never yet saw we a fighter like thee. Up on thy hind legs in a moment, like a growling Polar monster, with thy fore-paws round thy foeman's neck, bull-dog, colly, mastiff, or greyhound, and down with him in a moment, with as much ease as Cass, in the wrestling-ring at Carlisle, would throw a Bagman, and then wo to the throat of the downfallen, for thy jaws were shark-like as they opened and shut with their terrific tusks, grinding through skin and sinew to the spine. the bloody place, uncertain whether or not his "Heu quantum mutatus ab illo gore-besmeared and dirt-draggled-an hour "The Prince of Mearns stept forth before the crowd, And, Carter, challenged you to single fight!" Bob Howie, who never yet feared the face of clay, and had too great a heart to suffer mere children to combat the strongest and most unhappy man in the whole country-stripped to the buff; and there he stands, with Once, and once only-bullied out of all endurance by a half-drunken carrier-did we consent to let thee engage in a pitched battle with a mastiff victorious in fifty fights-a famous shanker-and a throttler beyond all compare. It was indeed a bloody business-now growling along the glawr of the road-a hairy hurricane-now snorting in the suffocating ditchnow fair play on the clean and clear crown of the causey-now rolling over and over through a chance-open white little gate, into a cottagegarden-now separated by choking them both with a chord-how brought out again with savage and fiery eyes to the scratch on a green plat round the sign-board-swinging tree in the middle of the village-auld women in their mutches crying out, "Shame! whare's the minister?"-young women, with combs in their pretty heads, blinking with pale and almost weeping faces from low-lintelled doors-children crowding for sight and safety on the louping-on-stone-and loud cries ever and anon at each turn and eddy of the fight, of "Well done, Fro, well done, Fro-see how he worries his windpipe-well done, Fro!" for Fro was the delight and glory of the whole parish, and "An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;" the honour of all its inhabitants, male and fe- shoulders like Atlas-breast like Herculesmale, was felt to be staked on the issue- and arms like Vulcan. The heart of Benjawhile at intervals was heard the harsh hoarse min the wagoner dies within him—he accepts voice of the carriers and his compeers, cursing the challenge for a future day-and retreating and swearing in triumph in a many-oathed backwards to his clothes, receives a rightlanguage peculiar to the race that drive the hander as from a sledge-hammer on the temple, broad-wheeled wagons with the high canvas that fells him like an ox. The other carters roofs, as the might of Teeger prevailed, and all close in, but are sent spinning in all directhe indomitable Fro seemed to be on his last tions as from the sails of a windmill. Ever legs beneath a grip of the jugular, and then as each successive lout seeks the earth, we stretched motionless and passive-in defeat or savage school-boys rush in upon him in twos, death. A mere ruse to recover wind. Like and threes, and fours, basting and battering unshorn Samson starting from his sleep, and him as he bawls; at this very crisis-so fate snapping like fired flax the vain bands of the ordained—are seen hurrying down the hill Philistines, Fro whawmled Teeger off, and from the south, leaving their wives, sweettwisting round his head in spite of the grip on hearts, and asses in the rear, with coal-black the jugular, the skin stretching and giving way hair and sparkling eyes, brown brawny legs, in a ghastly but unfelt wound, he suddenly and clenched iron fists at the end of long arms, seized with all his tusks his antagonist's eye, swinging flail-like at all times, and more than and bit it clean out of the socket. A yowl of now, ready for the fray, a gang of Gipsies! unendurable pain-spouting of blood-sick-while-beautiful coincidence!-up the hill ness-swooning-tumbling over-and death. from the north come on, at double-quick time, His last fight is over! His remaining eye an awkward squad of as grim Milesians as glazed-his protruded tongue bitten in anguish ever buried a pike in a Protestant. Nor quesby his own grinding teeth-his massy hind tion nor reply; but in a moment a general legs stretched out with a kick like a horse-mêlée. Men at work in the hay-fields, who his short tail stiffens-he is laid out a grim would not leave their work for a dog-fight, fling corpse-flung into a cart tied behind the down scythe and rake, and over hedges into wagon-and off to the tan-yard. the high-road, a stalwart reinforcement. WeavNo shouts of victory-but stern, sullen, half-ers leap from their treddles-doff their blue ashamed silence-as of guilty things after the perpetration of a misdeed. Still glaring savagely, ere yet the wrath of fight has subsided in his heart, and going and returning to aprons, and out into the air. The red-cowled