C . A BOOK ABOUT THE GARDEN. 



their keepers, ' Whistle, and I'll come to thee, my love,' 

 when I've put up all the game. And yet as the old 

 lady, improving Cowper, was kind enough to say of 

 her country 



' England, witU all thy faults, I cannot help loving thee still ; 



so, malyre dcfauts, I rejoice with you in dog and gun. 

 Shooting (I exclude, of course, the unmanly massacre 

 of tame pheasants, driven into a corner and there shot 

 down, ten yards from a dozen breech-loaders, amid a 

 villainous stench of saltpetre) shooting is one of those 

 exercises which make Englishmen quick and capable 

 of work above more sedentary folk ; but I am in- 

 quiring now for some recreation of a more sure and 

 a more lasting quality, one which may reasonably 

 refresh body and mind, not only in the autumn and 

 winter, but in the spring and summer of the year." 



As the word " summer " passed my lips " a change 

 came o'er the spirit of my dream." I stood by a 

 broad river, now flowing in such lucid transparency 

 over its shallows, that every pebble polished bright 

 was seen distinct and clear, the large stones rising 

 above the stream, half wet, half dry, like those timid 

 bathers who dread their primal plunge, and now 

 deepening into darker pools, where the swift waters 

 seemed to rest and pause, on their journey to distant 

 seas. And I was admiring tbe trees, which came 

 down the sloping banks, as it were, to see their 

 loveliness in that shining mirror, and the great 

 mountains far away beyond, when a shout of jubila- 

 tion drew my gaze to a gentleman, in ecstasies and 

 a Tweed suit, who stood, or, more truthfully speaking, 



