Talking of rare birds, I shall never forget seeing a wild swan come sailing up the Coln during a very hard frost two years ago.  Two of us were out after wild duck, and it was a grand sight to watch this magnificent bird winging his way rapidly up stream at a height of about fifty yards.  It is rare indeed to see them in these parts, though the vicar of Bibury tells me that seven wild swans were once seen on the Coln near that village; but this was some years ago.  On the same authority I learn that a Solan goose, or gannet, has been known to visit this stream.  Tom Peregrine shot one a few years back; also a puffin, a bird with a parrot-like beak and of the auk tribe.  Wild geese frequently pass over us, following the course of the stream.

On a bright, warm day in October, such a day as we usually have a score or more of in the course of our much-abused English autumn, it is pleasant to take one’s gun and, leaving behind the quiet, peaceful valley and the old-world houses of the Cotswold hamlet, to ascend the hill and seek the great, rolling downs, a couple of miles away from any sign of human habitation.  You may get a shot at a partridge or a wood-pigeon as you go.  Hares you might shoot, if you cared to, in every field.  But on the other hand you will be equally well pleased if your gun is not fired off, for it is peace and quiet that you are really in search of,—­the noise of a shot and the jar of a gun do not suit your present mood.

After walking for half an hour you come to a bit of high ground, where you have often stood before, and, resting your gun against a wall, you gaze at the view beyond.

     “Quocunque adspicias, nihil est nisi gramen et aer.”

Nothing particularly striking, perhaps, is visible to the eye, yet to my mind there is a charm about it which the pen is quite unable to describe.  Below is a wide expanse of undulating downland, divided into fifty-acre fields by means of loose, uncemented walls of grey stone.  The grass is green for the time of year, and scattered about are horses, cattle, and sheep, contentedly nibbling the short fine turf.  In the midst of mile upon mile of rolling downs stands forth prominently one field of plough, of the richest brown hue; whilst six miles away a long belt of tall trees, half hidden by haze, marks the outline of Stowell Park.  Save for one ivy-covered homestead, miles away on the right, nothing else is in sight.

It is past five o’clock, and the sun, which has been shining brightly all day, with that genial warmth which one only fully appreciates as the winter approaches, is beginning to descend.  It is the lights and shades which play over this wide stretch of open country which makes the landscape look so beautiful.  And when the wreaths of white, woolly clouds begin to glow round their furthermost edges like coals of fire on a frosty night, with all the promise of a brilliant sunset, this stretch of hill and plain wears an aspect which, once seen, you will