again their realization:-- "Qua pinus ingens, albaque populus Umbram hospitalem consociare amant Ramis, et obliquo laborat Lympha fugax trepidare rivo." [1] [Footnote 1: Where the tall pine and poplar pale Delight to cast athwart the vale A pleasing shade. While the clear stream low murmuring bells. And o'er its winding channel toils Adown the glade.--A. G. ] It was noon, and the sun shone more brightly and with greater heat than had been felt for years. The air, heavy and warm, induced a feeling of listlessness and languor, and the day seemed one for which the only appropriate employment would have been to read once again the "Castle of Indolence." But failing that, I found it pleasant to watch the flickering light shot in fitful gleams through the thick canopy of leaves, and thus, in the coolness of the shade, to mark these rays--sole messengers from the sweltering world around--as they danced from rock to stream, now lighting up the ripples that curled dreamily on, now chequering some huge boulder that lay smooth and polished in mid-channel, anon glancing playfully among the thickets of briar or honeysuckle and vanishing in the shade. Sometimes a wagtail would alight at hand, or a bee drone lazily past, while even an occasional butterfly would venture down into this shady covert. But, with these exceptions, the animal creation seemed to have gone to sleep, an example which it was somewhat difficult to avoid following. While thus idly engaged, my eye rested on a large boulder on the opposite side. It lay partly imbedded in a stiff clay, and partly protruding from the surface of the bank some way above the stream. A thick arbour of leafage overhung it, through which not even the faintest ray of sunshine could force its way. The spot seemed cooler and more picturesque than that which I occupied, and so, crossing the well-nigh empty channel, I climbed the bank and was soon seated on the boulder. A stout hammer is a constant companion in my rambles, and was soon employed on this occasion in chipping almost unconsciously the newly-acquired seat. The action was, perhaps, deserving of the satire of Wordsworth's Solitary:-- "You may trace him oft By scars, which his activity has left Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank Heaven! This covert nook reports not of his hand. He, who with pocket-hammer smites the edge Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised In weather-stains, or crusted o'er by Nature With her first growths, detaching by the stroke A chip or splinter to resolve his doubts; And, with that ready answer satisfied, The substance classes by some barbarous name, And hurries on; or from the fragments picks His specimen; if but imply interveined With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube Lurk in its cells and thinks himself enriched. Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before!"