116 THE OPEN AIR. 



A common plant in moist places, the figwort, bears 

 small velvety flowers, much the colom- of the red 

 velvet topknot of the goldfinch, the yellow on whose 

 wings is like the yellow bloom of the furze which 

 he frequents in the winter, perching cleverly on its 

 prickly extremities. In the woods, in the bark of the 

 trees, the varied shades of the branches as their size 

 diminishes, the adhering lichens, the stems of the 

 underwood, now grey, now green ; the dry stalks of 

 plants, brown, white, or dark, all the innumerable 

 minor hues that cross and interlace, there is sug- 

 gested the woven texture of tints found on the wings 

 of birds. For brighter tones the autumn leaves can 

 be resorted to, and in summer the finches rising from 

 the grass spring upwards from among flowers that 

 could supply them with all their colours. But it is 

 not so much the brighter as the undertones that 

 seem to have been drawn from the woodlands or 

 fields. Although no such influence has really been 

 exerted by the trees and plants upon the living 

 creatures, yet it is pleasant to trace the analogy. 

 Those who would convert it into a scientific fact 

 are met with a dilemma to which they are usually 

 oblivious, i.e. that most birds migrate, and the very 

 tints which in this country might perhaps, by a 

 stretch of argument, be supposed to conceal them, 

 in a distant climate with a different foliage, or none, 

 would render them conspicuous. Yet it is these 

 analogies and imaginative comparisons which make 

 the country so delightful. 



One day in autumn, after toiling with their guns, 

 which are heavy in the September heats, across the 



