While we stood quiet behind the beech, or beneath the elder, nature spoke with a thousand voices.  But now when we tramp homewards with policeman resonance there is hardly a bird except the street-boy sparrow to be seen.  The blackbird has gone on ahead and made it his business, with sharp “Keck! keck!” to alarm every bird in the woods.  We shall see no more this morning.

Listen, though, before we go.  Between six and seven in the morning the corn-crake actually interrupts the ceaseless iteration of his “Crake! crake!” to partake of a little light refreshment.  He does not now say “Crake! crake!” as he has been doing all the night—­indeed, for the last three months—­but instead he says for about half an hour “Crake!” then pauses while you might count a score, and again remarks “Crake!” In the interval between the first “Crake!” and the second a snail has left this cold earth for another and a warmer place.

Now at last there is a silence after the morning burst of melody.  The blackcap has fallen silent among the reeds.  The dew is rising from the grass in a general dispersed gossamer haze of mist.  It is no longer morning; it is day.

BALLAD OF MINE OWN COUNTRY[11]

[Footnote 11:  Rhymes a la Mode (Kegan Paul, Trench & Co.)]

  Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed
    By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;
  In the isles of the East and the West
    That are sweet with the cinnamon trees: 
  Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas,
    Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,
  We are more than content, if you please,
    With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

  Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best
    With the scent of the limes, when the bees
  Hummed low round the doves in their nest,
    While the vintagers lay at their ease;
  Had he sung in our Northern degrees,
    He’d have sought a securer retreat,
  He’d have dwelt, where the heart of us flees,
    With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

  O the broom has a chivalrous crest,
    And the daffodil’s fair on the leas,
  And the soul of the Southron might rest,
    And be perfectly happy with these;
  But we that were nursed on the knees
    Of the hills of the North, we would fleet
  Where our hearts might their longing appease
    With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

  ENVOY.

  Ah!  Constance, the land of our quest,
    It is far from the sounds of the street,
  Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest
    With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

  ANDREW LANG.

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press.