204 FIELD AND HEDGEROW. 
fern. The squire left the window for his arm-chair by 
the fire ; but if presently, as often happens when frost 
quickly follows a snow-storm, the sun shone out and a 
beam fell on the wall, he would get up and look out. 
Every footstep in the snow contained a shadow cast by 
the side, and the dazzling white above and the dark 
within produced a blue tint. Yonder by the limes the 
rabbits ventured out for a stray bunch of grass not quite 
covered by the drift, tired, no doubt, of the bitter bark 
of the ash-rods that they had nibbled in the night. As 
they scampered, each threw up a white cloud of snow- 
dust behind him. Yet a few days and the sward grew 
greener. The pale winter hue, departing as the spring 
mist came trailing over, caught for a while in the copse, 
and, lingering there, the ruddy buds and twigs of the 
limes were refreshed. The larks rose a little way to sing 
in the moist air. A rook, too, perching on the top of a 
low tree, attempted other notes than his monotonous 
caw. So absorbed was he in his song that you might 
have walked under him unnoticed. He uttered four or 
five distinct sounds that would have formed a chant, but 
he paused between each as if uncertain of his throat. 
Then, as the sun shone, with a long-drawn ‘ca-awk’ 
he flew to find his mate, for it would soon be time to 
repair the nest in the limes. The butterflies came again 
and the year was completed, yet it seemed but a few 
days to the squire. Perhaps if he lived for a thousand 
years, after a while he would wonder at the rapidity 
with which the centuries slipped by. 
By the limes there was a hollow—the little circular 
copse was on the slope—and jays came to it as they 
worked from tree to tree across the park. Their screech- 
ing often echoed through the open casement of the gun- 
room. A faint mark on the sward trended towards this 
