88 
NATURE NOTES 
The brook abounded with little silvery fish — I am not sure 
what they were — in spite of the fact that the water was often 
deeply stained with dyes from some distant cloth mills. At 
the — 
“ Breezy call of incense-breathing morn,” 
as well as at the close of day, the mill-hands used to pour by the 
cottage, filling the quiet lanes with their clatter and noisy, 
curious talk — an uncouth lot in contrast, and yet somehow in 
keeping, with their surroundings, for Gloucestershire would not 
be Gloucestershire without its mills and, consequently, its mill- 
hands. 
It was to this spot that an old lady came one day and craved 
permission to sit awhile in the upper garden and gaze on the 
scene, which she insisted was altogether identical with the Rose 
Cottage and common of “ John Halifax.” But from the situation 
I fancy she was wrong with regard to the cottage. However, she 
went away contented, and quite satisfied that she was right. 
I'i It was very sweet to linger in the garden at the hour of 
twilight, when 
“ . . fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight.” 
I well remember the beetle. He never failed each evening 
to 'go buzzing stupidly round and round the house, bundling 
blindly against one and then humming more loudly as if in pro- 
test, as he recovered himself and flew on. 
His companions were the bats, who came and went in silent, 
ghostly fashion, now flitting suddenly close to one’s face, then as 
suddenly disappearing into the deepening gloom without a 
sound. 
Now and again the harsh, peculiar cry of the corncrake came 
over the brook from the field beyond, and sometimes a sudden 
splash in the water spoke volumes to a collie dog, who never 
failed to accompany anyone rambling in the garden at this hour, 
and his ears would quiver and prick up, and then, without wait- 
ing for permission, he would dart off and plunge wildly into the 
brook after a water-rat — but I never knew him to catch one, 
hard as he tried. 
Occasionally a bird would wake up — or may be it had not 
been to sleep — and sing again in the darkening, scented air, its 
tones gradually growing softer, slower, fainter, until it stopped 
altogether. ,Then the darkness fell deeper and deeper, and 
Nature slept Jat last in the garden of my remembrance. 
D. Steward, 
Author of “ From an Observer's Note Book," &^c., 
