20 FROM A MIDDLESEX GARDEN 



A flock of lapwings fly over the garden from the quiet of 

 the distant upland hedged with furze. Across a sky of 

 cloudless blue of June-like brilliancy they wing, their dark 

 pinions stretched out to the calm day, beating the air 

 leisurely and measurably as is their wont. To-day, as they 

 pass, they utter no weird cries, and although they loftily fly, 

 their white breasts are visible beneath the shadow of their 

 outstretched wings. The lapwing's home is an ideal haunt of 

 peace. It is a breezy upland, a favourite place of ours in the 

 hot July day ; at every season a refreshing calm broods over 

 all, and when wandering there one wonders if in truth he 

 can be so near to the city of cities ! On that upland to-day, 

 from where the lapwings rose and will doubtless return all 

 is grey around, if blue above. The distant woods on all sides 

 are sepic studies save for a few scattered clumps of firs ; the 

 grey and sepia tints seem to me but the ashes of the burnt- 

 out fires of Autumn, which were here seen flaming in all 

 their glory when 



" Leaf by golden leaf 

 Crumbles the gorgeous year." 



