ful, and "never did betray the heart that loved her." So that the true rambler will find delight and joy whenever he can get into the fields, whether it be when the bright shiny days have called forth the snowdrop, the violet, and the crocus; or when the richer glow of summer suns has robed the earth in richer glories; or when the "stiff up-rearing ears of corn "tell of the wealth and wonders of autumn; or when, in the quaint language of Sylvester's Du Bartas, "The winter's keener breath began

To erystalize the Baltic ocean;

To glaze the lakes, to bridle up the floods,

And periwig with snow the bald-pate woods."

In all seasons he will find fine weather, and we trust that in the following Rambles to Pleasant Spots and Famous Places, we shall be able to show him what to do with it. And, first, we purpose to show how, without any fixed place to visit, or any set purpose in view, it is in the power of any one to have and enjoy

14

A DESULTORY RAMBLE.

Ir is a common thing for people to suppose that rambles require some definite place to which to go, some fixed object to visit, and some defined locality to reach. Purpose, end, and object are all required before the majority of people will issue from home. Hence so many persons never go anywhere, because, as they say, they have nowhere to go. Nothing can be more inimical to the really true enjoyment of a ramble than this constant waiting until you can visit well-known places; and thousands deprive themselves of some of the sweetest and most delightful hours of innocent and healthful pleasure from this cause. To remove this notion, and to show how great a treat it is to ramble for the mere sake of rambling, to wander about at one's ever-changing will, without the limitation of so many miles to walk in an hour, and such a place to be reached by such a time, is the object of this desultory ramble.

For realizing a good ramble of this kind, one or two things are necessary; and these the rambler must provide for himself. He must be fond of walking; have an eye open to all the varying beauties of earth and sky; the clouds floating along the sea of space in all their wonderful combinations, glorious loveli

ness, and grotesque changes, must have a thousand charms for him. He must know how and when to pause, and feel the beauty of that "glorious birth," the sunshine, take possession of his whole being, and fill his soul with bliss. "The waves of shadow going over the wheat," the field, the hedge, the wood, in all their exquisite variations, must be able to entrance him with their matchless beauty. The gentle burn rippling along over its smooth-pebbled bottom, murmuring its sweet responses to the birds which from every tree pour forth their gladness and gratitude in "unpremeditated song," must have a voice for him. The trees reflected in the clear waters, or throwing their beautiful shadows on the grass, and their leaves surring-each one with its own peculiar sur-in rich harmony with the whole, must not give forth a sound lost to his attending ear. Every flower, from the lowliest bloom hiding itself in virgin modesty from the too rude gaze of unqualified admirers, to the most ornately obtrusive of the floral race, must have a charm for our rambler, which he will not lightly pass over. Thus endowed, let him go forth with open eye and open heart, and all nature will have a true welcome for her humble worshipper. He will then understand Wordsworth's noble lines which he will do well to have by heart to repeat as he strolls along:

"There was a roaring in the woods all night;
The rain came heavily, and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;

Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods;
The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters;
And all the air is fill'd with pleasant noise of waters.

All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The
grass
is bright with rain-drops :-
The hare is running races in her mirth;

:-on the moors,

And with her feet she from the plashing earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,

Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

"I was a traveller then upon the moor;

I saw the hare that raced about with joy;

I heard the woods and distant waters roar ;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:

The pleasant season did my mind employ:
My old remembrances were from me wholly ;

And all the ways of men so vain and melancholy."

In such a mood, and so prepared, it matters not whence you start, nor whither you go. Hardly the month; for all months have their own attractions, and all alike reward the true rambler. We will, however, suppose it to be summer time; and so we will have a summer ramble. We will take any road leading from the town, and, as soon as we come to one, turn down a lane. Before we reach this desired turning, we shall have a good walk along a country road well lined with trees, and we shall often have to pause and receive the boundless wealth of fragrance which comes from the many villa gardens which we pass. These will not detain us very long; so on we stroll, and soon reach a stile leading to some fields; we cross it, and now begins our true ramble. The haymakers are at work, and all the air is filled with

that unspeakable sweetness which comes from newmown hay. Butterflies and bees are busy among the fallen flowers, each drawing therefrom its own peculiar food, and each fulfilling its duty in the plan of creation. Have a talk with the haymakers. You will most likely find them communicative; that is, if you are communicable yourself, and know how to talk to strangers; and you can gather much worth knowing from these toilers in the sun. So we pause and stroll, stroll and pause; sit down on some haycock, and have a pleasant chat; and if, as we have often found, the haymakers are courteous, we drink success to their labours, and wish a good wheat harvest for their sickles. Strolling on, we soon pass through the few fields lying between the stile and lane, now separated from us only by another stile. We are over now, and in the lane; and now new joys begin. Along the banks on either side the luxurious wild strawberry is ripe, and does not tempt us in vain. With an eye made quick by experience, and an appetite sharpened by our walk, we are not long in finding the precious berries. But do not eat them one by one, as you gather them, or you will lose half your pleasure. Not we. We will have a handful first, which, after some searching, a sting or two from an obtrusive nettle, and a prick or two from a pertinacious wild rose thorn, we succeed in doing; and thus berry-laden, seated on a bank with the sun behind us, and shielded from too much heat by a well-branched and thickly-foliaged tree, we enjoy our simple repast. Above us the lark is pouring out his

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