Hillside. 1 2 1 



The hills are shadows, and they flow 

 From form to form, and nothing stands ; 

 They melt like mist, the solid lands, 

 Like clouds they shape themselves and go " 



But we have been prosing long enough about the ante- 

 cedents of that dear muddy old river dear to me, because, 

 as a child, I ventured my precious life in an attempt to 

 swim among its dangerous shoals, and received castigation 

 from a loving mother's hands for the daring exploit. 

 Well ! we " value that for which we suffer most," 'tis said, 

 perhaps that is why the old river still has such a charm for 

 me. 



Now we face the road again. Yonder it winds over the 

 fields without a hedge by its sides, except that formed by 

 masses of bladder campion, the delicate white balloon-like 

 heads of which are apparently swollen to bursting point, of 

 the sturdy pink-blossomed scabious, dark green clumps of 

 ragwort, and an occasional thistle, which the labourer's hoe 

 has not yet exterminated. Here, too, are an abundance of 

 mallows, with their red blossoms and flat fruits, the latter 

 having a tiny sharp spike standing from their centres 

 " cheeses " the Kentish children call them, whilst the poet 

 writes 



" Then sitting down, when school was o'er, 

 Upon the threshold of the door, 

 Picking from mallows, sport to please, 

 The crumpled seed we call a cheese." 



Quite a flower-garden indeed we find here on either side of 

 the road, forming a boundary quite sufficient to prevent a 

 wandering cart from encroaching on the edges of the fields. 

 Our gaze extends over the fields. Yonder, the ruddy sur- 

 face of clover merges into the golden tint of ripening grain ; 



