even happens that a dweller in such a region, given to explore its mysteries and “hunt the waterfalls,” may, after long residence, find some new dell or ravine disclosed by a casual glance up the mountain when the mists are beginning to stir. Something of this effect we now observed in regard to the park woods, where not only domes and spires of foliage stood out from the mass, but a gradation of masses appeared where in July it seemed that one might walk on the green floor of treetops, as the traditional squirrel under Helvellyn could in old time march from Wythburn to Keswick without once needing to descend to the ground.
The ferns on the common were golden, and about to become russet. Contrasted with vivid green grass, the purple and yellow of the heather and gorse were too gaudy; but reposing on russet ferns they make a charming spectacle. There were patches of corn-flowers near us, and the tints of the fungi were wonderfully bright, from the pearly white which looks almost translucent in the shade, to the graduated scarlets and crimsons which slime out from moist roots and old palings, or rotting logs. The sulphur butterfly flitted past us, and a large family of lady-birds settled upon our clothes. Whole companies of bees were making the most of the declining sunshine of the year; probably on their way to the heather, but not despising any honey-bearing blossom on the way. Their hum seemed to crave as much notice as if it was the only sound, though the air was alive with the bleating of sheep above us, and the sweet chime of church-bells, rising and falling, coming and going, though we were unaware of any wind. With us there was none. My comrades and I put off our caps, in hopes of a breath on our foreheads; but none came; and we soon grew cool over our luncheon.
All this was charming; but it did not detain us long from our sport. The non-combatants accompanied us, or kept us in sight for some way; and when they turned back, Harry was charged with a brace of birds, one of which he was to leave at one sick-room door in the village, and the other at another. This, and the promise of a blackberry ing in the course of the month, and of a nutting expedition, as soon as the nuts were ripe, sent him home quite happy. As for us,—we remained at our sport almost as long as we could see. We were treated with the glorious spectacle of an autumn sunset as we returned, with its ruddy and golden, and tender blue, and pale sea green tints, all so melting into each other above, as to bathe all below in one soft and balmy glow. Before I entered my own gate, the evening star was beaming in the pale-green part of the sky; and the owl was hooting from the old hollow oak.
The domestic aspect of this time of the year is very pleasant. I like the day’s ramble ending with sunset, and the lighting of the lamp for dinner. It is the season when it is rational to dine late, in order to make the most of the shortening daylight. If the evenings are mild and balmy, we can keep the windows open, and go backwards and forwards between starlight and lamplight. Before lamps came in, this was not so pleasant, on account of the propensity of moths to fly into the candle; but now, when they can seek the light without destroying themselves, they afford an additional autumn spectacle. Many a one do we imprison under a tumbler till we have studied it, and then release. Towards the end of the month, when the nights grow foggy and chilly, we shut up, and have the first fire of the season—the small bright fire which warms all spirits.
So much for the evenings. As to the work of the evenings at home, there is plenty just now.
There are the autumn bouquets to make splendid every day with dahlias of all colours. They should be made up in a conical form, broad at the base; the method fittest for them, as green-glass milk-pans are fittest for water-lilies. Then there are asters of many sorts and sizes, and the golden amaryllis; and the first chrysanthemums, and the passion-flower, dear and holy in all eyes; and mallows still, and China roses, and sometimes the Michaelmas daisy, and central boughs of the lovely arbutus, for them to cluster round. There are worn out plants to be removed, and decayed ones to be thrown away; and already, though we do not like to admit it, a few dead leaves to be swept from the lawn and the walks. There are the beds to be got ready for the early spring bulbs—the hyacinths, tulips, and anemones. This is, perhaps, the strongest hint of the decline of the year. If we want more fruit-trees, now is the time to drain and prepare the orchard ground to give it leisure to settle. For my part, I think we ourselves have enough. It is quite a sight to pass from the entrance of the kitchen-garden to the end of the orchard—a walk which occupies a good deal of time when one undertakes to gather the fruit for lunch and dessert. One has to see to the peaches every day, and gather the ripe, and throw out the supernumeraries which are in the way. Late peaches and nectarines, and early pears, I think proper to gather myself. Anybody is welcome to try a gentle shake at the apple trees in the orchard, and see what comes. The ruddy, and russet, and streaked apples that stud the espaliers must remain to be mellowed by the sun to the latest day. The multitude from the orchard must also hang for some time yet, except such as fall with a touch. The gardener is clearing his strawberry-beds of runners and weeds, and getting up his onion crops, laying them out under cover to dry, and making haste to put in cabbages and cauliflowers in their place. It seems to me that no supply can meet the demand for onions. Watch a vegetable garden, or a greengrocer’s shop anywhere, and say if it be not so. One asks where they can all go to? till one considers the soups and stews in rich men’s dwellings, and the bread and cheese, as well as the cookery of the lower and middle classes. We hear now of the conversion of acres of onion-ground into cucumber-growing. Sheltered by a growth of rye at the outset, an acre of cucumbers produces 100l., we are told. This causes two questions—“Where will so many cucumbers go to?” and “What will be done for onions?” Every year, I am amazed at the space set out for onions in my garden; and every winter I am told we have run short of onions, and must buy; not that we have