to be, but not too lonely, which women never like;
leading past the Loddon--the bright, brimming, transparent Loddon--a
fitting mirror for this bright blue sky, and terminating at one of the
prettiest and most comfortable farmhouses in the neighbourhood.

How beautiful the lane is to-day, decorated with a thousand colours! The
brown road, and the rich verdure that borders it, strewed with the pale
yellow leaves of the elm, just beginning to fall; hedgerows glowing
with long wreaths of the bramble in every variety of purplish red; and
overhead the unchanged green of the fir, contrasting with the spotted
sycamore, the tawny beech, and the dry sere leaves of the oak, which
rustle as the light wind passes through them; a few common hardy yellow
flowers (for yellow is the common colour of flowers, whether wild or
cultivated, as blue is the rare one), flowers of many sorts, but almost
of one tint, still blowing in spite of the season, and ruddy berries
glowing through all. How very beautiful is the lane!

And how pleasant is this hill where the road widens, with the group of
cattle by the wayside, and George Hearn, the little post-boy, trundling
his hoop at full speed, making all the better haste in his work, because
he cheats himself into thinking it play! And how beautiful, again, is
this patch of common at the hilltop with the clear pool, where
Martha Pither's children,--elves of three, and four, and five years
old,--without any distinction of sex in their sunburnt faces and
tattered drapery, are dipping up water in their little homely cups
shining with cleanliness, and a small brown pitcher with the lip broken,
to fill that great kettle, which, when it is filled, their united
strength will never be able to lift! They are quite a group for a
painter, with their rosy cheeks, and chubby hands, and round merry
faces; and the low cottage in the background, peeping out of its vine
leaves and china roses, with Martha at the door, tidy, and comely, and
smiling, preparing the potatoes for the pot, and watching the progress
of dipping and filling that useful utensil, completes the picture.

But we must go on. No time for more sketches in these short days. It is
getting cold too. We must proceed in our walk. Dash is showing us the
way and beating the thick double hedgerow that runs along the side of
the meadows, at a rate that indicates game astir, and causes the leaves
to fly as fast as an east-wind after a hard frost. Ah! a pheas