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203 
shells, Whites, and here and there a torn Peacock or Red 
Admiral, make up the list. Still even these help to make the 
lanes and fields look cheerful. 
In the woods, the high thickets of bracken which have 
throughout the summer delighted our senses bj' their elegance, 
and by the clean, fresh, country smell which they exhale, are 
turning to all shades of yellow and brown. They will remain 
standing, dry and dead long into the winter, and form excellent 
shelter for the game. 
Looking at the ferns, we are all at once conscious of a slight 
noise amongst the dead leaves on the ground ; turning the head 
we see a weasel dragging along some small animal. At sight of 
us it leaves its prey, and makes for a hole in the bank, on the 
other side of the path. The prey, on examination, proves to be 
a short-tailed field-vole, warm and bleeding. Poor little thing ! 
One always experiences an involuntary feeling of pity at the 
sight of a helpless creature, wounded or dead. 
On reflection, however, we come to the conclusion that the 
weasel has as much right to live as any other creature. He 
and the vole are equally destructive, each in their own way ; so 
let us place the field-mouse where we found it, retire a pace or 
so, and keep still. Twenty seconds have hardly passed standing 
thus, when an anxious little brown face appears at the hole in 
the bank, and looks cautiously round. The owner of the face 
sees us, but deciding, apparently, that the deed must be accom- 
plished now or never, he slips quickly out of the hole, across the 
path, and grasping the field-mouse he hurries back to security — 
and dinner. 
The swallows grow daily more and more uneasy, and congre- 
gate morning and evening on the roofs of the houses. Soon 
they will leave us, and take their way to the warm sunny shores 
of Africa. One cannot watch these charming birds thus, with- 
out giving a passing thought to the memory of White, of 
Selborne. He never seemed to be quite able to satisfy himself 
that at least some of the Hiriindines did not hibernate in this 
country ; and, as all those who love his letters know, he 
constantly returns, in them, to this subject. 
Nature holds out, to all who will take it, a joy which no man 
can take away. Her ways, though usually slow, are so sure 
and certain and so unchangeable, that to meditate thereon fills 
the mind with a restful peace and confidence. 
Alfred H. Bastin. 
Reading. 
