conformation, for so small an area, is singularly varied. A tall wood overhangs and makes, from most points, a fine background. The cottages are white, but weather-stained; the roof-lines bend and waver; and on each gable there is the old ball-and-pinnacle decoration. Long ago there was a water-wheel and a mill here. Allusion is made to this in an inscription, couched in questionable Latin, over the porched door of one of the cottages: Ascending, again, by another short and steep lane, I come upon the old mansion; and on the grassy brow in front I see the crocuses again, as I have seen them now, never failing in their season, for more years than one would care to name. They are not all out yet, but a few sunny days will bring them into full bloom; and then many a pale mechanic will be seen wandering out from the town in the evening, with his children by the hand, to look at the familiar sight. It is a good thing to plant crocuses, as these have been planted, in the grass, after they have flowered one year in the beds: they need no more removing and multiply themselves without trouble by throwing off new bulbs. Few of those who come to look at the crocuses will now see the ancient lady of the house, who still watches over the flowers. Charles Lamb would have delighted to sketch both her form and character. She is a survival from a statelier age than ours; sweet in manner and yet reserved; an aristocrat without a title; careless of the rich, but kind to the poor, and curiously reverenced by such of them as are native to the soil. Alas! here, too, all is changing, and she must often look out sadly enough on the ordered files of modern houses which are marching with ominous rapidity towards the once secluded home of her childhood. The weather this week has been for the most part dim and rainy; and yet the sky has not been without beauty, especially towards dusk-the beauty of soft grey cloud breaking into many shades, as the light moved behind it, and woven across by the dark branches of the trees. At six o'clock in the evening I heard the thrush singing for the first time in the wood for a few minutes there was quite a chorus of birds, but his note, mellow and yet loud, overpowered them all. The house-pigeons are sitting. In the open air the birds are beginning to mate, but there is no nest-building yet. A leafless mezereon which stands in the orchardhouse where there is no artificial heat but only protection from exterior cold-is in full bloom; and a pear-tree on a south-west wall is covered with yellow and glutinous-looking leaf-buds. At the foot of the same tree there is a bunch of 'living green,' which, later on, will climb higher up the bole, and array itself in the delicate blossoms of the sweet-pea. MARCH. Slayer of the winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh! WILLIAM MORRIS, The Earthly Paradise. VIII.-SPRING-TIME IN THE LAKE COUNTRY. Legberthwaite: March 4. WE shift the basis of our Country Notes this week from Moston to Thirlmere and the Vale of Saint John. It is a 'far cry,' and our journey hither was not over till after midnight—a rainy and a murky midnight. At first a certain fascination arises from passing in the dark along roads and through scenes, every turn and aspect of which have become familiar to you; but at length this becomes wearisome; we are jaded; we hear only the monotonous clatter of the horses' feet, see only the tree-trunks hurrying past, and now and then the white foam on the lakes; but once in-doors and there is a right hospitable welcome and a blazing fire. In the morning the rain had passed away, and only to look out through the chamber window was peace. We are sojourning in an old country-house, built in the early part of the seventeenth century, and, like all such houses, quaint and rambling, but everywhere suggestive of repose. A smooth lawn slopes down gently to the lake's edge; but on the further shore are the savage fells, and behind us is the breast of Helvellyn. The rooms are not large, but they have been built for comfort; and, just as in some of our old cathedrals, one finds every style and random fancy of architecture, from the earliest arch to the latest reredos; so here one sees, either in the structure itself or in its furniture, something which will mark for us every quarter-century, perhaps, since the foundation was laid. The floors are polished: the staircase is of black oak, with twisted rails; one small piece of painted, ancestral glass adorns the landing; grates and mantelpieces are Georgian-they make you think of the wigs which many a night must have nodded over them; and up and down the apartments there are dainty-looking black chairs, with traces of |