tailor pops his head through a skylight, and next moment is in the street. The butcher strips his long light-blue linen coat, to engage a Paddy; and the smith, ready for action-for | whisky comes, hands it about at his own exthe huge arms of Burniwind are always bare-pense, caulker after caulker, to the vanquished with a hand-ower-hip delivery, makes the head for Bob was as generous as brave; had no of the king of the gipsies ring like an anvil. spite at the gipsies; and as for Irishmen, why There has been no marshalling of forces-yet they were ranting, roving, red-hot, dare-devil lo! as if formed in two regular lines by the boys, just like himself; and after the fight, Adjutant himself after the first tuilzie, stand he would have gone with them to Purgatory, the carters, the gipsies, and the Irishmen, op- or a few steps further down the hill. All the posed to Bob Howie, the butcher, the smith, battle through, we manse-boys had fought, it the tailor, the weaver, the hay-makers, and the may be said, behind the shadow of him our boys from the manse-the latter drawn up cau- hero; and in warding off mischief from us, tiously, but not cowardly, in the rear. What a he received not a few heavy body-blows from twinkling of fists and shillelas! what bashed and King Carew, a descendant of Bamfylde Moore, bloody noses! cut blubber lips-cheekbones and some crown-cracks from the shillelas of out of all proportion to the rest of the face, and, the Connaught Rangers. through sudden black and blue tumefactions, men's changed into pigs' eyes! And now there is also rugging of caps and mutches and hair, "femineo ululatu," for the Egyptian Amazons bear down like furies on the glee'd widow that keeps the change-house, half-witted Shoosy that sells yellow sand, and Davie Donald's dun daughter, commonly called Spunkie. What shrieking and tossing of arms, round the whole length and breadth of the village! Where is Simon Andrew the constable? Where is auld Robert Maxwell the ruling elder? What can have become of Laird Warnock, whose word is law? An what can the Minister be about, can anybody tell, that he does not come flying" show to the sun their waved coats dropt with from the manse to save the lives of his parishioners from cannibals, and gipsies, and Eerish, murdering their way to the gallows? Down comes a sudden thunder-plump, making the road a river-and to the whiff o' lightning, all in the shape of man, woman, and child, are under roof-cover. The afternoon soon clears up, and the haymakers leave the clanking empty gill or half-mutchkin stoup, for the field, to see what the rain has done the forge begins again to roar—the sound of the flying shuttle tells us that the weaver is again on his treddles; the tailor hoists up his little window in the thatch, in that close confinement, to enjoy the caller air-the tinklers go to encamp on the common-"the air is balm"-insects, dropping from eave and tree, tricable as the gorged lion's bite." gold"-though the season of bird-singing be over and gone, there is a pleasant chirping hereabouts, thereabouts, everywhere; the old How-why-or when-that bloody battle blind beggar, dog-led, goes from door to door, ceased to be, was never distinctly known either unconscious that such a stramash has ever then or since; but, like every thing else, it had been-and dancing round our champion, away an end-and even now we have a confused we schoolboys all fly with him to swim in the dream of the spot at its termination-naked | Brother Loch, taking our fishing-rods with us, men lying on their backs in the mire, all for one clap of thunder will not frighten the drenched in blood-with women, some old and trouts; and about the middle or end of July, ugly, with shrivelled witch-like hag breasts, we have known great labbers, twenty inches others young, and darkly, swarthily, blackly long, play wallop between our very feet, in beautiful, with budding or new-blown bosoms the warm shallow water, within a yard of the unkerchiefed in the colley-shangy-perilous to edge, to the yellow bodied, tinsey-tailed, black see-leaning over them: and these were the half-heckle, with brown mallard wing, a mere Egyptians! Men in brown shirts, gore-spot-midge, but once fixed in lip or tongue, "inexted, with green bandages round their broken heads, laughing, and joking, and jeering, and But ever after that passage in the life of Fro, singing, and shouting, though desperately his were, on the whole, years of peace. Every mauled and mangled-while Scottish wives, season seemed to strengthen his sagacity, and and widows, and maids, could not help crying to unfold his wonderful instincts. Most asout in sympathy, "Oh! but they're bonnie men suredly he knew all the simpler parts of speech -what a pity they should aye be sae fond o'-all the household words in the Scottish lanfechting, and a' manner o' mischief!"