stalks of the foxglove and their rich pendent bells, blue with the
beautiful forget-me-not, that gem-like blossom, which looks like a
living jewel of turquoise and topaz. It is almost too late to see
its beauty; and here is the pleasant shady lane, where the high elms
will shut out the little twilight that remains. Ah, but we shall
have the fairies' lamps to guide us, the stars of the earth, the
glow-worms! Here they are, three almost together. Do you not see
them? One seems tremulous, vibrating, as if on the extremity of a
leaf of grass; the others are deeper in the hedge, in some green
cell on which their light falls with an emerald lustre. I hope my
friends the cricketers will not come this way home. I would not
have the pretty creatures removed for more than I care to say, and
in this matter I would hardly trust Joe Kirby--boys so love to stick
them in their hats. But this lane is quite deserted. It is only a
road from field to field. No one comes here at this hour. They are
quite safe; and I shall walk here to-morrow and visit them again.
And now, goodnight! beautiful insects, lamps of the fairies,
good-night!



THE SHAW.

September 9th.--A bright sunshiny afternoon. What a comfort it is
to get out again--to see once more that rarity of rarities, a fine
day! We English
people are accused of talking overmuch of the weather; but the
weather, this summer, has forced people to talk of it. Summer! did
I say? Oh! season most unworthy of that sweet, sunny name! Season
of coldness and cloudiness, of gloom and rain! A worse November!--