294 FIELD AND HEDGEROW. 



fern. The squire left the window for his arm-chair by 

 the fire ; but if presently, as often happens when frost 

 quickly follows a snow-storm, the sun shone out and a 

 beam fell on the wall, he would get up and look out. 

 Every footstep in the snow contained a shadow cast by 

 the side, and the dazzling white above and the dark 

 within produced a blue tint. Yonder by the limes the 

 rabbits ventured out for a stray bunch of grass not quite 

 covered by the drift, tired, no doubt, of the bitter bark 

 of the ash-rods that they had nibbled in the night. As 

 they scampered, each threw up a white cloud of snow- 

 dust behind him. Yet a few days and the sward grew 

 greener. The pale winter hue, departing as the spring 

 mist came trailing over, caught for a while in the copse, 

 and, lingering there, the ruddy buds and twigs of the 

 limes were refreshed. The larks rose a little way to sing 

 in the moist air. A rook, too, perching on the top of a 

 low tree, attempted other notes than his monotonous 

 caw. So absorbed was he in his song that you might 

 have walked under him unnoticed. He uttered four or 

 five distinct sounds that would have formed a chant, but 

 he paused between each as if uncertain of his throat. 

 Then, as the sun shone, with a long-drawn ' ca-awk ' 

 he flew to find his mate, for it would soon be time to 

 repair the nest in the limes. The butterflies came again 

 and the year was completed, yet it seemed but a few 

 days to the squire. Perhaps if he lived for a thousand 

 years, after a while he would wonder at the rapidity 

 with which the centuries slipped by. 



By the limes there was a hollow — the little circular 

 copse was on the slope — and jays came to it as they 

 worked from tree to tree across the park. Their screech- 

 ing often echoed through the open casement of the gun- 

 room. A faint mark on the sward trended towards this 