—and these were the Irishmen! Retired and apart, hangs the weaver, with his head over a wall, dog-sick, and bocking in strong convulsions; some haymakers are washing their cut faces in the well: the butcher, bloody as a bit of his own beef, walks silent into the shambles; the smith, whose grimy face hides its pummelling, goes off grinning a ghastly smile in the hands of his scolding, yet not unloving wife; the tailor, gay as a flea, and hot as his own goose, to show how much more he has given than received, offers to leap any man on the ground, hop-step-and-jump, for a mutchkin-while Bob Howie walks about, without a visible wound, except the mark of bloody knuckles on his brawny breast, with arms a-kimbo, seaman fashionfor Bob had been at sea-and as soon as the guage. He was, in all our pastimes, as much one of ourselves, as if, instead of being a Pagan with four feet, he had been a Christian with two. As for temper, we trace the sweetness of our own to his; an angry word from one he loved, he forgot in half a minute, offering his lion-like paw; yet there were particular people he could not abide, nor from their hands would he have accepted a roasted potato out of the dripping pan, and in this he resembled his master. He knew the Sabbath-day as well as the Sexton-and never was known to bark till the Monday morning when the cock crew; and then he would give a long musical yowl, as if his breast were relieved from silence. If ever, in this cold, changeful, inconstant world, there was a friendship that might be called sincere, it was that which, half a century ago and upwards, subsisted between Christopher North | in or below their shadow. The great Erne, or and John Fro. We never had a quarrel in all Sea-eagle, pounces on the mallard, as he our lives-and within these two months we mounts from the bulrushes before the wild made a pilgrimage to his grave. He was bu- swans sailing, with all wings hoisted, like a ried-not by our hands, but by the hands of one fleet-but osprey nor eagle dares to try his whose tender and manly heart loved the old, talons on that stately bird-for he is bold in blind, deaf, staggering creature to the very his beauty, and formidable as he is fair; the last-for such in his fourteenth year he truly pinions that swim and soar can also smite; was-a sad and sorry sight to see, to them who and though the one be a lover of war, the other remembered the glory of his stately and ma- of peace, yet of them it may be said, jestic years. One day he crawled with a moanlike whine to our brother's feet, and expired. Reader, young, bright, and beautiful though thou be-remember all flesh is dust! This is an episode—a tale in itself complete, yet growing out of, and appertaining to, the main plot of Epic or Article. You will recollect we were speaking of ducks, teals, and widgeons—and we come now to the next clause of the verse-wild geese and swans. Some people's geese are all swans; but so far from that being the case with ours-sad and sorry are we to say it-now all our swans are geese. But in our buoyant boyhood, all God's creatures were to our eyes just as God made them; and there was ever-especially birds-a tinge of beauty over them all. What an inconceivable difference-distance-to the imagination, between the nature of a tame and a wild goose! Aloft in heaven, themselves in night invisible, the gabble of a cloud of wild geese is sublime. Whence comes it-whither goes it for what end, and by what power impelled? Reason sees not into the darkness of instinct and therefore the awe-struck heart of the night-wandering boy beats to hear the league-long gabble that probably has winged its wedge-like way from the lakes, and marshes, and dreary morasses of Siberia, from Lapland, or Iceland, or the unfrequented and unknown northern regions of America-regions set apart, quoth Bewick we believe, for summer residences and breeding places, and where they are amply provided with a variety of food, a large portion of which must consist of the larvæ of gnats, and myriads of insects, there fostered by the unsetting sun! Now they are all gabbling good Gaelic over a Highland nightmoor. Perhaps in another hour the descending cloud will be covering the wide waters at the head of the wild Loch Maree-or, silent and asleep, the whole host be riding at anchor around Lomond's Isles! But 'tis now mid-day-and lo! in that mediterranean-a flock of wild Swans! Have they dropt down from the ether into the water almost as pure as ether, without having once folded their wings, since they rose aloft to shun the insupportable northern snows hundreds of leagues beyond the storm-swept Orcades? To look at the quiet creatures, you might think that they had never left the circle of that little loch. There they hang on their shadows, even as if asleep in the sunshine; and now stretching out their long wings-how apt for flight from clime to clime!