The Confessions of a 'Poacher. 13 



are secured alike, for all serve as food 

 to the loveable pied fly-catcher. 



It is the time of the bloom of the first June 

 rose ; and here, by the margin of the wood, all 

 the ground by fast falling blossom is littered. 

 Every blade teems with life, and the air is in- 

 stinct with the very breath of being. Birds' 

 sounds are coming from over and under from 

 bough and brake, and a harmonious discord is 

 flooded from the neighbouring copse. The 

 oak above my head is a murmurous haunt of 

 summer wings, and wood pigeons coo from 

 the beeches. The air is still, and summer is 

 on my cheek ; arum, wood-sorrel, and celan- 

 dine mingle at my feet. The starlings are 

 half buried in the fresh green grass, their 

 metallic plumage flashing in the sun. Cattle 

 are lazily lying dotted over the meadows, and 

 the stream is done in a setting of green and 

 gold. Swallows, skimming the pools, dip in 

 the cool water, and are gone leaving a sweet 

 commotion in ever widening circles long after 

 they have flown. A mouse-like creeper alights 

 at the foot of a thorn, and runs nimbly up the 



