December 13. 
THE COTTAGE GARDENER. 
145 
cleared off, or it will exhaust the bed, by the encou¬ 
ragement it gives to the spawn to run out. A little 
additional litter may bo added as required, so as to 
keep the beds in regular and uniform bearing, and 
gentle applications of tepid liquid manure will be 
found of great benefit to those beds that have been 
well gathered from. Where the convenience of hot 
water-pipes or other artificial means can be com¬ 
manded for mushroom culture, so that the right tem¬ 
perature can be at all times maintained, no kind of 
litter-covering need be applied. 
Spading in. —The spade may be used to great ad¬ 
vantage in many parts of the kitchen-garden at this 
time of the year in more ways than that of deep dig¬ 
ging, trenching, and ridgiug. Many of our readers 
have a liue quarter, or quarters, of strong cabbage- 
plants and the like, which have become very foul 
with weeds and fallen leaves. Now, these said quar¬ 
ters have been talked about probably day after day, 
and the hoe determined to be put amongst them; 
but every fine day that has befallen something or 
other has prevented its being done. Now, the hoe 
is a very important tool as an earth-stirrer and weed¬ 
killer, either in the summer or in fine dry weather at 
any season, but not at this catching season of the 
year, when the weather may be fine one day and wet 
the next. Now, the spade will set all this to rights, 
and instead of Messrs. Chickweed & Co. being robbers 
of the crop, will become its feeders, and the plots will 
be neat and tidy for the winter if they are just spaded 
in,—that is, turned in with the spade between the 
rows of plants. James Barnes and W. 
MISCELLANEOUS INEOBMATION. 
OUR VILLAGE WALKS. 
(No. 10.) 
When walking on the banks of a fish-pond a few 
days ago, I disturbed a moor-lien, which ffew from 
the shelter of a spruce fir at the edge of the water, 
and took refuge among the rushes that grew at 
the extremity of the pond. This simple occur¬ 
rence brought to my mind very vividly an inte¬ 
resting fact that took place many years ago, and of 
which I was myself an eye-witness. The moor-lien 
is well known to be a very shy, timid bird; but my 
father, who was always extremely fond of birds, 
succeeded in so completely gaining the confidence of 
a pair of these elegant little creatures, that they 
would come to him and feed at his feet. They knew 
Ids garden dress, and they knew his voice; and I 
have stood concealed behind a tree, and watched 
while he uttered his peculiar call. Instantly the two 
bh'ds started from their rushy shelter, and skimming 
the water with rapid wing, alighted at his feet, and 
fed on the bread which he crumbled. It was a 
beautiful picture of benevolence and trust; but, like 
many earthly friendships, it was doomed to a sudden 
and unfortunate conclusion. An intimate friend, 
unacquainted with these circumstances, returned one 
day with liis gun, and displayed with exultation the 
result of his sport. It was one of my fathers pet 
moor fowl. The grief of his friend was scarcely less 
than liis own, when the explanation was given of 
these facts—but it was all too late; and I cannot now 
bring to mind whether the survivor continued its 
former habits, or deserted the spot on the disappear¬ 
ance of its mate. The moor-hen’s nest is a curious 
and very beautiful little structure, a literal weaving 
together of the rushes, till they become a sort of 
cradle on the bosom of the water, in which the eggs 
are deposited. There is no nest-like snugness in its 
form, but it has a wild, aquatic air in perfect keeping 
with the nature and habits of water-fowl. 
There is much beauty in water scenery, even though 
it should only consist of a small fish-pond or sedgy 
brook. The wild plants that decorate the banks are 
richly green, and their flowers often of brilliant 
colour. The mirror-like surface of the water beauti¬ 
fully reflects the trees and bushes that border it, and 
at night, when the moon is up—I dare not begin to 
talk about the glory of the scene then. 
In our cool climate we cannot feel the real blessings 
of a well watered land. Beautiful as is a sparkling 
river or a glassy pool, we often turn away shivering 
from their banks, and only in summer heats admire 
their beauty in the landscape, or seek the cool air 
they breathe. But in the hot dry countries of the 
south and east, the beauty of lakes and streams, is 
their lowest recommendation. There, water is deeply 
valued and valuable, and in the glorious descriptions 
of the spiritual kingdom—so magnificently clothed 
by inspiration in eartldy imagery, suited to earthly 
minds—water is conspicuously mentioned; it seems 
remarkably selected to express, by its presence or 
absence, the blessings or judgments of God. “They 
that forsake the Lord” are declared to be “ as a gar¬ 
den that hath no water;” while the kingdom of Christ 
is described, among other remarkable figures, as 
“ waters ” breaking out “ in the wilderness,” “ and 
streams in the desert;” and in the gospel, salvation 
is constantly and forcibly pourtrayed by the same 
beautiful and essential support of animal and vege¬ 
table life. What a striking and affecting picture, too, 
is presented to the heart of the Christian when his 
eye rests on “willows by the water courses!” Can 
we ever see one of these peaceful trees dipping its 
taper boughs in the cool stream without thinking of 
the peaceful resting-place of the people of God “ beside 
the still waters.” 
Scorching heat and parching thirst are alike un¬ 
known to us as a nation, but the sight of this refresh¬ 
ing element even in winter should ever remind us 
of all that it so pointedly shadows forth. Let us 
remember the living water, which is promised to all 
who ask for it—that “ Water of Life” offered to all 
who thirst. Have we sought and found that stream ? 
Among the few bright things that still gleam 
among winter scenery are the gracefully arching 
sprays of the ever-beautiful bramble, whose crimson 
leaves now, in some places, look like wreathes of 
glowing flowers. Hedge row and dell are gay with 
them, and they greatly tend to enliven the cold 
December scene. I have seen the large thorny 
stems of the bramble twining themselves, to a con¬ 
siderable height, round trees, with their beautiful 
leaves ornamenting the boughs, and hanging grace¬ 
fully down, as if to display the elegance of their 
form and foliage; and, really, if we did not know 
they were brambles—if we could fancy ourselves in 
some newly discovered land—we shoidd be struck 
with the appearance of so rich and luxuriant a 
creeper. 
We are beginning, too, to value the heavy look¬ 
ing Scotch fir : ungraceful in its youth, but so truly 
picturesque in its advancing years. At every season, 
when old enough to be admired, it is a very orna¬ 
mental tree for the park or pleasure-ground as well 
as for the woods. A group of old Scotch firs is a 
fine object; they are so stern, so rugged, so pictorial; 
and they stand so bluff and untroubled at our storms 
that they tell a marvellous tale of the blasts and 
