To Mountain Tarn 



Musing so far away from the thrushes of that 

 particular evening, I reached the end of the 

 avenue and emerged on the open. It was a 

 Scots lane, ruder, more elemental than those of 

 the south, and wrought out of rougher material. 

 Perhaps the main difference is in the want of 

 climbing plants, whose flowing lines, like graceful 

 garments, hide so much away. Withal it had the 

 charm of a lint-locked, bare-footed, country lass. 



Deep-rutted by the passing wheels of the farm- 

 cart, broad-margined with grass ; on one side a 

 hedgerow, on the other a sunken fence. The rain 

 had been freshening there also. The white blos- 

 soms were very pure ; the yellow blossoms as pure. 

 The scents, too, were washed purer the may of 

 the hedge ; and that of many lowly plants, only 

 scented after rain. 



The songs were low and sweet, not the songs 

 of the high woods. From the tinkling of linnets, 

 and trilling of greenfinches with a woof of other 

 songs, one might know that he was in Scotland, 

 and might even gather that he was on the east 

 coast, if not in Fife. 



At the very entrance a little idyll was being 

 enacted. It looked rather silly. Are not all 

 idylls silly to the cold-blooded and unimaginative 

 looker-on? A hen chaffinch was sitting in the 

 rut. The blue-capped, russet-breasted cock was 

 making a complete fool of himself. At all times, 

 a chaffinch on the ground has a short, mincing 



