Nestleton Magna is as “canny” a little village as can be found in any portion of the Three Kingdoms; and that is saying a good deal, for there are rural gems within British borders which are quite unequalled for cosiness and beauty by anything you can find within the four quarters of the globe, even if you take “all the isles of the ocean” into the bargain. Situated in the East Riding of Yorkshire, and nestling like a brooding bird in the fertile valley of Waverdale, at the foot of the Yorkshire Wolds, it possesses rare and quiet charms, which elicit the spontaneous admiration of those not numerous tourists, who prefer to explore the rich resources of English inland scenery, rather than fag through the hurry-skurry and unsatisfactory whirl of Continental travel. There is many a jaded man of business, many a brain-worn student, who foolishly squanders the precious hours of his brief holiday in rushing insanely over weary miles, through hot and dusty cities, among tiresome hills and rugged mountains--returning home again weary and worn--who would have found real rest and health, and equally varied and charming landscapes, within the borders of his motherland. Nestleton Magna is surrounded by emerald hills, which slope gently down to the valley in which the hamlet lies, displaying a varied surface of wood and glade, of cornland and pasture-ground, and surmounted by a stretch of moorland, whereon the sheep crop the scantier herbage, and the morning mists hang like silver curtains until the “rosy fingers of the sun” draw them aside, and then purple heath and golden gorse gleam and glitter on them like a royal crown. Most of the cottages are thatched and white-washed, and not a few are embowered in honeysuckle and jasmine. Here and there a more pretentious dwelling lifts its head, and these with their red bricks and tiles give piquant variety to the picture. Through the village there flows a babbling brook, in whose clear, transparent waters the speckled trout may be seen poising themselves with waving fin, or darting like an arrow above the gravelly bed, while sticklebacks and minnows disport themselves in their crystal paradise. Along its borders are two rows of unshorn willows, and here and there a poplar lifts its stately head. On either side, in and out among the cosy cottages, are little patches of garden ground, small tree-shaded paddocks, and orchards which in sunny spring-time are flush with the manifold blossoms of apple, plum, pear, and cherry-trees, which add a peculiar charm to the attractive scene. “Far diffused around One boundless blush, one white impurpled shower Of mingled blossoms; where the raptured eye Hurries from joy to joy.”