty scene had caught my eye, and 
offered a tempting snapshot. A _ thorough 
sportsman (Plate XXXII) the little fellow 
looked as he stood intent upon his fishing 
rod. 
Half an hour more, and we were at the 
highlands that had loomed>before us all the 
time. Seen froma distance, they showed a dark 
green forest growth, relieved by patches here 
and there of softer pasture land, that purply 
haze beloved of painters bedewing all, and 
framed in a rim of fleecy cloud and sky of 
Italy. The sweet fresh odour of the new- 
mown hay was everywhere, borne from the 
haycocks. ranged around in careless trim. 
We went past the barley in the ear ; a bright 
red poppy or a tiny scarlet pimpernel here 
and there, blazing, jewel-like, in striking 
contrast to the white convolvulus trailing 
at random on the ground. The may was 
blown, but in its place were pink roses and 
