JULY IN BEOADLAND. 71 



rise at the flies upon the surface. The cry of the redshank and the harsher note 

 of the heron are heard as they change their feeding quarters. The trained ear of 

 the naturalist distinguishes other bird cries. 



The monotonous ding ! dong ! of the bells in the village belfry is summoning 

 man to worship his Creator. The quiet of the country on the morning of the 

 Sabbath is delightful. Clad in their best apparel, rustics old and young are wend- 

 ing their way towards the sanctuary. Eound the porch of the old grey church 

 stand and gossip many of the simple villagers ; politics and agriculture and the 

 troubles and doings of each and his neighbours, come in for a share of harmless 

 discussion, until the parson makes his appearance, when hard, horny hands make 

 clumsy salutations, and they follow the good man inside. Bewitching strains of 

 organ and boyish voices, mellowed by the obstructive walls and windows, fall on 

 our ears, and awaken hallowed feelings as we leave the man of Grod to ' lure to 

 brighter worlds and lead the way.' Hearken to those familiar words 



'Hark ! hark! my soul: angelic songs are swelling 



O'er earth's green fields and ocean's wave-beat shore: 

 How sweet the truth those blessed strains are telling 

 Of that new life where sin shall be no more. 



Angels of Jesus, angels of light 

 Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.' 



Oh ! how these beautiful words, as the verses go on, touch our hearts. A tear 

 steals down our artist-friend's cheek. Surely the words and these sweet voices 

 are recalling sunny, and mayhap sad memories. That old hymn has touched a 

 very tender spot in his noble soul. We link our arm in his and stand silently 

 beside him. We care not to break in upon holy thoughts and emotions by conver- 

 sation. Presently we find ourselves inside the house of Grod. 



Our artist-friend has some letters to write in the afternoon, hence we pull to 

 the village staith alone, bent upon attending service at the ' Kanters' ' chapel, as 

 such places are yet occasionally called in our remoter hamlets. 



6 'Tis over yinder, by that big owd elm-tree. Foller yer face down yon ' loke,' 

 then turn at the bottom, and yow'll find it close aginst the willage smithy.' So 

 directs us a tousle-headed urchin, with a hedge-sparrow's nest in his Sunday cap 

 and a cane-suggestive rent down the leg of his breeks. Sounds of lusty singing 