-joyously they beat the liquid radiance, till to the loud flapping high rises the mist, and wide spreads the foam, almost sufficient for a rainbow. Safe are they from all birds of prey. The Osprey dashes down on the teal, or sea-trout, swimming with "The eagle he is lord above, The swan is lord below!" To have shot such a creature-so largeso white-so high-soaring—and on the winds of midnight wafted from so far—a creature that seemed not merely a stranger in that loch, but belonging to some mysterious land in another hemisphere, whose coast ships with frozen rigging have been known to visit, driving under bare poles through a month's snow storms-to have shot such a creature was an era in our imagination, from which, had nature been more prodigal, we might have sprung up a poet. Once, and but once, we were involved in the glory of that event. The creature had been in a dream of some river or lake in Kamtschatka-or ideally listening, "Across the waves' tumultuous roar, The wolf's long howl from Oonalashka's shore," when, guided by our good genius and our brightest star, we suddenly saw him sitting asleep in all his state, within gunshot, in a bay of the moonlight Loch! We had nearly fainted died on the very spot-and why were we not entitled to have died as well as any other passionate spirit, whom joy ever divorced from life? We blew his black bill into pieces not a feather on his head but was touched; and like a little white-sailed pleasure-boat caught in a whirlwind, the wild swan spun round, and then lay motionless on the water, as if all her masts had gone by the board. We were all alone that night-not even Fro was with us; we had reasons for being alone, for we wished not that there should be any foot-fall but our own round that mountain-hut. Could we swim? Ay, like the wild swan himself, through surge or breaker. But now the loch was still as the sky, and twenty strokes carried us close to the glorious creature, which, grasped by both hands, and supporting us as it was trailed beneath our breast, while we floated rather than swam ashore, we felt to be in verity our-Prey! We trembled with a sort of fear, to behold him lying indeed dead on the sward. The moon-the many stars, here and there one wondrously large and lustrous-the hushed glittering loch-the hills, though somewhat dimmed, green all winter through, with here and there a patch of snow on their summits in the blue sky, on which lay a few fleecy clouds-the mighty foreign bird, whose plumage we had never hoped to touch but in a dream, lying like the ghost of something that ought not to have been destroyedthe scene was altogether such as made our wild young heart quake, and almost repent of having killed a creature so surpassingly beautiful. But that was a fleeting fancy-and over the wide moors we went, like an American Indian laden with game, journeying to his wigwam over the wilderness. As we whitened | hills, not a few mountains, some most extratowards the village in the light of morning, the ordinary cliffs, considerable store of woods, earlier labourers held up their hands in wonder and one, indeed, that might well be called The what and who we might be; and Fro, who had Forest. missed his master, and was lying awake for him on the mount, came bounding along, nor could refrain the bark of delighted passion as his nose nuzzled in the soft down of the bosom of the creature whom he remembered to have sometimes seen floating too far off in the lake, or far above our reach cleaving the firmament. FYTTE THIRD. Lift up thy rock-crowned forehead through thy own sweet stormy skies, Auld Scotland! and as sternly and grimly thou look'st far over the hushed or howling seas, remember theetill all thy moors and mosses quake at thy heart, as if swallowing up an invading army a fate that oft befell thy foes of yore-remember thee, in mist-shrouded dream, and cloud-born vision, of the long line of kings, and heroes, and sages, and bards, whose hal O MUCKLE-MOU'D Meg! and can it be that lowed bones sleep in pine-darkened tombs thou art numbered among forgotten things-among the mountain heather, by the side of unexistences! "Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course, and sing aloud to all the nations of the earth, with thy voice of cliffs, and caves, and caverns, "Wha daur meddle wi' me?" rivers, and lochs, and arms of ocean-their spirits yet seen in lofty superstition, sailing or sitting on the swift or settled tempest. Lift What would we not now give for a sight-up thy rock-crowned forehead, Auld Scotland! a kiss of thy dear lips! Lips which we remember once to have put to our own, even when thy beloved barrel was double-loaded! Now we sigh to think on what then made us shudder! Oh! that thy butt were but now What! some small, puny, piteous windpipes resting on our shoulder! Alas! for ever are heard cheeping against thee from the Cockdischarged! Burst and rent asunder, art thou neys-like ragged chickens agape in the pip. How the feeble and fearful creatures would now lying buried in a peat-moss? Did some vulgar villain of a village Vulcan convert thee, crawl on their hands and knees, faint