WILD GEESE AND SWANS.

409

But 'tis now mid-day, and lo! in that Mediterranean a flock of wild swans! Have they dropped down from the ether into the water almost as pure as ether, without having once folded their wings, since they rose aloft to shun the insupportable northern snows hundreds of leagues beyond the storm-swept Orcades? To look at the quiet creatures, you might think that they had never left the circle of that little loch. There they hang on their shadows, even as if asleep in the sunshine, and now stretching out their long wings, now apt for flight from clime to clime, joyously they beat the liquid radiance, till to the loud flapping rises the mist, and wide spreads the foam, almost sufficient for a rainbow. Safe are they from all birds of prey. The osprey dashes down on the teal, or sea-trout, swimming within or below their shadow. The great ern, or sea-eagle, pounces on the mallard, as he mounts from the bullrushes before the wild swans sailing, with all wings hoisted like a fleet-but osprey nor eagle dares to try his talons on that stately bird, for he is bold in his beauty, and formidable as he is fair; the pinions that swim and soar can also smite; and though one be a lover of war, the other of peace, yet of them it may be said

The eagle he is lord above,

The swan is lord below!

To have shot such a creature, so large, so white, so highsoaring, and on the winds of midnight wafted from so far; a creature that seemed not merely a stranger in that loch, but belonging to some mysterious land in another hemisphere, whose coasts, ships, with frozen rigging, have been known to visit, driving under bare poles through a month's snow-storms, to have shot such a creature was an era ia our imagination, from which, had nature been more prodigal, we might have sprung up a poet. Once, and but once, we were involved in the glory of that event. The creature had been in a dream of some river or lake in Kamtschatka, or ideally listening

Across the waves' tumultuous roar,
The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore,

when guided by our good genius and our brightest star, we

suddenly saw him sitting asleep in all his state within gun-shot, in a bay of the moonlight loch. We had nearly fainted, died on the very spot-and why were we not entitled to have died as well as any other passionate spirit, whom joy ever divorced from life? We blew his black bill into pieces; not a feather on his head but was touched; and like a little white-sailed pleasure-boat caught in a whirlwind, the wild swan spun round and then lay motionless on the water, as if all her masts had gone by the board. We were all alone that night, not even Fro was with us; we had reasons for being alone. Could we swim? Ay, like the wild swan himself, through surge or breaker. But now the loch was still as the sky, and twenty strokes carried us close to the glorious creature, which, grasped by both hands, and supporting us as it was trailed beneath our breast, while we floated, rather than swam ashore, we felt to be in verity our prey! We trembled with a sort of fear, to behold him lying indeed dead on the sward. The moon, the many stars, here and there, are wonderfully large and lustrous; the hushed, glittering loch, the hills, though somewhat dimmed, green all winter through, with here and there a patch of snow on their summits in the blue sky, on which lay a few fleecy clouds, the mighty foreign bird, whose plumage we had never hoped to touch but in a dream, lying like the ghost of something that ought not to have been destroyed; the scene was altogether such as made our wild young heart quake, and almost repent of having killed a creature so surpassingly beautiful. But that was a fleeting fancy, and over the wild moors we went, like an American Indian laden with game, journeying to his wigwam over the wilderness. As we hastened towards the village in the light of morning, the early labourers held up their hands in wonder what and who we might be; and Fro, who had missed his master, and was lying awake for him on the mount, came bounding along, nor could refrain the bark of delighted passion as his nose nuzzled in the soft down of the bosom of the creature whom he remembered to have seen floating too far off in the lake, or far above our reach cleaving the firmament."

A ramble into the country after wild flowers may seem a trifling pursuit; but as flowers are the work and gift of a beneficent Creator, the examination of their structure, their adaptation to their peculiar habitats, and their usesfor many of them are not without use-may become productive of much healthful enjoyment and enlargement of heart. Many of the lowlands, old enclosures, mountains, and

heathy parts of England, as well as the sea-coasts, abound in a certain class or community of plants, owing to peculiarity of soil or climate.

