MARCH, 1882. 149 



shades and deeper colours. Only a barn owl, we say, 

 just as we'd remark as we lift some odd volume, only 

 Burns, while perhaps we expect some of our latest novels. 

 Only, indeed ! and where can you find such another bird 

 for delicate downy beauty ? What novelty and curiosity- 

 hunters we all are, to be sure. The last time we handled 

 one of the species alive was on the occasion of finding it 

 dying in a hedge in the evening, into which it had seem- 

 ingly thrust itself to escape persecution from small birds, 

 and out of which it could not extricate itself. 



As we tramp up the hill, we find the rivulets running 

 full, and all about the mosses are of exceptional growth. 

 Into the luxurious beds we sink up to the knees, many 

 of them at present with dainty seed vessels ripe and full. 

 At this time last year the same mosses were all richly 

 dyed with varying shades up to the deepest red, this 

 season they are still as green as the meadows in May. 

 Here and there, if we look carefully, we may catch a 

 peep of yellow, or a suspicion of cinnamon, but the eye 

 as it rests on the cool soft patches finds nothing but 

 what is fresh and invigorating. We have been tramping 

 downwards, still kneedeep, when we come in view of the 

 rushing green waters of our river, green that is to the 

 eye, for the prevailing colour of the bottom so reflects 

 the light to-day a very delicate slate-coloured green, 

 with sparkles through it where the ripples leap and go. 

 Ho ! Miss Woodbine. So we have caught you at your 

 toilet on the quiet, before you come forth to delight the 

 beholder with your full adornment. What a knowing 

 trick to play, and what a quiet spot to come to. There 

 she had climbed up the leafless limbs of that blackthorn 

 over the river, and from her point of vantage can arrange 

 her tresses, and titivate herself in the mirror of the water. 



