museum. The other, a somewhat rarer bird, of the woodpecker tribe, was variegated with light blue and a greyish yellow. I was engaged in admiring the poor little things, more disposed to be sentimental, perhaps, than if I had been ten years older, and thinking of the contrast between the warmth and jollity of their green summer haunts, and the cold and darkness of their last retreat, when I heard our employer bidding the workmen lay by their tools. I looked up, and saw the sun sinking behind the thick fir wood beside us, and the long dark shadows of the trees stretching downwards towards the shore.

This was no very formidable beginning of the course of life I had so much dreaded. To be sure, my hands were a little sore, and I felt nearly as much fatigued as if I had been climbing among the rocks; but I had wrought and been useful, and had yet enjoyed the day fully as much as usual. It was no small matter, too, that the evening, converted by a rare transmutation into the delicious 'blink of rest' which Burns so truthfully describes, was all my own. I was as light of heart next morning as any of my brother-workmen. There had been a smart frost during the night, and the rime lay white on the grass as we passed onwards through' the fields; but the sun rose in a clear atmosphere, and the day mellowed, as it advanced, into one of those delightful days of early spring which give so pleasing an earnest of whatever is mild and genial in the better half of the year.

All the workmen rested at mid-day, and I went to enjoy my half-hour alone on a mossy knoll in the neighbouring wood, which commands through the trees a wide prospect of the bay and the opposite shore. There was not a wrinkle on the water, nor a cloud in the sky, and the branches were as moveless in the calm as if they had been stretched on canvas. From a wooded promontory that stretched halfway across the frith there ascended a thin column of smoke. It rose straight as the line of a plummet for more than a thousand yards, and then, on reaching a thinner

stratum of air, spread out equally on every side, like the foliage of a stately tree. Ben Wyvis rose to the west, white with the yet unwasted snows of winter, and as sharply defined in the clear atmosphere as if all its sunny slopes and blue retiring hollows had been chiselled in marble. A line of snow ran along the opposite hills: all above was white, and all below was purple. They reminded me of the pretty French story, in which an old artist is described as taxing the ingenuity of his future son-in-law, by giving him as a subject for his pencil a flower-piece composed of only white flowers, of which the one-half were to bear their proper colour, the other half a deep purple hue, and yet all be perfectly natural; and how the young man resolved the riddle and gained his mistress, by introducing a transparent purple vase into the picture, and making the light pass through it on the flowers that were drooping over the edge. I returned to the quarry, convinced that a very exquisite pleasure may be a very cheap one, and that the busiest employments may afford leisure enough to enjoy it.

HUGH MILLER.

A BRIGHT DAY IN MARCH.

MARCH is a rude, and sometimes boisterous month, possessing many of the characteristics of winter; yet awakening sensations perhaps more delicious than the two following spring months, for it gives us the first announcement and taste of spring. What can equal the delight of our hearts at the very first glimpse of spring-the first springing of buds and green herbs! It is like a new life infused into our bosoms-a spirit of tenderness, a burst of freshness and luxury of feeling, possesses us: and let fifty springs have broken upon us, this joy, unlike many joys of time, is not an atom impaired. Are we not young? Are we not boys? Do we not break, by the

power of awakened thoughts, into all the rapturous scenes of all our happier years? There is something in the freshness of the soil-in the mossy bank-the balmy air-the voices of birds-the early and delicious flowers--that we have seen and felt only in childhood and spring.

There are frequently mornings in March when a lover of nature may enjoy, in a stroll, sensations not to be exceeded,

or perhaps equalled, by anything which the full glory of summer can awaken :-mornings which tempt us to cast the memory of winter, or the fear of its return, out of our thoughts. The air is mild and balmy, with now and then a cool gush by no means unpleasant, but on the contrary contributing towards that cheering and peculiar feeling which we experience only in spring. The sky is clear, the sun flings abroad not only a gladdening splendour, but an almost

summer glow. The world seems suddenly aroused to hope and enjoyment. The fields are assuming a vernal greenness― the buds are swelling in the hedges-the banks are displaying, amidst the brown remains of last year's vegetation, the luxuriant weeds of this. There are arums, ground-ivy, chervil, the glaucous leaves and burnished flowers of the pilewort,

"The first gilt thing

That wears the trembling pearls of spring ;'

All

and many other fresh and early bursts of greenery. unexpectedly too, in some embowered lane, you are arrested by the delicious odour of violets, which are now to be seen in all their glory-blue and white-modestly peering through their thick, clustering leaves. The lark is carolling in the blue fields of air; the wood-lark sings rejoicingly; the blackbird and thrush are again shouting and replying to each other, from the tops of the highest trees. As you pass cottages, they have caught the happy infection; there are windows thrown open, and doors standing ajar. The inhabitants are in their gardens, some clearing away rubbish, some turning up the light and fresh-smelling soil amongst the tufts of snowdrops and rows of bright yellow crocuses, which everywhere abound; and the children, ten to one, are peeping into the first bird's nest of the season—the hedge-sparrow's, with its four seagreen eggs, snugly but unwisely built in the pile of old pea-rods.

In the fields labourers are plashing and trimming the hedges, and in all directions are teams at plough. You smell the wholesome, and, I may truly say, aromatic soil, as it is turned up to the sun, brown and rich, the whole country over. It is delightful as you pass along deep hollow lanes, or are hidden in copses, to hear the tinkling gears of the horses, and the clear voices of the lads calling to them. It is not less pleasant to catch the busy caw of the rookery, and the first meek cry of the young lambs. The hares are hopping about the fields, the excitement of the season overcoming their

habitual timidity. The bees are revelling in the yellow catkins of the hollow. The harmless English snake is seen again curled up, like a little coil of rope, with its head in the centre, on sunny green banks. The woods, though yet unadorned with their leafy garniture, are beautiful to look on ;-they seem flushed with life. Their boughs are of a clear and glossy lead colour, and the tree-tops are rich with the vigorous hues of brown, red, and purple; and, if you plunge into their solitudes, there are symptoms of revivification under your feet-the springing mercury and the green blades of the blue-bells-and perhaps above you the early nest of the missel-thrush, perched between the boughs of a young oak, to tinge your thoughts with the anticipation of summer. These are mornings not to be neglected by the lover of nature, and if not neglected, then not forgotten; for they will stir the springs of memory, and make us live over again times and seasons that we cannot, for the pleasure and purity of our spirits, live over too much.

W. HOWITT.

THE DAFFODILS.

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.