IN A DEVONSHIRE LANE 
149 
to sod and stone, catching at odd sticks and roots that may come 
in its way. A mass of it, leaning carelessly down from the bank, 
suddenly begins to heave, the raindrops loose their hold and 
vanish, a hideous, narrow head is thrust out of the green, and a 
snake glides noiselessly into the pool. Why do I turn cold 
when I know that he is harmless ? He looks up, and his 
uncanny eyes glitter. He is afraid of me, yet his long body 
causes not a ripple in the water as he twists himself back to his 
hiding-place, and I pass on, glancing over my shoulder. A 
downy baby bird hops into my path, and, unable to balance 
itself, flutters helplessly before me in its endeavours to escape. 
A thrush shrieking fiercely in the hawthorn owns her wandering 
little one. I place it in the leafy branches where the wide-eyed 
mother flies to it with a palpitating heart. Her cries follow me, 
and in an instant she is again over my head, unnaturally tame 
in her distress. Another speckled truant calls her from the 
wayside, and she knows not which way to turn in her anxiety. 
I walk on quickly to put her out of pain. 
Next I meet a slow-worm comfortably curled up in the dust, 
sunning himself. He is very like a snake, but knowing him to 
be a lizard I do not object to him while he lies still ; when he 
begins to writhe away from me I cannot help feeling as though 
he were exploring the back of my neck. His cousin, the true 
lizard, is very different. I see one creeping through some dry 
grass, and, quickly placing a hand in front of him and another 
behind, easily catch him. His small paws banish all repug- 
nance — for me at least. It is the leglessness of snakes and slow- 
worms that I do not like. I believe the last-mentioned reptile 
boasts a fine collection of the limbs in question in an unde- 
veloped state under his copper armour ; but as he does not use 
them the effect produced is the same. This lizard looks dis- 
tractedly over the side of my hand trying to make up his mind 
to drop to the ground — it must seem a long way to him. A 
brother makes his appearance, speedily to vanish again. The 
banks are alive with these scaly folk, and everywhere drilled 
with their holes, down one of which warm habitations my little 
captive joyfully wriggles upon being liberated. 
I am now high up. The banks are much lower, and silver- 
barked beeches, with shining leaves and powdery bunches of 
pale yellow flowers, replace the tall elms. Again the tinkling of 
water attracts my attention. Parting a tangle of briars, I 
behold under the bank a miniature grotto of polished grey stones 
forming an uneven basin into which from the top of the bank 
narrow jets of rain-water patter busily. They have worn the 
rugged stone smooth, they have made the channel down the 
bank, they feed the hard-working streamlet I have mentioned, 
and upon them depend the lives of countless creatures, each one 
loved by God. I must trace this important rill to its source. 
Above me on a level with the bank is a clover field. Every day 
the wind comes over the hill-top, and, sweeping down the slope. 
