214 THE OPEN AIR. 



feeding along the slope of the mound, following the 

 paths or runs. He picks his way, he does not like 

 wet. Though out at night in the dewy grass of 

 summer, in the rain-soaked grass of winter, and 

 living all his life in the earth, often damp nearly 

 to his burrows, no time, and no succession of 

 generations can make him like wet. He endures 

 it, hut he picks his way round the dead fern and 

 the decayed leaves. He sits in the bunches of long 

 grass, but he does not like the drops of rain or dew 

 on it to touch him. Water lays his fur close, and 

 mats it, instead of running off and leaving him sleek. 

 As he hops a little way at a time on the mound he 

 chooses his route almost as we pick ours in the mud 

 and pools of February. By the shore of the ditch 

 there still stand a few dry, dead dock stems, with 

 some dry reddish-brown seed adhering. Some dry 

 brown nettle stalks remain; some gray and broken 

 thistles; some teazles leaning on the bushes. The 

 power of winter has reached its utmost now, and can 

 go no farther. These bines which still hang in the 

 bushes are those of the greater bindweed, and will 

 be used in a month or so by many birds as con- 

 veniently curved to fit about their nests. The stem 

 of wild clematis, grey and bowed, could 'scarcely 

 look more dead. Fibres are peeling from it, they 

 come off at the touch of the fingers. The few brown 

 feathers that perhaps still adhere where the flowers 

 once were are stained and discoloured by the beating 

 of the rain. It is not dead: it will flourish again 

 ere long. It is the sturdiest of creepers, facing the 

 ferocious winds of the hills, the tremendous rains 



