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 176 is imperfectly done; for the stings given under the circumstances are very fierce: but if the gunpowder is made to dart and fizz properly into the nest, and if the sulphurous vapour is properly shut in, so as to disable the old wasps, the adventure is a pretty one. The gleam of the candle on the faces round the hole or the covert where the nest is, the solemnity of carrying the squib, and the reserve of powder; the waving of the boughs which everybody carries for defence, make up quite a spectacle, grandly concluded by the bringing home of the prize when there is one. For my part, I shall always henceforth carry a bottle of sal volatile to apply to the sting on such occasions; for there is usually some awkward or timid boy who gets stung, and comes home in a fever of fright and pain which is not likely to improve his skill and courage next time. I advise the same precaution to all whom I see collecting their honey. The bees make good profit of the wilds and uplands, it is clear. They go high and far for the sweets of the heather; and pretty is the sight of the rows of hives in the warm dells below. The practice of taking the honey by opiating the bees with a smouldering fungus seems to be spreading wherever the enlightened practice of not smoking at all remains to be learned. The old brimstone is seldom heard of now, I believe; and the common spectacle is of a man carrying the great knob of fungus on the end of a stick, by which it is to be made to reek into the hive. In many a shed are the women seen straining the golden honey into jars for sale in the town markets, and among the druggists and surgeons who dispense medicines. Then, again, the growers of potatoes, who in this county are Legion, have heard of a machine for taking up potatoes, and are wondering how much will be left for human hands to do in their children’s time. We see the rural housewives jogging to market with some treasure wrapped in moist cloths, evidently some production of value;—a sucking-pig or two, as my readers will guess by the season. After each heavy shower, children cross the downs with baskets of mushrooms. Men come up from the bays with mullet, for which they know Londoners are on the watch everywhere near the coast. Occasionally a leveret is found among the paniers. Near sea-bathing places, a gardener here and there fixes himself in a sunny spot, and sends out of his sheltered ravine the most delicious apricots, greengages, and Orleans plums, and Windsor pears, and the first filberts of the year. It is worth while to seek the fruit in its home; for then we come in for the various lovely lilies of the season, and the passion-flower mantling the house walls, and the rows of various hollyhocks, and the luscious clematis, and balsams, and the splendid tiger-lily, and all blooms which delight in the dog-day heats. Sunflowers flare in cottage gardens; and there are spots where they have been tried as a crop, for the sake of their seeds and oil, as well as other parts of the plant. Down in these recesses the birds sing again as if it were spring; and the few trees there are are variegated with young shoots; but we shall see more of this as we travel homewards. As we ascend to the downs we see the mountain ash hanging out its red berries above the streams which cut their way down to the sea, and the winter cherry showing itself in the fringe of woodland. It is undeniable that the elms and the limes exhibit already some change of tint.

Up on the wild commons, however, all is still in the glow of summer. The colouring of the heather and gorse is almost too gaudy, delicate as is each variety of heath blossom when examined. The thistledown flies abroad, the sport of the winds, as the butterflies, and even the wild birds might almost seem to be. The butterflies flicker and flit,—small and large, white, grave, and gay. One may see the lapwings assemble and fly round; and the starlings move in clouds, and the gulls come sailing in from the sea; and at evening the young owls taking short flights down a reach of some valley, looking for small creatures not yet gone to roost. Nature is all alive, certainly. Flying ants settle on one’s dress, and one must be careful to avoid ants’ nests in sitting down to rest. Beetles give one slaps on the face. Grasshoppers are noisy beside long stretches of the green path. In hollows where water has collected from above and below, water-plants are in their best beauty. The bulrush is heavy, and sways in the wind; and the delicate whites and lilacs and pinks and yellows and blues of aquatic blossoms are bewitching in the evening sunlight. As we sit looking at them, the grey plover runs behind us; and the frogs before us sound the first notes of a night concert. If we fear the damps and reek and smell of the pools and bogs, we have also to think twice before we throw ourselves on the shining hot grass at noon; for the young vipers are hatched at this time, and the earwigs swarm as vexatiously as in a church-porch venerable with ivy.

These are the stations from which to look for skysights. The heavy thunder-clouds, after blotting out the ships at sea, and turning the expanse beneath to a dark leaden colour, repay us with such rainbows as can be seen in no other month. We see more than the arch; so as to lose the idea of a bow, as one does at some waterfall where there is a broad hint of a complete circle. If the black clouds are portentous, the white are truly splendid, making islands of light in the deep blue sea. Now, too, is the time for early risers to see the phenomenon of looming, so perplexing to the inexperienced eye, which sees streaky lights apparently lifting up portions of the coast, in severance from the earth. Now, in the sultry noons, we see the wavering of the air between us and the objects we look at, which puzzles children in the laundry, when the laundress tells them that it is the heat going out of the box-iron. Common-place writers of ghost stories tell us that ghosts are of a substance like this, which they fancy a sort of compromise between body and spirit. We who know something of the secrets of this natural magic, look for certain ghosts under this appearance, but not as clothed in it. We look out for the ghosts of ships which are out of sight; and of headlands, and woods, and churches, and piers, which are certainly not within the natural range of vision. Moreover, we expect them sometimes to show themselves upside down. In short, the hot noons of August are the time for