THE KEEPER’S VISION. 
‘(°00-ROO-ROO-00-00! —Coo-roo-roo- 
00-00! Coo-roo-roo-00-00! Oo!’ 
The lazy, sensuous murmur of the wood- 
pigeon filtered down through the hazy, green 
tracery of young leaves with the hot sun, and 
the two together were like a sleeping-draught. 
The pungent silence of the wood added to it, 
and the droning dirge of a thousand gauzy fly 
things completed all. The gamekeeper suc- 
cumbed, sat down, and his eyelids drooped. 
Perhaps, like Joseph, he dreamed a dream. 
There seemed to have been no interval, 
when he all at once discovered that nothing 
in that wood was drowsy save himself. 
‘Gr-r-r-r!’ remarked something suddenly 
at his feet—so suddenly that he had difficulty 
in checking a start. He shifted his eyes, but 
not his head, and regarded a small bird which 
had not been there before. He was only a 
brownish little bird, with a grayish-white 
breast. 
That was all. Yes; but—vwell, there was 
no getting over the erect pose, the flirting 
carriage of the long tail, the long, feather- 
light hops, the dashing boldness of every pose, 
the absolute thoroughbred air that stamped 
