Need I even name the corn-marigold, or the blush of the corn-poppies among green growing wheat, or the exquisitely lovely sainfoin, that sheds its crimson beauty over many a southern field; or the blue and charming corn-flower, that delights to bloom amid the ripening grain?

Oh dear farmer, call it not a weed, hint not at its being a hurt-sickle-rather admire and love it.

Nay, but the farmer will not, he has no romance about him, and will quote me lines like these :

"Blue-bottle, thee my numbers fain would raise,
And thy complexion challenge all my praise,
Thy countenance like summer skies is fair;
But ah! how different thy vile manners are.
A treacherous guest, destruction thou dost bring
To th' inhospitable field where thou dost spring,
Thou blunt'st the very reaper's sickle, and so
In life and death becom'st the farmer's foe."

But cowslips, and buttercups

"The winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes" (Shakespeare )—

and the chaste and pretty ox-eye daisy, even a farmer will not object to my adoring, for the very names of these bring to his mind sleek-sided cattle wading in spring-time knee-deep in fields of green sweet grass.

And what shall I say of gowan or mountain-daisy ? Oh! what should I say, but repeat the lines of our own immortal bard:

"Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,

Thou's met me in an evil hour,
For I maun crush among the stoure
Thy slender stem:

To save thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem!"

The spotted orchis is a sweet-scented Highland moorland gem, but right glad I was to find it meeting me on the banks of Northumberland. Far over the borders grew the pretty Scottish bluebell, and on rough patches of ground the trailing lilac restharrow.

Singly, a sprig of bluebells may not look to much advantage, but growing in great beds and patches, and hanging in heaps to old ruined walls, or turfcapped dykes, they are very effective indeed.

I had meant to speak in this chapter of many other flowers that grow by the wayside-of the dove's foot cranebill, of the purple loose-strife, of the skyblue chicory and the pink-eyed pimpernel, of the golden bird's-foot trefoil, of purple bugles, of yellow celandine, and of clover red and white. I had even meant to throw in a bird or two-the lark, for instance, that seems to fan the clouds with its quivering wing, the fluting blackbird of woodland and copse, the shrill-voiced mocking mavis, that makes the echoes ring from tree to tree; the cushat, that croodles so mournfully in the thickets of spruce; the wild-screaming curlew, and mayhap the great eagle itself.

But I fear that I have already wearied the reader, and so must refrain.

Stay though, one word about our Highland heather -one word and I have done. I have found both this and heath growing in England, but never in the same savage luxuriance as on the wilds of the Grampian range. Here you can wander in it waistdeep, if you are not afraid of snakes, and this Erica

cineria you will find of every shade, from whiterare to pink and darkest crimson :

"Those wastes of heath

That stretch for leagues to lure the bee,
Where the wild bird, on pinions strong,
Wheels round, and pours his piping song,
And timid creatures wander free."

I trust I may be forgiven for making all these
poetical quotations, but as I commenced with one
from the poet Campbell, so must I end with one
from the selfsame bard. It is of the purple heath
and heather he is thinking when he writes:-

"I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains, and echoing streams,
And of birchen glades breathing their balm.
While the deer is seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep-mellow gush of the wood-pigeon's note,
Makes music that sweetens the calm."

There are no deep lines of sin;

None of passion's dreary traces,

That betray the wounds within."-Tupper.

S much even as the wild flowers themselves were the children a feature in the seemingly interminable panorama, that flitted past me in my long tour in the Wanderer. The wild flowers were everywhere; by wayside, on hillside, by streamlet, in copse, hiding in fairy nooks among the brackens in the woodlands, carpeting mossy banks in the pine forests, floating on the lakes, nodding to the running brooklets, creeping over ruined walls and fences, and starring the hedgerows, wild flowers, wild flowers everywhere.

Wild flowers everywhere, and children everywhere. Country children: minding cows or sheep or pigs; trotting Blondin-like along the parapets of high

bridges; riding or swinging on gateways; stringing daisies on flowery meads; paddling in stream or in burn; fishing by lonely tarns; swinging in the treetops; or boring head first through hedges of blackthorn and furze.

Village children: sitting in dozens on door-steps ; a-squat on the footpath, nursing babies as big as themselves; at play on the walks or in the street midst; toddling solemnly off to school, with wellwashed faces, and book-laden; or rushing merrily home again, with faces all begrimed with mud and tears.

Seaside children: out in boats, rocked in the cradle of the deep; bathing in dozens, swimming, sprawling, splashing, whooping; squatting among the sea-weed; dabbling in pools, or clinging to the cliffs with all the tenacity of crabs.

Children everywhere, all along. Curly-pated children, bare-legged children, well-dressed children, and children in rags, but all shouting, screaming, laughing, smiling, or singing, and all as happy, seemingly, as the summer's day was long.

"Harmless, happy little treasures,

Full of truth, and trust, and mirth ;
Richest wealth and purest pleasures
In this mean and guilty earth.

"But yours is the sunny dimple,

Radiant with untutored smiles;
Yours the heart, sincere and simple,
Innocent of selfish wiles.

"Yours the natural curling tresses,

Prattling tongues and shyness coy;
Tottering steps and kind caresses,

Pure with health, and warm with joy."