THS ^MOU^TAI^S 107 



how long it is since yonder fruit trees, heavy with their 

 sour, green load, have felt the gardener's steel. Grass 

 has covered every sign of tillage, the heather returning 

 from the mountain blooms unchecked in every clearing. 

 Some signs there are that speak more plainly of the 

 past. In the brook that runs beside the doorway still 

 lies a broken pitcher ; and in the bark of an old sycamore, 

 whose clusters of red keys light up its sober summer 

 green, is carved with " the touch of a vanished hand " 

 one letter of a name. 



Across the moorland, by the margin of the stream, a 

 party of anglers are making their camp. Picturesque 

 figures are gathering armf uls of half -burnt heather, and 

 a stalwart fisherman is arranging with stones a draught 

 for the little hearth a touch of wood-craft suggestive of 

 more real camp life and the sober earnest of " the bush." 

 Two girls are rummaging in bags and baskets for the 

 materials of the meal. And now the fire is lit, the 

 kettle hung. The blue smoke rising slowly trails far 

 along the hills. 



It is a jovial party that gathers to the feast. The 

 solitude is startled by staves of song and shouts of 

 laughter, and the pleasant voices of girls. 



Is it an inborn yearning for the far-off days of savage 

 life, or is it the mere relief at freedom from the fret of 

 civilisation that lends so real a charm to a bivouac like 

 this, and throws a glamour even over its discomforts ? 

 Perhaps it is rather the long day in the open, the scram- 

 bling over slippery boulders that makes a man content 

 to drink his tea out of the kettle lid, to share the single 



