128 MAY. 



a perfect clamour of bird-voices, but at noon the 

 wood is their oratory. There the woodpecker's 

 laugh still rings from a distance the solemn coo 

 of the wood-pigeon is still deep and rich as ever 

 the little chill-chall sounds his two notes blithely on 

 the top of the tallest trees ; and the voice of the 

 long-tailed titmouse, ever and anon, sounds like a 

 sweet and clear-toned little bell. Nests are now 

 woven to every bough and into every hollow stump. 



As the month advances, our walks begin to be 

 haunted with the richness of beauty. There are 

 splendid evenings, clear, serene, and balmy, tempt- 

 ing us to continue our stroll till after sunset. We 

 see around us fields golden with crowfoot, and 

 cattle basking in plenty. We hear the sonorous 

 streams chiming into the milk-pail in the nooks of 

 crofts, and on the other side of hedges. 



Towards the close of the month, the mind, which 

 has been continually led onward by the expansion 

 of days, leaves, and flowers, seems to repose on the 

 fulness of nature. Every thing is clothed. The 

 spring actually seems past. We are surrounded by 

 all that beauty, sunshine, and melody which mingle 

 in our ideas of summer. The hawthorn is in full 

 flower ; the leafy hedges appear half-buried in the 

 lofty grass. Butterflies take their wavering flight 

 from flower to flower; and dragonflies on the banks 

 of rivers. There is the cheerful hum of bees amongst 

 the flowers; and the cockchafer, which has delighted 

 us all in our boyhood, is hovering about the green 

 leaves of the sycamore. Sheep-washing is begun in 



