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Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing-wind; Or on a half reaped furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Keats.

NUTTING.

September 26th.—" One of those delicious autumnal days when the air, the sky, and the earth, seem lulled into an universal calm, softer and milder even than they. We sallied forth," says Miss Mitford, "for a walk, in a mood congenial to the weather and season, avoiding by mutual consent the bright and sunny common, another gay high-road,and stealing through shady unfrequented lanes, where we were not likely to meet any one,—not even the pretty family procession which in other years we used to contemplate with so much interest —father, mother, and children returning from the wheat-field, the little ones laden with close-tied bunches of wheat-ears, their own gleanings, or a bottle and a basket which had con

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tained their frugal dinner, whilst the mother would carry her babe, hushing and lulling it, and the father and an elder child

trudged after with the cradle, all seeming weary, and all happy. We shall not see such a procession to-day; for the harvest is nearly over, the fields are deserted, the silence may almost be felt, except the wintry notes of the red-breast, nature herself is mute. Yet how beautiful, how gentle, how harmonious, how rich! The has preserved to the herbage all the freshness aud verdure of spring, and the world of leaves has

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lost nothing of its midsummer brightness, and the harebell is on the banks, and the woodbine in the hedges, and the low furze, which the lambs cropped in the spring, has burst again into its golden blossoms.

"All is beautiful that the eye can see, perhaps the more beautiful for being shut in with a forest-like closeness. We have no prospect in this labyrinth of lanes, cross-roads, mere cart-ways, leading to the innumerable little farms into which this part of the parish is divided. Up hill or down these quiet woody lanes scarcely give us a peep at the world, except when leaning over a gate we look into one of the small enclosures hemmed in with hedge-rows so closely set with growing timbers that the weedy openings look almost like a glade in a wood, or where some cottage, planted at a corner of one of the little greens formed by the meeting of these cross-ways, almost startles us by the unexpected sight of the dwellings of man in such a state of solitude. This pretty snug farm-house on the hill side, with its front covered with the rich vine, which goes wreathing up to the very top of the clustered chimney, and its sloping orchard full of fruit—even this pretty quiet nest can hardly peep out of its leaves. Ah! they are gathering in the orchard harvest. Look at that young rogue in the old mossy apple tree, that great tree bending with the weight of its golden rennets; see how he pelts his little sister beneath with apples as red and as round as her own cheeks, while she, with her out-stretched frock, is trying to catch them, and laughing and offering to pelt again as often as one bobs against her; and look at that still younger imp, who, grave as a judge, is creeping on hands and knees under the tree picking up the apples as they fall so deadly, and depositing them so honestly in the great basket on the grass, already fixed so firmly and opened so widely, and filled almost to overflowing by the brown rough fruitage of the golden rennets, next neighbour to the russeting; and see that smallest urchin of all, seated apart in infantine state on the mossy bank, with that toothsome piece of deformity a crumpling in each hand, now biting from one sweet hard juicy morsel, and now from another. Is not this a pretty English picture? And then, farther up the orchard, that bold hardy lad, the oldest born, who is seated, heaven knows how, in the tall straight upper branch of that great pear tree, and is sitting there as securely and as fearlessly, in as much real safety and apparent danger, as a sailor on the top mast. Now he shakes the tree with a mighty swing that brings down a pelting shower of stony burgamots which the father gathers rapidly up, whilst the mother can hardly assist for her motherly fear—a fear which only spurs the spirited boy to bolder ventures. Is it not a pretty picture?

"Oh! here is the hedge along which the periwinkle wreathes and twines so profusely, with its evergreen leaves

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shining like the myrtle, and its staring blue flowers. It is seldom found wild in this part of England; but when we do meet with it, it is so abundant and so welcome, the very robin-redbreast of flowers, a winter friend.

"The little spring that has been bubbling under the hedge all along the hill side begins, now that we have mounted the eminence, and are imperceptibly descending, to deviate into a capricious variety of clear deep pools and channels, so narrow and so choked with weeds, that a child might overstep them. The hedge has also changed its character. It is no longer the close compact vegetable wall of hawthorn, and maple, and briar-roses, intertwined with bramble and woodbine, and crowned with large elms or thickly-set saplings. No! the pretty meadow which rises high above us, backed and almost surrounded by a tall coppice, needs no defence on our side but its own steep bank garnished with tufts of broom, with pollard oaks wreathed with ivy, and here and there with long patches of hazel overhanging the water. 'Ah, there are still nuts on that bough!' and in an instant my dear companion, active, eager, aud delighted as a boy, has hooked down with his walking-stick one of the lissome hazel stems, and cleared it of its tawny clusters, and in another moment he has mounted the bank, and is in the midst of the nuttery, now tranferring the spoil from the lower branches into that vast variety of pockets which gentlemen carry about them, now bending the tall tops into the lane, holding them down by main force, so that I might reach them and enjoy the pleasure of collecting some of the plunder myself. A very great pleasure he knew it would be. I doffed my shawl, tucked up my flounces, twined my straw bonnet into a basket, and began gathering and scrambling— for manage it how you may, nutting is scrambling work; those boughs, however tightly you grasp them by the young fragrant twigs and the bright green leaves, will recoil and burst away; but there is a pleasure even in that: so on we go, scrambling and gathering with all our might and all our glee. Oh, what an enjoyment! All my life long I have had a passion for that sort of seeking which implies finding —the secret, I believe, of the love of field sports which is in man's mind a natural impulse—therefore I love violetting; therefore, when we had a fine garden I used to love to gather strawberries and cut asparagus, and above all, to collect the filberts from the shrubberies; but this hedge-row nutting beats that sport all to nothing. That was a makebelieve thing compared with this; there was no surprise, no suspense, no unexpectedness, it was as inferior to this wild nutting, as the turning out of a bag fox is to unearthing the fellow, in the eyes of a staunch fox-hunter.

"Oh, what an enjoyment this nutting is! They are in such abundance, that it seems as if there were not a boy in the parish, nor a young man, nor a young woman—for a basket of nuts is the universal tribute of country gallantry; our pretty damsel, Harriet, has had at least half-a-dozen this season; but no one has found out these. And they are so full too, we lose half of them from over-ripeness; they drop from the socket at the slightest motion."

Leaving Miss Mitford and the nutting let us follow the example of our excellent queen and betake ourselves to—

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THE SCOTCH MOUNTAINS.

And being there let us listen to the inspiration of a true poet. "There you stand," says he, addressing the mountains, "and were you to rear your summits much higher you would alarm the hidden stars. Tet we have seen you higher, but it was in storm. In calm like this, you do well to look beautiful; your solemn atti

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