OUTSIDE LONDON. 237 



was himself of the beauties of their hills and lakes ; 

 they could see the art there, though perhaps they 

 had never seen a picture in their lives, certainly not 

 any blue- and- white crockery. The Frenchman flings 

 his fingers dexterously over the canvas, but he has 

 never had that in his heart which the rude Highlander 

 had. 



The path across the arable field was covered with 

 a design of birds' feet. The reversed broad arrow of 

 the fore-claws, and the straight line of the hinder 

 claw, trailed all over it in curving lines. In the dry 

 dust, their feet were marked as clearly as a seal on 

 wax — their trails wound this way and that, and 

 crossed as their quick eyes had led them to turn to 

 find something. For fifty or sixty yards the path 

 was worked with an inextricable design; it was a 

 pity to step on it and blot out the traces of those 

 little feet. Their hearts so happy, their eyes so 

 observant, the earth so bountiful to them with its 

 supply of food, and the late warmth of the autumn 

 sun lighting up their life. They know and feel the 

 different loveliness of the seasons as much as we 

 do. Every one must have noticed their joyous- 

 ness in spring ; they are quiet, but so very, very 

 busy in the height of summer; as autumn comes 

 on they obviously delight in the occasional hours 

 of warmth. The marks of their little feet are almost 

 sacred — a joyous life has been there — do not obliterate 

 it. It is so delightful to know that something is 

 happy. 



The hawthorn hedge that goes down the slope is 

 more coloured than the hedges in the sheltered plain. 



