midst of the thorns, so often and so painfully, that plentiful as the rabbits were, we voted the grapes sour, and turned our steps homeward, walking along the high road for some little distance, and then at my request turning down to the river again. I always like walking by the side of water when it is practicable. It shortens the way very considerably, although I cannot quite analyse the charm it has for me. As soon as we reached the river's bank, a solitary teal arose and fell to H-'s shot. Almost simultaneously I fired at and killed a snipe, which took wing from a neighbouring ditch. Refore we reached home two or three rabbits ended their existence, and H- succeeded at last in "wiping my eye" by killing a hare I had missed as it bounded over the furrows.

Only one other incident occurred before we reached home. That was the sight of a fox stealing cautiously along one side of a hedgerow towards a rabbit sitting unsuspiciously on the other. He looked so handsome, with his fur gleaming in the sunlight, that I was sorely tempted to shoot him for the purpose of having him stuffed; but I am happy to tell my fox-hunting readers that virtue was too strongly planted in my heart, and I refrained.

Not the least enjoyable part of a day's shooting or fishing is the return home to the cheerful fireside

and the well-cooked dinner, the happy chat over the after-dinner pipe, and the comfortable feeling that our rest is well earned.

Of course wild shooting varies in character according to place, but I think the foregoing is a pretty fair sample of it. Whether I have made my readers feel as I do about it I do not know, but any way the recital of one day's experience makes me long rather overmuch for more such days.

THE YELLOW WAGTAIL.

VII.

SPRING

SHE has come in the steps of the warm southern breeze,
Joyously greeting the hungering land;

And the life that was hid in the winterly leas
Suddenly heareth her royal command.

The throstle sings loud 'mid the aspen's quiver,

The swallow skims swift o'er the sighing river.

All the trees in the greenness of leaves she has drest; Hedges are white with the flowering may,

And each bank wears the primrose's gold on its breast. Down in the vale at the close of the day,

The reed-wren's low song through the rushes shrilleth, The nightingale under the moonbeams trilleth.

On the hills, in the glens, by the rills and the streams,

Spring has come!" nature cries, laughing with joy.

On a thousand new tints see the sunlight now gleams, Over all light zephyrs playfully toy;

The brooks in their glee are a welcome singing,

That chimes with the chant through the blithe woods ringing.

In the sky, like a speck 'gainst the fleecy spring blue,
Merrily carols the lark to his fair;

As the melody falls with the freshness of dew,
Jaded hearts drink it in, casting out care.

The doves in the firs to their mates are cooing;
Life's joy was never so worth pursuing.

VIII.

THE TENCH POOL

No part of England is so dear to me as that which lies along the borders of North Wales. On the east stretches the broad and level plain, with the Severn winding mazily through it, loth to leave its fertile fields and luxuriant woods. On the west are at first the lower hills; but wild and picturesque enough in spite of their puny height; and beyond, the grand and rugged mountains, with cloud shadows creeping up their sides, giving an infinite variety to their sober tints of brown and grey and purple; and the clouds themselves rest on their tops, shrouding them from our ken, and seeming to isolate them completely from the world below. It was our practice to make for the hills in all our sporting rambles. We seemed freer and lighter in spirit up there than down on the