162 OUT OF DOORS. 



Night again drops her dank, wet veil over the scene, 

 and our visit to the New Forest bids fair to be a total 

 failure. 



Brightly shone the sunbeams on the following day ; 

 the dismal splash of rain had ceased ; the black, cloudy 

 sky had changed to deep blue ; the breeze was charged 

 with perfume, and the air filled with melody. A host 

 of chaffinches were congregated in front of the window, 

 pecking about amongst the grass, and twittering merrily 

 with their sweet little chatter. All nature seemed to 

 rejoice in the sunshine, and the deep glades of the 

 forest, broken by sundry gleams of golden light, invited 

 us to its presence. 



The ground was still wet under our feet, the heavy 

 ferns dropped showers of moisture as we brushed against 

 their wide fronds ; and, as the wind stirred the branches 

 above, occasional shower baths came pattering on our 

 heads. But how changed was everything around. The 

 birds flitted from bush to bush, heedless of the rain- 

 drops scattered by their rapid movements ; the air was 

 filled with glittering insects, and the busy hum of many 

 wings gave light and brightness to the scene. The 

 long avenues of oak and beech produced effects of 

 brilliant many-coloured light and deepest shade that no 

 painter could hope to imitate ; the heavy masses of 

 holly that studded the forest gave a mysterious darkness 

 to many an inlet, while the wide clusters of foxgloves 

 reared their tall heads in the patches of sunshine, and 

 waved their lovely petals in the breeze. Foxgloves, 



