154 
NATURE NOTES. 
would of throwing his remnants of food upon the carpet when dining at a friend’s 
house. One may class, in point of vulgarity, the people who throw the fragments 
of their picnics about with the people who put their knives in their mouths and 
wipe their fingers upon the tablecloth. It is so easy to dispose of all the scraps 
and litter that there is no shadow of a reason why one single bit of paper, or shred 
of egg-shell, should be left to mark the picnic place. The fragments can be buried, 
or hidden beneath stones, or even carried back to be thrown into the all-purifying, 
all-consuming fire — the fit end for rubbish of all kinds.” 
Our space will not allow us to dwell longer upon this 
excellent address, but we strongly recommend our readers to 
obtain it for themselves, and to endeavour to carry out, as 
fully as possible, the many excellent suggestions it contains. 
The Editor. 
IN THE WELSH MARCHES. 
S I lie in this great glen in the middle of the Welsh 
Marches, it is difficult to realise that the green hills 
around have been the silent witnesses of many turbulent 
scenes and sanguinary fights, both before and during 
the times of the rival Roses. The castle, whose ruined towers 
can be seen from the top of the hill — for centuries filled with 
warlike knights and armed retainers — is now abandoned to the 
daws, and nothing but the twittering of birds is heard where 
once echoed the rattle of armour. 
Time brings changes to man and his works, but leaves few 
traces on these green hills. But perhaps the first thought that 
occurs to a town dweller when he enters this lonely glen, is of 
the contrast between its quietness and the turmoil of that huge 
city which lies a few hours distant. I close my eyes and recall 
for a moment the roar of the traffic, the hoarse cries of the 
street, the hurrying crowds, oblivious of everything but their 
own thoughts ; and then with a sigh of relief I open them to see 
at my feet a little pool, whose surface is ruffled only by the 
struggling gnats — to hear nothing but the chirrup of the grass- 
hopper. 
A peaceful spot indeed. Shut in by high hills, with no 
habitation near but the farmhouse high up on the hill behind, 
its solitude is undisturbed by human footsteps for days together. 
This corner by the pool is the orchard, the haunt of chaffinch 
and creeper, and a tiny stream runs down a gully now overgrown 
with grass and brambles, but whose course can be traced by the 
blue of the forget-me-not. The hedgerow is honey-combed with 
burrows, and only temporarily disturbed by my footsteps the 
rabbits are all around me, some feeding, some not bigger than 
a rat, playing together, and making combined attacks upon their 
mother, who, placidly nibbling some succulent plant, seems 
indifferent to everything but the enjoyment of her meal. But a 