Scotland has her mountain productions: she boasts that lovely flower called the Linnæa borealis, of which the great botanist, whose name it bears, was so proud.

Cumberland and Westmoreland possess the largest treasury of ferns. On the coasts of Cornwall and Devon waves the rare Tamarisk (Tamarix Gallica); there the Flowering Fern (Osmunda regalis) is a regal plant indeed, growing to the height of seven feet. But perhaps to the industrious and enthusiastic botanist, a land like that in which Ben Rhydding is situated is the most satisfactory. Mountain, bog, stream, meadow, and wood, combine to give variety to the supply, and intensity to the search.

If we set out now-in the month of August-to search out the floral treasures of this neighbourhood, our store will be but small. Still there is every reason to believe that we shall find enough and to spare.

Let us set out from the gate leading to the Cow. Look on this broken ledge where the mountain sheep have grazed the herbage so closely; you will find the Tormentil (Tormentilla reptans), its bright yellow petals forming a Maltese cross, and its serrated leaves frequently hidden under the grass, which its flowers so richly spangle. Close by grows the bilberry, blaeberry, or whortleberry (Vaccinium myrtillus). You must notice its peculiar dwarfishness. Withering says it rises from one to two feet high; here, however, it is so closely nibbled by the hungry sheep as hardly to exceed an inch. Nodding on its airy stem among fern heath or grass, grows the poetic harebell (Campanula rotundifolia). On a slope hanging to the north-east, in the clear broad daylight, unlike other ferns, is a large patch of northern hard-fern (Blechnum boreale). The varieties of ferns are not numerous in this locality. But specimens of the beech-fern (Polypodium phegopteris) are found; and the brake or bracken "(Pteris aquilina), interspersed occasionally with the mountain fern (Aspidium oreopteris), covers whole acres of the uncultivated uplands. We now ascend the rugged slopes, over broken masses of grey stone, among the ling (Calluna vulgaris), and gorse or furze (Ulex Europaus), occasionally

A FELL SIDE AND FIELD RAMBLE.

413

meeting with the fine-leaved and cross-leaved heaths (Erica cinerea and tetralix), dyer's green-weed or woadwaxen, (Genista tinctoria), and common crowberry (Empetrum nigrum). The name of woadwaxen is singular, like much of the etymology of our English plants. A search into their origin and meaning would not at a future time prove uninteresting; and, while the subject of names is before us, and we have attained that bold crag designated the Cow, why, we would ask, does it bear so unmeaning a name? Simplicity is beautiful, but there should be significance, as well as simplicity, in names. Leaving this beacon-rock, we walk over Rumbolds Moor to the Old Well. Near a deep gully, through which you pass, grow a few specimens of the branching club-moss; but your richest treat is among the little streams that, with their tinkling sound, “make music on the silent hill." After dropping from rock to rock, they spread themselves into broad patches of spongy bogs. These are full of marsh club-moss, (Lycopodium inundatum), and other individuals of the same family; here the crimson and starry leaves of the sun-dew (Drosera rotundifolia) expand, and the marsh pennywort (Hydrocotyle vulgaris) lays its round flat leaves on the moss, perfecting its small white flowers and its seeds in secret; for they grow so near to the spreading roots as to be unobserved by those who are ignorant of its peculiar habit. The bog-pimpernel (Anagallis tenella), a lovely trailing plant, creeps among the masses; it seems to love companionship, and, as a parasite, clings closely to the surrounding vegetation. Among the stones, where the bracken or heath forms a shade, may occasionally be found the wood loose-strife (Lysimachia nemorum), but, as its name indicates, its spreading stems and delicate yellow flowers flourish best in moist woods. The cranberry or marsh whortleberry (Vaccinium oxycoccus), grows on these spongy bogs; it has a bright, or, rather, deep crimson flower, set on a slender stem, and the fruit is much esteemed.

Near the Old Well is a small tarn, or sheet of water, in which may be found, in their proper seasons, a considerable variety of water-plants; we believe the bog-bean (Menyanthes trifoliata) grows there. This plant, with its fringed flowers, was a great favourite among the old herbalists.