A DECEMBER RAMBLE 329 



braced with masses of Dog Rose, Bramble, or Ivy, 

 brings us to a quiet, secluded little village. We 

 had not noticed it as we approached for it was so 

 snugly hidden in the vale. A halt at the old 

 stocks in the centre of the village and an inspec- 

 tion of these relics of past " justice " and torture 

 for law-breakers, and the quiet life of the peaceful 

 little hamlet is rudely awakened by the approach 

 of the hounds, the scarlet-liveried huntsmen, and 

 their noble steeds. 



Let us take this little-trodden path by the side 

 of a tall Hawthorn hedgerow and trailing Wild 

 Rose bushes, both bestrewed with their fruits of 

 hips and haws, and put up as we proceed com- 

 panies of frightened but almost voiceless Chaf- 

 finches and Greenfinches; on the stubbles perhaps 

 a covey of Partridges will be disturbed, and on 

 the ploughed lands twittering Skylarks and noisy 

 Meadow Pipits. 



Should our ramble lead us by a stream or other 

 piece of water, there one may with patience 

 observe that beautiful British bird which vies in 

 luxury of dress with its fellows from the tropics — 

 the Kingfisher. It is like a feathered meteor, so 

 quick are its movements, as of a lightning flash, 

 and it needs a keen and practised eye to follow it 

 as it dashes along towards the water-worn arch 

 at the far end of the water. 



Although it is December, minute Gnats dance 



