lovely flower, the fairest companion of the opening buds, grow in the open spaces among the trees at the lower part, sheeting them with the purest white, tinged here and there with a faint blush, like sunbeams falling on snow. On a fine day at the end of April or beginning of May, there is not a more charming picture to be found. In the moister parts of the clough, especially near the reservoir, may also now be seen in perfection the deep yellow marsh-marigold. Like the anemone, it is a common plant, but none the less to be admired. The same as to that dainty little flower, the wood-sorrel, which begins to open freely about the time that the anemones depart. Easily discovered by means of its curious leaves, which are formed of three triangular pieces, placed on the summit of a little stalk, and rise about three inches above the ground, no one can fail to be charmed with its fairy form and the delicacy of the lilac pencillings on the inner surface of the petals, which are white as those of the anemone itself. Anemone, translated, signifies "wind-flower," a name intended to denote fugacity of the petals, or fall at the first touch. But such is not the fate of the anemone-petals of to-day. The original application of the name would appear to have been to the cistus. It was into this last that the frail goddess transformed her love, her tears represented in the disappearance in a moment. Emerging from the clough, the difficulty is not which way to get home again, but which pleasant way to give the preference to. We may go past the dyeworks, and through the park to Agecroft Bridge; or turn up the lane that curls back towards Prestwich; or, best of all, make our way under the magnificent viaduct of the East Lancashire Railway, and then across the river to Clifton Aqueduct. Arrived here, there is another ample choice; either to ride home from the adjacent station (Clifton Junction); to descend to the Irwell bank, and walk through the meadows bordering the river to Agecroft Bridge; or to take the fields and canal bank, the latter in some parts very pretty, and so to Pendleton, where Mr. Greenwood will be glad to see us, and the feeling probably be reciprocal. To invigorate ourselves, if purposing to walk, it is prudent, and not difficult, to procure tea at one of the cottages near the station. At one in particular, standing back a little from the road, upon the left, with--at the bottom of the garden--a nice, cool, face-refreshing well, that we have seen give challenge on fair cheeks to the morning dew upon the rose, there is a free, plentiful, whole-hearted hospitality, that adds quite a charm to the associations already so pleasant, of summer afternoon in the sweet stillness of Mere Clough. The hostess is as large as her welcome; the bread and butter is incomparable.[22] Every one who has gone by train to Bolton or Bury, will remember this beautiful valley, sometimes called the Agecroft, sometimes after its river, the Irwell. On the