and name and nature, into nails? Some dark-giddy, and shrieking out for help to the heather visaged Douglas of a henroost-robbing Egyp-stalks, if forced to face one of thy cliffs, and tian, solder thee into a pan? Oh! that our foot its flinty bosom! How would the depths passion could dig down unto thee in the bowels of the earth-and with loud lamenting elegies, and louder hymns of gratulation, restore thee, buttless, lockless, vizyless, burst, rent, torn, and twisted though thou be'st, to the light of day, and of the world-rejoicing Sun! Then would we adorn thee with evergreen wreaths of the laurel and the ivy-and hang "On the uncertain footing of a spar, thee up, in memory and in monument of all on a tree felled where it stood, centuries ago, the bright, dim, still, stormy days of our boy-by steel or storm, into a ledgeless bridge, oft hood-when gloom itself was glory-and when -But of their long ears, cotton-stuffed in vain, ache to the spray-thunder of thy cataracts! Sick, sick would be their stomachs, storm-swept in a six-oared cutter into the jaws of Staffa! That sight is sufficient to set the most saturnine on the guffaw-the Barry Cornwall himself, crossing a chasm a hundred yards deep, sounding and shaking to the hunter's feet in chase of the red-deer! The Cockneys do not "Be hush'd my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns, like us Scotchmen-because of our high cheekWhen the faint and the feeble deplore." bones. They are sometimes very high indeed, Cassandra-Corinna-Sappho-Lucretia-Cle- very coarse, and very ugly, and give a Scotch opatra-Tighe-De Staël-in their beauty or in their genius, are, with millions on millions of the fair-faced or bright-souled, nothing but dust and ashes; and as they are, so shall Baillie, and Grant, and Hemans, and Landon be-and why vainly yearn" with love and longings infinite," to save from doom of perishable nature -of all created things, but one alone-Mucklemou'd Meg! man a grim and gaunt look, assuredly not to be sneezed at, with any hope of impunity, on a dark day and in a lonesome place, by the most heroic chief of the most heroic clan in all the level land of Lud, travelling all by himself in a horse and gig, and with a black boy in a cockaded glazed hat, through the Heelands o' Scotland, passing of course, at the very least, for a captain of Hussars! Then Scotchmen canna After a storm comes a calm; and we hasten keep their backs straught, it seems, and are alto give the sporting world the concluding ac- ways booin' and booin' afore a great man. count of our education. In the moorland Cannot they, indeed? Do they, indeed? A'sparish-God bless it-in which we had the cend with that Scottish shepherd yon mouninestimable advantage of passing our boyhood tain's breast-swim with him that mountain -there were a good many falcons-of course loch-a bottle of Glenlivet, who first stands in the kite or glead-the buzzard-the sparrow-shallow water, on the Oak Isle-and whose hawk—the marsh harrier—that imp the merlin | back will be straughtest, that of the Caledo—and, rare bird and beautiful! there, on a nian or the Cockney? The little Luddite will cliff which, alas! a crutched man must climb be puking among the heather, about some five no more, did the Peregrine build her nest. You must not wonder at this, for the parish was an extensive one even for Scotland-half Highland, half Lowland-and had not only "muirs and mosses many o," but numerous hundred feet above the level of the sea-higher for the first time in his life than St. Paul's, and nearer than he will again be, either in the spirit or the flesh, to heaven. The little Luddite will be puking in the hitherto unpolluted loch, after some seven strokes or so, with a strong | forgotten tarns, or counting twice over some Scottish weed twisted like an eel round its one of our more darling waters, worthy to dash thigh, and shrieking out for the nearest resus- their waves against the sides of ships-alone citating machine in a country, where, alas! wanting to the magnificence of those inland there is no Humane Society. The back of the seas! Yes-it was as level, as boggy, as shepherd-even in presence of that "great hilly, as mountainous, as woody, as lochy, man"-will be as straught as-do not tremble, and as rivery a parish, as ever laughed to Cockney-this Crutch. Conspicuous from afar scorn Colonel Mudge and his Trigonometrical like a cairn, from the inn-door at Arrochar, in Survey. an hour he will be turning up his little finger Was not that a noble parish for apprenticeso-on the Cobbler's head; or, in twenty mi- ship in sports and pastimes of a great master? nutes, gliding like a swan, or shooting like a No need of any teacher. On the wings of joy salmon, his back being still straught-leaving we were borne over the bosom of nature, and Luss, he will be shaking the dewdrops from his learnt all things worthy and needful to be brawny body on the silver sand of Inch Morren. learned, by instinct