[Illustration:  “MY PAW IS ON MY NATIVE HEATH, AND MY NAME IS ‘RIOU.’”]

Our party did not break up till we reached Weymouth, but after that our ways diverged.  We were by no means glad to part, the memories of our trip being very pleasant ones, and we can hardly think of a more delightful way of spending a couple of months than in driving about these beautiful mountains.  The people are so pleasant, and hotels so moderate (in the spring-time), and the country in the full beauty of spring is at its best; and yet, as a rule, the few English and Americans who do go, wait till the season begins, with its crowds, heat, and extra expense, and the fiery sun has effectually cleared the mountains of that snowy mantle which was their greatest charm.

We were once asked, “Are not the Pyrenees very bare mountains, without any trees or herbage?” We could only repeat, what we have so often asserted in this book, that the foliage on the mountain slopes is magnificent, and their fertility and wealth of flora are of the highest order.

They are indeed so beautiful in every way that they cannot fail to touch many a chord in the heart of any lover of nature.  At one moment hid in mists, at another clear and stately under a cloudless sky; in winter, wrapped completely in their garb of snow, trees and grass and rocks and all, only to reappear under spring’s influence, still retaining their snowy crown, but with their slopes bright with the contrasting tints of beech and fir, oak and maple, interspersed with banks of bright gentian and fields of golden daffodils; what could be more lovely than a scene such as this, with the morning sun gilding the snow summits, or the last rays of a roseate sunset lingeringly bidding them “Farewell”?

As we then follow their example, we do not think we could make a more fitting ending than these lines, written amid those lovely scenes, and entitled

“THE LESSON OF THE MOUNTAINS.”

  Look on yon mountain peaks,
  Mark how each summit seeks
Upward to lift its crest, base earth to spurn. 
  Tow’ring above the plain,
  Over the weak and vain,
Ever for realms of light seeming to yearn.

  Look at each snowy crown,
  Whiter than softest down,
Oh! in what majesty thus are they drest! 
  See how the setting sun
  Kisses them one by one,
And slowly, solemnly, goes to his rest.

  Look to the brilliant sky;
  —­Dark though the clouds be, nigh—­
Wavelets of gold grandly float ’neath the blue. 
  Mark where the shades of green
  Mingle with crimson’s sheen,
Till evening’s dread decree curtains the view.

  Hark to the drenching rain! 
  Hark how it beats the pane! 
While the fierce fitful blast sweeps on its course. 
  Fiercer yet swells the gale,
  Hark to the long-drawn wail! 
Tenfold more dire—­in the darkness—­its force.

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