82 Idylls of the Field. 



is, with preposterously long legs, a coat of down 

 marked and mottled like the dry earth of the hill, and 

 absurd little winglets like the flappers of a seal. When 

 you set him down upon the grass again he toddles off 

 a little way on his long, ungainly legs, pauses a moment 

 to cry for help with the voice of an anxious kitten, and 

 then makes off up the hill as fast as he may. 



His comrade rises, too, and follows, and the two 

 quaint little figures climb safely up the slope and dis- 

 appear. 



The old birds, too, have vanished, and even these 

 gleams of life have faded from the dreary moorland. 



For ages, perhaps, the lapwings have returned each 

 spring-time to this broad hollow in the hills. Year by 

 year their haunt among the rushes remains undis- 

 turbed. 



Not always did such stillness brood over this voice- 

 less waste. The brake grows high where once the 

 legions trod. These mounds and hollows are the 

 ghosts of a forgotten town. Its very name has 

 perished. 



But, in all the fields about, the plough turns up 

 bright shards of pottery, that bear in bold relief figures 

 of fighting legionaries, or stories of the chase. 



Even in our own time the labourer's spade still 

 brings to light hoarded handfuls of denarii; clashes 

 still on sling-bolt and spear-head, on broken amphora 

 and rusted sword. 



Corroded sheets of lead record that the levies of 



