2i 4 AUGUST ON THE MOORS 



were the tutelary genius of the cool shades, and a 

 couple of wild-eyed ewes with crumpled horns. The 

 raven rises heavily with vindictive croak, and flaps his 

 deliberate flight resentfully upwards with hanging head 

 and drooping legs, as if he gloried in his enchanted 

 privileges, and mocked at anything short of silver shot. 

 The sheep make a frantic dash at the outlet, meet your 

 formidable party face to face, stand wildly at bay for 

 a second or two in the very extremity of agitation and 

 terror, and then escalade the precipitous sides in 

 avalanches of gravel, and a style that would do credit 

 to chamois or moufflons. Once within, the very gillies 

 draw grateful breaths of happiness, not alone at the 

 change from sun to shade, but in mute acknowledgment 

 of beauties that fmd> their way to the feelings, through 

 water-proofed suits of homespun, and skins tanned by 

 exposure to every variation of weather. That silent 

 tribute paid to sentiment, the next thought is of the 

 practical. " Just pass the baskets this way, Donald." 

 Donald is already busy disengaging them from the 

 pony, who has scrambled somehow up the treacherous 

 staircase, scenting his way with those keen nostrils of 

 his past the ugly dangers of the sunken stream. 



The baskets are unpacked, and the contents spread 

 on the green turf table-cloth, that serves you for 

 couch as well. You make your breakfast-lunch 

 reclining classically, after the manner of the ancients, 

 round materials for a meal that are equally solid and 

 simple. Slices of cold beef and bread nothing of the 

 abominable sandwich, with its dyspeptic memories of 



