waders; on his knees are leather pads to ward off
rheumatism; whilst on his head is a sober-coloured cap--not a white
straw hat flashing in the sunlight, and scaring the timid trout
to death.

Thus appears our sportsman of the Inner Temple not twelve hours after we
saw him stewing in his London chambers. What a metamorphosis is this!
Just as the may-fly, after two years of confinement as a wretched grub
in the muddy bed of the stream, throws off its shackles, gives its wings
a shake, and soars into the glorious June atmosphere, happy to be free,
so does the poor caged bird rejoice, after grubbing for an indefinite
period in a cramped cell, to leave darkness and dirt and gloom (though
not, like the may-fly, for ever), and flee away on wings the mighty
steam provides until he finds himself once again in the fresh green
fields he loves so well. And truly he gets his reward. He has come into
a new world--rather, I should say, a paradise; for he comes when meadows
are green and trees are at their prime. Though the glory of the lilac
has passed away, the buttercup still gilds the landscape; barley fields
are bright with yellow charlock, and the soft, subdued glow of sainfoin
gives colour to the breezy uplands as of acres of pink carnations. On
one side a vast sheet of saffron, on the other a lake of rubies, ripples
in the passing breeze, or breaks into rolling waves of light and shade
as the fleecy clouds sweep across azure skies. He comes when roses, pink
and white and red, are just beginning to hang their dainty heads in
modest beauty on every cottage wall or cluster round the ancient porch;
when from every lattice window in the hamlet (I wish I could say every
_open_ window) rows of red geraniums peep from their brown pots of
terra-cotta, brightening the street without, and filling the cosy rooms
with grateful, unaccustomed fragrance; when the scent of the sweet,
short-lived honeysuckle pervades the atmosphere, and the faces of the
handsome peasants are bronzed as those of dusky dwellers under
Italian skies.

No daintie flowre or herbe that grows on ground;
No arborett with painted blossoms drest,
And smelling sweete, but there it might be found,
To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al around.

E. SPENSER.

What a pleasant country is this in which to spend a holiday! How white
are the limestone roads! how fresh and invigorating is the upland air!
The old manor house is deserted, its o