e of his Maker. Then, too, the quiet walk back, with the breeze
gently waving the corn now in full ear, making shade after shade of
green appear to sweep over the surface of the many acres of rank wheat.
The river, too, seemed to sparkle clearer and brighter than ever as the
bright sun's rays flashed from the little Tipples. Altogether, Fred
could not help, boy as he was, contrasting the bright country air and
the lovely landscape with the fashionable London church in fashionable
London: the hot dusty pavement--the noisy street and the oppressive
choky air; and then he thought how he would like to live at Hollowdell
for ever.

Boys are very quick in making their determinations, and Fred thought he
was quite right in his; but he had never been down there in the winter,
when the clay stuck to the boots, and the leaves had forsaken the trees;
when the cold soaking rain came drenching down for day after day, and
ofttimes the swollen river would be flooding the meadows. Fred had
never realised the country in those times, when it was in such a state
that by preference those who could stayed as much indoors as possible;
but no one, to have looked at the present aspect of things, could have
supposed such a change possible. Sunday in the country, in the long
bright days of summer, truly is delightful, for it is only then that the
young fully realise the calmness and beauty, for the cessation from
sports leaves the young minds time to think a little more upon what is
around them.

But I find that I am getting into too serious a strain, and my young
readers will be for skipping all this portion of my story; so I must
hasten to say that the calm summer evening was spent in a delightful
walk down by the pleasant wood-side, where out of their reach the party
could see, as it grew later, the light mists begin to curl above the
river in many a graceful fold. Fred's friend, the night-jar, was out,
and the nightingale in full call, while every now and then his sweet
song was interrupted by the harsh "Tu--whoo--hoo--hoo--oo," of an owl
somewhere in the recesses of the wood. Then the return home was made,
and soon after the lads were asleep and dreaming of their botanical trip
to the Camp Hill.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

STALKING ON STILTS.

"Up--up--up--up--up--hilli--hi--he--o-o-o!" shouted Harry, who was first
awake the next morning. "Come, boys, botany for ever! Di-andria and
Poly-andria, and ever so many more of them, will b