first, and afterwards by And happy were we, Christopher North, reason. To look at a wild creature-winged happy were we in the parish in which Fate de- with feathers, or mere feet—and not desire to livered us up to Nature, that, under her tuition, destroy or capture it-is impossible to passion our destinies might be fulfilled. A parish! -to imagination-to fancy. Thus had we Why it was in itself a kingdom-a world. longed to feel and handle the glossy plumage Thirty miles long by twenty at the broadest, of the beaked bird-the wide-winged Birds of and five at the narrowest; and is not that a Prey-before our finger had ever touched a kingdom-is not that a world worthy of any trigger. Their various flight, in various weamonarch that ever wore a crown? Was it ther, we had watched and noted with somelevel? Yes, league-long levels were in it of thing even of the eye of a naturalist-the greensward, hard as the sand of the sea-shore, wonder of a poet; for among the brood of yet springy and elastic, fit training ground for boys there are hundreds and thousands of Childers, or Eclipse, or Hambletonian, or Smo- poets who never see manhood, the poetry lensko, or for a charge of cavalry in some great dying away-the boy growing up into mere pitched battle, while artillery might keep play- prose; yet to some even of the paragraphs ing against artillery from innumerous affront- of these Three Fyttes do we appeal, that a few ing hills. Was it boggy? Yes, black bogs sparks of the sacred light are yet alive within were there, which extorted a panegyric from us; and sad to our old ears would be the sound the roving Irishman in his richest brogue of "Put out the light, and then-put out the bogs in which forests had of old been buried, light!" Thus were we impelled, even when a and armies with all their banners. Was it mere child, far away from the manse, for miles, hilly? Ay, there the white sheep nibbled, and into the moors and woods. Once it was feared the back cattle grazed; there they baa'd and that poor wee Kit was lost; for having set off they lowed upon a thousand hills-a crowd of all by himself, at sunrise, to draw a night-line cones, all green as emerald. Was it moun- from the distant Black Loch, and look at a trap tainous ? Give answer from afar, ye mist- set for a glead, a mist overtook him on the shrouded summits, and ye clouds cloven by moor on his homeward way, with an eel as the eagle's wing! But whether ye be indeed long as himself hanging over his shoulder, and mountains, or whether ye be clouds, who can held him prisoner for many hours within its tell, bedazzled as are his eyes by that long- shifting walls, frail indeed, and opposing no lingering sunset, that drenches heaven and resistance to the hand, yet impenetrable to the earth in one indistinguishable glory, setting feet of fear as the stone dungeon's thraldom. the West on fire, as if the final conflagration If the mist had remained, that would have were begun! Was it woody? Hush, hush, been nothing; only a still cold wet seat on a and you will hear a pine-cone drop in the stone; but as "a trot becomes a gallop soon, central silence of a forest-a silent and soli- in spite of curb and rein," so a Scotch mist tary wilderness-in which you may wander a becomes a shower-and a shower a floodwhole day long, unaccompanied but by the and a flood a storm-and a storm a tempestcushat, the corby, the falcon, the roe, and they and a tempest thunder and lightning-and are all shy of human feet, and, like thoughts, thunder and lightning heaven-quake and pass away in a moment; so if you long for earth-quake-till the heart of poor wee Kit less fleeting farewells from the native dwellers quaked, and almost died within him in the in the wood, lo! the bright brown queen of the desert. In this age of Confessions, need we butterflies, gay and gaudy in her glancings be ashamed to own, in the face of the whole through the solitude, the dragon-fly whirring world, that we sat us down and cried! The bird-like over the pools in the glade; and if small brown Moorland bird, as dry as a toast, your ear desire music, the robin and the wren hopped out of his heather-hole, and cheerfully may haply trill you a few notes among the cheeped comfort. With crest just a thought briery rocks, or the bold blackbird open wide lowered by the rain, the green-backed, whitehis yellow bill in his holly-ree, and set the breasted pease weep, walked close by us in the squirrels a-leaping all within reach of his mist; and sight of wonder, that made even in ringing roundelay. Any rivers? one-to whom that quandary by the quagmire our heart beat a thousand torrents are tributary-as he him- with joy-lo! never seen before, and seldom self is tributary to the sea. Any lochs? How since, three wee peaseweeps, not three days many we know not-for we never counted old, little bigger than shrew-mice, all covered them twice alike-omitting perhaps some with blackish down, interspersed with long |