MIRAGE ON THE ELMS. 113 



running at it. Occasionally, no doubt, the mouse has 

 entered when the lantern has been left opened while 

 lighted on the ground, and so got shut in ; but mice have 

 been found in lanterns cobwebbed from long disuse. 



Suddenly there peeps out from the lower rabbit-hole 

 the stealthy reddish body of a weasel. I instinctively 

 reach for the gun leaning against the bank, and immedi- 

 ately the spell is broken. The mice rush to their holes, 

 the weasel darts back into the bowels of the earth, a 

 rabbit that has quietly slipped out unseen into the grass 

 bounds with eager haste to cover, and out of the oak over- 

 head there rises, with a great clatter of wings, a wood- 

 pigeon that had settled there. 



When the pale winter sunshine falls upon the bare 

 branches of an avenue of elms — such as so often ornament 

 parks — they appear lit up with a faint rosy colour, which 

 instantly vanishes on the approach of a shadow. This 

 shimmering mirage in the boughs seems due to the 

 myriads of lesser twigs, which at the extremities have a 

 tinge of red, invisible at a distance till the sunbeams 

 illuminate the trees. Beyond this passing gleam of colour, 

 nothing relieves the blackness of the January landscape, 

 except here and there the bright silvery bark of the birch. 



For several seasons now in succession the thrush has 

 sung on the shortest days, as though it were spring ; a 

 little later, in the early mornings, the blackbird joins, 

 filling the copse with a chorus at the dawn. But, if the 



