This mill is better known to local artists than is many another spot round Glasgow. Part of its charm, no doubt, is due to the fact that it and its grounds have been kept intact while, to its very gates, thatched and tiled cottages have given place to the ubiquitous villa. But the mill needs neither its unique position nor its associations to endear it to a lover of beauty. It is, when all is said and done, one of the most utterly lovely spots on the face of the earth. The red riverthere are chemical works higher up the Cart, and it is some. times of the hue of Dr. Tibbles' Cocoa-runs past its low buildings with their ochre yellow walls and tiled roofs. The place is literally smothered in trees. In spring the cherry blossom breaks like foam along the banks, to be changed-in so few days-into brown slush. In May-or rather when May is beginning to think of wedding June-follows the white and red hawthorn, the lilacs in the garden, the golden rain of laburnum blossom. In fact the wealth of foliage is rather a nuisance when one is making a sketch, and is every year on the increase. It is conducive to dreaminess, to lazy admiration; one is prone to lay down one's brushes and the palette covered with dead flies, and to fall to thinking of what Corot would have made of that fragment of red roof and yellow wall peeping from behind the sun-mottled greenery. The soil here is of a rich crimson brown-almost real brown madder-and the paths in sunlight or shadow show a wealth of colour. As for the river, I declare that the chemical works have only added to its beauty; its warm redness seems to be derived from the generous soil, and it breaks on the stones in silver as pure as that of any trout stream in the North.

A

There is wisdom in the theory that a man's house may be taken as the index of his soul-some wisdom at least. first glance at Cathcart Mill makes you envy and wonder; a second perhaps stirs within you a little fear lest this ideal spot should be in the hands of some sharp-nosed, shrill-tongued person, or prosperous, common family. But the mill is additionally happy in this matter: its owner is part and parcel of it. You can imagine him to have grown up among its greenery, within hearing of its river's voice; and the charm of the place clings around him. He is a wonderfully young old man. Auchty-three!" he says himself, triumphantly whirling above

his head the newspaper with which he has just demonstrated to you his ability to read without spectacles. He really looks hardly fifty. His form is upright, his cheek fresh, his honest blue eye clear, calm, and happy. He lives all alone-having had an unfortunate experience of housekeepers-and "does for himself." Every morning he rises at five, and sets his little cottage in order ere he descends to the snuff-haunted glooms of the mill. The yard in front of his dwelling-place is in a delightful litter with sacks and bags which tell of active business; and in the interior of the mill the snuff spins with Rembrandtesque golden lights and brown shadows. But, the old miller assures you, the trade might be ten times as brisk if he were "keen after money." In proof of which statement his workmen will show you quite a quantity of machinery which he leaves lying idle and which is rusting away. He has enough, he says; and he is always ready to give. The lady collector-who, with other evils of civilisation, has penetrated to the mill-is never refused by him. His charity extends to the birds and beasts. "Kill them!" he exclaimed to a young lady who had noticed the sparrows and thrushes, in his gooseberry bushes. "Na, na. God made them. Let them eat their fill." Perhaps this tolerance has something to do with the splendid solos and orchestral pieces one hears on the banks of the Cart in spring-time.

The Castle of Cathcart, which stands above the Rhanaan, has been painted I don't know how often. It is one of these square old towers, now prettily ruinous and with wall-flowers and ivy growing without and within. From Cathcart, you can easily walk to Busby, though a country of trees and wheat-fields; and a mile beyond the village of Busby lies Carmunnock, a beautiful little village undisturbed by railways. Like its neighbours, Carmunnock is richly shaded by trees, and its old houses offer countless studies in colour and form. Giffnock, to the east of Busby, is, like Busby itself, rather a handful of houses, to which the middle-class business man can retire, than a village. But near Giffnock is a quarry which well repays a visit. It lies below a beautiful little wood and one of the muddiest roads in creation. Part of it is disused, and the grass, mingled with crowsfoot, buttercups, persecaria, grows round its black mouths and over the mounds which tell

of bygone operations. But, the marvel and the glory of this quarry is in its wild roses which break into blossom in June. The stone is ironstone, and the soil, of course, intensely ferruginous; and the roses have a depth and vividness of colour which I have never seen equalled. Here, too, I have found the dark blue borage, which is, I believe, comparatively rare in Scotland, and which is one of the bluest of blue flowers.

