At two seasons of the year the view from the gallery of Friarton Mill which did not extend beyond the park, and had the objection, if you will, of being shut in, ‘tame and domestic,’ formed at the same time a nearly perfect bit of woodland, while the well ‘seasoned’ Georgian house, with the Italian façade in the foreground, stopped short of being an eyesore. In late spring, when the tender green of the beech and oak contrasted with the sombre green of the fir, and was relieved by the white blossoms of the wild crab and pear trees; when the gnarled hawthorn bushes, in the dim light of early morning or late twilight, stood crowned like ‘aged men,’ or in the glory of noon bent like veiled brides; when clusters of red May and the spikes of the red-flowered chestnut—introduced to compete with the native trees—lent a half tropical brilliance to the sweet English purity of the colouring; when the turf below was here and there pale gold with primroses or misty blue with hyacinths; when blackbirds and thrushes sang openly and unblushingly to their mates on every spray, and the cuckoo’s note and the ringdove’s call sounded from hidden hollows; when the first nightingale made night tuneful and poured out his passion till it rose in liquid clearness above the monotonous rush and tinkle of the waters, then Copley Grange Park, and Friarton Mill were at their second best. For the autumn suited them even better than the spring, nothing could surpass the exquisite rich mellowness and tender delicacy when the ripe brown chestnut was dropping from its husk on the water-of-Nile coloured grass, in the chillness of October; when the five fingers of the chestnut leaves and the vine leaf of the maple were burning in maize colour; when the oak was russet, the beech and wild cherry crimson darkening into purple or streaked with scarlet; the birch and the elm straw and daffodil colour; when the bracken was rusty; when only the trill of the robin and the distant bark of a dog broke the stillness of the earth resting from its labours with a curtain of haze falling between it and the dappled sky. But in winter also, when Buller’s Brook was hanging with icicles, and ‘roaring and reaming’ after it had broken its frozen bounds, and the grass was sere, and the boughs of the trees stood out bare and black, unless where the sunlight caught those near at hand, and brought out their furry greys, and the blue bloom of a plum, hovering about the twigs and bourgeons; or when they were feathered with hoar frost or panoplied with snow, standing out in dead cold masses against the leaden grey of the clouds—the park, as seen from the mill gallery, was not to be despised by any hardy sight-seer who could face with fortitude benumbed toes and tingling fingers.