and any one of whom, at any moment, may either eat you or be eaten by you.  And if you want peace and quiet, where can one bury oneself so safely and completely as in the mud?  A state of existence without mud at the bottom, must be a life without repose!

I must here venture to remark, that the chief and lasting value of whatever both my sister and my mother wrote about animals, or any other objects in Nature, lies in the fact that they invariably took the utmost pains to verify whatever statements they made relating to those objects.  Spiritual Laws can only be drawn from the Natural World when they are based on Truth.

Julie spared no trouble in trying to ascertain whether Hedgehogs do or do not eat pheasants’ eggs; she consulted The Field, and books on sport, and her sporting friends, and when she found it was a disputed point, she determined to give the Hedgepig the benefit of the doubt.  Then the taste for valerian, and the fox’s method of capture, were drawn from facts, and the gruesome details as to who ate who in the Glass Pond were equally well founded!

This (1876) volume of the Magazine is rich in contributions from Julie, the reason being that she was stronger in health whilst she lived at Aldershot than during any other period of her life.  The sweet dry air of the “Highwayman’s Heath”—­bared though it was of heather!—­suited her so well, she could sleep with her hut windows open, and go out into her garden at any hour of the evening without fear of harm.  She liked to stroll out and listen to “Retreat” being sounded at sundown, especially when it was the turn of some regiment with pipes to perform the duty; they sounded so shrill and weird, coming from the distant hill through the growing darkness.

[Illustration:  OUR LATEST PET—­A REFUGEE PUP, WHOM WE HAVE SAVED FROM THE COMMON HANGMAN.]

We held a curious function one hot July evening during Retreat, when, the Fates being propitious, it was the turn of the 42nd Highlanders to play.  My sister had taken compassion on a stray collie puppy a few weeks before, and adopted him; he was very soft-coated and fascinating in his ways, despite his gawky legs, and promised to grow into a credit to his race.  But it seemed he was too finely bred to survive the ravages of distemper, for, though he was tenderly nursed, he died.  A wreath of flowers was hung round his neck, and, as he lay on his bier, Julie made a sketch of him, with the inscription, “The Little Colley, Eheu!  Taken in, June 14.  In spite of care, died July 1. Speravimus meliora.”  Major Ewing, wearing a broad Scotch bonnet, dug a grave in the garden, and as we had no “dinner-bell” to muffle, we waited till the pipers broke forth at sundown with an appropriate air, and then lowered the little Scotch dog into his resting-place.