AUGUST 



' Yonder in the heather there 's a bed for sleeping, 

 Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat ; 

 Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, 

 And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet 



Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, 

 (Ah ! the springy moss upon a northern moor ! ) 



Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, 

 Homeless in the City, poor among the poor ! 



Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, 

 Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells ! 



Oh, my eye 's an ache to see the brown burns flowing 

 Through the peaty soil and tinkling heatherbells.' 



ADA SMITH, In City Streets. 



' The red grouse is scattering 

 Dews from his golden wing 



Gemm'd with the radiance that heralds the day ; 

 Peace in our Highland vales, 

 Health on our mountain gales 



Who would not hie to the Moorlands away ! 



Far from the haunts of man 



Mark the gray Ptarmigan, 

 Seek the lone Moorcock, the pride of our dells, 



Birds of the wilderness ! 



Here is their resting-place, 

 'Mid the brown heath where the mountain-roe dwells. 



