It was now noon. A few fleecy clouds floated in the blue depths of ether. The breeze brought coolness on its wings, and an inviting valley, watered by a rivulet, lay on the left; here whitened with sheep, and there dotted with little encampments of hay. Exhilarated by the scene, after so long a confinement in the smoke and stir of London, I proposed to my companions the rural exercise of walking, as preferable to proceeding cooped up in a carriage. Each, whatever was his motive, caught at the proposal with delight, and we dismissed our chaises. I now hastened to luxuriate in Arcadian beatitude. The pastoral habit of Tuscany was favourable; nothing remained but to rival an Ida, or a Glorvina, in simple touches of nature; and to trip along the lawns, like a Daphne or a Hamadryad. In an instant, I sprang across a hedge, and fled towards the little valley, light as a wood-nymph flying from a satyr. I then took up a most picturesque position. It was beside of the streamlet, under a weeping willow, and on a grassy bank. Close behind me lay one of the most romantic cottages that I had ever seen, and at its back was a small garden, encompassed by green paling. The stream, bordered with wild-flowers, prattled prettily; save here and there, where a jutting stone shattered its crystal, and made its music hoarse. It purled and murmured a little too, but no where could it be said either to tinkle or gurgle, to chide or brawl. Flinging off my bonnet, I shook my narcissine locks over my shoulders, and began braiding them in the manner of a simple shepherdess. Stuart came up the first. I plucked a daisy that was half dipt into the brook; and instead of shaking off its moisture, I quaffed the liquid fragrance with my lip, and then held the flower to him. 'What am I to do with it?' said he. 'To pledge me,' replied I. 'To drink Nature's nectar, that trembles on the leaves which my lip has consecrated.' He laughed and kissed the flower. That moment a lambkin began its pretty bleat. 'Now,' said I, 'make me a simple tripping little ditty on a lambkin.' 'You shall have it,' answered he, 'and such as an attorney's clerk would read to a milliner's apprentice.' Dear sensibility, O la! I heard a little lamb cry, ba; Says I, so you have lost mamma? Ah! The little lamb, as I said so, Frisking about the field did go, And frisking, trod upon my toe. Oh! 'Neat enough,' said I, 'only that it wants the word LOVE in it.' 'True,' cried Stuart; 'for all modern poems of the kind abound in the word, though they seldom have much of the feeling.' 'And pray, my good friend,' asked I archly, as I bound up my golden ringlets--'WHAT IS LOVE?' 'Nay,' said he, 'they say that talking of love is making it.' Plucking a thistle that sprang from the bank, I blew away its down with my balmy breath, merely to hide my confusion. Surely I am the most sensitive of all created beings!