160 Idylls of the Field. 



Here, too, after the brief interregnum of man's 

 misrule, re-asserts itself the kindly reign of Nature. 

 Sweet mountain-ferns fringe the widening crannies of 

 the stonework. Beech-ferns cluster about the feet of 

 idle falls that turn no more the useless wheels. 

 Bright stone-crops gild the arches of long empty 

 aqueducts. 



But over all there is a sense of gloom and desolation, 

 heightened by the pallor of the sunset and the deepen- 

 ing purple of the hills. 



This cavernous tunnel is the entrance of the mine. 

 Heaps of ore are piled about among the ruins. Scraps 

 of rusted ironwork are scattered on the ground. After 

 groping some way along the gallery, whose floor is 

 deep in mud coloured richly by water that has oozed 

 out of the ore, you reach an air-shaft, and pause a 

 moment to look round you. The rock is stained with 

 warm tones of red and orange and yellow. Tiny 

 ferns have found footing on the narrow ledges. Patches 

 of moss mingle their soft shades of green with the 

 ruddy colouring of the rock. 



Suddenly the eye catches sight of a bird standing 

 motionless in a niche in the side of the air-shaft, only 

 a few feet overhead. It is a chough. Its glossy black 

 plumage, the bright red of its legs and beak, its little 

 canopy of tinted rock, make a charming study — espe- 

 cially to the naturalist who thus, for the first time, 

 contemplates at his leisure the features of this rare and 

 graceful bird upon its native heath. 



