A SAND QUARXY IN WINTER. 31 



weather and dig for insects ; and if he were rash enough 

 to do so, the chances are that no sooner did he uncover 

 an insect than it would be blown far out of his reach. 

 At last I bethought myself of a small, sheltered sand 

 quarry, about half a mile from my house, and, taking 

 with me the old familiar butcher's knife in its sheath, 

 and some boxes, I started for the quarry. 



When I visited the place in July last, it was a most 

 lovely little spot, clothed with abundant verdure, rich in 

 the sweet flowers of glorious summer, and musical with 

 the twitter of joyous birds and the hum of many insects. 

 The sky was serene and calm, with a few white clouds 

 drifting slowly across its azure expanse, and sending 

 their shadows travelling over the plain below. The 

 Thames ran, a meandering blue streak, glittering here 

 and there as the sunbeams glanced on its ripples, and 

 bearing many a white sail and swift steamer through 

 the valley over which it had once spread itself like a 

 shallow lake until restrained within its limits by the 

 mighty 6 river-wall,' on which the seaweed dangles in 

 black and green clusters. 



Now, how changed is all the scene ! The quarry 

 itself is tolerably sheltered, but above our heads the 

 wind tears its way through the wood, and speeds over 

 the country as if it meant to twist every tree up by 

 the roots. Every now and then, as some fiercer gust 

 passes along, a loud ruffling sound is heard, accom- 

 panied by a pattering as of hail, among the withered 

 leaves that strew the ground. At first, indeed, I took 



