CAMEOS OF WILD LIFE. 61 



on this self-same stretch of heather, for more years than 

 I care to recall. The Meadow Pipits are nesting in the 

 swampy hollows where the cotton grass grows ; and I do 

 not ever remember seeing Cuckoos so plentiful before. 

 Their merry notes are sounding everywhere cuckoo, 

 cuckoo, cuckoo from the hillsides, from the valley, from 

 the moor ; far off in the distance, below me by the 

 stream, and not a hundred yards ahead, somewhere 

 amongst the rocks. "Blithe little spring-time herald, 

 crier of the vernal pageant, shout out thy merry notes 

 on the bracing mountain air ! The birds and insects 

 and flowers may now begin their revels, for the sound of 

 thy voice proclaims the final defeat of winter and his 

 terrors ! " 



A Forest Hotel 



By this expression I do not mean the thatched cosy- 

 looking little hostelry which stands in a clearing of the 

 forest a few yards back from the road, but this great 

 spreading oak tree which has withstood the storms of 

 centuries, and still remains a rugged ornament to the 

 woods in its green old age. Its massive-looking trunk, 

 however, is hollow ; the bark and a thin shell of wood 

 lend it the appearance of solidity, yet its core, once 

 hard as iron, has mouldered into touchwood, and its 

 sturdy limbs are the only relics of its former greatness. 

 The gnarled and knotted roots, like the sinews of a 



