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SPECIMEN DAYS ON THE YORKSHIRE COAST. 
Rev. W. C. HEY, M.A., M.C.S. 
Vice-President of the Yorkshire Philosophical Society, West A yton, near Scarborough. 
SCARBOROUGH, Oct. 29th, 1891. On the Castle Hill—The 
wind is east; a little blue sky appears in rifts among woolly grey 
clouds, which are silvered in the neighbourhood of the sun. The 
clearness is extraordinary. Flamborough Head appears, not in 
misty outline, but as a long, sharp range of grey precipices. The 
Lighthouse and Speeton Mill stand up in clear definition. Filey 
Bay seems narrowed to a mere creek. Sunshine falling on fields far 
away reveals them in the most vivid yellow greens. The distant 
moors appear, not, as commonly, blue, but red-brown, and all the 
nabs are clear-cut against the sky. The slopes of the Castle Hill 
are green with young leaves of Alexanders (Smyrnium olusatrum). 
No British plant shows fresher verdure in winter. This fine weather 
has many daisies into bloom 
An hour has passed and I have reached the topmost stile on the 
way to Ayton. From here I look into the water in Filey Bay, and 
have a glorious view of the whole headland in the hard clear air. 
Sunshine lies on the faded stubbles near Filey Cliffs; the healthy 
scent of burning weeds sifts by, and the drowsy hum of a thresher 
comes from the hollow below. Under the withered larches a woman 
is gathering blackberries. 
SCARBOROUGH, July oth, 1891.—I am sitting on the low stone 
Wall near the Cliff Bridge. Grey clouds have overspread all the 
nis and given their sombre colours to the sea and to the sands and 
the cliffs. Even the green slopes of the Castle Hill and the red 
roofs below are almost merged in one general tint. A strong north- 
_ €ast wind drives the breakers in many orders against the cliffs; and 
_ how and then sends a puff of dust along the road, and flaps the 
flags on the boat-masts in the harbour. Under the lighthouse are 
gathered man many steam-trawlers ; the smoke from their funnels blowing 
e quickly away. The tide is beginning to swallow the thick-marked 
sands, smoothing out footprints and cart-ruts and hoof-dints. Oh, 
that the marks of sin and care could thus be smoothed out of 
human souls! 
___As I write, I am startled by a passing figure, going by absolutely 
noiselessly, because bare-footed. I am struck by the thought that 
modern sound. We often read of the Indian’s 
e ‘Stealthy tread. _ Thoreau soe it to the flow of a still river. ve 
