162 FRESH FIELDS 



A Scotch farmer, with whom I became acquainted, 

 took me on a Sunday afternoon stroll through his 

 fields. I went to his kirk in the forenoon; in the 

 afternoon he and his son went to mine, and liked 

 the sermon as well as I did. These banks and 

 braes of Doon, of a bright day in May, are eloquent 

 enough for anybody. Our path led along the river 

 course for some distance. The globe-flower, like 

 a large buttercup with the petals partly closed, 

 nodded here and there. On a broad, sloping, semi- 

 circular bank, where a level expanse of rich fields 

 dropped down to a springy, rushy bottom near the 

 river's edge, and which the Scotch call a brae, we 

 reclined upon the grass and listened to the birds, 

 all but the lark new to me, and discussed the flow- 

 ers growing about. In a wet place the "gilly- 

 flower" was growing, suggesting our dentaria, or 

 crinkle-root. This is said to be "the lady's smock 

 all silver- white " of Shakespeare, but these were 

 not white, rather a pale lilac. Near by, upon the 

 ground, was the nest of the mfeadow pipit, a species 

 of titlark, which my friend would have me believe 

 was the wood-lark, — a bird I was on the lookout 

 for. The nest contained six brown- speckled eggs, 

 — a large number, I thought. But I found that 

 this is the country in which to see birds' -nests 

 crowded with eggs, as well as human habitations 

 thronged with children. A white umbelliferous 

 plant, very much like wild carrot, dotted the turf 

 here and there. This, my companion said, was 

 pig-nut, or ground-chestnut, and that there was a 



