Two walks, one ending in rather a scramble, branch off immediately below the bridge, on the Pierrefitte road.  The one we took, at a respectable hour of the morning, which ascends the left side of the mound, is the prettier by far, as it discloses lovely glimpses at every turn.  We followed it till it branched off in two directions (the one to the left being the real continuation), but at this point we turned off into a field, deep in grass and studded with flowers, where some comfortable-looking boulders invited us to rest.  Miss Blunt,—­whose soul thrills with delight at the vastness and beauty of nature,—­never allowed opportunities of committing the choicest bits to canvas or paper, to escape her; and, some picturesque display having caught her eye, directly she had located herself on an accommodating boulder, she was at work.  Herrick’s good advice, “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may—­Old Time is still a-flying,” might be adapted, she thinks, to sketchers in mountainous regions, and she speaks from bitter experience when she suggests: 

“Paint in your snow-peaks while you may,
If clouds are quickly flying,
For those heights now in bright display
May soon in mist be lying.”

The beauty of the scene was without alloy, the colouring splendid, and up the road above us, beyond which rose the hill, a shepherd was leading his flock of sheep, now and then clapping his hands or shouting to a straggler, but as a rule walking quietly on, the whole flock following in a continuous line.  Not wishing to be idle, I took out my pencil to indulge in a poetic eulogy.  How far I succeeded may be judged from the following lines, which might be called

“SPRING’S BITTERS AND SWEETS.”

Here on a moss-grown boulder sitting,
Watching the graceful swallows flitting,
Hearing the cuckoo’s note. 
Sheep on the hills around me feeding,
While in their piteous accents pleading,
The lambkins’ bleatings float. 
—­Oh, dear! a fly gone down my throat.

Spring’s gentle influence all things feeling,
New life o’er hill and valley stealing: 
Buttercups, daisies fair,
Studding the meadow, sweetly smiling,
Bees with their hum the hours beguiling,
Breezes so soft and rare. 
—­Oh, what a fearful wasp was there!

Grand is the view from this grey boulder,
Each high snow-peak, each rocky shoulder: 
Charming, yet wild, the sight. 
Cherry-trees, with white blossom laden,
And ’neath their shade a peasant maiden,
Comely her costume bright. 
—­Oh, how these impish ants do bite!

Onward the winding river’s flowing,
Its spray-splashed stones in sunshine glowing,
The peaceful oxen by. 
From the tall trees the magpies’ warning,
As on their nests intent, our presence scorning,
From branch to branch they fly. 
—­Oh! there’s an insect in my eye. 
I’ve done:  such pests one really can’t defy.