MOORLAND IDYLLS. 



We must grow as the tempests and the 

 hail-storms permit us. Soon after you have 

 begun each year to put forth your tender 

 green shoots comes a frost a nipping frost 

 whirled along on the wide wings of some 

 angry sou'wester. We, your human neigh- 

 bours, lie abed in our snug cottage, and 

 tremble at the groaning and shivering of 

 our beams, and silently wonder in the dark 

 amid the noise how much of our red-tiled 

 roof will remain over us by morning. (Five 

 pounds' worth of tiles went off, I recollect, 

 in last Thursday week's tempest.) But you, 

 on your open hilltop, feel the fierce cold 

 wind blow through and through you ; till 

 all the buds on your south-western face are 

 chilled and killed ; while even the others, 

 more sheltered on the leeward side, have 

 got nipped and checked, so that they 

 develop irregularly. It is this lawless check- 

 ing of growth in your budding and sprouting 

 stage that really ' ' blows you on one side," 

 as we roughly state it. Only on your 



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