136 The Amateur Poacher 



hedges. Some chilly evening, as the shadows 

 thicken, he shambles out of the town, and seeks the 

 limekiln in the ploughed field, where, the substratum 

 being limestone, the farmer burns it. Near the top 

 of the kiln the ground is warm ; there he reclines and 

 sleeps. 



The night goes on. Out from the broken blocks 

 of stone now and again there rises a lambent flame, 

 to shine like a meteor for a moment and then dis- 

 appear. The rain falls. The moucher moves uneasily 

 in his sleep ; instinctively he rolls or crawls towards 

 the warmth, and presently lies extended on the top of 

 the kiln. The wings of the water-fowl hurtle in the 

 air as they go over ; by-and-by the heron utters his 

 loud call. 



Very early in the morning the quarryman comes 

 to tend his fire, and starts to see on the now redhot 

 and glowing stones, sunk below the rim, the present- 

 ment of a skeleton formed of the purest white ashes 

 a ghastly spectacle in the grey of the dawn, as the 

 mist rises and the peewit plaintively whistles over the 

 marshy meadow. 



