H Berkshire jfloofc. 23 



path led around a wooded swamp, within whose 

 shadows, as the afternoon waned, a multitude of bird 

 voices would blend in a vesper carol. But now only 

 one harsh cry was to be heard. I am a stranger in 

 bird-land, but from the strident quality of that call I 

 imagined it to be a bird of prey, a hawk perchance, 

 or some other predatory creature, and wondered what 

 social or domestic tragedy it betokened. But aside 

 from this discordant note, all was serene and restful, 

 in sound as well as in sight. 



On the slopes of the upland my way led among 

 the slender spikes of the blue vervain and the bushes 

 which gleamed with the golden blossoms of the 

 shrubby cinquefoil. These neighbours of the field 

 have a curious habit which reminds one of the prac- 

 tices of poor Mr. Wilfer who never was able to 

 afford enough money at any one time for a new suit 

 of clothes, but must wear his hat quite shabby before 

 he could get a new coat and whose coat was thread- 

 bare before he could command new shoes. The 

 shrubby cinquefoil and the vervain never seem able 

 to muster sufficient resources to blossom all at once. 

 They do their flowering a little at a time, and so con- 

 trive always to look shabby even while they are 

 doing their best to make a good appearance. One 

 can hardly imagine the splendour of purple and gold 

 which would blaze in this hillside field, if these 

 neighbouring wild-flowers should become suddenly 

 rich, and bloom all over at once, like the golden-rod 

 or the laurel. 



