Mirage on the Elms. 1 1 1 



has been left opened while lighted on the ground, and 

 so got shut in ; but mice have been found in lanterns 

 cobwebbed from long disuse. 



Suddenly there peeps out from the lower rabbit- 

 hole the stealthy reddish body of a weasel. I 

 instinctively reach for the gun leaning against the 

 bank, and immediately the spell is broken. The 

 mice rush to their holes, the weasel darts back into 

 the bowels of the earth, a rabbit that has quietly 

 slipped out unseen into the grass bounds with eager 

 haste to cover, and out of the oak overhead there 

 rises, with a great clatter of wings, a wood-pigeon that 

 had settled there. 



When the pale winter sunshine falls upon the bare 

 branches of an avenue of elms — such as so often 

 ornament parks — they appear lit up with a faint rosy 

 colour, which instantly vanishes on the approach of 

 a shadow. This shimmering mirage in the boughs 

 seems due to the myriads of lesser twigs, which at the 

 extremities have a tinge of red, invisible at a distance 

 till the sunbeams illuminate the trees. Beyond this 

 passing gleam of colour, nothing relieves the black- 

 ness of the January landscape, except here and there 

 the bright silvery bark of the birch. 



For several seasons now in succession the thrush 

 has sung on the shortest days, as though it were 



