FOOTPATHS 17 



beneath. Sweet roses buds yet unrolled, white and 

 conical; roses half open and pink tinted; roses wide- 

 spread, the petals curling backwards on the hedge, aban- 

 doning their beauty to the sun. In the pasture over the 

 stile a roan cow feeds unmoved, calmly content, gather- 

 ing the grass with rough tongue. It is not only what 

 you actually see along the path, but what you remember 

 to have seen, that gives it its beauty. 



From hence the path skirts the hedge enclosing a copse, 

 part of which had been cut in the winter, so that a few 

 weeks since in spring the bluebells could be seen, instead 

 of being concealed by the ash branches and the wood- 

 bine. Among them grew one with white bells, like a 

 lily, solitary in the midst of the azure throng. A " drive," 

 or green lane passing between the ash-stoles, went into 

 the copse, with tufts of tussocky grass on either side and 

 rush bunches, till farther away the overhanging branches, 

 where the poles were uncut, hid its course. 



Already the grass has hidden the ruts left by the 

 timber carriages the last came by on May-day with 

 ribbons of orange, red, and blue on the horses' heads for 

 honour of the day. Another, which went past in the 

 wintry weeks of the early year, was drawn by a team 

 wearing the ancient harness with bells under high hoods, 

 or belfries, bells well attuned, too, and not far inferior to 

 those rung by handbell men. The beat of the three 

 horses' hoofs sounds like the drum that marks time to 

 the chime upon their backs. Seldom, even in the far 

 away country, can that pleasant chime be heard. 



But now the timber is all gone, the ruts are hidden, 

 and the tall spruce firs, whose graceful branches were 

 then almost yellow with young needles on the tip, are 

 now clothed in fresh green. On the bank there is a 

 flower which is often gathered for the forget-me-not, and 



B 



