A Spring Ramble by the Itchen. 43 



tibly changing colour, and have now put on that port-wine 

 hue which indicates advance towards leaf-time. 



What was it William Cobbett, who thoroughly knew this 

 part of the country, so prettily wrote ? " In spring they 

 change their hue from day to day during two whole months, 

 which is about the time from the first appearance of the 

 delicate leaves of the birch to the full expansion of those of 

 the ash ; and even before the leaves come at all to intercept 

 the view. What in the vegetable creation is so delightful to 

 behold as the bed of a coppice bespangled with primroses 

 and bluebells? The opening of the birch leaves is the 

 signal for the pheasant to begin to crow, for the blackbird 

 to whistle, and the thrush to sing ; and just when the oak- 

 buds begin to look reddish, and not a day before, the whole 

 tribe of finches bursts forth into song from every bough, 

 while the lark, imitating them all, carries the joyous sounds 

 to the sky." 



Let us be grateful, for lo ! there comes a burst of sun- 

 shine, and we may now continue our wanderings along the 

 Itchen's course. On the other side of the river below the 

 town stands venerable St. Cross, the rooks wheeling and 

 chattering after their kind in the wind-rocked trees. We 

 have no ferry here, so we shall be in no danger to-day of 

 presenting ourselves at the porter's lodge and claiming the 

 bread and beer which, according to the charitable bequest 

 of Henry de Blois, bishop of the diocese in 1136, every 

 traveller may obtain for the mere asking even unto this day. 

 The river here is broad, deep, and so clear that you may 

 count the pebbles at the bottom and admire their polished 

 whiteness ; and do anything but admire the fearful American 

 weed which has become a pest to English waters. 



Hiding behind the alder, you watch the trout all still and 

 listless save for the movement of the fin necessary to keep 