It is strange, indeed, how constantly we are worsted in our struggle against beauty. We find out her pet residences, tear her out to the shrieking of engines and the groaning of cranes, hunt her away, think that we've done with her; and lo! before we know what has happened she is back in our midst, painting blue mists over the ends of our streets, softening the hues of our tiles and slates and stones, planting grass in corners, weeping soft rain and smiling softer sunshine till our pavements are magic mirrors. And the outskirts of a city are always specially interesting, specially beautiful in a "modern" way, so to speak, because they are the battlefields of these struggles. "Glasgow South" means so little in a Murray's Guide; but to anyone who has wandered south-or east, or west, or north of Glasgow-or any other city with his sketchbook in his hand, knows that "Glasgow South" abounds with quaint effects, surprises, lessons.

IN THE GOLDEN TIME OF HARVEST.

BY BELLA PARKER.

"There was a time when meadow, grove,
The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light."

and stream,

HESE lines of the poet of Nature were sounding in my

morning in

I rode away between the golden harvest fields to meet those who were to spend a day with me "far from the madding crowd." Already the busy loom was stopped, the noise of machinery hushed, and crowds were hurrying through the gaily-decorated streets to find some vantage-ground from

which to admire "the Duke." But we-a disloyal quartette -avoided the gaily-dressed city as much as possible, and breathed a sigh of relief when the last bit of bunting was left behind, and we were speeding along beneath overhanging trees, away into the open country.

Soon the villages of Birkhill and Muirhead were past, and we were riding between fields where the golden grain was falling before the sharp whirr of the reaper. Away beyond the fields the heather glowed a royal purple upon Craig Owl's rugged side, dark fir woods clothed Auchterhouse Hill in robe of green, while the grey ruin on Kinpurnie stood out clear against the azure sky. At the old tollhouse of Lundie, a bottle stuck up in a window-sill intimated to us that refreshments were to be had within, and there we lingered to indulge in lemonade and biscuits. Starting once more, one or two sharp turns in the road and we were looking down upon beautiful Strathmore. "Look! there is Schiehallion!" one of our party cried, but already our attention was taken up back-pedalling on Tullybaccart Brae, and we dare not look at anything. A shout from a cyclist preceding us, and his rapid descent upon the road warned us to dismount, and we did so, as a flock of sheep trotted round the corner.

At the tiny village of Ashley we left the Coupar-Angus road and turned westwards along a lonely road winding up and down between yellow cornfields. Again, from a height in the road far away in the distance, we had a peep of Schiehallion and other mountain monarchs, while near at hand King's Seat and Dunsinane Hill lay basking in the golden sunshine. The sight of Dunsinane and the wooded hill of Birnam far away in the opposite direction recalled to memory the prophecy of the apparition in Shakespeare's Macbeth.

Macbeth shall never vanquished be until

Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill
Shall come against him."

"That will never be," cries the haughty Thane, and one can imagine him smiling at anything so ridiculous. But we know how the prophecy was fulfilled, and how the terrorstricken Macbeth lived to behold Birnam Wood moving towards Dunsinane.

Nearing the handsome church of Collace, we passed through the picturesque village of Kinrossie, and soon joined the splendid main road between, Perth, Forfar, and Aberdeen. Riding through the villages of Balbeggie and New Scone we sped quickly downhill into the fair city of Perth, 29 miles from our starting-point. Crossing the fine bridge we repaired to the George Hotel, where we dined and tried to remove the midges which had tortured us all the way.

At two o'clock we rode slowly away from the Fair City, and soon in the dust and heat were struggling across Moncrieff Hill. On the summit we paused to look back upon that magnificent panorama which centuries ago made the proud Roman exclaim, "Behold the Tiber!" Like a silver chain the lordly Tay wound through the green valley, with the wooded slopes of Kinnoull rising proudly from the water's edge, the Fair City clustering round the stream and straggling up the wooded slopes and far beyond, a mountain rampart cleaving the sunny skies.

Pedalling quickly downhill we were soon speeding across the bridge which spans the "bonnie Earn," and riding through the pretty village of Bridge of Earn, and on towards the parish of Dron. Dismounting at the schoolhouse garden gate, we announced our arrival by unitedly sounding our bells, and in a moment our steeds were being gallantly borne up the garden steps, and we were being warmly welcomed. How refreshing the tea awaiting us! How pleasant our brief sojourn in the sunny garden! All too soon we had to bid our friends good-bye and set off on our homeward journey. Joining the main road at Baiglie Inn, we rode through the village of Aberargie and on through the old town of Abernethy with its quaint Pictish Tower. Six o'clock was striking as we entered Newburgh, and there we rested and partook of a second tea, for home and supper were yet many miles distant. Under gorgeous sunset skies we rode through the fertile "Kingdom," so well named "a golden mantle with a fringe of grey." Golden, indeed, shone the harvest fields, and, late as the hour was, the reapers were still busy. Ruddy shone the red cottage roofs in the setting sun, while the blue smoke stealing upwards into the evening air showed that the busy housewife was preparing for her lord's return.